Aelis left my estate just after the sun went down to prepare for the High Council meeting at midnight, which would be about noon human time, and hopefully, the antidote my human girl usually takes in the morning her time would be in full effect by then. For the first time in my life, I'm utterly grateful that we work during the night and sleep at sunrise, which means I shouldn't be expecting to want to puke my guts in the middle of a room full of purebloods and Gate Keepers when her body tries to reject the poison. Perhaps I should ask Cecilea if she can up the dosage a bit and make the antidote last longer for the next batch so I won't have to feel like throwing up my first meal every damn evening.

I look up from the stack of reports I haven't read yesterday when I hear several footsteps approaching. The door to my office is always opened, simply because the enormous double doors my dear ancestors had installed take too much effort to open and slow things down when I need them fast. The estate is always heavily guarded in any case, and even if someone manages to get past security and through the four impeccably-trained vampires in the hallway, I don't usually mind a little exercise every now and then. The building is also protected by old magic, so no vampire can teleport in or out of it to surprise us except for the trusted inhabitants who wear the right ring. Out of about two hundred vampires working here, only four wear the ring: me, Lucien, my Head of Security, and my Master of Potion. Needless to say, walking from A to B is the norm here in the Westwood Estate.

So I've learned to recognize most of my inner circle's footsteps, and, as usual, they are right on time this morning. The entourage entered one by one in ascending order of rank. Cecilea, my Master of Potion, and Hester, Master of Weaponry, walk in first, followed by Lynx, my Head of Treasury, and then Kiara, Head of Security and Captain of the Westwood Tower. My personal guards, Mel and Dmitri, have been with me from the moment I entered, and now all of them had taken their place either left or right of my desk, leaving room in the center. They stand quietly, hands behind their backs, waiting for the day's report to commence. In other words, waiting for Lucien, my seneschal, who's also known unofficially as my second, my secretary, my chaperone, my righthand man, and whatever else the members of my staff choose to call him in the open or behind his back. How the man manages to fit everything into his day and still have time to fuss on what I eat or what I should wear to certain events escapes me, truly.

Without a second's delay, Lucien teleports into the meeting room at 9 pm sharp, and like a reflex, six deadly, high ranking vampires suddenly stiffen, well, seven, if I include myself in that bunch. Every time he walks in even I feel like I should try to behave. Sometimes I wonder who the Highlord of Westwood estate is.

"My Lord Remus," Lucien offers a slight bow and an official greeting, first to me and then to the rest of my inner circle. He makes a point at calling me 'Lord' at all times, which, in his opinion, is the only acceptable form of addressing a Keeper of the Gates in public, regardless of how casual I've allowed him to be with me in private or how many times I've told him to just call me by name. He wouldn't have it, of course. That's who Lucien is. Once he puts his foot down that this is how something should be done, no force in heaven or hell is going to move him at least for the next century.

As usual, I sit and listen to the reports from my staff, each taking a turn, once again, in ascending order of rank because that's how Lucien considers it appropriate. He stops them for questioning from time to time, usually more often than I do, and then he closes the session with his own reports and offers me advice on how I should deal with things. I make the call, of course, but everyone in the room knows I'm just the pen that signs the signature on whatever my seneschal thinks is the best course of action. I don't really mind it. For one thing, Lucien is one hell of a manager. He's also a perfectionist who seems to notice every detail and nuance in a room filled with a hundred people. To prove my point, I've just noticed him scowling at the lint and a few strands of cat's hair on Cecilea's black jacket twice, and he's probably thinking about putting a mat outside my door for the dirt that Hester brought in with his boots right now.

For another, he's bonded with every staff in the room, so he knows how to keep them in check. Ever since I've given him the Westwood Estate to manage, Lucien makes a point of forcing everyone whose job requires coming within twenty paces of me drink his blood every year so he can keep them on a mental leash, and I think he'd sired a lot of vampires who operate directly under him. My seneschal trusts no one. It used to stir up some trouble among my old staff who've been working here long before him, but at one point I stepped in to back him up, and that was the end of the dispute. The rule of thumb is, you want to work in the Westwood Estate, you do what Lucien says, and if he doesn't trust you to do what he says, he kicks you out. As it happens, Lucien decides it's easier to just sire some of the staffs rather than spend precious time testing the loyalty of some random new guys. Which brings me to the conclusion that there's no one better to ask about how to deal with this annoying bond I've so idiotically created with the human girl than my workaholic seneschal. He's not exactly a pureblood, but at least he's a halfblood who's as old as I am, if not older, and the effects should be quite similar. The problem is, I'm not sure I want to ask him.

