by A. J. Aalto
Hendrik Van Solms looked like he’d been about a hundred when he was turned, stuck as an old man forever, and he’d clearly never heard of a razor. His beard was bundled on his lap in a black nest streaked through with grey. It matched the hair sprouting from his large, square ears and sticking out from under a red woolen cap that looked like it had seen better days. Everything about the revenant looked like it had seen better days. A frail black man, he had giant brown eyes buried in sunken hollows bordered with crow’s feet, like they were sinkholes dragging the skin inside his skull; he wasn’t the withered, washed-out, grave-wax horror that Malas Nazaire was, but he was certainly no spring chicken. The deep color of his skin and the Dutch last name gave me a couple solid clues as to the date of his turning, though; revenants, including the First Turned, often used wars and invasions to mask their own movements and activities. Could Hendrik Van Solms have chosen his name and his declared ancestry sometime during the Dutch invasion of Angola? If I remembered my African history, that would put his turning around the middle of the seventeenth century. He’d be at least three hundred sixty years old, much younger than Malas, even younger than Harry, despite looking like someone’s great grandpa. It was impossible to guess at his body shape, as he was bundled into his throne with a pile of green and burgundy wool blankets. I knew nothing about House Van Solms, and that included their Talent. Their banner gave no clue to this: an innocuous-seeming pair of gold and red distelfink birds on white silk.
His DaySitter, Lisa Pivratsky-Churchill, was a little person, blonde and angel-faced; wearing strapless, white, brushed velvet and a touch too much make-up, she left the banner and seat of House Van Solms to have her moment before the court, accustomed to attracting more attention than average-sized people, comfortable in her own skin. Lisa had what I suspected was achondroplasia type dwarfism, taking in her long waist, short stature, and shortened upper limbs. A swath of lacey jewelry in gold began as a choker around her throat and draped across to cap both shoulders before spilling in ropes down her bare back. A gold band sat on her ring finger, and a diamond engagement ring that was easily double the size of any I’d ever seen before. I wondered if Mr. Churchill was still alive, and if so, how did he feel about his wife being a DaySitter? Was he here? Did he live with them? I scanned the hall and then realized with embarrassment that I’d been ignorantly looking for another little person.
I waited for Speaker Aristoxenus to make a cheeky remark, but the two of them exchanged familiar nods; Ms. Lisa had spent time at court before. She didn’t look around the room in awe the way most DaySitters did, and I felt nothing from her that indicated that she was intimidated by the ancient immortals crowding the room. I wondered if Hendrik Van Solms preferred to stay at his stronghold on Svikheimslending, and if they were regular guests at Skulesdottir.
“The Distelfink is indebted to the Raven of Night in so many ways that my master could not hope to list them,” Ms. Lisa declared, raising her voice politely for the other DaySitters in the room. “I am told it would please the Crowned Prince of House Dreppenstedt if I should nominate Guy Harrick Dreppenstedt, Lord Baldgate, and stand for him in contest with my Second, Sweyn Llewellyn. Hereby, I do.”
Weird. I glanced at the side of Harry’s face and picked up his dread again through the Bond. His pierced brow twitched slightly, but his face showed no outward surprise. Ever the gentleman, he let his eyes fall on Master Van Solms and nodded once to acknowledge that he felt honored by the vote of confidence. Harry’s too young to be king. Why not nominate Wilhelm himself?
Wilhelm doesn’t want to be strapped to a throne. I recalled Tara’s advice. And Wilhelm always gets what he wants. Was Harry going to get thrown under the bus? If he did, I was going to get thrown under there with him. Life at Skulesdottir? A lifetime diet of nutrimatrix? Could I learn to make espresso without my machine? Would Harry be responsible for running off the troll scout? Did he have enough support here to round up help if needed? What could an empath and touch psychic do to scare off a troll? Or trolls, plural? Suddenly, there seemed a lot more at risk than finding a suitable leader who could scare off a troll.
“You may sit, Ms. Pivratsky-Churchill. Call House Buryshkin!” the Stonecaller bellowed, wriggling until he sat straight with importance. I knew little about the second-eldest revenant leading House Buryshkin, Yulian Sergeyvich Buryshkin, other than the fact that he had great taste in women. His DaySitter, Georgina Harris, had natural beauty, a mess of natural red curls framing a heart-shaped face, and freckles galore. She had resting sulky face, pouty lips, and melancholy green eyes, backlit by the high green velvet collar of her dress.
