Blood Legacy (3 page)

Victor rose one spindly finger into the air to silence her. I watched the back of his head as he glanced upward, sniffed once at the air, then
turned slowly away from Heron’s desk.

Toward mine.

His head tilted to the side, like a bird assessing a worm. I suddenly felt very out of place, not just because I was a human among Vampyrs, or a spy among the faithful—though all those things were true, and added to my fear. It was my scratchy polyester dress, the cheap blend so common in the Undertown shops, because few humans besides Donors could afford better. The eggplant color was off, a little too bright in this elegant cloud-crested cathedral. My skin was insufficiently moisturized, my dark hair a little frizzy in its bun, my breath probably not at its freshest, my makeup (also cheap) applied with a shaky, tired hand. All these things compounded to make me feel inadequate. And I felt it in every bone of my body as Victor looked at me. I felt it in every drop of my blood.

But all he said
was, “I know you.”

Suddenly I could think of nothing more terrifying he could possibly have said. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw the open archive on my mainframe, proof positive that I was snooping where I shouldn’t, but the thought of him remembering that awful day at
my Secondary graduation pinned me to the spot as if I were some Donor, splayed out for his enjoyment.

“Yes . . .” He took a step toward the desk, his footfalls silent as a predatory cat’s. “It’s the smell of your blood. Where do I know it from? Come here, little bird. What is your name?”

“R—Raven,” I stammered. If he took one more step, he could see my mainframe system’s screen. He could also be close enough to seize my neck again—a prospect that thrilled me almost as much as it terrified me.

“Raven. Where do I know that name?” Victor frowned. “Who are you, really?”

Heron, of all people, jumped to my rescue. “Your new financial assistant. I’m afraid she wasn’t warned in advance to stick to a Donor diet while on the premises—if her smell offends you, my lord, I’m more than happy to kick her down to the accounting floor for the rest of the day.”

Victor spun away, and I finally dared let loose the breath I’d been holding in. “You’ll do no such thing,” he said. “Forgive me, Heron—you were walking me through my upcoming meetings. Where were we?”

With Victor’s back turned and his entourage’s attention safely shunted away from me, I hastily made the hand gesture to exit out of the archive and return my mainframe to some innocuous spreadsheets for Victor’s upcoming meeting. I slumped back into the black metal and leather chair at my desk and let the numbers wash over me. Safe, boring numbers. No teeth nor sinister gaze to be found.

“Don’t let him rattle you,” someone said, with such a soft and silky voice I almost thought it was a recording at first.

I looked up to meet the gaze of the pale-skinned girl who’d caught Victor’s jacket earlier. Her honey-colored blond hair was set in curls around her face and tucked under a pillbox hat that matched her tweed jacket and skirt. If I didn’t know better, I would have mistaken her for an exceptionally well-kept human, and for a second, I considered that she
might
be Victor’s current meal on wheels, but her skin was too smooth and flush for that. None of the telltale blue veins bubbling up against her pallor, or premature wrinkles etching their way across her face. No subtle whiff of encroaching death, like rotting leaves and formaldehyde.

“Nastasya Faudre,” she said, extending a gloved hand toward me.

“The Faudre family,” I said, shaking her hand. “You must manage the Bressovs’ media spinoffs on the Stream.”

She chuckled softly. “Oh, I’m not nearly important enough for that. Lowly as we Faudres are, I’m further d
own the pecking order still. It’s been scarcely fifty years since I was turned. But Lord Bressov has been very kind to me personally, and my family as a whole.”

She spoke truthfully—the Faudres were so lowly a Family as to not merit a seat at the Coven
of Families, cobbled together as they were of Vampyrs both from the old world and the new. Still, to hear one admit as much was refreshing—disarming, even. I permitted myself a small smile. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Raven?” Heron’s voice sliced through the air. “Raven? If you’re quite done slacking off, your
job
needs you.”

