by Nathan Spain
Ariadne smiled, despite herself. “For a start. You’re really not as special as you think.”
“Duly noted,” he muttered. “And where are those other people now, may I ask?”
“Not here.” At the sight of his concerned face she quickly added, “Oh, they’re still alive, I mean. I’m even still friends with a couple of them. But you know…these things come and go, over the decades.”
“Sometimes,” he said slowly, standing up and taking a step closer, “things that come and go can return again.”
She surprised herself by shooting him a playful smile, further shortening the distance between them with a step forward of her own. “I am actually between romantic entanglements at the moment.”
They were almost touching now. “Ariadne…” he began, the name slipping out on the breath of a vaguely desperate exhalation.
He leaned down closer to her. His breath felt warm on her face, the scent of him nostalgic and overwhelming, and suddenly she couldn’t bear his proximity.
She stepped quickly back, putting distance between them once more.
Draven grunted in surprised frustration. “What’s the matter?”
She shot him a sour look, uncertain whether her frustration was with him or with herself. “Did you really think I would fall right back into your arms? It’s not that easy, Draven.”
He gave an exaggerated groan. “You monster.”
He was joking, but it rubbed her the wrong way. “Well, we’re both monsters, aren’t we?”
Draven’s expression darkened, catching the bitterness in her tone. He sat back down on the rock with a sigh. “Not always. You were perfect, and I brought you down to my level.”
“What’s the matter?” she teased, baring her teeth and showing off her pointed fangs. “You don’t like me like this?”
“I’m not going to play games with you, Ariadne.”
Frustration flared within her, spilling out into the open. “Stop tormenting yourself looking for someone who isn’t there anymore. Who was never there! I mean come on, you think I was perfect when I was a human? When have I ever been perfect? When has anyone?”
“You were perfect to me.”
Ariadne just groaned with exasperation. She wanted to scream at him. She’d long since outgrown such simplistic romantic idealism, and if she had, he should have, too. Every time she thought he was making progress, he circled back around to the same mistake.
“Stop romanticizing me,” she said, putting extra emphasis on each word in the hopes that they would finally penetrate his thick skull. “Past me, present me, any version of me. I am not now, nor have I ever been, perfect. That’s the first thing you need to understand if you want us to be together again.”
He raised his head to look at her. “Then you think that could be a possibility?”
Ariadne resisted the impulse to laugh at his irritating relentlessness. “Well, we’re certainly not there yet.”
A hopeful look flickered in his eyes. “Yet?”
“Jesus…don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m still kind of mad at you, you know.” She said it like a simple statement of fact, however, keeping her voice free of malice. “But hey, at least now we both know what you actually want.”
“I guess we do,” Draven said. He sounded almost surprised by the simplicity of that fact. “So now the only question is what you want.”
Her anger was already fading, leaving only a deepening sense of confusion. What did she want? She sighed. “I’ll let you know when I figure that out, okay?”
“Please do,” he said. “I’m tired of fighting, Ari.”
Her mouth twitched at the sound of the nickname, but only for a second.
As their conversation reached a lull, noises met her ears, drifting across the lake from the direction of the lodge: the sound of excited voices. Glancing at the skies, they made out a company of dark shapes approaching.
“That’ll be the Stormfang delegation,” Ariadne observed. “We should get back.”
“We don’t have to,” Draven pointed out. “I mean, we could just stay here, for a little longer, and keep talking…”
“What for? I’ve said all I need to say for now. And surely you don’t want to miss all the exciting politics.”
Draven grunted to demonstrate his overwhelming enthusiasm about politics.
Ariadne laughed. “There are bigger fish to fry tonight than you and me, Draven. Come on!”
