Chapter 9 Swinging for the Fences
Chapter Nine
Swinging for the Fences
— Grayson —
The cloying scent of jasmine and blood lingers in the throne room—a haunting reminder of the wedding that almost was. Turquoise banners with golden helms hang above me like a silent accusation. My folly, my weakness , laid bare.
Roxana’s net was woven from a thousand threads of ignored slights and unheeded alarms. For two millennia, the warning klaxons blared, and I stayed deaf—fingers stubbornly plugging my ears.
It wasn’t a single misstep that landed me on that dais, holding a poisoned chalice to my enemy’s lips in a farce of a wedding. It was an immortal lifetime of self-deception, a slow accumulation of complacency and denial.
As a human, I learned the harsh calculus of war—every victory tallied in lives lost. Being in command taught me that casualties are the price of ambition. But as a vampire, I sought the shadows, shunning leadership, content to exist in twilight, answerable only to myself and my chyld.
Sunday shattered that illusion, forcing me back into the light, back into a world where my actions have consequences. I still dread that weight, yet I wouldn’t trade it—not if it means having her, having them, in my life. Even with the pain and uncertainty, I’d walk that path a thousand times over to find them again.
Ah, but there’s no time to indulge in self-recrimination this evening. Tonight, we face a different challenge: choosing the three leaders who are least likely to murder each other before we’ve cleared Italian airspace. Then, the real work begins—convincing the entrenched powers of Europe that Sunday’s new world order isn’t just possible, but inevitable, and it might be best to simply lie back and enjoy it.
Assorted vampire royalty and the Alphas from three Italian packs and a North African one stand in clusters around the room. The species divide is impossible to ignore.
Tomas stands with the last Italian wolf pack, his head bowed in contemplation. His fellow Alpha gestures animatedly—first to the room, then to Sunday. Across the hall, Sunday towers over the diminutive Francesca, who stands with the otters. Xavier, as always, is a silent shadow at her back.
Scion Sandoval arrived at some point today. The demon catches my eye and excuses himself before crossing the chamber with Virgil trailing behind him.
He shakes my hand, then turns as Virgil steps forward. “I understand you’ve met my brother, Corvus?”
“Your brother… Corvus?” Ah, right. Sunday had already mentioned this. My annoyance rises, but I keep it in check. She had warned me about this, but it still stings to see Virgil’s true identity laid bare. “I suppose I should have assumed the First Houses had a spy in court.”
The scarlet-faced demon frowns as Bane hurries to correct my assumption. “He’s not. We’re not aligned with them.”
I lean back, fixing Bane with a sardonic look. “Is the scion to the House of Sandoval playing both sides?”
He chuckles. “I know it might appear so, but I’m very much in favor of equality for all my brethren. If staying in my parents’ good graces allows me to work more effectively toward that end, what people think of me matters very little.” He pauses, his expression turning serious. “And it has given me access to your chyld.”
My monster surges forward, instantly banishing all humor. “You’ve seen her?”
Bane takes a faltering step back. “Yes, just yesterday. I delivered your mate’s instructions to her brother,” He chuckles, then clears his throat, “to get his ass home.”
“So she’s coming.” The ache to see my chyld intensifies, as does the guilt. While she was in Dae, I was here in Elba, wasting weeks—months, really. I failed her so spectacularly. “When?”
“I have a contact who can open a cross-realm portal in Xylia for them tomorrow.”
I nod, accounting for the time dilation in Dae. “So, three days?”
“Wednesday evening, after sunset of course, at the Prescott farm.”
I frown. “In Mississippi?”
“Your chyld is with Colton Prescott… I assume she’ll be welcomed with open arms.” He studies my face, his voice dropping. “And one can’t ignore the safety inherent in the Stymphalian bird making it her territory.”
“The what?” My monster growls low in my chest, primal unease stirring at the mention of this mythical creature.
Bane shakes his head. “Ask your mate or your wolf. I’ve no idea where she came from or when she’s leaving, but she’s very attached to the young girls, Sunday’s sisters.”
“And you’re sure… there’s truly a mythic shifter in Mississippi?”
“I am, and she makes me nervous as hell.” He chuckles. “I don’t know how much you know about them…”
“I remember enough.” Bronze feathers. Razor-sharp beaks. A memory for grudges that rivals even vampires. My monster stirs, uneasy.
“Well, I haven’t heard of one in the modern age, not in this realm. Sunday really is building an extraordinary…” Bane’s words trail off as his gaze drifts to the far end of the hall. The crowd parts, and there she is—Sunday—at the center, flanked by Tomas and Xavier.
Her auburn hair, usually a wild fall of spiral curls, is tamed into intricate braid work, framing her striking features. She moves with poise, stopping to greet various heads of state. Her presence illuminates the dimly lit hall, exuding an unmistakable air of authority.
Sandoval absently pats my shoulder and leans in to whisper, “We’ll talk more about your chyld later.” His eyes never leave Sunday. “I want a front-row seat for this.” I watch him push his way through the crowd, eventually taking a seat in the first row beside Gaul and her consort.
