On the screens, Heldridge cried, “Do you hear me? I demand to speak to the Excelsior!”

Speaking of children, Meroveus thought.

Sitting in the back of the theater, where the gentle radiance of the screens could barely reach, was the Excelsior. He wore an ink-dark suit, and the matching shirt and tie both had the sheen of polished obsidian. His black hair was loose and hung straight, framing his angular face with ferocity. Despite the pallor of his skin his hairstyle imparted a Native American quality, but Mero knew the vampire was descended from ancient Franks—indeed, from mortal kings.

The Excelsior touched a button on the arm of his chair, which activated a microphone. “I hear you,” he said crossly. His words echoed, slightly delayed, into the room with Heldridge. When he finished speaking he released the button so anything his advisors said would not be piped into the conference room.

“You will put a bounty on my head but you won’t meet with me directly?”

Giovanni chuckled. “Please let me kill him for you, my lord.”

The Excelsior pressed the button. “You attempted to strike down your superior. You’ve brutalized two of my sentries. Why should you not be drained to a husk?” The accented lilt of his voice did not soften the iciness of his words.

“On these premises I have only defended myself. As for the other matter, you have received misinformation. I did not attempt to strike down my Quarterlord, but his Erus Veneficus.”

The Excelsior triggered the microphone again. “You freely admit to this crime?”

“The witch has hexed him, bound him by witch-mark into her service.”

“Ha!” Giovanni laughed. “Never!” He paused. “Unless . . .” He cast a glance toward Mero beside him, then over his shoulder toward the Excelsior.