Most vampires were loners, scattered anywhere around the world, but some lived in respectable, established clans, like the old families who'd remained in their lands longer than any mortal king.
Other covens were formed much more recently. Out of loneliness, or worse. Power lust. Blood lust. Lust for something else entirely.
These were the vampires who kept the huntsmen busy. Usually, their order hunted down wild shifters gone rogue or black witches sacrificing to increase their strength. They had few dealings with immortals.
Bash considered himself lucky to be picked. He could guess why. While he had learned to use a sword and mace, and could take most huntsmen in a fistfight, his main strength, his best skill, was his eye. He could nail a target fifty yards away with a handgun. Half a mile away with a rifle, in any wind. Against vampires, guns were little use, but arrows dipped in spells and curses could work well enough. For a time.
They wanted him on the roof opposite the Elephant and Castle den to ensure they were covered when they got out.
And so, he watched them sneak in through a ground floor window, and then he waited, bow at hand, for at least an hour.
Jack came out of the building first, slowly. He didn't look concerned. No one was following, other than Tris.
After observing for a good three minutes and seeing no movement, Bash joined them in the street, jumping down from the four-story townhouse holding on to gutters and balconies.
"Well?" he asked.
Jack didn’t answer.
"There were corpses,” Blade told him. “Piled up in a room, dumped there, stinking up the whole house. Two dozen, at least. It was fucking disgusting."
Bash gasped. "Who was responsible for that?"
"All of them," said Jack, after a while. "We made them talk. They took turns bringing in women, betting on who could seduce the prettiest one every week. Then they took them, one after the next, spelling them so they couldn't say a word. And after they were done, they drained them too."
Bash had felt sick.
He never asked what had happened to the den, to the twenty-three vampires reported to live there. He never asked about the bites to Blade and Jack, either. Over their dark huntsmen gear, he could only see a couple of bites, but who knew what was hidden beneath the leather and reinforced fabric.
The two young huntsmen had eradicated the entire den.
Before then, Jack had been fair to all races, friendly and diplomatic. But after, there was always an edge to his smile, a shadow behind his gaze when he talked or interacted with vampires.
Two years ago, the man who'd officially taken over for Bash's parents as head of the London headquarters retired. The next logical successor was Jack, who'd led most of their raids for eight years. But some stupid laws said that their leaders had to be professors. Something to do with appearances. As far as humans were concerned, they were a guild of wise, knowledgeable ancients protecting their world. Having a young man representing them was bad. But the High Guard named him leader all the same, demanding only one concession: that he earn a PhD. A suitable title to present to doubtful mortals.
So Jack went to the Institute, and Bash, along with dozens of huntsmen, did what they did best.
They followed their commander.
People who didn’t know Jack often thought that his appointment was nepotism, but the young agent had genuinely earned the British huntsmen’s respect. The thought of disappointing him was unbearable. Bash didn’t want to see the look in Jack’s eyes when he saw him, his best friend, now a bloodthirsty freak.
Seeing what vampires were capable of at their worst wasn't pretty. Bash might not have witnessed it, but he'd seen the horror in Tris's eyes. The hatred in Jack’s.
After he'd turned, Bash hadn't been able to face him. Not in his state— mindless, without control, closer to one of the beasts he had to put down in South London than to his old friends.
Tris was a born vampire; her father was a pureblood born from the Drake line, one of the seven vampire families able to bring children into the world, and her mother had been a huntsman—Jack’s aunt. Someday, she would turn into an immortal.
Jack didn’t hate all vampires on principle. Just the ones who couldn’t control themselves. How could Bash face him while feeling like this?
But after three months of avoiding him, Jack was in front of him.
So very tall. So very straight. Jack topped most men by half a head. At five foot eleven, Bash stood taller than some, but he was not Jack Hunter, son of their High Guard and an actual god. A genuine god. A minor one, but there was no other word for an immortal born of the old race who'd shaped this world.
Jack was perfect. Bash had always been flawed in comparison, but now they shouldn't even breathe the same air.
He looked down.
Bash heard Jack's feet stomping forward, and half expected the man to punch him. He knew that he hadn't been fair, that he shouldn't have avoided him like he had.
Instead, he encircled Bash’s shoulders with his arms and pulled him close, in an uncharacteristic yet firm hug.
