Page 24 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

Her auburn hair, usually a wild fall of spiral curls, is tamed into intricate braid work, framing her striking features. She moves with poise, stopping to greet various heads of state. Her presence illuminates the dimly lit hall, exuding an unmistakable air of authority.

Sandoval absently pats my shoulder and leans in to whisper, “We’ll talk more about your chyld later.” His eyes never leave Sunday. “I want a front-row seat for this.” I watch him push his way through the crowd, eventually taking a seat in the first row beside Gaul and her consort.

As Sunday ascends the dais, my gaze sweeps over the assembled crowd, cataloging familiar and unfamiliar faces. The weight of what’s at stake keeps me on edge, forcing me to note every detail, every flicker of expression, every whisper. Each piece of information could prove vital later—a potential weapon or shield in the battles to come.

To the left, Bathory, the infamous Queen of Bohemia, sits alongside Clovis, the ancient Merovingian ruler. Their faces are blank masks, but I know better. Violence is their language—spoken fluently, with terrifying ease. These two are the ones to watch. Their iron-fisted rule stands in direct opposition to Sunday’s vision of shared power. They have the most to lose.

Shifting my focus, I find the Plantagenêts standing with Valentine. Edward, the elder, watches Sunday with a contemplative tilt of his head, while Richard, the younger, all but vibrates with restless excitement. Their glance is subtle, but it speaks volumes. Allies, perhaps. A tentative hope stirs to life—they might remain on her side.

My eyes move on, landing next on Hudson and Neville, positioned slightly apart from the crowd. Hudson catches myeye, one brow lifting in amusement. This isn’t just a courtesy call—he’s come a long way to be here. Then again, I did pull him into this when I sent Farin his way and they do enjoy a good show.

Sunday’s voice cuts through the low murmur of the hall—soft, lilting, her Southern drawl lending each word a deceptive gentleness. “Grayson,” she calls, dipping my name in honey. “Darlin’, would you join me up here?”

A ripple of snickers breaks the tension.I suppose I should be grateful she didn’t call me Puddin’.

A path opens before me, leading straight to the dais. Every eye is on me—a blend of curiosity and respect, but not nearly enough fear for my liking.

I meet their gazes head-on, letting my monster rise to the surface. My vision tinges red at the edges; claws prick beneath my skin, itching to break free. After Roxana—after the poisoning and my rescue—some may think me weak. But they’d be wrong. I’ve never felt stronger.

Sunday makes room for me at her left side, with Tomas on her right and Xavier, as always, at her back. She takes my hand and turns to face the crowd.

She begins by thanking specific vampires, publicly acknowledging their roles in her coup. The gesture is more than courtesy—it establishes her authority and reinforces her alliances before she unveils her bold reform plans. I catch the deftness of the maneuver and wonder, with grudging admiration, if it was her idea or Tomas’.

She gives my hand a quick squeeze, then lets go—an unspoken message that, while I stand beside her, she speaks for all of us.

Thank you all for being here,” she begins. “I know this isn’t what any of y’all expected, but sometimes life throws you a curveball, and you gotta swing for the fences.” Her smile is disarming, effortlessly warm.

“I’m not gonna lie, I’m a little out of my depth here.” She shrugs with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m exactly what I appear to be—a girl from a small town with next to no experience charting the admittedly treacherous waters of supernatural politics.”

Her eyes sweep the crowd. “I don’t have centuries of experience or a fancy title. What I do have is a fresh perspective. I see the potential for something better, something extraordinary, and together, we can make it a reality.”

Her voice strengthens, each word deliberate. “Because everyone—whether they have fangs, fur, or feathers—deserves a chance to live without fear.”

She pauses, letting her gaze sweep the room, meeting eyes and holding them.

“I see the potential for a new era.”

The crowd rumbles with cross-talk. Yet her voice carries—clear, unyielding—reaching every corner of the vast chamber.

“An era where vampires and shifters can coexist with displaced dae and fae. Not just in a tenuous peace, but in cooperation. As equals. As allies. As one.”

Beside her, I stiffen. The implications of her words ripple through the hall like a shockwave. I scan the crowd, searching for signs of agreement or dissent—and find far more of the latter than I’d like.

She’s not just announcing a change in leadership; she’s advocating for a revolution. Many vampires here, cloaked in centuries of privilege, will see this as a threat to their very existence.

But Sunday continues undeterred, as if she’s basking in a standing ovation. I believe she’d call this faking it until you’re making it.

She explains the Moot’s structure: each contender has five minutes to address the crowd—three minutes to speak, two toanswer questions. At the end of the evening, she’ll meet with her advisors and select a representative from each community: Dae, Shifter, and Vampire.

Her choices will be binding and final. But she makes one thing clear: she expects them to craft a plan for transitioning to a representative government.

Reaching through our bond, I sense her nervousness tinged with excitement—a potent mix of adrenaline and determination. Beneath it crackles the subtle hum of her magic, a gentle current flowing between her and the audience. She’s reading the crowd, cataloging their reactions, their unspoken fears and desires. The Moot has already begun, and they’re none the wiser.

“The Western Roman Empire can be a model,” she declares, her voice steady. “An example of what’s possible when cooperation isn’t a weakness, but a strength. When diversity isn’t a threat, but an asset.”

She takes a measured breath, drawing some of her energy back into her core, then slips her hand into mine. The warmth of her touch spreads through me, anchoring me in a way nothing else can. My chest tightens, admiration and love swelling until it’s hard to contain.

“I, for one, am not going to let this opportunity slip away.”

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