Hunger Pangs

by Joy Demorra

  Tate stared at him for a moment, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “While I appreciate your frustration with the war, my lord, that might be rather tricky to accomplish.”

  “Tricky? Tricky! How so? Sounds like excuses to me.”

  Tate inclined his head. “Possibly, my lord. Though if you can think of a way to move a naval warship five hundred miles inland, I’ll gladly comply.”

  Not to be dissuaded from his rant, Twoforths carried on blustering. “Either way, it is unacceptable. You cannot be bringing people here. We have too many mouths to feed as it is!”

  “We could use them as farmhands,” Wintercrow suggested. “Replace the workers who refuse to work—”

  “And deprive honest Imperial citizens of work?” Twoforths harrumphed. “I should say not. Our priority should be to put Nevrond first.”

  A ragged jeer of agreement went up. Vlad closed his eyes again, mentally trying to keep from screaming aloud.

  The phrase ‘Nevrond First’ was one Vlad had come to dread over the last few decades. It sounded fine in theory. But what men like Twoforths meant by such things rarely involved caring for the actual citizens of Nevrond. It was an empty utterance: a means of snuffing out dissent while appealing to the primordial hive mind of society that remembered, one upon a time, when the dark was ancient and deep that humans survived by banding together to keep the campfires burning throughout the night.

  And the darkness was beginning to feel very close indeed.

  “Thank you, Admiral, you may sit,” Woolcroft said. “On that note, let us move on to the proposed Resettlement Bill.”

  Confused, Vlad flipped through the paperwork in front of him again. He’d seen no such bill. He raised his hand, attempting to get Woolcroft’s attention.

  “I believe we are all in agreement of what needs to be done; it is merely a matter of when.”

  Bouncing in his seat slightly, Vlad waved a little more frantically. He hated being surprised like this. Hated it.

  With a sigh, Woolcroft finally asked, “Yes, Blutstein, what is it?”

  Vlad lowered his hand. “Forgive me, my lord, but what is the Resettlement Bill?”

  Woolcroft scrubbed at his face and gestured for Vlad’s neighbor to hand him a pile of papers. “You may read about it if you wish. Now, moving on, I believe adequate land has been—yes, Blutstein, what is it?”

  Vlad stood as he flipped frantically through the papers. “My lord, this appears to be a bill proposing to cut down the remaining forests around Ingleton.”

  “Yes, Blutstein, that is indeed what it is.”

  “But those forests belong to the werefolk.”

  “No, they belong to the Empire,” Woolcroft corrected. “As do the citizens who dwell within them. That is why we are resettling them in more appropriate areas.”

  “But… those forests are sacred, aren’t they?” He glanced reflexively to Howlzein, who stared grimly ahead. “I can’t imagine the Wolf Lord—”

  Woolcroft snorted. “Lord Northland, or the ‘Wolf Lord,’ as you so colloquially call him, has already voted on the matter in absentia. He voted in favor of the bill.”

  “What?” Vlad demanded, turning to Howlzein again, who still refused to look at him. “But—”

  “Viscount, I’m surprised at you,” Woolcroft cut him off. “You yourself have decried the poverty and isolation these rural settlements endure.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And now that we finally move to do something about it, you complain. Would you rather we left them to flounder?”

  “No! But I didn’t mean—”

  “This is a settled matter, Viscount. Parliament has voted. The remaining forests around Ingleton are to be developed for further expansion of the city. The inhabitants of the forests will be re-homed to their appropriate places.”

  “Appropriate places…” Vlad repeated. “My lord, forgive me, but what you are proposing sounds a lot like segregated communities.”

  “Which is what they want,” Woolcroft replied as though Vlad were a small child he was indulging by answering. “Otherwise they would have integrated into the city like all the other settlements already. Really, Blutstein, you are making far too much of this.”

  “But where will you put them?”

  “We have found suitable land. The only quandary we now face is what to do with the influx of supernaturals coming in from Obëria.”

  “So, the quandary is what to do with the supernaturals, but not the humans? How will you even determine that? Will you require them to carry papers?”

  “I don’t like your tone, Blutstein. Sit down, or I’ll hold you in contempt of Parliament.”

