Brave the Tempest (Cassie Palme) - Karen Chance Page 0,123
the table. “We have a positive ID, provided by the Lord Protector from one of his trusted agents, who was on the scene.”
Bet I know which one, I thought grimly.
“The events also bore the hallmarks of Jonathan’s MO,” Mircea continued. “As I said previously, his acute sensitivity to magic has made him a sort of divining rod for magical oddities. In this case, he discovered a fey flower, known as Dragon’s Claw, that, under certain conditions, can cause the attributes of one item or creature to manifest in another—”
“Meaning what?” Ismitta demanded impatiently.
“Meaning these.” Mircea opened a fist, and a bunch of little metal pieces hit the tabletop with a clatter.
“And those are?”
“Spent bullets—slugs, as they’re called. They were extracted from the corpses of a number of dead vampires after the Battle for Hong Kong. Dragon’s Claw had been used to give the lead in the bullets the attributes of wood—”
“What?”
“—allowing them to serve the same purpose as stakes—”
“What?”
“—turning simple guns into vampire-killing devices capable of—”
Mircea kept talking, but he was drowned out by a sudden furor. Ancient vampires were on their feet, shouting; other people, who had been quiet until now, were busy talking over each other; and Ismitta was pounding on the table again. It was strange, because she looked like she’d be the serene and calculating type, like the consul, who matched her classic beauty but who hadn’t so much as blinked. Probably because the startling news was neither to her, since she’d no doubt been informed ahead of time.
But Ismitta hadn’t, and she was pissed.
And it looked like a lot of other people agreed with her.
There was a sudden lull in the din, and I looked up to see Ming-de, the diminutive East Asian consul, commanding attention, although not in the normal ways. She wasn’t on her feet, since that might have left her peering over the tabletop, because she was tiny. And she wasn’t saying anything, because she spoke only Mandarin—or pretended to, for whatever damned reason ancient vamps have for being mysterious.
It also wasn’t because of her outfit, although it was gorgeous: bright yellow silk, thick and creamy and covered with embroidered dragons that gamboled about, ducking under sleeves, peering out of the thick sash around her waist, or chasing each other across her bodice. Having dealt with Augustine for a while now, that didn’t surprise me, although Ming-de’s magical creations were particularly lovely, with precious stones for eyes and the tiny claws on their diminutive paws. However, plenty of other people were dressed to the nines.
But nobody else had her special accessory.
The shrunken head of an unfortunate East India Company officer resided like a handle on the end of her walking stick, and it wasn’t just a macabre decoration. Something had been done in the treatment stage to preserve him, and I don’t mean merely the withered flesh. He could still talk, and since at some point in life he’d learned Mandarin, he served as her translator when she wanted to say something.
Which I guess she did, because she’d just thrust the horrible device out over the table, causing everyone in the area to draw back a bit.
“Let’s just assume I went through all her titles, shall we?” the little thing rasped. “We’ve heard them enough, God knows.”
“Then get on with it,” Ismitta said, looking as disgusted as we all felt.
“Don’t get haughty with me,” the little thing told her, eyeing her scar with his dried-up raisin eyes. “Or next time you lose your head, maybe they’ll put you on a stick!”
Ming-de said something, and then whacked him on the table, like a malfunctioning remote.
He sighed. “Her Serene Highness would like you to know that the matter has been contained.”
“How?” Ismitta demanded.
The small thing eyed her without favor. “How do you think? We politely asked them to stop.”
Whack.
“We butchered everyone involved,” he said spitefully. “Of course.”
“Including Jonathan?”
“No,” Mircea said. “Not including Jonathan.”
All eyes swiveled back to him. Mircea didn’t have any gruesome accessories, but he didn’t need any. He was in his element, the dark gaze sharp and gleaming, the voice clear and commanding, the aura of power easily reclaiming everyone’s attention.
Including that of his boss, who was sitting at his side.
That was not a normal occurrence when she was in a room. An ancient queen, burning with power and clothed in her favorite slithering pets—black ones today, their scales glittering like dark sequins—she usually held all eyes. And that was especially true lately. The new wartime senate had needed a leader, and