Kingmakers, The (Vampire Empire Book 3)

by Clay Griffith Susan Griffith

  Gareth leapt into the air and angled for the palace. He contemplated a furious meeting with Cesare, and had to remind himself to maintain control. This was not the time to strike his brother. As he closed in on the palace courtyard, he saw an incredible sight. It was the colossal statue of Ramses the Great that had been inside the museum.

  Gareth halted in midair and stared down at the object in its strange new space.

  “Impressive, no?” came a voice.

  He spun to find Cesare hovering above him. His brother smiled. “Welcome to London. Did I startle you?”

  “What is this?” Gareth pointed down at Ramses. “Is this your doing? That statue belongs to me.”

  Cesare settled to the earth, followed by Gareth. “I had it done. I wasn't aware that you claimed the objects in the museum.”

  “You destroyed my home.”

  “Oh, don't go on so. The doorway had to be widened a bit. There are still countless pieces of stone and metal inside for you to stroke. There's still a roof to keep the rain off your head.”

  “Why is it here?” Gareth touched the colossus and felt sick that it had been defiled. Adele had explained the statue to him when she was his guest in the museum. It had been their first meaningful conversation. Ramses was from Adele's homeland; he was her ancestor.

  “It's Dmitri,” crowed Cesare.

  “What?”

  “It's a monument to our father.” Cesare patted the pharaoh's stone trunk.

  “You simpleton. This statue is someone. This is a real man. His name is Ramses. You can't just grab an object and say it's someone else.”

  “No? I believe I just did.”

  “But…” Gareth struggled for words. “Why are you even putting up a monument to our father?”

  “He was a great king.”

  The elder brother shook his head in confusion.

  Cesare continued as if it was all quite clear. “This monument will show everyone how magnificent he was; then they will know that I am greater still when I surpass him.”

  “But this statue isn't Dmitri,” Gareth repeated.

  “It is now.”

  Gareth wanted to tear the smug grin from Cesare's face. His vision swam red, and his claws extended involuntarily. Then suddenly a strange thought occurred to him. Cesare was staring up at the huge statue with pride, and Gareth started to laugh.

  “Something funny?” Cesare asked with a surprised snarl.

  “Yes. Very funny. Perhaps the funniest thing ever.” Gareth clapped a hand on Cesare's shoulder, causing his brother to pull away angrily. The Scottish prince doubled over in laughter so loud it attracted the attention of vampires who were passing.

  “You're making a ridiculous scene,” Cesare snapped. “Shut up!”

  “I don't think I can.”

  “Gareth, you ass. I hope you do enjoy Edinburgh, because you will never set foot outside it once I'm king.”

  Gareth laughed even harder, slipping to the ground with his back pressed against Ramses. He bent low to the earth, his body racked by guffaws he couldn't control. The gathering vampire crowd began to laugh too, slowly at first, but then louder with fits of hilarity. The sight of the royal brothers laughing—well, one of them—was a great omen.

  Cesare leaned toward Gareth. “I don't even care what you are laughing about. I have business. When the sun sets, I sequester the coven. You will be there.”

  “Oh I'll be there,” Gareth struggled to say. He took a deep breath to recover his stern visage. Then he looked up at Cesare's grim face, and a smile slowly crept back across his lips. He broke into laughter again. The mob followed with renewed delight.

  Cesare said, “If you're going to do this in front of the clan lords, the vote shouldn't take long.” He indicated the gathered crowd of giggling vampires. “You're a joke to everyone.”

  Gareth rubbed his face with a deep, satisfied sigh. “And you are a human.”

  “What?”

  “You've become a human, Cesare. We all have.” Gareth stretched out his legs. “Look at us. Look at your clothes. Look at me and my herds. Look at Ramses here. You put up a statue, Cesare. A statue!”

  The younger prince glanced from his brother to the colossus and back. His brow furrowed in anger and fear.

  Gareth shook his head. “We're humans now. We're just not very good ones.”

  “You're mad.” Cesare nimbly lifted from the ground with his attention lingering curiously on his brother. Finally he turned away and flung himself toward the palace, slipping into the black sliver of a window as if he'd vanished through a wall.

