With all the frustrated jealous strength she could muster, Brooke hurled her training gear into the corner of her room. It sailed twenty feet, smashed into the wall and spilled its contents over the rich burgundy carpet. She'd hoped that a session down in the training pits would get her mind off of Capper and that ragged stray he'd dragged into the Glaive estate, but back in her chambers she found her mind wandering back to the encounter in the atrium. Even beating that oaf, Finbarr, had only given her a moment's satisfaction.
Impotent anger roiled through her and she trembled, staring at herself in the mirror. She was everything a Glaive should be, the perfect match, but nothing and no-one seemed to be able to predict the proverbial thorn in the Elders' side. What, by the First, he could see in that leather-skinned, hollow-cheeked scruff she didn't know, but Capper shouldn't have been dragging any Clanless, Ostracised criminal back to their home.
Jealous.
The word rolled around her mind like a pinball. No. She was suspicious. The tensions between the Clans in Veridian Shores were reaching boiling point and showed no signs of dying down any time soon. In such a fragile situation they couldn't afford to take risks on outsiders, but that's exactly what Capper was doing.
And so much for his promise of coming to see her. She pouted at the mirror and shook her hair free of the ponytail it had been tied in for her training. Rearranging her signature single braid to hang down next to her right cheek, she set about changing out of her fighting gear.
She tossed the sleeveless leather tunic onto her enormous bed and unstrapped the padded gloves, hurling them carelessly across the room. Then she strode over to the daunting door of her wardrobe and flung it open, revealing a chamber larger than a servant's bedroom. Two walls were packed with clothes; dresses, jackets, trousers, skirts and everything in between forming a blaze of colour.
Brooke walked slowly through it, hands outstretched, fingers brushing expensive fabrics of the clothes as she moved: a tactile kaleidoscope of soft, coarse, sharp and smooth. Her sharp eyes flickered left and right, examining her options. It was always good to make an impression, but she didn't want to overdo it. In the end she settled on a simple but flattering dress of deep maroon that reached down to just below her knees. She slipped it effortlessly down over her head and picked out a set of jet black wedges to go with it.
Her hair came next. With savage strokes she dug a brush through the matted locks until her straw-coloured hair regained its natural smoothness.
Then it was on to her arsenal of jewellery.
She slid two heavy silver bracelets around her slender wrists, feeling their expensive, reassuring heft. If she needed to slap someone there would be plenty of extra momentum behind it. Sliding two golden hoop earrings into place she gave herself one last examination in the mirror. She gave an experimental twirl, watching as the base of the dress billowed out like a fan. Coming to a halt she placed her hands on her hips and gave a small hmm of approval. Brooke didn't need an occasion to look good – you never knew who you might run into.
She strode imperiously from her room and out into the upper corridors of the estate. The brightly lit gas-lamps blazed gold through the dark wood passages and her footfalls were muffled by the plush burgundy carpeting. Gold-framed portraits filled lined the walls and a handful of other extravagantly clad vampires glided back and forth in the upper reaches. Up here the highest echelons of the Glaive Clan aristocracy made their home. Capper should have been on this floor somewhere – after all, his chambers were – but she knew better.
He didn't spend much time in the space that was rightfully his. She only half-understood why. Capper seemed to have trouble wrapping his head around the fact that his blood, his Elder Blood, afforded him certain privileges. Brooke had embraced it wholeheartedly, along with the responsibility that came with being an Elder-Blood.
"Err, hey, Brooke," a deep voice rumbled, pulling her from her thoughts. Brooke stopped and a thin smile slid across her face.
She turned and found Finbarr standing in the corridor – all six-and-a-half feet of him – a mountain of a specimen. He loomed there like a piece of antique furniture, a black-clad slab of muscle and bone with long dark hair hanging down to just below his thick jaw.
For a moment he stood there, silent. His mouth opened and closed but nothing came out.
"Something I can help you with?" Brooke enquired.
"Oh...it was just the spar," he began falteringly, like a stuttering engine. His glassy blue eyes flitted uncomfortably from left to right. If he could have blushed, she was sure he would have. "It got pretty heated."
Wow. A master-class in disguising affections. "Did it?" Brooke folder her arms, giving him a sceptical look. Finbarr was a good clan member. He knew his duty and knew his place, but that didn't stop his occasional fumbling attempts to flirt with her – if you could call this flirting.
