Sullivan was not a party person.

  He sat seething next to his wife while his quiet stoicism hid his disgust. A momentary sneer twitched in and out of place as he took a steady breath to try and calm himself.

  Unimpeded by the storm or their shame, these simpletons danced to music he loathed when it first played on the radio so long ago. With every off-key note, every drunken laugh, the simmering burn in his veins coiled tighter in his hands—mocking him, as if daring him to snap.

  When the Old World died, he naively thought its modern music would die along with it. He didn’t care if it was buried beneath the rubble of the obliterated cities. He had hoped every recording was burned to ash when the sky rained fire. But like a cockroach surviving nuclear fallout, the vapid pop melodies have clawed back from their graves to haunt him.

  He couldn’t help rubbing the annoyance from his temples, remembering when he taught the mortal races how to refurbish Old World technology. Once again he had cursed himself—left to sit, silently incensed.

  His unintentionally hateful gaze prowled from group to group. His heightened senses assaulted him—heartbeats pulsing like war drums. The air was thick with wine and sweat and over-sweet perfume. The unaware breaths of each living soul bristled every hair on his body.

  He could end the whole charade with a whisper and a twitch of muscle if he so desired. But he didn’t. It would not only be classless of him, but it would confirm what the mortals feared. And he had worked too hard to keep those whispers at bay.

  He was paying the price of those too indulgent in their appetites, and too dead for him to beat into a thick, meaty paste.

  A pity. It might’ve helped, if only for a night. But the hardest part of power was not using it.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Still, his fury made the tremors in his hands worse. So, he could either seethe... or surveil. And Sullivan preferred his rage useful.

  He listened and dissected the useless chatter of his esteemed guests. He took notice of who was speaking to whom, catching a brief word or two of the delegates’ whisperings. He watched as each of his pieces on the board executed his plans with flawless precision.

  The Jiangshi, as expected, were the perfect servers. Able to come and go at will. Able to implant themselves whenever and wherever. But most importantly, able to gather information even when cloaked within their mists. The mortals found the “trick” amusing.

  Not a single one mentioned how the floor was covered by a thin, persistent fog.

  Fools.

  The Virelai—his most indulgent courtesans—were tasked with what they did best: seduction. Sultry smiles in silk suits, flirtation wrapped in espionage. A kiss, a bite, a whisper. He didn’t need spies when he could rent out dreams. And none gave sweeter dreams.

  Sullivan would’ve felt bad about pimping them out like street walkers, but the Sanctum needed the blood sanctions to be lifted. Demand was always outweighed by supply.

  Besides, the Virelai were enjoying themselves. A rarity amongst the vampiric race in these trying times.

  Two of them already had a Deputy of the Glass Chapel fully indulged. The bright, red stain of their lipsticks on the collar of his shirt was proof enough of their success.

  A pity Deputy Halifax Smith didn’t bring his wife.

  The Virelai love to share.

  With every flick of his gaze, Sullivan was more and more convinced the night was going smoothly. His niece played the dutiful hostess in his stead, slipping into places he simply couldn’t.Perhaps it was her light-hearted swagger, or the way her fanged smile looked harmless enough, but the mortals welcomed her intrusion anyway. Hard to be mad at the one pouring the wine.

  For a fleeting moment, he wanted to smile. He remembered when she used to run wild through the Sanctum’s halls in nothing but her diapers, shrieking with laughter while her mother had to chase her down. Now she drank with the mortals as if she belonged among them.

  Shannon was right. Children did indeed grow up too fast.

  He watched the small skip in her step after leaving a table of dwarves, noticing her footwear. He scoffed at the sight.

  Venice was going to crucify his niece.