“No,” Greyfriar assured her immediately, raising an arm that was encased in a splint. “Everything is fine.”
“I know that's impossible.” A drug-induced laugh that bubbled up made Adele wince, which bought Greyfriar rushing forward. “I'm fine. Just a twinge. Dr. Randolph said laughter is the best medicine, but he's a lying son of a…” She curbed her language with a groan as she thought she noticed something moving under Greyfriar's cloak.
His brow furrowed with concern. “That does seem like foolish advice given your chest is a patchwork of stitches. No wonder everyone believes such an acclaimed anatomist to be a crackpot.”
Adele gasped, and that made her cough. Gareth brought a glass of water and lifted her up so that she could drink. After a few swallows she nodded.
“Do you need me to get the crackpot?” Greyfriar asked, easing her back down, using one arm.
“Where on earth did you hear that about Dr. Randolph?”
He shrugged. “Around. People were talking in the hallways.” He sat on the edge of her bed. “You do look remarkably better, however.”
“Well then, thank heaven for crackpots.”
“I am eternally grateful to him.” His cloak rippled again, and Adele noticed the flurry.
“Why is that moving?” Adele asked. “Or am I hallucinating?”
“No.” Greyfriar threw back his cloak and held out a grey cat.
“Pet!” Adele exclaimed and tried to raise her arms, without success. She hissed as stitches pulled at her.
He set the animal on the bed near her shoulder, and she winced as the cat nudged her arm and sniffed her face. She could feel the tickle of whiskers on her cheek and smiled through the pain. Pet shoved his face against her neck and commenced purring.
“Thank you,” Adele slurred, resting her chin against the warm cat. Her eyelids drooped and the call of slumber beckoned, but she rebelled against it. Her hand lifted and tugged weakly at the headgear wound around his face. She asked softly, “Take off your scarf and glasses. I want to talk to Gareth.” He complied and she saw his anxious expression beneath. His cheeks held fading scars from Flay's attack.
Adele shifted, vainly attempting to find a position that didn't wake all her aches and pains. Her struggles were not made any easier by the tube attached to her arm that went to a unit of blood hanging from a metal pole. A yank of her arm sent it teetering, so Gareth reached out to steady it.
“Hands off. That's mine,” she warned. “Well, for now.”
“Are you being funny? I can't tell.” They shared a wry smile; then he studied the bottle of blood. “What is this? What is it supposed to do?”
“They're giving me blood. Apparently I lost a lot.”
“Giving you blood? They can do that?”
“Yes. It helps me heal.” Adele giggled foolishly. “I guess we're not that different after all.”
Gareth was sniffing the air, but trying to be subtle about it. “Whose blood is it?”
“I have no idea.”
“Will it change you? Does it give you that person's feelings and thoughts?”
Adele closed her eyes. “No. It doesn't work that way. I don't know how it works, actually. But I need it, so they're giving it to me.” Suddenly she had a thought. “Could you use this blood? Is it viable for you as a food source while you're here?”
Gareth gingerly took the bottle and smelled it with a wrinkled nose. “No. It has already lost most of its value. It is hours out of the human.”
She leaned back, already weary from that small activity.
He hung the bottle again. “Don't worry about my diet. You're lucky to be alive.”
“Yes.” Adele saw the deep gouges in his skin by his neck. “We really should travel with our own surgeon.”
“Perhaps you should just be thinking about yourself.”
“You know me.” She was too exhausted to fight the yawn that snuck up on her.
“I know you think about everyone else more than you do yourself.”
The fear Gareth had held for her these past few days showed plainly in his voice. Adele's hand covered his. She knew all too well how close to death she had come, so she deflected the subject. “I heard Flay was here again.” Her expression did not change, but the barest of dark shadows crossed her pale face.
“Yes. And I failed to kill her. Again.”
“We'll get her. Together.” Adele's teeth ground together as she started formulating battle plans. “We will need to survey the city for every catacomb and cistern and then post guards to ensure vampires can't use them.”
