the details, but Tohr would be deconstructing the entire series of events as well as the crime scene over the next couple of hours.
Including the part where V’d had to cap this corpse in the frontal lobe to prevent it from reanimating and going on an attack of its own.
A side effect, they had all learned, of a mortal shadow attack.
Tohr glanced around the room again and remembered the aristocrats scattering as the shadows had entered the parlor from somewhere inside the mansion. The Brotherhood, having been tipped off that the party was going on, had broken in through windows and attempted to save the guests.
They’d been on the property to sniff out treason. But, like a lot of nights in the war and most of the dealings with the glymera, the door prize had been an unexpected one.
And not in a good way.
“He staying put?”
Tohr glanced over his shoulder at the dry mutter. Vishous was as he always was: dressed in black leather, draped in weapons, and sporting an expression like someone stupid had just done something ridiculous.
V’s laconic puss made resting bitch face seem like something that belonged on an inspirational poster.
“Let’s be respectful, okay?” Tohr said.
“Whatever, that guy’s a traitor.” V stroked his goatee. “I’m not sorry he’s dead, and I’m glad he’s staying that way. These fucking shadows and their TKO corpses.”
At least they could agree on that. The only way to keep a shadow victim from waking up and attacking everything around them was to put a bullet spiked with water from the Scribe Virgin’s fountain in their forehead’s two-car garage.
The whole thing had so many violations of nature, it was hard to keep count.
Tohr got to his feet and looked over at the bar that had been set up off to one side. The linen-covered table was sporting a lineup of crystal glasses, rows of top-shelf liquor, ice melting in a sterling-silver bucket, and a colony of sliceable lemons and limes. Given its stage-left position, the layout had been spared the worst of the destruction, only a couple of wine stems knocked off, one bottle of chardonnay on its side, and two lemons peeking out from under the hem of the tablecloth as if they had taken cover down there.
It was highly unusual for a member of the glymera in a house as grand as this one to have a self-service spread like that, but given what had happened? There was so much more to worry about than social propriety. Twenty-four guests had arrived for the gathering, and all of the males were former members of the Council, the invitation proffered by an expelled lieutenant of the Band of Bastards who had aspirations to Wrath’s throne.
So, yes, V was right as usual. Everyone at the party was a traitor, and the evening had not been social in nature—which was a violation of law. Further, the Brotherhood would never have known about this, would not have been on-site to save the others, could not have stepped in in a nick of time . . . if it hadn’t been for one of their own. Thanks to one brave soul, they had been able to respond instantly when the shadows had streamed in.
“How’s our injury count?” Tohr asked.
There was a shhht sound as a Bic lighter was fired up and then the scent of Turkish tobacco wafted over.
“We’ve got a female in surgery,” V reported. “We thought we’d gotten away with only an ankle sprain, but then she collapsed. Internal bleeding. Guess she was a victim of the shadows, too.”
“Who is she?”
“This guy’s shellan, as it turns out.”
“Any chance they were targeted on purpose?”
“Hard to say at this point. But everything seemed random when it was going down.”
“And no one’s seen hide nor hair of Throe.”
“Nope. The host with the most is still missing.”
Tohr shook his head. “How did the shadows know the gathering was happening?”
“Maybe they were invited.” As Tohr shot a glare over, V shrugged. “Don’t you think it’s a little too coincidental that all these aristocrats were standing around when the attack went down? Just like it’s a little too coincidental that of the civilian deaths out in field from these entities, all were connected to the glymera?”
The urge to argue was nearly irresistible. Except the impulse came from being hungry and tired rather than any fault in Vishous’s logic. The brother was right. The shadows seemed to be targeting the aristocrats, but it was hard to say for sure because no one