by Petra Landon
Raoul concurred whole-heartedly with the suggestion.
“Any news from Faoladh’s investigators?” the Ancient inquired.
“Nothing yet. They’re on the lookout for local Belizean partners. Strangers in a village are unlikely to get any answers from the natives.”
“I’ve sent out feelers about ElMorad” Roman remarked. “Nothing yet, but like I said, this is going to take time.”
“Keep at it, Durovic.”
“I’ve business in BC. I’ll see you in a few days, unless something urgent crops up.” Roman signed off.
“Good news, Raoul?” Duncan inquired from the backseat, as the Alpha put away his phone.
“The Setik will ask Monseigneur to explain the Rune Mage’s antics in Belize.”
“Roman did well” Simeonov remarked from beside Duncan.
The entourage of cars ground to a halt by a manicured lawn. The Alpha, flanked by Duncan, Stefan Simeonov and Luis Beltran, made his way to the house that fronted it. When an elderly retainer let them in, Simeonov stood guard outside the door, while the three Shifters proceeded inside.
They followed their leech escort up the stairs, to the long hall where Mistress Franciszka lounged. Lit by a thousand candles and surrounded by her loyal Vampires, she reclined on an opulent daybed, dressed in vintage velvet with jewels adorning her bony figure. As the Alpha strode into the hall, she roused herself languidly. An indolent wave of her hand had her Pure Bloods retreating to hug the walls, like the mere decoration she liked them to be.
She glided forward to greet them, the long train of her gown swishing softly behind her. She was a vain woman and made sure that the candelabra light always flattered her. But for once, she did not extend her hand to the visitors. Instead, she nodded graciously as the three Shifters bowed to her.
“It is good to see you, moj drogi” she murmured to the Alpha.
Her eyes passed greedily over the other Shifters. “Where is the beautiful Were-Alpha you brought with you last time?” she inquired dulcetly.
“I’ll let Simeonov know that you missed him, Franciszka” the Alpha said impassively. Conversations with the Mistress were always a challenge to his patience. She liked to indulge in her version of small talk, before coming to the point. Over the years, he’d learnt when to push her and when to allow her some leeway.
Raoul was to be surprised this evening. For once, it seemed that Franciszka was as impatient to get down to business as him.
“Rafaelo Bianchi has been throwing around some wild accusations about you, Raoul” she announced to him.
The Alpha arched an eyebrow. “He was here?” Bianchi had been exiled from San Francisco after kidnapping Caroline Hamilton and attempting to blackmail the Pack. The local Nest had been caught in the middle, and only the Mistress’ good sense in siding with the Pack had safeguarded her leeches from the collective punishment meted out to Bianchi by the alliance between the Shifters, Ancients and Wizards of San Francisco.
“I would report him, without a second thought, if he dares to breach DiZeyla’s ban” the Mistress assured him, without any of her usual games. “One of my Pure Bloods crossed paths with him in Portland.”
The Alpha contemplated her. “What kind of accusations?”
“He says that you have Siren blood in you.”
As the Alpha showed no discernible change in expression, the Mistress reiterated sharply. “It is a very serious accusation for the Pure Bloods, moj drogi.”
Raoul shrugged. “If I knew what it meant, I might take it more seriously.” Durovic had stated that Sirens were Clan myth. If so, Franciszka would not expect him to know anything about it. And he thought it advisable to allow her to believe that he was ignorant of leech fable.
Something flashed in the Mistress’ eyes that had Raoul frowning inwardly. It was apparent that she took this bit of Clan mythology as seriously as Bianchi. Whatever it was that the leech had been saying about him, it alarmed her.
“The Sirens are old enemies of the Pure Bloods, Raoul.”
“Then, why haven’t I heard of them before?” he countered.
“They’re believed to be extinct. I told you once about a group of Chosen the Pure Bloods had gone to war with.”
Raoul hid his shock, as he put two and two together. The Mistress had requested an explanation for his extraordinary power in reducing her to a screaming pile of bones, without raising a finger. When he had demurred, she’d explained about the Ancients the Clan had fought a war against in the past.
