The dining room of the Silvanus estate was designed to impress.
Twenty-foot ceilings. A table of reclaimed walnut that could seat thirty. Lighting that had been calibrated by a consultant from a Michelin-starred restaurant in Lyon. The windows faced east, toward the forest, and their UV treatment was so sophisticated that Lyra could stand in direct morning sunlight without discomfort—a luxury that had cost her father a small fortune and the discretion of three separate contractors.
Tonight, the table seated two.
Lyra sat at her usual place, three chairs down from the head. Her father occupied the head itself, as he always did. The distance between them was deliberate. Close enough for conversation. Far enough to maintain the formality that Lord Cassius Silvanus considered essential to proper family relations.
The meal was roasted quail with a pomegranate reduction. Lyra's plate was identical to her father's, though neither of them would eat more than a few bites. The food was for show. For the human staff who prepared it and would later clear it away, maintaining the fiction that the Silvanus family was merely eccentric, not fundamentally other.
She cut a piece of quail and lifted it to her lips. The taste was muted—her palate had dulled over the decades, another slow erosion of the human experience she'd once taken for granted. She chewed. Swallowed. Set down her fork.
Her father watched.
Cassius Silvanus was handsome in the way that old money was handsome. Refined features. Silver at the temples. Eyes the color of winter skies. He'd been turned at forty-two, and he'd chosen to retain the signs of age rather than freeze himself at the peak of youth. "Age commands respect," he'd told her once. "Eternal youth invites suspicion."
He was two hundred and sixty-seven years old. He'd been a merchant in Venice before the transformation, trading in silks and spices and, according to family legend, secrets. The Council had recruited him for his network of contacts, and he'd risen through their ranks with a patience that bordered on geological.
"How was your day?" he asked.
The question was ritual. Perfunctory. Lyra had learned years ago that he didn't actually want an answer. He wanted the sound of normalcy. The appearance of a father and daughter sharing a meal.
"Fine," she said. "I went into the city."
"Portland?"
"Yes."
"Alone?"
She met his eyes. "Yes."
A pause. Cassius took a sip of wine—a 1945 Château Margaux that he'd been working through for the past decade. The bottle was worth more than most humans made in a year. He drank it like water.
"You know I prefer you take an escort."
"I was running errands. Nothing that required backup."
"Lyra." His voice was patient. Measured. The same tone he used when explaining treaty violations to young vampires who should have known better. "The city is not the estate. We have enemies."
"Do we?"
His expression didn't change. "The treaty is three hundred years old. Treaties that old develop cracks. The Children of the Moon have not forgotten the Blood Wars. Neither have we. Pretending otherwise is naive."
Lyra thought about amber eyes and a brown paper bag. Nick Drake. Pink Moon.
"I'm not naive," she said.
"No. You're not. Which is why I worry when you go into the city alone."
She didn't have an answer for that. The silence stretched, filled only by the soft clink of silver against porcelain. Somewhere in the kitchen, a radio played classical music—Mozart, she thought, though she'd never had much ear for the distinctions.
"I received a letter today," Cassius said.
Lyra's hand stilled on her wine glass.
"From Lord Valerius. His son, Marcus, has completed his education in Zurich. He's returning to North America next month. Lord Valerius has suggested that it might be time for our families to... discuss the future."
The future. Such a delicate way to phrase it. What he meant was marriage. An alliance between the Silvanus and Valerius bloodlines that would consolidate power on the West Coast and create a voting bloc within the Council that no other family could challenge.
Lyra had met Marcus Valerius once. It had been fifty years ago, at a Council gathering in Montreal. He'd been handsome in a forgettable way. Polite. Bored. He'd spent most of the evening discussing his collection of vintage watches with another young vampire, barely acknowledging Lyra's existence.
"I see," she said.
"I haven't given him an answer. I wanted to discuss it with you first."
This was a lie. A kind lie, but a lie nonetheless. Cassius Silvanus never made a decision without already knowing the outcome. He was discussing it with her now because he'd decided that giving her the illusion of choice would make her more compliant when the choice was made for her.
"When is he arriving?"
"October."
Three months. Lyra picked up her fork and cut another piece of quail. She didn't taste it. She was thinking about the record store. About initials on a website. About a boy—a man—who collected vinyl and smelled like a storm over the ocean.
"I'll think about it," she said.
Cassius inclined his head. It was the closest he ever came to approval.
The rest of the meal passed in silence. When the plates were cleared and her father retreated to his study, Lyra went back to her room. She sat on the edge of her bed and pulled out her phone.
The record store's website was still open. She refreshed the page. The note about K.S. and Pink Moon was still there.
She had three months until Marcus Valerius arrived. Three months until her father expected an answer. Three months until the future her family had planned for her closed in like a cage.
She opened a new browser tab and searched for "K.S. Portland record store." Nothing useful. She tried "K.S. Portland wolf"—a risk, but her phone was encrypted, her search history scrubbed automatically every twelve hours. Still nothing.
She set the phone down and lay back on the bed. The ceiling was white. Blank. She listened to the rain and thought about the boy with the amber eyes.
Tomorrow, she decided, she would go back to the record store.
Not to find him. Not to talk to him. Just to see. To understand why her hands had shaken. T
o understand why she hadn't made the call.
Tomorrow, she would start looking for answers.