7

Adam

Bonarata’s villa in Milan, in the wee small hours of the first night I spent in Prague. At this moment I was huddled next to the Vltava while a ghost dripped water on my head. So this chapter begins before the previous chapter started. I told you it was going to get tricksy.

THEY WERE GIVEN A LARGE SUITE WITH THREE bedrooms, each equipped with a king-sized bed and a bathroom. They looked pristine and newly remodeled, but this was a very old building, and it had seen a lot of violence. Adam could smell the faint musk of fear and the rotten iron of old blood as if it, like the stone, wood, and paint, was part of the material that made up the structure.

Their luggage had been piled tidily inside the main door of the suite when they got there. Adam figured that they’d been driven from the airfield the long way to allow the luggage to beat them.

“Dress for dinner, he says?” said Larry as soon as their escorting vampire guide had left. “It’s four in the morning Milan time.”

“You can hardly expect vampires to eat in the day,” said Marsilia.

“Or to eat at all,” offered Honey. “Are we going to be dinner?”

“They always have last meal at 5 A.M. here,” answered Stefan. “‘Dinner’ is a word used for guests—think of it as a very early breakfast if you’d like. There are usually guests who aren’t vampires. Bonarata uses it as a gathering for the seethe. There will be fresh blood for all the vampires and good food for everyone else.”

Elizaveta had paced around the room muttering to herself. She entered the first bedroom, and Larry moved to follow her.

“Leave her be,” said Stefan. “She’s checking for magic. Bonarata has a few witches in his employ, had a very good witch at one time, and, according to rumor, a fae half-blood. There are a lot of things a witch could do to us without breaking guesting laws. I don’t have to tell you to clean your hairbrushes and burn the stray hairs, do I?”

“Standard stuff,” grumbled Larry amiably. “Trimmed toenails get eaten, I know.”

Honey made a sound, and the goblin flashed a grin at her. “Of course, you can flush them if you’d like. I prefer to be certain. Witches are bitches and they’ll burn your britches sure as kittens have itches if you give ’em half a chance.”

Elizaveta was in one of the bedrooms. She might not have heard Larry. But Honey was standing right next to him.

“I’m a bitch,” said Honey in a smooth voice.

The goblin laughed. “That you are, dearie. Don’t take offense where none is meant.” He wasn’t dumb, thought Adam. This was about establishing boundaries. He was telling the room that he was sure enough of his ability to protect himself that he wasn’t afraid of offending anyone in the room.

Good to know. Adam was sure he’d appreciate the information at some other time. Just as he was sure that another time he’d have been pleased and impressed with the suite they’d been given.

“Just keeping things out in the open,” said Honey, but she wasn’t really paying attention to the goblin. She was watching Adam out of the corner of her eye.

The noise of their getting-to-know-you bickering rubbed like sandpaper on Adam’s skin. Adam was sure before this was over he’d be wishing for a hotel room by himself. Or with Mercy. He checked, like a man with a toothache, and their bond was still there. He wasn’t getting much from it. He knew it was because she was no longer here and that without more of the pack, he couldn’t reach her more clearly.

His control was fraying. His wolf . . . no, to be honest, it wasn’t just his wolf who wanted to rip out Bonarata’s throat. Having his pack back home was not making his wolf any more comfortable, any safer for the people around him.

Honey knew it. She wasn’t exactly avoiding him, but she was being very careful not to meet his eyes and to give him plenty of space. If he let this continue, he’d either kill Bonarata or Bonarata would kill him—and that’s what they had come here to prevent, right?

Part of him, the biggest part of him and not just the monster, wondered why he was standing in the vampire’s stronghold and not over the vampire’s dead body or out hunting down Mercy.

He abruptly turned to Marsilia, interrupting a quiet-voiced conversation she was having with Stefan about sleeping arrangements.

“Tell me that leaving Bonarata animate another hour is the right thing to do,” he said. “And make me believe it.” If he couldn’t figure it out, maybe someone else could. If not . . .

Adam didn’t know what was in his face, but Marsilia looked at him and stilled. But it was Stefan who answered him.

“Iacopo Bonarata is a monster,” Stefan said. “He does terrible things, then lies to himself about it because he doesn’t want to believe that he is any different from the Renaissance prince he once was.”

“I agree,” Marsilia said a little sadly. “He was never a hero like you were, Stefan—no matter what either of us tried to believe.”

Stefan didn’t look at her, just continued to speak. “Iacopo Bonarata is an addict who glories in his addiction because it brings him more power. He broke the werewolf he feeds upon so that no one will ever believe that the addiction he won’t admit to is a weakness or a problem to anyone except the poor damned wolf.”

Everyone, including Elizaveta, had stopped doing whatever they’d been doing to pay attention to Stefan.

“He is a monster,” said Stefan. “But he is good at it. Good at survival—and that makes him good for the rest of the monsters who have to live, seen or unseen, with the human population, who have grown a lot more deadly since they virtually wiped out the witch population in Europe.”