Not bothering to wait for him, she leapt into the air, transformed, and flew off. She didn’t have to look back to know that he was following in her wake; she suspected, now he had found her, that he would follow her anywhere.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Draven and Ariadne arrived just before the Stormfangs did, slipping into the crowd of Winebloods. The clans’ assembled ranks had grown too large to comfortably fit in the main lobby, so this time the formalities were held outside. The gathered clansmen and women formed two groups with a gap between them. Due to the size of their delegation, the Blackwings took up an entire side, while across from them, the Nightcloaks and Winebloods stood upright and formal in two clusters side-by-side.
Selene, Thanatos and Brone stood in welcome before the main door to the lodge, which hung invitingly open, spreading a pool of yellow candlelight out into the shadows of the entranceway.
A swarm of black bats wheeled downward in an elegant, synchronized swoop, taking human form just before they reached the ground.
Compared to the more uniform attire of the Nightcloaks and Winebloods, the Stormfangs gave off an impression of individuality. Many wore loud punk attire, with torn jeans and patched jackets, spiked bracelets and chokers. Though they were doing their best to stand straight and proud, Draven saw their eyes wandering, taking in the lodge and the surroundings.
At the head of the delegation stood Lady Rosanna, vampiric ruler of the Northeastern United States, and at once Draven saw where the gathered Stormfangs got their fashion sense from – they were taking after their leader.
A lanky woman who wore her dark hair short and spiky, Rosanna had the appearance at least of youth; she did not look much older than her late twenties or early thirties, around Ariadne’s age pre-turning. She wore tightly-laced combat boots, dark pants with a studded belt, and a black leather vest over a dark purple sleeveless shirt. Her features tended toward sharp angles more than curves, with high cheekbones and a firm jawline. Despite this, and her androgynous manner of dress, she had an undeniable femininity about her, just of a bolder and more assertive kind than gender norms usually dictated.
Draven’s own understanding of gender had been formed in the early 19th century, but in the two hundred years he’d spent as a vampire, he’d grown more comfortable with thinking of it as a spectrum rather than a binary. When one leaves human society behind, its cultural norms tend to become less important; few vampires would have batted an eye at Rosanna.
She did cut a funny figure, however, in contrast with the comparatively far more regal bearing and attire of Selene, Thanatos, and even Brone. But nonetheless, she strode up to them without hesitation and bowed with a flourish of her arm.
“My Lords and Lady,” she said with a sly grin. “Fancy meeting you here.” Her voice was deep and full of confident amusement.
Selene smiled. “Just happened to be out for an evening flight in Wineblood territory, were you, Rosanna?”
Rosanna gave a nonchalant shrug of her broad shoulders. “We were looking for blood. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but they say there’s a shortage. Don’t suppose you’ve got any humans around here? I could so use something to drink.”
“We’ve nothing living to offer, I’m afraid,” Selene said, playing along with the game, “but if I could convince you to stay a while, we have a well-stocked freezer of Wineblood brews that might interest you.”
Rosanna’s face lit up. “Ah, Selene, why didn’t you say so on the invitation? I would have flown here twice as fast.”
As Selene inclined her hea
d cordially, Draven felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Damian standing beside him in the crowd.
Draven leaned in toward his friend and whispered, “Did you speak to Selene yet?”
Damian shook his head. “I was going to, but I didn’t get the chance before the Stormfangs showed up.”
Draven turned his attention back to the Lords and Ladies. “It seems the gang’s all here,” Rosanna was saying, turning to Brone and Thanatos just in time to catch the former rolling his eyes. “My Lords. Gotta say, I’m somewhat surprised to see you crawled out of your coffins for this.”
“Rosanna,” Thanatos said, a thin smile creeping up the sides of his skeletal face. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”
Rosanna grimaced. “Doubt it.”
Thanatos’ lip twitched, but he maintained his composure, and his polite, vaguely derisive smile. Brone muttered something indiscernible under his breath.
“Okay,” said Rosanna, turning back to Selene with a clap of her hands and rubbing them together eagerly, “that’s the pleasantries out of the way. I suppose I can be convinced to stay a while, if not for the company you keep, then for the rare opportunity to enjoy your hospitality.”
