One of the two guards at the stairwell already held the elevator open for them. They stepped inside. After Niniane inserted the key and pressed the button for the penthouse floor, he took her hand and threaded his fingers through hers. She gave him a startled smile that faded as quickly as it had bloomed. Her sparkling sensuality had vanished again, leaving her a pale, sober stranger.

The elevator purred to a stop. He reached out to punch the door-closed button, and she looked at him in surprise.

“This time you listen to me, faerie. Everything will be all right,” he said to her small, tense face that was turned up to his so trustingly. “No one who will be in that room will hurt you. We go in as a united front, and we leave as united front. Got it?”

She nodded. “Got it. Thank you, Tiago.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiled at her, let go of the button, and the doors opened.

He couldn’t have been more wrong on all counts. They walked in to the penthouse, and their united front got slaughtered.

NINE

Niniane squeezed Tiago’s power-corded hand and then released him as they stepped into the quiet, cool luxury of the penthouse.

Carling’s attendant Rhoswen appeared in the foyer, blonde hair pulled back in a sleek chignon and face smooth, serene. In profile she resembled a perfect cameo. The Vampyre had been young when she had been turned, perhaps eighteen or twenty. What had been so compelling at that age to make her seek out vampyrism, and what had convinced the Vampyre that had made her? Young humans were much like any other species, Niniane had found. They were all sure they would live forever. Whereas when she had been eighteen, she had been sure she would not live out the year.

A weight settled on her chest as Rhoswen walked toward her across a polished parquet floor. The problem with forging ahead with the Niniane of the future, she realized, was that she still loved reading Elle, still loved every shade of those damn pink lipsticks in her purse every bit as much as her old persona, Tricks, had, and she felt woefully inadequate for the challenges she faced.

She had to come up with a better coping strategy and fast. Why was she struggling with the thought of meeting again with the Dark Fae delegation and Carling? Tiago towered behind her, a menacing black-clad figure that promised death to anyone who dared to threaten her.

Not that anybody would threaten her to her face. If the attacks weren’t two separate incidents, if there was an actual mastermind behind both of them, that someone would wait until she was alone and vulnerable before trying again. And besides, when she had worked for Dragos she used to have meetings all the time with heads of state and senior government officials, from both the human domain and the Elder demesnes. She’d had no problem dealing with them, even when her life had been in danger from her uncle Urien.

She tilted her head and pursed her lips. Maybe that was it. She should just pretend she worked for someone else. She would work for the real Niniane, who read the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal; who also read works of literature with deathless prose and haunting, tear-jerking endings (bleck); and who managed her own portfolio of stock options. That chick was a well-dressed bitch in a strand of pearls you didn’t want to cross.

The fake silly Niniane smiled. “Hi, Rhoswen,” she said. “Are all of you except Cowan settling in all right downstairs?”

For a brief moment the Vampyre looked disconcerted. It was a good strategy to keep Vampyres off balance whenever possible. “Thank you, your highness,” said Rhoswen. She had a lovely speaking voice, a low, pure contralto. “We are doing well. We regret any distress Cowan’s actions may have caused earlier.”

Niniane lifted one shoulder. “Well, he did lose his head over it.”

“As he should have,” said Rhoswen.

Just as Carling had stopped the scene earlier from escalating to further violence, she could have stopped Cowan with one Power-filled command, but no Vampyre master would tolerate anything but complete obedience from her children. The stance was a harsh but necessary one. A Vampyre who lost control in public was a menace to everyone.

Rhoswen’s brief disconcertment had smoothed away as if it had never existed. The Vampyre said, “Chancellor Riordan, Justice Trevenan, Commander Shiron and Councillor Severan are all awaiting you in the library.”

Ooh, that sounded like a game of Clue. Somebody was going to get bashed in the head with a lead pipe or a candlestick. Not that the real Niniane would notice something like that. The real Niniane already had a clue; she wouldn’t play a game of Clue.

She said, “Lead on, Macduff.”

