Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
“She means Ferals and witches,” hisses Cindy giddily to Zara, who wrinkles her face and mutters, “Obviously.”
“—not to mention weres—” Tsuki goes on.
“Every fuckin’ full moon,” growls Cindy.
“—and if there are better means unknown to us to manage our side of the world,” Tsuki goes on, “I believe it can be a strong asset for us all if you took a greater role in our government.”
Ashara smiles graciously. “I wouldn’t dare impose upon my brother’s authority.” She leans in, winks. “He likes being the only dick in the room.”
Lord Markadian lets out a pleasant laugh, casually rubbing Kaleb’s backside. Upon giving it a firm squeeze, Kaleb slips on a note. No one notices. “If only that were the reason, sister.”
“My gracious Lord, didn’t you once consider the idea of a director under you?” asks Ernest. “It must be so tiring, to be both Lord of the region and director of your own domain.”
“Lord Xiang does it just fine in New Yorkaeda,” points out Zara between sips.
“It must’ve been an email I read a month or two ago,” says Ernest, “referencing a hypothetical director of Vegasyn …”
“You wanna stuff a woman as capable as Ashara behind a director’s desk?” asks Tsuki, lifting an eyebrow. “You might as well place her on a shelf to collect dust. No, it isn’t the same as holding the title of Lordess.”
“Lordess??” cries Ashara, then lets out another rehearsed torrent of laughter, shaking her head. “Let us not get ahead of ourselves here …"
It’s Peter who nods. “Yes, let’s not.”
Ashara’s gaze snaps to his. “Sorry?”
“What if she were to become Lordess?” asks Peter to the others, “and she were to bring to our country these Old Ways of managing our kind? They are far stricter over there. I hear they don’t hold trials. Nor keep directors … nor hold Bloods, either. They certainly don’t allow the intermingling of mortals and immortals. In fact, any human standing among us listening to these private words would be executed and drained at once.”
Kaleb’s violin playing falters, squeaking out a wrong note.
Peter carries on. “There’re even superstitions about blood, are there not? Only certain blood at certain times of the night is clean to drink? Other blood is forbidden? Ernest, I do recall you enjoy only matured blood of mortals fifty years and older. That would be forbidden. What of you, Cindy, who enjoys the presence of young mortal assistants in your Dallasade office?” he asks, turning his childlike yet wise gaze to her. “You would be required to execute and drain them … and quite possibly face execution yourself for having kept them at all.”
Cindy frowns, crossing her arms.
“Not to mention what just occurred here a short week ago when your Tristan laid his immortal life down for a criminal. It would be seen as deeply offensive to even allow it.” Peter peers over at Tristan, for the first time acknowledging his presence. “You would have never been welcomed back in the first place after abandoning your Lord. You would have been ended.”
Tristan feels the eyes of everyone upon him. He bows his head, making a show of shame. I will never forgive myself.
“Oh, stop sucking your own dick,” says Markadian through a scoff, “we all know you ask forgiveness for nothing. You don’t fool a single one of us.”
Tristan peers up at him slightly, eyebrows lifting.
Is that a hint of a teasing smirk on Markadian’s face?
Cindy chuckles, nudges Markadian next to her. “I bet that’s why you keep him around.” She eyes Tristan over the table. “We like to keep a sassy one nearby. Keeps us on our toes, am I right?”
Markadian drags a finger over his lip in thought, staring at Tristan, still smirking, remaining silent.
“You know, I am curious about that boy you saved,” Cindy goes on, turning fully to Tristan now. “He was sex on a stick. What a thing for you to do, laying your immortal life down for him … So romantic …”
It’s Ashara who lets out an air-slicing sigh. “I grow weary of hearing about this legendary Texan boy who came between my brother and Tristan. Were it up to me, I’d have buried him and forgotten him, let him spend his existence thinking on his pain. I can count on every finger in this room someone I buried and forgot about. They’re probably still squirming in their respective coffins from here to India.”
Tsuki smirks, mutters, “I like your sister, Markadian.” She eyes him. “A lot more fun than you.”
“And more barbaric in her approach,” says Peter dryly, his eyes zeroing upon her, “which only supports my point.”
Ashara, after a moment’s hesitation, laughs it off. “Yes, yes, it sounds coldhearted, the strictness, the severity. But imagine a society without Ferals, without Lawless. Can you?” She turns to Peter. “India has none. It is true, they are stricter, but I would not call it barbaric. Their ‘superstitions’ are actually supported by science and thousands of years of wisdom. Our government here is so terribly young, when you think about it.”