Prologue

PROLOGUE

ZANE

" A re we the last to arrive?" Nikolai asks, staring off at the human island as we approach.

Our escort steers the Zodiac through the night waters, turning to answer over his shoulder. "No, sire. Master Rainier has yet to call for a pickup."

The look on Nikolai's fat face is too funny. "Figures."

I fight not to smile at the Russian's petulant disappointment as I catch the amusement that flashes in my father's eyes.

Poor Nikolai won't get his grand entrance tonight. My father's words whisper into my mind, telepathic communication being one of the mind abilities of my family line.

Has he always been so full of himself?

For the two-hundred years I've known him, he has.

Was his father the same?

No. Zhdan was a true Fondatori King. He was a selfless vampire, a powerful protector of his people, and a great innovator as times changed around us. His death was a true loss.

I study Nikolai out of the corner of my eye. The son obviously pales in comparison to his father. And while I'm in no way eager to rule Toronto—because I can't imagine a better king for our vampire seethe than my father—I do wonder about it sometimes.

Am I up to the task?

As the speedboat slices through the ebony waters of the channel, the cool spray of mist on the evening breeze cuts the oppressive heat of the day. Staring off the side of the boat, I study the twinkling lights of the Halifax skyline dancing over the dark void of the watery surface.

Seafarer's Island has been one of the neutral ground meeting places of the Fondatori since the inaugural families branched out to the new world and sailed over from Europe.

My father and half a dozen others spread their wings—both physically and metaphorically—though few of the race can fly anymore.

As the boat approaches the island, our escort deftly bypasses the dock visible to passersby, veering toward the more secluded side of the island. My skin itches as the boat nears the invisible boundary between man and immortal and a subtle but palpable surge of magic rolls over us.

The sensation is invasive, and I lock my jaw to keep from fidgeting or trying to shake it off. The air shimmers as we breach the resistance of the spell and, for a moment, the boat is held within a hidden gateway to the extraordinary.

I tense when I'm hit with the shift in energy, and my father's gaze narrows. Show them nothing, Zane. These men are allies, yes, but will take even the slightest sign of weakness and exploit it.

Sorry. You told me it would be weird, but it's still weird.

As always, my father's expression is a mask to the outside world. He is a master at remaining unreadable, even in the most difficult situations. It's a lot to aspire to.

No harm done…this time. Nikolai was still sulking and didn't notice. His man Boris is too daft to notice anything but a full-on military assault coming straight for him.

The next moment, the magical barrier recognizes us, allowing us to pass unharmed.

Once through to the other side of the warding spell, the atmosphere changes as the speedboat glides slowly toward a private dock that's cleverly hidden from the prying eyes of mortal men. The sound of the engine cuts off as dissipating momentum takes us the last of the way into the slip.

Once the launch is tied off, Nikolai steps off the boat, tugs the cuffs of his shiny suit jacket and tosses a haughty look over his shoulder. "See you inside, Frankie."

And then, as quickly as his kirza boots will carry him, he strides off with a sense of purpose, his burly second in command in tow.

My father, Francesco Vasari, was born in Milan in 1462, and grew up tending to the family inns scattered across the northern part of Italy. He is a man of his word, of consequence, and of tradition. He's an observer of people and a reader of minds—not that many people know that—but one thing he is not and never will be is a ‘Frankie'.

Why do you allow him to speak to you that way?

He meets my gaze and his mouth curves into a soft smile. Because Nikolai Gruzdev is a small man who needs to stand upon the greatness of others to elevate himself. He knows it and he knows that I know it. Remember, I'uomo, if you get distracted by the little fish splashing and blowing bubbles, you won't be paying attention when the sharks circle.

I scan our surroundings, searching the darkness for any sign of clandestine activity, and watch as Bran McCullough—my father's Sacred Squire—does the same. "And we have no idea why Ashikaga called the gathering?"

Bran shakes his head, his dark, russet braids brushing the shoulders of his suit jacket. "To be summoned with no reason given is irksome but not unheard of. Let's not borrow trouble before we hear him out."

