The anticipation of their petty squabbles and predictable jealousies was, for once, not the primary source of his focus. His thoughts were on a pair of callused fingertips, and the woman who had dared to touch him.
He was descending the grand staircase, his hand trailing along the cold marble balustrade, when the true weight of his decision settled upon him. He was not merely expecting a visitor. He was waiting for a complication. He was waiting for a spark of warmth in his cold, gray world. And he knew, with a certainty that was both thrilling and terrifying, that his family would do everything in their power to snuff it out.
He swept into the dining hall, a cavern of dark, polished wood and cavernous silence. The long mahogany table gleamed like a sheet of black ice, set with an army of silver and crystal that glittered coldly in the morning light slanting through the high, arched windows.
His family was already assembled. Valerius, his middle brother, sat stiffly in his chair, his expression a mask of disapproving piety that did little to hide the festering jealousy beneath. Opposite him, Celestria, his wife, sipped her tea with the delicate, passive-aggressive grace of a viper about to strike. And at the far end, lounging with an infuriating nonchalance, was Lucien, his youngest brother, looking entirely too pleased with himself, a stray bit of straw inexplicably stuck in his perfectly coiffed hair.
As one, they rose to their feet, a silent, grudging tribute to the power he held. He walked the length of the table without a word, his footsteps echoing in the vast space, and took his seat at its head. Only then did they sit, the scraping of their chairs a discordant sound in the oppressive quiet.
His gaze swept the table, a king surveying his court. He took in Valerius's pinched expression, Celestria's serene malice, Lucien's amused detachment. And he noted the empty chairs.
"Celestria," he said, his voice quiet but carrying the cold authority that made servants tremble. "Where are your daughters?"
Celestria placed her teacup back on its saucer without a sound. "Good morning to you as well, Your Grace," she replied, her smile as thin and sharp as a shard of glass. "The girls were… studying late last night. A touch of fatigue, I'm afraid. I thought it best to let them rest."
Caelan stared at her, his expression unchanging. "Fatigue," he repeated, the word flat and dead. "The last I checked, the rules of this household are quite clear. Absence from the morning meal is permitted only in the event of two conditions: sickness so severe one cannot stand, or death. As our kind is blessedly immune to the former and notoriously difficult to achieve the latter, I find your excuse… insufficient."
He let the silence hang for a moment. "Do not make flimsy excuses for your children's lack of discipline, Celestria. It is unbecoming."
Her serene smile tightened at the edges. A faint flush crept up her long, elegant neck. "My apologies, Your Grace. It will not happen again."
"No," Caelan agreed. "It will not. You will go and fetch them. Now."
With a look that could have curdled milk, Celestria rose from her chair and glided from the room. A few minutes later, she returned, herding her three daughters before her like a flock of small, gothic thunderclouds.
Cordelia, the eldest, clutched a leather-bound book to her chest and glared at the world from under a fringe of black hair. Livia, the romantic, trailed behind her, sighing dramatically. And Petra, the youngest, had a bulge in her dress pocket that was rhythmically twitching. A frog, no doubt.
"The governess says we are to have a pop quiz on eighteenth-century Latin poetry," Petra grumbled, plopping into her chair. "It is barbaric."
Caelan ignored them completely. "Gustave," he called out to the empty air.
From the kitchens emerged Chef Gustave, tall, bald, and draped in an apron as white as bleached bone. "Your Grace," he said with a dramatic bow. "A glorious morning for the palate, is it not?"
He and his staff began to serve, placing elaborate plates before the family: poached eggs nestled in nests of spun potatoes, glistening slabs of smoked salmon, pastries that looked like architectural marvels. Before Caelan, however, Gustave placed only his signature crystal goblet, filled to the brim with blood.
"A vintage from a particularly melancholic poet we had in the cellar," Gustave announced. "Notes of despair, unrequited love, and a charming hint of gout. If only Your Grace would consent to try my truffle-infused quail eggs, you would know true art!"
"If I ever find myself wishing to know what despair tastes like, Gustave, I shall simply attend one of my family's poetry readings," Caelan replied without looking at him. "You may go."
Gustave clutched his chest as if wounded and retreated to the kitchens.
The moment he was gone, the interrogation began.
"So," Valerius said, daintily cutting into his salmon. "The talk of the town this morning is of a new dancing partner. A commoner, I hear. After a century of refusing every eligible vampiress in the kingdom, you choose a shop girl to break your fast. A bold strategy for upholding the family's reputation."
"I find her more interesting than every eligible vampiress in the kingdom combined," Caelan said, swirling the blood in his goblet. "Their conversations tend to revolve around lineage and lace. This one, at least, had the novelty of callused fingertips."
Lucien laughed, a bright, reckless sound. "Oh, it's more than interesting, brother. It's a miracle. I was beginning to think your legs had forgotten how to move to music. Tell me, is she as fiery in private as she is on the dance floor?"
"You will not speak of her," Caelan said, his voice dropping an octave, the temperature in the room plummeting with it.
"And the Council?" Valerius pressed on, ignoring the warning signs. "You are not attending. On the very day we are to discuss the… unfortunate incident with Lady Thessalyne. A vampiress is found drained in your ballroom, and you decide to stay home and wait for a visit from a mortal? What are we to tell the elders?"
"Tell them I am occupied with a matter of greater importance," Caelan said.
"Greater importance than a murder in your own home?" Valerius scoffed.
"Thessalyne was a guest, not a murder victim. She was careless, broke the rules, and paid the price. The matter is closed," Caelan stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. He then turned his cold gaze upon his two brothers. "You, on the other hand, have a meeting to attend. And as of this moment, you have precisely nineteen minutes to arrive. The elders do so hate tardiness."
Valerius and Lucien exchanged a look of panic. They immediately began shoveling food into their mouths with a distinct lack of aristocratic grace. The sight gave Caelan a sliver of profound satisfaction.
As they were choking down the last of their breakfast, a footman entered the dining hall, his face pale.
"Your Grace," he stammered. "Lady Seraphyne is at the gate. She demands entrance."
Caelan didn't even look up from his goblet. "Tell my sister I am indisposed. Tell her I am dead. Tell her whatever you wish, but she is not to be admitted." He knew precisely why Seraphyne was here. She would have smelled the scandal from across the county and had come to stir the pot with her own special brand of loving, sadistic interrogation.
"Yes, Your Grace." The footman bowed and scurried away.
"Cordelia," Caelan said, turning his attention to his nieces, who were looking far too pleased by the drama. "You have lessons in alchemy. Livia, history of ancient blood curses. Petra, your governess will be waiting to continue your dissection of that unfortunate badger. Do try not to get the entrails on the tapestries this time."
A collective groan went through the three girls.
The footman returned, looking even more terrified than before. He wrung his hands, his eyes darting nervously around the room.
"Your Grace," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Lady Seraphyne… insists."
"And I," Caelan replied, his voice dangerously soft, "insist upon my privacy. Is my command so difficult to understand?"
The footman swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He took a deep, shaky breath, as if preparing to announce the end of the world.
"She says… she says she has brought your 'dancing belle' with her."