“I'll see to it with your Anhalt.”
Adele smiled with relief that her two trusted allies were finally on speaking terms. That was one thing, at least, she didn't have to worry about. The list of other worries, however, seemed monumental, including why one of Mamoru's most trusted acolytes had tried to kill her. Her mouth quickly drew into a hard line. “And what about Flay knowing that Gareth and Greyfriar are one and the same?”
“You are amazingly well informed for an invalid.”
“I am a future empress, remember? I have other sources of information besides you. Colonel Anhalt…General Anhalt tells me everything.”
Gareth didn't know if Adele knew anything of what had happened between Mamoru and himself in the catacombs. Perhaps Anhalt had told her; certainly Gareth had not. She needed peace to recover before he informed her that her beloved mentor had tried to murder him.
He continued, “Flay said there was another game to play.”
“Do you know what she meant?”
“Not at all.”
“What can you do to stop her?” Not that she wanted him going alone into the hands of those who despised him for what his alter ego had done over the years. The idea of Cesare's hatred for his brother being magnified chilled her even more.
“Whatever Flay might have planned is already in motion by now. I'm only thinking of those left behind in Edinburgh.”
Adele's stomach fell at the thought, and her chest tightened, wakening the ache of her wound.
“All of my people.” There was such pain in his voice.
She took his hand. “Promise me you won't go alone to face this. Wait for me. We'll handle this together.” She sat up and gasped at the pain it brought, but she didn't care. Pet mewed plaintively as he tumbled from her shoulder.
Gareth held her and eased her back against the pillows. “I seriously doubt I'll be taking you back into my brother's territory. You are soon to be empress.”
“And I'll have a bloody army at my back!”
He shook his head. “I fear we'll both have to wait for Flay to make her next move before we do anything.”
“But think of it, Gareth! If I can get a grasp on this power of mine I could defend Edinburgh from her or anyone.”
“Your mentor will just love that.”
“Protecting the humans of the north has been my intent from the beginning. I don't care what my father or Mamoru or Senator Clark intended with this war or this power. This is what I am, and this is what I intend to do.”
“Of that I have no doubt.” Then Gareth kissed her, putting an end to further conversation.
Prince Cesare stood next to his father's throne in Buckingham Palace. Lady Hallow waited quietly to one side. General Montrose and Goronwy posed before the prince like dutiful servants. A line of Cesare's Pale stretched behind them.
Cesare's quiet voice resonated in the empty chamber. “Witchfinder, I have reports from Flay in Alexandria that your man has failed. Princess Adele is still alive. Plus, I have lost one of my greatest contacts among the Equatorians. This is not pleasant news.”
“Interesting.” Goronwy considered the information like a scholar. “What happened to Dr. Selkirk?”
“You are not here to ask questions.” Vampire eyes narrowed. “You are here to answer them, and likely to die.”
“Oh. Well, that would be a shame, my lord. Before you sent Dr. Selkirk back to Alexandria, a bit prematurel
y I felt, he told me a great deal about the very exciting research being done on geomancy in institutions across the south. Even beyond what he revealed to me about the princess.”
“He told you she was some sort of weapon that could destroy us. What could be more important than that?”
The old Welshman casually shoved his hands in his pockets. “Perhaps a way to disarm that weapon, my prince. He left many notes that I've yet to decipher. But I shall, never fear.”
Hallow started toward Cesare, but he signaled her to keep her distance. He wasn't about to share the stage in front of his human underlings. All information and decisions must pass through him alone.
The prince drummed his fingers on the back of the throne. “You have a month to tell me more, Witchfinder.” He then glanced at General Montrose. “And you? What is the state of your Undead?”
“We are prepared to move immediately, my lord. We do not need a month.” Montrose cut a brief glance at Goronwy. “We have airships heading south as we speak. We will take Marseilles unaware, as you command. And I have nearly a battalion of infantry ready for action.”