“Hail! Hail! Keeper of the House! Mighty Fang of the Bloodline!” his DaySitter cried, backing her way from under the bear-and-dragon claw banner of House Buryshkin, not wanting to take her eyes off her portly, bearded companion, blatantly adoring him with a radiant smile that lit her eyes.
The grin that split his lips in answer was full of worship. She was the glory of his heart and Yulian didn’t bother to hide it.
“I nominate my beloved master, Lord Buryshkin,” Georgina said, “and stand for him in contest. Such is my passion that I will easily dominate on his behalf without any help of a Second.”
“Calm your giddy theatrics and take your seat, Ms. Harris,” the Stonecaller said. “Call House Sarokhanian.”
Sayomi Mochizuki removed her brown robe, under which she wore a fitted, floor-length red velvet coat collared with midnight black mink over a glossy black latex cat suit; I did my best not to cast an accusing, I-want glare at Harry. Over the latex was a tiny red-and-black plaid kilt that was barely more than a belt flipping around tight, liquid-plastic thighs. She strutted forward, the rubber soles of her thigh-high black leather boots silent against the marble. Even inside an Arctic stronghold, where there was no sunlight and sparse, flickering gas light, Sayomi wore big, black sunglasses. When her hair swept aside from her tiny, elfin ears, a generous line of diamond studs glittered in her right earlobe, including a cuff. A bright red felt fedora was angled over the left side of her face in a way that reminded me of Wes trying to hide his scars, or maybe Carmen Sandiego. Sticking out of the hatband was a peacock feather, and that’s what she reminded me of; a strutting peacock. Her lips were a cupid’s bow painted scarlet and crooked up in the corner like she was privy to whispered secrets. So bewitched was I by her appearance that I totally missed the shapeshifter beneath the Sarokhanian banner until I heard a grunt-yip and the clink of big buckles. When I looked over, blood-smirched white fur was rippling over flesh along the crest of his back and down one haunch. The straightjacket lay in a heap.
The white fox trotted quickly and obediently to catch up to Sayomi’s confident strut, head lowered to sniff at the marble as he padded behind her. Batten must have missed the shapeshifting too, as he was staring intently at a latex-covered butt cheek curved under a flippy skirt.
I whispered, “Think this fellow is a werefox.”
“How do you figure?”
“Because I just saw him turn into that fox, there.”
“Brilliant detective work, Dr. Baranuik,” he whispered back.
“Yeah,” I said. “I should maybe work for the F-I-B.”
Sayomi did not raise her voice for the benefit of those around her. If I had been further from the throne, I wouldn’t have heard her. I got the distinct impression she didn’t give two shits who heard her or not, aside from the little being on the bench.
“I bring before the court a concern for the throne’s consideration,” she said, “and indeed a concern for us all. The great houses may not be aware that House Dreppenstedt has brought into our midst Mark Batten, grandson of Colonel Jack Batten, both notoriously prolific vampire hunters with a history of launching unprovoked, personal attacks upon House Sarokhanian. We are greatly concerned.”
Aristoxenus’s gaze shot across the room at us, and I felt a jolt of guilt. One by one, perhaps following the lesser demon’s lead, every eye turned to our banner a
nd specifically to Batten. Though the rumor mill had certainly run ahead of us, ageless accusing eyes settled in our direction, awaiting an explanation. My thoughts scrambled for a retort, but Wilhelm’s pitying laughter stayed my lips.
Aristoxenus pushed his screechy demon voice across the floor at us. “What say you about the Soul Caller’s concerns, Raven of Night?”
Wilhelm crossed his hands in his lap and said warmly, “How perfectly dreadful it must be for the prince of such an ancient house to be rendered kitten-shy by an unarmed, mundane mortal. Why, our sweet little minx must have drawn to her heels quite a remarkable man.” He clucked his tongue as I’d heard Harry do countless times at me, and glanced at Harry. “Guy Harrick. You have rested in the care of this mortal. I am given to understand that his kit has lain upon your own dining table, his holy water and his rowan wood as well. Do you find yourself intimidated by the presence of this jugulator under your roof, my Young?”
Harry flashed full fang within a slow, spreading smile that echoed the derisive nature of his master’s words. “Oh, angels wept!” he cried. “But of course, I am suitably terrified. Each time the ne’er-do-well draws near, it’s all I can do not to soil my drawers.”
