The Table Meeting
Julien Sinclair frowned at the wall in front of him.
“This is insulting.”
He picked a hammer up off the floor.
He did not rear back; he had no intention of taking the entire wall down.
The hammer met the wall with a high-pitched thwack. Concrete and mortar crumbled away, revealing a dinner plate-sized area of original Romanesque limestone, each block hand-cut and fitted together like a puzzle only medieval masons knew how to solve.
“You know how to use a hammer?” Lachlan Sullivan’s accent had long ago stopped bothering to decide if it was Scottish or English.
Julien had overseen many renovations and demolitions during his two hundred and thirty-three-year existence, but never actively participated. Manual labor was beneath him, but this building was special. It was to be his most prestigious venture yet: a club for all vampire society, not just the elite.
Julien swung the hammer again. And again. “The philistine who covered these walls with concrete should be tarred and feathered.”
“Sadly, tarring and feathering went out of style centuries ago.” Aldéric Rousseau waltzed into the room, peeling his gloves off one finger at a time.
“Not sure it was a style thing so much as a legal thing.” Lachlan kept a wary eye on the hammer in Julien’s hand. “Torture becoming illegal and all.”
“That’s exactly what I said, dear Lachlan. Torture went out of style.” Aldéric flung his gloves onto a table, disrupting the dust that had rested on its surface for years. “Such a pity, too. There are crimes still deserving of inhumane punishments.”
Julien eyed Aldéric’s attire. “Such as the crime of pairing that cravat with those trousers?”
Aldéric looked down and frowned. “There is nothing criminal about pairing chocolate brown with indigo.”
“I like how your shoes match your neck napkin.” Lachlan slid his hands into his pockets. “Those pants, though… Did you get dressed in the dark?”
“I can see in the dark, you fool!”
“Then what’s your excuse for your pants not matching?” Lachlan asked.
Aldéric’s eyes narrowed at Lachlan. “Why in Elysium’s name are you here early?”
“I bribed him.” Julien set the hammer down next to Aldéric’s gloves. “Come. The others are waiting.”
Julien straightened his cufflinks and ran a hand through his dark hair to tame the one stray lock that refused to cooperate.
They picked their way across the room, stepping over boards, drywall, loose nails, and tools. The room was far from the elegant vision Julien had laid out with interior decorators.
“They gonna patch that?” Lachlan pointed at a hole in the ceiling.
“No. The second floor will be torn out,” Julien said, stepping around a sawhorse.
“Naturally.”
The hallway they entered off the main room was built of unpolished sandstone the color of creamed coffee. Five dilapidated wooden doors lined the left wall before the passage curved right and began to spiral downward. Lachlan ducked, the low ceiling snagging his tawny hair.
At the bottom, the hallway widened, and a cool draft danced around their legs. Aldéric fell into step beside Lachlan. Julien led them to a set of ceiling-high double doors so newly carved that wood shavings still littered the floor and the scent of linseed oil hung heavy in the air.
The doors looked almost indecent against the rustic sandstone, their golden-brown wood so freshly finished that it gleamed in the low light, every detail carved deep enough to hold shadow. Each panel bloomed with baroque flourishes—garlands of flowers and fruit cascading from ornate urns adorned with the fleur-de-lis.
“Bit fancy for a cellar door,” Lachlan grunted.
Julien pushed the doors apart. They swung wide with a boom that rolled through the stone passage like distant thunder.
They stepped into an antechamber, where a Parisian salon had been staged against the cream sandstone and beneath a ceiling twenty feet overhead.
Aldéric stopped, his hand rising to his chest. “Julien—this room is… exquisite.”
Plush red velvet couches flanked a cold fireplace with an ornate mirror hanging above its marble mantel. High-backed chairs, upholstered in crimson damask, clustered in small groups like conspirators, all arranged on a Persian rug the color of dried blood. Twin chandeliers hung from iron chains, each dripping with crystal and lit by dozens of tapered candles. The walls were concealed beneath enormous oil paintings in gold frames—portraits of powder-wigged nobles, Alpine landscapes wrapped in snow, and still lifes where apples and pears gleamed like jewels. Between the paintings hung tapestries depicting hunting scenes, their threads still rich despite their age.
Aldéric circled one of the chairs slowly, fingers trailing along its back. “Sixteenth century?”
“Fifteenth,” Julien corrected. “I found them in a château in Bordeaux before it was demolished.”
“Of course you did.”
“The others are waiting for us in the next room.” Julien lowered himself into one of the antique chairs and gestured for Aldéric and Lachlan to do the same. “Benedict and Sabine are getting acquainted with Tristan.”
