Page 1 of Siege of Blood and Betrayal

PROLOGUE

ZANE

“Are we the last to arrive?” Nikolai asks, staring off at the human island as we approach.

Our escort steers the Zodiac through the night waters, turning to answer over his shoulder. “No, sire. Master Rainier has yet to call for a pickup.”

The look on Nikolai’s fat face is too funny. “Figures.”

I fight not to smile at the Russian’s petulant disappointment as I catch the amusement that flashes in my father’s eyes.

Poor Nikolai won’t get his grand entrance tonight.My father’s words whisper into my mind, telepathic communication being one of the mind abilities of my family line.

Has he always been so full of himself?

For the two-hundred years I’ve known him, he has.

Was his father the same?

No. Zhdan was a true Fondatori King. He was a selfless vampire, a powerful protector of his people, and a great innovator as times changed around us. His death was a true loss.

I study Nikolai out of the corner of my eye. The son obviously pales in comparison to his father. And while I’m in no way eager to rule Toronto—because I can’t imagine a better king for our vampire seethe than my father—I do wonder about it sometimes.

Am I up to the task?

As the speedboat slices through the ebony waters of the channel, the cool spray of mist on the evening breeze cuts the oppressive heat of the day. Staring off the side of the boat, I study the twinkling lights of the Halifax skyline dancing over the dark void of the watery surface.

Seafarer’s Island has been one of the neutral ground meeting places of the Fondatori since the inaugural families branched out to the new world and sailed over from Europe.

My father and half a dozen others spread their wings—both physically and metaphorically—though few of the race can fly anymore.

As the boat approaches the island, our escort deftly bypasses the dock visible to passersby, veering toward the more secluded side of the island. My skin itches as the boat nears the invisible boundary between man and immortal and a subtle but palpable surge of magic rolls over us.

The sensation is invasive, and I lock my jaw to keep from fidgeting or trying to shake it off. The air shimmers as we breach the resistance of the spell and, for a moment, the boat is held within a hidden gateway to the extraordinary.

I tense when I’m hit with the shift in energy, and my father’s gaze narrows.Show them nothing, Zane. These men are allies, yes, but will take even the slightest sign of weakness and exploit it.

Sorry. You told me it would be weird, but it’s still weird.

As always, my father’s expression is a mask to the outside world. He is a master at remaining unreadable, even in the most difficult situations. It’s a lot to aspire to.

No harm done…this time.Nikolai was still sulking and didn’t notice. His man Boris is too daft to notice anything but a full-on military assault coming straight for him.

The next moment, the magical barrier recognizes us, allowing us to pass unharmed.

Once through to the other side of the warding spell, the atmosphere changes as the speedboat glides slowly toward a private dock that’s cleverly hidden from the prying eyes of mortal men. The sound of the engine cuts off as dissipating momentum takes us the last of the way into the slip.

Once the launch is tied off, Nikolai steps off the boat, tugs the cuffs of his shiny suit jacket and tosses a haughty look over his shoulder. “See you inside, Frankie.”

And then, as quickly as his kirza boots will carry him, he strides off with a sense of purpose, his burly second in command in tow.

My father, Francesco Vasari, was born in Milan in 1462, and grew up tending to the family inns scattered across the northern part of Italy. He is a man of his word, of consequence, and of tradition. He’s an observer of people and a reader of minds—not that many people know that—but one thing he isnotand never will be is a ‘Frankie’.

Why do you allow him to speak to you that way?

He meets my gaze and his mouth curves into a soft smile.Because Nikolai Gruzdev is a small man who needs to stand upon the greatness of others to elevate himself. He knows it and he knows that I know it. Remember, I’uomo, if you get distracted by the little fish splashing and blowing bubbles, you won’t be paying attention when the sharks circle.

I scan our surroundings, searching the darkness for any sign of clandestine activity, and watch as Bran McCullough—my father’s Sacred Squire—does the same. “And we have no idea why Ashikaga called the gathering?”

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