  Vlad laughed darkly. “Oh, I think it’s a little late for that, don’t you?”

  Woolcroft banged his gavel. “You will be silent. Your kind have no say here.”

  “And yet, my son is right.”

  The shadows in the room suddenly seemed much darker. Darker and infinitely more sinister. The icy fingers of fear danced down Vlad’s spine. He turned, aware of the entire room doing the same.

  Standing in the doorway, managing to appear both serene and menacing, was Vlad’s father. The Count was a handsome man. Turned at the cusp of his prime, his features were pale and sharp, dominated by an aquiline nose and a prominent brow heredity had seen fit to share with Vlad. Streaks of gray highlighted his temples, giving him an air of sophistication Vlad had spent several lifetimes envying. But it was the smile where father and son differed most.

  While Vlad went to great pains to keep his fangs filed neat and short, the Count grew his out, sharpening them to wicked points that rested over his bottom lip. He also refused to soften his accent; the enunciation of his vowels slipped on the sharp slopes of his consonants, a sore reminder of where they’d come from.

  “Count Blutstein, we were unaware you’d be joining us.” Woolcroft’s hand strayed reflexively to the line of his collar.

  “My business in Fortdrüben concluded earlier than expected,” the Count intoned, assuming the seat Vlad hastily flickered out of before reappearing behind his father’s right shoulder. “And it has been so long since I have visited Parliament, I thought ‘why not now?’” He gazed around the room with preternaturally dark eyes. “I believe you were discussing what to do about the refugees pouring in from Obëria? Terrible business. I passed many of them on my return. Such pitiful souls.”

  “Yes, quite.” Woolcroft agreed readily, though Vlad suspected the Count could have told him the sky was orange and the man would have agreed. “It is a crisis we are ill-equipped to handle, what with our own ongoing struggles.”

  “Indeed,” the Count commiserated, scanning over the documents in front of him without deigning to pick them up. “Unfortunately, my son is correct in this matter. You cannot separate the refugees out. They are far too intermingled. Not like our dear wereclans in the North.” He inclined his head to Howlzein, not as a sign of respect, Vlad was certain, but more as an acknowledgment that the werewolf existed. “I fear that to try and separate them would only provoke further civil unrest. And if I may be frank with you, gentlemen, you cannot afford that right now.”

  “Then what would you suggest?” Twoforths demanded, still somehow managing to sneer as those dark eyes flicked to him.

  “Why, isn’t it obvious?” the Count asked. “Send them to Eyrie.”

  “What?” Woolcroft said.

  “What?” Vlad echoed.

  The Count barely deigned to acknowledge the existence of the lower classes; why did he care about these refugees now? What was his father playing at? Nothing good, but for the unlife of him he couldn’t figure out the Count’s reason.

  “Why not?” the Count asked, smiling jovially in a way that was infinitely more terrifying than if he’d chosen to frown. “We have the land. We’re not using it. Why not send them to us?”

  Woolcroft blinked at him. “But you do not have the infrastructure to support such a thing.”

  Giving Vlad a hearty s
lap on the back the Count declared, “Then we shall build it. Give this one something to do, yes? Keep the boy out of trouble.” He laughed, and the room laughed with him out of sheer nervous reflex.

  What was going on? Vlad couldn’t ask, of course, but that didn’t stop the confusion—and terror if he was honest—from growing.

  “There is some merit to the idea,” Woolcroft agreed, tapping his chin. Vlad looked at him in consternation. None of this was making any sense. “Could you do it?” Woolcroft asked, his attention shifting to Vlad.

  The weight of all of those eyes upon him made Vlad want to shrink back into the shadows. “I… it would take time, but yes, I could… We could manage something.”

  “Good, then that’s settled.” Woolcroft banged the gavel down on the table. “Gentlemen, I believe that concludes for the day. We will adjourn tomorrow. You are dismissed from the rest of the term, Viscount.”

  “But—” Vlad opened his mouth to protest.

  “You have something to say, Viscount?” Woolcroft arched a chilly eyebrow at him.