“It was a civil war among the witch families that did the most damage,” said Elizaveta. “But the Inquisition was thorough about sniffing out the remainders.”

Stefan nodded carefully in Elizaveta’s direction, giving her the point. Then he continued, “Bonarata is smart, savvy, and incredibly wealthy, and he uses it to ensure his own survival. But because he sees his survival as depending upon how the supernatural predators interact with humans, he is a very strong force for stability.”

Marsilia put her hand out and touched Stefan, who fell silent.

“Killing him,” Marsilia said, “will cause the death of thousands—not just vampires, but all of the people who will fall victim to their power plays.” She hesitated briefly. “Mercy doesn’t need you, Adam—she doesn’t need us—to rescue her or avenge her. She rescued herself. By doing so, she gave us the opportunity to build bridges, to keep all the monsters”—here she curtsied with an ironic lift of her brow—“behaving themselves.”

It was a good answer. Adam didn’t know that it would be enough of a good answer to keep him from going for Bonarata’s throat at the first opportunity. Mercy’s rescuing herself didn’t mean that Bonarata deserved to be excused for taking her in the first place. He remembered the blood and glass all over the SUV, all of Mercy’s blood staining the leather seat, the necklace he kept tucked safely in his pocket.

“He nearly killed my wife,” Adam said.

Stefan said, “But he failed.”

“Not good enough,” Adam said. “Not a good enough reason.”

There was a small silence, then Larry spoke.

“You aren’t used to dealing with bad guys who are this much more powerful than you are,” he said. “No offense meant. One-on-one, if you and Bonarata got into it, the betting would be pretty even. But Bonarata isn’t just an old vampire. He’s the head of a collective of vampires—just as your Marrok is the head of a collective of werewolves. And it is the collective that is most important to the choice you are making tonight.”

Adam looked at the goblin, and Larry dropped his eyes, without otherwise changing his body language. Larry wasn’t afraid of him. He was just doing his best not to cause a fight.

“Go on,” he said, because Larry seemed to be waiting for him to respond in some way.

The goblin nodded. “Bonarata has not named an heir for a very long time.”

“The ones he picked kept getting ambitions,” murmured Marsilia. “He got tired of killing his favorites. What he has now is a collection of lieutenants, powerful in their own ways, but not a second. He has no Darryl.”

Larry said, “So what happens to the collective when Bonarata dies is this. Every Master Vampire in Europe and a fair number of them back home think that they should step into Bonarata’s place. Most of ’em because of ambition, because vampires, present company excepted, I’m sure, are ambitions. But there will be some of them who are interested because they don’t want to be bowing and scraping to a vampire who might be stupider or more horrid than Bonarata.”

“You have a point?” Adam said.

“So how do you think that they will make their first bid to step under Bonarata’s empty crown, eh?”

“Kill the dumb werewolf who assassinated the king,” Adam said slowly.

“And failing that—or even if someone gets you, Adam—someone else will go after your people and your family, too, in an effort to build a name for themselves. Killing Bonarata won’t keep Mercy safe. If you kill him, his successors will go after you, after Mercy, after your daughter, Jesse, your whole pack, Marsilia’s seethe, and any supernatural or human who has been associated with you. The best way to keep your people safe is to make Bonarata believe that it is in his best interests that your wife and daughter—as well as everyone in this room and their loved ones—stay alive.”

And that rang true enough that the beast inside of Adam considered it.

“Talking with Bonarata is best,” said Honey. “But if you want to kill him, I’ll help.”

“And I,” said Elizaveta, “would enjoy it, Adya.”

And with all the reasons for leaving the vampire walking that he’d been presented with, it was the voices of murderous support that allowed him to take his first deep breath since he’d gotten off the plane.

“Thank you,” he told them with real gratitude. “But Larry is right. Without the Marrok to shield us with his reputation, our people would be targets.”

As good as it would feel to kill Bonarata, he didn’t want to loose a horde of vampires on his people. Larry had also been right that Adam had gotten used to dealing from the position of strength provided by the Marrok’s support. It had been so much a part of being a werewolf Alpha that he hadn’t even thought about it. He was going to have to fix his thinking.

Everyone was still watching him intently, so he waved them off and changed the subject back to an earlier one, saying, “Elizaveta gets a bedroom. Marsilia gets a bedroom. Stefan, you and Larry can fight over the third bedroom—loser gets the couch out here. Honey and I can sleep in wolf form out here, too.”

“Adam, if you want to continue our ruse, you should put your luggage in my bedroom,” suggested Marsilia. “Larry, you should take the third bedroom. Stefan and I can share a bed.”

“I will have the gold room,” said Elizaveta coolly before he could answer the vampire. “Marsilia, the rose room is the biggest. If you share it with Stefan, then your purported threesome will have the largest room. The blue room should be adequate for the goblin king.”

