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Ethan nodded. “Are Will and Zane still in custody?”
“They are. The lawyers think a deal would be in their best interest, and in the House’s. I don’t know how much leniency they’ll get, circumstances being what they are.”
Ethan nodded. “Has the Circle made a new demand?”
Morgan shook his head. “I’m not naive enough to think they’ll let us off the hook when the attempt went south, so I assume they’re formulating their next step.”
Or it’s already in play, I said, frustrated that Morgan didn’t seem to have considered it. That was the most frustrating thing about him—he was wickedly intelligent, had a great sense of humor, and clearly was dedicated to his vampires. But something—perhaps all those years under Celina’s tutelage—had blinded him to the ever-present dangers of life as a vampire. Perhaps Navarre vampires really had lived a charmed life until Celina’s death. And maybe it was our experience with adversity—and the fear and paranoia it spawned—that kept us prepared.
“I don’t think we need either of you right now,” Morgan said. “I believe we have this under control.”
It couldn’t be called lack of cooperation, since Malik had a literal seat at the table. But it wasn’t exactly collegial. It probably was, like the request that Ethan sign in at the front desk, a stretching of masterly muscle—especially in front of his new Second.
Not that animosity by Navarre vampires toward Cadogan was new. They’d typically imagined themselves better and more genteel than the rest of us. That prejudice, ironically, was due in part because Cadogan historically allowed drinking from humans or vampires. Like in many other Houses, Navarre’s vampires only drank bagged or bottled blood. That was one of the reasons they felt superior to us, classier certainly, even if they were denying part of their biological heritage.
Whatever the reason, those prejudices, which should have been long past, seemed to be in full effect tonight. But Ethan was no wilting lily, and hardly the type to wither under Morgan’s stare. Instead he kept his gaze on Morgan, let the silence build. I could only imagine the silent conversation he and Malik were having. Likely not suitable for children.
Morgan blinked first. “You can stay if you think it’d be helpful, but I’m sure Malik’s skilled enough.”
It was, apparently, enough of a retreat for Ethan. He smiled, slid that slow gaze to Malik.
“I believe I’ve got it covered,” Malik said with an admirably straight face and smooth tone. “But I wouldn’t mind taking a break before getting to the next round. Grabbing a bite to eat.”
Ethan glanced at me, questioning eyebrow arched. Have you infected him?
You’re hilarious, I said.
“Perhaps we could arrange for food?” Ethan offered. “We’d be happy to do so. Especially if you don’t need us.”
Morgan didn’t miss the snark, and his voice was bland. “Fine by me.”
“Any preferences?”
“None.” Morgan didn’t bother to ask Irina. Maybe they were also communicating silently.
“In that case, we’ll get out of your hair.”
Malik rose and pushed back his chair. “I’m going to step outside with my colleagues for a few minutes.”
Irina didn’t bother to respond but looked away in reprobation, as if it was bad form for him to leave, and despite the fact that he was doing a favor by being there at all.
I’d always liked Malik, but felt a new and fierce protectiveness. I don’t think she likes Malik, I said silently. How could anyone not like Malik?
She doesn’t like the rest of us, either, if that gives you comfort.
Then I look forward to that story.
We followed Malik toward the door. Juliet made no move to follow us but kept her eyes on Morgan and Irina. That, I suspected, was the result of a bit of silent direction from Ethan, in the hope of gathering casual intel from the Navarre vampires while we were away.
“Let’s go outside,” Malik said. “I could use some fresh air.”
We stayed silent for the trip back down the stairs and, instead of walking toward the front of the House, snaked around behind them to a set of glass double doors that led to the House’s garden.
The rectangle of neatly clipped grass was divided by a long and narrow granite stream that trickled as it stepped down across the courtyard. There was a row of boxwoods cut into perfect spheres along one long wall, the sticks and orbs of white allium growing between them. A row of bright green hostas, only just beginning to unfurl, lined the other. Rectangular benches of polished marble were placed at intervals through the neatly clipped grass, and a large, low deck of dark wood planks rose slightly over the grass on the garden’s opposite end. The garden’s design was careful and precise, but didn’t look especially cozy. It wasn’t a place for barbecues or romantic walks. But it did seem weirdly appropriate for a frank accounting discussion.
We walked to the middle of the courtyard, away from as many prying ears as possible. Unable to resist, I reached down and skimmed fingers over soft, thick grass, comforted by the confirmation that spring was on its way.
When I rose again, Malik’s eyes were on me, concern tightening the corners of his eyes. “You’re all right?”
