So, the larger question for him had become what to do about Parisa Lovejoy. The smaller question—should he orchestrate a battle—he had already turned over to his generals in his Estrella Complex in Metro Phoenix Two. They had been ecstatic to learn he actually wanted two full divisions assembled in northern Arizona, as surreptitiously as possible—yes, that had been a little joke. Setting up supply lines alone for thirty thousand soldiers would be a work of monumental proportion.
Even now, General Leto was importing death vampires from all over the globe, provided by his allied High Administrators. He did take a moment to smile, even to fantasize about such a battle. The truth was simple: He could take Endelle’s forces in a heartbeat if it came down to a numbers game. And he was a smart enough vampire to work the numbers.
But there was that other pesky, nagging truth that often wars weren’t won by the numbers. So many other factors could alter an obvious outcome. One had only to follow both amateur and professional Mortal Earth sports to know this was true, that occasionally the team with all the right numbers could lose a championship to a phenomenon known as ‘heart.’ Absurd but true.
So he was preparing, and in his preparations he was cautious. What else would a vampire over two thousand years old be?
Rith arrived with the usual empty medical blood bag, plastic tubing, and sterile needle. Time to feed the blood donors.
He rose from his chair and removed his suit coat. He pinched the shoulders and brought the sleeves together to effect a careful fold. He paid a fortune for his suits, tailored as they were by Hugo Boss on Mortal Earth. He had fittings four times a year.
He removed the French cuff link from the right sleeve of his silk shirt, an amethyst color this time in honor of his continued pursuit of the mortal-with-wings. Though she was now ascended, for him Parisa Lovejoy would always be the mortal-with-wings. She had been an anomaly as great as either Alison Wells or Havily Morgan.
Three powerful women had arrived to serve as brehs for the Warriors of the Blood.
He sighed as he set the amethyst link on his desk.
He moved to the large plate-glass window of the building he owned, a stone structure that resembled work from the mid-1800s but of course with electricity and running water. The basement, blasted out of the earth, held his famous Round Table, the seat of his Coming Order. Greaves did value modern times, enormously, but there were occasions when his soul longed for the earlier days of stone and earth, of fire, and of hundreds of servants to carry out the menial tasks of slaughtering and preparing food, and scrubbing laundry on the banks of a river.
Now he had to hire his help and pay decent wages.
As he began rolling up his right sleeve, he looked out over Geneva Two. Its population was a mere hundred thousand, a fraction the size of Mortal Earth’s city. He had chosen his site well, at almost the tip of the Petite Lac, that part of Lake Geneva that seemed almost like a lake unto itself. The view from his penthouse was really exquisite, especially at night with the black expanse of the water surrounded on both sides by the twinkle of modern lights.
With his right sleeve rolled up past his elbow, he turned and made his way to the black leather sofa. Rith already had the necessary equipment set up.
He sat down, and Rith used the tourniquet to bring his vein forward. With the precision of decades, Rith drove in the needle and the blood started to flow. He donated once a week; his blood formed the basis of the cocktail that brought his female donors back from oblivion and had them ready to serve in another month’s time.
He glanced at Rith, at the broad forehead and relatively unattractive features. Rith didn’t partake of dying blood, though many believed he did. He could have used a little beautification. But the man was staunchly opposed.
He watched the bag fill. “Have you ever tasted my blood?”
Rith glanced at him, giving him his infamous blank expression. “No, master. Never.”
Darian flared his nostrils. He breathed in the perfume of the man’s skin. Most of the time he could smell a lie, but not today. Or at least not on Rith.
“Have you read the latest emails about the Mumbai and Bogotá predictions?”
“Yes, of course. You flagged them.”
Rith’s fingers actually trembled. As well they should.
“What are we to do?”
Rith pulled the needle out and pressed a square of gauze against the wound. He taped the gauze in place. “I have begun the process of mobilizing my army. As for the mortal-with-wings, I wish to know your opinion. What do you think we should do about her?”
“I think we should find her and kill her, of course. She is too dangerous for the Coming Order.”
Darian smiled then chuckled. “I adore how you speak of killing her the same way you would speak about creating a floral arrangement. We should put the roses in first, then the lilies.” He chuckled again. Rith eased him. He always had. In some ways, Rith was an extension of his own careful, ordered, sociopathic mind.
“She is dangerous, master. Very dangerous. Only an hour ago, another report came, from Johannesburg this time, as they used to when Alison was in her ascension process, that Parisa will change the course of the war.”
“Alison was supposed to have that kind of effect, but she has accomplished nothing of significance. If anything, Havily Morgan has wrought more damage since she brought Warrior Marcus back from Mortal Earth to serve as High Administrator of Desert Southwest Two.” A faint shudder went through him. Marcus had indeed stalled Greaves’s efforts to turn High Administrators. “I give you permission to do what I see in your heart you wish to do anyway.” He watched Rith carefully. “Good God, Rith, are you actually smiling?”
“Yes, master.” Rith placed the blood in a special pack then settled it in a cradle within an Igloo container. He had a runner outside ready to transport the blood to a lab that created the cocktail for the various blood donor facilities. It pleased Greaves to think that a drop or two of his blood ensured that his donors remained alive and healthy so that they could keep producing.
In that way, he was a true sustainer of life.
Which made him chuckle again.
With all his equipment packed up, Rith turned and headed to the door. Greaves rolled his shirtsleeve down and rose to his feet. “It is a lovely thing to see you so happy, Rith.”
“Yes, master.”
Rith actually bowed. Greaves was in favor of the gesture, but it was an antiquated European cultural tradition that was considered passé.
With a dismissive wave of his hand, he bid his servant good-bye.