The towering vampire clasped his hands together, fingers fidgeting awkwardly in front of him."Just wanted, you know, to make sure...no hard feelings?"
No hard feelings? She had to swallow down a laugh. Fighting Finbarr was like fighting a big clumsy windmill: a whole lot of power without an ounce of control.
"None whatsoever," she told him, trying to keep the mocking edge out of her voice. Being knocked on his arse in the training arena was enough of a humiliation for one day. Although his infatuation with her was little more than a pipe-dream, he was harmless. He might have been a bit slow-witted, but Finbarr didn't have a bone of malice in his unwieldy body. "And you?"
"Not the first time." He grimaced, touching his chest where her duelling rod had been driven into him. "I'll survive."
"Keep practising," she said, tapping him gently under the chin, extending her arm all the way to do so. "One day maybe it'll be me picking myself up off the dirt."
"Maybe." Finbarr shrugged awkwardly. "You're pretty quick though."
"She is, isn't she?" another voice knifed through the conversation.
Fantastic. She couldn't stop a sigh of exasperation slipping out of her mouth. Finbarr stiffened visibly and his gaze flashed over her shoulder. Brooke knew exactly who he was looking at.
She closed her eyes for a moment, and then rounded on the speaker. "Hello, Marshall."
The slim, sharp-jawed vampire smiled languidly back at her. Of average height and built like a whip, Marshall Roe was every inch the product of the finest blood in the city. He certainly had the look pinned down. A shirt the colour of burnished steel hung perfectly on his lean frame with the two top buttons undone, revealing a small triangle of smooth skin. He wore a black waistcoat over the top of it, with a set of straight dark trousers to match. All in all, a perfect specimen.
So it was a shame he had all the charm and personality of a spitting cobra.
"I think that'll be all, Finbarr," Marshall said, acid in his voice.
Despite standing almost six inches taller, Finbarr dipped his head meekly, cast a furtive glance at Brooke, then turned and lumbered off down the passage. Brooke watched him go, feeling a small twang of regret in her chest. Finbarr wasn't exactly stimulating conversation, but he didn't make her skin crawl either.
With an effort she dragged her gaze back to Marshall and found him smiling happily. It wasn't a particularly enticing image; a bit like seeing a grinning skull head.
"Some heads remain forever in the clouds," the other vampire chuckled as he stared at Finbarr's retreating bulk.
"I can think of worse places," Brooke replied dryly.
Marshall's gaze hardened as it flashed to her. She smiled as sweetly as she could.
"I don't know why you mix with those blunt-minded thugs," he snorted. "Their role is to fight. We're better than that."
"Maybe I just enjoy it." She turned fully to face him, cocking her head to one side. "So what brings you out to wander the halls?"
"I thought I might bump into you."
"Little me? I'm flattered."
"I can assure you I can show you something more...interesting than a dirt-yard brawl."
Brooke pursed her lips, nodding sagely. "No doubt."
"And there's the matter of the Clan Synod."
She rolled her eyes. "I told you I'd think about it."
"That was three days ago."
"I've been busy."
"Doing what?"
"That's my business," she said. "You'll get your answer, don't worry. Now, if it's alright with you, I've got to meet someone."
Then it was his turn to roll his eyes. "This 'someone' wouldn't happen to be Capper, would it?"
"And if it is?" A playful smile crept back onto her face. "What then?"
"He gives the Clan a bad name."
"Well, maybe I like a bad boy?"
She was gratified to see anger flash across his face at that last barb. He might have been the product of the best blood in the Clan, but when it came to a war of words, Brooke was the queen. She smirked and started walking.
"I'll see you later, Marshall," she purred viciously, gliding a nail along his chest and flashing her fangs as she strode past. She didn't look back, but she could feel the angry churning of his Aspect echoing down the corridor after her like she'd just rung a bell.
Forcing both Marshall and Finbarr from her mind, Brooke set off winding her way down the numerous staircases of the estate. She knew Capper well enough to know he hadn't forgotten what he'd 'promised'. She also knew where he would go while he tried to figure out what to say to her. So she swathed herself in a shawl and stalked from the mansion.
