Chapter 166: Asset collection.

I sit at my desk and sign the construction order for a shipyard; an entire shipyard for standardized river steam ships. I used to sign orders for table cloth.

It has been a long century.

In the wake of the civil war and hive scourge, the north of the United States expands its influence with feverish energy and we have made full use of it. Real Estate and abandoned farmlands. Factories. Infrastructures. Schools and ports. Private security. There is no sector our tentacular influence will not grasp. Train lines cleave through the frontier on their way west to link the coastal regions, while outposts and small towns bloom across the land like flowers in the desert. Or like cancerous growths, according to Ako.

We fund many of those new havens.

Vampires may not have the drive to invent but we certainly can back those who do. It matters not if five out of ten ventures fail. A single successful one pays for all the losses. And so, we increase our influence as fast as the mortals do. The wave of corruption and illegal grabbing that comes with it only provides more fuel for us, more emotions to exploit and more pawns to play with. Already, I had to send Urchin and John away on their own errands because I could not handle the tide of supplicants waiting for a generous monster to help them. The mortals burn with greed and passion as they swallow native tribes and forsaken land in their unmatched appetite. I thought that the furor of money could distract them from a more insidious agenda. I was wrong.

Fueled by anger at their loss, which they attribute to the devil, the black arts, and pretty much everyone but themselves, a group calling themselves the integrists has risen from the surviving grassroots to cleanse the land of its impurities, especially the people. Their ire spreads generously across several races, creeds, and professions, but what they hate the most is casters.

Surprisingly, they are not even the largest pain in my posterior. This achievement goes to the Supernatural Task Force, or STF as they make themselves known. Speaking of which, I hear my guests for tonight. Three sets of footsteps.

"Come in," I say, before the secretary knocks. This always has its little effect.

The well-dressed woman shuffles in two visitors wearing badges pinned on their chests. Their clothes are crumpled yet clean, a sign that they have taken the train from Springfield where they are based.

I will never forgive myself for my silliness, when back in eighteen thirty-seven I missed the opportunity to make Marquette the State Capital. It was a stupid oversight that I am still paying now by having uppity morons build up the courage to bother me while I could have had them within slapping distance all along. Truly, eternal life means eternal mistakes sometimes. At least I did not die with a large mole on my nose.

I tap a finger on the expensive wood in annoyance. The sun outside still clings to the skies, and it will continue to do so for many more hours. It tends to make me more irritable. Well, better to get it over with.

"Take a seat," I order.

"I'll stand, thanks," says the man on the left. He has dark brown, messy hair under a hat he has failed to remove.

The one one the right is stouter and older, with a well-trimmed beard and greying temples. He appears resigned, which I can respect.

"You are here at my sufferance and you will sit or I will have you escorted outside. You have ten seconds," I inform him without using charm.

"You can't do that. We're officers."

"I can and I will. Sit."

The older man takes a seat, then stares insistently at his companion who licks his lips in consideration, split between anger and reason. Eventually, he concedes and joins us.

"Good," I continue. "You two are officer Trell and officer Tobin of the STF, Illinois branch, here to ask me to save your flailing investigation into the recent murder of a certain Mary Potts, whose sole achievement in life was to be humorously named after my favorite brand of kitchen implements. You wish to know if she was murdered by magic. You found me by insistently asking about the owner behind a certain grocery store where said woman often went. Did I miss any relevant points?"

The young man shows signs of being impressed, the older one stares defiantly. He should know better. I Charm and spark the terror in his heart until he does.

"If you know why we're here then you can tell us what you know, sweetheart. Then we'll be on our way."

Oh dear.

"Of course I shall tell you what I know," I reply with a light smile. "I know that you are overstepping yourself and I also know that I could not care less about how Potts died, by whom, and why. She is not one of mine. I have no interest or stake in her fate and it will remain so until someone makes it worth my time, which you two have not."

"Hey come on lady, we're just playing nice. There is no need for hostility from someone as delightful as you, right? We're all friends here, aren't we, Tobin?"

"For now," the man says, gathering his courage again, "but that might change."

"I see that my point is falling on deaf ears, so I shall have to give a clearer demonstration. Look around you. What do you see?"

The guileless pair inspects their surroundings and fails to see the forest for the tree, as I expected. They do not even have the wealth required to understand wealth. I lean forward.

