Chapter 11 “The Justice You Deserve”
Chapter Eleven
“The Justice You Deserve”
— Tomas —
The table is canted so that the wall supports our backs, and each candidate can address both us and the audience easily. Val materializes with pens, notepads, and a pitcher of water before melting back into the crowd.
Sunday decided the order should alternate: Dae, vampire, then shifter. Sixteen candidates, five minutes each, plus at least two minutes between… that’s a solid two hours. I check the time. It’s almost two. Maybe we’ll be in bed by five.
As if sensing my thoughts, I hear the unmistakable crack of an Ogre energy drink being opened, followed by the cloying scent of artificial mango and cherry. I have no idea where she conjured it from, but I won’t give her a hard time.
Weeks of disturbed sleep and nightmares have taken their toll. She needs to be sharp for the next few hours. Still, when we’re back in Greenbriar, things will change. She’ll have to let me take care of her—regular sleep, proper meals. The basics.
The first contender steps forward, a vampire with centuries etched into the lines of his face. Egyptian, I think. I brace myself for the inevitable resistance.
He launches into a polished monologue, singing the praises of the old ways—the vampire-dominated hierarchy that has ruled the Western Roman Empire for millennia. Some nod along, murmuring agreement, but I feel the impatience building among the younger vampires and the non-vampire factions.
He finishes with a condescending nod to Sunday, praising her “wide-eyed enthusiasm” before outlining his grievances with Roxana’s regime.
The next speaker is a powerful demon lord. I don’t recognize him, but Xavier clearly does. They lean forward, whispering something quick and clipped into Sunday’s ear.
The demon barely gets a sentence out before Sunday cuts him off. “Thank you, Minos. Next.”
Minos freezes, flustered outrage twisting his features. “We were told we had three minutes.”
Sunday’s smile is sweet, her words anything but. “Darlin’, you do have three minutes—to leave, before I let my mate dispense the justice you deserve.” She lays a hand on Grayson’s arm, a calm gesture masking a lethal promise.
Minos’s face contorts. “This is outrageous. Are we really allowing this? I will not be cowed by a human with delusions of grandeur or her shifter pets.”
His eyes flick to Xavier—and that’s his mistake.
Grayson is already moving, a blur of smoke solidifying into a deadly force. He materializes in front of the demon, hand plunging into Minos’s chest. The wet rip of flesh is followed by the grotesque sight of a still-beating heart in Grayson’s grip.
Viscera splatters the stage. Minos crumples with a sickening thud.
A collective gasp shudders through the hall. Some recoil in horror; others stare in wide-eyed fascination. The demons shift uneasily in their seats. The shifters, ever attuned to power, exchange knowing glances.
Sunday’s strength lies in her connections and her ability to inspire loyalty. Though she preaches peace and cooperation, she understands the language of power. The swift, decisive execution of Minos sends a clear message to the crowd: Cross her at your own peril.
It’s brutal, but effective. In this world, respect often grows from fear, and Sunday has just shown she doesn’t have an infamously powerful vampire as a pet—but as a partner and perhaps, an enforcer.
Sunday wrinkles her nose at the mess. Before I can stand, Val and Stefan are already hauling the corpse off the dais, and Grayson produces a handkerchief. He settles on the table, casually cleaning his claws, looking far too pleased with himself. Xavier, practically purring at his back, is clearly enjoying the show.
Sunday leans toward me with a stage whisper. “He knocked out Shadow and delivered them to Roxana for torture. And then showed his face here? Idiot .” She laughs, her eyes skating right past the blood pooling center stage.
She calls the next contender, a shifter from the Capitoline Wolves—a pack notorious for passing over female Alphas, no matter their strength. Vitto, one of the Alpha’s sons, steps forward. He drones on about the need for stability and order, then makes a clumsy attempt at acknowledging other supernatural contributions.
His words ring hollow. The progressive language clearly doesn’t fit in his mouth; he stumbles over terms, his voice cracking with hesitation. Stifled giggles ripple through the crowd. Even Sunday can’t quite suppress a smirk. Poor kid. He’s in way over his head.
Vitto’s uncertainty deepens, his arguments growing more incoherent. The audience shifts, attention splintering.
