The King (Games We Play Book 2)

by Liz Meldon

  With a quick glance down the back hall, past the bathroom doors and the dusty ATM, Claude fixed his jacket and hair once more before grasping the railing and jogging up the familiar rickety wooden staircase. Second floor, private lounge room—third door on the right. It was unnervingly silent as he approached, overhead lights twitching in and out of brightness. His title gave him a reason to be confident, but he wasn’t naïve. Should he need to pull someone’s head from their shoulders to make a point, Claude would do it.

  It seemed he was the last to arrive. Once inside, he found himself faced with a sea of clan leaders, all of them seated on one side of the usual long wooden table. Half-full glasses of blood sat before them, and their whispered conversations died as soon as he shut the door, though the air was thick with words unsaid. Claude’s jaw clenched as he surveyed the scene before him, each and every alarm bell going off in his head. There was only a single chair on his side of the table. Not his usual one at the head. Just one in the middle, directly across from Johnathon Warwick. The rest were stacked in the corners.

  Franklin Belmont sat on Warwick’s right. Alaric Hewitt on his left. Enrique Reyes stood behind the chair at Belmont’s side. And then there was an unfamiliar face. Not totally foreign to him; it was Mercy Sorrows, sole female head of a very small clan allied with the Warwicks—if one could consider six members a clan. Well, five now: the vampire who’d been found beheaded and staked downtown this last summer, Donovan markings on his body, had belonged to the Sorrows clan.

  “All hail the king,” Warwick crooned. Five glasses were raised, but no one drank to his honor. Claude would have preferred to stand, but when Warwick gestured to the lone chair across from him, he obliged.

  He could humor this game for now.

  No one spoke for a long moment, the others swirling their glasses and fiddling with their nails. Only Warwick looked him in the eye.

  “What have you done to Shane Donovan?” Claude asked, his tone conversational but his gaze hard—and his question met with silence. He folded his hands together and set them on the tabletop, head cocked to the side as he waited. Children. He was dealing with children.

  “Shouldn’t you be asking the League what they’ve done with him?” Mercy Sorrows piped up finally. Claude’s pinned her with a look that made her lower lip quiver. The brunette sat up tall, her plum-purple mouth parting slightly as she drew a breath. “They’re the ones who have him in custody, as far as I’m aware.”

  She was a skinny thing, her collarbones prominent and her cheekbones high. This was the longest conversation they’d ever had, and Claude hadn’t yet said two words to her.

  “Do not make me ask again,” he said coolly, shifting his attention back to Warwick. If there was a mastermind in the room, Johnathon Warwick held the title; that much was clear by the way he held himself, effortlessly relaxed while the other clan leaders squirmed in the presence of their king. Warwick and Sorrows looked like they could be siblings, both angular and slim—easily snapped with enough pressure.

  “We dealt with our opposition,” Warwick announced finally.

  Claude watched the other leaders break out into knowing smiles. He let out a long sigh. The game had become tiresome.

  “Opposition to what?” he asked.

  “Why, to the future,” was the response he didn’t want to hear. He pressed his palms flat to the table to keep them from curling into fists.

  “Listen to me quite clearly.” Claude leaned forward, his voice low. Kings who shouted were kings no one took seriously. “I have given you all an incredibly long leash over the years, but I will not stand for this—”

  “You see, no one cares what you will or won’t stand for,” Warwick interjected, sounding bored. He shrugged when Claude’s eyes narrowed, then took a quick sip of his drink. “We outnumber you. With the Donovan clan subdued, we, a unified whole, are the largest clan in the region, and we’re going to move forward whether you agree or not.”

  “I am your king,” Claude hissed, each word tight, simmering with barely restrained anger. “I am—”

  “So behind on the times, I’m afraid.” Warwick exchanged a look with Reyes, both of them smirking. “The Americans had the right idea… Shirk the English king, create a place to call home. Their rules. Their laws. With no one using them for their own purposes. That is the future we foresee, and in it, we are all equals.”