  The crowd milled about Gareth, unsure of what had happened, or what was going to happen. They began to drift silently into the sky too, one by one, leaving Gareth sitting alone in the dirt with the colossus of Dmitri.

  The two brothers stood on either side of their father's throne. The gathered clan lords waited. Many of them were the greybeards who had fought in the Great Killing, but there were a few youngsters, male and female, who had come to power since. This was Cesare's event, but since Gareth was the eldest son, and technical heir, he was the official host. Even so, it was Cesare who nodded to Gareth to prompt him to speak.

  “My lords,” Gareth said, “it has been centuries since our clan was called for this purpose. Would that this day had been more years in coming, but death finds us all. The time has come, and you have a duty to perform. Our clan needs a king, and our tradition holds that you noble lords are the voice of the clan. You will go into isolation, and you will not emerge until you have decided. Recall, there are no candidates. Any member of the clan may be king. There are no packs about, so it is wisdom alone that influences you.”

  Cesare raised a hand to silence Gareth. “In addition to you lords of our clan, since we are all one people around the world, it is permissible for rulers of other clans to join this coven. Their voices hold no more weight than yours, but they are welcome.” He signaled his chamberlain, Stryon, to open the door at the rear of the room.

  Several males and females entered, boldly attired to give silent notice of their elevated positions.

  “Noble lords,” Cesare announced, “welcome among you Ashkenazy of Budapest, Draken of Munich, Natalia of St. Petersburg, and Leopold of Brussels.”

  Gareth was relieved that Lothaire was not among the dignitaries. He had warned his friend to stay well away from the coven, but stand ready to move to Gareth's support when needed.

  There was some grumbling among the British lords when the foreign rulers entered, but tradition, even recent tradition, was powerful. And these rulers were all Cesare's allies, so there were no wildcards. The coven would end as expected, they believed.

  Cesare regarded Gareth, likely mistaking his strained expression for a sudden realization that his days were truly numbered. “Gareth, if you will.”

  The elder brother cleared his throat. “Yes. Now that we are all here, it is my duty to send you into isolation. You are required to spend at least three nights in contemplation and discussion, more if needed, but no fewer. Go now, with the chamberlain, and do not emerge again…until you have chosen the new king.”

  The lords turned and moved out through the open doors. Soon the room was empty but for the two brothers with their father's throne between them.

  Cesare said, “That went well. Don't you think, Greyfriar?”

  “Yes,” Gareth muttered. Then Cesare's words struck him like a polearm. He slowly turned to look at his brother and saw a mask of hate and triumph.

  “Don't pretend, please,” Cesare hissed. “Even you are past that. I didn't believe it at first, and I hate you more than anyone. Yet once I considered it, I realized it was true. It made sense given your insanity. I'm only glad our father didn't live to see this.”

  “How long have you known?” Gareth asked, trying to sound casual, moving a bit closer to his brother.

  “Very recently.”

  Gareth heard a shuffling at the door, and he saw Flay and a mob of her beloved Pale. Her face was
like steel and her glare impaled him. She had turned on him. He didn't know why, and it didn't matter. Not now.

  Cesare asked, “Are you prepared to surrender?”

  “Not likely.”

  “I suspected as much.”

  Along one wall of the throne room, high windows shattered; glass sprayed ahead of vampires who swarmed in. Flay raced for the throne dais with a red-coated stream of soldiers at her heels. Gareth leapt into the air, spinning over several figures that grasped for him. Claws ripped his long frock coat. He stepped on shoulders like stones in a stream, feeling the fresh wind on his face. A quick glance showed every window filled with Pale blocking escape routes.

  He raced across the chamber, slamming into vampires, pushing off cracked chandeliers. The mob around him tried to respond, tried to correct for his speed, but they collided with one another. He caught a quick glimpse of a furious Flay as her own stumbling men blocked her.

  The empty hallway loomed beyond the open door.

  A wave of heat smashed Gareth. In a second, he wondered if Adele was there, but the scent was wrong. A figure appeared blocking the doorway. He was a human with white hair and a long beard. In his hands, he held large crystals clasped together. A silvery fire wafted from the stones and caused Gareth to falter with a cry of pain.