“We don’t call ourselves that,” said Larry dryly. “That was just that one movie. I mean, ‘Larry the Goblin King’ just doesn’t have the right ring to it. The blue will do fine, I’m sure.”

The gold room was, Adam noticed, the only bedroom that didn’t share a wall with the interior of the house. If Bonarata sent someone through the wall after them, they would either break into the main room, the rose room, or the blue room. Perhaps Elizaveta hadn’t noticed that, but he wouldn’t bet on it. The witch was very good at looking out for herself.

—

INSTEAD OF A DINING ROOM, THEY WERE TAKEN TO A large room that had once been a library. Adam could still smell the old glue and leather that had been used to manufacture books—as well as the complex musty smell libraries accumulated over time because paper absorbed odors.

Their entrance was more dramatic than he’d have willingly participated in, but he hadn’t noticed until much too late to do anything about it. Truthfully, he wasn’t entirely certain how or when the theatrical element had been instituted, though he had a very good guess about who was responsible.

As they’d exited their suite en masse, Marsilia had taken his arm—evidently deciding that, since he hadn’t spoken, Adam would be willing to continue the farce that he and Marsilia were lovers. Only then did he realize that their entire party—including Elizaveta—had somehow managed to be color-coordinated.

Adam’s gray suit was Mercy’s favorite of the suits she had picked out for him, claiming that his choices of business wear were deliberate attempts to downplay his looks. He’d worn it this evening for Mercy, with a black shirt and his brown-and-silver tie. She wouldn’t know, of course, but he did. He would have sworn that no one except he himself had known which suits he’d packed, or which one he was going to wear until he had it on.

Even so, Marsilia’s semiformal dress was silver with brown trim. Stefan’s suit was a pale brown, and he wore it with a gray shirt and a silver-and-black tie. Larry’s suit was black and silver with a silvery waistcoat, and his shirt and tie were brown. Honey wore a dark brown dress trimmed in black that wasn’t as formal as Marsilia’s even though it covered less.

Contrary to type, Elizaveta had chosen to dress all in black. She usually dressed like a fantasy-novel version of a Russian grandmother who’d been raised by the Roma, complete with multiple skirts, scarves, and jewelry in bright colors.

Mercy had told him once that she thought that Elizaveta had once been a beautiful woman, not just attractive, but world-class beautiful. Tonight, he understood exactly what she meant.

Adam wasn’t interested in fashion as an art form, but he understood how he could use it as a weapon in the business world against men and women who used wealth to judge power. That meant he knew men’s fashions, but also that he didn’t pay any attention to women’s clothing except to note whether it looked good on Mercy or not—which put him one up on Mercy, who didn’t pay attention to fashion at all.

Not that women didn’t use clothing like a weapon in the business world, too, but because he never judged people by the richness of their clothing, he was free to ignore the fashionable weapons of the opposite sex. But that indifference left him without words to label the outfit Elizaveta wore.

It was silk—he knew fabric, and silk had a recognizable smell and a sound as it slid over itself. It was black, and it was formfitting, and Elizaveta wore it with style, whatever it was, because it didn’t fit neatly into the categories he knew: dress, pants, suit.

It began with a long, tailored shirt that hung down to her knees while it sprouted embroidery that was black but also iridescent. Beneath the shirt, her skirt was narrow and slitted up to midthigh on each side to allow for movement. She went barefoot for reasons of her own—probably related to magic. Her feet were lovely, with manicured and polished (in sparkling silver) nails.

She was old—nearly, he thought, as old as he was, and unlike werewolves, witches aged just like regular humans. But she had muscle and not an extra ounce of anything else on her frame. He’d always known she was strong because he watched the way people moved. He hadn’t known that her body was beautiful. She’d toned down the makeup from pancake to ballroom, and it suited her. She did not dress to minimize her age—she didn’t dress to minimize anything. She didn’t need to. She looked exactly like what she was: beautiful and deadly.

The only two of his people left out of the fashion show were his pilot and copilot, who trailed behind the rest of them. They were still wearing the semi-uniform business garb they’d flown in—black slacks, white dress shirt, and green tie—though for all Adam knew it was a second set of identical clothing. Still, they didn’t match everyone else, so that was something.

Their guide to dinner—a female vampire clad in a tuxedo—had been under the impression that “the help” would be dining in the kitchen with the rest of the human staff. Adam had put the kibosh on that.

Harris had put his neck out a lot farther than Adam or he had planned when the vampires insisted that they leave the plane. Adam wasn’t about to let Harris or his copilot run around loose in Bonarata’s seethe without protection. They would eat with his party in reasonable safety.

They had waited while the vampire had texted someone. As soon as the return text came, she’d agreed to the “additions to dinner”—a phrase that made Larry grin and mock-snap his teeth behind the vampire’s back.