Sunday leans forward, her expression softening. “Thank you for your… enthusiasm,” she says gently. “But perhaps you could elaborate on your specific plans for addressing the challenges facing the WRE. How do you envision fostering cooperation between the different supernatural communities, specifically?”
His eyes dart desperately around the room. The scent of his fear and inexperience rolls off him—a stark contrast to the confidence of his sister, Anya. If only she had this chance. Anya would have been formidable
We endure four more candidates—a mix of overly ambitious shifters, nervous Dae, and vampires who seem to think that ‘woke’ means ‘the ability to tolerate the existence of lesser beings.’ It’s enough to make my wolf howl in frustration.
I begin to despair but we do take notes. Mine are… as expected, I suppose, clear, bullet points and a rubric of sorts. Gray is writing, something. I don’t recognize the language, runic perhaps I lean in, noting the distinctive, angular lines. Elder Futhark . But what is he writing? Battle plans? Political strategy? A love letter to Sunday or X? Knowing Gray, it’s probably all three. I observe his focused expression, the occasional chuckle escaping his lips.
A pang of longing shoots through me. He’s so captivating when he’s lost in thought, his brow furrowed in concentration, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. Damn it, my wolf whines and I try to focus on something else. I tear my gaze away and force myself to concentrate on the proceedings. Sunday is ours, and that’s enough. It has to be.
She appears to be taking notes—asking sharp questions, checking items off her list. But when I glance closer, I see the lines and shapes of a farmhouse forming beneath her pen.
It’s not distraction; it’s focus. Sunday’s mind moves a mile a minute, always jumping from one thought to the next. Drawing helps her harness the chaos, giving her hands something to do while her brain keeps up.
The farmhouse comes together—a wide porch, gabled roof, wisteria climbing the posts. All the while, she’s still guiding the conversation, still steering the future of the Western Roman Empire. At the base of the steps, she sketches Xavier’s jaguar, sprawled in the grass, soaking up the sun.
Xavier reaches over, their fingers deft and quick, adding a familiar hound beside the jaguar—Banjo, tongue lolling out. It’s subtle, a blink-and-you-miss-it addition, but Sunday notices. She fights a smile and focuses on the hapless demon in front of us, her pen poised as if she’s dutifully taking notes.
I linger on the drawing. It’s more than just a house; it’s a vision of home. A place where we belong and it’s a dream I’ve recently resolved to make real.
A welcome break in the monotony. A vampire from Bathory’s court steps up, and my ears perk up. She’s American, her accent hinting at Creole roots, and there’s a spark in her eyes that’s been sorely missing in the previous candidates.
“I am Camille Leathers,” she begins. Her words paint a picture of a WRE where cooperation and understanding flourish. She highlights her close working relationships with the Carpathian Wolves in the Bohemian region and the Rougarou during her time in New Orleans.
I lean forward, intrigued, as she continues her address. There’s genuine potential here, and I’m eager to hear more. Sunday asks a few pointed questions, starting with, “Who is your Maker?” The answer reassures me. Not Bathory, but a long-(finally)-dead riverboat captain.
Camille’s sincerity and the weight of her history offer a refreshing stability. She could be a reliable ally, a voice that carries both experience and restraint.
Then movement catches my eye. Corvus steps forward, and it’s as if he materializes out of the air. Despite his red-and-black face, the curling horns, and the sheer presence of his demonic form, he has a knack for blending in.
I know he’s a spy, a demon who played both sides—but he also helped us take down Roxana. That counts for something. Xavier’s fondness for him suggests there’s more to Corvus than cold ambition, but his motivations remain murky. Was his aid a gesture of loyalty, a strategic play, or a calculated grab for power? With Corvus, the lines are blurred.
More troubling is the legality of it all. He can’t glamour his demonic form, which means he’s violating the Council’s immigration laws and Secrecy Act just by standing here. Can we really crown a leader whose very presence breaks the rules we’re trying to reform? Are we ready to invite that kind of scrutiny?
I glance at Sunday. Her pen glides over her notepad, her expression composed. But the tightness in her jaw tells me she knows it too. Corvus’s charisma and competence are undeniable, but backing him could unravel everything we’re building. The question remains: Is he the ally we need—or a scandal waiting to implode?
Three shifter representatives follow, each offering a distinct perspective.
First, an otter from Francesca’s clan speaks eloquently about the otters’ legacy—the importance of diplomacy and compromise.