  Claude’s eyes darted from face to face incredulously. There were many hidden truths between him and his subjects, that much was obvious, but Warwick’s professed equality was a lie that the others seemed to have swallowed.

  “There’s going to be a new world order in the coming days,” Warwick remarked, his eyes glinting with a kind of malice Claude was unaccustomed to associating with him. “It’s very simple. Those who aren’t with us are against us. It’s been a long time coming with vampire colonies across this nation. You’ll find that clans like Donovan’s are in the minority.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe what you like,” Warwick said, purposefully omitting Claude’s title. They had always addressed him as highness, even in informal settings. “I don’t really care, honestly, nor do my companions. All that matters is where you plan to place your loyalty in our new world.”

  Claude leaned back in his chair, disgusted. “What new world?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Reyes asked, all whispery hisses and cruel undertones. “A world where we must no longer hide ourselves. A world where we, vampire, the genetically superior species, can finally claim what is owed to us.”

  Claude’s stomach roiled. Vampires seldom felt sickness, yet its presence was always extra potent when it reared its ugly head. Claude swallowed hard and said the only thing he could think of in the face of such recklessness.

  “This is insanity.”

  What a fool he had been. Shane Donovan had tried to warn him—months ago, in fact. Something was afoot in their city, but neither could put their finger on it. Claude’s distrust in the vampire ran deep, hardened by years of misconduct and disrespect. He’d almost been pleased to see such a mighty leader fall on hard times, hoping it would teach him humility, and that it would curb Claude’s suspicions that a Donovan-born vampire was always out to take his crown, one way or another.

  When Shane had come to him, no more than a month after the masquerade and the body of the first dead vampire was found, Claude had insisted he handle the mounting problems surrounding his family name by himself. After all, at the time it had seemed strictly a clan issue. Punish the misbehaving Donovan vampires and be done with it—because if Claude had to step in and quiet the law-breakers, the Donovan clan would be getting a new name and a new leader.

  Claude should have believed in him. He should have lent his support, done a little digging on the issue, rather than letting his personal prejudices guide him. Besides, what had he been doing in the meantime that had kept him so busy? Going to business lunches? Meeting with entrepreneurs hoping he’d invest in one thing or another? Blood bank negotiations? Pursuing Delia?

  Meanwhile, all around him, deceit had eroded his once peaceful city. And he’d let it happen, too blinded by his distrust in Donovan and too distracted with his love life to notice.

  He should have done his duty. Claude should have been a king.

  His hands finally curled to fists, nails biting into his palms. When he caught the flash of Warwick’s smile, Claude eased out a strained breath and forced his hands to relax.

  “I have heard this story a thousand times over,” he mused, lifting his gaze to meet the treacherous vampire across from him. “Revolutionaries plan to burn the whole world and then rule its ashes. It will never work. The world’s too big, Johnathon.”

  A faint ripple of alarm passed through the line of clan leaders, starting at one end and working its way to the other. Claude hoped the message might have sunk, but there was Johnathon Warwick leering at him like a man who had already won the war.

  “It is unfortunate
you are of that opinion, Claude,” the bony vampire said with a heavy sigh, as if it truly, truly bothered him. “I’d hoped your little hunter pet might have perished by Donovan hand when I assigned her to the raid. Had it been so, I’d like to believe your loyalty to the cause would have been absolute.”

  “Strange.” Claude rolled his shoulders back as he observed the vampire. “Have I done something to make you think that I would be so short-sighted?”

  He’d wanted to see Claude prickle at the mention of Delia—at the thought of her being used to sway him. While it certainly made the ache in his gut worse, his expression remained unchanged. Love was a weakness Claude had willingly adopted once he decided to pursue her. Lesser men would think the best way to hurt him was to hurt her. It was only natural.

  And now that he knew who the real enemy was, he knew how to protect her. The League was compromised—that much was clear.

