Page 10 of Kazimir

The conference room was cloistered behind a mirrored wall and an antique iron door. Few knew of its existence; fewer still were ever summoned there. I’d ordered it built to exact specifications: velvet soundproofing, a thick black glass table, chairs that forced the body into perfect upright alignment. Some power resided in the furniture, subtle but absolute, and even the oldest council members grew uneasy when made to wait here.

Nikolay was waiting when I entered. He had the decency not to pace, but the little tells were there: fingers tapping a rhythm on the folder in front of him, one foot poised to rise at the first sign of trouble. He stood at my entrance, smoothing his jacket, eyes flicking up to meet mine.

“Father,” he said, voice pitched just low enough for respect. “You look… rested.”

He always said it that way, like the word ‘rested’ had quotation marks around it. Nikolay was a true diplomat—he’d learned early that in our world, truth was both currency and poison.

“Any changes since your last report?” I asked, taking the head of the table. I let my fingers rest lightly on the grain, a signal that I was present but not yet committed.

He slid the folder toward me. “Yuri finalized security sweeps at all entry points. Amara’s staff is briefed on the guest list. Amelia identified a minor glamour breach on the casino floor, but it was corrected.”

“Was it internal?”

He shook his head. “External. Witchcraft, but crude. Possibly a test.”

“Keep an eye on the regulars.” There were always people trying to get an edge. “And the council?”

His smile thinned. “There are those who have been….” He hesitated, which was not like him.

“Malachi and Alistaire are once again making noise?” I finished for him.

“They made a scene at the opera last week. They very obviously did not rise when Maksym, Taras, and I entered our box. It was a minor rebellion, but noticeable. Taras had to be restrained. And later Malachi was going on about the purity of bloodlines; no doubt referring to the hybrid status of Lucia’s mate, the new Prince.”

I allowed myself a humorless chuckle. “He should worry more about his own bloodline. It’s thinning faster than he admits.”

Nikolay’s posture eased, just a degree. “He’ll confront you tonight no doubt.”

“Let him,” I said. “He forgets his place.”

We lapsed into silence, comfortable as a coffin. I reviewed the rest of the notes, committing each name and transgression to memory. At the precise moment the clock in the hall struck half past, the security lock disengaged, and the door swung open.

They filed in: Malachi Broussard, first as always, resplendent in an eggshell suit and shoes hand-stitched from some endangered reptile. He wore his age poorly, face too smooth above a neck corded with sinew. Behind him, his lapdogs—Alistaire Crowe and Luis Montoya—dressed in tailored suits of their own, but with the nervousness of those who knew they were seat-fillers. And finally, two counselors who’d served as long as Malachi: Lucien Devereau and Sorin Ionescu. I deliberately kept my council small.

Malachi wasted no time. “Kozlov,” he drawled, not bothering with title. “Lovely venue, as always. You must be proud to host such a… diverse assembly.”

I waited, letting him fill the air with his own poison.

He obliged. “Of course, not all of us are eager for change. Some of us prefer the old ways.”

I regarded him without blinking. “And yet here you are, begging entry.”

He bared his teeth in what I think was meant to be a smile. “Who am I to refuse hospitality?”

I turned to Nikolay, who already had a glass in hand, and gestured for the staff to enter.

The server tonight was new: a girl with skin the color of night and hair in a perfect braided crown. She moved with the precision of a dancer. At a signal from Nikolay, she brought out the decanter. The blood inside was nearly black, viscous, and smelled faintly of poppies.

Malachi eyed the carafe. “You source this from your own stock?”

“In this case, yes,” I replied. “Integrity, Malachi. It’s the only thing that can’t be counterfeited.”

He lifted his glass, examining the color. “To integrity,” he toasted, and drank.

We all did. The flavor was rich, spiced with memory. It tasted of sunless afternoons and stone floors scrubbed raw, and for a moment, I felt the room slip into that ancient hunger—the kind that preceded speech or sin.

The girl collected the glasses with the same perfect poise and disappeared, leaving us alone.

Malachi dabbed his lips, then spread his hands. “Let’s not dance. There is concern in the community—concern that your recent… innovations may be destabilizing our order.”