“A sect of First Ones” he murmured, amazed by the dichotomy in perspective. Durovic talked of Sirens as Vampire myth, while the Mistress suggested that they had once been the greatest threat to the leeches.
“They were a threat to our very existence, Raoul” she echoed his memories. “We had to wipe them out or they’d have finished us off.”
There was an underlying edge in her voice that was unmistakable. Franciszka, like all leeches, was manipulative, even when a matter was straightforward. Thus, she would never show her hand clearly. Yet, on this subject, she could not hide her emotions. Sirens struck a nerve in her.
Raoul attempted to poke holes in her story. “You’re saying that the Clan won a war against the Ancients?” His tone made it evident how skeptical he was of such claims. The leeches possessed little magic, while the First Ones commanded some of the oldest and most powerful Chosen magic.
“We were united and they were not” Franciszka said simply.
Raoul studied her. There was no earthly reason for the Mistress to lie to him about this. Franciszka had a tendency to grandstand, but she would not tell him an outright falsehood. Not because it went against her nature, but because she knew he’d be furious with her if he discovered it. She had a healthy fear of his fury. He’d made sure of it. But as he pondered the mystery, it struck him that even the witchling had acknowledged a war with the leeches. Her words echoed in his mind.
“From what my father told me, there was a war. It was a long time ago, and has been long forgotten, except by the Blutsaugers.”
He wondered whether the witchling and the Mistress referred to the same war. He knew of none between the First Ones and the Clan. But then, he was a Wyr. Yet, how could Durovic be unaware of it? As TorElnor’s heir, Roman was cognizant of all historic events pertaining to the Ancients. Unless, the war had been a long time ago; an interlude lost in the pages of history.
“This war — do you mean the one following the birth of the Clan?” he asked.
“That was nothing” the Mistress said dismissively. “I’m talking about the one four hundred years ago.”
“Before your time then, Franciszka” he remarked. The Mistress was only a little over two hundred years old, considered young for a leech.
She said nothing, merely meeting his eyes. The leeches hidden in the shadows at the edges of the hall seemed to move restlessly, before a flash of her eyes sent them scurrying back into the darkness.
“Why care about something so long ago?” Raoul was genuinely puzzled by her passion on the subject. The leeches were known to never forget wrongs and to hold grudges for a long time. But a thousand years was an eon, even for the Clan. Especially if the resentment was directed against Chosen that the leeches believed they had defeated in a war.
“The First Ones have forgotten, Raoul” she said gravely. “But for the Pure Bloods, accusations of Siren heritage are no small matter.”
Raoul took a different tack. If Franciszka believed Sirens to be more than a myth, then he might as well get some answers from her.
“Why do you call them Sirens?” he asked.
The Mistress answered readily, pleased that the Alpha was finally taking the matter seriously. “Siren blood was rumored to be passed down through the female line. Every few generations, First Ones were born with the ability to kill Pure Bloods, in a manner blasphemous to us.”
Raoul refrained from pointing out all the leech habits considered blasphemous by other Chosen. “How?” he asked.
“I don’t know the details, for it was a long time ago” the Mistress admitted. “But they were Blood Mages.”
They were finally getting somewhere, Raoul reflected with satisfaction. This all went back to the old feud between the twins. “You talk of the Blood Elementals that supported the brother of the one who created your kind, Franciszka. But they’re long dead, and if they ever existed, Sirens have disappeared into the dustbin of history.”
For the first time, Franciszka hesitated. “Even after the war, there have been whispers that the Sirens were not wiped out completely. When we see magic that reminds us of the Blood Mages who wished to exterminate us, it causes the whispers to get louder.”
She met his gaze squarely. “When you leave Pure Bloods screaming in agony after a taste of your blood, it prods us of the existential threat the Sirens posed to us.”
“The Clan was barred from tasting Chosen blood, Franciszka” he retorted, his voice even. “When you conveniently overlook that edict, you must also be ready to face the consequences.”