The arrangements for dinner had distracted Adam, so he hadn’t noticed the black, silver, and brown theme until they were following their guide through the halls. Far too late to run back and change into his blue suit.

Adam wasn’t entirely certain that the color coordination wasn’t an accident. But instincts (and a hint of guilt in Honey’s face) told him that this whole performance had been planned behind his back—up to and including the way that Marsilia clung to his arm.

All this drama was in keeping with the vampires and with Marsilia, anyway. Adam was an old soldier who, like good boots, could be polished up and given a shine—but in the end he was happier being a weapon than an art piece.

This was the second time Marsilia had changed their approach without checking with him. If that was how she wanted to play this, he’d feel free to do the same.

In any case, the entrance was wasted because the room was empty. With a murmured encouragement for them to await Bonarata here, their guide executed a quick bow and left.

Adam surveyed his people rather grimly.

Stefan broke first—probably because he was enjoying himself. “I told you the color thing was a bad idea,” he told Marsilia.

“Not here,” Adam said, though their guide was gone. His ire was appeased, not by Stefan’s apology. With Bonarata apparently claiming the right of making a grand entrance, the whole drama had been mostly a wasted effort. Punishment enough to suit the crime, he thought.

Since they were stuck here, Adam did a little recon.

Sometime in the last ten years, the room had been gutted, fitted with modern electricity, and put back together with drywall and engineered hardwoods. There were only two windows—the light would have damaged the books when it had been a library, he supposed.

A good designer had done his best to make the room look as though it had last been decorated a couple of hundred years ago despite the modern lighting, air vents, and energy-efficient windows. The central area was mostly empty, with chairs lining the walls and a small writing desk in the corner.

Art was the true focus of the room. Oil paintings of eclectic sizes from various eras covered the walls three layers high. They were all originals, and mostly, to Adam’s averagely educated eye, very well done. One or two were spectacular. There were no signatures, and he did not recognize any of them, which surprised him a little. He’d have thought a vampire of Bonarata’s reputation would put out famous artists to establish his status.

Then Adam realized that he knew the subject of the painting he’d paused by. Marsilia, her eyes in shadow, crouched gracefully on a rock on the edge of a stream. Her hair, longer than he’d ever seen it, did nothing to cover her naked body. Clasped loosely in one hand was a dagger.

Seeing that famous-in-certain-circles painting, Adam realized that the vampire had been establishing his status all right. All of the paintings had been done by Bonarata himself.

A door opened—not the one they’d entered the room through—and Bonarata strolled in.

Adam had never met Bonarata in the flesh, but he’d seen a few sketches, and there was one painting (perhaps also painted by Bonarata) in Marsilia’s seethe. That was enough to allow him to recognize the Lord of Night on sight even if he probably couldn’t have picked him out of a crowd.

Like the rest of the men, excepting Adam’s pilot and copilot, Bonarata wore a suit. The biggest difference between his suit and Adam’s was that Bonarata’s suit only emphasized the vampire’s brutally stamped features. It wasn’t that the suit looked wrong; it was that it looked like it was designed to showcase a warrior, a dangerous man.

Adam’s suit, which made him look very civilized, was a disguise. Adam preferred it that way.

The Master Vampire gave Adam a half bow. “I am Bonarata. I have met you through the eyes of my servant, but you have not met me.”

Adam introduced his people gravely, including Marsilia and Stefan. Both of whom Bonarata greeted mutely with that quick, polite nod, as if they were strangers. For their own protection, Adam stuck his pilot and copilot in the middle of the introductions, to make it absolutely clear that Adam felt they fell into the category of his people. He did not introduce them by name—as an added protection for them. Including them in the middle also mixed up the whole color theme, which he appreciated.

All the while, he and Bonarata sized each other up.

“Your wife is no longer in my care,” Bonarata said, apparently deciding to be straightforwardly honest.

Adam waited politely. On the outside, he was sure his face was polite anyway.

“She misunderstood my intentions, I think,” said the vampire, with a small smile on his face. “Otherwise, she would not have run from here. I did not get the chance to let her know you were coming.”

Or maybe not so honest.

“Did she?” Adam asked. “So she misunderstood that you hit her car with a semi, almost killed her, then compounded the incident by kidnapping her?”

“Adam,” Marsilia said, her grip on his arm tightening to painful levels.

When she spoke, there was an instant during which something passed across the Lord of Night’s face. Marsilia saw it, Adam felt her fingers clench, but he couldn’t see her face.

“We know that Mercy isn’t here,” he told Bonarata, and by the vampire’s careful lack of expression, Adam knew that Bonarata had thought to surprise them. He didn’t want Bonarata to have an opening to ask how they knew Mercy was gone. Not while Mercy was still out on her own. So he continued briskly, “Recovering my wife is no longer our purpose here. I think we should talk about why you decided to take her in the first place.”

“I had hoped to talk business after last meal,” said Bonarata.