Wilhelm’s attention returned to Aston Sarokhanian, who had slithered out of his seat to stand, his graceful movements reminding me of a cobra dancing in front of a snake charmer. Wilhelm’s eyes glittered playfully, though his tone was liberally laced with contempt. “Could the carrion hunter slip through your house’s defenses unscathed and take you bare-handed, Soul Caller? One was given to understand that yours was a mighty talent. I do apologize if we have all greatly overestimated the power of your banner lo these many centuries.”
“Care to taste our powers yourself, gutter bird?” Sayomi blurted.
I hadn’t noted any other houses stirring, but Malas Nazaire’s telekinetic strike was audible, his force crackling through the air so fast that it was missed by every human that didn’t feel it; the blood beading suddenly on her lip was its evidence. My gut contracted as the Blue Sense blasted into life and Sayomi’s regret and fear gripped me low in the belly.
“Hold your tongue, mortal,” Malas rasped, levitating clear out of his seat while Declan sent me a worried glance. “You speak to the master of a house, not some scurrying rat.”
Wilhelm stayed Malas’s outrage with the not-displeased wave of his hand and continued, “Dear child, I am not the one whose knees are set to knocking by the presence of this soft lad.” He stood, sweeping forward across the marble in a dark, sinuous advance. She flinched when he raised his hand; extended to her was merely his handkerchief in a chivalrous gesture. She took it apprehensively, fingers trembling now, and pressed it to her lip. Her body leaned away from his as much as she could without taking a step back.
Point: Sayomi. I’m not sure I could have been that ballsy after mouthing off to a creature of Wilhelm’s age and clout. Wilhelm’s disturbance was well-managed through the house Bond, but I could tell he was less irritated by her nerve than that of her house and her revenant master. He turned his back on her and returned to his seat without further comment.
Harry’s sudden belly laugh exploded into the silence, startling the crap out of me and making Batten jerk in an out-of-character show of alarm. Harry’s merriment set off the rest of House Dreppenstedt, and he was soon joined by Malas Nazaire, whose rasping chuckle swam across the floor at me. House Vulvolak was stiffly and collectively unamused on Sarokhanian’s behalf, displaying their sympathetic ire with a synchronized scowl that couldn’t have been scripted better.
Sayomi glared over the rim of her dark sunglasses at me, like I had somehow done this to her. Blood soaked through the white handkerchief at her lip to punctuate her injury. I showed her my biggest shrug; I could do nothing to quell their giddy amusement. The laughter settled in its own time, dissolving to chuckles and conversation until the Stonecaller thumped his bench with his mace.
Aristoxenus smirked tightly. “Clearly, you and your master have nothing to worry about, Sayomi-chan. Do you have further concerns for this court?”
She hung her head, shaking it once. “I nominate Aston Sarokhanian for the throne, and I stand for him in contest with my Second, Gunther Folkenflik. My master believes it is time for a culling of the human herd, and intends to part the veil and welcome a temporary visit by the troll horde.”
This announcement was met with a murmur of surprise around the room, which she interrupted by continuing, “To answer the insult and threat placed upon my house by the intrusion of our forever foe, I would ask to be granted a secondary prize. If House Sarokhanian dominates, I would have the Overlord award my master, as king, the satisfaction of Calling one soul from House Dreppenstedt.”
Harry bristled beside me but his face remained serene. I snuck a peek at Wilhelm; he did not look overly concerned, but his control on the house Bond spiraled down tightly. I knew very little about the Soul Leach talent, besides the obvious: Aston Sarokhanian could shuffle souls around like cards in a deck, or so the rumor went. I tried not to tense up. Ol' Three-Heads wouldn’t allow such a thing; we hadn’t done anything wrong. Except bring Batten and his hundred and eight hashmarks to court. But other than that, nothing.
Aristoxenus tilted back on his bench, and his bobcat ears trembled as he listened. His face got serious in a rush. “The Overlord would know if you have a soul in mind.”
Sayomi’s voice dropped to a purr. “Oh, I have one all picked out, all right.”
The mace fell again, thump like a gavel. “Name the soul and it will be yours to Call upon House Sarokhanian’s triumph.”
Harry’s worry jacked to a metallic splinter through my heart.
