The Geneva Conclave
The Gulfstream G650 descended through the Alpine clouds toward Geneva International Airport, its approach as smooth and silent as the vampires who had arranged its flight. Elliott gazed out at Lake Leman spreading below like a mirror of pewter, its surface reflecting the lights of one of the world’s most diplomatically neutral cities. Appropriate, he thought, for a meeting that could determine the future relationship between two species.
“Nervous?” Chiara asked from the seat beside him. She’d changed into a severe black dress that made her look like a cross between a fashion executive and a diplomat’s wife, beautiful but serious, decorative but dangerous.
“Terrified,” Elliott admitted. “We’re about to propose overturning thousands of years of vampire secrecy on the basis of a deadline from The Wall Street Journal.”
“When you put it that way, it does sound insane.” She placed her hand over his, her warmth a constant reminder of her humanity in this world of the undead. “But you’re right. Science is already unraveling the secret. Now that I’ve thought more about it, it would be much better to control the revelation than be caught off guard by it.”
Somewhat to his surprise, Medici had contacted them while the plane was still crossing the Atlantic, and informed him that in the interest of saving time, he had already arranged for the Council to hear Elliott’s proposal without personally endorsing it. Therefore, instead of presenting the proposal to him, Elliott should be prepared to present it to the Council.
Elliott thought this was good news, and indicated that Medici was bowing to the new realities. Chiara, on the other hand, was less optimistic.
“He’s set you up to take the fall if they take it amiss,” she pointed out. “If there is blame, it will fall to you. And if they prove receptive, the credit will go to him.”
“I couldn’t care less.” Elliott looked up from his laptop. “How many vampires are there in South America, roughly?”
The plane touched down with barely a whisper, taxiing to a private hangar where three black Mercedes SUVs waited on the tarmac. Despite the clouds obscuring the Moon and stars, Elliott’s enhanced vision picked out the figures standing beside them—Lorenzo de Medici flanked by two men he didn’t recognize, all three motionless as statues in the Swiss winter air.
As they descended the plane’s steps, Medici stepped forward with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Elliott, Miss del Giorgio. Welcome to Geneva.” He gestured to his companions. “Allow me to introduce two of my most trusted capos. Giuseppe Torretti, my head of European operations.”
The Italian who stepped forward was elegant in the way only centuries of practice could achieve—silver hair swept back from a face that could have been thirty or three hundred, graceful movements that seemed choreographed in their perfection. His handshake was firm but cold.
“Mr. Grahame. Your proposal is certainly ambitious.” His English carried only the faintest Italian accent. “Some will view you as a visionary. Others, I am afraid, will be less charitable.”
“And your opinion, Signor Toretti?”
“I am skeptical, but I am willing to hear more.”
“And this,” Medici continued, indicating the second vampire, “is Klaus Richter, who oversees our global security concerns.”
Where Torretti was elegant, Richter was imposing—six and a half feet of controlled violence in an expensive suit. His blonde hair was cropped military-short, and his pale blue eyes assessed Elliott with the dispassion of a predator evaluating his prey.
“Herr Grahame,” Richter said, his German accent more pronounced than Torretti’s Italian. “I have reviewed the security implications of the abbreviated proposal you sent us. They are substantial. I cannot say that I approve of the notion, but I understand why you believe this is the right time to contemplate what would previously have been regarded as an unthinkable action.”
“Herr Richter,” Elliott acknowledged the German vampire, acutely aware of his status as a newcomer, the fledgling among ancients.
“Come,” Medici said, gesturing toward the vehicles. “The Council has assembled at the Beau-Rivage. We should not keep them waiting.”
The convoy moved through Geneva’s pristine streets with the smooth coordination of a military operation. Elliott noticed how their route avoided main thoroughfares, how other vehicles seemed to naturally give them space, how even the traffic lights seemed timed to their passage.
“The meeting will be formal,” Medici explained as they rode. “All five Council members are present in person—a rarity that speaks to the gravity of the situation. Each has brought advisors. Be aware that the atmosphere is extremely tense.”
“Because of my proposal?” Elliott asked.
“Because of what your proposal represents,” Torretti interjected from the front seat. “Change. Uncertainty. The potential end of an order that has existed since Rome fell.”
“Or,” Richter added grimly, “the beginning of a war we are unlikely to win.”
***
The Beau-Rivage Hotel stood on the shore of Lake Geneva like a monument to Swiss discretion—five stories of understated luxury that had hosted everyone from Austrian empresses to modern heads of state. As their convoy pulled up to a side entrance, Elliott noticed the unusual absence of doormen, bellhops, or any visible staff.
“The hotel has been cleared of its usual personnel,” Medici explained, noting his observation. “The Council prefers privacy for discussions of this magnitude.”
They entered through what appeared to be a service entrance but opened into an ornate corridor that belonged more to Versailles than a hotel basement. Ancient tapestries lined the walls, and Elliott’s enhanced senses detected the lingering scent of age—centuries of gatherings, negotiations, and undoubtedly, blood.
“Mr. Grahame.”
The voice came from ahead, where another group emerged from a perpendicular corridor. Elliott recognized Andrei Romanov immediately—the Russian vampire lord who’d tried to have him killed just weeks ago. Romanov was flanked by four others, all radiating the particular stillness of old vampires.
“Prince Romanov,” Elliott said, bowing deeply and keeping his voice studiously neutral despite the anger that flared at the sight of his would-be assassin.
Romanov smiled, showing just a hint of fang. “I understand congratulations are in order. You survived your first real test in our world. I commend you.”
“He has excellent protection,” Medici said coolly, moving to stand slightly between Elliott and the Russian.
“Indeed.” Romanov’s eyes glittered with amusement. “Though I wonder if your protection will prove as sufficient in the council chamber as it did on the streets of Manhattan. I am hearing outlandish rumors, Lorenzo. Very troubling rumors.”
“Is that a threat?” Richter demanded, his voice cutting through the tension.
Romanov’s gaze shifted to the German, and his smile widened. “My dear Klaus, you know better than most that everything is both a threat and an opportunity. Mr. Grahame would do well to remember that.” He inclined his head mockingly. “Until next time, then.”
The group of Russians swept past, leaving behind a scent of cologne and menace.
“Charming as always,” Torretti murmured once they were gone.
“He seems confident,” Elliott observed.
“He has allies on the Council,” Medici admitted. “Those who believe the old ways are the only ways. Your proposal threatens everything they’ve built over centuries.”
Out of the Shadows is available in Kindle, KU, audibook, and hardcover editions.