“Had you,” said Adam neutrally. Not a question, just an acknowledgment of Bonarata’s plans.

It was a good thing that Larry had talked sense before they’d come down to eat, because Adam’s temper flared hotly, and he knew that his eyes were wolf-yellow.

He took a deep breath.

“It is something civilized people would do,” Bonarata said mildly.

“Which neither of you is,” Marsilia said archly.

Bonarata looked at her sharply, his eyes lingering on the way her hand stayed on Adam’s shoulder.

This time Adam recognized the flare that broke through Bonarata’s semicivilized expression as jealousy.

“Why did you take my wife?” he asked.

The vampire’s eyes met his, and Adam felt the draw of the vampire’s gaze even as he cursed himself for allowing it to happen. He knew better. He prepared to fight his way out of it, drawing on his bond to Honey—and to Mercy.

And the vampire’s gaze slid right off Adam without effect.

“Why”—Adam let his voice soften with the rage that simmered around the image of his SUV after the semi had hit it—“did you take my mate?”

Silence rang loudly in the room as no one moved or spoke.

“Iacopo,” murmured Marsilia, letting her hands slide off Adam’s arm.

“Jacob,” the vampire said coolly.

“Jacob,” she corrected without apology. “You did not set out to kill Adam’s mate. That would be stupid and wasteful, and the man I knew for centuries is too smart for either.”

“Or to respond to flattery,” he said.

She threw up both hands high, then let them drop to her sides as she spoke. “It is not flattery if it is true. You did not intend her death—so why did you take her?”

“You are in the wrong,” murmured Stefan. “Everyone in this room understands this—including you, Jacob. To pretend otherwise is unproductive.”

“And heaven keep us from being unproductive,” growled Bonarata. But he turned to Adam. “I went to Wulfe for information, as you know. This was my mistake, and I apologize for it. I have known Wulfe a long time, I know that he enjoys causing trouble, but I thought I had taught him better than to cause me trouble. I will see to it that it does not happen again.”

Marsilia reached out and grasped Adam’s arm, digging her nails in deeply. But he didn’t need her request.

He shook his head at Bonarata. “Wulfe lives in my territory. He is under my protection; moreover, he did not lie to you. My mate is the single most powerful person in our territory.” He waved his hand to include the rest of his people in the room. “Witness the quality of the people willing to put their necks out for her—and I turned down a lot of help.” He decided not to give Bonarata an excuse to react to Adam’s defense of Wulfe—a defense that Bonarata had been expecting, if Adam was reading the vampire aright. So he kept talking. “Why did you kidnap someone you expected to be the most powerful person in the Tri-Cities?”

Bonarata veiled his eyes. “Your territorial grab is a very interesting thing, Mr. Hauptman. A place where we could deal with the humans and each other in safety is very valuable. But to say that is what you have—and to actually be able to keep people safe—is another thing entirely.”

“I agree,” said Adam.

Bonarata turned and walked to a dry bar and poured himself a drink of something that smelled like port to Adam. “Would you like some? It doesn’t affect me, of course, any more than it would affect you. But I like the taste.”

Adam let his eyes become half-lidded, and Marsilia petted his arm soothingly. Adam watched Bonarata notice her hand. Watched the vampire throw the alcohol back. It wasn’t true that it didn’t affect either of them. Alcohol would give a werewolf a momentary jolt, then the effects dissipated.

Sherwood Post, one of the last werewolves Bran had sent to join Adam’s pack, said he’d discovered that even a werewolf could get drunk by drinking Everclear, the 190-proof version, fast enough. He’d stayed that way by drinking steadily for two days before Bran took away his alcohol and told him to grow up.

“No,” Adam said. “I never acquired the taste before I Changed, and I see no reason to start now. You were going to tell me why you took my wife.”

Bonarata set his empty glass down. “Yes. Where did I leave off?”

“You had decided to see if we could protect our own,” said Marsilia softly. “You asked Wulfe who the most powerful among us was, and he told you—for reasons that make sense only to Wulfe, for all that he explained them to us—he told you that person was Adam’s mate, Mercedes. So you broadsided her car with a semitruck and hurt her mortally—and then kidnapped her.”

“She is alive,” Adam said, and despite his best effort, his voice emerged as more of a growl than a human voice. “Despite your best efforts.”

“Ah, yes,” Bonarata said, “the famous mating bond of song and story.” He smiled tightly at Adam. “She was dying,” he said, “because Wulfe misled me. If you wish for him not to have consequences for that, I suppose I am not the one to suffer the most from his games. My people called me to report the issue, and I almost left her there. Her death would have told me what I wanted to know, after all. That you cannot protect your own.”

Adam didn’t say anything, just watched Bonarata with patience. His wolf was pretty convinced that Bonarata was not going to survive long, no matter what the overarching consequences might be. Bonarata kept setting himself in front of them and making himself a target. Eventually, Adam’s control would fail, and the wolf would feast.

