Page 13 of Dark Reign

The two turned to the camera again, less jovial than when we first tuned into their callous rant.

‘Well, there you have it,’Natalie concluded, before the broadcast moved in a different direction the next second.

‘In national news, the Quincentennial Celebration is fast approaching,”Catherine announced with a huge grin.

‘That’s right. Local establishments are already gearing up for the festivities, commencing with the lightshow and parade to kick things off this weekend. The William H. Mortimer Museum has even designed an exhibit dedicated to Ianite history. It’s said to give one of the most accurate depictions of our beloved forefather from whom our name derived, Dr. Ian Percival. As you’re all well aware, it was his selfless efforts that bravely paved the road our people walked from savagery to civilization.’

A sickeningly perky laugh bubbled from Catherine and I couldn’t fight the scowl it brought out of me.‘I like that, Nat! From savagery to civilization,”she repeated.

O.C. scoffed again, and without him having to say a word, I understood.

The man they revered as some sort of god was actually a tyrant, and that was putting it mildly. After our kind fell, following the war five hundred years ago, it was Ian Percival’s lofty ideals that created the booming blood distribution industry, which morphed the entire nation—the world. It was those same lofty ideals, and the great wealth they accrued, that later caused a majority of the vampire population to adopt this self-important persona, which prompted them to set themselves apart by name.

Hisname—Ianites.

They saw themselves as some sophisticated, evolved species, because they no longer chose to hunt and kill their prey like roamers—their primitive counterpart. Instead, they developed a system—one that pushed our men to work themselves into early graves, forced our women to face an evenharsherfate.

Harvesting camps—those glorified farms where they were artificially inseminated and made to reproduce on eleven-month cycles, over and over again.

With twins and triplets being commonplace, and with little time to heal after birth, their bodies often gave out from the stress of the repeat pregnancies. In other cases, they were euthanized due to poor health once it was determined they were no longer capable of carrying children. By the time their purpose in the Ianite world had been fulfilled, they were too sickly to even be spared to serve a dual purpose—as blood sources to offset the shortage. The only option Ianites saw was to put them down.

Like animals.

Or, as the Ianites put it, like swine.

The children—from birth to age thirteen—were little more than walking, talking blood banks, drained three times a day, in between bouts of hard labor of course. Once they aged up, they were considered adults—the boys sent off to join the work force, while the girls went to … camps.

My mother was an avid reader. Among her collection were many books that had long-since been banned, books that told of the old world and the way things were before the transformation. This was once a beautiful place, although not void of its flaws, its historical blemishes—like war and inequality. Yet, it was nothing like what remained today.

Today, this land belonged to them, the Ianites, and they seemed to forget that our lineage shared roots, theirs only diverging half a millennia ago.

The news broadcast continued and I focused on it again.

‘An important announcement was made this morning, Natalie, and let me just say, I was elated to hear that the Westower reign will continue.’

Catherine faced viewers, peering through the camera with her over-sprayed, blonde hair, and those red eyes.‘You heard right. News broke this afternoon that the only son of our Dynasty’s beloved Presiding Emperor has chosen to follow in his father’s footsteps.’

An image popped into the top corner of the screen. A face we had all seen often over the years, but less frequently in the last four—since being a socialite had, apparently, taken a backseat to his studies.

I breathed deep at the sight of him, Julian Westower, and not for the reason so many Ianite women did. No, my thoughts weren’t fixed on the things they swooned over on the online forums. His cool, silver gaze—a trait only possessed by members of the First Families—or the slight flare of his nostrils that hinted toward him having an intense edge he kept secret, nor his dirty-blond hair, staggering height and broad shoulders. Those may have been the thingstheysaw when theylooked at him.

But me?

All I saw was the next generation’s dictator.

‘It was unclear earlier this year whether Prince Julian would, in fact, remove himself from the line of succession, choosing to forego a life of politics for a chance to pursue other endeavors. However, it is a great joy to announce that at the end of our current Emperors’ five-century reign, which will conclude next year, our beloved princes will be seated on their respective thrones—Prince Silas Aldridge of the North, Prince Roman Fairchild of the South, Prince Julian Westower of the East, Prince Levi Buchanan of the West.’

And now, all four photos were plastered onscreen, each chosen with care, an attempt to highlight the quad’s humanity. Not the tyrannical tendencies we all knew lurked just beneath the surface of their alluring exteriors.

Silas—who’d been regarded as a respected scholar among their people—was featured in a popular news publication several months back. Naturally, that was the photo the media chose to share tonight. One of him posing at an archeological site with both arms around well-known scientists in the field.

A broad smile hid so much behind it, like his soullessness, and how he had a heart as cold as the arctic. He reminded me of a recurring character I read in several of my mother’s books. Yes, the name changed, his appearance and objective was never the same, but there was an idealboy-next-doorthat found his way into so many of the plots. He was charming, said all the right things, and generally had that same killer smile.

Only, in Silas’ case, his reallywasthe smile of a killer.

I stared at him, his carefully styled brown hair, his solid physique that wasn’t well concealed even beneath tan cargo shorts and white t-shirt. He, like the others, had the entire world fooled, but not us, not the humans on which their luxurious lives had been founded. It was the red-gold that flowed through our veins that had brought their families so much fortune.

I glanced toward Roman next, at the image of him at a well-attended book signing. He was an accomplished author among the Ianite community, and it pained me to say his success wasn’ttotallybased on his name and status. Having read some of his work myself, it was obvious his notoriety was warranted. He knew his way around a pen and paper, although, in recent months, he’d fallen off the radar.

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