Chapter 70 Parliament Session
COUNT ALTERONI
The Crimson Parliament meets in chambers beneath the Old Bailey. Ironic, holding our sessions under the mortal courts. They dispense justice upstairs while we decide who lives and dies below.
I take my seat among the thirteen council members. Ancient vampires, every one of us. I'm the youngest at four hundred years. Mordaunt's the oldest at six hundred. Age brings power in vampire society. Also brings corruption, but we don't talk about that.
"Order." Lord Harborough strikes his gavel. He's chairing tonight's session, which means Mordaunt arranged it that way. Harborough's his creature. Loyal as a dog, nearly as smart. "We convene to discuss the Rookeries situation."
Here we go. The extermination debate.
Around the table, twelve faces show varying degrees of interest. Some, like Mordaunt, are eager. Some are bored. A few, like me, are opposed but outnumbered.
"The Brennan situation has escalated." Mordaunt stands, commanding attention effortlessly. Six hundred years of practice. "Our intelligence indicates sixty-three packless wolves now follow Callum Brennan. Growth rate: five to seven wolves per week. At current trajectory, we're looking at over one hundred organized packless wolves within three months."
"And why is that a problem?" I interrupt. Might as well establish opposition early.
Mordaunt's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Count Alteroni. Always the voice of... compassion. How refreshing."
The word 'compassion' lands like an insult. It's meant to.
"These are citizens," I continue, ignoring his tone. "Wolves who were turned, abandoned, left to die in slums. Brennan's helping them survive. Since when is survival a crime?"
"Since it threatens established order." Lady Castellane speaks from across the table. She runs blood clubs, has zero tolerance for anything that disrupts her profit margins. "Packless wolves don't organize. They go feral and die quietly. That's how the system works."
"The system is broken," I counter.
"Your opinion." Mordaunt reclaims the floor. "The facts are these: organized packless wolves represent a threat to Parliamentary authority. If they succeed, if they build a sustainable community without pack structure or our oversight, they undermine the entire hierarchy we've maintained for centuries."
"Good," I say flatly.
Silence.
Then Harborough recovers. "Count Alteroni, you can't possibly be suggesting we allow this rebellion to continue."
"It's not a rebellion. It's survival." I stand because sitting feels like surrender. "These wolves aren't attacking anyone. They're not breaking laws. They're helping each other survive in a system designed to kill them. If that threatens our hierarchy, maybe our hierarchy deserves to be threatened."
"Radical talk," Mordaunt observes. "One might wonder whose side you're on."
"The side of not being monsters." I look around the table. "We're vampires. We drink blood to survive. That's nature. But slaughtering sixty-three wolves for organizing? That's choice. Evil choice."
"It's necessity." Lady Ashford, recently elevated after her pack's election, sounds uncertain. She's new to Parliament, still learning which opinions are safe. "If packless wolves can organize successfully, every pack in London will face destabilization."
"How?" I press. "Explain the mechanism. How do sixty-three desperate wolves helping each other threaten established packs?"
She flounders. Can't answer because there's no real answer.
Mordaunt steps in smoothly. "It's about precedent, Count. If packless wolves can build power outside traditional structures, others will try. Pack discipline will erode. Our carefully maintained balance will collapse."
"Or," I suggest, "packs will have to treat wolves better to prevent defections. Revolutionary concept: don't abuse people and they won't leave."
"You're being naive." Lord Castellane sounds almost pitying. "Pack hierarchy exists for good reason. Alphas lead, Betas support, Omegas serve. That structure has maintained wolf society for millennia. Brennan's little experiment threatens all of it."
"Then maybe wolf society needs threatening."
"Enough." Harborough's gavel slams down. "We're not here to debate philosophy. We're here to vote on the extermination order. The motion: deploy hunters to the Rookeries in eight weeks. Eliminate organized resistance. Collateral damage acceptable."
My stomach turns. Collateral damage. Clean Parliamentary language for murdering anyone who gets in the way.
"I want amendments," I say quickly. "Before we vote, I want terms clarified."
Mordaunt sighs. "Such as?"
"Define 'organized resistance.' Are we targeting just Brennan? His lieutenants? Everyone in the Rookeries?"
"Everyone who doesn't disperse when ordered." Mordaunt's tone makes it clear he knows they won't disperse. "Hunters will arrive, give warning, allow evacuation. Anyone remaining is considered hostile."
"That's genocide."
"That's pest control." Lady Castellane examines her nails. "Packless wolves are tragic but ultimately expendable. We can't allow sentiment to compromise security."
I want to flip the table. Want to stake half the vampires in this room. Want to do something other than sit here debating the logistics of massacre.
"I call for delay," I say instead. "Push the timeline back. Give Brennan more time to..." What? Disperse? He won't. Build something legitimate? Parliament won't allow it. "Give us time to explore alternatives."
"Such as?" Harborough asks.
I don't have an answer. That's the problem. There's no good solution that satisfies both survival for the Rookeries wolves and Parliamentary control.
