Page 61 of Besieger
Once seated, he began to examine his clothes, frowning at the cuff of his shirt. It was stained with something. He ran his tongue nervously over his lower lip and along the inside of his mouth, and then a recollection surfaced. A strange image flickered in his mind for a moment.
Sister, Nhalme’s voice spoke softly in Scarlett’s mind, halting her before she could delve deeper into Raffaelle’s memories.Would you rule?
I would have walked into the fire with him, if it made a difference,Scarlett replied in her thoughts.
Beside her, Nhalme flinched; his hand found hers and squeezed.
Why didn’t you?
He made me live. He gave me the Blood tolive.
“No,” Nhalme almost snarled; he was growing impatient, agitated by their suggestions. “If we are to choose among the Regents, the one easiest to puppeteer is Silvio.”
“What of theComte?” Penelope leaned over the table.
“We can use this opportunity to create distance between them,” Nhalme explained, a plan beginning to form in his mind.
Someone pulled the chair at the end of the table and dragged it loudly across the floor. August sat down with a thud and crossed his legs. He had suddenly found himself all alone. Even Raffaelle had come to sit close to the All Mother and the vampires at her sides.
Scarlett fought back the smile threatening to overtake her whole face.This is why we need a Master, someone outside the Council’s bickering and petty fights.They were not elders; they were children given too much freedom, drunk from the sweet vein of power their station had given them, mistrustful and hateful of their fellow playmates.
“We vote,” August announced. “And I vote for Nhalme as Coven Master.”
“Silvio!” Penelope’s voice rang out, not even waiting for her brother to finish speaking.
“TheSultana,” Betül added, ever faithful.
“Nhalme,” Raffaelle uttered the name with slight reluctance.
He is the oldest, Scarlett thought. With Ingenuar dead, Nhalme was the oldest living vampire that they knew of. He would make a good and just successor to their father. He was notgoing to be the All Father, but he would work tirelessly to replace him, not letting the Coven and territories fall into ruin. Nhalme would not be able to reunite the mistresses, but he would make them keep their distance; keep this illusion of peace and unity between them and Berlin.
Nhalme, who was holding her hands still, having stopped the tremors.
Nhalme, who had helped carry Ingenuar’s body and had stood by her until the last flame died out.
Scarlett did not need to look at the faces of her kin around the table. She had already made up her mind.
“Silvio,” the All Mother said.
“Silvio,” Nhalme repeated as an echo.
They had summoned theMarquisto the library. Alone. TheComtewas to follow later.
Silvio had changed into a dark brown tweed suit the colour of bark, with high-rise trousers that made him appear taller than he was. He unbuttoned his jacket and took the chair Nhalme had placed a little aside from the table, where the rest of the Council still sat. Scarlett noted that Silvio was dressed like a human, suited to the weather; the burgundy polo under the jacket looked cosy and warm. The leather of his shoes was recently polished, and his short hair was brushed back in a way that suggested a lover running their fingers through the curls. And a lover might have done just that, as theMarquishad spent most of his time before and after Ingenuar’s death in his room, with theComte.
Probably feeding on the help, too,Scarlett regarded Silvio’s flushed cheeks, a sure sign that he had drunk blood before coming here. Usually, his mind was abuzz with images andscattered thoughts, but now, seated among them, quietly taking them in, Silvio’s mind was blank. He was unreadable.
For a moment she was full of pride for him. How far Silvio had come since the first time he had visited the Coven; how easy they had peeled his secrets and fears, desecrating everything he was. Now she could only feel the unease and frustration of the others at how they were unable to read theMarquis’ mind.
Having no taste for preambles or overtures, Nhalme cleared his throat and turned to face theMarquis. After the vote he had grown silent, letting go of Scarlett, and avoiding talking to the rest. The Council had chosen another, someone outside of Ingenuar’s direct bloodline to take on the mantle, and yet they still relied on him to lead, to take the initiative.
The pressure receding, Scarlett took the opportunity to observe her kin more closely. Nhalme, her elder brother, looked like he came from Ingenuar’s part of the globe—where the Blood had found him. He could have been in his thirties or forties as a human; the Blood had erased every scar and line from his cheeks and eyes. He had a light stubble, which defined his jaw and gave him a rougher expression; his short dark-blond hair must have shone golden in the sun. His eyes, now focused on theMarquis, were blue and ever-shifting, like the ocean. Nhalme preferred to dress in simple clothes, relying on their practicality, as one used to working with his hands—swinging an axe or riding bareback. He rarely talked about his mortal life: how Ingenuar had found him, or what the All Father had said to make Nhalme ask for the Blood.
At the other end of the table, the youngest of the group—August—was Nhalme’s complete opposite in stature and appearance. Hailing from western France, he had chosen Berlin as his residence. He was closer to Scarlett’s age, his skin a rich dark-brown set against his cream-coloured shirt and the fabric of his suit, the shade of Calla Lillies. Tonight, August had left his hair in its natural length, the curly locks twisted around his scalp.A few times he leant in and tried to get Raffaelle’s attention, but the other man seemed transfixed on Silvio.
“We have a proposition for you, Monsieur Bracci,” Nhalme announced, purposefully foregoing the Regent’s title. “Our Coven needs a Master, and the seat is yours—if you choose to accept it.”
Silvio tapped a finger against the armrest, his nail made a softtaptaptapagainst the wood. TheMarquisusually wore gloves when the weather turned cold—leather or velvet—always making a show of putting them on or taking them off, handing them over to Emerick or the nearest servant. Now, his hands were bare and exposed. Unlike Scarlett, he did not flinch from the notion of caressing a world without their Maker.
