Chapter 11 Vidar
Chapter eleven
Vidar
Vampires have little to do with other supernaturals and their ridiculous politics. We live in small families, unlike mages or werewolves, and rarely do we set down roots like shifters or Fae. Neither do we rule over realms like demons.
On the rare occasion vampires come together, if the invites even make it to the correct address, half of us won’t attend, and if it wasn’t for my apathy keeping me in place for eight years, we would’ve moved three times over already.
So when there’s pounding at the front door of the mansion, and I pull it open to be hit with the sharp scent of ozone hanging low in the air just before a storm, and freshly cut, wet grass long before I see the werewolf—I know I’m about to be dragged into some bullshit.
‘She would’ve made a good shieldmaiden,’ I think about the female werewolf in her human form standing before me. She’s of average height with impressive muscles under her white, freckled skin. A mane of ginger hair frames her serious face.
“What?” I demand.
She goes stock-still, surprised I’m not dropping to my knees in honour of the badge stitched to the collar of her green coat—the moon in all its phases, signifying she’s been sent by the leader of all British werewolves—the Direwolf. But if someone wants my respect, a bit of cloth won’t get it.
She recovers quickly and clears her throat. “Vidar Haraldsson, Maker of the Haraldsson Vampire Family, offspring to Br—”
“I know exactly who I am and have little patience. So stop wasting it. Why is your whelp of a Direwolf summoning me?”
Shock flickers across her face, then morphs into a flared nose and gritted teeth. “You owe the Direwolf respect.”
Arms crossed, stance wide, I dryly inform her, “I owe him nothing.”
The current Direwolf and I actually have no problem, but I can’t deny that I enjoy watching silver eclipse her brown irises. My eyes might be a light grey, yet they’re nothing compared to the pure disc of shining silver that comes when a werewolf fights to maintain control.
She sucks in a sharp breath, realising she’s on the verge of shifting into a wolf and physically takes a step back to wrestle the predator prowling under her skin back into submission. Within a few seconds, the silver bleeds away.
“The Direwolf of the eight British packs summons you to discuss the recent blood mage events,” she says, squeezing each word out between pursed lips.
Any other time, I’d rudely decline and slam the door. While my pride prickles to be summoned by a man who’s only one hundred and ten years old, mostly it’s because…
Her eyes bleed into silver again while I pretend to consider.
An old vampire has to get his fun somewhere, and I so enjoy pissing off werewolves.
“Hurry up then, I don’t have all day,” I tell her before she starts spouting fur.
Not expecting my cooperation, she startles, before shaking it off like a wet dog and hurrying toward a dark four-wheel truck. I follow, ignoring the back door she holds open and her little growl, as I slip into the front passenger seat.
She slams the door with more force than necessary and scurries around to the driver’s side to hop in. The werewolf starts the car, gripping the steering wheel so tightly I wonder if she’s imagining my throat instead.
‘What fun,’ I think, as we drive off.
As much as I’ve been playing with the young wolf, I am curious why the Direwolf, who is the most connected supernatural leader, is interested in a fight between vampires and blood mages.
As long as we keep under the human population’s radar, no one cares how much blood is shed.
But if the Direwolf knows anything about Emma and her location, I’ll need to draw it out.
I’d be an idiot to assume Emma hasn’t discovered she’s got the wrong spellbook by now, and no doubt she’s hunting the one in Kai’s possession, and if Emma dares touch a hair on Kai’s head, I’ll see just how much she’d enjoy being skinned alive.
We pass sparse, skeletal branches as our long drive takes us deeper into the countryside.
Only when we turn onto a bumpy road cutting through a mass of evergreens—the tyres crunching over icy mud—does the werewolf release her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, relief clear at being back in home territory.
I glance out the window as we follow the winding path, a thin layer of snow dusting the ground, and for a heartbeat, I’m a young boy on his first hunting trip again.
There was more snow and no evergreens or cars, yet the crisp air is nearly identical, and suddenly I’m homesick for a place that in my youth, I couldn’t wait to escape.
The memory fades as we drive into a clearing and towards a wooden four-story home, smoke billowing from a stone chimney, a glass wall at the front displaying a fire surrounded by elegantly placed armchairs.
“You held your temper well, wolf,” I praise my driver. “It’s a feat for a young wolf to keep their emotions in check.”
My voice startles her. She whips around, glaring at first, but when my words settle, her face brightens. “O-oh, thank—”
Before she can say more, I’m out of the car, slamming the door in her face and chuckling when I hear a muffled growl.