Father turns toward the main house and presses his shoulders back. "And the best way to hear him out is to get there and join the others."

The three of us climb the slight embankment leading from the dock up to the main property. The imposing stone manse lies straight ahead. Transported here stone by stone from where it was originally built during the Middle Ages, the east coast sanctuary is a thing of beauty.

Many of the Fondatori who remain in Europe think those who moved to the New World cherish glass and steel and have forgotten their roots.

Not even a little.

My father has spent twenty-seven years teaching me about the strength, tradition, and power of the Old Country.

Our steps make no sound as we close the distance to the main house. Being true blood vampires, my father and I have preternatural strength and agility. It's a testament to how skilled Bran is that he—a human—manages the same level of stealth.

I find it funny that humans fill their fiction with ex-military men, spec ops soldiers, and Navy SEAL warriors saving the day. Those men have nothing on a vampire's Sacred Squire.

Not that they know that.

Even if he were compared to that field of soldier, Bran would still be extraordinary. The man has the skills, heart, and loyalty of the greatest of warriors.

Father leads the way down the lighted pathway to the side entrance of the sanctuary. Once inside the stone alcove of the entrance, he draws his silver dagger from the scabbard at his hip. It began as a set of eighteen, each hand-crafted and balanced to its owners' specification and each embellished with a gemstone to signify the family of power it represented.

The Vasari family is represented by the black diamond.

Believed to possess various metaphysical powers, the black diamond is associated with protection, grounding, strength, and resilience.

It's also badass and looks deadly cool.

Moving to address the entrance panel, he wraps his fingers around the edge of the blade, grips tightly, and yanks the hilt back. Blood rushes through the sliced flesh and he places his bleeding palm onto the identity scanner. When the green light appears on the scanner, he inserts the blade of the dagger into the notch at the center of the door.

"It slides into place as easily now as it did over four-hundred years ago."

It's like my father has lived two lifetimes—first the two hundred years he lived in ancient Europe and then four hundred years here, standing witness to the development of a new world and modern times.

I can't even imagine.

Turning the blade releases the latch on the door and allows him entrance into the sacred sanctuary as one of the Fondatori rulers.

The gathering hall inside the sanctum is a circular room with a round table giving no Fondatori king or queen advantage of position over another.

One thing you learn early on within the ranks of vampires is the quicksand of ego one must wade through when two or more rulers are in the same room.

Not all of them, of course, but oftentimes powerful beings who live centuries, amass fortunes, and live outside the reality and laws of men, become narcissistic and violent.

"Francesco. You are looking well, my friend." Ashikaga Hikotaka from Kyoto bows and my father mirrors the greeting without hesitation.

"Life is what we make of it, and I am pleased with what I have made. You?"

"If you don't enter the tiger's cave, you will never catch its cub."

"True enough."

The Vampire King of Kyoto looks to Bran, who gives him a respectful nod, and then shifts his attention to me.

"Zane, welcome. I wasn't expecting you. I shall arrange a place for you to sit near your father."

I bow my head but not as deeply as Bran, because I am Fondatori nobility myself. "I am merely here to observe, sire. Standing behind my father's throne will do fine. No need to make any special arrangements."

"As you wish."

"Speaking of making special arrangements," Father says, "why are we here, old friend?"

Ashikaga is facing us and the back of the room, so no one at the kings' table sees the tightening in his expression. "There is news. Come, let us begin."

Father doesn't question the man and simply moves to the carved teak throne with our family colors—black, silver, and oxblood.

He takes his place and scans the others already seated.

When he dips his chin in greeting, I make a mental note of who he seems to respect and who receives cool politeness. His gaze locks on a man perched on a throne across the table, and he neither nods nor offers a cool greeting.

What is that about?

"Thank you all for making the trip," Ashikaga says, standing in front of his chair. "I apologize for interrupting your busy lives but called this gathering because there is a development which is best shared in person."

