She’d made her choice.
Valek very nearly killed her. Very nearly.
Now, nobody knew where she was.
Charlotte touched his arm. He wrapped his around her shoulder and hugged her close.
“Why don’t we go see what our heathens are up to? What do you think?” he asked light-heartedly.
“Sure,” she returned. “Yule is tomorrow. Sarah wants to throw a party.”
“As usual,” Valek sighed.
“As usual,” Charlotte agreed.
As Above, So Below
Francis adjusted his ruffled cuffs and smoothed his lapels. Catching a glimpse of himself in the reflection of a towering and ominous glass serpent, he grinned. He absolutely adored himself in coattails. Dusting off his shoulder, he blinked up again at the garish piece of art.
Cicero has such gaudy taste, he thought, grimacing at the effigy. Its fanged mouth gaped wide in an eternal hiss, suggesting the Parliament’s lack of mercy. It was their official symbol—not just a snake, but rather… the Ouroboros: a wingless dragon eating its own tail. It represented eternity, infinite power, and introspection.
It also signified the ancient brotherhood, Ordo Draconum or The House of Drăculești. Father, they called him: Mircea the Elder or Mircea I of Wallachia. The Original. The first of their kind—the first man to make a deal with the devil. The sacred history of those with the gift.
Francis became distracted once again by his own platinum curls and the ascot neatly coiffed around his throat. He prodded and pinched at himself, but nothing he could do would bring any amount of rosiness back to his dead cheeks.
A fresh bloodletting and a new wardrobe was all he needed to feel himself again after that hideous battle at the Regime Palace. The near-destruction had brought him close enough to meet an eternal void of nothing. He’d almost watched his lavish existence crumble away at his shoes. The elders of the Parliament did well to revive him. In fact, he felt better now than the day he was reborn.
The oligarchy was destroyed…for now. Vladislov was dead at last. For a moment their world was quiet. Valek was safe. That was all that mattered.
Poor Vlad.
Francis made a show of blessing himself, shaking his hands together in feigned prayer as he thought of his late companion turned sworn enemy.
In the end, Francis ripped out Vladislov’s heart… Quite literally.
Watching him die had been bittersweet. The two shared many good years together before Vladislov became one marble short of a full bag, cursing everything that scorned him—anyone who might have threatened his power… Or his fragile masculinity, God forbid.
Once a progressive and tolerant heart, years on the throne turned the Great Wizard Vladislov into the real monster—a tyrant—a dictator. Hateful.
But love makes monsters of us all, thought Francis.
“May you rest in Hell,” he whispered at his memories before spitting venom from between his teeth at the shiny floors.
“The Liege will see you now,” came a hollow voice from behind, startling him.
There was no evidence of any sort of reflection in the glass so Francis turned around to see the shadowy figure of a Visitant. The mysterious creatures constructed of evil human souls and Dark Magic—or so, that was the way Cicero explained it—were paralyzing to say the least.
Francis squinted at the specter and folded his arms. “Very well. Took him long enough. I’ve been waiting out here an entire five minutes,” he sniffed haughtily. “Tic toc, haven’t got all eternity—oh wait…”
The Visitant offered no smart retort, turning with the expectation Francis would follow. He did. As if he had a choice. And though the shadow-man’s legs made the motion of walking beneath smoky see-through robes, he didn’t really walk. Rather, he floated over the reflective marble floors of the Silver City; an ancient collection of fortresses existing a thousand meters under Prague.
Abelim housed a million secrets.
There were many things about the ancient brotherhood Francis still didn’t understand. Since its fall from power in 1437, the Order became shrouded in mystery, even to the rest of vampirekind, forced into hiding.
Francis hadn’t returned there in eons, but heard the Silver City mentioned over the years in a few blood-drunken midnight tales from rogues and vagabonds who didn’t know what they were talking about. Most Vampires didn’t know a single, real fact about the place—they were all tall tales, and hushed accounts. Francis kept quiet, hoping none of them would hear the memories in his own mind: real nights spent in Abelim when he was human, lusting for eternal life and power, swept up with the wrong crowd.