Bonarata tried to outstare Adam. Marsilia let out a huff of air and walked between them, breaking their stare-down with her body. For the first time, Adam realized that the heels she wore made her taller than either of them. “But you didn’t leave her to die,” she told Bonarata.

“No,” he said, his face and body language softening as he spoke to Marsilia. “Because ultimately, my aim wasn’t to destroy what you had built but to use it. Her death was not my intent. So I had my team fly her to Portland, where I have a witch on retainer. She kept Mercedes alive until she could be brought here, and my own healer could bring her out of danger.”

Adam was pretty sure that the pause that Bonarata followed his speech with was intended as an opportunity for Adam to say thank you, which he wasn’t going to do.

“I have a witch on retainer also,” Adam murmured instead. “A very powerful witch.” Elizaveta made a pleased sound. “It would, perhaps, have been better for Mercy to stay in the Tri-Cities when she was so badly hurt—rather than carting her halfway around the world.”

A chime sounded.

“Ah,” Bonarata said. “That would be dinner. I’m afraid my chef insists that we not dine late. I’ve had to increase his salary twice this year after such incidents. We will have to hold this conversation after we sit and you eat. Yes?”

Adam nodded politely and let Marsilia and Stefan follow Bonarata through yet another door, while he lingered to take the rear. Elizaveta kissed his cheek as she passed—probably because of the compliment he’d thrown her way.

Larry and Harris, the goblins, were deep in discussion in a language he didn’t know, but it sounded vaguely Germanic. Norwegian or Norn, or Old Icelandic for all he could tell. Harris’s copilot trailed behind them, apparently following the conversation. Honey, who had taken it upon herself to play guard for the copilot, fell in beside Adam.

“What is his name?” Adam asked, tilting his head toward Harris’s man. He’d been given it when he met the two pilots at the airport, but he’d been struggling with the wolf, and it had gone in one ear and out the other—something not usual for him. But if the copilot was going to be among the people Adam was responsible for, Adam needed a name.

“Matthew Smith,” said the man himself in a meek voice, though he didn’t turn back. “You can call me Matt, sir.” Then he gave Honey and Adam both a shy smile over his shoulder. “I’ve heard all the jokes. I preferred Tom Baker, anyway.”

Honey looked at Adam, puzzled by the reference.

“Doctor Who,” Adam told her. “Matt Smith played the Eleventh Doctor. Tom Baker was the Fifth or Sixth.”

“Fourth,” said Harris with a grin. “He’s the guy with the scarf.”

“Doctor Who,” said Honey slowly, because the whole pack knew that Adam didn’t like TV much.

“Mercy makes me watch it,” Adam said defensively. “She says it’s for my own good.” Matt the copilot huffed a little laugh under his breath, and Adam caught himself smiling a little. “I’m not sure what that means. But I’m enjoying it.” Doctor Who had been unexpectedly good, but he’d have watched reality TV or even a soap opera in order to sit around for an hour with Mercy cuddled beside him.

He checked his bond—and Mercy was there, too distant to communicate with, but she was there. Just as she’d been the last hundred times he checked for her.

—

DINNER WAS THROUGH A DOUBLE DOOR AND INTO A well-lit, high-ceilinged room that could have been the main seating area of any high-class restaurant. Instead of a single long table, there were a number of tables that sat from two to six people, spread with conscientious randomness around the room.

The whole room could have seated maybe a hundred people, but not so many were expected tonight. Numerous tables, each seating four, were decorated with pink linen tablecloths and blue-and-white place settings. There were deep-rose-colored place cards on each plate with names scribed on them. The first one that Adam glanced at proved that Bonarata had investigated Adam’s people: it read MATTHEW SMITH.

He rounded the table, reading the other names at the table—Stefan Uccello, Larry Sethaway, and Austin Harris.

“Matt, here’s your seat,” he said, keeping his voice kind because the other wolf didn’t deserve the sharpness of the sudden, possessive bite of an Alpha wolf who feels like someone is trying to take his pack away from him. It wasn’t just that Bonarata had known Matthew Smith’s name—it was that he had surrounded the vulnerable wolf with the people Adam would have put around him: Stefan for strength, Harris for familiarity, and Larry because no one would expect him to be as dangerous as he was. He’d have weighed replacing Larry with Honey, but the two goblins would be more likely to fight well together.

Bonarata had done him a favor, and it drove his wolf wild because of the impertinence of it—presuming to make decisions that belonged to Adam. Protecting his people was his job. Or maybe he was overreacting because he didn’t know where Mercy was. Probably he was overreacting.

The copilot sat down in the chair Adam had indicated for him. He put a hand on Adam’s knee and asked, “Trouble?” in a low voice that wouldn’t carry, even to the ears in the room.

This wolf was the only person besides Honey in the room whom Adam’s wolf did not view as prey or possible threat. The touch on his knee steadied him as nothing else could have in that moment. Adam had a job to do—and that job did not include playing stupid games with an ancient vampire.

