Brave the Tempest (Cassandra Palmer #9) - Karen Chance Page 0,131

at him.

“Cassie, I don’t think you understand how . . . unusual . . . it is to merely . . . waltz into hell whenever you like and talk to the head of the demon high council.”

“I don’t waltz.”

“But you do go.”

“When I have to. It’s not exactly my idea of a fun afternoon!”

“You misunderstand,” Mircea said. “Anyone can go. The mages go to the nearest hell—the Shadowland, I believe?” I nodded. “The more powerful of them, who can protect themselves, travel there to obtain potion ingredients not often found on earth. But they do not go to see Adramelech.” His lips twisted. “Or Adra, as you call him.”

“They don’t have reason to,” I pointed out.

“They wouldn’t be let in even if they did!” Marlowe exploded.

I blinked at him, because I was tired and over this and wanted to go home—with a damned assurance about Marco!

“Your point is?” I said—to Mircea, because Marlowe was looking stressed.

“That you have a relationship with these creatures that the rest of us do not and cannot duplicate. Even were you to bring them here, that would only demonstrate your power over them, that you can summon the council at will—”

“I can’t summon anyone!”

“But it would look that way,” Mircea told me patiently. “And thus put anything they said into question.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Then what are we supposed to do?”

“Nothing,” the consul said. “Parendra backed down. Fortunately.”

The last word had a sting in the tail.

“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision,” Mircea told her, and he looked completely sincere.

Only it hadn’t been. I remembered that brief flash of relief I’d seen on his face when I’d arrived. Relief he’d had no reason to feel unless he had planned this. Probably for the reasons he’d given Marlowe: Parendra wouldn’t be expecting it, and wouldn’t want to risk a confrontation in an unfamiliar court with no backup.

Vamps dueled all the time, but spur-of-the-moment stuff was for lower-level types with less to lose. When senate members threw down, it was usually after weeks if not months of preparation, with everything from intel gathering on an opponent’s weak spots, to ways to make sure they couldn’t cheat, to ways to try to cheat yourself, to backup plans for every possible outcome. Mircea had assumed that Parendra wouldn’t risk a confrontation with exactly none of that in place, and he’d been right.

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 Parendra 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