My boots brush through the scattered brown leaves as I stride towards the front door, already being opened by a slight man with a muscular build and hair kept short with a smattering of facial hair.
He could be any normal man on the street by looks alone, his scent no different from the ozone and fresh grass of other wolves, yet it’s his gaze that marks him as something else.
Something powerful. For the Direwolf isn’t like other werewolves who wrestle with control—his predator is always on full display, and the silver in his gaze is as clear as a full moon on a cloudless night.
“Direwolf Grey Kobayashi.”
“Vidar Haraldsson, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” Grey says, casual as if he didn’t send one of his wolves to drag me here and slips his hands into his dark slacks. Paired with a black turtle neck, he looks like a boring architect.
“Why are you suddenly so interested in my family business?”
“Didn’t a whole warehouse burn down? That’s pretty interesting.”
I level him with a look. “Hardly noteworthy. So why the invite?”
He pushes the door wide, and I follow behind him as he strolls inside. The landing is a large, wooden space, which leads into the living room and further into the house.
“Things change, Vidar.”
A couple of curious heads peek around the corner, but the moment they spot us, they vanish again. The scent of ozone is so thick that I can smell rather than see all his hidden wolves. But it’s the next scent that has me turning on him.
Rotting meat.
“This is not an ambush,” Grey says smoothly.
“Why is a blood mage here?” I demand.
“Not just a blood mage.” A voice cuts in before I can react, as a woman with a shock of white through dark hair walks out of the kitchen.
“Astra Roth,” I spit.
“Blood Mage Sovereign now,” she corrects, chin high
I dart forward, but Grey’s hand on my shoulder holds me back from ripping out her throat.
“Your pissant brother Sebastian finally made you the leader of the blood mages?” I snarl. “And here I thought you’d have to pry that disgusting title from his cold, dead hands.”
“I did. Because I killed him.”
“Should that impress me, Seieskratti?”
“You got him speaking Norse,” Grey sighs. “I did say we shouldn’t leave this as a surprise.”
“He wouldn’t have come if you’d told him,” Astra argues back.
“I would have,” I bite out, “just to have the chance to watch you bleed.”
“Vidar, please. We’re all here to talk,” Grey says. “And then maybe you could rip out her throat.”
“Not funny,” Astra says.
Grey lets go of me, lifting one nonchalant shoulder as he saunters into the warm living room. “I wasn’t joking. Why don’t we all have some tea?”
After a beat, Astra follows him, and I take up the back to watch every move the blood mage makes as she slips into one of the armchairs, the long coat she wears slipping away to reveal a filthy spellbook, the leather a wrinkled white and strapped to her outer thigh with two belts.
“You have five seconds before I kill her, then maybe go on a little rampage of your wolves, pup.”
Grey chuckles and gestures lazily at Astra as he gets comfortable in the armchair closest to the crackling fireplace.
Astra’s chin remains high and her back straight. “I didn’t approve of Emma going after your family. In fact, she’s been exiled for years.”
My glare holds strong from where I plant myself, arms folded, in the threshold. “You had no idea Emma would send her rats to my home? Go after my family?”
Grey pours tea into three cups. “Straight to business then, I suppose. I was so excited for these biscuits, too…” And pops one in his mouth.
“Emma is my sister.” Astra looks at me, expecting a reaction. But when I give her none, she continues. “Over the years, our numbers have dwindled. As a family, Sebastian, Emma and I worried over this.”
Grey hums. “Something about slaughtering others for their blood would cause some friction, yes.”
Grey might’ve planned this circus, but at least he isn’t falling for any honeyed words.
“It’s true,” Astra agrees, “and we will not survive if the killing continues. To solve this, I proposed that we mend ties with the supernatural communities.”
“Emma and your brother didn’t agree,” I say.
“They did not,” Astra replies tightly. “My sister had other ideas, ones that were hidden in vaults only my brother had access to. Ones that gave him the First Tome.”
I don’t budge, yet suspicion pricks at the back of my neck. “How bad is this thing?”
“Very bad.” Grey leans back, fingers twined over his stomach.
“As the name implies, it’s our first spellbook. While it’s no different to other spellbooks that allow us to draw on the magic embedded in its pages. However, this one can only be willingly gifted; even in death, it can’t be taken. It’ll burn anyone who tries.”
‘Fuck,’ I curse inwardly.