  Vlad opened his mouth again, only to be cut short by the Count. “My son merely wishes to apologize for speaking out of turn. He can be impulsive when he is passionate about something. Isn’t that right, boy?”

  “I… yes.” Vlad sighed, unable to say anything else; bowing his head, he watched as the lords of the realm filed out around him. Hovering nervously, Howlzein caught his eye.

  “Are you coming?” the Count asked, already moving toward the exit.

  Searching for an excuse to stay that his father would accept, Vlad glanced at the splay of paperwork strewn across the table. “I… I’ll be right along. I just need to…”

  The Count followed his gaze and grunted. “Very well, but don’t delay. You and I must speak. Meet me in the Red Room.”

  “Yes, sire.” Vlad bowed his head, waiting until his father had left before turning his attention back to the table. Only then did Howlzein approach.

  “What the hell is going on?” Vlad hissed as he busied himself with shuffling the paperwork. “None of that was normal, right? I’m not losing my mind…”

  “No, you’re not.” Growling, Howlzein shook his head. He was dressed just as neatly as ever—as any high-ranking military official should be. But there was a decisively shaggy quality to his features, and there were dark circles under his eyes. “Thank you for trying to defend the groves. I know you didn’t have to.”

  “What is the Wolf Lord playing at?” Vlad demanded. “What are you playing at? Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I tried.” Howlzein shook his head. “I tried last month. And I’ve been trying every day since. They won’t listen to me. I even went North thinking I could get Tam to repeal his vote.”

  “And?”

  “He told me that what goes on south of the Lorehaven border is none of his concern and he had to take care of the North first,” Howlzein replied, sounding thoroughly defeated. “They won by one vote, Blutstein. One vote.”

  Vlad shook his head, unable to comprehend the enormity of what was happening. “This is dangerous!” He jabbed his finger at the desk for emphasis. “It starts with this, and it just keeps going—”

  “I know.” Howlzein pinched the bridge of his crooked nose with a sigh. “I know. But to be honest, the writing has been on the wall for some time. At least on my end. I thought if I stayed, I could mitigate some of it, but…” He shook his head, sighing again. “The more I try, the tighter they wind the leash. I can’t do this anymore, Blutstein. I can’t keep ordering soldiers into unwinnable wars or directing military forces against our own people.”

  Realizing what the other man was getting at, Vlad asked, “You’re leaving, aren’t you? You’re quitting.”

  “Early retirement.” The werewolf flashed him a humorless smile. “They’ve offered me my pension, and I’m taking it. Going home to spend time with my pack and hopefully be the Counsel my sister needs to navigate all of… this.” He gestured to the paperwork still in Vlad’s hands. “She’ll need it for what comes next. Especially without the protection of the Wolf Lord.”

  Vlad blinked at him. “Surely he wouldn’t turn on you—”

  “Truthfully, Blutstein? I’m not sure what Thomas Northland is capable of anymore. All I know is that the Northland estate has fewer debts than it had before, and no means of revenue to show for it.”

  “Bloody hell,” Vlad breathed out. He wondered if Nathan knew…

  “But I have to thank you,” Howlzein carried on, holding his hand out for Vlad to take.

  “Thank me? For what?”

  “Nathan.” The first glimmer of a smile passed over his features. “I bumped into him on my way here. He told me about what you did for him, you and some other doctor.”

  “I… it was nothing,” Vlad said, taking the other man’s hand. “Dr. Allan did most of it. I just had a hunch…”

  “Hell of a hunch.” Howlzein squeezed his hand, grinding Vlad’s bones together. “You helped save his life, Blutstein, and for that you have my gratitude. If you ever need anything, the Howlzein pack is at your disposal.”

  Flexing his fingers absently, Vlad stared at him. “Thank you,” he said, because what else was he supposed to say to something like that?

  Howlzein nodded at him, then turned to look at the empty cabinet room around them. “Guard yourself, Blutstein,” he warned. “We’re living in ominous times. And I don’t like the way the wind is blowing.” He left without a backward glance.

  Vlad watched him go with a sinking feeling deep in the pit of his stomach.