Next, a seasoned beta wolf from the integrated Sardinian pack emphasizes the need for strength and decisive leadership.
Finally, a lioness from the Atlas Mountains Pack strides to the podium, her presence crackling with intensity. The room stills. Her voice—a low, controlled growl—cuts through the polite veneer like a whip.
“We shifters have been treated as second-class citizens for far too long,” she begins, golden eyes blazing with righteous fury. “The vampires hoard their wealth, amassed over centuries of privilege, while we scrape by on the scraps they toss our way.”
She paces the dais, movements fluid and dangerous, a caged predator barely holding back. “The Dae manipulate the human world, their influence seeping into every corner of society, while we’re confined to the fringes, expected to clean up their messes. The Council is complicit in the genocide of entire shifter lines, and we’re told to be grateful for the unfarmable lands they’ve ‘graciously’ set aside for us.”
Her voice rises, reverberating through the hall. “And for what? Empty promises of protection? Hollow words of ‘mutual respect’? We are not children to be placated with trinkets. We are warriors. Hunters. The backbone of this world! We deserve a seat at the table—not just a footnote in your history books.”
Tension ripples through the room. Some shifters nod fiercely, their own frustrations mirrored in her words. My wolf howls in silent agreement, recognizing the truth she speaks.
But admiration wars with my pragmatism. This experiment needs to succeed. Change must come, but it must be gradual, or it risks being perceived as too radical—something easily crushed before it has a chance to take root.
My gaze drifts to Xavier, and I’m unsurprised to see them nodding along, a wide grin splitting their face. They lean towards Sunday, whispering something in her ear. Sunday’s lips quirk into a smile, and she gives Xavier a playful nudge. It seems X has a favorite. A knot of unease tightens in my chest. I suppose it was too much to hope we’d all agree.
Sunday thanks Tamazi with a sincerity that eases the lioness’s hackles, acknowledging the shared frustrations of many shifters in the room. Then she cracks open a second Ogre. The air fills with the putrid scent of artificial fruit and sour candy. I glance at the can. Swedish fish flavored. Of course.
“Okay, do we have anyone else lookin’ to toss a hat into this ring?” Sunday scans the audience and smiles. “Great. If y’all will just hang out here for a few minutes, we’ll deliberate and be back in a jiffy.”
***
The heavy wooden doors swing shut behind us, sealing away the hum of the waiting crowd. But even here, the air crackles with the residual energy of the Moot—impassioned speeches and heated debates lingering like smoke.
Sunday collapses onto a velvet-covered divan, her shoulders slumping. “Well,” she sighs, “that was… something.”
Grayson sinks beside her, taking her hand. “You were magnificent, Lover,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing her knuckles. “They may not all agree, but they can’t ignore you.”
Xavier paces, restless energy radiating off them. “So, who’s it gonna be?” Their voice is edged with impatience. “We’ve got a long list of contenders and not a lot of time.” They relent and join Sunday and Gray on the settee when she reaches out a hand.
I stay leaning against the wall, too keyed up to sit, though amusement colors my tone. “You certainly ruffled a few feathers tonight.”
Sunday straightens, determination sparking in her eyes. “Let’s start with the easy ones. For the vampire representative, I’m leaning toward the Bohemian, Camille.”
Grayson nods. “She’s very qualified. Her experience working with shifters and demons is invaluable.”
Sunday adds, “And I owe Bathory for her support. This compromise might delay an invasion.”
Grayson’s smile is grim. “It’ll happen anyway—probably before the year’s out.”
“Well, shit. Is there a political solution?”
Grayson shrugs. “If Rurik had let Maximo speak, I’d have suggested him. A Volga proxy would’ve been ideal.”
Sunday’s eyes find mine. “What do you think, Tomas?”
I cross my arms. “Camille’s the best we’ve seen tonight. She knows how to work with shifters, and she believes in our little ‘democratic experiment’.”
Sunday snorts. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t think we need a revolution every twenty-five years.”
Xavier’s restlessness flares again. I can almost see their tail flicking in agitation. “And for the demon representative?” Their attention is fixed on Sunday.
“Corvus,” she says, no hesitation. “He’s ambitious, but he’s intelligent and capable. Most importantly, he understands the need for change.”
