Page 9 of Caller of Crows
"Honestly." Keegan leaned back in his chair and looked at Altair. "I think you should put him back where you found him."
Altair's gaze narrowed slightly. "No."
Even if Altair let the mortal go… he'd just waltz right into a different coven. Sven wasn't like any other mortal Altair had met. No one else had ever challenged him like that, smearing their own blood on his lips to get him to do what they wanted.
It was insanity.
But it had certainly gotten his attention.
Keegan gave his leader a wry smile. "I thought you'd say that. But I have a bad feeling about this."
"A bad feeling or a vision?" Altair asked.
Keegan stared into his half-empty glass of blood, his gaze distant. "I see…shadows. Darkness lurking on the fringes. Something is coming, Alt, and it's connected to that mortal."
"Your visions have been known to be…imprecise," Altair reminded his friend, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of concern.
Keegan blew out a breath. "I knew you wouldn't listen. If the mortal's staying, though, he needs a room with a loo in it. If you're going to adopt a pet, at least put it in a suitable cage."
"Perhaps we should discuss this at another time," Iskander suggested, "Something's going on." Clearly, he was picking up on trouble Altair hadn't noticed yet, too distracted by thoughts of the mortal.
The four vampires fell silent, their attention shifting from the discussion of Sven to the disturbance that now demanded their focus. The sound of raised voices and shattering glass came from the club.
"Not this again," Mordyn muttered, a grim expression settling on his face as he glanced toward the door.
Altair's eyes narrowed, his hands clenched into fists beneath the table. No doubt, it was those damned east side vampires again. Every other week, a few of them decided to get drunk on spiked blood and cause trouble in the club. Not only were their antics annoying, they were a blatant display of disrespect for Altair and his coven.
"Come," Altair commanded, rising to his feet with an air of quiet authority. His friends followed suit, sharing a brief, wordless exchange before striding out of the room and into the fray.
As they entered the main area of the club, Altair's gaze settled on a rowdy group of vampires, clearly intoxicated, laughing and jeering as they tossed bottles and glasses at one another, openly displaying their disdain for Altair's coven.
"Enough!" Altair bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.
The ruckus died down as every eye in the room turned to the imposing figure of the coven leader. The rowdy vampires sneered, unimpressed by his presence, but the cold fire burning in Altair's dark eyes was enough to give them pause.
"Explain yourselves," he demanded, his tone controlled, yet laced with an undercurrent of menace.
"Ah, if it isn't the great Altair," one of the drunken vampires slurred, swaying on his feet. "Come to lecture us, have you? We're just having a bit of fun."
"Your ‘fun' is disrespectful and disruptive," Altair replied coolly, maintaining his composure despite the urge to tear the insolent vampire limb from limb. Sadly, he couldn't do that without possibly starting a clan war. These vampires belonged to a coven with a territory at least double the size of Altair's. Altair wouldn't risk killing them…
But that didn't mean he couldn't hurt them.
"You are not welcome here," he said, arming himself with a silver blade at the same time as Mordyn and Iskander stepped forward, their own weapons at the ready. "Leave now, or face the consequences."
The vampires hesitated, their bravado faltering in the face of Altair's threat. But then, one of them, a tall, muscular redhead with a crazed look in his eye, stepped forward, his fangs bared. "You can't tell us what to do," he snarled, lunging at Altair with a fierce growl.
Altair's instincts kicked in, his body moving with preternatural speed as he evaded the attack and plunged his blade into the vampire's chest. The redhead howled in pain, collapsing to the ground as the other vampires rushed forward in a rage.
What followed was a blur of motion and violence, a chaotic dance of fangs and blades as Altair and his friends fought off the attackers. Blood spattered the walls, mingling with the haze of smoke and the scent of fear and adrenaline.
Altair's senses were heightened, every sound and movement sharp and focused as he fought with a deadly grace. He dodged a swing from a passing bottle and spun around, slicing through flesh as he drove his blade into a vampire's gut. The vampire screamed and crumpled to the ground, writhing in agony as Altair moved on to the next target without sparing his victim another glance.
Mordyn and Iskander fought with equal ferocity, their movements fluid and precise, their weapons gleaming in the dim light.
The sound of breaking bones echoed through the club as Iskander delivered a crushing blow to the skull of a vampire who dared to attack him. Mordyn, meanwhile, was a blur of motion, his lithe frame darting in and out of the fray as he sliced and diced his way through the attackers.
The fight was over almost as soon as it had begun. The attackers lay scattered on the ground, groaning in pain or unconscious. Undead blood coated the floor and walls, the metallic smell thick in the air.
