Page 73 of Maksym

“When is the Council hearing?” I asked.

“Not yet set,” Maksym said. “But Father will be involved.”

“Your father?”

“Get ready to meet the King of Kings, mate.”

Chapter 11

Maksym

Remy had produced the laptop from one of the locked cabinets along the west wall, muttering something about not trusting palace devices that had been “breathed on by men with too much crown and not enough common sense.”

Grace sat at the conference table with the machine open before her, the glow of the screen soft against her face. Her eyes were not gentle. They were clear, dark blue, and sharpened by purpose.

A fresh document waited on the screen.

At the top, she typed:

SUPERNATURAL COUNCIL — STRUCTURE / JURISDICTION / RELEVANT ACTORS

Then she looked up at me.

“Begin,” she said.

Not please. Not because she lacked manners, but because the word belonged to courtrooms, evidence rooms, and women who had found the floor beneath their feet again and intended to use it.

I stood at one side of the table, arms loosely crossed, because sitting beside her made the bond too loud and standing behind her would have made me a shadow at her back. She had endured enough shadows. Remy had taken possession of the leather chair near the bookshelves, one leg crossed over the other, a heavy old volume open across her lap.

Taras had excused himself to see to security arrangements after the chair incident, though the broken arms of that unfortunate piece of furniture had been removed only after Grace gave them a lingering look that suggested they might become an exhibit if we mishandled another fact.

I began where the Council always became complicated for humans: with the species that believed borders meant something even when power did not.

“The Supernatural Council is not a parliament in the human sense,” I said. “It is older, less tidy, and frequently less honest about what it is. It exists to prevent interspecies war, adjudicate violations that cross territories, recognize sovereign claims, to preserve the fiction that ancient creatures may be reasoned with before they begin killing one another. And to keep all our kind as hidden from the human world as possible.”

Grace typed without looking down very often. Her fingers moved quickly, but not carelessly. “So, less Congress. More international tribunal with teeth.”

“Teeth, claws, spells, horns, and wings.”

Remy’s mouth curved over her book.

Grace typed that too. I almost smiled. Almost.

“The wolf territories are divided into four major quadrants across the country,” I continued. “Each governed by a king. These kings sit on the Council. They may also send representatives, but for major proceedings, they attend in person.”

“Four kings,” Grace murmured, typing. “Quadrants. Wolf sovereignty. Got it.”

“The Midwest King is Bridger Hardin,” I said. “Most call him Menace.”

Her fingers paused for half a breath. “Menace.”

“It is a name earned before he took the throne.”

“Of course it is.” She resumed typing. “Continue.”

“He came up from a Texas pack. Iron Valor. Also, an MC. The same pack Maddie calls home.”

At Maddie’s name, something faint moved through Grace’s expression. Not recognition, exactly. Placement. A thread added to the board.