“Good. Marseilles must burn. King Ashkenazy has taken my lead and created his own Undead forces, which he is aiming at Constantinople. We will smash the major port cities within reach of the Equatorians. General, have your numbers rebounded after the attack on Gibraltar?”
Montrose's chest swelled with pride. “Indeed. Recruitment surges. The Undead movement is sweeping the north. There is no shortage of humans who want to die in your service so they may be reborn.”
“We welcome them to our ranks.” Cesare smiled, then turned. “Anything to add, Lady Hallow?”
The elegant female said, “Will Flay return to assume command…of the humans?”
“Flay has further business in the heat of Equatoria. When she returns to London, I will name her clan war chief again.”
Hallow stiffened with surprise. “You will?”
“Yes,” Cesare hissed to stifle argument. Then he continued pleasantly, “But you will be named seneschal. You will have the considerable responsibility of coordinating all alliance matters, including our clan forces. You will be my right hand during this war.”
Now the alabaster face of Lady Hallow softened with satisfaction. “Thank you, Prince Cesare. I welcome the challenge.”
“Very well.” Cesare nodded and smirked. Hallow had no idea what a challenge it would be, particularly once Flay returned to the north. “I am satisfied, for now. General, let our offensive begin. Witchfinder, one month. I must inform the king of these details.”
With that, Cesare turned and strode away.
King Dmitri lay on his bed with half-closed eyes, his mouth gaping for ragged breath. He was immobile except for the occasional twitching of his hands clutched together on his chest.
Cesare kept his distance from his father to avoid staining his clothes with filth. He paced, alone in the disgusting room with the horrible spectacle wheezing before him. Anger welled up in the prince at the weak, pathetic thing his father had become.
“If you can even hear me,” Cesare said, “I've come to tell you that the clan is thriving under my hand. I have delayed the Equatorians' war. I have scattered their airships and will soon begin to cripple their ability to come for us on the ground.”
The young prince stopped walking. “I alone have had the vision to spawn a new theology among the humans based on their old myths about us. Increasingly, they believe they will rise from their grave as vampires. They are desperate to escape their fate as food.” He laughed. “And I am gathering knowledge about their magic and religion. Remember the old days when they had power to cause us harm? I will find a way to put an end to it once and for all.”
Cesare laid a hand on his chest and towered over Dmitri. “I am doing it. No other clan lord would dare. No other would even consider it. No other clan lord in history has done what I am doing. Not even you! I will save our people. I will do it!”
The king's dewy eyes rolled slowly toward the figure of his son standing over him. His mouth closed slowly, and he tried to lick his cracked lips. “Gareth?”
Cesare screamed and extended his claws through reddening vision, lunging for Dmitri. Claws sank into the king's papery throat and tore flesh with terrible ease. The young prince raised his hands and slashed again and again, ripping the face beneath him until there was no sign of his father left. He continued to rain blows on the unresisting body. The last gurgling breath racked from Dmitri and the old vampire's chest sank in death.
Cesare paused with a dripping hand above his head. He looked at the carnage he had wreaked on his father and struggled to bring his snarling, heaving breath under control. He stared in horror at the flecks of blood and flesh covering his coat and shirt. He tore off his jacket and flung it across the room to the stone floor. His bloody hands left red stains on his once-pristine white shirt.
“No, I'm afraid you're mistaken,” the prince said in a strangled voice as he retracted his claws with a mixture of pleasure and shame. He could barely contain a manic laugh as he dared taste the blood of his father on his fingers.
“I am King Cesare.”
“I AM ADELE the First, Empress of Equatoria; Sultan of Egypt and Arabia; Shah of Persia; Maharana of India, Bengal, and Ceylon; Lord Protector of East Africa and the Cape; Queen of England, Scotland, and Ireland. I do hereby proclaim and foreswear to defend this Empire from all enemies. Done this day in Alexandria, the seventh of September, in the year Two Thousand and Twenty.”
