It wouldn't change things, and knowing that he'd fallen into Wulfe's trap wasn't going to help Stefan now.
Still, as Warren had said, it is a good thing to know your enemies.
"And Bernard and Estelle, Marsilia already doesn't trust them, right?" Stefan nodded.
"They work against her where they can, and she knows it.
They are of another's making, given as gifts by a vampire not easily refused.
She must take care of them, as she would any such gifts--but that doesn't mean she has to trust them.
Wulfe ...
Wulfe is a mystery even to himself, I think.
You believe Wulfe engineered this as a rise to power?" He looked away and didn't speak for a minute, obviously thinking about what I'd said.
Finally, he wrapped his hands around the bars of the open cage.
"Wulfe already has power ...
if he wanted more, it was his for the asking.
But it looks like he had a part in my downfall for whatever reason suited him." "If Marsilia knows that you helped when Mercy killed Andre, why isn't Mercy dead?" Warren asked.
"She was supposed to be," Stefan said savagely.
"Why do you think Marsilia starved me until I was no more than a ravening beast, then dropped me into Mercy's living room? You didn't think I did it myself, did you?" I nodded.
"So she thought she'd get it all without cost to her or the seethe? If you'd killed me, she could have claimed you'd escaped while she was punishing you.
Too bad you showed up in my house and killed me.
But she underestimated you." "She did not underestimate me," said Stefan.
"She knows me." He gave me a look that let me know that my earlier dig about not knowing him had stung.
"She just did not plan on you having the Alpha werewolf in your home to spoil her plans." I'd been there--and I didn't think he would have done it.
Stefan sneered at me when he saw my face.
"Don't waste your time on romantic notions about me.
I am vampire, and I would have killed you." "He's cute when he's mad," observed Warren dryly.
Stefan turned his back on us both.
"She's all by herself, and she doesn't even know it," he said in soft anguish.
He wasn't talking about me.
He'd been hurt a lot recently, and I thought he deserved a rest.
So I turned to Warren, and asked, "Why aren't you upstairs at the meeting?" Warren shrugged, his eyes veiled.
"The boss will do better without me to rock the boat." "Paul hates me more than he hates you," I told him smugly.
He threw his head back and laughed--which is what I'd intended.