Chapter 15
Fifteen
The Heir Apparent
Maximilien leads the mortal Tony Lee down the marble staircase to their newly installed dial telephone off the entry hall.
The mortal keeps Maximilien in his line of sight at what he must believe is a ‘safe’ distance, his back to the alcove wall, his gaze never leaving Maximilien even as he puts the receiver to his ear. Fool.
Saving that stray, Marianne, was bad enough, how could Mémère betray him like this?
He, Maximilien, is the one Mémère hand-picked from among a pool of the most promising high-born nobles.
The one Mémère raised and educated in politics and business.
The one she herself anointed as heir of House Durand.
At least Marianne was never a threat to his position as heir.
Their grandmother barely acknowledges her.
Mémère’s approval, her tender look of pride, was reserved for Maximilien alone.
But now . . . He remembers the disappointment and revulsion in Mémère’s eyes as Marianne laid bare his unfortunate missteps.
He will admit it was a lapse in judgement, but he was weak with fatigue and hunger!
Mémère had refused to listen, though; he begged and pleaded to no avail.
The indifference with which she regarded him, then told him he was not fit to lead House Durand and forced him to kneel .
. . He seethes at the memory. Bitterness consumes him.
It’s only a matter of time before Mémère formally announces his half-sister – he sneers at the word – as the heir of House Durand.
To distract himself, Maximilien inhales deeply, savouring the crisp, sweet scent of the mortal’s sangue. On the tongue, the sweetness is even more pronounced. His lips curl into a vicious smile as he anticipates his next taste.
Relaxing every muscle, he allows his body to dissipate into mist, returning unseen to the mortal, who keeps careful watch of the hall, unaware of the danger above.
The first time Maximilien fed from the mortal was on the train while the Celestials were busy fighting off House Durand’s chevaliers.
He was annoyed by Marianne’s attitude and needed a snack to feel better.
To his delight, the mortal’s blood turned out to be rich and complex, far more delicious than his usual pursuivants.
As he watches the mortal shift the receiver from one ear to the other, a nagging voice reminds him of House Durand’s rules on tasting mortals; overfeeding is a threat to their safety.
But Maximilien is too steeped in his sense of outrage and injustice, too certain of his entitlement, too hungry for vengeance, and too confident of House Durand’s extensive safety measures, that he simply dismisses the risks.
The scent of the mortal’s blood, concentrated by the small half-enclosed alcove, goads him on.
Moving too fast to track, he strikes. If one could track the movement, one might see two needle-tip indentations in the throat turn into red pinpricks, with a near undetectable flash of white in the centre – reformed fangs which dissipate almost immediately into mist. A skilled taste is undetectable by mortals, and Maximilien is an expert.
He takes a few leisurely sips before misting away.
With his thumb, he swipes away a stray drop of blood from the corner of his mouth and strolls back to the entry hall. He leans against the bannister and waits for the mortal to finish his call.