Chance Nightshade, daughter of the Melbourne City Alpha, will avenge her brother's murder at any cost. Even if it means working with a charming vampire prince.
Season 1 of Witchfire
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Light spilled over the threshold into the barren hall, illuminating blue filaments in the marble flooring. It vanished when the doors shut with an ominous thud behind me.
I paused while my eyes adjusted to the moonlight filtering in through a series of tall, arched windows. Each one framed a unique snapshot of the nature reserve surrounding our illustrious home, lending the draughty hall the flattering impression of an art gallery. I let my vision wander through the foggy panes and as far as the limitations of the environment allowed, all the way to the line of gumtrees heralding proper bushland in the distance. Would that I was out there, I thought wryly, facing the cold instead of his wrath.
Sensing that I could delay no longer, I climbed the steps leading up to the dais. A cumbersome throne squatted atop it, carved into the likeness of snarling wolves. Its most menacing feature, however, was the man who occupied it; power seemed to ooze from his pores, hovering about him like a dark miasma.
But I'd grown accustomed to my father's posturing over the years. My eyes skirted over him in favour of the unfamiliar figure by his side. The wall sconces hadn't been lit, indicating the unexpected nature of the social call. Our guest was someone of relative importance, then — and impudence.
Already holding the mysterious stranger personally responsible for the reprehensible interruption of my sleep, I turned the most disapproving of looks I could muster on —
— her. I blinked stupidly, genuinely surprised that I wasn't the only woman in the room. Most of the guests my father entertained were male, reflecting the frustrating distribution of power in our shadow society. She smiled at me, but the gesture was a little too earnest for my liking, especially considering we'd never met. I found my steps faltering, something deep within me urging caution in spite of her approachable demeanour.
Seeking an explanation for my unease, I openly scrutinised her from head to toe. Her hair was fine and wispy, as compellingly dark as her complexion, and she'd somehow managed to twist it up in a knot that looked sophisticated rather than slovenly. The corner of my mouth twitched up ruefully; I'd never had the knack for that sort of thing, evidenced by the tangled brambles clawing down my back even now.
But that is neither here nor there, I chided myself. Of more interest (and concern) was the crown of thorns atop the visitor's brow, fashioned from gleaming white-gold. A trickle of blood by her left temple implied it was more than just a pretty bauble.
"Good evening, Lady Nightshade," she said, respectfully inclining her head. Her voice was deeper than I expected, given her petite stature. "I'm glad you could join us."
"It certainly took you long enough," Father grumbled, not bothering to rise from the throne.
"Actually, she's right on time," the visitor said wryly.
It took all of my willpower not to frown. Was she trying to aggravate him?
"Who are we entertaining this evening?" I pointedly asked my father, bypassing the presumptuous girl.
