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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The throne room was congested with people.
Dressed in an assortment of coloured leathers, they loitered in sprawling clusters, souring the air with their breath, warming it with their collective heat. The commoners were so engrossed in gossip that not one of them recognised my arrival and made way for me. I hesitated on the outskirts of the room, a little out of sorts. It wasn't often I had to force my way through a crowd.
To lend my pause purpose, I strove to make out people's sentences, but deciphering them proved to be an impossible task. Shaking my head, I shouldered past those in my way. Jerome's shadow merged with mine ahead of our feet, a constant reminder of his presence. I wasn't sure if I appreciated it or not.
We reached the stairs, and I hesitated yet again. The man who sat on the throne was not the same man from the photograph. Ford's bitterness leaked into the room, driving even the City Pack members into the deeper crowd.
His eyes were already trained on my face. It was all I could do not to shudder. There was an intensity in his gaze that transcended sanity, and it was focussed entirely on me.
"Chance Ivory Nightshade." Father invoked my full name, rolling each syllable around in his mouth for dramatic effect, as all parents did when extremely unimpressed with their child's behaviour.
The promise of gossip was thoroughly effective in gaining the undivided attention of the crowd. "Yes, Father?" My words rang out in the sudden absence of noise.
"The western wing of the mansion is in ruins," Father boomed. Even as he slouched in that throne, he loomed over me like a storm cloud, courtesy of that damned dais. "As we speak, three of your personal guard are being treated for grievous wounds that you inflicted."
Disapproving murmurs rippled throughout the crowd, and something inside of me shrivelled. I hadn't considered the people I'd hurt, or the hit my reputation would take. While I didn't particularly care if my actions reflected badly on Father or Jerome, I needed the people to back my quest for peace at some point; to take my side over theirs, if it came to that.
"I sincerely apologise for all casualties and the damage done to our home," I said, demonstrating to the audience that I held myself accountable. "I take full responsibility for my actions and accept whatever consequences you deem fit, Lord Nightshade."
Recognition flickered across Father's features. He knew my apology was a ploy to reinstate the faith of the people in our family. What he didn't know, however, was that my ploy was a double-edged sword. I needed to reinstate his faith in me, so that I could reclaim the freedoms necessary to establish a truce between werewolves and vampires. I had not forgotten the vow I'd made alongside London Irephang.
Perhaps Father will decide on a public beating, I speculated with a sense of amused detachment. The mental defence mechanisms I'd worked on over the years were kicking into action, expunging fear and replacing it with steely humour. Although silver lashes would send a stronger message to the people.