"You stand at the heart of a compound hosting a staff of over a hundred and sixty people. You have never heard of me, or this place, until we let you. The resale value of the most humble piece of furniture here would suffice to cover both of your wages for the next five years. You, gentlemen, see power and wealth so vast you have not even started to imagine it. That is why we will not mention the murder again, and you will desist in your pursuits, because your threats are laughable and you are wasting my time. Now, you will come to the natural question you should have asked the moment you came in."

If they fail even that I will kill them. I have only so much tolerance for stupidity.

Perhaps sensing his demise, or perhaps graced with a last mental spasm of his bacon-greased, chew-fuelled brain matter, Tobin sees reason.

"What do you want?"

I can tell that I am having an effect on Trell, the younger man. Why, I believe that he finally deduced I was not just an eye candy before he could call me sugar and lose his jaw. Astounding work.

"What I want is for you to understand two things. First, I only tolerate your witless bumblings across the land because I have a vested interest in the success of your agency and no, before you ask again, it does not mean that I shall do your job for you. Second, do you think that your hierarchical superior is on your side?"

They blink with eerie synchronization.

"Do you?"

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

"I believe I have been clear. Do you believe that, right now, the organization you belong to aims to serve the people? That it will protect you? You report religiously to your superiors and you even kept the commissioner apprised of today's journey..."

"How do you kno—"

"Silence. You are children, children who were given a toy gun and think that it equates legitimacy. You are not defenders of justice. Hell, you are not even true law enforcement. You exist for one reason and one reason only, to pacify both sides of the current conflict. You are dogs on a leash for people who need you to control your own kind. You will earn the hatred of casters but you will never earn the respect of the mundane population. You will never be seen as anything but tame, a credit to your kind, the exception that confirms the rule. You will be tolerated so long as you remember your place but you will never, ever be trusted. This is the truth you should remember when investigating and reporting. You do not serve justice. You serve peace. Therefore, you shall cease your pathetic grasping at straws and exert judgement when attracting the authority's attention on your fellow casters, if not out of ethical concern, then at least out of survival instinct. Remember that you only exist because the alternative is even more undesirable, and when the integrists come knocking, your precious bosses will not shield you. I may. Now, Trell, you may leave first. I need a word with your partner. Privately."

This time, I need to leave an impression so I let the full power of my Charm ride on his caution and surprise. He departs groggily, following which I discreetly lift a finger and the door slams shut with a resounding bang. Tobin jumps and twists at the noise. When he turns to me again, I stand a foot away from him.

"Shi—"

"Shhhh."

Slowly, I release the hold on my aura until it fills the entire study. The sun might cover the earth outside in a field of purifying fire. Its sheer presence might hang over my shoulders like a lead mantle. I am still a powerful lady. No five pence mage will ever come close to stopping me as Tobin is realizing now.

"You know what I am."

He whimpers as the pressure reaches its paroxysm.

"Or at least you suspect. A bit of advice. If you enter a den expecting a vampire, be it night or day..."

I move behind him and grab his shoulders between my fingers, hard enough to bruise his muscles but without drawing blood. He moans in pain but the magic keeps him stuck in place. My cold breath tickles his ear. His breath comes out in amusing little puffs in the freezing air.

"...you ought to pray to that light god of yours... that you are mistaken."

June 16th, 1868.

Sinead must have caught something on my face — when did he even look up? — because his next remark finds its mark.

"What bothers you so much, poppet?"

"Nothing."

"There is no need to lie to preserve my feelings, I assure you. You can complain to your heart's content."

His eyes remain on the skylight he is patiently unscrewing open. Sinead looks dashing in a dark, form-fitting outfit and his panoply of strange tools reinforces the image of dastardly rogue I am getting now. As I watch, another paint-covered nut joins the mounting pile by his feet while behind, the night lights of New York offer both little and far too much light.

"Very well. I find this task... unnerving. I am breaking the law," I whisper.

"Are you, now? I thought that your very existence broke the law."

"Not the mortal one, you goose."

"Ah, so when you hid from the Accords for twenty years it must have been quite uncomfortable."

"This is different!"

"Because you were not yet one of them and your survival was at stake, yet when it came down to the Accords, you did not hesitate to subjugate your new brood daddy before seeking Constantine's approval."

"Please use the proper term for Progenitors and you will live longer. Are we committing theft or having an argument?"

"You know that we Likaeans never fulfill one purpose if we can fulfill three."

"So I noticed."

