Arion twirls a pencil in his hand, studying it.
“I’m not sure why my beta—one of my favorites, no less—is discussing my House matters and orders so openly in such abundance,” Arion continues, pulling out a small pencil sharpener—and being theatrically calm—as he begins sharpening the pencil.
Isiah says nothing, and I drop a foot to my knee, sitting casually now. This is one less problem for me, since it’s rare Arion gets so pissed that he’s eerily calm.
“And the matter of ignoring my prioritized orders by mincing words and pretending all orders are of the same priority simply because…well, I’m not really sure why you’re acting that way,” Arion continues, eyes flicking to a now shuddering Isiah.
Emily has paled at this point, and Arion pulls the pencil out, blowing a few shavings away, as he makes a show of examining the sharper point.
“Shera found me a variety of uniquely different, customized pencils. Quite useful, that beta. She stayed by Violet’s side, despite death’s inevitable reach, because at the end of the day, she fears me as much as she respects me.” He twirls the pencil before giving Isiah all of his undistracted attention. “Because she knows how to follow my orders. If I want to dangle her in front of your nose like a carrot to get you to do half the job she does, then I’ll do it. If I tell you you’ll not get her unless she chooses to leave with you, that is my standing fucking order.”
The calm starts to waver, that familiar crazed expression slowly bleeding into his eyes, as they continue to darken, rimming only a slight red.
Damien flicks a nervous glance at me, and I slowly slip my blade back out of my boot.
“Sheathe your weapon, Van Helsing,” Arion says very bitterly, eyes not moving off Isiah. “This is a House matter, and this is still my House.”
“Just preparing to step in front of your sister in case you lose it,” I assure him with a dark grin, glancing in Emily’s direction.
She’s too busy flicking her gaze from Arion to Isiah, knowing damn well just how fucking unpredictable Arion can be when that red slips in. He’s the only one of the vampires to gain the red eyes.
“The pencils are much stronger. They don’t all actually have lead in them, since I don’t use all of them for drawing,” Arion goes on, glancing down. “How’s that burn in your hands?” he muses.
I finally look at Isiah’s hands again, noticing for the first time the red veins slowly spreading throughout. My head tilts in confusion, as Isiah swallows thickly.
“What are you doing to him?” Emily asks desperately, though she stays in her seat and doesn’t make any sudden movements.
“Something new I discovered rather recently. Did you know Violet makes hazardous, volatile, possibly lethal things on accident more than she comes up with a perfect product?” Arion goes on, the red in his eyes dulling more and more, filling in with the black.
I sheathe the blade back in my boot, and Damien begins to relax as well.
With Violet’s insistent rejections, Emily’s sleights, and Isiah’s constant insolence, it’s just a matter of time before Arion shows out and does something he’ll regret…that he’ll find a way to blame us for.
Arion once again makes a show of studying the pencil, as a sinister smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth.
“Shera had the centers coated with some of Violet’s castoffs. The girl has a small arsenal she doesn’t know how to dispose of,” Arion goes on, almost admiring the pencil now.
It’s a little unnerving to notice the pencil sharpener he used has turned into a melted pile of plastic at some point…
“So you took it off her hands without telling her,” Damien surmises, rolling his eyes.
“Rather dangerous for her to be stacking up crates of hazardous waste in a spare closet, don’t you think? Those omegas really don’t like me hanging around. They’ll do most anything to get rid of me, and I haven’t even gotten an invitation inside yet,” he answers with a casual, dismissive shrug.
Emily looks twice as pale now.
“The point is,” Arion says, jabbing the point of the pencil in the air toward Isiah like a cheesy pun from a sociopath during a torture session, “I don’t know if what’s seeping out of the broken crystalized center of those particular pencils is lethal or just painfully toxic.”
“Fuck’s sake,” Damien says, pinching the bridge of his nose, as Emily makes an anxious sound, eyes on Isiah like she wants to go to him.
“Painfully toxic, my lord,” Isiah says through strain, tacking on some old formalities just for good measure.
“Well, that’s just pure dumb luck,” Arion assures him as he continues to study the pencil he’s holding. “Want to test how lucky you are, Isiah? You’ve always been a betting man, have you not?”
“Arion, please,” Emily pleads quietly as I hesitate, putting one hand near my blade.
I change my mind and drop my special hilts from my cuffs, preparing to extend them.
“Now my sister begs, after being so rude in my home and making entitled demands. I was starting to think I’d spoiled her,” Arion drones on, casually lowering the pencil to the table behind him, before he leisurely props at a lean on one of the columns in the room. “Fancy that.”
Emily lowers her eyes, easily showing submission to her brother. As if that’s all he wanted all along, Arion grins.
