Lucky Break
Page 9
Nessa greeted the other two vampires, and we moved aside so she could bring them into the house.
“Vincent, Astrid, Cyril,” she said, gesturing to them in turn. Cyril had short hair so pale it was nearly translucent, his eyes a watery blue against equally pale skin. Astrid was tall, with dark skin, equally dark eyes, and closely cropped hair.
“This is Ethan Sullivan, Master of Cadogan House and member of the Assembly, and his Sentinel, Merit.”
The vampires dropped suddenly and immediately to their knees.
“Sire,” they said to Ethan in unison, with obvious gravity. The McKenzies might not have cared much for the Pack’s authority, but these vampires were ready and willing to accept Ethan as their leader. They’d apparently heard about the Testing.
Ethan looked both taken aback and a little dubious. But when he spoke, his voice was all gentility. “Please, rise.”
The vampires climbed back to their feet, and Vincent stepped forward. “I’m sorry you’ve come all this way to rest, only to be embroiled in our struggle.”
“Vincent is the founder of the Marchand Clan,” Nessa said.
Vincent nodded, gestured to the living room. “Perhaps we can sit?”
“Of course,” Nessa said, chagrined, as if she’d breached some point of Clan etiquette. We followed her into the living room and took seats, Ethan and I on one couch, Nessa and Vincent on the other, Cyril on the floor at Vincent’s feet. I wasn’t sure if that was a seat of honor—at the feet of the Clan’s master—or prostration.
“I’ll prepare the blood,” Astrid said and, at Nessa’s nod of approval, disappeared into the kitchen.
“Are there are any developments?” Vincent asked, his roving gaze on Nessa.
She shook her head. “They’re taking Taran to the morgue for an autopsy. They’re nearly done at the house, but . . .” She looked at Vincent. “I don’t want to go back there. Not now.”
Vincent smiled, patted her hand. “You’ll come home with us.”
“I don’t want to impose—,” she began, but he cut her off with a nod.
“Nonsense. It is your home. Or one of them, at any rate.”
Nessa nodded, her eyes filling again, and let Vincent wrap her in his arms again. She nestled against him and wept quietly.
“You have a house?” Ethan asked.
Vincent’s smile was quick. “Not of the scale or scope of an official House,” he said. “Nothing like your Cadogan. But it is ours, and it is home.”
Astrid walked back into the room with a tray of six glasses of blood. She walked to Ethan first, bowed to lower the tray to him. “Sire.”
Ethan took a glass, glanced at Vincent.
“It is a traditional welcome for our Clan,” he said, gesturing for Ethan to drink.
I could see that Ethan was hesitant to drink something prepared at the behest of a man he wasn’t certain was a friend or enemy—but he knew diplomacy and took a drink before raising his glass. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” Vincent said. “And welcome. It isn’t often that we find Masters in our midst.” He took the next glass Astrid offered, and the remaining glasses were distributed to the rest of us.
I took a small sip, tasted cinnamon, clove. The kind of blood a vampire might drink warm on a long and cold winter night in the mountains. Odd, but comforting.
Ethan drained his glass, set it aside. “Very nice,” he said. “Tell us about the feud.”
“Let me start at the beginning,” Vincent said. “The beginning of the Clan. I was born in Vienne in France. Made in Savannah in 1779.”
“During the Revolutionary War,” I noted, and Vincent nodded.
“I lived in Savannah for many years. Drifted, in time, to Atlanta. That’s where I met Christophe. He had come to America after losing his family in Europe, had become a vampire in a very violent encounter. He was searching for something more, something new. I felt similarly. Three of the American Houses had been set up by then, but I did not feel myself in any of them.”
Cadogan was the fourth House, established in 1883. So he hadn’t yet had an opportunity to be impressed by us.
“We met a third, Bernard. When Atlanta fell, we decided to travel west, to look for new beginnings.”
“And you settled here in the valley,” Ethan said.
Vincent nodded, lifted his gaze to the windows behind us and the valley beyond it. “There were stops along the way, a summer here, a winter there. But when we reached the valley, for all its beauty, we knew we had found our home. It was empty of people. Travel in the winter is difficult,” he explained. “There’s one narrow pass through the mountains, and it’s treacherous enough even in the best of weather. We lived peacefully, here in the quiet, for many years.”
He hadn’t yet mentioned the shifters who’d presumably also resided here, but I opted to let him tell the story at his own pace.
“As time passed, we gave shelter to a traveler or two, and word spread. Vampires who, like us, were looking for something different, for a different kind of solidarity, came here. They sought freedom over allegiance,” he said, with a glance at Ethan. A less than subtle dig, I supposed, at Cadogan Novitiates’ expected allegiance to the House.
“They joined us, took our name as members of the Marchand Clan. And so we grew.”
“We understand there are no other humans here,” Ethan pointed out. “Or at least other than Sheriff McKenzie. You drank from each other?”