Another nut joins the pile. The heavy glass pane is only kept in place by a strange suction cup on the roof of the fortified warehouse. It annoys me that he can complete so many tasks efficiently.

"So then why is it? Some sort of internal system of value?"

"I am stealing from an ally. Technically. There, I said it. We are illegally acquiring Hastings assets."

Despite my best efforts, my intense distress radiates outward clearly, drawing Sinead's eye.

"I have become a criminal. Aw, if my papa could see me now, he would be so disappointed."

"What about the murders?"

"What about them?"

Sinead sighs heavily.

"Ariane, my dearest eldritch duckling..."

"Oi!"

"You do not expect for a single instant that this entire operation will end without the Accords opposing us, do you? You will have to choose between your allegiance and my cause, sooner or later. I doubt they will do more than slap you on the wrist, but you will burn bridges before we head back home, and although our departure favors your side, there are some who will be blinded by greed. You must accept this."

"Hmph."

Is he right? We are all given leeways in the manner we conduct our affairs. If my goal benefits the Accords, would they truly resent me?

A part of me wants to believe that they would give me a grumbling recognition, the other realizes that I am expected to transfer ownership of the blood slave to my own kin. Will they fear me for my resourcefulness, or blame me for being naive?

"You are not fully convinced," Sinead observes.

"Do not presume."

"If you were convinced, you would be annoyed that I was right from the start and then you would threaten to eat me."

"..."

"Aaaaah there it is. Well, are you?"

"None of it matters because I already committed to the freedom of the Likaeans in my heart. So long as we do not mess up, I will not have to choose, and Sinead..."

I glare.

"It really is in your best interest... that I am never forced to choose."

I think I hurt him a little bit.

"Ah, you truly do not see me as your equal, though I can hardly blame you. I am but a husk of my true self now, and young poppets must protect themselves first. You have had it hard and you still decided to help against your own short-sighted interests. I shall take heart in this. I shall accept that I remain a liability. For now"

Sinead pushes down and the glass panel pops from its hinges with worrisome ease. He shifts his grasp and grabs the heavy piece of glass back in almost as smoothly as I would have done it.

I realize that this is the first time I have seen him do labor work and he is significantly stronger than I expected, probably more so than a human. I do find the contracting muscles of his forearm slightly distracting, although I will never voice it out loud.

"Like what you see?" He whispers, and I frown. "No time for that. We have to get in."

Sinead places the glass panel down on the roof tiles. He quickly dons strange clawed gloves and dives through the opening first, which means that I get a good look at his butt. Some expeditions pay for themselves. I follow him and we soon cling to a horizontal support beam far above the open ground under us.

The storage space extends below us over a large surface, organized in long shelves packed with non-descript crates bearing letters and numbers. I sniff the air and notice a strange resin smell. Below, the ground shimmers in my aura perception.

"Enchanted dust," Sinead whispers. "We can't touch the ground."

I am familiar with this anti-burglar measure. I would use the same in my private collection but I abhor the smell and dusty appearance it gives to a place. I much prefer to rely on strategically-placed defensive arrays and some choice paintings of the Watcher.

Somewhere to the front of us, a lone lantern swings with the slow gait of a late-night guard. We follow his progress in perfect silence for long minutes until he passes right below us. He is an old mage with liver spots and a lurch. He wears an old gauntlet and yawns, but his feet land in the footprints of previous patrols with unerring precision. He stops at the edge of the row we find ourselves in, lifts his face and scowls. I see two white orbs and realize that he is blind.

"A draft?"

The old man considers the question, but tonight, the weather is particularly clement. There is little wind. He ends up shrugging and resuming his patrol until a door opens and slams closed.

"We must hurry," Sinead says.

"He will not call for help. His heartbeat remained steady and he didn't smell like fear."

"Is it good or bad that I cannot hide my arousal? I agree with your assessment. Guards are almost as worried of triggering a false alarm than they are of missing a real one. We have ten minutes to make sure that another draft does not push him to reconsider."

We crawl along the beam, Sinead moving with cat-like grace in front of me. I do the same but I use my own claws instead.

"Why did we have to wear black again? There is no one here," I notice.

"Just in case, and do not pretend like you are not ecstatic to be wearing trousers."

"Hush."