  “Well, you seem to lack your usual judgement and reasoning when it comes to a Miss Delia Roberts,” Warwick countered, his smile grown sickening. “After all, I’ve had the League High Council use her to spy on you for months…”

  Claude withheld what was bound to be a humorless laugh. Delia was many things in his eyes, some deliciously wonderful and others an acquired taste, but a master of espionage she was not. It had been quite apparent from their first date that someone had been feeding her questions to ask him. Thankfully those had popped up less and less as time passed, disappearing altogether at one point, allowing them to grow more comfortable with one another without her job interfering.

  Claude didn’t hold it against her. He had known what he was in for when he chose to pursue a huntress. Still, he wondered when exactly she planned to share with him what he already knew.

  “Fight by our side,” Warwick continued as he reached forward across the table, a hand outstretched. A mockery of an olive branch. His lip twitched. If Claude had had a knife, he’d stab it right through Warwick’s palm. “Join us. Become a master of the new world—”

  “This new world will bring about the annihilation of our kind,” Claude said tersely. “Humans still outnumber us. Why do you think the ancient houses keep to themselves? They know the cost of exposure. Vampire is a term still feared in popular culture—”

  “The ancient houses in Europe are fossils,” Warwick spat, retracting his hand. “They are no longer models of existence for a modern-day vampire to follow. Stop living in the past, Claude.”

  “The human population will not stand to become cattle, or whatever you envision them in this new world—”

  “Many humans have embraced our model,” Warwick said, sneering. “Senators, governors, police commissioners, High Councils… They bring their sheep into the fold at our command. We offer wealth and influence to mankind as well. We have use for them.”

  “This is madness.”

  “This is the future.” Warwick brought his hand down on the table solidly, making Mercy Sorrows jump. He then pointed an accusatory finger at Claude, who briefly entertained the idea of snapping it in half. “We give you a choice, then. Bring the Grimm clan in line, or we wipe it out.” Claude’s jaw clenched. “Look to the smoke rising from the Harriswood Library chimneys and know that as we speak, the Donovan clan is being erased from the history books. Make no mistake, the Grimm clan is not a house of warriors. You’re intellectuals. Modern-day men and women who simply exist. We wouldn’t need an elaborate scheme to trick the hunters into sanctioning you. We will just show up in the middle of the day and set your home aflame.”

  Claude stood, chair legs scraping across the floor. “I will not stand for this, Warwick.”

  “Haven’t you been listening?” The vampire rose slowly, fingertips resting on the table’s edge. “It doesn’t matter what you will stand for. It’s over. Your kingship is done. We free ourselves from the grip of a monarchy—”

  “For an oppressive oligarchy, I can only assume.”

  “—and we give you a choice. Bring your clan into this fight, or face the consequences of your refusal.”

  The silence was suffocating. Claude would never join such a foolhardy errand, but he refused to put his clan at risk. These were his people, some born again from his bite, others flocking to him for security. They had given him centuries of ceaseless loyalty and support, companionship and love.

  “Shane Donovan shared your same objections when he and I spoke at the masque ball,” Warwick remarked casually. “Now he and his children are dead.”

  “I will need time to discuss this with my advisors.” Not a single one would go for this vampires-rule-the-world scheme, but he could use their guidance to navigate the thin ice before him at any rate. “Give me a week to respond.” His eyes met Warwick’s unflinchingly. “I believe I am owed that much.”

  A week left him no time to call in favours from his allies overseas, nor would he be able to bring in enough continental muscle if other American kings were onboard with the scheme. Still, he had to explore all his options—and get as many of his people to safety as possible.

  “One week, Grimm,” Warwick agreed, flashing a hint of fang as he did. A clear sign of aggression. Claude’s lips twitched again, wanting to return the gesture. “We’ll be waiting… and watching.”

  He didn’t need to hear anything else. Claude left the room without another word.

  There were so many who relied on him for protection. He needed to get them out of Harriswood—yesterday. Delia too. A world where vamps ran rampant wasn’t a safe one for a hunter, even if she had grown lukewarm to the profession. Their previous phone call must have left her wanting to know the truth, but he would need to keep her in the dark for now, for her own safety.

