“Well,” Ned said wonderingly to the assemblage. “You wanted to know if she had any real power. Now you do.”
Every one of those gazes had become appraising. Calculating. Then—they turned those gazes on each other. Because they didn’t know who among them belonged to Dux Bellorum, and who didn’t. Oh, this had gotten very interesting.
Mercedes pointed at me and smiled. “She has no power. She hides her weakness with words. I want to see her fight. Wolves are nothing without their teeth and claws.”
“Yes, a fight,” said her goateed colleague—Jan. “That will settle this. Clear out the middle here.” He pointed at several of the retainers, both vampire and lycanthrope, nodding with distaste at the discarded blood donors. The retainers began picking up the unconscious bodies and hauling them away. Some of the victims twitched muscles as if coming to wakefulness, their heads lolling and expressions wincing. No one paid them any mind as they were carried off, through the doors to another room. I hoped one with beds and food and lots of juice and water.
“I’m not going to fight,” I said.
“I’ll get in there before you,” Ben said.
“Neither of us is going to fight.”
Jan called, “Which one should she fight? One of them, the female—” He pointed at the pair of werewolves wearing the steel collars and chains.
“No,” their Master said. He had short cropped hair and wore a tuxedo with white leather gloves. He had some kind of accent, Scandinavian maybe. “She’s submissive, it wouldn’t be proper.” He actually stroked the woman’s hair, leaning over her, protective. In turn, the woman pressed into his touch, turning her face to his thigh as if to hide. She was scared. The other prisoner, the man, put his arms around her, a heartbreaking move to shelter her. He stole glances at me, but his gaze was more often on the floor—he was submissive, too, and terrified of me. Of me.
The vampire put his hands on both of them and looked at me, beseeching. As if I could better protect them from this horror show. I almost could think they were beloved pets and not prisoners. If not for the horrid chains.
“I’m not going to fight anybody,” I said, and the vampire slumped, relieved.
“I think you will,” Mercedes said, thinning her smile and waving fingers at the very burly man behind her—a werewolf, one of the bodyguard types in a suit, who started loosening his tie.
They really expected us to strip down, Change, and go at it right here. Ben had tensed, his fingers curling into a shadow of claws. My own jaw was stiff—I’d been baring my teeth unconsciously.
Ned waited, as always, watching to see what I would do. Maybe if it really did turn into a fight, he’d step in to stop it. Emma was looking scared. I wasn’t going to leave it to either of them to decide.
“You people really need to get over yourselves,” I muttered, shaking my head. “I’m not fighting anyone. I’m not your monkey, I’m not putting on a show for you, I don’t really care how old any of you are, and we’re leaving.”
Turning around, I marched out, past Emma, up that long aisle, past all those empty seats. Ben was right with me—in fact, he reached out to open the door and gestured me through, making the move seem suave and planned. It must have looked great from the outside. I walked through the doorway without breaking stride; he followed, and gave the door a nice little slam behind him.
I went another twenty feet into the lobby before I collected myself enough to stop, covering my face with my hands and groaning. “God almighty you’ve got to be kidding me. It’s like they’ve been playing orgy in Rome for the last thousand years.”
Ben was grinning. “That was awesome. The looks on their faces.”
“How long do you think until they burst through the doors and drag us back in there to teach us a lesson?” I said, thinking not just of the couple of dozen vampires, but the lycanthropes and anyone who happened to have a gun with silver bullets. Anyone whose sensibilities we’d damaged.
He regarded the door. “You know? I don’t think they’re coming.” Head cocked, listening, he waited another moment. “They’re talking.”
When the blood stopped rushing in my ears and I managed to calm my breathing, I could hear the voices, muted but angry. People were talking fast, speaking over each other, accusing, pleading, soothing.
Ben added, “I think they’re arguing with each other to figure out who belongs to Roman and who doesn’t.”
“The ones who called for the fight, Mercedes and the guy with the goatee. They wanted a distraction.”
“They’re Roman’s,” Ben said. “They don’t want anyone to know.”
We’d pretty much known about Mercedes already, but even the faintest scrap of information about her or any of the others made the whole confrontation worthwhile.
We stepped aside just as the door swung open and Emma came through, harried, lips pursed and upset.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry, I know that was awful, it was…” She put her hand on her forehead and looked downright human. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any influence here or I’d have tried to do … I don’t know. Something.”
“Just tell me the blood donors were volunteers. That it was consensual,” I said.
She didn’t answer, and I rolled my eyes. I wondered where the nearest Underground station was and if the trains were still running so we could get back to Mayfair without getting a ride from Ned and Emma. I wanted to move out of the town house and check into a hotel. I wanted to get out of here.
The door opened again, and the stout, careworn vampire came through. He carried a polished, carved cane, surely an affectation. A vampire wouldn’t need a cane. He was short, which surprised me—he’d given the impression of filling more space.
Emma made room for him, stepping aside and bowing her head deferentially. Ben and I stood side by side, braced, waiting. The man studied us as we studied him.
“You’ve broken up the party,” he said finally. “They’re all leaving through the stage door.”
“Can’t say I’m at all sorry,” I said. “I was having a terrible time.”
