Lorenzo de Medici broke away from a conversation and approached them, resplendent in a charcoal gray suit and an Ungaro tie.

“Elliott, welcome,” he said, gesturing expansively. “Allow me to introduce you to some key members of our community.”

Medici led him through the room, making introductions with the practiced ease of a consummate social navigator. Elliott struggled to keep track of the names and affiliations as he was presented to a dizzying array of individuals, many of whom, he realized with a shiver of disbelief, had been born centuries before the United States even existed.

“Katarina Bathory, House Bathory,” Medici said, presenting him to a severe-looking woman with platinum blonde hair cut in a razor-sharp bob. Her handshake was cool and firm, and her gray eyes evaluated him with clinical detachment.

“The famous biotech innovator,” she said in an accent that hinted at Eastern European origins. “Your work on telomere stabilization particularly interests me.”

“Thank you,” Elliott responded, surprised that she was familiar with his research at such a technical level.

“Ms. Bathory heads our medical research division,” Medici explained. “She’s been a practicing physician since… when was it, Katarina? The 1880s?”

“1878,” she corrected with a tight smile. “Vienna Medical School. Though I had to disguise myself as a man, of course. Such tedious times.”

Before Elliott could process the implications of this revelation, Medici was already leading him to the next introduction.

“Javier Cortés, House Sangre,” Medici said, gesturing to a tall, olive-skinned man with piercing dark eyes and a neatly trimmed beard streaked with silver. “One of our most respected strategists.”

“The Silicon Valley upstart,” Cortés said, his voice carrying a faint Spanish lilt. “I’ve been following your career with interest, Mr. Grahame. Your insights into genetic reprogramming are indeed provocative.”

“House Sangre oversees our operations in Latin America and much of the southwestern United States,” Medici explained. “Javier has been an ally of our House since the Reconquista.”

“The original,” Cortés added with a subtle smile. “Not the current political movement.”

Elliott nodded, trying to conceal his discombobulation at their casual references to events that had occurred so long ago.

The introductions continued: Winston Beaufort, a handsome scion of House Beaufort, whose familial connections to British royalty apparently stretched back to the Wars of the Roses; Aiko Tanaka of House Tsukuyomi, whose delicate appearance belied a reputation as one of the Council’s most ruthless enforcers; Jean-Baptiste Frapin, whose family had apparently controlled French vineyards since the time of Charlemagne; and others whose names and histories soon began to blur together in Elliott’s mind.

Throughout it all, he couldn’t help but notice the subtle undercurrents of tension in the room. Conversations would pause as he approached, only to resume in hushed tones after he passed. Glances were exchanged, some wary, others openly hostile. He was being evaluated, he realized—judged by standards he could not yet comprehend.

After what seemed like an eternity of small talk and covert assessment, a chime sounded, and the crowd began to move toward an adjoining dining room. There, a massive table of polished mahogany dominated the space, set for what appeared to be a formal dinner.

“You’ll be seated with the five regional representatives,” Medici murmured in his ear as they followed the others. “Listen more than you speak. Remember that some of them were not in favor of your inclusion.”

Elliott nodded, suddenly acutely aware of his status as both guest and potential threat. As they entered the dining room, he noticed that five chairs at the far end of the table remained conspicuously empty, despite the room being almost full.

“The High Council elders rarely attend these gatherings in person,” Natalie explained quietly, noticing his questioning glance. “They prefer to observe from a distance.”

“Observe from where, exactly?” Elliott asked.

As if in answer to his question, the lights dimmed slightly, and five large mirrors on the wall behind the empty chairs suddenly flickered to life, revealing the faces of five individuals whose appearances ranged from middle-aged to elderly.

“Technological adaptation,” Medici said with a hint of amusement. “Even the oldest among us must make some concessions to modernity.”

AI Central

Out of the Shadows 019