Blue

Part #2

Dark green eyes closes. A count from one to ten inside the mind of Declyn

Rothchildes counts his composure in place. The smell of people behind the door sickens him

to his stomach. It makes the stench on the two babies with him almost welcome. Almost.

He does not have a problem with the specific gathering behind the large doors; he

has a problem being around people in general. Especially coven people. In his mind, they

are recklessly driven by greed, status and politics. Not to mention their insistence on

assuming legendary mythology as their class description; they call themselves vampires. A

term he finds insulting as it stems from half-truths baked into whole lies by mortals and

their immortal cohorts. A way to elevate their status and keep them shrouded in mystery for

the sake of drama, politics and division; not much else. None of it he cares for.

Lord Rothchildes, while he looks nothing older than a young guy in his late twenties,

is old. Old enough to have experienced the human evolution on profound levels within

himself. He is also old enough to know this coven was once nothing more than a safe-house

for people who had nowhere to turn. Some of those people are still here, like Maylee. Others

have claimed or established covens of their own.

At the count of ten, he pushes the door open with his foot. The hall is one of the more

illustrious, set aside for royalty by blood and inheritance - self-proclaimed or sustained by

influence. The people here knows his name. They do not know much else about him which

is exactly as he prefers it.

They fear him, respect him and hate him. Some more than others, but none of them

enough to demand or deny his company.

A part Lord Rothchildes reputation comes from his name on a blood-contract with

just about every person who knows it. The other part is cemented through a rumor-mill as

old as he is; some of it exaggerated but none-the-less true, some of it warped through

historical corrosion. No matter what part people subscribe to, there is no denying it; the man

is a phantom with an authentic power they do not dare question. Not openly anyway.

Last night, Maylee spent an hour on the phone with him, hashing out the ideas and

detail on how to proceed with the task at hand; which is to say, dealing with two children he

did not sire and really have no attachment to. He turned to her as the most recent person he

gained favor and trust with.

They agreed for him to interview the top two blood-donors of the Tri-Arch’s

associate-covens to find someone he can tolerate well enough to take care of the children.

Blood-donors are vending machines for the races who partake in such things. They are

mortal and raised within the covens from birth. They understand their place on the food-

chain and they have an inkling about their immortal benefactors – though how much

knowledge they have, he does not know. As far as he is concerned, they need not know

much else than they are mortal and he is not. The children cannot be raised in the same

isolation he prefers and to prevent them from binge-killing, they need to be around the

source of their food supply to learn control.

Slowly, he strolls down the long, white and gold carpet toward the small table where

the ruling prince and his matriarch, stands to welcome him. Declyn Rothchildes dare not

look in the faces of the donors. Their eagerness leads to hope and eye-contact leads to

expectation. As it is, he hears it in the beats of their hearts; it irritates him.

Toward the front, two girls in his peripheral view draws his attention right away. By

their placement closest to Maylee, he surmises they are her girls. As he passes by, he throws

the baby-bag down and shoves the kids at the nearest.

“Here, take this,” the change of atmosphere is near instant as the barefoot girl

receives them without looking up or questioning.

Barely two steps away from her, he stops and turns with a wild expression on his

face. His hand lifts and his fingers touches his chest as he stares after the girl. She absently

clutches the babies, struggle the bag up and walks off without a word to anyone. She leaves

through the doors and he turns back. Stretching his strides, his arm stretches and points

behind him. His face dark and moody.

“Who is that?” he asks

“Good morning, Lord Rothchildes,” irritation piles onto his features as Maylee first

incline her head with a formal greeting before she gives him the answer he wants, “That is

our youngest, Blue Blackthorn. I’m sorry, she wasn’t supposed to leave. I’ll see to it that she

is appropriately dealt with. I’ll send someone to fetch her back immediately.”

“Don’t bother,” he growls and catches a few smug looks from the assembled

company.

“Welcome, my Lord,” Antoine injects quickly while the lord Rothchildes draws his

hands to his sides and stares at the door for a few counts longer. The energy in the room is

tense and it baffles him to experience the remnants of hostile glares at the door where the

girl just passed through.

“Let’s hope it is,” he murmurs before he turns back and offer a handshake to Antoine

with the traditional cheek-kisses for Maylee.

An invite for him to sit down comes from both.

“Hrm,” he grumbles but before he seats himself, he walks over to the visiting

councilors and extends a personal greeting, and thanks for receiving him. Upon his return,

he sits down, scans the room quickly and then turns his attention to the files on the table.

Upon his return, he stops in front of Maylee’s candidate. He looks her over from top

to bottom before he turns away to seat himself.

Through a deep exhale, he rakes the files closer and scan through the names and

pictures on the outside of each file. Without hesitation, he places Blue’s all the way to the

side. He catches a knowing look between Maylee and Antoine, and turns his attention back

to the room.

“I am here,” Lord Rothchildes speaks, “in search of a donor to house. Your

representatives have chosen you for an interview. While I know this is not the standard

method to approach the matter, I want to put it in your minds that this is the only way I

operate; my standards or not at all. Your duties will be to take full responsibility for the

children; feeding, bathing and education. You will be required to take full responsibility for

your health and wellbeing. You will be provided for but not pandered to. You will conduct

yourself in a way that I can tolerate or you will find yourself back here to face whatever

consequence your home-coven deem appropriate.”

Majority of what he says is standard, except the return part. For most of the blood-

donors, there is no return and if they mess up on their duties, they do not see the light of day

for it. Declyn waits for the murmur to quieten down before he continues.

“By the council of Matriarch Maylee Levine, I am assured every donor in this room

is qualified for the offer. I thank you,” he turns to Maylee and Antoine in turn, “For

accommodating me. I am in your debt.” Both people beam at him with genuine pride.

Lord Rothchildes may not like being here, but he understands the games of this

world probably better than most. His purposeful acknowledgement of Maylee’s help as

Antoine’s coven Matriarch, ensure their climb in status among their peers and extends their

influence further. He is not in their debt, they know it and he knows it, but again, by adding

it in this way, he elevates their standing. With a quick glance at the councilors present,

Declyn leers internally. They hide it well but he tastes their sour envy in their scent

“When I call your name, please join us at the table,” he turns his attention back to the

blood-donors.

With that, the interview session begins.

The longer he sits here, the darker his mood becomes. The candidates are well

qualified, valuable assets to their covens for various reasons, but not for the reasons he

wants. While any one of them can, and will, take care of the charges – he isn’t convinced

their focus will remain with the children. He is in no rush to add, what he considers, another

child to his responsibilities.

“Have you been around children?” he asks for the sixteenth time, to a young boy.

“No, my Lord. But I do work hard and will learn what I must,” the same answer in

different wording lands in his ears.

White knuckles on his fist, is the only outward sign of the Lord’s frustration.

“Which qualities do you think you can learn, and which do you think you bring to

the job?” he asks with a level tone in his voice.

“I – uhm – well. I am honest, my Lord. I am loyal, and I – ”

Declyn puts his hand up and nods. Loyal the kid is. Honest he is not; in fact not one

of them here has been, thus far.

“You can stop there. Thank you,” he looks at the next name and it takes all his

willpower not to snarl.