He curled the tiniest smile. “The party wasn’t for you. Ned invited you because the others wanted to have a look at you. None of them really believed your reputation could be at all deserved.”
“What reputation? The one where I’m an antiestablishment loudmouth, or the one where I can’t seem to keep out of trouble?”
“Yes,” he said, and I sagged. “It’s a very great pleasure to meet you, Ms. Norville. It’s been a long time since I’ve encountered a Regina Luporum.”
“A what?”
“Queen of the wolves,” Ben said.
“I’m not the queen of anything,” I muttered.
“You stand up for your kind when few do,” he said. He bowed slightly, bending forward at the shoulders, a gesture that managed to confer respect without detracting from his own dignity. “I am Marid, I was born in the city of Babylon, and I am two thousand, eight hundred years old. More or less.”
I could have been forgiven for falling on the floor with hysterical laughter right then. But I was stuck. “I didn’t think I could be surprised anymore.”
“Neither did I,” he said.
“It’s not that I’m skeptical or anything, but you sound so … so…” I could have said any number of words—modern, ordinary, American. But that wasn’t right. “You don’t sound like you’re over two thousand years old.”
Ned came through the front doors, looking pleased with himself. “That’s because you have to change your accent if you want to blend in, but no one ever mentions that, do they? You think actors on the stage of the Globe sounded anything like the fellows on the BBC? God, no. We’ve all adapted. Most of us, anyway.”
“Well, Ned,” Marid said amiably. “Did you get what you wanted out of this?”
The Master of London was rubbing his hands together, gleeful. “This turned out to be far more interesting than I was expecting.”
“What were you
expecting?” I said, horrified.
He shrugged. “A bit of banter, a bit of posturing. Not the threat of a werewolf pit fight there on the stage.”
I turned to Ben. “Can we call a cab or something?”
Emma said, “No, we can take you back—”
Sighing, I said, “No offense, but I think I’ve had enough vampire hospitality for a while.”
Ned raised placating hands. “Please, Kitty, peace. You can’t afford to throw away allies.”
“Is that what you all are?”
“Kitty. Please stay,” Ned said. “You’ll break Emma’s heart if you go elsewhere.”
I would, too. Damn. She actually had her hands clasped together, pleading. Heaving a sigh, I turned away and paced, wolflike. I didn’t say yes, but I didn’t say no.
Marid—the man who had just told me he was alive when Babylon was the height of modern civilization—interrupted with a calm statement. “You know of Roman. You know of the Long Game.”
“Yes. I’ve faced him down twice,” I said.
He raised a brow. “And lived?”
“I had help,” I said.
“No doubt.”
“So you know about him, too,” I said.
“I’ve known about him from the beginning. There was no Long Game before Roman.”
Another piece of information landed with a thud. “Then you must know who his allies are, where he has power, how to stop him—”
“I didn’t say that,” Marid said, tilting another inscrutable smile.
I looked back and forth between the two Masters. “Do either of you know who’s with Roman and who isn’t?”
“Not all of them,” Ned said. “Some have been playing both sides against the middle for centuries. They’ll have to choose allegiances soon. Many of them don’t believe that time has come.”
“I think many of those will not take Roman’s coins in the end,” Marid said. “They’ve known their own power too long.”
“I hope you’re right, of course,” Ned said. “I’m not sure I’ll depend on that hope, however.”
They were like generals forming a battle plan. “Where do we fit into this?” I asked.
Ned said, “We, meaning you and your mate? Or all the werewolves?”
Taken aback, I had to think a moment. “I don’t know,” I said simply. Queen of the werewolves, huh? Was it too late to go home? “You were the only Master in there who didn’t have werewolf bodyguards. Why not? Do you have a relationship with the local wolves, or are you just not as cool as the other vampires?”
“Please,” he said, an attempt to brush me off. But there was a status thing involved. He hadn’t tried to present Ben and me as belonging to him.
“Does London even have an alpha wolf?”
“Yes. I’ll introduce you to him soon.”
“I may just go looking for him myself.”
“Kitty,” Ned said, hands flattened in a placating gesture. “Don’t interfere in situations you don’t fully understand—”
“Did you even try to stop that bloodbath in there?” I pointed at the door. “Or did you join in? And you want me to trust you?”
He opened his mouth to answer, but Marid got there first. “You should understand, this—this is playacting. Harmless, in our eyes. In the old days—” He smiled wistfully, shaking his head. “We built temples to ourselves, bought slaves by the wagonload—don’t look at me like that, Ms. Norville. Don’t judge. If you’d lived in those times you’d have felt the same. We slaughtered them in worship to our gods. We never worried about how we would feed ourselves, or how we would dispose of the bodies. Some of my colleagues would go back to those days, if they could. I think those are the ones most likely to follow Roman.”
“Do you know—is Roman here, in London, for the conference?” I asked.
“No, I don’t believe he is. Only his servants.”
“No chance to go after him directly then.”
“Only his servants,” Marid repeated.
Ned said, “I should remind you that I’ve declared London neutral territory for the duration of the conference. For either side to make an offensive would invite retribution.”
