To Curse the Darkness (5 page)

“Perhaps, after all, Emrys was not far wrong when he described us as vipers,” Georgia suggested. “If we cannot even discuss the
possibility
of change without resorting to threats and anger. But thus we prove Conrad's point as well. It is our very nature as
Invitus
that dooms us in this modern world. Our lack of control, our thirst for blood, our propensity for viciousness: they are liabilities, yet it seems there are many among us who would extol them as virtues.”

“Do not think to deceive us,” Brockwell snarled. “Do you imagine we are not aware that you will do and say whatever your master tells you to? That is why he insisted on including you here today—so that you might stand with him, and thus bolster his untenable position. But I am not seduced by your honeyed words. Nor will I allow this farce to continue any longer.”

“You are right on one count,” Conrad replied. “And on that one count only. Georgia stands with me and I with her. If you have a problem with her being here—if you have a problem with her at all—then you have a problem with
me
. And you will address your concerns to me, or you will hold your tongue. If you wish for a fight, I am happy to oblige you, though I would prefer to do so elsewhere. After all, I see no reason to bloody my own hall. I am told marble is deucedly hard to clean.”

Brockwell snorted derisively. “Aye. I had wondered how long it would take before you threw
it in our faces that we are guests in your demesne.” He turned on Georgia once again. A wild light danced in his eyes as he growled, “I don't care what he says. The sight of you displeases me. I want you gone.”

Venom flooded Georgia's system. “Do you now?” Her heart was pounding furiously as she rose from her seat. She knew this would likely be a fight to the death, for Brockwell would surely accept nothing less. She was not looking forward to it. It had been a long time since her last skirmish, whereas Brockwell had seemingly been at war with everyone lately. She suspected that gave him a serious advantage. But, she would not shy away from this battle. It was not in her nature to retreat. If this was her day to die, so be it. “Do you hope to silence me with bluster?” she sneered at him. “I promise you, I am not so easily cowed. You say you do not recognize anyone's authority over you? Well, I do not recognize your authority over
me
!”

As Brockwell sprang to his feet, Georgia tensed, readying herself for his attack, but Conrad was already in motion. He pushed Georgia out of the way, then picked up the chair in which she'd been seated. As Brockwell rounded the table, Conrad swung the chair, knocking Brockwell to the ground. He swung again, but missed when Brockwell rolled out of the way at the last second. The chair splintered into pieces against the marble floor.

Howling in fury, Brockwell jumped from the floor and launched himself at Conrad's throat. But Conrad had armed himself with a leg from the broken chair. He staked Brockwell through the heart before the other vampire had a chance to land a single blow.

The scent of blood filled the air, and a shocked silence descended upon the room. Georgia glanced around again. Many of those present were licking their lips and looking on avidly. Conrad, his breathing labored, stood over the body, but he made no effort to feed from his victim—an oddity Georgia noticed in passing and then immediately forgot when the silence was unexpectedly broken by Emrys, who had begun to clap, very slowly and with great drama.

“And so the motion is carried,” Emrys announced as the others turned to glare at him. “Or so I assume. Unless anyone else is willing to risk Quintano's anger at this time by voicing an objection. Anyone? No?”

His remarks were met with angry silence. It seemed he was correct in his assumption. No one would dare argue with Conrad now—a state of affairs for which Georgia was supremely grateful. Had things gone differently, she was not certain what the outcome would have been.

After a moment, Emrys smirked and continued, “I thought as much. And,
voila
!
Quelle surprise
.
Casa di Quintano
increases its holdings yet again.
Bravo signore
. That was very well played.”

Conrad growled as he turned to face the others. His eyes were luminous with rage and unsatisfied bloodlust. “I
am
Casa di Quintano
,” he said, speaking in a voice so savage that it gave even the other
Invitus
reason to fear him. “Make no mistake about that. I
am
my House—every part, every member. Attack
any
of my people, direct an insult at any of them, and you attack
me
. You insult
me
. If you are sure of nothing else, be sure of this. Attack me, and I
will
respond.”