And then there were nights after he was changed—nights far more deviant. Nights when he’d brought Valek down there to learn a thing or two about what the Dark could really be like.
The ability of an elder Vampire was far blacker than any member of their rogue coven could even fathom. Vladislov knew it—fearing the rest of vampirekind might catch on to Abelim’s great secrets. The Wizard was a coward, but one thing redeemed him:
Vladislov never hated Francis’ mortality while he still had it.
“For as long as you are alive, I will love you,” the Wizard had promised in his younger days, back when he was a romantic. Back when Francis was mortal.
But even his sweet nothings couldn’t diminish Francis’ insecurities about being human. Vladislov would live for hundreds of years and Francis wanted to be around for all of them, so he sought immortality in the arms of the Dark. It was the only possible way, but Vladislov considered it an act of adultery and selfishness rather than an act of love. And so, they grew to hate each other instead.
But hatred is not the opposite of love, Francis reminded his still-aching heart. Indifference is.
Vladislov never stopped hating Francis. Never. That thought made Francis’ stomach lift a bit.
A new pair of Visitants, appearing exactly like the first—masculine, though shrouded in darkness and with no discernable faces, guarded the grand entrance to what was known as the Ivory Hall. It was an area of Abelim reserved only for the Dark elites and elders of the Parliament. It got its name because, really, it wasn’t a hall, as much as it was an ossuary. Its walls, the flying buttresses, and ribbed, Gothic ceilings were carved entirely from human bone. Forty-six thousand skeletons, to be precise. Forty-six was a sacred number. And the Ivory Hall was the most sacred place.
Francis had been welcomed there just once before, upon first returning to the secret city with Valek a near century ago.
As it seemed, the Eastern European Magic Regime had its equal: Another sort of government, though the Parliament was much less a government now, and more of a secret society. The Parliament toiled under the crusts of the world. Watching. Waiting. And now…it was readying to reveal itself, to rise to power once more.
The Regime was crumpled—it was the perfect time for the Order to rise again. To take power again.
Bowing deeply at Francis, the Visitants pulled the burnished silver doors wide. Carved facets glittered in the firelight emitted by flanking torches. The shadow men gestured for Francis to enter. He continued to follow the first specter forward, deeper into a hall surrounded by columns of luxurious marble, quarts, and mother of pearl. Opal set deep into the walls, and swirled in patterns all the way to the front of a chamber rounded off by steepled stained-glass windows.
A profane cathedral. It made the St. Vitus look like a dumpster, though fire erupting from massive wall sconces brought about an atmosphere much more commanding than would be found in any house of God.
The Ivory Hall possessed biblical depictions similar to a cathedral, however. There were Renaissance murals, sculptures, shrines with sacred skulls displayed behind glass. But upon closer inspection, it wasn’t Jesus being celebrated.
The fallen angel. Lucifer. His watchful, all-knowing eyes were everywhere. Here, in Abelim, he was heralded. Here, in Abelim, he was God.
The Silver City was a tad too dramatic even for Fran
cis’ palate, though he did appreciate the richness of the chosen tapestries, the silk floor runners, the upholstery materials—the finest fabrics from all over the world. But even so, the place could have done with some modernizing. It was just so…Gothic. It was exhausting.
His mind flashed to Valek then, and he smirked. That vampy, little purist would do well down here.
A surge of sadness inflated in his chest then. No. He swallowed it down. He didn’t miss him. He wouldn’t miss him. Valek was where he belonged…and so was Francis.
Taking his time, he stalked toward the sitting area at the very front of the massive room. Unlike any other sacred place on earth, the elders didn’t use this as a place of worship, but rather, a place of business.
“Welcome…to the Ivory Hall!” An oiled voice crooned still meters away where a group of important-looking figures sat near each other in impressive armchairs at the far end.
“Would’ve seen the place sooner, but it takes a fortnight to travel from one side to the other,” Francis rebuked.