The cautious way he says the word ‘development' makes it clear he's not pleased about what he has to tell us.

"Two nights ago, Heinrich Rainier was dispatched to his final death. Leon Miller and his clan of turned vampires have assumed power in Berlin." He gestures to the dark-eyed thug, looking smug in a four-thousand-dollar suit. The brute is the one sitting opposite us and now I understand my father's reserve. "By the laws of the Fondatori, when the Rainier clan was ended and Miller and his family took possession of the tiger's eye dagger, he assumed control of the Berlin seat of power."

The room erupts in a thundering overlap of shouts.

"How could a pathetic outlier have bested Heinrich?" someone shouts. "He was a bloodline vampire and a noble."

"If these made thugs are brazen enough to come after one of us, what does that say to wolves, witches, or even the demons?"

"It says our enemies think too highly of themselves!"

"An ant can be squashed without effort, but a colony of ants can clear-cut a forest overnight."

Miller stands, slamming his palms into the table. "Are you assholes calling me an ant?"

Nikolai scoffs. "An ant is too good for you, mutt. You are a cockroach."

The chaos continues as Ashikaga tries to get control of things and reminds everyone of the Fondatori laws.

What does this mean, Father? I ask directly into his mind.

He doesn't answer.

He's grown rigidly still.

And though he has schooled me about locking down my emotional responses for decades, he is emanating a murderous rage.

He and Rainier have been friends for centuries.

If this man killed Heinrich and his children, why would Ashikaga defend him? Why did he allow him to sit at your table?

He has no choice, l'uomo. The edicts we live by are clear. While I find it unconscionable that this outlier trash ended Rainier, and claimed one of the Fondatori daggers, it's done.

I can't wrap my head around that. Deiter, Fritz, Johann, and Greta? I've known them since we were kids.

"How do we know this is true?" the ruler of Turkey asks. "An outlier might be deceitful enough to steal one of the jeweled daggers of power, but to end Heinrich and his family? I don't believe it."

"Do we have proof of death?" my father asks.

The thug across the table grins, the tips of his stumpy fangs showing. "I thought you'd never ask."

Miller raises two fingers and signals his second-in-command. The brute standing behind his right shoulder raises a remote and points it at the table. In front of each of the kings, a viewing monitor turns on and the proof of death video begins.

It's a horrible thing watching as Heinrich Rainier and his four adult children are beheaded and their bloody bodies are left in the sun. These are people I grew up knowing.

Being an heir to a Fondatori King or Queen brings with it a unique perspective and pressures.

It works to bond you as—if not friends, then at least comrades-in-arms. To watch as first Heinrich, then Deiter, Fritz, Johann, and Greta are each beheaded and left to burn to ash is sickening.

Still, I don't react.

Tapping into my training, I lock down my emotions. I stand unaffected as people I knew and held a genuine fondness for blow into the wind.

The scorch marks on the concrete rooftop are hard to stomach, but I remain visibly unmoved.

"Proof of death provided." Miller's arrogant smirk makes me want to launch across the table and rip his head off. I can't imagine the restraint it's costing my father to remain in his seat. "I assume that settles the matter?"

There's a general grumbling, but little more is said.

"If a Fondatori King wasn't strong enough to hold his position against my pathetic ‘outlier seethe', the honor of ruling that city shouldn't have been his to begin with," Miller gloats.

"Complacency is not the same as weakness." Father's tone is tight, but even. "And rest assured that after realizing someone of your ilk would challenge someone of ours, this will not happen again."

Miller shrugs. "Hindsight can really bite you in the jugular, can't it? Doesn't matter. My sights have only ever been on the Berlin operations. There will be no threat from me or mine to any of you."

But he's set a precedent, hasn't he, Father? He's shown the half-blood and made seethes that we can be overtaken.

He has. And yes, they will come, I'm sure.

Ashikaga gestures for everyone still standing to take their seats. "With that unfortunate business taken care of, does anyone else have something they wish to discuss?"