Chapter 18
The air between us was electric when the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the hall. Con and I turned at the same time as the doors to the training room swung open. A young vampire stumbled in, nervous and wide-eyed, clutching a folded note.
“Constantine,” the messenger said, bowing quickly. “The jet’s fueling now. We’ve been told to prepare for departure.”
Con gave a curt nod, his expression shifting instantly from personal to professional. The mask of command slid back into place so seamlessly it made something twist in my chest.
“Understood,” he said. “We’ll depart as scheduled.”
The young vampire hesitated, flicking a glance between us—two warriors still standing in a ring that buzzed with leftover magic—and then wisely retreated. The door closed behind him, leaving only the low hum of the overhead lights.
Con turned back to me. “We’ll need to leave soon.”
“Yeah,” I said, retracting my spear in a smooth motion. “I have a few things I need to pack.”
That was a lie, of course. The last thing I needed was more time to shove clothes into a bag; what I needed was distance—to think, to breathe, to process what he’d said.
You’re my bride. The words had been circling my thoughts since he’d spoken them, settling deep under my skin where I couldn’t shake them loose.
He didn’t call me out on the lie, though his gaze lingered on mine a heartbeat too long. Then he gave a short nod. “Don’t be late.”
I left before I could say something salty or stupid. The corridor outside felt colder than before, the stone walls leeching warmth from my skin. My boots clicked against the polished floor as I walked, the echo chasing me all the way back to my suite.
Inside, the room was still except for the low murmur of the fireplace. I dropped my spear on the side table; the metallic clatter rang briefly in the quiet. My hands felt restless, searching for something to do, so I crossed to the wardrobe and hauled it open.
Clothes. That was safe. Neutral. Practical.
I grabbed a few shirts, a jacket, and my worn pair of black boots—things I could pretend I was eager to have at Shadow Bone—and stuffed them into my pack. The mechanical motion steadied me for all of five seconds before my thoughts caught up again.
I sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. My reflection stared back at me from the mirror across the room—eyes shadowed, jaw rigid, expression caught somewhere between fury and disbelief.
“How did I let it get this far?” I muttered.
One night. One mistake—or maybe not a mistake at all, but something far more dangerous—a choice I couldn’t take back. I’d fought werewolves, witches, entire armies of the dead, but this—this thing between Con and me—felt like the one fight I’d never trained for.
The knock at my door came exactly thirty minutes later.
“Cass,” Con’s voice called, calm but with that familiar authority that made defiance feel pointless.
I zipped my pack, swung it over my shoulder, and opened the door. He stood there already dressed for travel—black coat, gloves, sword belted at his hip. The professional facade was back, unbreakable. Only his eyes hinted at anything else.
“You ready?” he asked.
“As I’ll ever be,” I said.
We left the mansion together.
The drive to the airport was quiet. The engine’s growl filled the space between us, the city lights sliding by in blurred streaks through the windows.
Con didn’t speak, and I didn’t ask him to.
My thoughts were too loud anyway, tumbling over one another in a loop of doubt and disbelief.
Every so often, I caught him watching me from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t push.
The plane waited on the private tarmac, its sleek frame glinting under the floodlights. Once aboard, we settled into leather seats opposite one another. The engines built to a low roar, and within minutes, the ground dropped away beneath us.
Still, the silence held.
I stared out the window, watching the black expanse of night stretch endlessly below. My reflection in the glass looked unfamiliar—haunted. I didn’t realize Con was studying me until he spoke.
“Are you still mad at me?”
The question startled me, though his tone was calm, almost tentative.
“No,” I said after a long pause. “I’m still… processing.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “Did you think I waited this long for you simply to take you to bed?”
I sighed and turned from the window to face him. “I hate these questions.”
His mouth twitched, just slightly. “Answer it anyway.”
I met his eyes—that steady gold that always saw too much. “No,” I admitted. “I’m pretty confident you could’ve gotten me into bed a long time ago if that was all you wanted.”
“As am I,” he replied, utterly matter-of-fact. Then, softer, “But you weren’t ready for anything that lasted. Most fledglings aren’t.”
I frowned, the word fledgling scraping along old nerves. “I haven’t been a fledgling for ages.”
“I know,” he said, his voice quiet but resolute. “You never really were. But your past haunts you. It still does. I, of all people, understand what that is like.”
The honesty in his tone left no room to dodge. I leaned back, closing my eyes, letting the vibration of the plane fill the pause. “I appreciate you waiting,” I said finally—and meant it.
