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“That the demon alliance is with you, not us. Adramelech is your ally; we only receive the benefit of it because you are allied with us.”
I frowned some more, because I wasn’t getting this. “So?”
The vamps exchanged glances.
“So, Cassie,” Mircea said gently, “what if you lied?”
Chapter Thirty
I started to protest, to tell them I hadn’t, before I realized: it didn’t matter. Vampires lied all the time, to humans, to each other, even to themselves. It was their favorite pastime. Of course they’d assume I’d lie if Mircea asked me to.
Of course they would.
“So what am I supposed to do?” I asked. “Get Adra to come talk to them?”
Another exchange of glances, this time surprised.
“Would he . . . do that?” Marlowe asked.
“Well, why not?”
Marlowe looked at Mircea, who licked his lips. Which, for him, in a situation like this, where he needed to control his face, was tantamount to anybody else having a freak-out. I stared at him.
“Cassie, I don’t think you understand how . . . unusual . . . it is to merely . . . waltz into hell whenever you like and talk to the head of the demon high council.”
“I don’t waltz.”
“But you do go.”
“When I have to. It’s not exactly my idea of a fun afternoon!”
“You misunderstand,” Mircea said. “Anyone can go. The mages go to the nearest hell—the Shadowland, I believe?” I nodded. “The more powerful of them, who can protect themselves, travel there to obtain potion ingredients not often found on earth. But they do not go to see Adramelech.” His lips twisted. “Or Adra, as you call him.”
“They don’t have reason to,” I pointed out.
“They wouldn’t be let in even if they did!” Marlowe exploded.
I blinked at him, because I was tired and over this and wanted to go home—with a damned assurance about Marco!
“Your point is?” I said—to Mircea, because Marlowe was looking stressed.
“That you have a relationship with these creatures that the rest of us do not and cannot duplicate. Even were you to bring them here, that would only demonstrate your power over them, that you can summon the council at will—”
“I can’t summon anyone!”
“But it would look that way,” Mircea told me patiently. “And thus put anything they said into question.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Then what are we supposed to do?”
“Nothing,” the consul said. “Parendra backed down. Fortunately.”
The last word had a sting in the tail.
“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision,” Mircea told her, and he looked completely sincere.
Only it hadn’t been. I remembered that brief flash of relief I’d seen on his face when I’d arrived. Relief he’d had no reason to feel unless he had planned this. Probably for the reasons he’d given Marlowe: Parendra wouldn’t be expecting it, and wouldn’t want to risk a confrontation in an unfamiliar court with no backup.
Vamps dueled all the time, but spur-of-the-moment stuff was for lower-level types with less to lose. When senate members threw down, it was usually after weeks if not months of preparation, with everything from intel gathering on an opponent’s weak spots, to ways to make sure they couldn’t cheat, to ways to try to cheat yourself, to backup plans for every possible outcome. Mircea had assumed that Parendra wouldn’t risk a confrontation with exactly none of that in place, and he’d been right.