  Then he was falling back. He saw the rotting ceiling and Flay's impassive face. Gareth tried to twist, raising one arm to cover his throat. His legs were clamped together, and he felt his wrists seized. Faces and arms and torsos crowded around him, grabbing him, locking him into position.

  “Hold him!” came the shouts. “Careful! He's dangerous!”

  Gareth struck out with his teeth, ripping the muscles from someone's arm. New arms replaced it. He was borne to the ground, barraged with fists and knees.

  He saw the human kneeling over him. The man looped an object around Gareth's neck, and Gareth screamed as if a hole was burning through his chest. Faces blurred in the agony as the vampires holding him yelled in pain and drew away. Cesare smiled and gave orders. Flay sneered down at her former conspirator, but her bravado faded and she shook her head sadly, looking lost.

  Gareth was chained in a dark cell under the palace. Perhaps the room was once used for storage or wine, but now it suited the great traitor. Rough stone walls with no windows and a heavy door defined his new world. Gareth heard or smelled little because of the searing pain lancing through his body from the crystal talisman hanging around his neck. The burning was too terrible for Gareth to appreciate the irony of his brother's choice of weapon to lash him.

  A bolt shifted and the massive door swung in. The human geomancer peered in with intense curiosity before Flay shoved past him. The war chief stared at Gareth's writhing form chained by the wrists from heavy brackets in the ceiling. His wounds from the fight still ran red because he could not heal. Flay's expression was pure bitterness, more than rage.

  “It hurts, doesn't it?” she said. “I hope you feel just a little of what I did when your human pet tried to kill me in Scotland.”

  Gareth met her icy glare, trying to put the agony aside. His jaw opened and closed.

  “Don't try to speak.” Flay sneered at him. “You won't be able to.”

  The human geomancer said smugly, “As you can see, Gareth is in exquisite pain.”

  “Don't speak his name!” the war chief roared, and backhanded the man into the wall.

  “Flay,” Gareth whispered hoarsely.

  Her flickering expression betrayed surprise at his stamina, and perhaps even concern at his condition.

  “Please,” he gasped. “We can still succeed.”

  “There is no we!” she shrieked. “There never was. I meant to betray you from the beginning.”

  “No.” Gareth grimaced as he spoke. He panted with effort. “It isn't too late.”

  Flay went wide-eyed with dismay. “Do you even know when you're lying?”

  “You must free me.”

  “Beg your princess to save you. Perhaps if you scream, she'll hear you in Edinburgh. I saw her there. Do you think I'm a fool? Do you think I'm an idiot? I should kill you here, you bastard. You deserve it.”

  Gareth dropped his chin to his chest at Flay's scorn. It couldn't end from jealousy. Such a small emotion to tilt the world.

  “Touching,” came another voice from the door. Cesare strolled in, grimacing uncomfortably at the aura wafting off the talisman. He glanced at the war chief. “Why are you here, Flay?”

  She retracted her claws with obvious effort. “I wanted to see the Greyfriar alive one last time.”

  Cesare looked at Goronwy, who studied Gareth as if he were inside a test tube. “So your trinket works, Witchfinder.”

  “I told you they would, my lord. You are the master of humans and vampires now.”

  “Yes. Just as it should be.” The young king-to-be laughed. He crossed his arms and regarded Gareth. “I admired you when I was young. You were going to be a great king; my only future was to be your councilor. Then the bottom dropped out of you. When Dmitri needed you after the Great Killing, you weren't there. But I was. And in an odd way, I was angry with you. You were such a colossal disappointment to everyone. Even to me.” Cesare leaned against the wall, lost in his own memories. “I almost wish I didn't have to kill you, but I can't allow anyone to know that my brother was the Greyfriar. It reflects badly on the entire family, you know.” Cesare reached out and clamped his hand around the back of Flay's neck, half playfully, but with clear threat. “Your days are done, Gareth. There is no one here to help you.”

  Flay said in a restrained voice, “What of his princess?”

  “Ah yes.” Cesare raised a curious eyebrow. “The Death Bringer. Empress Adele.”