So I sit through the session, debating in my head whether I should pop the question as he reads me the list of appointments and meetings I have that day, crossing some off as he goes when he decides they're not worth attending. He does all this in front of me and after everyone - including my bodyguards - has been dismissed from the room. It's to keep the information of my whereabouts on that day from leaking out to too many people and to give me an opening to reject his opinion in case I happen to fancy certain events enough to make an appearance. So far, he's been rather brilliant in drawing the line between making decisions that work best for me and making it for me. I wonder, though, if he would ever cross that line when what I want clashes with what he thinks is best. Between his loyalty to me and his dedication to doing things to perfection, I have no idea which will triumph if that dilemma ever arises. I hope it never does. I really do.

"That will be all of your appointments for the day," he says, closing the folder in his hands. "What is the question you want to ask me?"

I swear inwardly at how easily he reads me. Lately, it's gotten to the point that I only have to look at a certain vegetable or woman for either to magically appear at my dining table. "Nothing." I decided I'd rather not ask.

"I can still get rid of her if it bothers you," he says expressionlessly as if I had asked the question after all. "The nausea does last at least a few weeks. For you, maybe a lot longer."

I should have known he'd notice, but I still wonder what I did that had given it away. "And how did you come by that information exactly, unless you've been slipping your blood into my food?" I ask, taking care not to make it sound too much like an accusation. There's always a line to be drawn with people who work for you. One can't be too soft or too quick to judge, or you end up losing good people either way.

"You've never not finished your figs when they're in season, my lord," he explains it as if reading from some kind of a lab report. "Since there was nothing wrong with the figs, I can only conclude that you've been feeling unwell and are experiencing a lack of appetite on a daily basis even though you have no fever or other symptoms. My first speculation is that you're either pregnant or you're suffering from the most common side effects of having fed somebody your blood. The first being unlikely, I must come to the conclusion that it's Veronica Wolf who's making you ill. By the way," he adds as-a-matter-of-factly, "you're a pureblood, my blood doesn't work on you."

I look at him with my mouth slightly opened, not sure which response I should give to that. I've somehow managed to forget that Lucien tastes my food for contamination, pays attention to my temperatures, and count every damn pea I leave on my plate for signs that something might be wrong with me, so while it feels somewhat creepy that he knows I've been feeling unwell, it's understandable. The pregnancy thing was an attack of sorts, which I haven't quite figured out if I should find it humoring or insulting. The fact that he says his blood doesn't work on me makes me want to question whether it has actually been tested, but I don't think I want to know the answer. In the end, I simply give up on making a comment. "How is she anyway?"

"Apart from the effects of being poisoned? She'll live," he says with an obvious hint of resentment. I know without having to hear it that he hates what I've done for several obvious reasons. "I sent two of my best to make sure she does what we want. They can also take her out at your command."

Two of his best would be Chris and Rae, which means he's observing her with extreme caution. "No," I give him a flat answer. "I want her alive and well. We need her."

"I can find others to infiltrate the syndicate. The bond is too much of a risk especially with the election coming up. They'll be using everything to bring you down, my lord. I must advise that you get rid of her before it becomes a problem."

"No," I repeat, firmer this time, which usually ends the conversation.

Not in this particular case, it doesn't. When Lucien presses his lips together that tightly like what he's doing now, he's about to come up with another argument.

"If you would like to bed her, my lord, I can arrange for it to happen quickly."

I look up and stare at him from my desk, the floor underneath my feet rumbles at the power my rising anger generates. Lucien's breath hitches when he feels it, and blood drains quickly from his face.

"If I want to bed a woman, Lucien," I tell him, wrapping an invisible fist around the core of my power to keep it under control, knowing the whole place would come down if I don't, "I am perfectly capable to do so without your aid or your approval. You touch Veronica Wolf, and I will consider it treason. Am I making myself clear?"

Lucien swallows and snaps his feet together before giving me a crisp bow. "Yes, my lord," he says almost too firmly, which tells me he still hates what I'm doing, even though he always obeys me in the end.

He left after that, and I release a heavy sigh. The problem with Lucien, is that he serves me with a dedication that rivals the most pious priest's to his most beloved god, and the protectiveness of an ambitious mother to her only son. While I'm blessed to have such a subordinate that I also consider a friend, I can see how such extremity can backfire. I know Lucien will take a stake to the heart for me without hesitation, but he will also go to lengths to eliminate anyone who poses a threat to my wellbeing whether or not I want him to. And this thing with Veronica is already showing signs of becoming a problem.

It's not so much that I want to protect her, but I needed to show him where the line is that he can't cross. No, I need Veronica alive, at least for now. It's a small risk to take to catch a bigger fish, and I do trust my instincts and discipline to get rid of her when the time comes. Besides, she entertains me, and I admit I'm looking a little forward to seeing that tight, shapely backside again. The stack of documents on my desk and the long list of meetings I have on my schedule, however, don't quite agree with me, and I figure it's bad form for me to tell Lucien I want to skip some of them for such small pleasures. For now, I suppose I'll have to make do with the little excitement I get from that bond which has, surprisingly, given me one hell of a laid earlier this evening. Oh, that was worth the nausea, even if it's going to last more than a few weeks.