And the fact that the Pythian powers would allow cheating without anybody ever being aware didn’t hurt, did it?
I narrowed my eyes at Mircea, but didn’t say anything, because I didn’t owe the consul shit. I didn’t owe him shit, either, especially lately, but he had me over a barrel. A big one.
And he knew it.
Our eyes locked, and I didn’t need mental communication to get the message. Mircea knew Pritkin’s identity, and until we came to an agreement over what to trade for that, my hands were tied. It was freaking infuriating, but sometimes, the only way to win is to fold.
Especially when you’re up against a guy who had just played Parendra, Marlowe, the consul, me, and who knew how many other people in a single afternoon!
“I’ll fight you over Marco,” I said, and meant it.
I didn’t get an answer, because Marlowe suddenly clamped a hand on Mircea’s arm, his face going tight. And I turned to see P
arendra headed our way, surrounded by a crowd of white-garbed attendants carrying wicked-looking spears. It appears that I’m not such a deterrent after all, I thought, my throat clenching. Or else he’d decided that he had to risk it, because that sort of humiliation could very well cost him his throne.
Why the hell had Mircea pushed it? I thought furiously. Why hadn’t he taken the man aside and applied some of that famous charm? Or maybe he had; it sounded like he might have been trying for a while, and not just with Parendra. Maybe that challenge today had been to all of them, all at once, to try to shore up his position before he was forced to invade with a seriously divided army.
But if so, it seemed to have backfired.
In more ways than one. Because, while Marlowe looked like he was about to lose his lunch, Mircea was . . . calm. Too calm. He looked more annoyed than anything else, like he’d expected Parendra to be smarter than this, not like a man who was facing a duel with someone who was supposed to be a far stronger opponent.
And I wasn’t the only one who noticed.
“Can you take him?” the consul demanded harshly.
“Yes.”
And shit, I thought, because there had been no hesitation in that answer, no shred of doubt. Mircea’s eyes were focused on Parendra, his target, probably trying to get a mental lock. But mine were on the consul. And she hadn’t liked the speed of that answer.
Marlowe noticed, too, and his gaze met mine. For a moment, it felt like we were the only two sane ones in the bunch—and maybe we were. Because this was exactly what Rian, one of Rosier’s people, had warned me about. She was old enough and had been on earth long enough to see a lot of vampires go down the road to crazy town, aka give in to the intense obsession that often overtook older vamps concerning something that had gone wrong in their lives.
Maybe that was why Marco had fit in so well in Mircea’s house, I thought now: they both had had the same fixation, namely on family members who they hadn’t been able to save. But while Marco had finally seemed to deal with his problem, Mircea’s was growing in front of my eyes. Rian had said to watch out for signs of carelessness, of preoccupation overriding good sense, of his obsession distracting an otherwise strong intellect until he couldn’t see anything else.
Like his boss glaring daggers in his direction?
Damn it!
Marlowe flicked his eyes at Mircea and back at me, and the implication was obvious. Could I get him out of here? And, of course, the answer was yes, but how would that help? A challenge was a challenge; it would still be there tomorrow, not to mention the hit that Mircea would take for looking like he’d fled the field.
And what was Marlowe planning to do after we left? Because if he was going to try to talk Parendra down from issuing a challenge in the first place, I’d love to know how. From what I’d seen lately, Marlowe was even less diplomatic than me!
But he was glaring daggers at me currently. And jerking his neck in Mircea’s direction, like an epileptic having a seizure. And yes, I got it already, but—
But then it didn’t matter anyway. Because something else was happening. Something that had papers swirling off the whole length of the giant table and people’s gorgeous outfits flapping against their legs. Including Parendra’s, causing him to look around sharply, and then to glare back at us, like he thought we were causing it.
But we weren’t.
We didn’t even know what was going on, at least I didn’t, and it looked like the consul felt the same. She transferred her less-than-happy look to Marlowe. “What is this?” she demanded.
He didn’t answer, but his face was working again, although differently this time. He was changing expressions three and four times a second in a way that would have gotten anyone else committed—or a call put in for a young priest and an old priest. But he wasn’t possessed; he was mentally communicating with his men—all of them, by the look of it, at least the ones spread throughout the house and grounds.
But they didn’t seem to know anything, either.
“Nothing is happening,” he told us. “Not anywhere else.”
“I’m more interested in what is happening in here!” the consul snapped.
And then someone told us.