Valko and Ludolf remained behind in the conference room after everyone else had left. Valko trusted all the pricolici members of the Council, but he’d been raised with Ludolf in the Botev pack, and there was no one he trusted more than the ruthless bastard who had killed their clan leader and then handed control as pack alpha over to Valko.
Ludolf sat back in his leather chair, his heavy-lidded gaze sweeping between the closed door and Valko. “You think they fell for it?”
“Fell for what, Dolf?” Valko asked innocently. Ludolf snorted. “Don’t play that way with me. I know you too well, and you’re too cunning. Once you heard that only the varcolac were affected by the plague, your wheels started spinning.” He kicked his feet up on the tabletop. “So? Did they fall for it?”
There was a long silence while Valko considered the intelligence level of each member. Most turneds were half-wits with pathetic instincts, but one couldn’t underestimate them, especially not Raynor. And Con, as a dhampire, definitely wasn’t stupid. “The varcolac don’t want to believe that we possibly care about their plight, but yes, I think they believe my proposal was genuine. They’re aware that I do want Eidolon put down, after all.” Oh, yes, Valko’s hatred for Eidolon was well known, so no one would suspect that his suggestion to involve the Justice Dealers and Sem Council was about far more than punishing Eidolon and his sister.
“And Sin?”
Valko had nothing against Sin. Not now, anyway. In fact, he’d like to thank her for starting the epidemic that was killing the varcolac. But he had a plan for her.
“Are you still in contact with your brother?”
A slow smile stretched Dolf’s thin lips. His half brother had been in hiding for three decades for crimes against other wargs, but they wouldn’t have lost complete contact. “I can be.” “Good. Tell him that if he sends Sin’s head to Eidolon without anyone discovering who was responsible for her death, the Warg Council will forgive his past transgressions and give him a place on the council. If Con is caught in the cross fire, even better.”
“You are devious. The turneds will be blamed for taking revenge.”
“And we will sit back and watch them be destroyed, if not by the virus, then by us, with the full cooperation of the Seminus Council.” Valko couldn’t contain the hum of anticipation in his voice. “You truly believe the Sems would go to war over the death of one female half-breed?” “Of course not. But they’ll be angry enough to side with us when the war starts.” “And why will a war start?”
“Because,” Valko said, “we’re going to leak the fact that the disease affects only varcolac, and once the lowlife turneds start up with their conspiracy theories and assume that we are responsible for the disease—”
“They’ll attack us.”
Dolf grinned. “And we will finally have the excuse we’ve needed for centuries to destroy those abominations.”
“And,” Valko added, “depending on which side the dhampires fall on, we might be able to take them out, as well. The canine were-world will finally be cleansed.” As he exited the rear of the Warg Council building, Con sensed the presence of another dhampire. The parklike grounds spread over half an acre, the copse of trees near the far wall of the property concealing the only Harrowgate in a two-mile radius. The scent of warg was strong around the gate; any species with a halfway decent sense of smell would hightail it back into the Harrowgate or away from the Council building immediately.
Unless they were there for a reason, and as Bran emerged from the forest shadows, Con knew this wasn’t going to be pleasant.
Bran was, as many dhampires liked to say, a scary motherfucker. Standing seven feet tall and built like a bull, the guy didn’t have to do anything to get people to move out of his way. But it was his missing right eye and the scar that ran from his right temple to the left side of his chin that sealed the deal. Well, that and the full tank of crazy that gleamed in his good eye.
He kept his long, silver mane pulled back in a ponytail so none of it obscured the mess that was his face.
“Conall.” Bran’s rough voice vibrated deep into Con’s chest. “We need to talk.” Con crossed his arms over his chest. “I didn’t think you came all the way to Moscow because the vodka is so good.” Probably not the smartest way to talk to a senior Dhampire Councilmember, but Con hadn’t bowed and scraped to anyone in a long time.
“Aisling has gone to the night.” A chill shivered over Con’s skin. What happened to dhampires when they died was a strongly held secret among his people—the biggest secret, in fact. Speaking about it was forbidden, even within their own species. Outside their own kind, they were compelled to silence.
Compelled, in the mystical sense of the word. Every dhampire possessed an inborn inability to speak in specifics about “going to the night.” The words simply would not come, and no amount of torture could force a dhampire to discuss it.
