Brave the Tempest (Cassie Palme) - Karen Chance Page 0,65

guy”—I indicated the redhead again—“was the one who invited him to play cards. He invited other people, too.”

“He invited them so he could kill them?” the consul asked. “It was premeditated, then.”

I nodded.

Looked pretty premeditated to me.

“Tensions have been running high,” the old officer said, his face troubled. “Many of the families here have long-standing grudges, as do some of the senates. Add that to what we’re asking them to do—”

“There has been violence on a daily basis,” one of the other vamps said. “Although nothing this . . . extreme.”

“Yes, but that’s not what happened here.” Mircea knelt by the ravaged man.

“And how do you know that?” the vamp asked. His tone wasn’t exactly a sneer, but it wasn’t one I’d have expected from someone addressing his general. I didn’t know him: a generic blond in a uniform that was more braid and medals than cloth. He obviously thought well of himself.

Mircea looked up, the dark eyes sardonic. “He killed all these others, then, in your view?”

The vamp nodded. “Likely was unstable before he came. That, or the pressure—”

“Did nothing! Are ye blind, man?” the old soldier demanded.

The officer drew himself up. “I simply pointed out that we have our killer. The Pythia even thinks so!”

“Perhaps,” Mircea said gently. “But then who killed him?”

Everybody looked at the blond idiot for a moment, who flushed with embarrassment.

And then everybody looked at me.

I stared back for a second, and then started shaking my head. Vigorously. Dizziness be damned!

“Cassie—”

“Not only no, but hell no!”

“We’re not asking—”

“Like hell you’re not! I am not going back in there! Forget it, I’m done!”

“That is your prerogative, of course.”

“Damn straight it is! There’s nothing to go into anyway, even if I wanted! His head is . . . is like that!” I gestured at the flattened cranium, which looked like one of those full-size head masks they sell for Halloween, only with nothing inside. I didn’t know what had happened to the guy’s brain, but it wasn’t in there anymore.

Most of it wasn’t, anyway.

“Yeah,” Billy agreed. “Ain’t nobody getting anything out of that.”

“Especially if it’s me!” I didn’t care if it looked like I was talking to myself. I didn’t care if I looked unstable in front of the consul’s new friends. I didn’t care about anything but getting out!

And now everybody was looking at Mircea, because of course they were. He was supposed to control the crazy Pythia, right? Only not this time.

He pulled me away from the rest—why, I didn’t know. It wasn’t like they couldn’t hear us anyway. Although I was frankly past caring.

“You don’t have to do this,” he told me, and sounded like he meant it.

“Damn straight!” I repeated, and then I shuddered, and felt his arms go around me. I was supposed to be mad at him—furious, even. And I was. But I couldn’t deny that, right then, those arms felt good. I shuddered again, and they tightened.

“I’m sorry,” Mircea whispered. “We shouldn’t have put you through that.”

I looked up and met dark, velvety eyes that looked absolutely sincere. Of course, his usually did, no matter the truth level involved. But still . . .

It was nice to have someone at least pretend to give a damn.

“Thank you,” I said, and meant it.

And then I waited, because of course he was going to attempt to talk me into it anyway. That’s what Mircea did: bring people around to the consul’s point of view. And right now, she didn’t care what price I paid for her information, she just wanted it.

Which was stupid, because it wouldn’t even help!

“What do they expect me to do?” I asked when he just stood there, giving me body heat but no arguments. “Go mind to mind, watching him slaughter the rest of them?”

“No,” someone said, but it wasn’t Mircea.

I looked up to see that Marlowe had walked over to join us, in the silent way vamps have, Mircea excepted. He always made his footsteps audible, even to human ears, maybe because he knew that anything else freaked me out. Kind of like Marlowe was doing now, although for a different reason.

Because he was talking to me, but looking at Mircea.

He didn’t seem too happy.

“We need you to try with that one,” Marlowe said, jerking his chin at a corpse—an intact one, for a change—that was being dragged forward—

By its feet.

“Stop!” I yelled, because the soldiers were smearing a broad swath of red and brown across the floor behind the corpse. They stopped, looking confused. And