Nastasya Faudre gave me a sheepish look, like we were sharing a secret, then she scampered off to join the rest of the entourage. I leapt back up from my chair. “I’m here, I’m ready. What do you need?”

“
He
needs you.” She jerked her head toward the carved black doors. “The merger hypotheticals presentation? You
do
have it ready, don’t you?”

Shit. My heart slammed into my chest. It was one thing to face Victor Bressov in front of an audience—I’d done so before, and survived, though just barely—but now she wanted me to head right into his lair? Alone?

“Of course I do.” I snatched the cylinder for my tablet off the table, straightened my blazer, and started my grim funeral march up the stairs to Bressov’s office door.

The black glass carvings on the door leered at me—horrible scenes of dragons and Vampyrs and gargoyles writhing up from the depths of the earth, crawling along skyscrapers and mountain cliffs, as humans sank into the cracked ground and into roiling seas. The glass was like ice under my palm as I pressed it open. It swung inward silently—revealing only more darkness within.

The silhouette of Victor Bressov stood at the far end of the room, before the enormous glass panorama of New Sanguinus below us. My weak human eyes could only pick out a few shapes here and there—a rack of samurai swords, some urns or vases that I couldn’t identify but were no doubt exorbitantly expensive, random Vampyr relics I’d never learned the names for—as I stepped carefully across the wide ebony wood planks. At the massive desk, his mainframe sat, dark and untouched. How long had he been brooding here in the dark?

“You remember that day, too.” His voice hummed deep in his chest. Was that sadness tinging its edge? “You know precisely where I know you from.”

I took another step closer, the plank groaning. “Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say it, before? Do I . . . embarrass you, Miss Meadows?”

“Just Raven,” I said, but he kept talking over me.

“Pour yourself a drink—I can tell you have need of one. There’s a well-aged scotch out on the bar.”

I tightened my free hand into a fist. “I was told you want your Administratives to keep to a Donor diet while we’re in the building, sir.” I cleared my throat. “My lord, that is.”

“It is true that I detest the stench of impurities in your blood. You would, too, if you had our sense of smell.” His head lowered, like he was composing himself. “But I can tolerate this once, for your comfort, Miss . . . Raven. Unless you expect to be Donating this morning . . . ?”

His head turned so I could see his profile against the rain-flecked window, and I imagined I caught a glint of light against his white teeth, but I quickly banished the thought from my mind. My sight was finally starting to adjust to the darkened room—more like a chapel, really, with its soaring vaulted ceilings—and I located the bar. I dropped a perfect sphere of ice into a tumbler with a satisfying
clunk
.

“I’m scheduled for my weekly Donation this evening,” I said, pouring the scotch—one for me, and one for my boss—“but I’m sure I’ll have plenty of time.”

“That’s not quite what I meant.” He turned from the window and strode toward me. With a flick of one hand, the advanced sensors in the room picked up his gesture and lit the wrought iron chandelier overhead, though only just barely. “Are you satisfied with your dreary life as a secretary so far?”

I took a sip of my scotch and held his out for him. It scorched all the way down, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t relish that pain, like an alarm going off in my chest, reminding me I was still alive. “It’s a lot better than other paths available to my kind.”

“Mechanics for the mag trains, trashmen, factory workers? Or are you referring to Donors?” He accepted the scotch, but just looked at it, watching the oily sheen of the alcohol roll off the sphere of ice as he rotated the tumbler back and forth.

“Take your pick,” I said.

“A Donor burns bright but is quickly snuffed out. Is it better to live swiftly, or not at all?” Victor asked.

I gritted my teeth. “I’m not sure why those are the only two options we get.”

The words hung between us, dangerous as a knife, and about as sharp. Victor curved one dark brow upward as he regarded me, then he looked back down at his drink.

“
Unless you’re auditioning for the role as my top political advisor,” he said finally, “I suggest you stick to the financials, Raven.”