He took a breath and nodded to the other wolf. “Thank you,” he said.

The copilot dropped his eyes and bowed his shoulders to look smaller than he was—and he wasn’t a big man. “Glad to be of use,” he told Adam.

Feeling more in control—though he supposed he wouldn’t be back to normal until he had Mercy back safe—Adam patted the wolf on the shoulder in thanks, and when Harris found his way to his seat, he left him in good hands.

He checked on Elizaveta and Honey, both of whom were sitting surrounded by vampires. Elizaveta was flirting gently in Russian with a vampire who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Honey ignored her table companions, who were not only vampires but also women. Instead, she kept watch on the table where Matthew Smith and Harris were. It would have been rude, but the other occupants of her table were busy ignoring her pointedly, too. He just bet Honey’s tender feelings were hurt—he hid his inner smile. Honey was as tough-minded as any werewolf he knew.

There were, by his count, sixty people in the room, not including the waitstaff. Adam’s small pack was vastly outnumbered. That was probably not an accident. Some of the guests were human. A few were other, people who were magical but fit poorly into established categories.

Adam was mostly intrigued by the people he didn’t see. Bonarata had Lenka, the werewolf he had enslaved. But she wasn’t the only nonvampire Bonarata had in his arsenal. He’d had a powerful witch at one time, though she seemed to be missing—but there were others in his hire now. The only werewolves in the room were in Adam’s party—and Elizaveta was the only witch.

By the time Adam made his way to his table (he aimed for Bonarata, assuming that would be where he’d be eating) the others were seated. The Lord of Night had placed himself across from Adam. Marsilia was seated on Adam’s right (Bonarata’s left), and a strange vampire had the seat to Adam’s left.

“You like the room?” asked Bonarata pointedly. “You took your time examining it.”

“I take care of my people,” Adam said with a peacefulness won from a hand on his knee and watching Honey ignore the people ignoring her—and the solid connection of his mate bond. He decided that he could also be gracious. “The room is elegant—and interesting.”

“You were going to explain what happened to Mercy after you brought her here,” said Marsilia.

Bonarata sighed. “Not knowing anything about her, except that Wulfe had told me she was powerful—not strong, I grant you, but powerful—I put her up in a safe room outside this house, where I could keep her protected from my people and keep my people safe from her. She woke up, and we had a polite discussion. I thought all was well when I was called away to deal with other issues. I left my own werewolf to guard her. At this point, I was more concerned with my people hurting her rather than the other way around.”

“Concerned,” thought Adam, could be a very unspecific word.

“You left your bloodbitch to guard Adam’s mate,” said Marsilia, real anger in her voice. She looked at Adam. “He stole the wolf female from the Milan Alpha because he could. When the Alpha objected, Iacopo had him brought here and tortured him until he’d broken them both. But Iacopo—”

“Jacob,” corrected Bonarata softly. “Jacob is easier for my American contacts.”

“—Jacob,” continued Marsilia without a change in her voice, “doesn’t feed from males. So he had the Alpha killed but kept his mate. She was quite mad when I left here. I cannot think that a few centuries will have helped her.”

All of which Marsilia knew that Adam knew, which meant that she was bringing it up to get a reaction from Bonarata. It wasn’t working.

“If Mercedes had not run, the wolf would not have chased her,” Bonarata said easily. He didn’t address or acknowledge Marsilia’s charge except for that correction over his first name. “She would not have disobeyed me. Mercedes was safe until she tried to run.”

Adam understood what he was hearing. Mercy had not been what Bonarata was prepared to deal with, so he’d set her up to die. A very practical thing, really. If there was only one person telling the story, there could be no debate about what had happened.

Food was served at just that moment. Adam held his tongue and watched as a very rare steak was set out for him while he fought the beast inside him to a standstill. As soon as all of those eating food were served, vampire waiters brought out trays with golden goblets that they placed before the vampires. The last person served was Bonarata.

He held up his goblet and said, “Eat and drink, my friends. Tonight is a glorious night, and tomorrow will be better.” Then he said something in Italian. Adam was pretty sure the vampire was just repeating his words.

He sipped his drink, and Adam did, too, because there was nothing wrong with drinking to tomorrow. As soon as Bonarata set his goblet down, people started to eat.

Most of the place settings were silver. Adam’s was gold. He glanced at Honey and saw that her tableware was gold as well. He’d assume that Smith received the same courtesy. Adam cut into his steak and took a bite and chewed with what he hoped looked like thoughtfulness instead of restrained rage. If Mercy had not managed to escape, she’d have been dead when they arrived.

“So,” he said softly, “where is your pet werewolf whose job it was . . . to keep Mercy here, I think you said?”

There was a pause, then the beautiful male vampire to his left said, a hint of amusement in his voice, “She was hit by a bus and is currently recovering.”