Adele took her father's golden crown from her brother's outstretched hands. She broke her immobile ceremonial face to give Simon a wink, and the boy's lips turned up slightly. Then she held out the glittering crown for the throng gathered in the palace square to see.
Normally an imperial investiture would have been held in stately Suez Hall with only Equatorian grandees in attendance; only later would the new sovereign have been paraded onto a public viewing balcony. Adele, however, stood atop the main portico entryway to Victoria Palace, where the grounds had been opened to the public. The dour grandees were still in privileged places in the front, but a shoulder-to-shoulder citizen crowd jostled behind them, cheering at the sight of the old crown of Constantine about to grace the brow of their beloved Adele.
Prince Simon stood on one side of her while General Anhalt took the other. The general was stone-faced and resplendent in his dress uniform covered with medals of valor. The fully reconstituted White Guard lined the wide semicircular steps like statues.
Adele lifted the heavy crown high over her head. A shaft of pain seared through her, but her face remained serene. A light breeze ruffled her crimson-and-white gown. Slowly, she lowered the crown onto her head, and her wild auburn curls were finally captured.
The mob exploded in a frenzy of exultation. The cheering was all the louder because everyone knew how close their empress had come to death at the hands of an assassin, an agent of the late Lord Kelvin, it was said. Explosions came from on high as fireworks erupted into the fading sun of late evening. The sounds and colors of rockets were the signal to all Alexandria that their new empress was crowned. The cheer that rolled across the capital was like an earthquake that had the power to shake the world.
Adele held out her arms to her people, still careful to keep her head high. Her father's crown had been augmented with an inner ring of foam, but it was still unsteady on her brow. On the first step below her, she noted a beaming King Msiri of Katanga, who had taken his fastest airship to make the ceremony. He cheered loudly, to the annoyance of the Equatorian lords clapping politely beside him.
She regarded General Anhalt, who stared stiffly over the crowd. “Thank you, General. This wouldn't have been possible without you.”
“You're welcome.” The stoic Gurkha turned his head to reveal a tear dripping down his cheek. He could barely find the voice to say, “Your Majesty.” He looked forward again to hide his unmanly face from her.
Adele laid a hand on th
e general's shoulder, which brought even more cheers from the crowd. Then she looked at Simon, who was grinning now, not so reserved as before.
“Congratulations, Adele,” her brother said. “Better you than me. Can I have the cat?”
“No.”
The vast sea of faces below her began to turn upward in a wave. Hands lifted to point. Adele thought they were reacting to the spectacular fireworks booming overhead, but then she realized the adulation had become louder yet again. Even King Msiri was holding up his hands and applauding something high behind her.
Simon turned. “It's the Greyfriar! He's on a balcony, watching.”
Adele could picture him clinging to the shadows, swathed in his cloak with a hood obscuring his wrapped face. She had offered him a place of honor on the dais. Everyone in Alexandria knew the Greyfriar was the imperial consort; it gave Adele an aura of mystery, romance, and power. However, he had refused to join the coronation ceremony; this moment was about her.
Adele smiled, but didn't look back. She need not see him; it was enough to know he was there.
LAURENCE RANDOLPH, LORD Aden, had spent a long day with matters of state. Despite his noble title, Randolph was a member of parliament, representing some rotten borough in Aden where he had never actually set foot. In truth, he was a member of parliament by virtue of his empire-tilting wealth. There were few economies of steam and steel that his fingers did not at least graze. It was this power that allowed him to retain his influence at court despite his connections to the government of the disgraced Lord Kelvin. He had willingly resigned his briefly held post as prime minister, but that was not a change he regretted. He wasn't built for a life of politics; it was too limiting for him.
Aden enjoyed his first gin and tonic of the evening and perused dispatches from his vast business concerns. The wind had picked up a storm from the sea and battered the coastal city. The long fingers from the branch of a palm tree outside scraped wildly against the patio door. Aden paid it no heed, pulling his tuxedo jacket tighter about him to ward off the chill. He sat stone still with his hands flat on the desk, letting anarchic thoughts run over him.
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