Grayson’s brow furrows. “Are you sure you don’t mean, ‘And most importantly, he’s Bane Sandoval’s brother?”
“No, Grayson, I know exactly what I mean. But maybe I should add: most importantly, this entire coup would have failed without him.”
Grayson frowns. “I’m aware of his ambition—and his slippery nature.”
Sunday meets his gaze, steady and sure. “I believe he can be an asset. We’ll keep a close eye on him, of course.”
The decision for the shifter representative proves more contentious.
“I vote for the lioness,” Xavier grins. “She made me feel all tingly.” Sunday swats their arm. “Tingly in my mind !”
I shake my head. “I get the sentiment, but choosing Tamazi isn’t strategic or politically wise. It would alienate the dae and vampires. She’s a loose cannon, and she wants a war.”
Grayson stretches, draping an arm around Sunday. “Roxana neglected North Africa for far too long. Giving them a voice in leadership could be a powerful gesture.”
I let out a slow breath. “I can’t believe I need to argue with you, of all people, about not propping up a volatile leader with bellicose leanings… but apparently I am.” I pause, centering my thoughts. “The Sardinian wolf is the smarter choice. He’s a beta in an integrated pack with a large refugee population. He’s mated to a demon and he’s careful with his words.”
Xavier quips, “I’d be careful too if my mate was a demon.”
Sunday frowns thoughtfully. “Gray, are you all in on the lioness?”
“No,” he replies. “In truth, I prefer the otter—Francesca’s brother-in-law.”
“Alrighty, sell it to me.”
“It’s a compromise,” Grayson explains. “Not another Argyros vampire, but a nod to Elba’s history. The Eurasian otters have been here since the Moorish invasion. Now, they number less than two hundred, and their way of life is disappearing. They know the island, the castle. Institutional memory is important.”
“I love the otters, Gray, I do. But they’re not exactly fear-inspiring.”
“They don’t have to be.”
Sunday listens to the debate for a moment longer before raising her hand, silencing the room. Her eyes take us all in, “I value all of your opinions,” she says. “But ultimately, this decision rests with our Alpha. As the highest-ranking shifter present, the choice is yours.”
A flicker of surprise crosses Grayson’s face, mirroring the one I’m feeling. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again. Xavier takes his hand, and a wave of soothing Omega energy washes through our bond. X hates it when Grayson and I are at odds—hell, even the threat of conflict between us rattles them.
I wonder, not for the first time, what the story is behind that.
I consider the shifter choice for another moment before affirming my earlier decision. “Niccolo. He’s local but not from this island. He’s a beta, so he’s unlikely to get dragged into dominance fights. I think he’s our wolf.”
***
Sunday says all the right things, though she sounds a bit like a LinkedIn recruiter: “ We were truly impressed with your passion and dedication to the WRE. ”
Later, she adds, “ The competition was fierce, and while we ultimately chose candidates whose experience and vision aligned more closely with our immediate needs, we encourage you to continue pursuing leadership roles within your communities. ”
And the final nail: “ Your contributions are invaluable, and we hope to see you play an active role in shaping the future of the Empire. ”
“After careful deliberation,” she begins, her voice steady and clear, “we have made our selections for the triumvirate leadership.”
A hush falls over the hall, every breath held in anticipation or indignation—hard to say which.
“Representing the vampire community, we have chosen Camilla Leathers.” A wave of murmurs ripples through the crowd, a mix of approval and surprise.
“For the demon representative, we have selected Corvus Sandoval.” A few gasps echo through the hall, followed by a tense silence.
“And finally, representing the shifter community, we have chosen Niccolo of Pack Sardinia.” This gets the biggest reaction by far. Picking a Beta to rule equally with a vampire and demon is shocking and more than one Alpha in the room scoffs in perturbation.
Sunday pauses, allowing the applause to subside. Her expression softens, a touch of sadness clouding her features. “Before we adjourn, I have one more request.”
“Those of you who share Lysimachus’ bloodline, I ask that you remain behind. We will hold a small memorial service in his honor before the day returns.”
Another hush falls, respect intertwining with the lingering tension. As the crowd begins to disperse, a small group of familiar vampires gathers near the dais. I know their faces well—the Argyros vampires stand together, their usual grace muted, the sharp edges of their elegance softened by grief.