Kiss of Midnight_ A Midnight Breed Novel - Lara Adrian [662]
“Hear, hear,” Fabien interjected, greed for that future licking at him like a flame.
“I am pleased that those of you in this room understand the fact that bold steps must be taken,” Dragos said. “Each of you individually has played a part in advancing our vision to its next level. And you have done it all without question, without knowledge of one another… until now. Our own time of secrecy is over. Please,” he said, “remove your hoods, and let us begin the newest phase of our alliance.”
Fabien reached up for the black cloth that covered his head, uncertainty making his fingers hesitate. He paused until a couple of the other attendees had pulled their hoods off before he found the courage to remove his own.
For a moment, none of the Breed males said a word. Glances passed around the table, some smug with recognition of known peers, others wary of the strangers who had now, with this admission of willful treason, become their most intimate allies. Fabien knew several of the half dozen faces who stared back at him—all of them high-ranking Darkhaven or Enforcement Agency officials, some from the United States and others from abroad.
“We are a council of eight,” Dragos announced. “Just like the Ancients who arrived here so long ago. We are, all of us, second-generation sons to those powerful otherworlders. Soon, once the last Gen One vampire is eliminated, we will be among the eldest and most powerful of our race. Each of you has helped with that effort, either by providing the locations of the remaining members of our first generation or by supplying the cause with Breedmates to carry the seeds of our revolution.”
“What about the Order?” asked one of the European attendees, his German accent sharp as a razor blade. “There are two Gen One warriors we’ve yet to contend with.”
“And we will,” Dragos said smoothly. “I will be planning direct assaults on the Order very soon. After their recent strike against me, it will be my personal pleasure to bury their operation and see the warriors—and their mates—meet their demise.”
An Enforcement Agency director from the West Coast of the United States leaned back in his chair and arched his dark brows. “Lucan and his warriors have survived other attacks before. The Order has been in existence since the Middle Ages. They won’t go down without a fight—a very hard, bloody one.”
Dragos chuckled. “Oh, they will bleed. And if I have my way, they’ll beg for mercy and be given none. Not from the powerful army I’ll have at my command.”
“When will we begin building this army?” someone else in the group asked.
Dragos’s smile went broad with malice. “We began fifty years ago. In truth, this revolution began even longer ago than that. Much longer.”
All eyes were trained on him as he strode over to a laptop computer he’d instructed Fabien to have ready in the room. As he typed a command on the keyboard, the conference room’s large flat-panel monitor rose up from the floor. Dragos entered more instructions and soon that dark monitor blinked on, displaying what appeared to be a research laboratory.
“A satellite link to one of my strongholds,” he explained, using the touchpad to remote-control the camera on the other end of the connection. “It is here that I’ve been putting the pieces in place.” The camera’s eye roamed toward a wall of coded, cryogenic drums, then past a fleet of microscopes, computers, and DNA storage beakers lined up on rows of tables. In the midst of all this scientific equipment were several Minions dressed in masks and white lab coats.
“It looks like a genetics lab,” said the German.
“So it is,” Dragos replied.
“What kind of experiments are you conducting?