“Vincent, Astrid, Cyril,” she said, gesturing to them in turn. Cyril had short hair so pale it was nearly translucent, his eyes a watery blue against equally pale skin. Astrid was tall, with dark skin, equally dark eyes, and closely cropped hair.
“This is Ethan Sullivan, Master of Cadogan House and member of the Assembly, and his Sentinel, Merit.”
The vampires dropped suddenly and immediately to their knees.
“Sire,” they said to Ethan in unison, with obvious gravity. The McKenzies might not have cared much for the Pack’s authority, but these vampires were ready and willing to accept Ethan as their leader. They’d apparently heard about the Testing.
Ethan looked both taken aback and a little dubious. But when he spoke, his voice was all gentility. “Please, rise.”
The vampires climbed back to their feet, and Vincent stepped forward. “I’m sorry you’ve come all this way to rest, only to be embroiled in our struggle.”
“Vincent is the founder of the Marchand Clan,” Nessa said.
Vincent nodded, gestured to the living room. “Perhaps we can sit?”
“Of course,” Nessa said, chagrined, as if she’d breached some point of Clan etiquette. We followed her into the living room and took seats, Ethan and I on one couch, Nessa and Vincent on the other, Cyril on the floor at Vincent’s feet. I wasn’t sure if that was a seat of honor—at the feet of the Clan’s master—or prostration.
“I’ll prepare the blood,” Astrid said and, at Nessa’s nod of approval, disappeared into the kitchen.
“Are there are any developments?” Vincent asked, his roving gaze on Nessa.
She shook her head. “They’re taking Taran to the morgue for an autopsy. They’re nearly done at the house, but . . .” She looked at Vincent. “I don’t want to go back there. Not now.”
Vincent smiled, patted her hand. “You’ll come home with us.”
“I don’t want to impose—,” she began, but he cut her off with a nod.
“Nonsense. It is your home. Or one of them, at any rate.”
Nessa nodded, her eyes filling again, and let Vincent wrap her in his arms again. She nestled against him and wept quietly.
“You have a house?” Ethan asked.
Vincent’s smile was quick. “Not of the scale or scope of an official House,” he said. “Nothing like your Cadogan. But it is ours, and it is home.”
Astrid walked back into the room with a tray of six glasses of blood. She walked to Ethan first, bowed to lower the tray to him. “Sire.”
Ethan took a glass, glanced at Vincent.
“It is a traditional welcome for our Clan,” he said, gesturing for Ethan to drink.
I could see that Ethan was hesitant to drink something prepared at the behest of a man he wasn’t certain was a friend or enemy—but he knew diplomacy and took a drink before raising his glass. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” Vincent said. “And welcome. It isn’t often that we find Masters in our midst.” He took the next glass Astrid offered, and the remaining glasses were distributed to the rest of us.
I took a small sip, tasted cinnamon, clove. The kind of blood a vampire might drink warm on a long and cold winter night in the mountains. Odd, but comforting.
Ethan drained his glass, set it aside. “Very nice,” he said. “Tell us about the feud.”
“Let me start at the beginning,” Vincent said. “The beginning of the Clan. I was born in Vienne in France. Made in Savannah in 1779.”
“During the Revolutionary War,” I noted, and Vincent nodded.
“I lived in Savannah for many years. Drifted, in time, to Atlanta. That’s where I met Christophe. He had come to America after losing his family in Europe, had become a vampire in a very violent encounter. He was searching for something more, something new. I felt similarly. Three of the American Houses had been set up by then, but I did not feel myself in any of them.”
Cadogan was the fourth House, established in 1883. So he hadn’t yet had an opportunity to be impressed by us.
“We met a third, Bernard. When Atlanta fell, we decided to travel west, to look for new beginnings.”
“And you settled here in the valley,” Ethan said.
Vincent nodded, lifted his gaze to the windows behind us and the valley beyond it. “There were stops along the way, a summer here, a winter there. But when we reached the valley, for all its beauty, we knew we had found our home. It was empty of people. Travel in the winter is difficult,” he explained. “There’s one narrow pass through the mountains, and it’s treacherous enough even in the best of weather. We lived peacefully, here in the quiet, for many years.”
He hadn’t yet mentioned the shifters who’d presumably also resided here, but I opted to let him tell the story at his own pace.
“As time passed, we gave shelter to a traveler or two, and word spread. Vampires who, like us, were looking for something different, for a different kind of solidarity, came here. They sought freedom over allegiance,” he said, with a glance at Ethan. A less than subtle dig, I supposed, at Cadogan Novitiates’ expected allegiance to the House.
“They joined us, took our name as members of the Marchand Clan. And so we grew.”
“We understand there are no other humans here,” Ethan pointed out. “Or at least other than Sheriff McKenzie. You drank from each other?”
