Daylighters

EPILOGUE

“Founder.”

Amelie looked up as Oliver slid yet another dreary file folder in front of her on her desk. She frowned at it peevishly. “And what’s this one?”

“For your signature,” he said, and settled with insolent ease into a chair on the other side. He’d gone back to his customary black, which—she was sure he was aware—looked quite intimidating on him. “Reports on the ongoing prosecutions. Rhys Fallon is pleading not guilty, along with Anderson and some of the other key members of the Daylight Foundation. I assume you will sign the orders to terminate them once the verdict is in.” He was watching her carefully, probing for weakness. As always.

She handed the folder back. “No. My original decision still stands.”

“You really must disabuse yourself of the notion that mercy will heal all wounds. Some diseases need surgery.”

“Fallon thought he had such a surgical cure,” she said. “I am not so foolish. If they’re found guilty, they will serve prison sentences, Oliver, and I shall hear no more of it. Chief Moses and I are in perfect agreement on this matter.”

“Chief Moses is just as much of a sentimental fool as you are.”

“Careful,” Amelie said in a low, even tone that nevertheless was edged in ice. “I have ceded control of most things to the humans, but within our ranks I still rule. You know that.”

“I do,” he said. “But you’d be terribly disappointed in me if I didn’t test you from time to time.”

He was, unfortunately, right. All rulers needed gadflies to keep them alert, keep them questioning. And for better or worse, for eternity, he was hers.

And she could not deny that it suited them both, very well.

“Anything else? The night is growing short.”

“The university is reporting a few incidents,” he said. “It would appear not all vampires are behaving themselves quite as well as you require. I assume you’d like me to look into it.”

“Send Jason Rosser,” she said. “Since you’re grooming the psychotic little beast to act as your second-in-command, best give him the responsibility for keeping others in line. He will hopefully learn some restraint himself in the process, with your oversight. No deaths involved, I assume?”

“No,” he said. “I suppose the three vampires you locked up for murder did get the message across effectively.”

“Then I suppose we are . . .”

“At peace?” Oliver stood up and offered her his hand. She took it, and he escorted her to the door of her office, which he held open as he saw her out. “There are still humans who hate the sight of us, and you’ve given them power and trust. Myrnin is still running about unattended in that lab of his, concocting God knows what new nightmare. There is an emissary from the new Pope coming to review our status, which may be unpleasant. A blogger in Kansas wrote an incoherent piece about vampires hiding in Texas. A number of vampires have requested Fallon’s cure, despite the slender odds of survival. And I believe that Monica Morrell is demanding your presence as a judge at a dog show. Peace, dear Founder, might be a bridge too far.”

“Ah,” she said, and gave him a cool, calm smile as they walked the hallway toward Founder’s Square and the night. “Then I suppose we must settle for controlled chaos.”

“As ever, Amelie,” he said.

“One might think you far too familiar,” she said.

As they stepped out into the moonlight, he bent and raised her hand to his lips. “I am not familiar enough, dear Founder. Yet.”

“Good,” she said, and controlled a shiver. “Very good.”

It was, when all was said and done, now a human town, with human values.

But in the dark . . . Morganville was still hers.

Always.