She landed beyond a low hillock, out of sight and beyond the range of human weapons that continued to chatter, wasting ammunition since most of the vampires had withdrawn. That made Flay smile. The whine of shriekers was a dull hum now. The packs surrounded her; male and female celebrated their slaughter with bloody mouths while sharing stories of their kills. Flay allowed it; she would count her losses later, but she doubted it would be a high number. The wounded would still be dragging themselves back from St. Etienne for hours to come, unless they were unlucky enough to be caught by human soldiers hunting for them.
“War chief!” Murrd shouted as he settled beside her. “A success!”
“You killed their commander?”
“Their cowardly war chief must have hidden deep inside, but I struck several of their officers. Still, we killed thousands of their men, and left thousands more crippled. And I killed hundreds of horses myself.”
Flay rolled her eyes at his inflated figures. “Hardly the stuff of epics.”
Murrd laughed. “The humans will surely retreat. The Equatorians are nothing to us now.”
“Idiot.” The British war chief lifted off into the clean cold air as the Lyonnaise stared after her with shock and insult. She growled to herself as she watched the celebrations of the vampires. They didn't understand. She knew how to win this war if only they would listen to her. But she wasn't sure whether her words held the same authority with Prince Cesare in London as they once did. The prince was a politician, not a warrior.
If only Prince Gareth ruled London.
Flay thought of Gareth and clenched her fists without thinking.
Gareth the traitor.
She still could barely believe that moment in the crypt below Alexandria when she discovered that her most hated enemy—the Greyfriar—was actually Prince Gareth. It wasn't just implausible; it was impossible. A vampire using weapons, wielding swords and pistols. A vampire helping humans.
Flay had returned to Britain after that event, unsure of her path. She had told Gareth that she had some sort of cunning scheme, but that was just to freeze him so she could escape. She had no idea what to do with the incredible information. It had to have some value, some use.
Flay had once tried to cajole Gareth into striking down his brother, Cesare, and taking his rightful place at the head of the clan. He had rejected her, which clearly had to do with his twisted obsession with humans and particularly with the wretched princess, Adele. Flay couldn't pretend to understand it.
Somehow, Flay would find a way to save Gareth from whatever madness had gripped him after the Great Killing and drawn him into isolation from his people, leading to his lunatic life behind the mask of the Greyfriar. Flay smiled at the thought of his gratitude once he shook his head clear of the spell Princess Adele had placed on him.
The Great Killing had, in many ways, been a disaster for vampires. They had grown soft and lazy like humans. And some, like Gareth, had gone insane.
This war would save them all.
Prince Cesare sat in a spotless wooden chair in the corner of a dark chamber beneath Buckingham Palace. He was well dressed in an impeccable grey suit and shined black shoes. He was short and lithe, with close-cropped hair and a sharp face. His blue eyes stared hard with no movement. Cesare was a thinking creature, and liked any who might observe him to know he was always in thought.
The only potential observer whose opinion mattered at the moment was mute. Across the room lay the body of Cesare's father, King Dmitri, dead for more than six months now. The king was thin and desiccated, having rotted away what soft fatty tissue he had possessed when he died. Now he was a leathery thing, empty eye sockets open and strained mouth agape as if struggling for one last breath. Cesare watched the human bloodmen slaves straightening the king's bedclothes. A dead human lay on the stones, his blood having been drained into a grate in the floor. An unfortunate victim was brought in every few days to be killed and drained, and then carted out by the bloodmen. It was an amusing fiction that Cesare maintained to imply that the king was still feeding. No one yet knew Dmitri was dead. With the exception of a few human slaves, only Cesare attended him, it was assumed out of extreme loyalty. The king's condition was to be hidden until it suited Cesare to announce his death.
And certainly no one needed to know that Cesare himself had murdered his father.
“How did you manage it?” Cesare asked Dmitri's body. “All these allies, all these clans with their pathetic quibblings. You were one of the kings of the Great Killing. Was it this much trouble? I'll admit, I have more respect for you now.”
One of the bloodmen indicated the dripping sacrifice.
“Yes, yes.” Cesare waved his hand. “Take it away.”