She did not have an answer to his charge, so the Mistress changed the topic.
“My Pure Blood did warn Rafaelo that, once word of his accusations reached San Francisco, you’d hunt him to the ends of the earth” she proclaimed.
Here was another mystery, Raoul mused. Bianchi knew what he was capable of and yet, the leech had not hesitated to throw around such wild accusations, if Franciszka was to be believed. He was inclined to take the Mistress at her word about Bianchi. What new game was the conniving leech up to, he wondered?
“He’s been asking questions about you. Raoul. Specifically, about whether you have First Ones heritage from your mother” she expanded.
This mattered little to him. “Let him dig, Franciszka.” Privately, Raoul wished Bianchi luck. The Charbonneaus were welcome to the leech. His high-in-the-instep Spell Caster relations would not entertain any leech’s questions. Although, like most Wizards, they might be pleased by the rumors of a connection to the Ancients, however tenuous.
The Mistress tried again, to make the Alpha understand the magnitude of the threat. “You should shut him down, before Monseigneur or another powerful Pure Blood believes him, moj drogi” she hinted subtly.
The Alpha was inordinately amused by her gambit. “Are you implying the Clan will go to war against me, on Bianchi’s word?”
“He has a way of manipulating people” she attested, more serious than he had ever seen her. “And he seems to be gunning for you, for a reason I don’t understand.”
For a moment, he was silent. Though Luis and Duncan said nothing, Raoul sensed their astonishment at the proceedings.
“I’m not a Blood Elemental, Franciszka” he said quietly, the gold-colored eyes icing over. “You know that more than anyone else. If the Clan declares open season on me, they’ll get a proper war the likes of which they haven’t seen. Not a skirmish, commanded and aided by your creator, but a take-no-prisoners bloodletting they’ll regret before long.”
The Mistress blanched at his words. No Pure Blood would declare war on the Wyrs without good reason, for the Shifters were a savage lot with a lust for violence that made even the Clan wary of tangling with them. But Bianchi’s reputation, as a crafty and unscrupulous master manipulator, had impelled her to inform the Alpha of what was brewing.
She tried to placate him. “I wanted to warn you about him, moj drogi. You have always kept your word with me.”
The Alpha inclined his head. “I appreciate the plain speaking. There is something I would like to offer in exchange. Information on a matter of utmost importance that the Clan might be unaware of.”
She looked intrigued. “What matter?”
“This is better discussed with a Pure Blood Master, Franciszka” Raoul said suavely, allowing his suggestion to sink in. With the Mistress, he was always careful to couch any request as a favor to her Nest. It was the only way to do business with her. This had been his modus operandi with Franciszka, since he’d first deciphered what made her tick.
As the import of the Alpha’s words sank in, the Mistress came to life, losing her sober mien. She loved nothing more than wheeling and dealing, and this sounded right up her alley. After the ransacking of Wizard Headquarters, Franciszka had informed her Master, in great detail, about what had transpired in San Diego. Her stock had risen in her Master’s eyes, for though whispers of the altercation had made it to the Vampires, she had been both witness and participant in the event. Her account of it had spread like wildfire through the Clan. The Guardians stood on the brink of complete disintegration, their relationship with the First Wizard and their local Registries in absolute shambles. To the Vampires, this was music to their ears. Without the GCW standing guard, the Wizards would be for the taking. The First Ones avoided meddling in other faction’s affairs and the Wyrs cared little for the Wizards. And though the Clan knew that both Faoladh and ElThor would send emissaries to encourage the GCW to mend fences with other Wizard power centers, Franciszka’s brutally blunt assessment had been that the Guardians were in free fall, riven by multiple rifts and immense factionalism. Since then, the Vampires had been keeping a close eye on the Wizards, salivating at the prospect of a power vacuum, and making plans to extend their influence over the Spell Casters. Now, here was the Alpha hinting at yet another tidbit of privileged information that might raise her stature even more in her Master’s eyes. It was all Franciszka could do to not rub her hands with glee.