As Sunday ascends the dais, my gaze sweeps over the assembled crowd, cataloging familiar and unfamiliar faces. The weight of what’s at stake keeps me on edge, forcing me to note every detail, every flicker of expression, every whisper. Each piece of information could prove vital later—a potential weapon or shield in the battles to come.
To the left, Bathory, the infamous Queen of Bohemia, sits alongside Clovis, the ancient Merovingian ruler. Their faces are blank masks, but I know better. Violence is their language—spoken fluently, with terrifying ease. These two are the ones to watch. Their iron-fisted rule stands in direct opposition to Sunday’s vision of shared power. They have the most to lose.
Shifting my focus, I find the Plantagenêts standing with Valentine. Edward, the elder, watches Sunday with a contemplative tilt of his head, while Richard, the younger, all but vibrates with restless excitement. Their glance is subtle, but it speaks volumes. Allies, perhaps. A tentative hope stirs to life—they might remain on her side.
My eyes move on, landing next on Hudson and Neville, positioned slightly apart from the crowd. Hudson catches my eye, one brow lifting in amusement. This isn’t just a courtesy call—he’s come a long way to be here. Then again, I did pull him into this when I sent Farin his way and they do enjoy a good show.
Sunday’s voice cuts through the low murmur of the hall—soft, lilting, her Southern drawl lending each word a deceptive gentleness. “Grayson,” she calls, dipping my name in honey. “Darlin’, would you join me up here?”
A ripple of snickers breaks the tension. I suppose I should be grateful she didn’t call me Puddin’ .
A path opens before me, leading straight to the dais. Every eye is on me—a blend of curiosity and respect, but not nearly enough fear for my liking.
I meet their gazes head-on, letting my monster rise to the surface. My vision tinges red at the edges; claws prick beneath my skin, itching to break free. After Roxana—after the poisoning and my rescue—some may think me weak. But they’d be wrong. I’ve never felt stronger.
Sunday makes room for me at her left side, with Tomas on her right and Xavier, as always, at her back. She takes my hand and turns to face the crowd.
She begins by thanking specific vampires, publicly acknowledging their roles in her coup. The gesture is more than courtesy—it establishes her authority and reinforces her alliances before she unveils her bold reform plans. I catch the deftness of the maneuver and wonder, with grudging admiration, if it was her idea or Tomas’.
She gives my hand a quick squeeze, then lets go—an unspoken message that, while I stand beside her, she speaks for all of us.
Thank you all for being here,” she begins. “I know this isn’t what any of y’all expected, but sometimes life throws you a curveball, and you gotta swing for the fences.” Her smile is disarming, effortlessly warm.
“I’m not gonna lie, I’m a little out of my depth here.” She shrugs with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m exactly what I appear to be—a girl from a small town with next to no experience charting the admittedly treacherous waters of supernatural politics.”
Her eyes sweep the crowd. “I don’t have centuries of experience or a fancy title. What I do have is a fresh perspective. I see the potential for something better, something extraordinary, and together, we can make it a reality.”
Her voice strengthens, each word deliberate. “Because everyone—whether they have fangs, fur, or feathers—deserves a chance to live without fear.”
She pauses, letting her gaze sweep the room, meeting eyes and holding them.
“I see the potential for a new era.”
The crowd rumbles with cross-talk. Yet her voice carries—clear, unyielding—reaching every corner of the vast chamber.
“An era where vampires and shifters can coexist with displaced dae and fae. Not just in a tenuous peace, but in cooperation. As equals. As allies. As one.”
Beside her, I stiffen. The implications of her words ripple through the hall like a shockwave. I scan the crowd, searching for signs of agreement or dissent—and find far more of the latter than I’d like.
She’s not just announcing a change in leadership; she’s advocating for a revolution. Many vampires here, cloaked in centuries of privilege, will see this as a threat to their very existence.
But Sunday continues undeterred, as if she’s basking in a standing ovation. I believe she’d call this faking it until you’re making it.
She explains the Moot’s structure: each contender has five minutes to address the crowd—three minutes to speak, two to answer questions. At the end of the evening, she’ll meet with her advisors and select a representative from each community: Dae, Shifter, and Vampire.
Her choices will be binding and final. But she makes one thing clear: she expects them to craft a plan for transitioning to a representative government.
Reaching through our bond, I sense her nervousness tinged with excitement—a potent mix of adrenaline and determination. Beneath it crackles the subtle hum of her magic, a gentle current flowing between her and the audience. She’s reading the crowd, cataloging their reactions, their unspoken fears and desires. The Moot has already begun, and they’re none the wiser.
“The Western Roman Empire can be a model,” she declares, her voice steady. “An example of what’s possible when cooperation isn’t a weakness, but a strength. When diversity isn’t a threat, but an asset.”
She takes a measured breath, drawing some of her energy back into her core, then slips her hand into mine. The warmth of her touch spreads through me, anchoring me in a way nothing else can. My chest tightens, admiration and love swelling until it’s hard to contain.
“I, for one, am not going to let this opportunity slip away.”
She releases my hand, waving dismissively at the crowd. “Give us a minute to get organized, and we’ll kick things off.” A sly smile tugs at her lips. “And quit fussin’. Nobody’s gettin’ staked… tonight.”