  While he’d kept his cool when Warwick threatened her life, Claude wasn’t sure what he would do if something actually happened to her.

  But he knew it would be foolish.

  Claude thundered down the wood stairwell and headed for the bar’s back door. In its window, he caught the reflection of his red jacket, meant to mirror the velvety red cape of kings in an era gone by. The colour looked cheap on him. And why shouldn’t it? Claude Grimm was a kingly fraud.

  His people were owed more than a fraud. As he pushed through and headed for the awaiting car, which Elov leaned against with a smoke in hand, Claude vowed to do what was best for the people he loved most in this world, a certain huntress among them.

  Even if it meant he had to run.

  CHAPTER 21: Yuletide Letdown

  “This is the best champagne I’ve ever had…” Delia swirled the sparkling liquid around in a slim flute, the motion taking her back to the masquerade, then downed it in a single gulp. Claude’s deep chuckle reverberated along her skin, his lips pressed to the crux of her neck and shoulder. Warmth coursed across her body as the alcohol trickled through her, cool in its descent down her throat yet bringing out a heat deeper within. It was especially potent where Claude touched her, mouth to her bare skin and hand spread wide and flat over the boning of the black, corseted back of her strapless dress.

  Stupidly expensive, the dress fit like a glove around her waist, pushing and lifting her chest to support cleavage she seldom had. The lower half ballooned out, yet the front stopped at her knees while the back trailed down past her feet—like a mullet, Delia had offhandedly remarked when the shop assistant first showed it to her. It was the last garment she tried, pushing it aside in favor of the others. But this was the one. Like the vampire king touching her, caressing her, kissing her neck, the dress had waited patiently on the sidelines until she was ready to be claimed. Paired with comfortable red heels and ruby red lips, plus some thigh-high sheer black stockings, the whole get-up made her feel like a million bucks.

  “Would you like another one?” Claude’s words were like a purr, seductive and soft, uttered in her ear as if to share a filthy secret. Delia crumpled against him with a giggle, bringing her hand up to cup his face, cheeks stained in a permanent blush from both the king and the champagne.

 
; “No,” she murmured as she tipped her head back across his shoulder, neck on display in a room of vamps. “You… I’d like you.”

  He hissed against her skin. “Intoxicated minx.”

  She wasn’t—not really. At least, not from her several glasses of bubbly. No, Delia was drunk on him, on the night, on the atmosphere of the most elegant, elaborate party she’d ever been to. After hearing only sporadically from Claude for a few days, she had arrived at the Grimm Winter Gala a bundle of nerves—and went straight for the alcohol to soothe away the jitters.

  An unnecessary tactic, she had soon realized, when Claude swept her up in his arms and kissed her in front of his entire clan, vamps and their human companions alike.

  “We’ll talk later,” he’d rumbled in her ear when she started her line of questioning—what was up with that phone call, why hadn’t he been as reachable as usual, why throw a lavish party and insist she attend? It took place the same night as the hunter shindig at HQ, which Delia had no plans of attending anyway. Arthur had seemed mildly disappointed, but insisted there was a Star Wars marathon he could watch on TV instead. He’d brightened considerably when she asked him out for dinner the following night to make up for her bailing on the hunter party.

  Because, in her week away from League duties, her work schedule empty, Delia had decided what she was going to do with her life.

  Well, she had a vague idea of what she was going to do with the next six months of it, anyway.

  She was done with the League—or, at least, this League. Her resignation letter sat on her laptop, drafted ten times over the course of the week, and she’d been using the resources at HQ to read up on other Leagues around the country. She considered transferring—locations and departments—but first things first: Delia knew she needed a break from work to really clear her head. She’d done what the High Council had asked of her, for the most part, and she needed time to reassess her life goals. Her drive to climb the hunter ranks wasn’t as strong as it once was, and she had Claude to thank for that. He’d shown her that life wasn’t a straight line, but rather twists and turns and loops—and that was okay.