“Yes, yes,” Emrys drawled. “I am sure everyone has understood the lesson: he who incites the bull to anger risks finding himself impaled upon its horns. I'm sure Brockwell would have been honored had he realized that his death would serve such a noble purpose—assisting you in making your point.”

“Keep quiet, you fool,” Georgia hissed at him, shooting a worried glance in Conrad's direction. “Or you'll likely meet a similar fate.”

“It's all right, Georgia,” Conrad snapped. “I'm not completely out of control.”

“No, of course not.” Georgia bowed her head, struggling with her own temper, her own need to tear into someone—into anyone, really, now that Brockwell was denied her. “I apologize.”

Conrad nodded in acknowledgment and then addressed the council once more. “It should not need saying, but I did not come here this evening with the expectation of killing anyone. I doubt
any
of us anticipated that blood would be spilled in this chamber tonight, although perhaps, given our nature, we
should
have done so. Nor will I apologize for my actions, since any one of you here might have done the same. We
Invitus
are barely fit for civilized gatherings. We are not at all suited for this ever-changing world in which we now find ourselves. Our instinct for violence is what defines us, and it will ultimately prove our doom if we cannot find a way to curb our impulses. We may think of ourselves as strong, and yet the future of our race does not lie with us, but with those of our children who can find a way to live peaceably among humans.”

Georgia gritted her teeth as Emrys spoke up once again. “It sounds quite lovely in theory,” he said with a sigh. “One might wonder, however, if it will prove equally so in practice. Somehow, I doubt it. But enough of this fruitless speculation. If we might move on…” He motioned to Brockwell's servant, who stood motionless at the back of the room. “You there. What's your name?”

“Drew, milord,” the man responded. He was no one Georgia recognized. Young and not
Invitus
, he was likely one of Brockwell's “slaves”. He looked more than a little ill as he took a single, shaky step forward and then stopped once more, swaying slightly on his feet. Georgia felt a brief pang of sympathy. It must be terrifying to find oneself here, surrounded by those so much stronger. What had Brockwell been thinking to bring him? Where were the soldiers of whom he'd boasted?

“Well, Drew,” Emrys continued, “we seem to have a bit of a mess on our hands. If you will be so kind as to remove your former master, I'm sure we'd all appreciate it.”

“No.” Conrad threw out an arm, as though to shield Brockwell's body. “No one touches him. Not until I say so.”

Emrys's eyebrows rose. “Indeed? Well, if my lord Quintano prefers to leave him here, far be it from me to argue. It would certainly not be
my
idea of suitable décor but—as has been lately brought to my attention—this is not my hall. And I certainly do not wish to step on anyone's toes, after all.”

Georgia sighed in annoyance. She was beyond tired of Emrys's mocking ways and worried both by Conrad's unusual loss of control and the heaviness that seemed to have settled over his spirit. She cast a quick glance at her friend. His shirtfront was bloody, his eyes dark and unreadable. She cleared her throat. “Perhaps this would be a good time for a short break? There are refreshments waiting in the next room, I believe. Perhaps everyone might be allowed to recess there while this room is put back in order?”

She kept her gaze trained on Conrad as she spoke, willing him to respond—to give some clue as to what he wanted to do. Eventually, he met her gaze and nodded impatiently. “Make it so.” Then he turned away to stare broodingly at Brockwell once again, ignoring the others as they filed from the room amid much muttering.

“Conrad, do you wish to have a wash and perhaps change your clothes in one of the bedchambers? Or would you prefer I have your things brought here?” she asked when they were alone—or nearly so.

He didn't answer right away. He seemed to be thinking very hard. “I will change here,” he said at last. “But we must reconvene elsewhere after our break. This room will need to be cleansed—most thoroughly.” He glanced at Drew, who stood as before, watchful, wary, still awaiting orders. “You seem very young. When were you fledged?”

Drew swallowed hard. “A little over two months ago, Master,” he replied.

“No!” Conrad growled. “Do not call me that—ever.”

