Author's note: This story was written for Champagne Challenge #160 and is rated PG-13. My thanks to RosM for helping me with the French.
Turncoat
“What do you mean, she’s gone?!” The old man’s voice was a roar of fury.
“She is… not in the house nor on the grounds, mon père.” Lance’s face was utterly expressionless: only those who knew him well could see the tightness in his jaw that signaled the intensity of his emotion.
“And the balm of deception?”
A shake of the head. “Missing as well. All of it.”
“Merde.” His father’s fingers curled into claws and he gripped the ornate arms of his chair, crushing the wood into splinters and shreds of gold leaf. “La fille stupide! Elle va détruire notre famille. It must be found at once. And she must be brought to heel, before she ruins us all.”
Lance nodded. “C’est déjà fait, seigneur. I will see to it immediately.” He reached for the bellpull, and gave swift orders to the lackey who appeared. The man hurried out at superhuman speed, and Lance turned back to his sire.
“Arrangements are being made, mon père. I suspect she has fled to America, but it may take some time to track her whereabouts.”
“Time?” His father arose from the ruined chair, dusting splinters from his fingers, and strode toward Lance, forcing him to retreat step by step until his back was against the sideboard. Taking Lance’s lapels in both hands, he growled, “Time is the one thing we cannot afford. Spare no expense, but find cette chienne traître, immédiatement! And by no means must you divulge the reason you search for her. To lose the ointment is to lose much of our leverage amongst the old families. No one is to know, do you hear me?” His eyes flashed silver, and sharp fangs elongated behind drawn-back lips.
“Of course, Papa.” Lance’s pleasant tenor was the slightest bit higher than normal, but he kept his body relaxed, unresisting.
Abruptly, his sire released his coat and turned away, shouting, “J’ai faim!”
Lance quickly smoothed the fabric of his jacket into place and assumed a pose of casual ease just as a young woman emerged from the anteroom. She approached the lord and curtsied, eyes cast down and graceful wrist extended, but he shook his head, gesturing toward the broken chair. “I’ll not stand like a peasant, girl.” Taking her hand roughly, he dragged her to the chair and sat, pulling her onto his lap. The girl’s eyes widened, then shut in submission as he bit deep, shaking her entire body with the force of his drinking. Lance knew she would not survive. A pity; he’d liked that one. She always smelt of lily of the valley. Ah, well. They never lasted long when Father was in such a mood.
Seeing that his sire was momentarily occupied, Lance slipped a phone out of his pocket and called his man. “What have you learned?”
“Enquiries are progressing, my lord. It appears that your sister and her companion left in a dark gray Renault just before dawn; unfortunately, that means they’ve had several hours’ head start.”
“My dear sister always did have a good head for a plan,” Lance said. “And that girl of hers will do anything Coraline asks of her.” He stood a moment, tapping a forefinger against his lower lip. “They’ve likely abandoned the car already, but report it stolen, nonetheless. Then pack for a longish journey. Have the jet prepared for immediate departure. We must be ready to leave within the hour.”
“And where shall I say we are flying, my lord?”
“New York. She lived there for years; she still has friends there. But so do I.” Despite not having visited for nearly a hundred years. Yes, there were certain benefits to this new era of worldwide technology.
“Very well, my lord. All will be ready.”
“And then we shall see if my sweet sister and her most helpful ghost are as good at hiding as we are at seeking,” said Lance, pocketing the phone. A smile curved his lips, but did not reach his eye. Coraline likely had no idea of the catastrophe she had unleashed on the family. From the earliest days after her transformation, she had been willful, always taking what she wanted with no regard for the consequences. But this… this was a betrayal of epic proportions. To squander their precious supply of the compound, which had protected them all throughout the centuries, for her own selfish purposes, was to put the entire Duvall family at risk. Lance had never before heard their father use the word “traitor” to refer to any of his children. Coraline would pay for this, and pay dearly. And, of course, Lance was the one elected to pick up the pieces, undo the damage, and bring the prodigal home.
A thud interrupted his reverie, and he glanced up to see his father stepping over the body sprawled on the parquet floor. “Do something with that,” the old man said as he swept toward the door. “And send me daily reports of your progress!”
“But of course, mon père,” said Lance to the empty room. He contemplated summoning the lackey once again, but decided against it. Crouching down, he gathered the girl into his arms. For a moment, he buried his nose in her crisp, auburn curls. A faint scent of muguet des bois wafted into his nostrils, perfumed by the tang of her terror-rich blood. “Helas, tant pis,” he murmured, touching his tongue to the little rivulet of scarlet running down her neck. She’d been lovely.
Another mirthless smile crossed his face as he stood with the dead girl in his arms. “Eh bien, c’est la vie.” He carried the body to the anteroom and laid it on the divan. “See that she is properly disposed of,” he said to the maîtresse. “I’ve work to do.”
It just so utterly rich and deceptively calm in its exposition. I think the inclusion of a bit of the French language worked well here. That can be a tricky thing, but the way you've used it underscored that you've taken us someplace we have never been before. We're clearly not in 
Brilliant! 
I really enjoyed writing this story, and I'm very glad it worked for you. I think Lance is a fascinating character. I always wondered how he managed to have such an air of authority and menace when his mannerisms weren't all that threatening in themselves. I think he has to be a very subtle and clever person to have survived so long in such a powerful family, and you could tell how accustomed he was to being in a position of authority. But "He," whoever He is, is definitely the guy who pulls everyone's puppet strings. It was lots of fun to visit them at home, so to speak. 
