Page 72 of Fated to the Vampire Prince
I noticed my nephew, drunk and disheveled, was seated in a chair in the corner, which I found annoying. Yes, as my heir, he needed to be involved, but I was still furious with him for getting Claire drunk. This could have been avoided had he not involved himself.
“A raven has arrived,” Laurent announced. He was Grand Advisor—a largely ceremonial role, but he often served as a level-headed voice in a room of hotheads.
“From the Lawless Lands?” I asked, leaning forward. I’d been waiting on a reply from my last letter.
“No, Your Grace. From Devonelle. More attacks have beenmade by Witches of the Light. The Kemp family states their defensive spells were breached. One of their own is dead.”
An uncomfortable silence followed. It seemed the troubles Shreesa described were following me north, leaving behind a trail of increasingly heinous carnage. I leaned forward in my seat, my fists curling into tight balls.
“Who was killed?” I asked.
Laurent set the letter down. “Temperance, Your Grace. Temperance Kemp.”
Grumbles and whispers went around the council room. My worst suspicions confirmed. The matriarch of an incredibly powerful coven was dead. A level-headed woman that had kept her coven’s practice within the bounds of the law, even when those inside it, like her daughter, Hera, had advocated for retribution. Her death was a tragedy in more than one way. Perhaps Imogen had been right when she counseled me down at her salt pools. Perhaps the war I so badly wanted to believe the Blood Treaty settled had never really ended.
“Will you be attending her funeral? Hera has requested your presence for the funeral rites.”
Taking Claire to the home of Dark Witches during a funeral ritual might be too much. Yet, I was loath to leave her alone. Rubbing a frustrated hand over my face, I sat back in my chair. “Let me think on it.”
I contemplated the maps laid out in front of me. I was sworn to protect this land. This fragile peace. That was our mission. That’s what the covens had created us for. Staring at the mark labeledWitches of the Light Territory, I wondered what to do. They’d attacked my people on my land. Killed one of my own.
Laurent let out a sigh that seemed to capture my own feelings on the matter. “Some will never listen to reason, no matter how much peace you keep, Your Grace.”
The room went quiet again, and I didn’t need to ask which coven had attacked the Kemps. There was only one still causing problems.
The Prideaux Witches.
“Old debts get inherited. Even ones that date back to The Choosing.”
Over the centuries, I’d considered obliterating the entire coven, but there were still those who quietly supported the old ways, and killing one unruly coven could rally others to their cause, pitting more against us.
“I’m sorry, Uncle,” Tyson interjected, “but are you saying this grudge goes back to The Choosing?”
The night my brothers and I were selected for this task—six Witches of the Light and six Witches of the Darkness chosen to die a mortal death and be reborn as vampires. Immortal protectors of peace.
My gaze wandered to my nephew, who had risen out of his chair and had wandered over to the stone table. He looked so much like his father in this light, it was shocking. Hair so black it was nearly blue and olive skin, tanned from the southern weather. I wondered how much he’d been taught about our histories or if the entirety of his education was conducted either in the training yard or at fancy dinner parties.
“Yes. That’s correct,” I replied. “During the run-up to The Choosing, there was a coven who thought they deserved to provide a tribute more than any other. At the time, their matriarch believed her strongest spellcaster, a witch named Dorian, should be chosen as one of the twelve.” If I closed my eyes, I could still see Dorian’s face. His pale hair and smug expression. “But Dorian was an extremist. Just like the rest of his family. And so he wasn’t chosen.”
“And five hundred years later and they’re stillbitter about it?” he asked with a quizzical look on his face. So innocent in his belief that old grudges would ease with time.
“Grudges ripen, like grapes on a vine, becoming sweeter and juicier. After a time, the younger generations have no idea who planted the vine or why they must pick its fruit, but it’s become such a large part of their culture that they stop asking questions. They live hate, drink hate, and spread hate.”
Grunts of agreement made their way around the room. Tyson settled back into his seat, chin in hand, lost in thought.
Natalia banged her fist on the table. “If you won’t say it, then I will. Angelina Prideaux is a relentless buffoon, and to keep the peace you promised to uphold, we must take her out.”
Many nodded their agreement.
“She may lack the resources to start a war, but damn if she’s not going to try,” Gavin, my Master-at-Arms added.
I folded my hands, thinking how best to handle this attack. Marius’s blood ran just as hot as Natalia’s, and if I told him of this most recent attack, he very well may reach the same conclusion. This kind of war required a gentle hand. The last thing I wanted to do was radicalize the neighboring Witches of the Light.
Natalia leaned in. “And what of Alec’s story? What if the Witches of the Light have learned how to transform into werewolves?”
Chapter 33
Appartenir