“Conrad,” Georgia corrected gently, rolling her eyes in fond amusement. “Conrad, or sir, or my lord—you may address him by any of those—even sire, if you prefer it. Just not the other.”

“Conrad,” Drew repeated obediently. “Yes, milady. Thank you.”

“Two months.” A frown had creased Conrad's brow. If Georgia didn't know better, she'd have said he looked even more worried now. “It was not Brockwell who sired you, was it?”

Drew shook his head. “No, sir. My sire was named Magdelena.”

“And where is she now?”

Grief shone briefly in Drew's eyes. “She is dead, sir.”

“How?”

Drew's gaze strayed to Brockwell's body. “By his hand, sir. He killed her.”

“Brockwell did.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was she ill?”

“Ill?” Drew repeated the word blankly. “Why, no, my lord, not that I know of.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Were you there when it happened? Did you see her die?”

Drew bowed his head. His voice was but a pained whisper. “Yes. I-I was there when he did it.”

“And? What did he do afterward? How did he behave? Did he drain the body after he killed her?”

Drew winced. “Yes, my lord, he did.”

Georgia frowned. It seemed cruel, forcing the boy to relive what had clearly been a painful time. “Conrad, what's this about?”

But Conrad ignored her. “One more question,” he said to Drew. “Why did he kill her?”

Drew shrugged helplessly. “I don't know how to answer that, sir. He didn't offer an explanation and I…” There was a hint of tears in Drew's voice. He paused, and then continued in a more even tone, “I did not view myself as being in a position to ask for one. It happened very suddenly. She angered him somehow, I suppose.”

“I imagine that's happened often of late.”

“Yes, sir. She was not the only one. I have seen more than half a dozen meet the same fate. He was…easily angered.”

“I don't doubt he was,” Conrad said with a sigh. “No, I don't doubt that at all.” He shook his head and added, “Very well. There should be some servants about somewhere; go and find one of them and inform them of what has happened. I would have wood and kindling brought to me here, and a fire made. And fetch me some clean clothes too, if you would be so kind. Someone will direct you where to find them.”

Georgia watched in silence as Drew bowed obediently, then turned and left the room. “You know, my liege,” she murmured when she and Conrad were once again alone, “while I do appreciate your actions—not least of all because blood is so difficult to wash out of this fabric, and I would have hated to have spoiled my new gown—still I would like to point out that I could have handled things quite well on my own.”

“I am sure you think so.” Conrad glanced sharply at her. “And you may be certain that I am aware of your abilities. They are well known to me. But as for sparing your gown, you should know there are more than a few spatters upon your skirt.”

“Are there?” Georgia spread out her skirts and frowned. “Bother!”

“Have you anything else to change into?”

“What, here?” Surely he was joking? “Are you of the opinion that I keep a wardrobe in each of your houses? I should warn you, I will need a much larger clothes allowance if that's what you're expecting of me.”

Conrad's eyes flashed. “Just answer the question,” he snarled angrily, reminding Georgia that he was not in the best of moods.

“I beg your pardon,” she murmured as she lowered her eyes and offered a respectful curtsey. “No, my lord, I have no other clothes here with me that I might change into.”

Conrad sighed. “Then I suppose you have no choice but to continue to wear it. Have it burned as soon as you're home—let someone else do it, don't touch it yourself any more than you need to. And, Georgia, under no circumstances are you to try and salvage it.”

“Conrad…”

“I understand that it's new, and that you seem to harbor a fondness for it, but you will do as I say in this matter. Have several more made to replace it, if you like—as many as you want. I do not care how many you buy or how costly they are. You may send the bill to me.”

“To hell with dresses, Conrad! Whenever have you known me to care overmuch for such things? Tell me what's going on—that's what I'm really interested in. What's this all about?”

Conrad glanced again at Brockwell. “Do you not find it strange that, for someone as proud of his House's reputation as Brockwell has always been, he should be accompanied here tonight by a mere fledgling—and one not even of his own making?”