And a wide, malicious grin spreads across my face.
Finally.
Finally, he’s gone.
It’s my turn now.
I slip my wooden stake back into its sheath at my belt, and I take the glass of bloodwine from my desk. I take a generous slip, allowing the delicious, smooth liquid to invigorate me. I want to savour this moment. The moment I become the King of the Night clan.
My only disappointment is that I wasn’t the one that staked Xavian. I had hoped to have that pleasure for myself. But I suppose that mayhave created complications. Although there wouldn’t have been many vampires who would want to avenge my Creator. He was notoriously cruel, a brutal vampire king who led with fear and hardness. It was an effective strategy.
Still, there will be plenty of others vying for his throne. I have to establish myself immediately. Make my succession unquestionable.
I press a button on my speakerphone. “Leah, call the inner council to the war room. Immediately.”
“Right away, Crimson,” replies our night secretary. Although she’s worked for our clan for many years, there’s still a hint of trepidation in her voice as she addresses me.
It will take her a few minutes to gather the group of vampires that forms the Night clan’s inner council. And I want to ensure I join them last. I finish off my glass of bloodwine, the thick liquid grounding me for what I have to do next.
Leaving the empty glass on my desk, I move to my dressing room. It’s decorated in a similar style to my crypt, with dark wood panels and red carpet. The walls are lined with ebony wardrobes and a table laden with boxes of watches and metal jewelry. I consider my outfit carefully, distinguishing myself from my Creator while echoing his sleek, streamlined style. Eventually I decide on a sharp, tailored black suit, with a rose-embroidered handkerchief in the right pocket. A crisp, crimson shirt underneath should help evoke the bloodshed I’d gladly embrace if there’s any challenge to my ascension. I smooth down my short hair and clad my fingers in iron rings. Like the iron fist I’ll employ to keep my clan members in their places.
I finish by securing my wooden stake to its sheath at my belt. The smooth handle is inscribed with an “X.” I’ll have to have new ones made. Beside it is my dagger, sharp and gleaming, for inflicting less permanent injuries.
My crypt is located underground, deep in the heart of the Midnight Mansion where our vampire clan resides. I navigate quickly through the labyrinthine passages toward the war room, where the inner council convenes to discuss political matters and business related to running our clan’s operations. Underground, the passages are dark, with stone floors, exposing the mansion’s age and purpose. Down here, vampiric eyes don’t need much light, and there’s no use for heated floors.
The war room is more like a grand hall, imposing in its starkness. The walls are made of roughly hewn stone, with centuries-old tapestries lining the walls that depict ancient magical battles. A few torches cast a flickering light over the macabre scenes. As I enter, every eye snaps toward me. The vampires of the inner council stand at attention at positions along the two sides of the the room, carefully arranged in order of age and power. The very oldest stand at the head of the room, atop a raised platform, a few feet above everyone else. They dutifully flank the only seat in the entire war room: a massive, richly upholstered throne of gold.
Without a word, I cross toward it.
And I sit on its velvet seat.
It’s impossible not to allow a slow, malicious grin to cross my face. I revel in delight as the vampires around me fail to hide their various reactions. Although their movements are small, expressions of shock, relief, displeasure, and outright hostility greet me. They all know what this means. None of them will speak before me, although I can see a few of them struggle to keep their words to themselves.
When I’m satisfied that I’ve allowed the torturous moment to last as long as it reasonably can, I lean forward and I address my new flock.
“Xavian Night was staked.”
This prompts more visible reactions. Several gasps, a hushed curse, a few tightened fists. But the first words are by the vampire who stands to my right, just behind the position that I used to occupy beside the throne.
“How did it happen?” Murad asks, eyebrows furrowed over his brow. He has a regal bearing, wide-shouldered and tall, and wears a tailored jacket of rich aubergine. His smooth skin is a warm, olive tone, and a neatly-trimmed beard hugs his sharp chin. His arms are crossed, but he’s quite composed, considering. He’s the second-oldest vampire here, only a few decades younger than me.
“During the civil war between the northern vampires,” I answer, curtly. “I was informed by Celine Côté. Her Creator was also staked, and she ascended to his position as the leader of the northern vampire alliance.”
The war room is so quiet, you can hear the crackling of the wooden torches, the sound of a mouse scampering down a crack in the stone wall. It’s clear that my words have the intended effect. I’m making my claim, and if someone wants to challenge me, they’re going to havedrive a wooden stake into my unbeating heart.
“Who did it?” demands the vampire to my left, his grey eyes trained fiercely on me, narrowed ever so slightly. He has pale skin, with a thick, muscular build, and wears a simple outfit typical of most vampire guards. His dark hair is cropped close to his head, so it can’t be pulled during combat. Waylan Night, the only other vampire in our clan to have assumed our Creator’s last name. The only one who’s survived until now, anyway. That’s an unfortunate mistake on my part that I may have to remedy. It’s clear that he’s unhappy, but whether it’s because our Creator was staked or because I’m sitting on his throne…well, obviously it’s the latter.
“One of the northern vampires,” I respond, my tone a little careless.
Waylan’s nostrils flare angrily. “Our Creator is gone, and you don’t even bother to learn who ended him?”
“I know who did it,” I say, leaning comfortably back into my seat.
“And you don’t desire to seek vengeance for Xavian?” Waylan hisses.
“I don’t desire to repeat our Creator’s diplomatic mistakes,” I answer. My tone darkens, and this silences him, at least for the moment. But I have to be careful. The way I position myself now will set the precedent for my rule. But I’ve been preparing for this moment for centuries.
I rise from my seat, and pace before the subservient vampires lined on both sides of the war room. The older vampires meet my gaze boldly, some with reverence, some with malice. The younger ones cast their eyes downward, shuffling nervously as they try to determine what this change could mean. Many of them have only been led by one vampire, Xavian. They don’t know what to expect.
