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She looked down several levels and saw him, almost invisible in the shadows. “Is he all right?”
“He’s where he’s supposed to be.” Cyrus leaned closer and took her hand. “Trust me, Mae. I’m asking you to trust me tonight.”
She looked at him, his eyes so dark and serious. “I trust you with my life, Cyrus. You should know that by now.”
“I do, but tonight you may see things...hear things...”
“No matter what they are, or who says what, I trust you, and only you. Always.”
To her surprise, he raised her hand and kissed it, in front of whoever happened to be looking. For him? It was almost a public declaration of the fact she belonged to him.
Which, she realised, she absolutely did.
And the notion made her happy, completely comfortable, and rather proud, all at once.
Then she blinked, and stared down into the auditorium. Frowning, she leaned forward. “Cyrus,” she whispered. “It’s the strangest thing, but I could swear...” She stared at the man seated on the very first level in one of the larger and more ornate chairs. “Look. He looks just like Uncle Phineas...”
Cyrus kept his eyes on the crowds across from them. “I know.”
“But...”
She bit back the rest of her words as the sound of drums grew louder, and the auditorium stilled.
Near where Bram stood, the doors swung open and half a dozen young drummers entered, the military style rhythm marking their steps and attracting everyone’s attention.
They were followed by four rows of people dressed in clothing that clearly matched their affiliations. Maelin realised she was watching a small parade of houses, the Fae with peacock coloured wings, the Bloodkins with black cloaks lined with iridescent red, the Witches in silver and purple gowns, their feet stirring clouds of gold flecked smoke, and the hosts, the Shifters, dazzling in flowing garments that weren’t any one colour but all colours depending on when you looked at them. Floating multicoloured rainbows that seemed to disappear if you looked at them too long.
Mae was spellbound at the magnificence, and yet shivered as something passed over her body. She wasn’t cold, but as she glanced around she saw one or two others with the same response.
No, it wasn’t the temperature in this giant space that was giving her goosepimples.
It was the power.
The drums stopped suddenly, the sudden silence almost more startling than the drums. Then the entire marching ensemble just disappeared into thin air, leaving in its wake a cloud of purple smoke which disappeared to reveal a long polished table shining in the center of the auditorium.
Within a few moments of its appearance, chairs followed, and then, to Mae’s absolute astonishment, the Conclave officials just poofed into existence, settling themselves in their chairs and arranging their papers, as if they’d been seated there all along.
She grabbed Cyrus’s sleeve and looked at him.
He shook his head and held his finger to his lips.
She nodded, her heart thumping faster than normal. So much magic. So much power swamping everything, and to top it all off, Uncle Phineas sitting down there looking quite comfortable.
This was not what she’d expected at all.
*~~*~~*
The doors were closed, the ceremony was completed...now the real business of the Conclave could begin. Seated in the huge chair at the head of the table was Count Markus Pénzes, a soberly clad and elegant vampire nobleman. His real name was Mark Penser, but after a substantial bite from a real vampire down in the Gloamtide, he’d gone through the transition and, in his words, “decided to take over.” Cyrus had known him for several years and was very glad to see how far he’d risen. He was fair, sensible, and would weigh matters carefully before making any decisions. Plus he looked after his house. Couldn’t ask for more than that.
The slight murmuring stopped as the Count rose and tapped his palm on the table three times.
“Fellow Velvet House members, friends, visitors. Welcome to the Conclave. Today we are facing a crisis, an unimaginable attack on all our houses.”
He waved his hand and a box appeared high above the table. The sides were blank, but as the Count read the names of the four murder victims, their images appeared there, and there were audible sobs from the gallery. It was both dramatic and moving, and Cyrus nodded. It was done very well.
“This,” the Count spoke as silence fell, “this is unacceptable.” He looked around. “Many of you have asked what is being done to stop this horror. More than a few of you have raised the spectre of that which has not returned for many decades...” He paused. “The Rhovan.”
A sort of mass shudder ran through the audience, one which both Cyrus and Mae shared. It might have been a long time ago, but the memories had not faded by any means.