"You're a dumb jerk," Jack told him.
But Jack wasn't letting go, and Bash wasn't even trying to get away from the embrace.
Jack had blood in his veins, just like everyone else, and there was a degree of temptation, a part of him that wanted nothing but violence and chaos, that would have desired to sink his teeth inside his neck.
But Bash found that part of him manageable now. Somehow. Maybe because of the three bags of blood he’d downed when he got to Levi's an hour ago, or because of the strange note in Jack's blood that didn't make him feel like prey. The huntsmen behind him also felt stronger. Different.
Bath took a deep breath.
And when he breathed out again, he was still himself.
Voices
Cat had sat through many conclaves in her time. All had proceeded in the exact same way: her Aunt Drusilla, leader of the Stormhales, had entered the room, her mere presence demanding silence.
Drusilla talked, telling them of faraway news that colored her perception, her views of the world. She'd give her orders to every branch of the family, naming those who'd failed her in the past for good measure. Then, she'd leave, and everyone else would follow in silence.
The conclave of Night Hill would be nothing like that, Cat realized right away. The setting was somewhat intimate, though the room was impressive, regal. Luke ensured a well-aged bottle of wine was placed at each coffee table.
"Red, white, rosé? Bubbles, no bubbles? Sweet, dry?" Levi's assistant asked, sounding quite panicked.
"If it's wet, I'll drink it."
She had been trained in the art of appreciating wine, could tell a good one, a common one, and an expensive one, but she'd found that she liked most of them equally.
Chloe, who'd chosen to sit next to her, chuckled. "All right. That was unexpected. I thought you'd be one to roll a glass in your fingers and tell us all about the bouquet."
Cat shrugged. "I can certainly do that when it's required of me."
"What can't you do?" Chloe challenged in a half whisper that carried across the room.
A hall full of supernaturals meant there was no such thing as a private conversation.
The huntsmen may not have senses quite as keen as the vampires, but their ears were acute enough for this distance.
Cat shrugged, conscious of the eyes on her. Of course they were curious. The Stormhales kept to themselves. They didn't mingle, like the other founders. The only people who lived in Stormhall were Stormhales. Even their slayers were rarely admitted to the main house.
"I'm rather average at a great number of things," she stated.
“Average?” Chloe repeated. “Yeah, right.”
Cat remained silent, though she could have explained. Her trainers had expected her to be quite good, but she’d never been encouraged to pursue true excellence. Once she mastered a subject, she moved on to the next.
"Languages?"
She asked which one in Russian, to make a point. "Kotoryy iz?"
"What did you say?" One of the huntsmen asked.
"Which languages," Mikar, seated next to Chloe, translated for her. "Literature?" the handsome, bronze-skinned elder submitted.
“’Reading furnishes the mind only with materials of knowledge; it is thinking that makes what we read ours.’” Cat quoted Locke.
"Science?" Chloe supplied hopefully.
This time, Cat went for Einstein. “‘Any fool can know. The point is to understand.’"
"And you do understand," Chloe guessed, rolling her eyes.
Cat laughed. "The basics. As I said, I was only expected to reach mediocrity. My job isn't to stand out. It's to be of use."
She knew, right away, that she'd said too much. Her friend frowned in concern.
"What do you like?"
Cat turned. Fifteen feet away, around another coffee table, Bash was seated with Jack and a female huntsman she'd seen around Oldcrest. She'd even traveled with her to London, but Cat didn't think the woman had ever introduced herself.
"Pardon me?" she asked, somewhat confused.
"What do you like to do?" Bash repeated. "In your free time. If that's a concept you understand."
Cat stared at him for a good long while. She didn't think she'd paid much attention to him before, in a specific kind of way. She'd glanced. She knew his smell and his presence. She knew he was handsome, well-built, and muscular. But that was about it.
Now she noticed his eyes. Amber. Hair darker, not quite brown. A tattoo peeked from under the sleeve of his T-shirt.
"Music," she said. "I like to listen to music. And play it. Badly," she added, to be accurate.
"You should play with me someday. I wager you'd improve. I could tutor you in violin, piano, singing—"
Cat glared at Bash.
"For what price?"
Before Alexius spelled out the gross reply she could foresee, Levi clapped his hands, demanding attention, as he stood before a throne-like chair at the very center of the room.