Lachlan frowned. “Why is Tristan Morvayne sitting at our Shield’s Table and not his sister’s?”
“Isabella requested it,” Aldéric said.
Julien nodded. “Yes, but Tristan made the request, as well.”
“It makes perfect sense for Isabella to want Tristan to have a seat at your Table, Julien,” Aldéric said. “It keeps you close.”
“The saying is keep your enemies closer.” Lachlan leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. “Why does Isabella, who is supposedly your friend, need to keep you so close?”
“She always wants to keep Julien close,” Aldéric replied.
“Why?”
Aldéric turned to Julien. “One of two reasons. Either she doesn’t trust you, or…”
“Or?” Julien urged Aldéric to finish.
Aldéric looked Julien in the eye. “Or she is in love with you.”
Julien did not move.
The muscle in his jaw ticked once.
“You don’t have to give him the seat,” Lachlan offered carefully.
“He’s right.” Aldéric pressed. “You don’t have to capitulate to Isabella, and you don’t need him.”
Julien’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I am not capitulating to Isabella. You are so focused on her game, you have missed mine entirely. I do not add players without knowing exactly how they will move.”
Lachlan shook his head. “Sounds like Sinclair is three steps ahead of the rest of us.”
“More like five,” Julien said as he rose from the chair.
He went to a set of doors that mirrored those they had entered through earlier. He raised his hands to push them open, then stopped.
Julien turned to look at the two vampires behind him, his face passive, gaze dropping to a point between them.
He spoke softly, careful not to be heard by the three waiting in the other room.
“The two of you… I—” He raised his gaze. “I trust you both like no other. Without you, I would not be in this position. I would never have chosen to lead a Shield without you at my side.”
Julien’s grey eyes locked on Lachlan. “Honor is etched into your bones. You are the most loyal man I know. I know your blade will never pierce my back. You, Lachlan Sullivan, are my Knight on the Chessboard and I could not play this game without you.”
Lachlan’s green eyes darkened like a stormy Irish sea. His Adam’s apple bobbed. He blinked, then nodded once.
Julien turned to Aldéric.
Candlelight caught in Aldéric's widened eyes, turning brown to amber.
He raised a hand, palm out. “Please, do not make me cry.”
The corners of Julien’s mouth teased a smile. “I would not dream of it.” He took one step closer to Aldéric. “You are my Rook, my ally… mon ami.”
“But—”
It was Julien’s turn to raise his hand. “No. Do not.”
“But I have betrayed you.”
“Yes, we have had our disagreements, Aldéric, but I always know where you stand. Even when you have betrayed me, you have been steadfast and reliable. That honesty is as precious to me as loyalty.”
Silence settled between them.
Lachlan's throat worked. His jaw tensed.
Aldéric blinked rapidly, candlelight catching the sheen in his eyes.
Julien stood completely still, afraid to break whatever fragile thing he'd just built.
The fire in the next room crackled faintly through the closed doors.
"The Shield that has no name," Lachlan finally mumbled.
Aldéric tilted his head and frowned at him.
Lachlan shrugged. “The moment was getting way too heavy.”
Julien shook his head, then pushed the double doors open.
Unlike the antechamber, this room was alive.
Fire crackled in a stone hearth large enough to roast a boar, the flames casting shadows across the walls. The air smelled of wood smoke, beeswax, and parchment.
At the center of the room stood an oval table of dark walnut, its surface polished to a mirror sheen. Six throne-like chairs surrounded it, their backs carved with Gothic arches and fleur-de-lis, upholstered in royal blue velvet with gold cord trim. Iron sconces lined the walls, between oil paintings of saints and nobles, who watched the room with somber expressions.
Three people—Benedict, Sabine, Tristan—were clustered together in the far corner of the room. They turned at the sound of the door opening.
“Julien.” A Black man with the face of a forty-something, wearing a smart grey suit, approached. His voice carried the percussive and syllabic tones from South Africa. “Good evening.”
“Benedict. I appreciate your acceptance of my invitation to join the Table. I hope your relocation was not too troublesome.”
“It is a bit too early to tell. My art is currently floating in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.”
“Would you like me to make a call?”
“I would never ask, but since you offered—yes.” Benedict inclined his head. “Thank you.”
Julien gestured to the chairs. “Please, sit.”
They moved with certainty, as if they had assigned seats. Julien sat at the head of the table with Aldéric on his right and Lachlan on his left. Sabine, dressed in a fitted black pantsuit and her long blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail at the nape of her neck, sat next to Aldéric. Tristan sat beside Lachlan, his windblown hair, casual linen, and loafers without socks suggesting he had just stepped off a yacht. Benedict took the chair at the other end of the table.
