every reason to be. Her son had been radicalized by fanatics who wielded death magic and used ghouls for their own sinister ends. “Until Ansel tells me the whole truth about what happened and everything he knows about the Darklings, he will not leave his room. He will stay under lock and key,” she added, briefly looking my way. “I’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise, Esme.”
“I’m sure you will,” I said. “You’re the badass high priestess around here. But for what it’s worth, let me just say… Ansel is young. Even if you convince him to cooperate, he will still have to pay for his transgression. At least some jailtime, assuming he’s spared the death penalty. After that, it’ll be a road to recovery for him. He’ll need each and every one of you by his side, to show him there’s life after the Darklings.”
“Your compassion is astonishing.” Simmon sighed. “Let us hope our brother does the right thing. It would be in everyone’s best interest.”
“What I don’t get is how he got involved with the Darklings in the first place,” Aganon grumbled.
Petra signaled the servants to go ahead with dinner. Blood was poured into deep porcelain plates, and we used spoons to drink it—much like I’d done with soup as a kid. I found it interesting, given that the Aeternae had never eaten soup or any other kind of food, unlike vampires. They hadn’t experienced human cuisine, or rather, Rimian or Nalorean cuisine, in their case.
“Forgive me for asking, but what is the point of this?” I raised my spoon over the plate. “I haven’t seen this type of service in the palace. Technically speaking, the Aeternae don’t need such a setup. Wouldn’t glasses be enough?”
The Visentis men and boys looked at each other quietly, then back at Petra, who offered me a half-smile. “It has something to do with our family history. A little-known aspect of our bloodline, to be specific,” she said. “One of our Visentis forefathers was a Rimian.”
“Oh?” I breathed, my eyes widening in surprise.
“About two million years ago, a Rimian man fought hard in the Blood Arena in order to be turned,” Petra said. It immediately reminded me of Trev Blayne, who’d done the same and had asked Kalon to turn him into an Aeternae. I hoped we’d see Trev again soon. We were due to meet him in the city, but there was always the risk of him running into trouble after our basement and raid scuffle with the Darklings. There was a price on Trev’s head after he’d infiltrated their faction, and it was bound to double if they didn’t catch him soon.
“His name was Lyrus Pan,” Simmon added. “He fell in love with Esmeralda Visentis, our great-grandmother. She was very young at the time, only sixteen, but Lyrus knew he wanted to spend an eternity with her. So he fought hard, nearly getting himself killed a couple of times.”
“He won,” Petra said. “And he demanded that my grandmother, Esmeralda, be the one to turn him. They met one evening for dinner. Lyrus had soup, served in plates like these, while Esmeralda had blood. They laughed and talked for hours, after which she turned him. A few years later, they were married, their love for one another only growing stronger. They had children, and they lived happily for centuries. Every seventh day, Lyrus had blood served to him in porcelain plates. It was his way of reminiscing about his lost mortality, about his life as a Rimian. He respected his past and his origins, but he assimilated into the Aeternae life quickly.”
“He kept the plate habit.” Kalon sighed deeply. “Then the Black Fever struck, and he died. Our great-grandmother’s heart was broken beyond repair, and she never married again. She continued his habit. On the seventh day of the week she had blood served in plates, just like we are having now, to honor his memory, his love for the Aeternae, and his dedication to the Visentis dynasty.”
“Unfortunately, she passed during the following Black Fever outbreak,” Petra said, sadness tinting her voice. “We’ve continued the custom for her and for Lyrus. It will go on even if we end up dead ourselves someday.”
I tried to imagine Lyrus, remembering one particular portrait of a man whose skin was darker than that of most other occupants of the walls of the mansion’s reception area. That must’ve been him, tall and handsome, with big, curious brown eyes. I’d have to go back