He gave a single nod, then turned his gaze to the window, the cabin lights reflecting in his eyes.
We didn’t speak again for the rest of the flight. We didn’t have to. The air between us said enough—dense with everything that had been spoken and everything that hadn’t.
I knew he was giving me room to come to terms with what he wanted, with what we’d become. And Con… he’d already proven he could play the long game.
The kind of patience that could wait through centuries wouldn’t struggle to wait for me.
The wheels hit the tarmac with a low thud, and the subtle jolt snapped me out of my thoughts. The sky outside was iron-gray, a storm brewing on the horizon. Shadow Bone lay only a short drive away, but for the first time in a long while, I didn’t want to go back.
The engines wound down, the drone fading into quiet. Con rose first, his movements composed, and offered his hand. I ignored it, unbuckled my belt, and stood on my own. He didn’t comment—just inclined his head toward the open hatch.
We descended into the waiting wind. The scent of rain mingled with jet fuel as a limousine pulled up along the edge of the runway, its black body gleaming beneath the floodlights. Con spoke briefly to the driver, who bowed and opened the rear door.
The interior was warm and still. The kind of silence that wasn’t comfort but bracing.
Con sat beside me with his usual straight-backed posture, one hand braced on his knee, the other resting lightly near the hilt of his sword.
I watched the world blur past outside—the shrinking plane, the gray sky, the smear of trees and asphalt.
The closer we drew to Shadow Bone, the heavier the atmosphere became. It wasn’t just the coming storm—it was something older and thicker, a tension that crawled under my skin.
By the time we rolled through the wrought-iron gates, the mansion’s silhouette rose like a shadow against the slate sky. Lights blazed in nearly every window—more than usual.
“Something’s wrong,” I said quietly.
Con nodded, his gaze already sweeping the drive, jaw set. “Stay close.”
The driver eased to a stop before the main steps. The front doors swung open before we reached them, and the wave of unease that hit me as we stepped inside was almost tangible.
The foyer, usually orderly and composed, hummed with activity. Vampires—young and ancient—filled the space, their conversations low but sharp-edged, their eyes darting toward Con the second he crossed the threshold.
It was as if the room itself held its breath.
I felt the shift immediately. Not outright hostility, but something close—curiosity edged with apprehension. Their attention followed him with a reverence laced with calculation, as if they were already deciding which way to lean.
Before I could ask, two familiar figures pushed through the crowd. Val and Quinn.
Val’s expression was tight as he approached. Quinn, taller, leaned slightly toward Val’s shoulder, his face drawn but composed.
“Cassara,” Val said quickly, his gaze cutting to Con and back. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“What’s going on?” I asked, not bothering with pleasantries.
Val hesitated, and Quinn answered first. “Rene.”
Con’s stance changed instantly, subtle but unmistakable. “What about him?”
Quinn dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling. “He stumbled this morning. He recovered fast, but not fast enough. If he’d been human, no one would’ve thought twice. But Rene?” He shook his head. “Everyone saw. And the clan knows something’s wrong.”
My heart clenched.
Rene wasn’t just our leader; he was the spine of the entire structure. A vampire king, old and terrifyingly powerful. The idea of him showing weakness—even for a second—was enough to rattle the foundations.
Val crossed his arms, his voice lower now. “Since then, the tension’s been building. Edward’s faction is suggesting he step down and that Con lead until he ‘recovers.’ Siris’ supporters are calling it a power grab. The clan’s splitting straight down the middle.”
“Who is the front-runner?” Con asked, his tone unreadable.
Val glanced around the foyer, as though the walls themselves might be listening. “It could go either way. Edward and Siris have been circling each other like wolves since dawn. If it comes to a vote, I wouldn’t place money on either side.”
“Elections,” I repeated. The word tasted like ash.
“Rene insisted it go ahead,” Quinn said. “He said it was time.”
“That doesn’t sound like him,” Con said, eyes narrowing. “He knows better than to show weakness before the factions stabilize.”
“It’s not weakness,” Val said quietly. “It’s desperation. The clan’s already whispering that we need a new overseer…”
He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
The implication was clear—without unity, we’d fracture. Without Rene, the clan would devour itself.
I felt my magic stir uneasily under my skin, feeding off the fear that vibrated through the room. “Has anyone spoken to him since?”