  *

  By the time he reached the Red Room, his stomach was in knots; dread dragged at his every step. “Sorry,” he said before he’d even finished opening the door. He knew how much his father hated to be kept waiting. To his surprise, the heavy drapes were open, and Vlad stepped into a blinding wall of sunlight.

  “You took your time,” the Count intoned from the shadows, keeping his back to Vlad.

  The younger vampire sidled apologetically into the room, trying to find a spot to stand where the sun wouldn’t hurt his eyes—a spot which also didn’t require him to step any closer to his father. The Count looks tired, Vlad thought; the hunch of his shoulders was uncharacteristically bowed as he stoked the fire up from a merry glow to a crackling inferno.

  “What took you?”

  “Sorry,” Vlad repeated. “Howlzein wanted to talk to me.”

  That got his father’s attention. “Howlzein? What did that old dog want with you?”

  “He’s retiring,” Vlad replied promptly. He forced himself not to tense up as his father turned, the poker in his hand glowing cherry hot.

  “Is that so?” The Count arched an eyebrow. “Interesting. I shall remember that. I have heard a rumor,” he continued without preamble, “that you have broken with Elizabeth and uninvited her from the castle. Why?”

  All thoughts of Howlzein and the werewolves flew from his head as the Count stared at him. Vlad opened his mouth, then closed it again. Presumably if the Count had heard the rumor, he already knew why. He just wanted to hear it from Vlad. “I… she threw blood over one of our guests at the May Ball. Where did you hear—”

  “She wrote to me. In Fortdrüben.” The Count smiled thinly. It was not a pleasant expression. “Countless letters, a dozen times over. Detailing your cruelty and neglect. Begging me to come home and make my wayward son behave. All because of some peasant girl.”

  Vlad ground his teeth together, clenching his fists at his side. “I won’t take her back. You can’t make me, not this time. Not after that. And not after the lies she’s been spreading about Riya.”

  “Lies?” The Count’s expression twitched. “What lies?”

  “She started a rumor that Riya is your natural born daughter, sired out of wedlock with a serving girl.”

  The Count’s features blanched with rage. It was a look Vlad was all too familiar with. “Preposterous. She’s the daughter of the Duchess of St
eocidell! She is the rightful heir to the duchy!”

  “Well, that’s not what Elizabeth is telling people.” Vlad spread his hands wide. He didn’t bother to point out that Steocidell was now a republic and Riya’s titles didn’t matter. His father had always been a stickler for titles.

  “Who? Who has she been telling?”

  “I don’t know. Anyone who will listen, I suppose.”

  Throwing the poker into the hearth with a clatter that made Vlad jump, the Count roared, “The audacity! After all we have given her!”

  The sound brought a valet running, but Vlad caught them at the door, ushering the human away. When he turned back, the Count was pacing the room like a caged tiger that had just caught the scent of blood. “No one must be allowed to believe such lies,” he said, whirling on Vlad as though somehow it was his fault. It probably was, he realized, he just hadn’t figured out how yet. “No one can doubt that Viktoriya is the legitimate heir to the Steocidell line.”

  Vlad rubbed at his temple, the first warning sign of a stress headache making itself known behind his eye socket. He shouldn’t have ground his teeth together like that. “That’s what I told Riya. She was very distraught,” he added, feeling like his father had somewhat missed the paternal mark on this one. “I found her crying in the stairwell.”

  “You did the right thing,” his father said.

  “I know it was—what?” Vlad blinked, uncertain if he’d heard his father correctly.

  “Well done,” the Count said.

  Vlad pinched himself reflexively to make sure he was awake. Did my father just compliment me?

  “You did the right thing in getting rid of her. We will not tolerate such lies and slander. Are we still paying her allowance? Cut her off. She’s not to have a penny more. Let her see how far she can go without our good will. And as for today,” the Count’s eyes narrowed, a different ire overtaking him, “you cannot challenge Parliament like that. You know this.”

  “But what they are proposing is—”

  “I know.” The Count held up a silencing hand, stepping close to his only son while Vlad resisted the urge to take a healthy step back. “I know they are too stupid to live. But you cannot challenge them. Ours is not to challenge. It is to survive at all costs. And to take advantage of their stupidity wherever we may. You should know this by now.”