Dark Ascension: A Generation V Novel (28 page)

*   *   *

The snow had stopped, and the plows were finally starting to make their rounds when I pulled into the parking lot of the apartment building. I’d ended up turning on the radio to help keep myself awake, and had made the strange discovery that all of Jaison’s radio presets were to country stations. If that wasn’t an example of musical crossover appeal, then I didn’t know what was.

I opened the apartment door, and was met with the strange sight of Jaison, dressed only in a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, leaning over the sink, flushing his mouth out with water. My eyes slowly drifted over the items on the counter next to him—my blue pitcher of blood, a glass with a distinctive residue stain along the inside—and I froze in horror.

Jaison lifted his head up from the faucet and caught sight of me. “I’m really sorry, Fort,” he said quickly. “I was just curious and . . .” He made a brief retching sound and went under for another mouthful of water. “Sweet mother of
God
, that shit is
rank
.”

“Yeah. . . . Yeah, it is,” I replied slowly, my heart beating practically out of my chest. “Let’s . . . let’s just pretend that it didn’t happen, okay?” I paused. “And maybe not mention it to Dan?” The ghoul would absolutely freak if he found out that his boyfriend had just swallowed a mouthful of A-positive. Frankly, I was feeling somewhat nauseated myself, and I wasn’t the one who kissed Jaison on the mouth.

“Fine by me,” Jaison agreed. “How you do it, Fort, I have no idea. I don’t think any amount of muscle gain is worth having to drink that shit.” He turned to the fridge, pulled it open, and started hunting through it. “Now how the hell do I get that taste out of my mouth?”

“Try some orange juice,” I said blandly.

Suze called me back
late the following morning, as I was driving down to Newport and feeling the burn in my shoulders from having to shovel the majority of the parking lot out by myself, Dan only being able to shovel with me for a short time before he had to leave for class.

“Hey there, Mr. Thirty-seven Text Messages,” she said, amusement clear in her voice. “I hear that you got up to some shenanigans last night.”

“Yeah, I did, thanks for asking.” I was feeling distinctly grumpy, and I hadn’t even laid eyes on Prudence and Chivalry yet. “Do I even dare ask why you weren’t answering your phone?”

“Urban chicken-hunting.” She was obviously feeling very pleased with herself and life. “There’s a rooster half a mile away from my grandmother’s house, and we took him out last night.”

I sighed heavily. “Suze, you have access to sharp weaponry and opposable thumbs. I’m not feeling impressed right now.”

“Don’t denigrate the ways of my people, Fort. This was done entirely on four feet. And let me tell you, that rooster’s owner probably lost his shit when he saw that we’d gotten into his coop. That guy had it locked up tighter than Mother Teresa’s panties.”

“I’m not even Catholic, and I found that offensive.”

She ignored me. “Four different layers of wire, Fort! Four! And a layer that ran under the coop itself, so that we couldn’t dig our way in. Plus a surveillance system. This is a person who is serious about his omelets, man friend.”

I paused, picturing this kind of backyard setup in a town like Exeter. “Okay, that’s starting to sound somewhat impressive. But can I at least tell you about my night first, before you tell me about the great rooster heist?”

“Fine,” she grumbled, “though I got the gist of most of it through your test messages. Also, emoticons, Fort? Really, it’s all about emojis now.”

I spent the rest of my drive filling her in, finishing just as I drove through the E-ZPass lane on the Claiborne Pell Bridge and spared a moment to consider exactly what kind of toll bill was currently racking up for me. It was not a comforting thought.

“So?” I asked her. “What’s your thought on all this?”

“That’s some pretty deep shit you’re wading in right now,” she said.

I waited.

She said nothing.

I waited some more.

Finally I said, “That’s all you have to add to this? I’m about to go in and present this crap situation to my siblings and attempt to actually address this and get tangible decisions made, and you’ve got absolutely nothing for me.”

“Oh, crap, you were expecting actual help?”

I rubbed my jaw and regretted not bringing a bag of carrots with me. “If it’s not too much trouble for you, yeah,” I said sarcastically.

“Get them drunk. I’m not sure what vampire age does to alcohol tolerance, so you’re going to want to find a way to get Prudence to drink at least three full bottles of brandy. At that point, she’ll probably agree to whatever you suggest.”

“I’m going to hang the phone up right now.”

“That might be the best way out for both of us at this point. But if you come up with some kind of solution that involves punching, remember that I’m your girl.”

