The holding suites beneath the D'Argente compound had the cold, antiseptic quiet of a place meant for containment. White walls, reinforced glass, filtered air. A faint mechanical hum filled the space, with the pheromone filters cycling every ten seconds.
Count Christian Velloran sat alone at the steel table in the center of the room. His coat lay folded beside him, and the light above cast pale halos against his skin. He appeared thinner than his portraits, pale and drawn, like a shadow of the man who once commanded an entire house.
He rubbed his thumb along the edge of his palm, a restless motion he couldn't stop. Every few minutes, he would glance toward the sealed door, then at the vial on the table, that vial, its faint silver sheen catching the sterile light.
