Show Them All You're Not the Ordinary Type

William's POV

Sitting alone at the head of the table, in the softly lit meeting room I made a quick mental calculation. It was simple arithmetic; before I had sixteen Dandies, now I had six. And every one of those six were AWOL. I bared my fangs at the empty room in an instinctive response to extreme vexation. It was seldom that I was possessed by real anger - uncontrollable rage was for newborns -but the loss of all but six of my clan
was, in my opinion, provoking enough for me to legitimately lose my temper. And then for my higher Dandies to refuse to respond to my command to return immediately, for them to make me doubt their continued existence on this useless rock-

A noise downstairs. I instinctively tensed (a sign of just how bad my night had been), relaxing when I recognised Michael and Adam’s voices. Despite being muffled by several thick walls I could hear that they were arguing. Oh, the advantages of being a supernatural creature. I almost rolled my eyes but refrained; I am not a teenager anymore, haven’t been for many years in fact.

I tuned out Michael and Adam’s voices; their - no doubt - petty squabbles were of little interest to me and I had little patience for them. Paying them little mind, I put my fingers to my temples and leant forward, letting my weight rest on my elbows - a posture that summed up the weariness and fatigue I felt - and wondered if it were possible for the living dead to get migraines. I stared into the dark abyss of the fireplace and contemplated the night‘s events. I admit to being impressed by the newborn Peter’s abilities - it was rare for a vampire so young to have so much self-control. I had foreseen that he would be unusual when I turned him, however just how unusual was far beyond what I imagined. To actually turn away from blood…. yes, Peter was interesting indeed.

It was also interesting to note that the substitute to blood that he was opting to drink was having no detrimental effects at all and was, perhaps, even providing him with a sharper focus, a greater control.

Of course none of this - not my curiosity at Peter’s unusual control nor the joy at the brilliant prospect of the mind games to which I could subject Peter and his hunter friends - could eclipse the glaring fact that tonight had been a disaster. Peter and his three human friends had single-handedly destroyed most of my clan. Of course it was mostly my fault. Had I not -

I heard a noise outside the heavy carved door; apparently after making me wait an hour, Michael had deigned to come see me. I immediately picked up my teacup and settled back into a less vulnerable position ready for Michael’s entrance.

Michael entered loudly and obnoxiously. It was clear from his posture and expression that something has frustrated him, although frankly it took little to infuriate Michael. I didn’t look at him as he sauntered to his chair on the left hand side on the table, nor when he flung himself into his chair so hard it rocked back on the carved wooden legs, suspended precariously for a split second before it crashed back down onto the thick cream carpet. The noise jarred my - possibly imaginary - headache and my nerves.

Still refusing to meet his gaze, which I sensed had now turned questioning, I looked pointedly at the clock on the carved mantelpiece. After contemplating the expensive time piece as though it held the answer to all my problems, I finally flicked my attention to Michael. He looked sullen.

“Brendon’s not here yet.” he pointed out redundantly, in answer to my unspoken question. I didn’t take my eyes from him but stirred my tea, taking my usual care to ensure the spoon didn’t tap against the side of the fine china teacup. I silently laid the spoon on the saucer with equal care and precision and took a measured sip as Michael began to squirm slightly under my gaze.

“I didn’t ask about Brendon.” I said softly. Michael looked mutinous. It was curious. Michael usually had a definite sense of loyalty towards me yet whenever Brendon was involved he acted like a sulky child. A child who could turn traitor at any moment. He seemed to think that I preferred Brendon over him. He was wrong. I felt nothing for either of them; they were pawns in a game of power.

“Where were you Michael?” I had meant to keep my tone soft, but impatience had managed to creep, unbidden, into my voice. Michael looked down at his hands and then back up at me. Sensing my impatience he opened his mouth, but was spared the trouble of formulating an answer by the arrival of Brendon.

Unlike Michael, he didn’t saunter in. He didn’t throw himself into his chair either which was unusual. I didn’t like unusual - I preferred routine, preferred it when people played out to my accurate expectations of their behaviour and reactions. It was then that I noticed that Brendon was missing his hat, a button from his blazer and his cocky attitude. I also noticed that his hair looked even more messy than normal and that there were several half healed cuts on his cheek.

“Mike.” he said, nodding to Michael who was looking confused and even more frustrated as though Brendon’s out of character behaviour was annoying him every bit as much as it was annoying me.

“Sir.” he added with a deferential glance towards me. Deferential? What was Brendon on? Had he perhaps dined on a human who had been taking LSD? A drunk? Or perhaps it was possible to catch some sort of mind-disease from our food.

“What happened to you Brendon?” I almost snapped. I hoped to convey in that short sentence my irritation at his lateness, my impatience at the meeting having to be forestalled while I listened to his explanations/excuses and the ire I felt as I appraised his less than acceptable appearance.

“Sorry sir. We got held up.” I tried very hard not to portray the surprise I felt. Brendon calling me ‘sir’ with absolute sincerity twice, in under a minute? The same Brendon who usually dealt with me in a respectful manner that subtly hinted in a way that made it almost obvious, that he was only following my orders to humour me. The same Brendon who only uttered the word ‘sir’ if it was laced with sarcasm or irony? Was mad cow disease on the up rise again? Perhaps I should escort Brendon to someone of the medical profession. Or maybe I should kill him to prevent the risk of the disease spreading.

I did neither of those things, instead I uttered words that I knew I was going to regret and prepared myself psychologically to listen to an answer which was no doubt going to make my abysmal night even worse

“Held up by what?”