Rhoswen inclined her head and turned to lead the way. “I was in theatre before my transformation,” said the blonde, as her heels tapped on the hard wood floor. “Did you know, the real phrase is not ‘Lead on, Macduff’ but actually ‘Lay on, Macduff, and damned be him that first cries, Hold, enough!’?”

Sometimes Vampyres got pedantic when they got older, which was a function of how their once human brains coped with their unnatural age. And the real Niniane would never stoop to squabbling with an attendant.

The fake silly Niniane told Rhoswen, “Yes, but I was not quoting the play. I was quoting the quote. Nobody says ‘Lay on, Macduff’ when they invite somebody to go ahead of them. That would sound stupid. Everybody says ‘Lead on, Macduff.’”

She grinned over her shoulder at Tiago, who strolled behind them. He wore his harsh assassin’s face, but his dark gaze contained a fugitive twinkle.

They came to the library’s double doors, which had been propped open. The library was a spacious room with quality neutral-toned overstuffed furniture arranged around an Oriental rug, bookshelves stocked with a collection of hardcover classics and current New York Times bestselling paperbacks and a fireplace at one end.

The room’s real claim to fame was the sumptuous original Tiffany stained-glass opalescent window that dominated one wall. The window depicted a sunlit pond in a forest populated with brilliant fantastic fish and birds that had never been seen on this side of Earth. Art scholars argued that Louis Comfort must have traveled to an Other land and seen the wildlife at some point in his life to have created such beautiful detailed representations, but the argument was not substantiated as the strange species were not documented in any of the Elder records about Other lands.

Niniane sighed as she thought of Scott Hughes’s white, horrorstricken face from earlier when he had looked at the damaged floor downstairs. The Tiffany window sparkled with a strong anti-breakage spell, but such spells had a limited veracity. If a force greater than the strength of the spell hit the window, both window and spell would still shatter. At least a couple of the people in this room had that kind of Power. Poor Scott probably wouldn’t be resting easily until the Dark Fae concluded their hotel stay.

Perhaps she should nudge that conclusion along. Urien had built a sprawling mansion on a gated, extensive tract of land that covered eighty acres in one of the most expensive urban areas in the country. The grounds encompassed the main crossover point for the Dark Fae’s Other land. Originally she had been uneasy about going straight to the mansion from New York. She had wanted to take a more cautious route, to meet and talk with the Dark Fae delegation on more neutral ground, from which she might have some hope of escape if needed. The mansion on its gated property had seemed as if it could be too easily turned into a prison.

As it turned out, her impulse to caution had had some validity.

The four occupants in the room turned at her arrival. As one, their attention went to the silent menace that stalked behind her, and their faces grew cold and still. All, that is, except for the tall black-haired Dark Fae male with high cheekbones and crow’s-feet at his eyes that deepened when he smiled at her. Aubrey Riordan, Chancellor of the Dark Fae government, strode toward her with his hands outstretched. She put her hands out as he reached her, and he brought them up to kiss them.

Aubrey said, “I cannot tell you how angry and distressed I was to hear of the attack made on you by Geril and his partners, or how relieved and glad I am that you are back to us safe and well.”

Niniane searched the older Dark Fae male’s face as he spoke. According to her truthsense, every word he spoke was sincere. But she, and even Dragos, had believed that Geril and the others had spoken the truth too. As Dragos’s mate Pia in New York had argued just a week ago, there were ways to get around truthsense if someone had a talent with words and misdirection. That had been how Pia had survived a potentially deadly encounter with Urien when he had kidnapped her. But Aubrey’s eyes were kind, and Niniane so badly wanted to believe him. She squeezed his fingers before she let him go.

Carling moved with silent ghostly grace to sink into an armchair. The Vampyre was still barefoot, but she had changed out of the black Chanel suit. She now wore a loose plain caftan of undyed Egyptian cotton. Somehow she made the simple garment look like haute couture. She had pinned up her long, shining dark hair with two slender stilettos. The knives and the caftan appeared to be the only things she wore. The Vampyre watched the scene with interest, but unless there was a gross violation of demesne law or someone’s life was threatened, as Councillor from the Elder tribunal, she would do nothing to interfere.

