Brave the Tempest (Cassandra Palmer 9)

“That if you would prefer to go back to Mircea, you can. I know this wasn’t a posting that a lot of you wanted, and all of you are masters, many with courts of your own. I’m sure you’ve found it boring compared with what you were doing before—­”

Somebody burst out laughing. “Sorry,” a voice floated in from the back. “Just, uh, not really bored.”

“—­or terrifying, at times,” I continued, because that’s how this place was. Quiet until it wasn’t, and then it really wasn’t. “Honestly, that’s not likely to get any better. If anything, the opposite is true.”

“And what does that mean?” That was Rico, pushing forward from the back, where, knowing him, he’d been standing and smoking, observing everything with those sharp, dark eyes. But now I’d gotten his interest, probably at the thought of a threat to Rhea.

And I wasn’t going to sugarcoat it.

“We’re at war. More than that, the court itself has enemies, and they seem to grow every day. Right now, the covens are angry—­”

“Yeah, we heard!” someone else said eagerly.

“—­and so are plenty of others. Including a nine-­centuries-­old, probably insane dark mage who just came very close to destroying a city and may be targeting us next.”

There was silence for a moment after that. “Like I said,” the voice from the back came again, sounding a little hollower this time. “Not bored.”

“You might be safer with Mircea,” I told them. “Even in Faerie.”

Roy finished his drink, his strong throat working. He put the glass down on the table and sighed with satisfaction. “Yeah, but you can’t get decent whiskey in Faerie, or so I’m told. Think I’ll stay here.”

“Think carefully,” I told him. “All of you. And there’s one more thing.”

I hesitated, but there was no way to phrase this that was going to make it any better. They were going to be okay with it or they weren’t, and there wasn’t much I could do about it. Except to make my position clear.

“There are likely going to be times when I tell you one thing and Mircea tells you another. He understands the senate’s side of things in ways I can’t and never will, but I understand—­I have to understand—­more than that. I’m supposed to be bringing together the supernatural community, not just being an extra weapon for the senate. That means that sometimes Mircea and I will be on the same team, fighting side by side, and sometimes . . . we won’t.

“Some of you are emancipated; all of you are strong enough to decide which commands you follow and which you don’t. The question is, when push comes to shove, who are you going to listen to? Because as much as I value each and every one of you, I can’t have people guarding my court who I can’t absolutely rely on—­”

“You’re saying you don’t trust us?”

That was Lorenzo again, from somewhere in the middle of the pack. He sounded hurt. It caused a pang right under the breastbone, because this wasn’t anything I wanted, either. But it had to be done.

“I’m saying the opposite,” I told him. “I do trust you, which is why I’m telling you this, and giving you the chance to opt out. I won’t think worse of you; I understand how a vampire family works, and that what I’m asking is . . . difficult. Some of you may find it impossible. That’s okay. What isn’t okay is staying here and allowing someone else to countermand my orders when he doesn’t have all the facts. Or even if he does.

“This is my court, and you are my men.” I saw Fred standing in the doorway to the lounge and caught his eye. “Or else you won’t be here at all.”

Chapter Thirty-­eight

I still didn’t go to bed, although I tried. After the guys filed out, I went to the kitchen to see if we had any hot chocolate. I badly wanted something warm and comforting, but coffee would leave me wired, and I needed to rest. I settled on chocolate as a decent alternative.

But, of course, it wasn’t that easy.

The place was massive, a gleaming ode to the nineteen twenties for some reason, with tiny black-­and-­white tiles in art deco patterns all over the floor, a tin ceiling, and old-­fashioned-­looking white porcelain appliances with shiny brass fixtures. It even had twenties-­era framed paintings on the walls, mostly black-­and-­white as well, all showing beautiful people with impossibly elongated bodies lounging around not doing much. It did not have a map, which is what I needed to find anything in what looked like a thousand cabinets.

I finally gave up, washed an ashtray mug somebody had left in one of the sinks, and headed for bed.

I almost made it that time.

When I was halfway there, a small creature ran up and started circling my legs, threatening to trip me up. I was tired enough that it took me a moment to recognize it as the velvet pouf I’d bought yesterday morning and that Rhea had had in her room. I’d thought it had just been acting that way to get purchased, but apparently it was pretty hyper all the time.

And then it ran off again, as energetically as it had come, down one of the hallways. I looked after it for a moment, a little nonplussed, because I wasn’t used to mobile furniture. Then I continued on toward bed.

Only no.

Because it was back. And even more of a tripping hazard than before. I almost landed on my ass that time, and frowned downward as it encircled my legs, wondering what now? Especially when it started pushing at me. And then bumping my shins when I gingerly tried to move away again. Circle, bump, circle, bump.

It turned around and scampered away a couple feet.