I would never be caught dead wearing this strange suit. Fortunately, Sivaya gave mine a small, rigid skirt that reaches to my knees. I am only mildly scandalous in my own eyes, which is all that matters in the end. Sinead inspects the letters and numbers on the row before angling to the side on a perpendicular beam. It takes little time for us to be above our destination. We attach ropes to the wood above us then secure them in our harness. The two of us rapel downward until we are but a few handspans above the shelf.

"Second row from the bottom. The small one. Could you get it? Too heavy for me," he whispers, the voice imperceptible for anyone but a vampire.

I hiss softly and lower myself a bit more. As I go lower, I feel him lean toward my descending figure to take a good whiff. Ugh. Is he a dog?

I pinch his butt on my way back.

"Don't," I warn with a growl.

"Oooh, I kind of like that. Very daring poppet. Does the danger get the essence pumping?"

"Your face is red and puffy and you look like a bat."

"You're lovely too."

"Open the damn box, princeling."

"But of course."

I grumble and maintain the container in a stable position while Sinead lowers himself to my position to work on the opening. He easily pops a few nails out with full focus. He is quite close and smells divine. If only his presence was not so distracting.

Sinead removed the lid to reveal a black case with a golden lock. He whispers a few words in the high tongue of the fae, which is still beyond me. A light shines on his chest and the receptacle pops open.

"A gift from Makyas. No keyhole can resist him on this earth. Ah, here we are."

A diamond, a shiny cut diamond the size of a pigeon egg with a mesmerizing yellow core in the shape of a swirl of sand. It must be worth tens of thousands of dollars, perhaps more. Enough to buy several city blocks. No, a small town and all its businesses.

Sinead pockets it. The box is shut, then returned to its crate. I lower myself again.

"Nice calves. Were you a dancer?"

"I will kill you."

I place the crate back exactly where it was, then push the nail back in. The groan of wood echoes strangely to my vampire senses but no alarm triggers. We are apparently in the clear.

We promptly pull up and make our way back outside. As soon as we are through, Sinead replaces the pane and starts screwing every bolt back in.

"With this, the theft might remain undiscovered for years," I observe with a bit of hope.

"Indeed. Ah, nothing like a flawless little heist to put me in high spirits!"

"Why do I always end up in the company of eccentrics?" I lament.

"I could tell you, but you would threaten me again."

I hate July the most. Although the longest day occurs on June the twenty-first, it seems that the days drag on the following month with prideful indolence. I hate it because I was born in July. I hate it because I died in July. Mostly, I hate it because I miss the smell of the sun on wheat, its caress on my shaded arms. I miss the taste of sugar cane. And the light seems to burn forever.

I find myself to be irritable when the secure carriage crams itself in the Byron family hangar and a group of Rosenthal mercenaries struggle to take the massive sarcophagus out. I believe that I am almost dropped twice. It can be so hard to find good help these days.

Whispers of consternation follow my progress to the inner part of the manor. I have the authorization of the local warden to attend the auction, but the Byron clan did not expect that 'Ariane Delaney' might be a fake name. I am finally placed in a lone room and leave as soon as I can confirm that no sunlight remains.

Not a single drop passes through the shutters and heavy drapes. The room is secure.

I will always find it interesting that it takes walls of some sort to protect us from the sunlight. Drapes and shutters would not protect me in a carriage, but this is a house and, therefore, it is safer. Magic works in strange ways. Or is it science that does? I can no longer tell.

Soon, a knock on my door distracts me from my thoughts.

"Come in."

An aging gentleman enters, wearing a fake smile and an even faker confidence. I appreciate the black hair pulled back and made smooth, the villainous moustache and the greying temple. Why, he would fit the cover of a bodice ripper aimed for widows. He searches the darkness for me, and so I snap my fingers and use a cheap trick to light the house's gas lamp. As expected, his improved visibility does not settle his nerves.

"My name is Ariane. Thank you for accommodating me this afternoon."

"Ah, and I'm Andrew Byron. It is my honor to welcome a guest such as yourself in my humble abode. You... received an invitation?"

Ah, he knows quite a bit.

"I did. Right there," I tell him, showing a cream envelope.

"Yes. Yes, indeed."

His eyes narrow, go to the shutters. He assesses his chances, just in case. I take no umbrage. I would have done the same.

"Before you calculate the risks, consider two things," I tell him. "First, one cannot uninvite a vampire during the day unless they misbehaved. After all, what manner of host condemns his guest to a fiery death? Second, we are not inside of your home."

"I promise you that this is my manor."

