The remainder of the ceremony in the crypt below the palace would be away from prying eyes. Funerals of the imperial family were always private, and the fear of attacks after the opera bombing meant everyone understood the increased need for security.
The crowd began to drift away, their thoughts turning to their own families and the threat from the north. If the vampires could reach out and seize the royal family, there was no one they couldn't grasp. The growing fear and anger over the enemy to the north was tempered by the one figure so notably absent in the funeral procession.
Everyone expected and fervently hoped that when Greyfriar returned home, Prince Gareth would be no more.
Lyon seemed more crowded than the last time Gareth had passed through. There was a frenetic war sensibility, packs moving about, herds being brought in from the countryside and left to wander the city. The stink of close-packed humanity had risen.
Gareth drifted to the Hotel de Ville, and the Lyonnaise watched the stranger with suspicion, another sign of a city at war. Two vampires confronted him as he started inside.
“Name yourself,” one demanded. “What’s your business here?”
Gareth drew up haughtily. “I am Gareth of Scotland. I’m here to see Flay.”
Both guards stepped aside with sneers. “Fine.”
Gareth strode past them, ignoring their curious glances at the canvas bag he carried. He passed through corridors clotted with recently spilled blood until he found Flay in conference with another vampire whom Gareth took for the Lyonnaise war chief. Their tone was not collegial, and the anger was palpable.
As soon as he entered, Flay rose with her eyes locked on the bag. The Lyonnaise continued debating tactics, arguing for an attack on Grenoble to liberate it from the humans. When he noticed that Flay was no longer listening, nor even pretending, he glared at Gareth.
Flay moved toward the prince, nostrils flaring. “So, you have it.”
Gareth tossed the bundle on a nearby table and slouched in a chair with unconcern.
The Lyonnaise war chief raised his arms sarcastically. “Are we finished, then? Is our discussion concluded?”
“Yes, Murrd,” Flay said without looking at him. “I’ll send for you when I require more from you.”
“Oh. Well, fine. I’ll just go then?”
“Yes. Go.”
Murrd huffed from the room, muttering about how this was Lyon, not London.
Flay lifted the bag and smelled it. The canvas was stained with an enormous amount of dried blood. She then dropped it.
Gareth asked, “Don’t you want to look at it?”
“It’s a hand, I’m sure. You did it. You actually killed the boy.” She smiled broadly as she perched on the edge of the table with an open posture she hadn’t shown to Gareth in very many years.
Gareth posed with a cavalier finger to his cheek, but his gut twisted with bile at the war chief.
“I imagine the poor princess is quite distraught with grief.” Flay laughed and lay back on the table, her long arms stretched out languidly and her night black hair swirling around her pale face. The long coat from her blue-and-buff military uniform fell open, and her high leather boots squeaked as she twisted her feet together.
Gareth could kill her in this moment. He desperately wanted to do it and wipe Adele’s name from the war chief’s lips. He might never get such a chance again. Her bare chest and sternum lay open as she exulted in her moment of triumph. He sat up and flexed his fingers. However, killing Flay now wouldn’t serve the long-range goals he and Adele had. He needed the war chief if he was to become king.
She glanced at him from her place supine atop the table. “Nothing to say, my lord? You’re not concerned about the princess’s discomfort, are you?”
“No, Flay. I’m only thinking of the future.”
“The future? What’s next for the Greyfriar?”
“Nothing. The Greyfriar is dead. He’ll be seen no more.”
Flay looked strangely saddened. “That’s too bad. I wanted to kill him.”
“You have, Flay. In your own way.” Gareth grew stern.
“Fine.” The war chief sat up, almost disappointed that a grim Gareth had truncated her excitement. Still, there was a sense of relief about her, a calmness that he rarely saw. She picked up the bag with the boy’s hand, swinging it idly. “You are summoned to London for his coven and coronation.”
Gareth laughed bitterly.
Flay said, “Cesare wants you to witness his triumph. He won’t be crowned without you there.”
“Or dead.”
Flay shrugged. “That’s not his preference. Yet.”
He said, “Then it will benefit me to take my time traveling to London.”