She gave Mateo a small smile but didn’t say anything.
Brilliant.
Unfortunately, this was just the easy part.
“Shall we, Sire?” Mateo asked, gesturing down the hall.
“Yes,” Issac replied, squeezing Astasiya’s hand once more for reassurance.
Tristan led the way, stopping when they reached the elevator and stepping inside when the opulent gold doors opened. These led to the underground. The only other way downstairs was through Osiris’s private quarters. He owned this building. Hell, the Ichorian owned half the city. He was the most powerful being of their existence, and ancient, too.
Tension radiated through Astasiya’s arm as they exited, her fledgling instincts no doubt picking up on the danger emanating from their destination.
Many humans died here.
Particularly those with unique abilities or those who had seen too much. Astasiya fell into both categories.
Issac despised the Conclave and its purpose—a standard show of status and authority, meant to establish the Ichorian hierarchy. He attended to protect his progeny from potential challenges. Centuries of lessons had taught his lesser brethren not to test his bloodline, but there were a select few who craved power beyond reason.
They entered through the traditional arch, the auditorium already bustling with darkly dressed Ichorians mingling near their designated seats. Aidan sat waiting in the front row with Anya draped across his lap. Clara and Nadia were behind him, engaged in conversation.
The three-story room fit over two hundred Ichorians comfortably, the marble columns and beige walls lending an opulent feel that belied the gruesome intention of the theater. And overseeing it all was a mural of angels painted into the ceiling in shades of blue.
Such blasphemy.
Aidan lifted his gaze from the gorgeous woman in his lap to greet Issac as he approached. His shrewd gaze landed on Astasiya, the lack of surprise a result of having seen them waltz through the VIP lounge only thirty minutes prior.
“Osiris was disappointed that you refused his offer to entertain, Issac,” Aidan said in lieu of a greeting, the words holding a hidden meaning. “But I reminded him of your proclivity for private affairs.”
Hmm, yes, refusing Osiris’s wishes earlier was a risky decision. Fortunately, the hunger radiating from Issac’s pores explained his ungiving mood. Even the master Ichorian would have sensed and understood that.
Although, apparently, he’d expressed his frustration to Aidan. And if Issac followed Aidan’s comments correctly, he’d handled the issue on Issac’s behalf.
“Cheers,” he said, thanking him for fixing the problem. The last thing Issac wanted was a required punishment ceremony.
“Seeing your new toy up close, I can understand why you want to keep her to yourself,” Aidan added, his green eyes—identical to Lucian’s eyes—danced appreciatively over the woman frozen at Issac’s side.
“Might I introduce Astasiya?” he offered, glancing down at his gorgeous blonde. “Aidan is my Sire. He made me who I am today.” He added the last part for her benefit because she wouldn’t know what Sire meant.
“A pleasure, dear.” Aidan gave her a gentle smile before focusing on the two men climbing the stairs. “Tristan, Mateo, how do you feel about the potential new addition?”
Interesting.
Issac never mentioned wanting to turn Astasiya—an impossibility due to her bloodline. Which meant Osiris must have inferred that little lie from Aidan’s words during their conversation. It would have helped to explain why Issac didn’t want to punish her before the masses. He wouldn’t want a future progeny to appear weak in any way.
Clever ruse, Issac thought, his lips twitching.
“Thrilled,” Tristan deadpanned. “Issac could use another blonde in his life. Clearly.” He stroked Clara’s hair while giving Astasiya a pointed look.
All right. Issac narrowed his gaze. A conversation with his progeny would definitely be needed because that comment was unfounded and unnecessary.
Tristan didn’t appear contrite in the slightest as he sat beside Clara. She immediately draped her legs over his and laid her head on his shoulder. Her empathetic ability left her craving physical contact, something Issac’s best friend had no problem providing despite the platonic nature of their relationship.
“Well, I think she suits Issac’s tastes,” Mateo said. He gave Aidan a polite bow and took the chair beside Tristan.
Astasiya remained silent at Issac’s side, eyes trained on him, awaiting instruction. He pulled her closer to brush his lips against her temple. His silent way of reassuring her. He followed it up with a squeeze, hoping she understood that he had a part to play next.
“Come,” he said, his voice stern as he tugged her with him to the chair beside Aidan. He sat and yanked her down onto his lap, the show of force required for those around them.
Placement in the room indicated power. The rows at the back contained the weakest of their kind. Strength increased with each step toward the bottom, where the oldest and most powerful bloodlines resided. Aidan’s ancient blood paired with his progeny’s psychic talents put them in the front two rows.
“She’s delicious, Issac,” Anya murmured, her dark irises raking over Astasiya with abandon. Her full lips curved. “I’m Anya, by the way. I look forward to getting to know you very well.”
“Let’s not terrify the poor girl, love,” Aidan murmured, nipping Anya’s ear.
She swung her leather-clad legs around to straddle him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders. “Then entertain me a different way.”
“Happily,” Aidan replied against her mouth.
Issac chuckled and focused on situating Astasiya in a more comfortable position on his lap. Several interested gazes followed his movements, many accompanied with raised eyebrows. Most lovers shared chairs, making his choice typical. The fact that it was him sharing a chair was what garnered so much attention. In his over three hundred years of existence, he never brought a human with him to the Conclave.
