Out of the Shadows 030
A 5-star machine-augmented MIDNIGHT'S WAR novel
Chapter 10: The Price of Peace
Three days had passed in the Citadel, three days of lessons in vampire physiology, etiquette, and survival. Elliott had learned to modulate his strength, to move without breaking the sound barrier, to feed without losing himself to bloodlust. Chiara had been there through it all, part teacher, part companion, part anchor to the humanity he was struggling to maintain.
He was in the training room, working through combat forms with Marcus—his former bodyguard now serving as instructor—when Medici’s summons came. The ancient vampire rarely sent for anyone; people came to him. That he was calling Elliott to his study now suggested something significant must have occurred.
“Go,” Marcus said, noting Elliott’s hesitation. “When the old man calls, you answer. We’ll continue this later.”
Elliott made his way through the Citadel’s labyrinthine passages, no longer needing guidance to find Medici’s study. He’d learned the logic of the place—or at least the logic as Medici defined it. Older sections at the core, newer additions spiraling outward like growth rings on an ancient tree.
The study doors were open when he arrived, and Medici stood with his back to the entrance, gazing at a painting Elliott hadn’t noticed before—a portrait of a pregnant Renaissance woman with knowing blue eyes and a mysterious smile.
“My wife,” Medici said without turning. “Painted by Leonardo himself, though he never finished it. She died in childbirth a month after the final sitting.”
“I’m sorry,” Elliott said, uncertain why Medici was sharing this old personal tragedy with him.
“It was a very long time ago.” Medici turned, and his expression was unreadable. “I sometimes forget her voice, but I always remember her laugh. Isn’t memory strange? We lose the important things and cling to trivia.”
Elliott remained silent, sensing his master’s philosophical mood was leading somewhere important.
“Sit,” Medici commanded, moving to his desk. “We have business to discuss.”
Elliott took his usual chair, noting the envelope on Medici’s desk—heavy cream paper with a wax seal bearing a two-headed eagle. Russian heraldry.
“Our friend in Moscow has been busy,” Medici said, sliding the envelope across the desk. “Read it.”
The letter was handwritten in elegant script. The content was formal, flowery, and absolutely shameless in its deception.
Andrei Romanov, Prince of Muscovy and Lord of Northern Eurasia, expressed his deepest regrets for the “unfortunate incident” in Manhattan. After a thorough investigation sparked by Lord Medici’s formal complaint, he had learned that a subordinate, acting without authorization and in direct violation of the Lucerne Protocols, had hired the hunters. He assured Lord Medici that his traitorous subordinate had been disposed of in the traditional manner—Elliott didn’t need to know the details to understand that meant a particularly brutal execution.
Romanov hoped this “tragic misunderstanding” wouldn’t damage the long-standing friendship between their houses and noted that he had also provided a trivial amount of compensation due to any tiresome inconvenience caused by the unfortunate incident.
“Fifty million dollars,” Medici said, producing a bank statement. “It appeared this afternoon in certain accounts I control. A substantial gesture, even by our standards.”
“He’s lying,” Elliott said flatly.
“Of course he’s lying,” Medici agreed with a slight smile. “The subordinate he executed was almost certainly guilty of nothing more than irritating Andrei at some point. But the old forms must be observed.”
“The old forms?” Elliott couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice. “For murder?”
“Wergild. And now he’s paid the price for his offense. Blood money, the old Germanic tribes called it. A fine tradition that prevents every stupid insult from escalating into a war.” Medici leaned back in his chair. “I’ve formally accepted his apology on behalf of our house.”
Elliott felt anger rising but forced it down. Three days of training had taught him that emotional control was everything for a vampire. “So he just gets away with it? Pays his fine and moves on? I didn’t realize we were living in Switzerland!”
“Hardly. He’s paid fifty million dollars for a failed assassination, executed a subordinate of high standing, and admitted his fault in writing. In our world, that’s a fairly significant loss of face.” Medici’s smile widened slightly. “Plus, he’s revealed something very interesting to me. He’s worried about you. Worried enough to risk a war, and worried enough to pay handsomely to avoid one.”
“Why would he care about me?”
“You’re my progeny, which makes you somebody. You’re brilliant, which makes you unsettling. And you possess unique knowledge that could very well reshape the balance of power among our kind.” Medici stood, moving to a cabinet Elliott hadn’t seen opened before. He returned with two crystal glasses filled with what looked like wine but smelled of iron. “More importantly, you represent change, and Andrei has always been deeply conservative at heart for all his rebellious posturing.”
Elliott accepted the glass, recognizing the scent. It was blood, but mixed with something else. “What is this?”
“Blutwein. A traditional drink for celebrating the end of hostilities. The blood is freely given, mixed with wine from grapes grown in soil where vampires are buried. Symbolic of peace from war, life from death.” Medici raised his glass. “To challenges survived and opportunities presented.”
They drank. The taste was complex, as the metallic tang of blood was softened by notes of earth and age, with an aftertaste that reminded Elliott of ancient oaks and ripened blackberries.
Out of the Shadows is available in Kindle, KU, audibook, and hardcover editions.