“Certainly,” Selene said, taking her arm-in-arm. “We’ll just get you and yours settled in and then we shall all convene in the dining hall to enjoy a meal and some” – her eyes flicked, just for a moment, to Brone – “civil hospitality.”
Rosanna gestured to the other Stormfangs to follow her, and together they filtered into the lodge, followed by the other clans. Draven stole a glimpse over his shoulder to see whether Thanatos and Brone were lingering behind, but they had disappeared in the crowd.
“So that’s Lady Stormfang,” Damian whispered as they followed the others inside. “She’s a bit different from what I pictured.”
“I like her,” Ariadne said. “She’s got guts. Did you hear the way she talked to Thanatos? The creep looked like he’d just stepped into sunlight.”
“He didn’t look that angry to me,” Draven observed.
“He never shows it, does he? But he was simmering, I could tell. Ha, at least Rosanna’s smart enough not to trust those bastards.” She lowered her voice and said with a satisfied air, “Whatever they’re plotting, I doubt they’ll get any support from her.”
Draven spotted Selene in the corner of the entrance foyer, surrounded by subordinates to whom she rapidly delivered instructions. Normally he wouldn’t presume to interrupt her during such hustle and bustle, but these were not normal circumstances. Her time may be precious, but he thought he had a justifiable reason for requesting some of it, and so he strode up and caught her eye, Damian and Ariadne shadowing him.
He coughed politely. “My Lady, if I might have a moment of your time?”
She spared him a quick glance. “I’m a bit busy at present, Draven.”
“Of course, Selene. But with respect, I would not bother you if it weren’t important. We have some information that you’ll want to hear.”
She looked at him again, this time with her eyebrows arched inquiringly. “Go on, then. Speak.”
Draven took a discreet glance around the room. “Perhaps it would be wise to find somewhere more private first.”
Selene’s eyebrows somehow lifted a touch higher. “Very well,” she said, dismissing the gathered Winebloods with a gesture. “Let’s go to my quarters. But this had better be as important as you say. I have a dozen other matters demanding my attention.”
----
“Well,” said Selene a few minutes later, after Draven had quickly related to her what he had seen and heard. “I can’t say I’m shocked.”
“Nor are we, my Lady,” Damian said. “But as you surely know, just because something is unsurprising –”
“Doesn’t make it any less serious,” Draven finished, ignoring the annoyed glance Damian shot him. “And we didn’t want you walking into the debate without being armed with as much information as possible.”
“An admirable sentiment,” Selene said. “But I assure you, I was expecting this sort of thing. They undoubtedly see this summit as an opportunity to put a price tag on their cooperation. We can expect them to make demands, and whatever those demands are, I am prepared to negotiate and find a compromise.”
“But are they?” Ariadne interjected. Immediately, as Selene’s gaze snapped onto her, she lowered her eyes and began to mumble an apology for her rudeness.
“No,” Selene interrupted. “Finish your thought.”
Ariadne glanced up, seeming more emboldened now she’d been granted permission to speak her mind. “It’s just…they don’t seem like the types to settle for compromises. Isn’t that what you heard them say, Draven?”
“It’s true,” Draven admitted. “They weren’t being very specific, but Brone, at least, spoke disdainfully about the idea of compromise. I worry he might be too hot-headed to negotiate with. Even Thanatos seemed to have trouble reining him in.”
Selene sighed. “Look, there will never be a painless version of negotiating with Thanatos and Brone. I wouldn’t choose to deal with them if I didn’t have to. But the entire purpose of arranging this summit is to make dealing with them easier – to provide an official setting to do so, in which the eyes of all the clans are upon them, and they will thus be constrained from acting inappropriately. I have known each of them for as long as they have been in power. I know how they operate, and trust me, I know how to handle them.”
Draven and Ariadne both opened their mouths to speak, but Selene silenced them. “Thank you for relaying this information,” she said pointedly, “but I’m afraid I can spare you no further time. I will see you in the dining hall. As soon as we’ve gotten everyone settled in there, we will formally begin the summit and deliver our opening arguments.”