Cicero folded his claws in earnest, his responding laughter quiet and sour.
Even though it was all so dismal, Francis couldn’t help but feel a little nostalgic. It was so far underground it almost reminded him of the days he’d spent holed up in his basement. No sun. No windows. He was in safekeeping in that sprawling, cavernous crypt without even a single shaft of moonlight.
Several dozen Vampires clad in elegant threads slid to their stations, lining the walkway leading to the towering windows at the far end. These men and women of the Dark Gift served as pages, lovers, secretaries—any task the elites required at any given moment and the Visitants were unable to fulfill themselves.
Francis could get used to such an idea—being waited upon hand and foot by Prague’s most beautiful undead.
For some reason, Sarah’s face surfaced in his mind. His black heart gave another great nudge. It hurt so bad he nearly stopped in his tracks, but no matter what, he could not show weakness.
One female in particular eyed him as he passed, a deviant smirk spread across her shiny black lips. She was tall with legs that went on for ages under a gunmetal dress ending at the middle of her thighs. Her eyes flashed a brilliant azure, angular cheekbones framed by pin-straight black bangs, the rest of it coiled so tightly down her back it could have been used as a whip.
Francis smirked back at her. “Thanks, but I am not your type.”
He could then see the three elite members of the Parliament strewn across various silver chairs and fainting sofas. The term “elder” did not match a single one of their appearances. They weren’t wrinkled or hunched. They didn’t sit stoically like members of the Regime did. The Parliament had a much different style, one Francis could adapt to.
They were all youthful, each of them devastatingly attractive in a murderous sort of way. Their bodies were tall and lean, each of their faces androgynous enough to grace any Milan catwalk and own it. Ballerina legs with figure-skater asses. He swore one look from any of them could have melted the flesh off a mortal’s face. They even intimidated him, and that was hard to do.
Yes, Valek would fit nicely here, he thought again.
“Francis! At last.” Cicero Drăculești greeted him without turning his attention away from his chess tournament with Aleksandr, a younger elite who must have joined the Parliament only recently, because the first night Francis arrived to Abelim was the first time he’d ever laid eyes on him.
Alek glanced up at Francis, though cut his glare at once back to the board in front of him. He wasn’t friendly—he hadn’t said but one word to Francis upon their first meeting.
Something was off. There were no swirling thoughts, no echoing inner monologues invading his skull. Somehow, the elders had apparently mastered the ability to keep their thoughts and emotions private. Francis frowned at the uncomfortable silence. At long last, the tables were turned and he could empathize with the vulnerability of a mortal mind. They were all privy to everything he thought, which seemed rather unfair.
“Cicero. Nice to see you again,” Francis returned coldly and shoved his claws into his trouser pockets.
The first time they’d seen each other in over a hundred years had been weeks ago when Francis decided to return to the Dark City. But he and Cicero hadn’t crossed paths since. The shadowed streets of Abelim were vast and winding enough to get lost and stay lost for some time. And there was more than one way to stay busy—blood houses, bath houses, shops, etc. An entire municipality.
There wasn’t a follow-up response, so Francis meandered closer to the chessboard, eyeing their game. His gaze flickered to Alek whose eyes narrowed, his lips pressing together. Francis noticed his focus shift slightly away from the board toward the floor near his boots, his fists curling, his back going rigid.
Francis couldn’t understand what it was about himself that made Alek dislike him so?
Promptly, Francis moved one of Alek’s knights forward a square, causing him to gain the upper hand. He smirked, rocking back on his heels, feeling hopeful. An olive branch. “You’re welcome.”
But Alek’s glare flashed indignantly to Francis’ face, electric eyes sinking to a deeper cobalt shade. Was he blushing? Angrily and without a word, the tall, sylphlike Vampire whisked away down the hall, taking his windy leave through the doors.
Francis grimaced after him, stomach sinking.
