David Wilson - Vintage soul

The last time the council had met, there were sixteen in attendance. Tonight, there would be only ten. The Resendez brothers were in Argentina on business, and though their people had, of course, been alerted, and warnings passed, they were unable to return in time to be present. Claudia Forsythe and her current paramour, who Johndrow knew only as Benjamin, were in Europe and could not be reached. Copper and Alicia Contreaux were still in Louisiana, and there were reports that the two had troubles of their own in the bayou.

Johndrow glanced up and down the hallway as he entered the large conference room Joel had cleared for the meeting. Two of the small, gnomish men and one gnarled woman, a good foot shorter with piercing blue eyes and a hooked nose reminiscent of a buzzard were stationed at intervals up and down the hall, and there were others at every entrance. At Johndrow’s apartment, Stine had been alone, and had fallen to the element of surprise. It was obvious that his people considered the threat a serious one. Johndrow had never seen such a concentration of the security force. He knew it must have cost a fortune, and he knew as well that a bill would arrive at his penthouse shortly for his part in it. Joel was a good friend, but business was business.

Joel stepped up to greet Johndrow at the door, laying a hand on the taller man’s shoulder. “They will be sufficient,” the old man assured him. “They take what happened last night as a personal affront. I would not like to try and breach their defenses tonight.”

“I would have had them there last night, if I’d had any idea…” Johndrow’s features darkened. He was angrier than he’d been in over a century, but there was nothing on which to vent his rage. He wanted to roar up and down the hallway, smashing anyone and anything that got in his way, but it would have served no purpose, and he knew that Joel was right. If he tried something crazy like that tonight, it would be his bones scattered haphazardly over the carpeted floor.

“Come in,” Joel said, stepping aside. "Corwyn, Ballard, and Jensen are here already. I just received word that Grimshaw and Nystrom are in the garage. Lydia and her Adriana will be fashionably late, of course, and that only leaves Ligaya, who will finalize security. We’ve commissioned extra wards. It’s an inconvenience, I know. No one will be able to leave before the charms are raised, but it will afford us the extra level of security we need to be certain we are not disturbed.”

Johndrow nodded distractedly. He’d expected as much, and knew the others would as well. Only extraordinary circumstances could have dislodged them all from their comfortable holdings at such short notice, and anything less than perfect security would not do at all. They would see it as their due.

They were ten of the most powerful creatures on earth. They were men, or had been men, and women, but now they were more. Sixteen floors beneath them were corridors and offices where the finances of the world were bartered, traded, negotiated and sealed. Huge vaults held the vast fortunes of those who ruled the daylight hours. The wealth of minor foreign countries was tucked safely beneath the polished marble floors, and centuries of treasures, secrets, and lives were tucked into row after row of secure safe deposit boxes, some so old and intricately guarded that the building could withstand anything short of nuclear attack and not breach their integrity. That was what the world saw.

Beneath those secure vaults, beside them, sometimes even within them, were other vaults. Joel had gathered wealth, treasure, and power of his own. Centuries of it. There were secrets held safe within his walls that kings would ransom their holdings to acquire, that wars could be and had been fought over; artifacts that required such deep concentration and dedication to control and secure that the task boggled Johndrow’s mind. And Joel was only one of the ten.

Before long the first nine were seated. Ligaya entered last, drawing the doors closed behind her. Just for a moment the gnomish security woman’s fierce eyes filled one pane of the glass paneled door behind her, glared into the room, and then were gone. Ligaya seemed not to notice. She took her seat beside Joel, and Johndrow rose slowly, getting right to the point.

“There’s no sense in my going over the events of last night in detail,” he said. “Most of you were there, and those of you who were not have no doubt gathered the details through your own people. Vanessa was taken, right out of my penthouse, right out of my party. Most of you know — knew — Stine. He was one of the oldest and most trusted of his kind. There was only just enough left of him for identification. My elevator system was thoroughly fried, and at least a dozen drivers had their memories wiped. All of this took place in the span of only a few moments time, and the intruder left no trace.”

“It’s bad about Vanessa,” Nystrom called out. He was a trim man in a gray suit, and as he spoke, he slowly filed a long, sharp fingernail. He didn’t meet Johndrow’s gaze. In fact, he looked somewhat bored by the entire proceeding, though it would have been a mistake to believe he wasn’t paying scrupulous attention. “The two of you have been together a long time now,” he went on. “I remember a time when you were not, though. In fact, most of us remember that time. Vanessa has disappeared in the past, what makes you so sure someone took her this time?”

Johndrow’s hands shook and he dug his nails into the hard, smooth surface of the conference table. Had it been wood alone, he’d have splintered it, but it was reinforced against just such extreme treatment. He kept his voice even and calm. Nystrom and Vanessa had been involved with one another for a short period, perhaps fifty years, before Johndrow had met her. He knew Nystrom was testing his nerves, but they were dangerously frayed, and he had to fight to keep from launching himself across the table and gripping the smug bastard by the throat.

“I am as aware of Vanessa’s history as any of you,” he said. “Probably more than any other, I understand her nature, and it is true that in the past she has been — somewhat less than reliable.”

There was a soft snicker from one corner of the room, but it fell to silence before Johndrow could pinpoint the source.

“This is a serious threat,” he said. “You can sit there and make light of it if you want, but I don’t think there’s anyone here who believes that Vanessa, even in a fury, could have done what was done to Stine, let alone what happened to the elevator and the drivers below. She’s old, and she’s powerful, but none of us is that powerful.”

Nystrom glanced up, as if he took offense at this statement, but he held his tongue. He stared pointedly at where Johndrow still clutched the conference table in a death grip, chipping his nails from the pressure. Nystrom went back to his manicure, shaking his head.

“What would you have us do?” The speaker was Andrew Corwyn, a peevish, bookish little man with large glasses perched on his nose that he no longer needed, but wore in memory of a mortal life he claimed to miss. No one believed him, of course, but neither did they suggest he cast aside the spectacles. “I mean,” the man said, glancing around at the others for support, “It’s your problem, not ours. It was your party, your security, and, to be blunt, Vanessa was your lover. How does this affect me?”

“You were at the party,” Joel cut in evenly. “It could as easily have been you, or your Meredith, that was taken. Would you feel differently then? How is security at your place, Andrew? A few gnomes short of a quorum, I’m betting, since they won’t work unless you pay them fairly.”

Ligaya reached out and laid her hand gently on Joel’s. “They don’t like to be called gnomes, dear, you know that. Considering how much is riding on our contract…?”