*   *   *

Sitting around the sofas in the drawing room, with a toasty fire roaring away in the fireplace and a thoughtfully provided selection of hummus and cold vegetables, I told Prudence and Chivalry about my meeting with Lilah and Cole, with a few careful edits. I didn’t mention the threat against Ambrose at all, or my meeting with Valentine. Even if the thought had been in my mind, the complete train wreck of the Neighbor conversation would’ve prevented it.

“After what happened in the autumn, the Ad-hene are lucky that we restricted their punishment to slicing off things that will grow back,” Prudence growled, slamming her teacup down onto the coffee table with enough force to send tea sloshing through cracks in the china, which she ignored as she shoved to her feet and started pacing the room. “And now they actually have the balls to make
requests
of us? Clearly Chivalry didn’t cut enough off.”

“This isn’t coming from the Ad-hene,” I said, for at least the fifth time. “This is a group of the younger Neighbors who are making separate decisions, and need to be regarded as a different group entirely.”

“Fortitude, I know that you’re fond of Lilah Dwyer, and that she was helpful to both you and Prudence during your investigations, but I really think that you need to take that with a grain of salt,” Chivalry said, looking irritated. “The Ad-hene have always kept a tight control over their scions, and I find it rather hard to imagine that something is occurring that I’ve never seen before in the entire time that the Ad-hene have been within our borders.”

“The situation
is
different,” I insisted, feeling the distinct urge to tear my hair out. “Lavinia Leamaro’s success in creating more than just half-breed offspring has created a whole group of Neighbors in their twenties who are different than any generation that came before them, and thanks to a real push on their breeding program, this is also a group that has a significant numbers advantage. It’s a change in the basic demographics of this group, Chivalry, and you just can’t keep ignoring that.”

“If the numbers are the problem, then we can take care of that.” Prudence flicked an imaginary piece of dirt off the sleeve of her cream sweater and took a moment to adjust the level of one of the paintings. “They want approved witch assistance to continue this breeding program of theirs? We simply forbid the witches to even go near the elves for a minimum of twenty years. That should teach the Ad-hene a lesson that will finally make an impression, since apparently ball slicing didn’t.”

“We’re not talking about the Ad-hene here, Prudence,” I said, my voice raising. “And this other group isn’t even a problem—it could be a
good
thing if we would just work with them, rather than refusing to acknowledge that they even exist.”

“Perhaps we could find a compromise here,” Chivalry interjected. “We could put a yearly quota on how many times a witch could assist with a changeling conception, which would put some control on this numbers increase and also reemphasize who is in control here.”

“A quota? On something as basic as reproduction?” I stared at my brother, my jaw dropping. “And that will in some way settle this issue? That’s just going to throw fuel on the fire. Besides, they’re asking us to intercede to reassure the witches, not because they actually even need our permission for something like this. We don’t forbid the races to interact, after all. They can do business with each other without our okay.”

“They should’ve asked us, regardless,” Prudence said icily. “And as for collecting their changelings all at once, I’m not sure we should be letting them engage the services of the kitsune at all.”

“What do you mean?” My head was beginning to pound, and I wasn’t sure I could blame even part of it on my teething issues. “Collecting the changelings earlier is a good idea—it would result in more emotionally stable adults.”

“I strongly doubt that,” Prudence snorted. “There’s madness in that blood, Fort. I would trust in nature over nurture. The only thing that collecting the changelings early will do is stir this group up even more, and provide a financial windfall for the kitsune that they frankly do not need.”

My expression must’ve been a sight to behold, because Chivalry gave a heavy sigh, put his coffee cup down gently, and said, “Sister, in the possibility, however remote, that Fort is right about there being separate groups, we could act in a way that shows our willingness to be generous, despite past indiscretions. What if we drop the allowed collection age from fourteen to thirteen? I think that could be a workable compromise to your two positions.”

I sputtered, and I couldn’t hide the anger in my voice. “Fourteen to thirteen? Chivalry, that’s not a change—that’s just the status quo wrapped up with a pretty bow.” By the end, I was nearly yelling.

Chivalry’s face darkened, and the pupils of his eyes flared, all clear signs that his own temper was now well and thoroughly engaged. “And what’s wrong with the status quo, Fortitude? And you as well, Prudence?” He turned to include her, clearly surprising Prudence, who had been standing back and enjoying our argument. “Mother’s system has worked more than well for many years, yet all either of you wants to do is change things that would be better left alone.” Chivalry shoved himself to his feet and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle all the cups and cutlery, as well as a dozen porcelain figurines.