“Don’t mind Alek,” Cicero chuckled knowingly. “He’s a little shy with new members. He’ll warm up.” He swiftly planted his king, sending one of Alek’s glass knights crashing to the floor, bursting into a million glimmering shards. “Check mate.”
But Francis’ attention was still gripped by the wake of the sandy-haired Vampire. He reeled. “I do not understand. Have I offended him in some way?”
Cicero threw his greasy head back and cackled, wiping a blood tear away from the corner of his eye.
“You give your attention to such trivial matters, Francis. Anything vexing Alek now is an issue of his own creation. Come,” he beckoned with a bejeweled claw. “Come. Sit with us.” He stood from the game board and moved to an area with more luxurious-looking armchairs, ones with tapered backs made to appear like giant silver coffins.
Francis scoffed. How cliché.
Cicero was also hollow-cheeked, as the others were, with a sculpted form like that of a danseur or the statue of David, though much slenderer. His muscles were tight, and easily visible under his vintage Armani suit. One would underestimate his strength, which probably worked to his benefit quite often.
He was the most Mediterranean-looking of the group. Even in death, he somehow managed to maintain a little of his earthly olive color, his paleness possessing a glow that was more gold than gray. Black curls, thick and lustrous, scrawled like spilled ink around his square head—a cleft in his chin. He had about three hundred years on Francis and was most lethal of them all.
And though Cicero called himself Drăculești, a true ancestor he was not. It was Francis’ understanding that someone genuine of the Father’s bloodline was very hard to come by. Most official members of the family had been slaughtered centuries ago. Anyone who might be left was surely illegitimate or affiliated from a series of creators.
No, Cicero was merely a distant cousin of Petru Cercel— a watered down Drăculești—who was still a member of the House, but not quite related to Saint Vlad himself.
Francis sat in a chair across from him, the back elongated with ornate detail—armrests carved into the skeletons of serpents. He noticed the windows beyond where they sat were actually a glass barricade guarding flames of the largest fireplace he’d ever seen.
“How have you found your recent nights here in our great township?” Cicero’s voice was as slick as his hair. He pressed his fingertips together in front of his mouth.
Francis settled deeper into the velvet upholstery, folding one leg over the other.
“My nights? They’ve been tolerable. I’ve never been more…well fed. Tell
me, how do you facilitate your lust? I see no mortals here….” He gestured to the room around them. “I never have.”
Cicero smirked. “We have our ways, dear Francis. One of these nights, I’ll show you.” He frowned, seeming to consider some other thought. “My apologies. I’ve been rude. You remember Ophelia.”
He indicated the most striking female in the room, one with lightning-white hair and thick black eyelashes. She wore a charcoal gown that plunged dangerously, exposing her sternum and the edges of her supple breasts.
Francis shrugged. “Sure. How could I forget?”
She indeed wasn’t someone to forget. Cicero found her centuries ago, kidnapped her after realizing who she really was—a direct blood relative of Elizabeth Bathory herself. Ophelia was her estranged niece, though at the time of Bathory’s reign, Ophelia was still mortal.
Circero called Ophelia his sister—taught her how to be like him in every way. A seductive sociopath. She and Francis had never gotten along.
“Very good. And Oslo…you’ve never met.”
Oslo, an elder with a perfectly bald head and slanted, snake-like eyes nodded once at Francis. He sat more erect than Cicero, his claws clasped over his knee. His expression was severe and sort of judgmental, his pointy nose in the air.
“Evening,” he wheezed, his voice like dust.
“Pleasure,” Francis grimaced.
“And Milo will be in shortly. He is just finishing an errand for me.”
“Thank you for allowing me to take sanctuary here. I never thought I’d need to return after—”
Cicero lifted his claw to stop him. “Water under the bridge, Francis. All the same, I’m glad you’re back. We hope you might consider Abelim your permanent new home.”
Pictures of Valek zapped in Francis’ mind again. His chest ached a little worse. “I-I haven’t really thought about it—”
“After your victory against Vladislov, you would surely make a strong elite.”
Of Blood and Magic Page 3