“We’ll see how long your truce lasts, Ned. We’ll talk further on this.” Marid tipped an invisible hat to the London Master and went to the front door, and out.
Ned drew a breath and sighed.
“If I get a chance to hurt Roman, I’ll take it,” I said.
“I suppose you will. Marid’s right, I suppose hoping a truce will last is wishful thinking. But I have to admit, I rather like wishful thinking. It doesn’t do to let the imagination stagnate.”
* * *
TOGETHER, EMMA and Ned talked me off the ceiling and convinced us to stay at the town house. They persuaded me we’d be safer there, especially now that Mercedes and her allies had seen me. I thought I’d been coming to London for a conference. I had hoped all my battles this week would be verbal and academic. Wishful thinking, indeed.
In our luxurious borrowed room, Ben and I curled up in bed, naked, holding each other. I pulled all the covers up to cocoon us, making us too warm, but the heat was comforting, and Ben didn’t complain. Just played with my hair and breathed against my scalp. I rambled.
“I just keep thinking of how much worse it could have been,” I said. “They had slaves, bodies, and blood, like it was all a big party, like it was normal. Like I shouldn’t complain because it used to be so much worse. Like I’m supposed to be happy that they didn’t go so far as to kill anyone. Am I deluded? Is this the way the world really is and I shouldn’t even fight it?”
Ben said, “You’re an idealist. And that’s okay. The world needs idealists to keep the rest of us out of the gutter.”
I tilted my head to look up at him in the darkness, the slope of his cheek and flop of brown hair over his ear. “Really? Or are you just trying to make me feel better?”
“Of course I’m trying to make you feel better.” He squeezed, settling me more firmly in his arms. “Is it working?”
“Hmm.”
“Was that yes?”
I had to think about it for a minute. If I focused on the moment, yes, it was working. But my mind kept drifting back to images I would never be able to erase from my memory. Right, then, time to stop that. At the moment, in the whole world, there was only me and Ben.
“Yes,” I said finally, and kissed him.
Chapter 7
CORMAC GOT back to the town house even later than we did and was gone in the morning before I had a chance to ask him if he’d had any luck finding Amelia’s family. I hoped he was all right.
For my part, no matter what the vampires had said, or the implications of last night’s macabre presentation, the conference was important, did mean something, and I was going to treat it as such.
Dr. Elizabeth Shumacher and Joseph Tyler’s presentation on lycanthropes in the modern military focused on the case study of a group of werewolves who formed an Army Special Forces unit that had served in Afghanistan. The unit had been entirely unofficial—a captain and lone wolf took it upon himself to create other werewolves in order to form a squad uniquely suited to the challenges of battling extremists in the mountainous wilderness of Afghanistan. The experiment had started well—the unit had an impressive record of accomplishing its objectives—and ended disastrously. When the captain, the alpha of the pack, was killed in an explosion, the rest of the pack lost its moral compass and all control. They began fighting each other for dominance until only three remained. Those three returned to the U.S. damaged by post-traumatic stress and trapped by their wolf sides. It was assumed they’d never be able to leave their cages, much less rejoin human society. Shumacher called me in to help. I did what I could to teach them how to live with lycanthropy, the monster inside. Mostly, I failed, and two more died in a violent escape attempt. Sergeant Joseph Tyler was the only survivor of the original unit.
They’d gotten permission from the army to tell their story. Tyl
er was no longer active duty, and Shumacher’s scientific sensibilities wanted the information made public, so no one else would make the same mistakes. She felt that Captain Gordon couldn’t have been the first person who ever thought of using werewolves for combat.
I sat in back and listened to the story, told clinically and professionally, which made it seemed detached from my experience of it—it had all happened to someone else, and I’d never seen those men whose faces appeared in the photographs on the slide show.
The conclusion she left the audience with had been my own—taking soldiers and making them werewolves was ill-advised. They had training that made them excellent warriors, but none of the skills they needed to control the terrors that came with lycanthropy. A more successful project was taking werewolves, people who had already successfully adjusted to lycanthropy and had learned to deal with the drawbacks as well as the abilities, and training them to be soldiers.
Even that left something to be desired, I thought. Probably because I wished we didn’t need soldiers at all.
Tyler answered questions at the end.
Joseph Tyler was a solid black man, tall and broad, with a stern expression and distant gaze. He held himself apart, and his quiet strength was intimidating. At first, the questions came slowly, as people hesitated, unsure of him. He loomed over the podium. But he was articulate, and met the gazes of everyone who spoke to him. People were able to talk to Tyler the person and not Tyler the big scary werewolf. They asked personal questions about his choices, his emotions, the fallout, his recovery. He answered calmly—or politely declined to—and even said “yes, sir” or “no, ma’am.” I wondered how much of his military training was keeping him upright.
At the end of the session, I hung back to watch as people mobbed Tyler. Some asked questions, some tearfully thanked him and expressed sympathy—pity—for his predicament. They seemed to be thanking him for his simple existence. A few handed him business cards. Tyler handled it all with grace, though he kept glancing at the exits as if looking for escape. As she put away her presentation, Shumacher looked on like a proud teacher.