"The public wing, reserved for auctions and events. This is nobody's home but profit's. Although, if you doubt me then by all means, try to banish me."

I taste fear and the quickening of his heart.

"There is no need for this. If you want an item, I can deliver it to you and you can be on your way."

I tsk at the cold reception.

"As tempting as it might sound, you are in good standing with the warden and so I shall attend your auction like any guest. You will make arrangements so that I am not disturbed in the lodge's antechamber, of course."

His eyes narrow with suspicion. When he next speaks, his cultured voice may be controlled, but I hear the slight tension underneath.

"Warden? My contact among your... kind... is named Samael."

"Oh, that youngling? How amusing. No, we wardens do not handle the day-to-day business. And I assure you, if we take an interest in your affairs, you will most certainly notice."

I release the hold on my aura until frost crawls on the mirror and darkness creeps at the edge of the room.

"I am quite convinced, milady. I will make the necessary arrangements. Let it not be said that the Byrons would fail to receive esteemed guests, no matter who they might be."

"Excellent. One more thing... I requested to be placed on the last floor."

"Just so, milady."

"The path from here to the lodge will be protected from sunlight and closed to other guests. They have no reason to be on this floor to begin with. My employees..."

"The ones with the guns?"

"And gauntlets, yes, will make sure that access remains clear at all times. It would be unwise to interfere with their work."

"I understand. We will make the necessary arrangements. If I may ask, was there any specific item you wished to acquire?"

The answer is obvious. Mr. Byron is merely fishing for answers, which I will allow as a gesture of goodwill.

"The serpent stone."

"My God, so it can be enchanted..."

Byron's gaze turns distant. I can practically see the cogs and wheels turning in the greedy mortal's mind.

"I know that the starting price is two thousand three hundred dollars. It would be a shame if it were to increase just before the auction."

His avaricious drive wars with fear, but in the end, I am here as a guest and we are both bound by rules, including me.

"I am free to change the numbers as I see fit. This is still my auction."

"Of course," I tell him with a smile.

He nods and departs. There is no need for me to threaten him, and it would be a breach of etiquette anyway. He is too crafty to push me far. As soon as the door closes, I massage the bridge of my nose.

I should have just stolen the damn thing. I am concerned about attracting too much attention, should many of those stones disappear in a short timespan. Golem cores might be exceedingly rare, but the ability to craft a suitable one is even rarer and only the richest mage families build one in the hope that it will benefit their dynasty. A wave of acquisition would seem suspicious, especially because there are no other known uses for them, except, of course, massive rituals.

And this is the sort of warning that the Accords will look for.

A short wait later, the head of the mercenaries informs me that I may attend the event and I leave the room behind me. This would be a good place to try and assassinate me, so the secrecy and escort are important. I walk across an empty floor with the stairs down retracted thanks to an ingenious mechanism. All the windows are shuttered and covered, while a bobbing light awaits me in front of a double door. I notice an embarrassed mercenary officer and a pair of young adults barring my way. The man smiles, and I immediately notice the familiarity with Byron senior. The girl is beautiful in a more reserved, distant way. She shares his dark hair but her eyes are pale blue.

"Yes?" I ask a bit curtly.

"Oh, nothing, we merely wished to meet the one whose shadow darkens our hall. And who might you be?"

"A guest of your father."

"Oh yes, I have not introduced myself yet. My name is Jacob and this is my sister, Lara."

"I am Ariane. Charmed. If you do not mind, however, I am already quite late as it is."

"Why the rush? I do not believe that you would be here for the cheapest item."

"You believe wrong. Excuse me."

I bypass him and walk into the antechamber, which is completely dark and cut off from the main auction room. I have no time or patience for children's games. A mercenary left a pile of documents for me to skim through while the sales go on. By the Watcher, those are reports on grocery stores. Some of those owners cannot spell to save their lives. Uggggh.

"The first item is a Biancchi stiletto, enchanted to remain sharp at all times. Ice bolts can be channeled through the tip for additional precision. The starting price is two hundred and fifty. Do I have two hundred and fifty?"

The auction goes on behind the curtain and I take a quick look at the list. Most of those are magical tools enchanted with some specific effects, their most appealing feature being a mundane appearance. It does not do to advertise one's talents nowadays. I tune out the proceedings. I have a mercenary standing in for me.