Julien leaned back in his chair. His fingers tapped the end of the armrests as he assessed the others with regal discernment.
He allowed a heavy silence to fall, waiting to see if anyone was impatient enough to break it.
A log in the fire popped.
Tristan’s chair creaked as he propped his ankle on his knee.
Sabine folded her hands on the table, her gold bracelet clinking against the wood.
No one spoke.
“I am pleased each of you accepted my invitation to sit at my advisory Table. As the leader of the newest Shield, I have been charged with bringing stability to Prague and I will need your help. The High Council no longer trusts the existing Shields to rule the city effectively.”
“Do they expect us to reform the other two Shields?" Benedict asked. "Davros and Mitigan have been failing for years."
“They expect me to put pressure on Alexia and Christopher. If that fails, then there will need to be a forced convergence.”
“Christopher will cooperate,” Tristan offered.
“Alexia will be a problem,” Sabine said.
“We shall see how it plays out,” Julien replied. “But until then, we have other matters before us.”
“Like a name?” Lachlan said under his breath.
“Yes, like a name. But also,” Julien spread his arms out, palms up, “this building.”
Aldéric glanced around the ornate room. “What about it?”
“You are constructing your newest business venture here, no?” Benedict asked.
Julien nodded. “Yes, a club that caters to vampire society at large. I propose that this room be designated as the official place of business for our Table. The entire underground area can be renovated to have meeting rooms, sitting rooms, storage, cells, and guest rooms. Everything a Shield requires.”
“What’s behind those doors?” Aldéric pointed to a set of double doors that were a smaller version of the doors that led into the room they occupied.
“That is my private chamber.”
“Why have our official Shield quarters under your club?” Tristan asked.
Julien did not answer. He folded his hands on the table and waited.
Aldéric turned to Julien, his eyes wide. “When do you plan to have the club open?”
“August 31st.”
Aldéric grinned. “You are a fucking genius.”
Tristan crossed his arms over his chest. “Care to enlighten the rest of us?”
“Julien is creating a sociopolitical hub just in time for the annual gatherings.”
“Not just for the gatherings, Aldéric. This club will remain a center for vampire politics and social gossip.”
Tristan leaned forward, angled toward Julien. “If that is the case, and we house our Shield beneath it, we will have a pulse on vampire alliances, power bargains, disagreements… all of it.”
“Exactly.”
Sabine turned to Julien, awestruck. “You really do think three steps ahead.”
“Five actually,” Lachlan said as he swung his leg over the arm of his chair.
“Do you have a name for this club?” Tristan asked.
“L’Échiquiere,” Julien did not hide his smile.
“I don’t understand a word of the French,” Lachlan muttered.
“It means ‘the chessboard.’” Aldéric said.
“Yeah. That tracks.” Lachlan chuckled. “But what are we naming our Shield?”
“Why are you so obsessed with the name?” Aldéric grumbled.
“Names are important,” Lachlan answered.
“Some already have a name for us.” Tristan tapped his finger on the table once. “Shield of Outcasts.”
“Not surprising.” Benedict’s eyes darkened. “It is not typical for a Black vampire to get a seat at a European Shield’s advisory Table.”
Tristan turned to Sabine. “It’s not typical for ghouls either.”
“Sabine is loyal,” Aldéric said. “But are you, Morvayne? Your sister—by blood—leads a well-established Shield and she is your maker.”
“So? Do you still serve your maker?”
“Don’t you bring my maker into this,” Aldéric snapped.
“Makers have everything to do with why she’s at the table.” Tristan pointed at Sabine.
Sabine’s hands clutched the armrests so tightly the solid wood groaned under the strain.
“Keep her out of it,” Aldéric growled.
“Enough!” Julien’s eyes gleamed like stainless steel. His fangs elongated and sharpened to razor points, drawing blood from his bottom lip as he spoke. “If I hear any of you turn against another Table member again, I’ll have your throat. Am I clear?”
“Crystal,” Lachlan smirked, pleased with himself for not jumping into the fray for once.
“If you insult each other, you insult me. I handpicked everyone sitting at this Table.”
Tristan cleared his throat. “Perhaps, Julien, you could explain why you chose each of us. That will give us a better appreciation for those we’re sitting next to.”
Julien fixed his piercing gaze on Tristan.
Though the magic coursing through his veins screamed at him to look away, Tristan met Julien’s molten silver eyes.
An oppressive weight materialized around the table, enveloping every member in a dark embrace. Between Julien and Tristan, an electric current sparked, so strong that Lachlan pushed his chair back to get out of its path.