“Yes, sir. Lord.” I took another hasty swallow of scotch, then snapped my tablet open.
“The merger looks promising, but only if you can get the Burdraks to agree to some specific terms.” I flicked from to the first set of charts. “In this scenario, you cut their marketing division entirely, or else absorb no more than ten percent into our own, but it’ll increase our annual output by twenty percent.” Next set. “This has to do with their Donation distribution wing, which is so much less efficient in Drovia than our own here in the Westlands . . .”

Victor’s gaze had pulled inward as I spoke; I couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but I was fairly certain it wasn’t about the charts I was holding up. I lowered my tablet. “
Is there something I have missed, my lord?”

“No, no, your figures are fine.” He set the scotch down on the desk behind him and reached for the hem of my dress.

I gave a tiny yelp, pulling away from him, but he already had it pinched between his fingers. “My lord—”

“This is . . . what? Polyester? Carboweave? Something dreadful from Undertown, that much is certain.” Victor glanced up at me as he dropped the hem, lip curling in disgust. “You will not wear such cheapness in my presence again, do you understand?”

I took a deep breath. “And what do you expect me to wear instead? I don’t earn anywhere near enough for an Uptown shop, assuming they even let me through the doors—”

“They will let you through the doors.” He made another gesture, activating a comm to Heron’s desk. “Heron, please ensure that Raven is on the Approved Humans list for all the Uptown shops, and open her a line of credit with the corporate account.”

My nostrils flared as I watched him, that smug grin carved into his immortal face. “I didn’t ask you to do that for me.”

“Well, I didn’t ask to be attended by a sloppily-dressed human with an attitude problem, but we can’t all get what we want.” He closed the comm and propped himself on the edge of the desk. “Please—continue with your report.”

I walked him through all the financials regarding the merger. I’d done the best I could when I rendered the numbers for him, but there was one major factor I’d left out—the question of whether he’d accept Dame Bressov’s nomination to the Coven of Families. If he were dividing his time between the Bressov Industries and the Coven, then that brought its own disadvantages, but then again, if he refused, the potential backlash against the Bressovs could be huge. The resulting uncertainty might lead to open hostilities amongst the Families, as those who didn’t have a seat at the Coven vied for a spot.

It could lead to another coup.

Or it could be just the opening Finch and the Resistance needed.

“That’ll suffice.” Victor nodded when I concluded my report, though his dark eyes were glazed, as if he’d barely been paying attention. I snapped my tablet closed and turned to leave. “Raven—where do you think you’re going?”

“It’s time for your meeting with the Burdraks,” I said.

“Yes, and I want you here in case I have any further questions. Please, have a seat.” He stood, and guided me to the velvet couch that ran along one wall,
its shelves filled with leather-spined books. I wonder if he’d read any of them.

“I have other projects I should be working on, my lord.”

A frown creased his face; for a moment, I thought I saw a hint, just a flash, of that darkness that had so consumed him that day four years ago. His displeasure sparked something in me like a flint being struck. Whether I imagined it or not, it burned away some of my morning sluggishness and made me sit up a little straighter.

“Your projects are performed in service to me. If I give you an order that contradicts them, you will follow it.” He turned away from me as he woke up his mainframe. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Glad to hear it.” He opened up the comm, and I heard the impatient buzz of the connection as it waited for the Burdraks to accept. “You know . . .” Victor turned back toward me, unruly hair glistening in the dull candlelight. “For
someone who’s not a Donor, your blood smells exhilarating. Even with a bit of scotch in it.” He glanced downward, dark lashes shielding his gaze. “It’s how I remembered you.”

My mouth hung open. I’m sure I looked like a gaping fish, but I was too stunned to say or do anything else. From everything I knew, Vampyrs barely tolerated us as a means to an end—a food source, first and foremost, then as a disposable, easily replaceable pool of laborers to make their own lives more comfortable. For a Vampyr to compliment a human—one who wasn’t a lifelong Donor, no less—it was absurd.