  With sudden alarm, Gareth said through bloodstained teeth, “You don't think she's stupid enough to come here to save me, do you? She won't fall into your trap.”

  “This isn't a trap,” Cesare replied cavalierly. “I don't want her in London. She's far too dangerous. I've brought my packs back into the city in case she was to wander in here. But I'm leaving for Edinburgh in a moment to kill her. And to kill everyone who lives there. Alone. Personally.”

  Gareth laughed. “You don't stand a chance. She'll render you into a pile of ashes.”

  “Normally, I might agree with you,” Cesare replied as he fumbled awkwardly in his coat pocket. He drew out a chain with an odd bluish crystal hanging from it. “But, you see, I am far more intelligent than you. I had the forethought to prepare a weapon against the empress.”

  The human geomancer chuckled with self-satisfaction and nodded. “My lord, don't bring that talisman too close to this one or it may fracture the facets.”

  Gareth had felt a slight weakening of the fire burning on his chest when Cesare revealed the blue stone. Cesare noticed the concern on his brother's face and clutched the cold talisman in triumph.

  “This little thing,” Cesare said, “will counteract Adele's abilities long enough for me to slaughter her. Correct, Witchfinder?”

  “That is so,” Goronwy responded. “It is a triumph of research.”

  Cesare grinned at Gareth and repeated, “Yes. A triumph of research. Your fearsome empress will be nothing more than a helpless girl.”

  Gareth surged forward, straining against the chains, snarling. Cesare nodded to Goronwy, who pressed the talisman hard into Gareth's chest. The Scottish prince screamed as fire lanced his veins, and the world went black.

  When Gareth's eyes opened again, he made out blurred images of Flay and the human witchfinder. He muttered, “Cesare.”

  “Gone,” Flay announced. “An hour past. Bound for Edinburgh.”

  Gareth tried to move, willed his weak limbs to fight his bonds. He couldn't hear the chains make the slightest jangling. Even so, he gasped for breath from the effort. He looked up. “Flay, I'll give you anything you want. I'll make you queen. I beg you. I have to stop him.”

  The war chief glanced swiftly to Goronwy for an instant, as if t
here was the briefest chance of believing again. Gareth held his breath until her eyes dropped to the floor. Then she quickly turned away and walked out the door.

  Gareth summoned up the last of his pitiful strength to scream, “Flay! Please!”

  There was no reply.

  uSS BOLIVAR SMELLED horrible.

  It had been a week of being trapped in close quarters, in narrow corridors, and tight cabins with a crew of two hundred, plus companies of marines. The airship never dropped into temperate atmosphere to air itself out. The aluminum-burst engines filled every crevice with a nauseating metallic tinge that infected every bite of food, every swallow of water, and every breath taken.

  General Anhalt climbed the companionway ladder to the bridge. The metal vibrated under his hands and boots, as it always did. He longed for the open decks of sailing airships. He welcomed the freezing temperatures any day versus the damp heat of the steamnaught. He prayed Equatorian engineers paid more attention to ventilation as they built their own ironclads. With any luck, these giant air beasts would be proven inefficient and fall into the scrap heap of history.

  Anhalt pulled himself through the open hatch onto the crowded command deck. The noise of the bridge was like a club to the brain. The riveted bulkheads were packed with hissing pressure gauges and rows of wheels and valves. The network of pneumo tubes clanked and whistled. Voices shouted from every corner to make themselves heard over the din of the vessel itself.

  Framed in the glass of the vast sweep of bow windows, Senator Clark waved a hand at Anhalt from his place near the great wheel, and shouted something unintelligible. The sirdar had tired of making a sign of cupping his hand at his ear, so he trudged through the sweating crewmen to lean into the senator's bellow. The airship's captain, Sandino, stood next to the wheel with the young helmsman and gave Anhalt a polite nod.

  Clark shouted, “We can't wait any longer. My weather boys say conditions are prime.”

  Anhalt consulted his pocket watch and twisted several dials to read the brass wheels. Gareth should have come yesterday. The sirdar took a painful breath at the thought of his friend's possible fate. The empress had been so worried for Gareth to go alone to London. Perhaps she had been right to be concerned.