Her shoes crunched faintly against the stoney drive that wound through the grounds, and she made a beeline for the gatehouse. The light was still on and she could see two dark figures through the tinted, reinforced glass.
Hugging the shawl tightly around her shoulders, she ignored the gaze of the guards patrolling the grounds and fixed her eyes on the door of the gatehouse. Most of them knew her face by now, but even if they didn't, her imperious stride would have been enough to keep them away. One did not confront a member of the Glaive aristocracy without a very good reason.
Wrapping her hand around the gatehouse door, she hauled the heavy metal construction open and stepped inside. She could smell cigarette smoke and hear muted voices from above. Readying a series of stinging opening lines on the tip of her tongue, she set off up the square stairwell. When she reached the door at the top of the gatehouse she could hear the voices clearly and knew she'd guessed correctly.
Without preamble she swept the door open and stepped inside, slamming it shut behind her. A small table sat in the centre of the sparsely furnished room, and the two vampires sitting at it looked up in surprise, smoke drifting above their heads like a guilty halo. On one side Capper had a cigarette halfway to his lips, eyes wide like a rabbit caught in headlights.
Opposite him, Beel lounged with both feet up on the corner of the table, cigarette hanging loosely between two fingers. His skin was deeply tanned, a shadow of stubble covered the lower half of his face, and his jet black guard jacket hung open to reveal a ragged tank-top. In some misguided attempt to look 'edgy' his head had been shaved down the sides, leaving a flat ridge of inky black hair running down the middle. His bolt-thrower leaned carelessly against his chair. A dull-blooded, scruffy nobody in the guard ranks, she never understood why Capper spent so much time with him, but that was a mystery for another day.
"Hello," she said venomously. "I had a feeling I might find you here."
Capper's mouth snapped shut. In a slow, deliberate motion, Beel turned his head to look at his companion, taking a long drag from the cigarette.
"What did you do this time?" he enquired mischievously, smoke billowing around him as he exhaled.
"Ah." Capper grimaced. "Hi, Brooke. I was going to come see you, I just..."
"Had to take your new playmate to her den?"
"It's not like that."
"She knows that," Beel laughed. "She just likes winding on you."
Capper gave him a withering look. "Can you...give us a minute?"
"Whoa, this isn't my glitch." Beel gestured to their surroundings. "I'm on duty. If you two need to jaw it out then there's a whole lot of grass out there just waiting to be walked on. I'm staying right here."
Brooke folded her arms, narrowing her eyes at the guard. He was disrespectful at the best of times but she decided to let it go. Beel was pretty low on her shit-list at the moment. Capper sat there, glaring at his friend for a solid five seconds before jamming his cigarette between his teeth and sweeping up another from the loose pile on the table.
"Thanks a bunch," he muttered around the cigarette as he stood up. Beel gave him a mock salute as he strode across the room, past Brooke and out the door. He paused after stepping over the threshold, not looking back. "You coming?"
With a derisive snort, Brooke turned on her heel and followed him.
Once they were out on the grass Capper stopped and tugged a lighter free from the pocket of his shorts and re-lit his cigarette. He sucked in a long draw, removed it and exhaled a sheen of smoke through his gritted teeth. She stopped and waited, then stuck out a hand. Wordlessly he handed over the spare cigarette and the lighter.
A moment later they were striding side by side across the crisply mown grass, smoke following them in a thin trail. Brooke gave him as long as she could to go first, but eventually her patience snapped.
"So where's 'Gliss'?" she said icily.
"They set her up in the west wing – one of the empty Clan quarters."
"She should be in a cell until we know more."
He gave her a withering look. "Don't you think you're over reacting?"
"Not yet I'm not." She glared at him. "So who is that girl?"
Capper sighed. "I told you. Her name is Gliss. She was part of a Clan up north in Iron Hollow but she was Ostracised."
"And why was that?" she asked between puffs of smoke.
"Why does it matter so much to you?"
She grabbed him by the arm and dragged him around to face her, eyes blazing with fury. "Damn it, Capper! As much as I'd love to pretend this is all about you and me, there's more to it. I don't know how you got the Elders to let her stay, but we should not be taking in strangers, now of all times!"
He turned his eyes skyward. "I'm not an idiot, Brooke. If one of the Clans in the north wants to start poking around Veridian Shores, I want to know why. What better way to find out than to bring her somewhere we can keep an eye on her?"