Damian bowed. “As you say, my Lady.”
“Take heart, Damian,” she told him as they turned to leave. “The moment you fought for has finally arrived. All will soon be decided.”
----
By the time they got there, the dining hall was already filling with vampires from all four clans. The space and tables had been divvied up between them more or less equally, with each clan getting a portion of the room – though things were looking rather cramped in the corner given to the large Blackwing delegation, who were stuffed practically shoulder to shoulder around their tables. Candles had been placed at the centers of the tables, and a fire was lit in the stone fireplace at the end of the room, filling the hall with flickering orange light and tall shadows. By the wall of the room’s center-most point, where all could see, stood a podium, and in front of each clan’s section of the room, a chair had been set up for each of the lords and ladies, the seats arranged like the four corners of a square.
They had not yet been seated, however, which is how Draven, Damian, and Ariadne came face-to-face – provided they looked down – with Lord Brone upon entering. They attempted to push past him and be on their way, but he seized the opportunity to trap them in conversation.
“Ah,” he said, his tongue darting briefly across his lips, “it’s the famous Wineblood trio. I’ve heard a lot about you three. Let’s see if I’ve got it right. The exile, returned to civilization,” – he nodded his head at Draven – “the optimist, instrumental, I hear, in putting together these festivities,” – he looked at Damian and gave him an oily smile – “and this charming creature I don’t believe I’ve yet had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with.” He looked at Ariadne and licked his lips again, more slowly than before.
He reminded Draven of nothing so much as a toad, and an unpleasant one at that. But before Draven could form a response, Ariadne beat him to it.
“You’ve certainly heard a lot.” She bared her fangs in a smile menacing enough to give Brone a run for his money. “But I’m afraid your information isn’t entirely accurate – I’m neither charming nor a creature, and I don’t think you would find becoming acquainted with me very pleasurable.”
&nb
sp; Brone laughed, the loud, performative laugh of a man downplaying a threat. “Oh,” he said, addressing Draven, “you like them a bit fiery too, do you? More fun that way. You have your work cut out for you with this one, though.”
Ariadne visibly bristled, her fists clenching. Her anger made her a bit slower than usual to compose a coherent retort, but Draven picked up the slack.
“Don’t worry, my Lord,” he said, letting the threat seep into his tone. “I know what to do with unruly personalities.”
Brone snorted, a nauseating smirk still affixed to his face. “I’m sure you do.”
He leaned in toward Draven and sniffed, rather more loudly and obviously than seemed appropriate.
“Is there something wrong, my Lord?” Draven said coldly.
“No, no, not at all.” Brone eyed Draven with a knowing look, his smile spreading even wider. “But I wonder if you could tell me what type of cologne you wear. It smells so familiar.”
“I don’t,” Draven replied, grinding his teeth a little.
Brone widened his eyes in a look of exaggerated surprise. “Is that so? I can’t quite place it, but I would swear I’ve smelled that scent before.”
A little wave of panic washed over Draven as he realized what Brone was implying, but before he could think of a response, Ariadne interjected.
“I’d tell you what you smell like,” she said through clenched teeth, “if I weren’t in such polite company.”
“Ah, but of course,” Brone said. “This is hardly the time or place for lapses in good manners. Perhaps” – he inclined his head toward Ariadne, smirking – “we shall have the opportunity for a less formal conversation later.”
He turned to walk away, which was wise since Ariadne looked about ready to kill him. But before he went, he glanced over his shoulder at Draven again and said, “If you need help taming that uncouth mouth over there, do come and see me. I could think of several effective strategies.”
Draven said nothing – he was too busy weighing the pros and cons of potentially starting a war by punching Brone in the face. Before he could reach a decision, however, the Blackwing lord removed temptation, and his face, from Draven’s path, walking away with an infuriating swagger.
