A Violet Fire (Vampires in Avignon #1) - Kelsey Quick Page 0,92

own supply units, or synthetics, for drink and pour. Again, on behalf of the Elders and Lord Amaorin, welcome to Isshar.”

Low claps ricochet across the hall, from the handfuls of elites along the open floor to the raised tables that support the five leaders and their consorts. Lord Amaorin, in his beaming sapphire glory, stands to accept the applause. The ‘Elders’, I deduce, are not present.

It is times such as these that I question the true hierarchy of the vampires. Though I have heard and read of them here or there, I have never been able to stumble across a picture of all—or even one—of the Elders. I imagine them to be really old; very wrinkly with long trains of beards, dressed like the gods of the universe. That’s how I’ve always pictured them in my mind, even though the forbidden books depict their countenances to be the physical manifestations of despair and fear. However, for me, and those like me, the Elders exist behind a curtain. Beyond this reality, separated by a thin mask of censorship. And the five rulers—the leaders of Cain’s military—are the only ones that get to pull it back to do their bidding.

“Wavorly,” Gemini’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. “Come.”

I start to raise a single eyebrow when Katarii, on my left, whispers, “Lord Zein is requesting you.”

My eyes shift from cage to cage where the other leaders’ supply units are housed, noticing as one human per leader exits to walk out toward the raised tables. Without hesitation I stand and maneuver around the other girls toward Gemini’s station. I pass Anaya, who keeps her head down, and I pass Glera and Emi, who give me a small nod.

“Go to Narref, Dimwit,” Gemini says to me with a coy smile as I exit the beautiful barricade, beginning the long journey across the open floor. I keep my head lowered, eyes fixed to the stained glass floor beneath my feet. The molestation of rigid stares stifles me as I try to channel my body’s worth of grace and focus into my stride. It would probably be the end of me if I trip.

I look up once as I near the far corner, seeking one thing and one thing only.

A reassuring pair of eyes, dimly lit and seared by the low burn of the golden lanterns, meet my expectations. For once, I notice that Zein’s gaze is thoroughly cinereal, spotted with splashes of bright ivory and smoky silver. Obsidian shards cut in sharply along the edges of his irises, embedding grainy specks of lustrous imperfection into the pure and shimmering ash—roughly carved like the splintered edges of a tired blade. His pupils widen as he takes me in, and my entire existence melts into them, adding fuel to the molding and casting of my newfound desires.

“Good evening, my lord,” I greet Zein after successfully crossing the room. I dip into a deep and courteous bow at Narref’s side. It’s obvious that Zein is covering for his reputation, aside from the glance on my way over, he doesn’t so much as acknowledge me.

“Narref,” he commands, and the familiar servant turns to grab my wrists.

Lowly, Narref says to me, “We will take your blood with the kortrastet. Mind your manners and keep yourself detached. You won’t be shown explicit kindness here.”

I nod, looking past him toward Giomar and his supply unit. His human girl is a different one from that night months ago. I wonder for a second if the other one is even still alive. This one, meek and frail and dressed in amethyst, quivers uncontrollably as the servant inserts the needle into her bruised and battered arm. She’s sickly and malnourished; pale and brown-splotched skin sinks into the darkened caves of her cheeks and eye sockets. I glance around her to the other summoned supply units, all of which seem to employ the same distressing traits. Recalling Amaorin’s girls from the bathhouse, I wonder if the favorites are used for other things, and if they are treated better than the ones used only for nourishment.

Does blood quality not matter to them?

It’s obvious to me now, how much better Zein treats his entire supply. As my eyes retreat, they catch Giomar’s—an expression that requires me to engage Essence Dissonance to keep the fear at bay. I hastily look back down, trying to focus on anything else.

Narref finishes fastening the kortrastet needle to the tube, burying it quickly and steadily into my arm. I wince from the prick,