Not that he minded.
Actually, he rather liked the way she felt against him, her head against his shoulder and her legs draped over his.
Mine.
At least for tonight.
Issac kissed the mark on her neck for everyone to see and secured her in his arms. He’d done what he could to ensure her survival.
The rest was up to her.
13
Master of Ceremonies
The auditorium gave Stas the creeps.
It sat deep underground, like some archaic ceremonial ring surrounding a center stage with one lonely chair. Oh, the adornments of gold and the white tile floor gave it an expensive feel, but she sensed the history lurking here.
The hint of death.
The terror.
And she had a front-row seat from Issac’s lap.
This situation far outweighed the worst-case scenario she pictured for the evening—catching Issac in the act with another woman.
An underground colosseum filled with demons gathering around a black-and-white marble stage never once crossed her mind.
The throne in the center had seen better days. Blood stains. Charred material. A stone back. People die there, her instincts whispered. They burn.
She shivered as a vivid image of Owen flashed behind her eyes.
Unrecognizable head on a table.
Skin burnt to a crisp.
The horror he must have experienced…
What if—
A light tug on her hair drew her attention to the hard body beneath her and the arm wrapped around her waist. She met Issac’s blue gaze and noted the admonishment there.
Control your reactions, he seemed to be saying. Likely because he could feel her pulse racing, or perhaps even heard it.
She reached up to touch the mark on her neck, only to have her wrist caught between his fingers and brought to his mouth for a nibble.
Don’t, his eyes said.
Okay.
He released her hand and palmed her nape to pull her down for a kiss. Not the soul-destroying kind, but the comforting kind. A soft brush of his lips. An attempt to help her relax. Or perhaps he meant it as a show for their audience, because she could feel all their eyes on them. Observing. Studying. She shivered against him.
This whole room freaked her out.
All the attention on them didn’t help.
I’m surrounded by demons.
The same demons who may have killed Owen.
The same demons who did kill my parents.
Oh God…
Was the culprit here? The man with the gold-flecked black eyes?
Her heart stopped.
What if he recognized her?
What if someone here knew about her friendship with Owen?
She’d end up in that chair, the throne in the center of the room.
“Mortals who overreact die, and they die badly.”
Issac’s palm squeezed, his lips trailing over her cheek to her ear. “Relax,” he whispered. “Your fear is seducing the room.”
Because that helped.
“You’re mine, Astasiya. No one will touch you without my permission.” He nipped her earlobe hard enough to bleed, something she assumed was more for show than a reprimand.
Or maybe he did mean to punish her.
She didn’t know because she barely knew him.
“Trust me,” he added on a breath, as if sensing her thoughts. “Please.”
That last word gave her pause. It came off as a near-silent plea, a word she doubted Issac said often. She moved back to catch his gaze and caught a flicker of emotion before a mask of casual elegance took over his features.
The air chilled behind her.
Issac nodded his chin at the center, telling her to refocus and pay attention.
The show was about to start.
Osiris’s ancient green eyes captured hers as she turned, freezing her in place. His lips curled into a cruel smile that had her digging her nails into the skirt of her dress. Issac remained completely relaxed beneath her, one arm wrapped around her to support her lower back, his other falling over her lap to conceal her hands. Her legs dangled off his left knee, leaving her cradled against him like a child. But as that seemed to be the norm of the room—she’d noticed several others in this position upon entering—she didn’t question it.
Silence fell over the room, the auditorium lighting dimming, confirming her theory about Osiris being the one in charge. Because he stood in the center of the marble floor, hands clasped before him, the stage lights flickering to life around him.
Several people—Ichorians, she guessed—scrambled to their seats.
Displeasure radiated from Osiris as he watched the latecomers take their seats, his lips flattened, his chiseled jaw clenched.
“Lucinda,” he called into the stillness.
A curvy female seated a few chairs down from Aidan smiled, her painted lips a cruel red color that matched her hair. “My love?”
Osiris flicked a hand in the general direction of the last man to arrive.
Issac’s arm tightened, providing her with a subtle warning as a lanky man went up in flames several rows back. His shriek tore through the room, sending her heart into a chaotic rhythm.
Fire.
Momma screaming.
Daddy writhing in agony.
That cruel man’s laugh echoing across the yard.
A pinch to Stas’s side brought her back to the auditorium, her gaze finding Issac’s and holding for a beat. He gave nothing away, but that small touch told her he’d caught her drifting.
Deep red nails twirled in her peripheral vision, the fingers belonging to Lucinda. She circled them once, twice, then paused at Osiris’s nod.
The flames died, sending the burnt man—still alive—to his chair on a grunt.
No one spoke or moved. Not even the women on either side of the victim, each of whom had specs of ash dusting their clothing.
They’re used to this, Stas realized, swallowing. This happens often.
“Blake, is it?” Osiris’s tone resembled frost in the already chilly room. “Next time, arrive punctually, or I’ll let Lucinda play with you until the next Conclave.”