His tone controlled, his voice clear, Benedict said, “I believe everyone here knows why Lachlan and Aldéric are sitting here today, but I would very much like to know why I was chosen to sit at your Shield’s Table, Julien.”
The electric current dissipated when Julien turned away from Tristan to look at Benedict. The metallic fire in his eyes slowly burned itself out, the soft grey returning.
As Julien spoke, the air loosened its grip and swirled around them like a gentle breeze. “I chose you, Benedict Selebi, because of your diplomacy. You provide wise counsel to anyone who seeks it, and I have seen you maintain your stance against coercion that would cause most vampires to crack. I need an advisor who can calmly speak his mind and provide sound advice even when the atmosphere is volatile.”
“You did not choose me to make a point?” Benedict asked.
"I chose you because you are the best diplomat I know," Julien said. "That you are the first Black vampire at a European-led Table says more about the failings of others than any point I wish to make. I choose my allies based on their abilities and trustworthiness, not the color of their skin or their gender."
Julien turned to Sabine. "Earlier, Tristan questioned your place at this Table." His eyes flicked briefly to Tristan, then returned to Sabine. "You are here because when he attacked you, you controlled yourself. You cracked solid oak with your bare hands but did not break it. You did not lash out. That restraint, that control—while managing the instincts of a blood bond—is exactly why you sit here."
He leaned forward slightly. "You can move in daylight. While we sleep, you are our eyes, our hands, our Shield. No vampire at this Table has that ability."
"A ghoul can serve without sitting at a Table," Tristan said.
"A ghoul can serve," Julien replied, his tone sharp. "But a ghoul cannot command respect unless I give them authority. Sabine has a seat at this Table because her judgment is sound, her loyalty absolute, and her strategic value irreplaceable. She chose restraint over retaliation."
“Doesn’t hurt that she knows Aikido, Muay Thai, and Judo,” Lachlan murmured.
“Indeed. Sabine can hold her own against vampire strength and speed.” Julien’s eyes glinted. “Any vampire at this table who doubts that is welcome to test her.”
Aldéric leaned back in his chair and smirked at Tristan. “You going to take the challenge?”
“Why don’t you test her, Rousseau? You seem eager.”
Lachlan laughed, deep and loud, his shoulders shaking. “He did test her. Once.”
“Ruined one of my favorite turnback cuff shirts in that duel,” Aldéric muttered. “It was thulian pink. I look so good in thulian pink.”
“You look good in everything, Aldéric,” Lachlan said with a wink. “Except those pants.”
Julien turned to Tristan. “Would you like to share with the others why you are here?”
Tristan clicked his tongue. “You make it sound as if my presence was not your choice, Julien.”
“Both you and your sister requested that you join my Table. I do not sacrifice my interests to appease others. I accepted because you understand the sociopolitical landscape better than anyone at this Table except me. You have extensive connections throughout European vampire society, and your will is strong enough to resist coercion—as you just demonstrated. Your relationship with Isabella is a fact. What matters is where your loyalty lies now.”
“My loyalty,” Tristan said, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the table, “lies with this Shield.”
“Not your sister?” Aldéric asked.
Tristan ran a hand through his hair. “I will always have a connection with my sister, and I will always care about her, but she has not had my loyalty for centuries.”
“Why?” Julien asked, his face passive.
“She hasn’t earned it. And before you ask, Aldéric—yes, Julien has earned my loyalty.”
“How?” Aldéric asked.
“Julien knows how, and for now, that information will remain between the two of us.”
Julien nodded once towards Tristan, then leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled beneath his chin.
“That brings us back to Lachlan’s issue—a name.”
“We need something with gravitas,” Benedict said.
“Yes.” Lachlan nodded in agreement. “Something that says ‘don’t fuck with us’.”
“It must be beautiful,” Aldéric said.
“Is there really a name that is both beautiful and ‘don’t fuck with us’?” Sabine asked.
The corners of Tristan’s mouth curved up into a smug smile. “Sinclair.”
Julien turned to him, one eyebrow raised.
“Huh.” Benedict tapped his chin. “The name Sinclair does quite literally say ‘don’t fuck with us’.”
“Shield Sinclair,” Lachlan said.
“Shield Sinclair,” Tristan echoed.
Sabine nodded in agreement.
“It appears we have chosen a name,” Benedict declared.
“Le Bouclier Sinclair,” Aldéric said.
Lachlan frowned at him. “Why must you make everything more difficult?”
Julien's lips curved into the faintest smile. “Shield Sinclair it is.”
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