And just that easily, Adam’s equanimity was restored.

Adam nodded. “People who stand in the way of my mate’s ability to get herself out of trouble often feel like they were hit by buses. I think this might be the first time it is literally true, though.” He looked at the second vampire. “We weren’t introduced.”

“This is Guccio,” Bonarata said. “He is responsible for the night-to-night running of the seethe. My apologies for not introducing him earlier.”

“Don Hauptman,” said the pretty vampire, “I have heard many things about you.”

Adam opened his mouth to tell him that his name wasn’t Don, when Bonarata spoke. “Signore Hauptman is a young wolf, not even a century old.” He looked at Adam. “‘Don’ is an old term of respect; Guccio meant it so.”

The explanation—though necessary—had been given with a hint of patronization.

“A bus,” murmured Marsilia. “At least she never hit one of mine with a bus. I wonder if it was a mark of respect—or the opposite. It doesn’t do to underestimate Mercedes, Jacob, something that I had to learn, too. Did she give you the spiel she likes to bring out now and again about how she’s mostly no more powerful than the average human? It is a most effective speech, because I think she actually believes it.”

Bonarata frowned at Marsilia. “She is weak,” he said. “She is easily broken, easily killed.” He frowned at Adam. “You cannot afford a weak mate if you seek out power. A plaything can be weak, because such a one is disposable. But a mate must be an asset.”

Mercy, weak? Adam thought. “And yet,” he said coolly, “Mercy is not here. And the werewolf you sent after her is still recovering.”

“I have news for you, Jacob.” Marsilia placed a little more emphasis than necessary on the vampire’s name. “There have been a lot of people, monsters, and other things who have tried to kill Mercedes Thompson Hauptman, and most of them died in the attempt. She is not helpless, nor is she weak.”

“I didn’t try to kill her,” said Bonarata.

Adam stared at the vampire, hearing the lie clearly. Did the vampire not know he could hear the lie? Adam couldn’t trust himself to speak.

“I never said you did,” Marsilia said diplomatically. “Nor have I. But I have seen her at work. Your wolf is lucky it was only a bus.”

“Do you know where she is?” asked Adam. “I trust you have been looking.”

On the plane, Marsilia had told Adam that Bonarata would not rest until he found Mercy. She had made him look incompetent, and his ego would not allow him to let her escape without consequences.

Bonarata spread his hands, sighed, and said, “I have my people looking for her. It appears that she has left Italy entirely, probably by bus. We tracked her to a bus stop in Austria, where she either traded buses or changed her mode of transportation. I have some information that makes it apparent that she has made her way to either Prague or Berlin or possibly Munich.”

“Who did you send after her?” asked Marsilia.

“You would not know them,” Bonarata told her. “But they are good hunters. They will find her and bring her back.”

Adam said slowly, “You were given misleading information that inspired you to take my wife. I think it is only fair to give you information that will keep you from making a bigger mistake.”

“Yes?” Bonarata said.

“Bran raised Mercy.”

“She was raised in his pack,” said Bonarata. “Foster parents, of which one was a wolf.” He smiled. “You are correct, I started with too little information. I have made up for it.”

“Very good,” Adam said. “You already know that if my wife dies, I will not rest until you are no longer walking the earth. You don’t fear that, though you should. But what you don’t know is that Bran feels the same—and only an idiot would not fear Bran.”

“Bran has cut his ties to your pack,” said Bonarata.

Adam nodded. “See? I thought you’d gotten the wrong information. That part is true enough. But that is politics—family is different. Bran could not love Mercy more if she were his own daughter. He’s funny about family. His own mother tried to hurt one of his children, and that tale is still told. You do know the story of Beowulf?”

And, from the vampire’s carefully blank face, he was fully aware of how Bran’s descent into madness, when his witchborn mother had tried to force Bran to hurt Samuel, Bran’s son, was tied to the myth of Beowulf.

“Bran is very practical,” Adam said. “He is a zealot whose cause is the survival of the werewolves. He will sacrifice almost anything to that cause. He believes that he would sacrifice either or both of his sons—and they believe it, too. But whenever that seems to be a necessity, somehow matters work out differently. And Bran is nowhere near as protective of his sons as he is of Mercy. You need to listen to me as I tell you the absolute truth.” He ate another piece of steak and resisted the need to meet the vampire’s gaze, because Mercy’s magic had rescued him once, and even for Mercy, that only worked some of the time. “If Mercy dies because of you, there is not a hole deep enough for you to hide from him.”

“If Bran behaves aggressively toward me without cause, he will force a war between the vampires and the werewolves,” Bonarata said.

“He won’t care,” Adam said, his voice sure and certain. Not all vampires could tell the difference between the truth and a lie when they heard it. But he was willing to bet that a vampire of Bonarata’s age could. “He might care afterward. He might care that you didn’t intend her death. But that will be afterward. Please don’t push him into it.”