"That's dangerous!"
"This whole damn city is dangerous!" he snapped back. "She's one person, Brooke. You're taking this personally."
"I'm thinking of the Clan – like you should be." She exhaled a gust of smoke through gritted teeth. "So what are you going to do?"
"Keep an eye on her, show her around the city, see what she's really here for."
"And what if you don't like what you find?"
He turned a dark stare on her. "Then the Elders will deal with her."
Her jaw tightened but she could see from the look in his eye that he was a hairsbreadth from walking away from the whole conversation. She didn't want that.
"Fine," she muttered, tossing the cigarette butt onto the ground and grinding it out under her heel. "Then what about the Synod?"
"I dunno, what about it?"
"You know you have to go. Clan Baelock don't take kindly to be being ignored."
Capper's face crumpled with annoyance. "Yeah, you said that already."
"Right now our clan is sitting on the tipping point; not big enough to rule but not small enough to be pushed around. We're going to be kingmakers. At the Synod every Clan with a brick hut will be elbow greasing and brown-nosing us. Between Baelock trying to shove everyone around and Pyre making a play for top dog we need stability more than anything else. We need to show solidarity."
"It's a parade – a pointless spectacle," he argued.
"It's not a spectacle. It's a tradition!" Brooke shook her head in amazement. "You've been with us long enough to know that. I know you don't like the games, but like it or not you need to be there." She placed her hands on her hips. "And you can't go by yourself."
"Oh?"
"Are you going to go with me?"
He seemed to freeze in place and Brooke didn't know whether to be insulted or satisfied by the effect she had on him.
"I take it this is about the Melding?" he said after a moment.
She gave him a wry smile. "It's not just about that, but you have to admit it would be weird if I went with someone else."
"Why don't you take Marshall to the Synod? He'd love to have you hanging off his arm all night."
"Marshall's an ass."
Capper grinned. "He is, isn't he?"
"But you're going to make me go with him anyway."
"I didn't say that."
"So you'll come with me?" She smiled sweetly. "We'd make the perfect match: two Elder-Bloods, high born of the Clan Glaive, to be Melded to keep the lines strong."
"You want to walk down the red carpet with a scruff like me?"
"Oh, I've seen what you can do when you scrub up."
That got a smile. "I'll think about it."
"Well, don't think for too long." Her smile faded. "It's not just about us. The Elders will expect you to attend. It's bad enough that you're not taking the Melding request seriously. If you try and get out of the Synod they won't forget it."
He sucked viciously on the cigarette, his irises disappearing to leave only the black dots of his vampiric heritage. "I didn't ask for the Melding, Brooke, and I'm nobody's mannequin."
"I didn't ask for it either, but the Meldings exist for a reason. You and I would keep the clan strong. More than that, if this Synod doesn't play out the way we need it to the Clans might go to war, Capper!"
"It won't come to that."
"It will if we don't balance this properly. Do this right we'll become one of the most powerful Clans this city has ever seen. Get it wrong and it could wipe us out. You can't keep running around like a loose cannon any more – there's too much at stake."
He tossed the smouldering end of his cigarette away into the night shaking his head. "Brooke, you've known me for a long time. You know how I feel about being given a life to live like a damned railroad track. I just don't care about the stupid power games the Elders are playing. I didn't ask to be a part of the politics."
That was too much. I just don't care. Brooke felt a bolt of anger shoot up her spine listening to him. How could he stand there and be so close to what he was supposed to be, but have one foot stuck in this ridiculous, adolescent strop against authority? So she stepped forward and grabbed a handful of his shirt, pulling his face close to hers.
"Get a grip! You're an Elder-Blood – sired by the oldest and strongest of the Clan – you don't have the luxury of not caring," she snarled, unable to believe what she was hearing. "Oh sure, you can dress in your t-shirt and shorts; hang around with your little friends from the guard and wander the docks and the bars like a common thug. You can make friends with some tramp from far, far away because doing that lets you think you've still got a choice." Brooke shook her head in disgust. "Capper, you can try as hard as you want to hide from it, but sooner or later you're going to have to face up to the fact that you're part of this game. I'm doing my duty. It's time you started doing yours."
And with that she turned on her heel and stormed away into the night, shaking with rage.