“Aisling was so young,” Con murmured. He’d been fond of his three-century-old second cousin, a strong voice in the shrinking dhampire community who had borne two babes and was carrying a third. “The baby—”
“Dead.”
“How did it happen?”
“Human road rage.” The vicious curl of Bran’s upper lip said that the driver had gotten a taste of dhampire justice. “We were fortunate to have retrieved her body—her car went over a cliff and into the ocean.”
“I’m sorry about Aisling, but why deliver the news in person?”
“Because I wanted to be the one to tell you that you’re taking her seat on the Council, and that you will participate in the upcoming breeding season.”
Con’s curse dragged out on a long breath, and damn, he wished he still smoked. But smoking had gotten boring, no matter what he’d put in the pipe or rolled in the papers. How long had he wanted this very thing? To take on the duties of his father, to lead the clan to prosperity and good hunts? But not this way. Not because they had a seat to fill and he was the last adult in his father’s royal line. They were supposed to ask him to come back because they wanted his input, his experience. Not because they needed his genes.
His stomach did a few somersaults as he leveled his gaze at Bran. “No.”
Bran’s fist snapped out, catching Con in the jaw. It was a light blow, a punishing nip by wolf standards, but it stung. “Whelp! You do not tell your alpha no.”
Very slowly, so as not to provoke Bran, Con dropped his arms to his sides and widened his stance. “I have a seat on the Warg Council, a job at Underworld General—” “You’ll give them up,” Bran barked. “Yordan will take your seat on the Warg Council, and I doubt the demon hospital will miss you.” The big male crowded close, so close that if Con breathed deeply, their chests would touch. “You will come home and take your place in dhampire society. We have been patient with you, letting slide your absences during the breeding seasons, letting you run loose outside our range, but it’s time for you to settle down and fulfill your duties as dhampire royalty.”
Letting him run loose? Settle down? “I think, old man, you mistake me for a youngling pup. You expelled me from the clan. It was only Aisling’s pleading that convinced the Council to allow me back during the full moon tides. Now you suddenly want me to return and never leave again, except to conduct business and feed?”
And since male dhampires were prone to blood addiction if they fed off the same individual too many times, they definitely had to leave the dhampire sanctuary to find their meals. Not that a male couldn’t get addicted outside the sanctuary, as well.
Con had more than enough experience with that to know.
Bran snarled, and Con braced himself. A verbal battle was something he could win. But if Bran lashed out— Con found himself on the ground, laid flat by a meaty fist. Pain spiderwebbed across this face, bells rang, and honest-to-God stars swirled in his vision. Bran stomped Con in the ribs, and son of a bitch, that hurt.
Rolling to avoid another strike, he kicked out, catching Bran in the back of the knees and knocking him to the ground. As the other dhampire hit the grass, Con threw a punch that sent Bran skidding on his ass for several feet. Con dove, landing another punch, the crack ringing out in the crisp evening air.
Ultimately, Con would lose this fight. Oh, he could take the three-thousand-year-old dhampire, but winning would be interpreted as an overthrow of an alpha, and Con would find himself not only back in the clan but in charge of it.
Fury lit his fuse at the lose-lose of the situation, and after he got in a few more well-placed punches, he rolled onto his back and allowed Bran, whose mouth filled with his own blood, to pin him. Bran clamped his hand around Con’s throat and squeezed, cutting off his breath.
“You insolent cur,” he hissed. “You are a spoiled wretch who should have been brought to heel centuries ago. We took pity on you after your mother’s death, but you didn’t learn from that, did you?” Fuck you, Con mouthed, even as his lungs began to burn from lack of oxygen.
“Does it bother you at all?” Bran’s voice was a gravelly purr, as though he both enjoyed and hated taunting Con. “Do you regret sinking into blood addiction? Do you ever think about the female who died because of your lack of control? Do you ever think on how Eleanor died?”
Go. To. Hell.
Slowly, Bran peeled his fingers away, and Con took a grateful gulp of air. “You will return, and you will take your place on the Council. You are coming with me now.”
“Can’t.” Con started to thrash, straining against Bran’s heavy body and the hand that clamped down on his neck again.
“I will take you by force, Conall.” His knee came up to nail Con in the groin, effectively putting an end to the struggle. And maybe to future kids, as well. “What will it be?”
“The disease that is killing wargs is a threat to us all,” Con bit out. “You can have me when the crisis is over.”