"Integration," I try. "Offer them official status. Create a new pack category for formerly packless wolves. Bring them into the system instead of exterminating them."
Mordaunt actually laughs. "And set precedent that anyone can organize outside pack structure, demand recognition, and receive it? Absolutely not. That's rewarding rebellion."
"It's preventing bloodshed."
"Your concern for bloodshed is noted." His smile sharpens. "But irrelevant. The vote proceeds."
Harborough nods. "All in favor of the extermination order as written: hunters deployed in eight weeks, organized resistance eliminated, collateral acceptable."
Hands rise. I count them with sinking heart.
Mordaunt. Castellane. Ashford. Harborough. Four others whose names don't matter.
Eight votes for extermination.
"Opposed?"
My hand goes up. Three others join me. The usual reformist bloc, too small to matter.
Four against.
"Motion carries." Harborough's gavel falls like an execution. "Hunters will be deployed in eight weeks. Lord Mordaunt, you'll coordinate operations."
"My pleasure." Mordaunt looks directly at me. "Count Alteroni, I trust you'll respect Parliamentary decision despite your personal feelings."
It's a threat wrapped in politeness. Support the decision or face consequences.
"I'll respect it," I say carefully. Not agreeing. Just acknowledging.
The meeting continues but I'm barely listening. Eight weeks. Sixty-three wolves marked for death. Maybe more by the time hunters arrive if Brennan keeps recruiting.
All because Parliament can't tolerate anyone building something without permission.
The session drags on. Budget discussions, territory disputes, blood club regulations. Normal Parliamentary business conducted while we countdown to approved massacre.
Finally, mercifully, Harborough adjourns.
I leave quickly. Can't stand being around them anymore tonight.
In the corridor outside chambers, footsteps follow me.
"Count Alteroni."
I turn. It's Lady Wessex, one of the four who voted against extermination. She's ancient, nearly five hundred years, with more conscience than most.
"That was uglier than expected," she says quietly.
"You expected better?"
"I hoped for better. Foolish, I know." She glances around, making sure we're alone. "What will you do?"
"What can I do? I'm outvoted, outmaneuvered, irrelevant."
"You have contacts." She moves closer. "The dhampir. Valentina Corvino. She works with Brennan."
My blood goes cold. "How do you know that?"
"I pay attention." Her smile is sad. "You're not as subtle as you think. The way you argued tonight, the specific defenses you raised. You know more about the Rookeries than intelligence reports would provide."
Fuck. If she noticed, others might have too.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Of course you don't." She pats my arm. "But if you did know someone who might warn Brennan, you might tell them: eight weeks is the official timeline. The real timeline is shorter. Mordaunt's planning to deploy hunters in six weeks. Catch them unprepared."
"Why tell me this?"
"Because I'm old enough to remember when Parliament served supernatural communities instead of controlling them. Because exterminating wolves for organizing is wrong and we both know it." She starts walking away. "And because if I do nothing, I'm complicit. This way at least I tried."
She disappears around the corner.
I stand alone in the corridor, processing.
Six weeks, not eight. Mordaunt's moving the timeline, probably not telling anyone except his inner circle. Give Brennan false sense of security, then strike early.
I need to get word to Valentina. Tonight.
Back in my office, I draft a message. Can't use official channels, too monitored. Instead I use old contacts, underground networks, the communication methods that predate Parliament's surveillance.
The message is simple: "Tell your wolf. He has one month to make extinction politically impossible."
Not six weeks. One month. Because even with early warning, Brennan needs buffer time for whatever he's planning.
I send the message through three intermediaries. Should reach Valentina within hours.
Then I pour myself a drink and wonder if I just committed treason.
Probably.
But Lady Wessex was right. Doing nothing makes me complicit. At least this way I'm trying.
My phone rings. Mordaunt.
Of course.
"Count Alteroni." His voice is poison and honey. "I wanted to thank you for your passionate advocacy tonight. Really, it was quite moving."
"What do you want?"
"Directness. How refreshing." A pause. "I want to make sure you understand the stakes. Your opposition to the extermination order has been noted. Tolerated, even. But if you were to act on that opposition, if you were to undermine Parliamentary decision through action rather than words..."
"You'd what? Execute me?"
"Don't be dramatic. I'd simply ensure you face consequences appropriate to treason." His tone lightens. "But I'm sure it won't come to that. You're too smart to throw away four hundred years over sixty-three packless wolves. Aren't you?"
He knows. Or suspects. Either way, I'm being warned.
"I respect Parliamentary decision," I say. The same careful non-agreement from earlier.
"I'm sure you do." He doesn't believe me. "Sleep well, Count. I'll see you at next session."
He hangs up.
I stare at my phone, then at the empty glass, then at the walls of my office.
Four hundred years of existence. Four hundred years of playing political games, making compromises, surviving by knowing when to fight and when to surrender.
This feels like a moment for fighting.
Even if it gets me killed.
The message is already sent. Valentina will get it. Brennan will know the real timeline.
One month to make extinction politically impossible.
I don't know how he'll do it. Don't know if he can.
But I gave him the chance.
That has to count for something.