Prudence and I both stared after Chivalry, mute with wonder. Over the past days we had each stormed out of the room multiple times, but Chivalry had been the one with patience, the one arguing for the middle path, coaxing us back to the table and reminding us of the critical importance of working together. Through the bond we shared, I could feel Chivalry leaving the house, and then quickly fading into the distance.

I looked over at Prudence, who was looking deeply thoughtful at our brother’s action. She slowly slid her blue eyes over to me and raised her eyebrows. “Well, I’d say that we’re adjourning early today.” She checked the clock on the mantelpiece, and looked pleased. “I might actually be able to get some real work done today at the office, thank heavens.” And with that she strolled out the door.

I looked down at the wreckage on the table, Prudence’s teacup continuing to slowly ooze tea onto its saucer, and the overloaded saucer dribbling onto the rest of the tray. I got up slowly to my feet. Despite my brother’s longing for the old ways, those just hadn’t worked either. I walked down to the office, where I caught up with Loren Noka while she was sorting through the mail. Between the tithing money coming in, the general business of being a hugely wealthy family with fingers in lots of pies, and issues that pertained to the supernatural community, mail sorting was actually something entrusted only to the most high-level staff members.

She smiled at me as I came in, and held up a beautifully embossed invitation. “Any interest in a black-tie charity dinner, Fort?” she asked. “Just five thousand dollars a plate.”

I snorted. “Suze will have to content herself with going to the movies and paying for her own ticket.” I glanced over the invite. “But put it at the top of Chivalry’s pile. He loves those things, and it’ll perk him up when he finally comes back.”

Loren’s face was very professionally neutral, but there was no hiding that she knew the extent to which things were backing up. She tacitly said nothing, just putting the embossed invitation to one side.

“Loren, you know where the files on witches who want to change residence are, right?”

She nodded. “That was something that your brother would generally go over every quarter or so with your mother, but of course I know where they are.” She paused. “Did you want to see them?”

“If you have a moment, I’d appreciate it.”

Loren looked a bit surprised, but, with that incredible professional decorum, she restrained herself from asking any questions as she led me to a corner filing cabinet and pulled open a drawer. The files were as carefully organized as everything else in the office (clearly Loren would tolerate nothing less), but there was no hiding it—there were a
lot
of requests for movement, and judging by the dates listed, not much of an effort to get timely responses back to people.

After taking a minute to walk me through the system they were using, Loren politely excused herself and left to head back to her own personal workstation in the smaller support office that had previously been the mansion’s music room, back in the days before radio, when entertainment had either been hired in or the family had suffered through Prudence’s very tortured piano playing. (In fairness, Chivalry was just as weak on the harp.)

I sorted through the files. Luckily for me, they were organized by intended location, so I just flipped my way over to the P section and began poking around. Lots of students trying to get to college, and individual witches who had just been forced to leave the family group because they’d hit the age of twenty-two, and were trying to get to a city that could promise potential work plus livable rates of rent. None of those were what I needed, so I continued sorting until I’d pulled out the files for the families that were trying to move here. What I was hoping for was a family that had already had their application in, so that I could just get Chivalry to approve it, then shove through paperwork for Ambrose and his family that put them in the newly created opening wherever the other family was from. It certainly wasn’t ideal, but I was pretty certain that Ambrose would take a blind move over possible death by elfling, even if it meant moving to Bangor.

There were three in total, and once I was sure that I had all of them, I pulled out my phone and called Valentine. He picked up immediately, and I could hear him apologizing his way out of an appointment. As soon as he gave me the okay to talk, I read through the list of families who had official requests in. Pulling open each folder further, though, revealed that all of them had already received some attention—on the second page, next to biographical information, was a clear stamp—L
OCATION AT
C
APACITY.

“What the hell?” I muttered. “This isn’t just backlog.”

“How big are the families that were trying to come in?” Valentine asked.

I checked. “Um. . . . smallest one has five members. Two adults, one dependent elder, two children.”

“Yeah, the cities are hard to get into. If you’re born in Boston, say, you get grandfathered in, but the old quotas for how many witches can live in an area were set over two hundred years ago, and they don’t exactly reflect current population density, or the growth of the witch population, or even that we just don’t stick out as very weird anymore, especially in cities. A lot of people end up in the suburbs or rural spots and having pretty long commutes, even though we actually are a bit more at risk for exposure in little communities where our neighbors get to know us too well.” Valentine paused. “I can see what you’re trying to do, Fort, but isn’t there any way to just convince your brother or sister to do an emergency approval of moving Ambrose and his family? I know that there are lots of open spots in Manitoba.” From Valentine’s tone, that was a fate preferable to death—but not by much.