George wore soft charcoal trousers. Mid-calf high boots, made of supple dark grey leather with a hint of blue, hugged his feet. His shirt was pale cream and his vest, the blue-grey of a heron wing, was embroidered with a dazzling silver pattern too complicated to untangle at first glance. His long golden blond hair was brushed back from his face and caught at the nape of his neck into a horse tail. His walking stick was in his hand and his limp was back, but as he stood at the back of the grand ballroom, he looked like an ageless prince from some hopelessly romantic fairy tale.
His brother stood on his right, wrapped in layers of brown leather. I could see no weapons, although he must’ve had some stashed somewhere. His auburn hair was slightly disheveled. George emanated an almost fragile elegance, but Jack was completely relaxed, his posture lazy, his face distant as if he had absolutely no interest in what was about to happen and couldn’t be bothered to pay attention.
They looked nothing alike, but I was absolutely sure they were brothers. I never seen two people so skilled at pretending to be the exact opposite of themselves.
Gaston had parked himself on Jack’s right. Of the three, he seemed to be the only one being himself, which meant he stood there like a short but unmovable mountain and scowled. I chose a place to the left of George and off to the side. I wasn’t really part of the ceremonies, but I was the host of this insane gathering, and the members of the delegations would need to know my face. I opted for a simple robe. I also turned my broom into a staff for the occasion. The staff would become a spear on very short notice. Not that I would need it, but you never knew.
Behind us a long table waited, ready for the heads of the delegations to discuss the possibility of peace. Right now the prospect seemed rather remote, but the peace talks themselves weren’t my problem. Keeping the peace was.
I glanced up. At the opposite wall Caldenia sat in a royal box, about thirty feet up. Her Grace wore a copper-colored gown with an elaborate lace pattern and sipped wine from a glass. Beast sat next to her. Until I had a better idea of the participants in the summit, I wanted Caldenia off the main floor. Her Grace could take care of herself, but I told Beast to stay with her as an extra precaution.
George glanced at the electronic clock in the wall above the door. “We may begin.”
I nodded and murmured. “Lights.”
Bright light bathed the ballroom floor.
“Release the Holy Anocracy.”
The doors on the left side of the grand ballroom swung open. A huge vampire stepped out, dressed in blood armor. Enormous even by vampire standards, he carried the standard of the Holy Anocracy, black fangs on red banner. He faced us and planted the banner into the floor, holding it with his left hand. Music blasted from the hidden speakers, an epic march, relentless, unhurried, and unstoppable. Images slid along the walls of the ballroom: an armored vampire tearing into a centipede-like creature five times her size; two vampires locked in mortal combat, fangs bared; a vampire with a House standard atop a mountain of corpses bellowing in rage. This was the Holy Anocracy’s “We Are Scary Badasses” reel. The same images were now being streamed to the otrokar and merchant quarters.
The terrifying footage kept coming. A citadel of the Crimson Cathedral, unbelievable in its size; endless rows of vampires poised before boarding a space craft; a vampire woman in the robes of a hierophant dashing up the spine of an enormous creature, leaping straight up and slicing into its neck. An image of a small group of vampires in blood-stained armor appeared on the wall, calmly, methodically cutting their way through ranks of the maddened otrokars. The Horde crashed against them again and again like an enraged sea against rocks, and fell back, bloodied and helpless. The message couldn’t be clearer. The otrokar were wild undisciplined savages and hundreds of them were no match for the six vampires.
Nice. How to ruin the peace talks in two minutes or less. That had to be some sort of record.
George sighed quietly.
The images stopped and blossomed into one enormous picture that took up all three walls: the seven planets of the Holy Anocracy. As the image came into focus, the rest of the vampire knights marched out in three distinct groups, one for each house. They reached the standard bearer and froze.
Three faces appeared against the starry expanse of space, one per each wall: the severe face of the Warlord, a middle aged vampire with jet black hair on the right, the serene face of the female Hierophant on the left, and an old vampire in the middle. His hair was pure white, his skin wrinkled, and his eyes probing. He looked ancient like the space behind him. It had to be Justice, the chief judge of the Holy Anocracy’s highest court.
The vampires roared in unison. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
The vampire delegation turned as one and formed a line on the left side of the grand ballroom, the three marshals and the standard bearer closest to us.
“We’re ready for the otrokars,” George murmured to me.