Thirteen (Otherworld 13)

We ate without saying much. Not much we could say, surrounded by guards. It was just past three in the morning. Sean would be here soon, Lucas and Paige shortly after. Would Thomas insist on waiting for a more reasonable hour, letting us all stew? No one knew. Or if they did, no one told us.

An hour later, there was a commotion in the hall. I hoped it was Sean, but the door stayed closed. Mom had wandered from the table. She'd seemed distracted, and I thought she was just restless, but when I glanced up she was standing in the corner, her back to me.

I walked over to her.

"--so it's a mess," she was saying. To no one.

"Mom?"

She turned. A faint flush rose on her cheeks and she led me back to the table.

"Who were you talking to?" I asked.

"Oh. Um, no one. Probably. Just . . ." A shrug, then she put an arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. "I'm tired, baby. Haven't been tired in ten years. I think it's affecting my brain. So what's going on?"

"No idea," Adam said as she sat.

I looked back at the corner. My father. She sensed him here. Was he?

Another commotion in the hall. The door flew open. In walked two massive bodyguards followed by two guys in suits that screamed "lawyer." With the pomp normally reserved for rulers of despotic nations, they ushered in Thomas Nast.

I'd seen my grandfather before. Met him several times . . . if you can call it a "meeting" when you're in the same room and he's studiously pretending you don't exist. But my first thought on seeing him today was, My God, he's gotten old. Thomas has always been old--to me, anyway. I remember the first time I saw him, tall, white haired, slightly stooped, and thinking, "This is the guy? The one everyone's so scared of? He doesn't seem so bad." He'd looked . . . grandfatherly.

Yes, I hate to admit it, but the first time I saw Thomas Nast, I'd felt a buzz of hope, because he looked like someone I could imagine as a grandfather. Proud and stern, but softhearted. Um, no. The only person who softened Thomas Nast's heart was Sean.

As Thomas walked in, though, it was my other brother I thought about. I'd seen the way Thomas acted when Bryce was around--the same way he acted with everyone except Sean. Short-tempered. Overbearing. Irritated, as if they were all incompetents hell-bent on making his life difficult. The same way he treated the man who had followed him into the room. His younger son. Josef.

I'd never met Thomas while my father was alive, but I bet he'd treated Kristof the way he did Sean. The favored child. The heir. The only one who mattered.

I'd seen what such favoritism had done to Bryce. The choices he'd made. How miserable and angry he was. In thirty years, would he become another Josef Nast? Willing to kill me, not because I was any threat to him, but because it might have pleased Thomas? He might finally have pleased his father.

Neither Thomas nor Josef looked my way. I didn't expect them to. Their people fanned out around them, getting their chairs just right, pouring them coffee and ice water, bending over to whisper and point out items on papers and digital displays. Shielding them from any need to acknowledge our presence.

The moment Thomas had settled, Mom stood. She stayed standing for at least three minutes. Daring him to look at her. When he didn't, she started forward, chin up, sword glowing stronger, as if it fed off her resolve. Or her rage.

Thomas still didn't look up. Others did. Until now, they'd struggled to pretend there was nothing unusual about having the long-dead alleged mistress of their former heir in their midst, a woman now whispered to be an angel. They turned. They stared. A few stepped closer, protecting their leader. More stepped back.

"Tho--" Mom began.

The door opened. Voices drifted in.

"I'm sorry, sir," someone in the hall said. "But they aren't permitted to join the proceedings."

"They aren't joining." Sean's voice. I exhaled in relief. "They're here as observers. Ms. Michaels is a delegate--"

"I understand, sir, but we don't allow her . . . kind--"

"The word is werewolf." Clay's southern drawl. "It's okay. You can say it. It won't bite."

"There is a council delegate on trial," Sean said. "Ms. Michaels is here to represent Adam Vasic and the council--"

The door closed, muting their voices. I caught just enough to realize they weren't going to permit a werewolf in the hearing, and there were no provisions that required a council delegate to be present when another one was on trial.

Finally, Elena cut in, her voice raised enough for me to hear it. "We'll wait out here, Sean. There's no rule against that, right?"

The agent agreed that there wasn't.

"Then we'll stay here," she said. "Where we can hear everything."