Page 107 of The Blood Witch

She had to die, of course. They all would have to die, eventually. The rumblings in the city were growing stronger, not weaker, and Cassiel knew the sounds of a revolution in the making. The city would start actively calling for Fey to be crowned queen soon enough, and it wouldn’t be long before those calls turned to violence.

It had been a stroke of genius on his part to start putting up those original posters. A stroke of genius to start the rumor mill going, to plant the idea of Fey being queen directly into the minds of the few aristocrat Witches who still remained. Revolution left people frightened, left them wanting to return to a world they knew—a world where they felt safe. A new queen would give them exactly what they wanted.

What he had always wanted.

It was almost time for him to make his move. Alastair couldn't remain this foolish forever. Even he would see the value of sharing the throne, of ruling the realm with Fey at his side, eventually. Cassiel liked Alice’s idealism. Truly he did, but he had learned many hard lessons over his centuries of life. And one lesson history had taught him time and time again was that idealists never held power for long. No. Dictators held power. Those who were willing to bring waste to their enemies, to those who disagreed with them, those were the sort who ended up in power, time and time again.

Thea had been a dictator. She’d had to be, to finally end the war.

So, tonight he would meet with the leaders of the other Vampire families, weak though they may be. Tonight, he would play the part of an idealist. But tomorrow? Tomorrow, he would start the next phase on his own plans. Tomorrow, the right amount of coin in the right hands would see another resurgence in the push to put Fey on the throne. To put his son on the throne.

Tomorrow, his revolution truly began.

Cassiel glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed heavily. He should eat. It had been over a month since he'd last fed, and he was feeling the effects of it. At his age, he needed to feed frequentlyto keep his strength up. It felt like a mistake to go into this meeting at a fraction of his power, but he was already running behind schedule. He didn't have time, now, to have a woman brought to him to feed on her.

Distracted, hungry, and full of schemes, Cassiel was completely oblivious to the power that reached through the walls to threaten him. And when the voice in his head first started speaking, it was so quiet he barely even heard it.

It was a gentle murmur, just a whisper over his consciousness. A fly buzzing around the room would have captured more notice.

"Have a bottle of that Riesling I like sent to the formal sitting room in the South Hall," Cassiel told Winston, gathering a few papers together from his desk. “And ifl'enfant de sangis there already, tell her I'm?—"

This time, the voice was a shout. The sound was so loud it exploded in his skull, wiping away all thought. Cassiel cried out, knees buckling.Pain. His entire world was reduced to pain as the noise pounded through every cell in his brain.

"Master?" Winston was saying, voice tight with fear. It sounded distant, and strained, like it was coming from underwater. Reality suddenly felt so far away. "Master, what is it? What ails you?"

The sound vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and Cassiel gasped. He was bent over his desk, hands clasping the surface hard enough his nails had dug rivulets in the wood. His mind was his own again.

Wasn’t it?

Something was wrong. His body felt strangely far away, and his mind? His mind…

Leech…

It was his voice. His own voice, speaking in his head. Cassiel shook his head violently, trying to dispel the sound.

"Something is wrong with me," he said out loud, for Winston. The human wouldn't be able to do anything, weak and ancient as he was, but he needed help, needed someone?—

Leech.

False King.

Witch’s Pet.

Cassiel snarled, baring his fangs as the words crashed through him. What was happening? He was no Witch’s pet. No leech. He was?—

Kill them.

There was a straight razor in his desk drawer, hidden beneath the files he kept in there. Almost the second the image of it formed in his head, something took hold of him. His hand shot out, fumbling for the drawer handle, reaching for the blade.

Kill them.

The Falcon was right, Cassiel realized distantly. It had been so long since Cassiel had last felt fear, it took several seconds to recognize the symptoms. The sour taste of adrenaline in his throat, the sudden and quick beating of his heart.

This was what had happened to Kellos, wasn’t it? What was it the Falcon had said about his death?

It was like he wasn't even there… like he was being controlled…

Kill them, the voice commanded. His own voice, coming from inside his own head.

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