“I would have the soul of Dr. Marnie Baranuik,” Sayomi said. I couldn’t help but notice she raised her voice to make sure I hear her, the sexy latex-coated bitch.
I made an insulted guttural noise at the back of her head. The lesser demon waved at me to shut up; it wasn’t my turn to speak. The werefox’s eyes glittered across the room at me, glossy with more than simple animal intellect. Human eyes stared out of that vulpine face; this was not my first encounter with a lycanthrope but the effect was still unnerving.
“We have never had House Sarokhanian at court with a DaySitter before. I must admit, it has been… interesting,” the Stonecaller noted, giving her the full head-to-toe inspection, and then looking at Folkenflik. His demon teeth flashed teasingly. “Is your puppy housebroken, Sayomi-chan?”
Her scolded expression did not change, and empathically, I Felt not an ounce of anger, so if it was there now she was hiding it remarkably well. She stared up at the lesser demon for a long beat, and then answered, “No.”
As if on cue, Folkenflik lifted his leg. She tapped her latex-imprisoned thigh once and he put his leg down. I had to admit, it was pretty fucking funny, and probably if she hadn’t just requested that her ancient revenant rip my soul out, I might have laughed.
“You are dismissed. Just for giggles, let’s call House Dreppenstedt next,” Speaker Aristoxenus announced, flicking Sayomi back to her banner. She strutted back to her banner, challenging me openly with a hostile sneer the whole way.
I’d show this bitch how things were going to roll. She had no idea who she was fucking with. Folkenflik trotted behind her, sniffing as he went.
I glanced up at Harry. He smiled gently, nodded encouragingly. I said, “You trust me, right?”
More worry flickered through the Bond, but he didn’t show it. His crisp Londoner’s accent clipped the words. “Do try not to be absurd, ducky.”
“I love you, my Harry,” I told him, to which I got an alarmed widening of his eyes.
“Oh, my sweet thing,” he whispered back. “Do be careful.”
Chapter 18
In spite of all my fears, my gut told me I was on the right track, and deep beneath the trembling flesh, with a lower beat than my thready pulse, strummed an urge I had to put in motion. Taking a deep breath, I drank in what might be
my last happy sight of Harry, his top hat perfectly aligned, his thrice-pierced eyebrow, his single dimple, the adorable little divot in his chin. I shot him my finger guns, at which he quirked one unimpressed brow, and then I approached the Stonecaller’s bench in front of the throne. Getting close to the demon caused a ripple of nausea that I hadn’t expected, since being next to Asmodeus had never made me ill. I felt the expectant eyes of Wilhelm Dreppenstedt, the maternal concern of Carole Jeanne, the curiosity of Junior, and Batten’s doubt weighing heavily on me as I passed them.
They can all tell I’m not okay with how I’m handling this right now, my evil brain told me. Who walks like this? You’re walking funny. Walk normally! My berry print Keds squeaked against the marble, hidden under the floor-length, pale blue velvet and cream silk layers of my dress. Carole Jeanne’s dress. Close enough. No, closer. Who stands like this? Nobody holds their arms like this. Nobody looks at a demon like this. Stop staring. Say something. Fuck it, just be yourself.
The burden of my prince’s gaze was joined by that of Speaker Aristoxenus as the lesser demon studied me. The dark figure behind him swayed like a globule of liquid mercury, shifting in and out of our reality. Aristoxenus bunched in an eager-to-consume pose that reminded me of a panther preparing to pounce. His grey, forked tongue lashed out against thin, cement-colored lips; this was undoubtedly Asmodeus’s creature, and his hot gaze was that of the Overlord.
“Yo, Stonecaller!” I said cheerfully, shooting him a sassy two-fingered salute off my brow. “May I say how peachy-keen it is to be invited to this awesome-fun party?”
“You may not.”
“Can I reply to the whole soul-stealing bullshit that Thundercunt McDickwhistler just suggested?”
One of his bobcat ears flicked impatiently. “Sure, why not.”
I swung around and, having the entire court’s full and silent attention, smiled at Sayomi sweetly. “Allow me to respond on behalf of the Raven of Night by showing you our family birds.” I flipped her my middle fingers and stuck out my tongue and crossed my eyes, because I’m super-mature like that. Harry was displeased, but a low ripple of laughter ran through the rest of House Dreppenstedt, and I shot Batten a wink. His jaw did its unhappy clench-unclench dance and he lowered his brow.