“Lovely to see you actually do remember me after all, sister dear. Must have been hard for you to miss me all that time, while spending loads of my money, even though my nest could have used the help of an alpha in my absence.”
Damien and I both swing a confused look toward Arion.
“Can we please get back to the part about Edmond Portocale before you have a sibling dispute?” I ask in annoyance.
“Utter horse shit. Desperate ploy to get Shera,” Arion tells me dismissively. “Leaving for Ireland early isn’t necessary, as I already said.”
“I swear it’s the truth, even if I can’t have her, my lord,” Isiah says, jaw tensing as he continues to stare at the table under him, not making any move to remove the painfully burning, toxic pencils from his hands.
One pencil starts sizzling, and the distinct scent of burning flesh finally erupts into the room. Arion grins again, as the room’s smell turns rancid.
“Well, that’s intriguing. I’ll call those the sizzlers,” Arion chirps as he walks around to a box of pencils and actually labels it. With a marker, not a pencil.
Fucking vampires.
“Fucking vampires,” Damien says, echoing my own sentiments, as he massages his temples and exhales harshly.
“Why would Edmond want her dead?” I ask, looking directly at Isiah, as his eyes lift just enough to almost meet mine.
“Because she’s an unregistered Portocale gypsy, and she was mingling with the enemy,” Isiah answers, knocking the smile right off Arion’s face when his eyes catch mine.
“Portocale gypsies don’t have to register,” Damien points out.
“You’re holding back,” Arion states like it’s a slight accusation, turning and intently glaring over at his sister now.
Emily is tapping her foot, casting a sideways glance at Isiah, before looking over at her brother.
“His House or not, it’s my job to put the alphas in their place when they step too far out of line. Violet is under my protection, and was even before the vampire attack. It’s your duty and obligation to answer the fucking question to the fullest extent,” I caution, drawing Emily’s narrowed glare.
Honestly. One poor fight and suddenly my skills seem to be called into question by everyone. Bloody fucking nightmare.
Emily, the daft cunt, smirks at me like she’s ready for a challenge.
The swords shoots out of the hilts, as I pop to my feet, and Arion steps in front of me in a blur.
“I’ll deal with my sister. Not you. Not in my—”
His words end on a pained grunt as his head jerks hard to the right, compliments of my left fist. Damien casually stands and moves out of the way, before Arion topples to his abandoned chair.
The vampire blinks a few times and rubs his jaw, and then shoots me an incredulous look.
“You usually tap your right foot before you lead with your left,” Arion states as he stretches out his jaw.
I smirk over at Emily this time, as my swords retract, the silver manipulated back into the crafted place for it.
Lots of smirking going on in this room today. That’s what happens when too many alphas all want to be the one in charge.
“Bloody fucking nightmare,” I mutter, regurgitating my own thoughts.
Arion moves quick, and by some divine luck, I dodge the punch like I knew it was coming. My elbow comes up, knocking him in the side of the face. Then I swing around and catch him in the temple with the blunt end of one hilt.
He curses as he staggers back this time.
“When the hell did you stop doing the eye twitch before you swing an elbow?” he snaps, wiping blood away from his eyebrow.
“I’ve been doing some work, recently,” I decide to inform him, smiling like the arrogant ass it feels good to be again.
I like life better when he’s the one bleeding instead of me.
“Emily, could you answer the question before this gets messy?” Damien drawls.
“It’s Portocale politics, Arion. It’s not our concern. Don’t put yourself in the line of Edmond’s fire for a girl you barely know. Especially not when Idun is so close to returning,” Emily says, playing Arion like only she can.
“I asked the question,” I remind her, not even glancing at Arion. “Damien restated it. Arion isn’t involved. I’m your fucking Van Helsing. You answer to me right now.”
She makes a frustrated sound before eyeing me again. “One Portocale gypsy goes dead in this town after making simple business ties to the three of you,” she tells us, oblivious to the situation pertaining to Violet’s mother’s alleged identity.
Thankfully.
“What do you think is going to happen to the second?” she asks like we’re idiots. “It’s easier to see when you’re on the outside looking in, instead of sitting inside your stale towers that don’t even catch a breeze anymore. Judge me for my life, but at least I have one instead of just wasting the gift we have.”
“Well, if all of us shirked our responsibilities as you do, the world would very likely end at the hands of the very thing we created by chasing this gift,” I remind her as I crack my neck to the side and adjust my shirt sleeves.
“Edmond Portocale hired unregistered vampires to kill one of his own?” Damien asks on an unconvinced scoff.
“She’s not of his family’s thread. She’s not a single thread of the four Portocale first-borns, as a matter of fact. It still looks real bad when the Portocale name is tarnished by a foolish girl who plays too closely with monsters,” Emily answers, eyes averting mine.