“Raven,” Quinn said. “She’s with him now.”
Con’s gaze flicked to the grand staircase, the slightest shadow of concern cracking his composure. “He is getting worse.”
Val nodded grimly. “If something doesn’t change soon, the clan won’t just split—it’ll cannibalize itself.”
The words hung heavy.
I swept another look over the foyer—at the faces watching us, the murmur of voices rising as if they could sense the balance shifting. For years, the clans had feared a coup, a challenge, a betrayal. But now I saw something worse lurking underneath.
They feared a void.
Con spoke first, voice level and as controlled as ever. “We see Rene. Now.”
Val dipped his head. “He’s in his suite. But be ready—if the factions find out you’re up there, they’ll take it as you choosing a side.”
I met Con’s gaze, the weight of that warning hanging between us.
He gave a humorless smile. “I already have.”
He turned toward the stairs, but Val moved quickly to fall in beside him.
“Con, you don’t understand,” Val said, matching his stride. “You think this is still about Rene’s health. It’s gone way beyond that.”
Con didn’t slow. “Then enlighten me.”
“Edward’s been consolidating support,” Val said, his tone low and urgent.
“That’s good,” Con replied, clipped, practical. “He’s stabilizing his people. The last thing we need is a vacuum.”
Val stopped walking, forcing both of us to halt. The look he gave Con was almost pitying. “Consolidating support for you,” he said quietly.
Con turned fully, the shift in his energy immediate—dangerous. “What?”
Val’s gaze flicked to me, then back to him. “Edward’s side thinks Rene is dying,” he said. “So does Siris’. But Edward’s people don’t want a messy transition—they want someone who already commands loyalty. Someone the clans can rally behind when the vote is called.”
Con’s expression darkened. “I never asked for that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Val said. “They’ve been reading the signs. You’ve been Rene’s right hand for a thousand years. The death dealers trust you. Cass trusts you. The warriors follow you. You’ve earned their allegiance whether you wanted it or not.”
Con ran a hand over his jaw, muttering something under his breath, more growl than words. “They’re using me,” he said finally.
Val’s mouth tightened. “Maybe. But Siris’ people have their own plan. They’re calling for a vote to name a new overseer from Shadow Bone’s lineage. A symbolic choice—to ‘restore balance’ between the old clans and the death dealers.”
Con’s tone went flat. “And who did they have in mind?”
Val hesitated, then answered. “Siris. Obviously.”
The name hung in the air like poison.
Siris. The strategist. Once Dimitri’s closest ally, now the face of the rival faction. Calculating. Cold. Everything Con wasn’t—and everything politics adored.
Con’s jaw clenched. “So Edward’s faction wants me in control, while Siris wants the throne for himself.”
“Exactly,” Val said. “Edward believes if you’re named as successor, the death dealers and the younger clans will fall in line.
They already whisper your name as if it’s a solution.
Siris’ side wants the old guard back in power.
They claim Rene’s alliances have weakened us, that we’ve lost our identity—and that the next overseer should come from this house. ”
Con exhaled slowly, his voice a low rumble. “And Edward’s playing games with my name to counter him.”
Val nodded. “Both sides are counting support, and both think they’ll win. The mansion’s already divided. If Rene doesn’t intervene soon, the factions will tear each other apart—and they’ll do it under your banner, whether you approve or not.”
For a long stretch, none of us spoke. The air seemed to thicken with the weight of what he’d said.
I looked at Con, watching the muscle in his jaw tic. “You know what this means,” I said quietly. “They’re turning you into a weapon.”
He met my gaze, his gold eyes gone hard. “Then they’ve forgotten something important,” he said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
His hand brushed the hilt of his sword, fingers flexing once on the worn leather. “Weapons don’t choose sides,” he said. “They end wars.”
Val frowned. “You can’t ‘end’ this with force. If you try, you’ll prove Siris right.”
Con’s expression softened only by a fraction. “And if I don’t, I hand this clan to a vulture who’ll bleed it dry.”
Val shook his head. “You’re thinking like a commander. This isn’t a battlefield—it’s politics.”
“Politics,” Con said, turning toward the hall again, “is just another kind of war.”
He started walking, his long stride carrying him toward Rene’s chambers, and I followed close, my thoughts spinning. The pieces were already moving, the board already split.
Siris on one side. Edward on the other.
And Con—whether he liked it or not—at the center of both.
The war for power had already begun.
No one had bothered to declare it yet.