Apparently, I lost quite a bit because of a robber baron. Truly, the west can be lawless at times. I shall have to visit him and make a nice, large example. Why, I might even invite Ako. He so enjoys murdering enemy raiders.

"Milady?"

"Yes?"

"Byron brought an unexpected item, a last minute addition. Meteorite steel, or so he claims. Should I make an offer?"

"No need, thank you."

Ah, the canny lad, assuming that I intend to build my own construct. Good business sense is no replacement for proper research. None of what he owns could rival what I can purchase from the Skoragg clan, at cost.

On the other side of the curtain, the more expensive prizes are finally brought out just as the afternoon nears its end. I never expected that there would be so many prizes, but a lot of those are rather mundane. Below us, I hear people come and go. The Byron auction seems to be quite an event, though I had no idea. I only ever attend the Rosenthal Hell's Gates, and mostly to socialize anyway.

Outside, night falls.

I breathe a sigh of relief as my essence once again expands. Magna Arqa cannot be deployed during the day, except deep underground. The relief of freedom lifts my mood in time for the main bidding.

"I present to you, the serpent stone, a rare diamond extracted from a newly discovered mine in Kimberley. This jewel is believed to be one of the few in existence capable of storing magical essence indefinitely! Such a rare..."

Yes, yes, all who would be interested in building a golem already know this.

"The starting prince is two thousand five hundred."

Whispers of consternation. A man could buy a farm for this amount. Animals included.

"Do I have two thousand five hundred? Yes! Three thousand here for the gentleman."

"Five thousand," I order the bidder.

"Five thousand! I have five thousand from upstairs. Five thousand! Five thousand five hundred for the Zimmer representative. Six thousand for the coven! Six!"

"Ten thousand."

"Ten thousand!"

Silence.

"Ten thousand from the lodge. Anyone else?

"Twelve thousand!" A familiar voice echoes.

Oh?

Someone is picking up a fight? Ten thousand is already generous for a small diamond. Well, small by core standards. It fits in a palm.

"Jacob," my host growls, "What are you doing?"

"It is my right to bid for this, father. Is it not?"

Oooh, naughty. Naughty naughty naughty. I open the curtain and take a deep breath of fresh air. It smells like soap, perfume, and old furniture with an undercurrent of sweat. The auction room resembles an opera house, with the scene replaced by a pulpit and several chests. Fifty breaths provide an interesting background to the current drama, one that I will end before it ever begins. I will make a point, and I shall do so without breaking the rules. I will not even deploy my aura. Doing so would frighten the audience.

I lean on the balustrade, the mercenary captain moving aside with all haste. Below, a hundred eyes peer at me in my pleasant lilac dress. Mostly, they see the hint of purple in my iris, the Watcher revealing its ancient presence. A deathly quiet spreads across the assembly and Jacob's smirk turns into a grimace of horror.

"Thirteen thousand."

This time, I remain unchallenged. Byron senior invites me to collect my prize and I send a mercenary to do so, carrying a bank note with the proper amount. A pair of panicked security guards drag the son out under the fascinated gazes of the attendees, and my own. He orders one of his men to present the last item and climbs the stairs to deliver the stone to me. I take ownership of it without a word. I watch, amused, as he turns around to welcome a bag, possibly a gesture of apology, but by the time he faces me again, I am already gone. If Jacob thinks that he can outrun me at night, he has a nice surprise coming. The little twerp should have gone home instead.

The next day.

"I almost drowned and you want to make peace? She crashed into my carriage, father! We must retaliate, or at least protest, or we will never be taken seriously again."

Andrew Byron glared at his foolish son. The boy was shaken, obviously. He was hiding his fear under a layer of bravado, a good strategy but not one that will serve him right now.

"She did not crash into your carriage. She pushed it."

"What?"

A pair of servants walked in. They carried between themselves a pane of steel taken from the door. Impossibly, they showed the indent of two elegant hands.

"As I said, she pushed your carriage into the river. I was informed that vampires prefer to wield power from the shadows, yet it seems that some take a more 'hands-on' approach, if you will pardon me, when they perceive a slight."

Andrew signaled the servant to pick the letter he had finished closing, ignoring his fulminating child.

"Mr Slocum, you will give this bank order of three thousand dollars to Samael, with a request to send it to the one known as Ariane, please. As for you, Jacob, you will keep this warning in your room from now on and until I deem the lesson learned."

"That was a warning?"

"Yes, my son. It was, or the impact would have been in your ribs instead."