“I’ll set it up, moj drogi” she assured him.
On their way back to the Lair, Luis prompted Raoul. “You believe her, Alpha?”
Raoul knew that the Were-Alpha asked about the Sirens and not about Bianchi spreading rumors about him. He found himself in a quandary on this. Durovic was a better historian of Ancient history and Raoul was inclined to take his word on the myth of Sirens. Plus, over the years, the insecure leeches had created for themselves the illusion of a glorious and heroic past, one that few bothered to correct since other Chosen tended to keep their distance from the Clan. This made it hard to separate myth from reality when it came to leech history. Yet, the power the Mistress attributed to the Blood Mages of yore, she referred to as Sirens, gave him pause. For he claimed acquaintance with a Chosen whose blood could devastate the Clan, should she choose to unleash it.
“She certainly believes it, Luis” he said. “The very term Siren frightens her, even though she’s hard-pressed to explain who they were or even what powers they possessed.”
“The Mistress is not easily frightened” Duncan pointed out thoughtfully. “That behooves us to be careful.”
“I don’t disagree, Duncan. But the leeches believe the Sirens to be Blood Mages. If so, how on earth does Bianchi expect anyone to take his allegations against me seriously?” Raoul retorted.
“That trick with your blood terrifies them, Alpha” Simeonov interjected, having followed the to and fro to get an idea of why the Mistress had invited the Alpha to the Nest. “In Belize, Bianchi went white. It took the fight out of him. Until then, he never stopped marshalling his troops, even though they were losing badly.”
Darned if he knew when and where he’d acquired the ability, Raoul mused silently.
“Is it time to kick Bianchi out of the game?” Luis asked, echoing a question he’d asked after the leech had kidnapped Caroline Hamilton.
“He’s been itching to be taught a lesson” the Alpha murmured pensively. “But I’m biding my time until he is no longer useful. Right now, he’s a convenient way to keep tabs on Lady Bethesda’s moves.”
“Letting him live might be more trouble than he’s worth, Raoul” Duncan chimed in, to unexpectedly second Luis. “You promised Jason his pound of flesh and Belize took care of that pledge.”
Both the English Shifter and the Alpha were to find out much later how foresighted Duncan’s warning was.
Raoul strode into the Alpha’s Room, to close the door. The Pack Room was noisy tonight and he wanted some privacy to
reconcile his troubled thoughts. To his surprise, a familiar figure stirred on the couch.
His eyes flashed to his friend, who held a book in his hands. “Trying to escape the crowds?”
Raoul was taken aback by Duncan’s presence in the inner sanctorum. While the English Shifter tended to more academic pursuits, he appreciated the social aspect of a Pack. Most evenings, Duncan could be found at the center of a throng in the Pack Room, moderating passionate discussions, liberally dispensing advice to anyone who requested it or indulging himself with one of the books from the library he’d lovingly created while conversations raged around him.
“It’s a madhouse this evening” the English Shifter professed.
Raoul frowned inwardly. The crowd in the Pack Room was not unusual for a weekday evening. And Duncan was never fazed by Shifter enthusiasm. His old friend relished the hurly-burly of the Pack Room. Yet, something weighed so heavily on Duncan’s mind that it had driven him to seek solitude. Raoul suspected that he knew what it was. Duncan had always given him the room to make his own decisions, without ever attempting to influence them — always allowed him to make mistakes and find his own path. And Raoul had returned the favor by extending the same courtesy to his friend. He had never invaded Duncan’s space in any form. For the first time, he wondered whether he should.
“What has you preoccupied, my boy?” the English Were-Alpha inquired, interrupting his thoughts.
Trust Duncan to pick up on this, Raoul reflected. “I’m jetlagged” he countered.
“You have something on your mind” his mentor contradicted him, without hesitation.
The Were-Alpha had known him since he was a teenager. There was little he could hide from Duncan. Raoul stalked over, to slide into a chair and stretch his legs.
Duncan marked the page in his book, before folding it neatly to set it aside. He waited patiently.
