Brave the Tempest (Cassie Palme) - Karen Chance Page 0,135

hell would. But we couldn’t go into Faerie like this!

“Liar!” Parendra said suddenly, making me jump. “It’s not enough to have the wartime senate under your control; you’ll have our thrones, too! If you think you’re going to get away with this—”

“If we were trying to get away with anything, we wouldn’t be destroying our own court!” Mircea snapped.

“Is it?” the consul demanded sharply, staying on point despite the colleague raging in her face.

“No, it’s only in here,” Mircea said, his eyes going vague, because I guessed he was taking over Marlowe’s job. “So far, there are no portals opening anywhere else.”

“If they send through a bomb, they don’t need to be anywhere else,” I pointed out.

“A bomb would be caught by our wards.”

“The same ones that were supposed to prevent the opening of portals?”

Mircea cursed and made a sudden move toward the consul, I suppose so I could shift us all out, but Parendra pushed between them. “You bring us here to destroy us, and now you think to leave? You’ll die along with us!”

“I’m not doing this!” the consul snapped. “My people are not doing this!”

“Liar!”

“Would you two shut up!” I yelled, and they both turned to stare at me. Which would normally have been terrifying, only my terror quotient had just been met by something else.

The wind died down abruptly, leaving some people smacking into the ground and formerly suspended glassware shattering against the floor. I barely noticed. I was too busy pushing my way out of the conference room and past Parendra’s men in order to get a better view.

Because the portal wasn’t an attack on the senate after all.

It was an attack on me.

Or, to be more precise, on my court, two members of which had just been thrown onto the stones in the middle of the room, their hair wild, their beautiful couture in tatters.

It seemed that the covens had arrived.

Chapter Thirty-one

The portal had let out at one end of the conference table, and I was standing at the other. The gleaming surface, now unimpeded by paperwork, was reflecting back the stars overhead, the staring faces of the people who had taken refuge underneath and were starting to emerge, and a bunch of wild-haired figures who’d just stepped out of the portal’s great maw. It was still churning away behind them, creating a swirling black and gray background that, coincidentally, also perfectly reflected my mood.

Only no. You’d need some red mixed in there for that, like the splatter covering Saffy’s face. Or the red line of Rhea’s still angry wound, which a glamourie had been hiding.

It had been stripped away now, leaving her looking almost like Ismitta, who was watching the tableau from beside a wall. But she wasn’t saying anything. Nobody was saying anything.

Until Saffy let out what sounded like a cross between a sob and a shriek, grabbed Rhea off the floor, and they ran straight for me. A spell tore through the air after them, red and violent and angry. And then shuddered and almost stopped, before proceeding along at a far more leisurely pace.

Because my reflexes might not be as good as a vampire’s, but they’re not complete shit, either.

My slow time spell turned the slash of crimson into an elongated line that Saffy easily dodged, and the girls reached me a moment later. There hadn’t been another blast, although there’d been time. And the shooter had plenty of backup. A large group of dark-clad women had left the portal and arrayed themselves along the far side of the room, but there was no doubt who the leader was. A middle-aged witch with a half-gray, half-red mane of hair stepped forward at the same time that a group of Marlowe’s men ran in.

And ended up being thrown against the wall by a spell that also held them there, squirming and fighting, but going nowhere.

“Our quarrel is not with you,” the woman told them. “But interfere again and we will defend ourselves!”

“What is the meaning of this?” Jonas demanded. He was on the opposite side of the room from the squirming men, but closer to what looked like a coven out of Macbeth. Like the war mages, their clothes moved about on their own from the power spilling off them. The same power that wafted their mostly long hair around their faces. There was a variety of skin tones, but the same expression.

It wasn’t a nice one.

And then Rhea gasped out a warning to her father. “No! They want you