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“—allowing them to serve the same purpose as stakes—”
“What?”
“—turning simple guns into vampire-killing devices capable of—”
Mircea kept talking, but he was drowned out by a sudden furor. Ancient vampires were on their feet, shouting; other people, who had been quiet until now, were busy talking over each other; and Ismitta was pounding on the table again. It was strange, because she looked like she’d be the serene and calculating type, like the consul, who matched her classic beauty but who hadn’t so much as blinked. Probably because the startling news was neither to her, since she’d no doubt been informed ahead of time.
But Ismitta hadn’t, and she was pissed.
And it looked like a lot of other people agreed with her.
There was a sudden lull in the din, and I looked up to see Ming-de, the diminutive East Asian consul, commanding attention, although not in the normal ways. She wasn’t on her feet, since that might have left her peering over the tabletop, because she was tiny. And she wasn’t saying anything, because she spoke only Mandarin—or pretended to, for whatever damned reason ancient vamps have for being mysterious.
It also wasn’t because of her outfit, although it was gorgeous: bright yellow silk, thick and creamy and covered with embroidered dragons that gamboled about, ducking under sleeves, peering out of the thick sash around her waist, or chasing each other across her bodice. Having dealt with Augustine for a while now, that didn’t surprise me, although Ming-de’s magical creations were particularly lovely, with precious stones for eyes and the tiny claws on their diminutive paws. However, plenty of other people were dressed to the nines.
But nobody else had her special accessory.
The shrunken head of an unfortunate East India Company officer resided like a handle on the end of her walking stick, and it wasn’t just a macabre decoration. Something had been done in the treatment stage to preserve him, and I don’t mean merely the withered flesh. He could still talk, and since at some point in life he’d learned Mandarin, he served as her translator when she wanted to say something.
Which I guess she did, because she’d just thrust the horrible device out over the table, causing everyone in the area to draw back a bit.
“Let’s just assume I went through all her titles, shall we?” the little thing rasped. “We’ve heard them enough, God knows.”
“Then get on with it,” Ismitta said, looking as disgusted as we all felt.
“Don’t get haughty with me,” the little thing told her, eyeing her scar with his dried-up raisin eyes. “Or next time you lose your head, maybe they’ll put you on a stick!”
Ming-de said something, and then whacked him on the table, like a malfunctioning remote.
He sighed. “Her Serene Highness would like y
ou to know that the matter has been contained.”
“How?” Ismitta demanded.
The small thing eyed her without favor. “How do you think? We politely asked them to stop.”
Whack.
“We butchered everyone involved,” he said spitefully. “Of course.”
“Including Jonathan?”
“No,” Mircea said. “Not including Jonathan.”
All eyes swiveled back to him. Mircea didn’t have any gruesome accessories, but he didn’t need any. He was in his element, the dark gaze sharp and gleaming, the voice clear and commanding, the aura of power easily reclaiming everyone’s attention.
Including that of his boss, who was sitting at his side.
That was not a normal occurrence when she was in a room. An ancient queen, burning with power and clothed in her favorite slithering pets—black ones today, their scales glittering like dark sequins—she usually held all eyes. And that was especially true lately. The new wartime senate had needed a leader, and Mircea, in his former job as her chief diplomat, had managed to convince the other five senates that it should be her.
You’d have thought that would have won him some major brownie points, but her gaze wasn’t that of a proud mentor. It wasn’t that of a jealous rival, either, because the consul was too good to show everything she felt, and because he wasn’t one—yet. But if even I could see the way he easily commanded the room—her room—so could she.
I glanced around the large space, wondering if the guards I’d been promised were here or not. I’d recently made a deal with Adra for bodyguards for Mircea, the kind that even the consul couldn’t see. But the problem with invisible guards is, how do you know if they’re slacking off? I sure as hell hadn’t seen them in action yesterday, when we were all fighting for our lives!
And she wouldn’t need long.
I caught her eyes for a moment, and they narrowed slightly. She glanced around at the same areas I had, the dark gaze opaque and inscrutable. I wondered if mine and Mircea’s recent breakup had given her reassurance about our combined power, or if she thought it some kind of mind game—the kind that came before an attack, perhaps?