The curvy female’s lips curled with feline grace, her eyes screaming sadistic bitch. She wore a black teddy—similar to many others in the room—and a pair of metal cuffs linked to a set of chains. Stas followed the metal to the two collared males behind her.
Note to self: stay far away from that one.
“Now, where were we before I was so rudely interrupted?” Osiris continued, his commanding presence overpowering the room. “Right. Some of you may be aware that we recently underwent a breach in our beloved city. A Hydraian masquerading as a graduate student, of all things.”
Stas stopped breathing.
Owen…
A Hydraian—something Issac had confirmed—graduate student.
What did Osiris mean by “breach”? Were Hydraians not allowed in the city? Like Fledglings?
“Now, you may be wondering, as I did, how he went undetected. ” Osiris paused as if waiting for someone to guess. No one replied. “It’s quite troubling, really. You see, I’ve recently learned that one of our own helped him hide. And as you all know, that’s a direct violation of our sacred Blood Laws.”
Whispers flooded the room, ranging from outraged to shocked. Osiris appeared politely interested, but the slight twist of his mouth suggested he approved. No, not just approved, expected this reaction.
A theatrical man, thriving on chaos.
Issac twirled a strand of her hair around his finger, studying it with a bored expression. Not at all concerned or entertained by the proceedings. An expert at controlling his facial tells.
“Yes, shocking, I know,” Osiris said over the crowd. “And what’s more shocking, the culprit’s currently sitting in this room.”
The murmurs escalated, exciting the master of ceremonies. He grinned—the gesture charismatic yet underlined in evil intent, a contradiction that sent a chill down her spine. This man knew how to seduce a crowd, and he enjoyed it.
“So who would defy one of the oldest orders of our kind and assist a Hydraian?” He scanned the room while slowly rolling up the sleeves of his dark shirt, revealing tanned forearms corded in muscle. “Of course, I could demand the damned step forward, but where would be the satisfaction in that? I’m curious to see if anyone can work it out alone first. Whom here would you accuse?”
The shouts started immediately.
Some in foreign languages.
Some in English.
All including names.
Issac’s chuckle vibrated Stas’s side, his fingers still combing through her hair. “Well, this ought to be entertaining,” he said.
“Indeed,” Aidan agreed, his gaze roaming the room in interest. Anya seemed equally piqued.
They think this was fun?
The energy in the room shifted from calm stillness to chaos as pandemonium ensued. Threats littered the air, causing the hairs along Stas’s arms to dance.
Magic.
She could taste it, the magnetism calling to her inner gift, itching her to play. Stas swallowed, her throat reminding her of cotton balls.
I need to get out of here.
It wasn’t safe.
Issac’s lips brushed her pulse, nipping at the bite on her neck. Surely, he could feel her heart racing. He probably wanted her to calm down. But how? Violence tinted the auras of every single person—demon—in this room. They wanted to argue, to brawl, to harm.
Osiris raised his hand, silencing the room instantly.
Sweat dotted Stas’s spine despite the cold temperature of the auditorium, the lethal atmosphere humming over her skin. Someone is going to die tonight.
“It’s fun to learn how we really feel about each other, isn’t it? I imagine some of you may be leveling challenges later this evening, hmm?” He chuckled, that charismatic grin in place
. “Alas, I failed to hear the guilty party’s name among the accused. Not surprising, really. I never would have guessed it myself.” His eyes danced tauntingly over the audience. “Well, before we get to that, another matter of business first. Mike?”
Stas’s heart dropped to her stomach. Mike. She didn’t want to see him again.
But the burly man sauntered into the room holding a metal leash. He gave it a harsh tug, eliciting a yelp from the other end.
Oh my God. Issac caught Stas’s hand before she could lift it to her mouth, his arms tight around her, reminding her to remain calm.
But on the other end of that leash was a frail woman.
Her dark head bowed.
Dressed in chains.
Crawling across the floor like a fucking dog.
Stas’s stomach heaved, the alcohol she’d imbibed earlier threatening to expunge itself onto the floor.
Issac squeezed her hand, not in a gentle or reassuring way, but in warning. Things were about to get worse. Fucking fantastic. She wasn’t sure how much more she could take.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Osiris asked, his voice deceptively gentle as he stroked the woman’s sunken cheek. Her dark features and caramel skin hinted at the foundations of a beautiful woman. But whatever these assholes had done to her had turned her into a shell of skin and bones with no substance.
“Fuck you.” Despite the woman’s frail condition, her voice carried through the dark room.
“Intriguing name,” Osiris replied, inspiring several laughs from the audience. “A result of conditioning, I’m sure.” His smile died as he looked to the man holding the metal leash. “Now, who was it that brought her to your attention?”
“Jarod.”
“Ah yes, Jarod.” All part of the show, he searched the crowd and flashed a jovial grin at a tall male lurking near the back of the room. “Good man, please come join us.”
Jarod meandered down to the stage with long, sure strides. He bowed low, kissing the olive skin of Osiris’s hand before standing upright.
“You found this one in a brothel, yes?” Osiris asked.
“Yes, S-sire,” Jarod stuttered, his meek voice not at all matching his impressive build.
Vote Then Read: Volume I Page 136