Commander Arethusa stood ramrod-straight behind one couch. The powerfully built Dark Fae woman glared at Tiago. “The Wyr is not allowed here,” Arethusa gritted. “He must leave. Now.”

Without warning Niniane’s temper leaped from the cool green side of her shit-o-meter into the red zone. Her fists clenched. It was actually a good thing she didn’t have either a lead pipe or a candlestick.

“Hey, you know what, Arethusa?” she said. “I am going to be your sovereign. You can’t speak to me like that. EVER. I don’t care how valid you think your point is or how strongly you may feel about it. Let’s pause there for a minute. While we’re on the subject of what you can’t do, you can’t EVER treat me again like I am a pawn to be maneuvered. If any of you EVER again deny me any necessity, like, oh, say, my clothes or toiletries or a goddamn blanket, just to set yourself up for some kind of legal precedent, I don’t care how many years of service you have given to the Dark Fae or what you think may be owed to you. I will have you strung up on the nearest tree, and you should count yourself lucky that that’s all I will do, because I know my uncle would have gutted you for such an offense. You may be too old for me to teach you any real decency. But that does not mean I will allow you to treat me with anything but the utmost care and respect. Are we quite clear?”

Though her attention was focused on the Dark Fae Commander, she happened to catch a glimpse of Carling out of the corner of her eye. Was that a glimmer of approval in the old Vampyre’s gaze?

Arethusa’s expression underwent a change so rapid Niniane would have sworn her look of shocked contrition was sincere. “Your highness,” said the Commander. “My most profound apologies. I did not mean any lack of respect to you—my comment was meant to be directed at him.”

“It is my decision to have Tiago here,” she said. “He volunteered to come to Chicago and to help and protect me. He hasn’t hesitated to provide generously for my every need without being asked, without trying to maneuver for political gain and without asking for repayment. In fact, every item of clothing I have on right now is because of him. It is certainly not because of any of you. So what you say to him, you are saying to me.”

It was clear the Dark Fae Commander didn’t care to hear that, for her face tightened and she shot another glare at Tiago, but she remained silent. It was Justice Kellen who cleared his throat and spoke for the first time. The aged Dark Fae male was one of the finest legal minds of any Elder demesne, the elegant bones of his face covered in a fine tracery of wrinkles, his long white hair pulled back in a queue. Niniane remembered him from when she was a child, but then she remembered all of them, just as she remembered her uncle Urien’s cool, clever charm that had, to the happy undiscriminating child she had been, seemed so affectionate.

“Our decision to refuse to cooperate with sentinel Black Eagle was not well done of us,” Kellen said to her in his gentle, cultured voice. “And for that, your highness, I do most sincerely apologize. The only thing I will say in our defense is we did not conceive of the possibility that your needs would go unmet.”

Okay, so that stopped her shit-o-meter from boiling over. Kellen had always been a superb diplomat, and his nonaggressive approach was famous for cooling hotter heads than hers. She bit her lip and after a moment managed to give him a curt nod.

The Justice said, “We also have had deep misgivings at the Wyrkind’s participation in recent events. As Commander Shiron has indicated, we feel it is imperative to distance ourselves immediately from any further involvement with them.”

If that didn’t sound like an opening to a litany of complaints, she didn’t know what did. Niniane sighed as she walked over to sit in an armchair opposite Carling. She gestured for the others to be seated as well, and they arranged themselves in a rough circle, with Kellen and Arethusa on a couch and Aubrey in the last chair.

Tiago moved silently to take a standing position behind her. As she glanced at him, she saw the massive muscles of his biceps and chest bulge as he crossed his arms. She remembered his favorite position leaning against the wall during conferences with Dragos and the other sentinels in Cuelebre Tower, and a wave of homesickness washed over her. She shoved it aside. She had no time to indulge in memories or maudlin feelings.

As far as the general public was concerned, Urien had died in a riding accident, but there were a few individuals throughout the Elder Races who had enough Power to scry for the truth. The governing bodies of the different demesnes knew very well that Dragos had really killed the Dark Fae King.