She closed the report and added it to the stack of those waiting to be reviewed. Another hour of reading them wasn’t going to make the problem go away.
A knock on the door startled her. She checked the time. Almost nine. Was Valerie, her secretary, still here? Couldn’t be, Lola had sent her home two hours ago. Must be John Havoc, her bodyguard. But why? The man was as silent as a ghost. Followed orders like a born soldier and had already saved her life twice. In the last few weeks, he’d become more distant than usual and had taken to wearing sunglasses night and day. There was something else about him, too. Something that fell into the same category as the reports and the gargoyles. Something she kept pushing from her mind every time it reared its ugly head. But what she thought didn’t matter. He did his job. He could dye his hair blue if he wanted. His position was secure. “Come in.”
The door opened, and John stepped in, his shades securely in place. Behind him, a uniformed police officer entered. The officer cast a wary gaze at John, who waited for her nod of approval.
“Thank you, John.”
He grunted softly and left, back to his post.
“Sorry to disturb you at this hour, Madam Mayor, but the chief said you’d probably still be here.”
“No problem, Officer…”
He removed his hat. “Rodriguez, ma’am.”
“Hola, Officer Rodriguez. What can I do for you at this hour?”
He glanced quickly at the floor, then back to her. He was young, probably hadn’t been on the job long. Whatever he had to tell her, it wasn’t good news. Regardless, she could take it. She hadn’t been mayor this long without some rough patches.
“We believe we’ve found your daughter.”
St. Petersburg, Russia, 2067
Times like this, the need to kill coated her mouth like the remnants of a lover’s kiss.
Tatiana tapped her head against the high-backed wooden bench. One hundred ninety-two hours wasted. Eight bloody days they’d made her wait. She hadn’t even had a chance to deal with the two runaway comarrés. Madame Rennata would replace them gratis or Tatiana would find a way to make her pay.
Which reminded Tatiana that she could have returned to New Florida and done away with that other comarré whore by now, but no, she’d been trapped in St. Petersburg at the whim of Lord Grigor and under the watchful eyes of the rest of the House of Rasputin. Because of the powers this house possessed, she’d been forced to leave Octavian behind in Corvinestri. He was just a vampling, far too young and inexperienced to guard his mind against the likes of Grigor and his ilk. She couldn’t have Grigor tapping into Octavian’s thoughts and gathering information to use against her. Like Zafir’s death. Or that of his brother, Nasir.
She glanced down at her leather-clad hands and flexed the metal prosthesis that filled the right glove. Zafir’s alchemical masterpiece. Also his undoing.
She snorted softly. Part of her wished Grigor knew exactly what she’d done to those who opposed her. It would serve the mind-reading prat well to fear her.
A creaking sound brought her head up as one of the tall double doors across from her opened. Svetla, Grigor’s right hand and the Elder of the House of Rasputin, slipped out. Her midnight-blue silk gown swished around her wiry form, her frigid blondness too comarrélike for Tatiana’s taste, but then she’d disliked the woman since the first time they’d met. Svetla was hard to read. Her simplicity seemed too practiced to be real. She’d only just attained Elder status after Tatiana was awarded it. Before Tatiana, there had been no female Elders. Curious how Svetla’s predecessor, a noble who’d come to be a thorn in Grigor’s side, had mysteriously decided he’d had enough and walked into the Siberian sunlight. Regardless of her connection to Grigor, Svetla best remember whose hard work had paved the road to Elder. Tatiana had no time for weak imitators.
Svetla’s porcelain façade cracked enough to allow a narrow smile. “You may come in now.”
Returning a false smile, Tatiana forced down her anger at being made to wait. She steeled the mental barrier already in place and strode through the massive mahogany doors and into the chamber beyond. The council had long been called to order, and now the lords sat around Grigor’s table like fat Romans, a few with their Elders positioned behind them. Zephrim, Dominus of the House of St. Germain, smoked a cigar. Carafes of blood and vodka littered the table. She kept her lip from curling. How anyone could drink the two mixed was beyond her.
Grigor lifted his glass, half full of the rosy-pink concoction. “Svetla, shut the doors.” He tilted the glass slightly toward the seat beside him. “Then come sit.”
No chairs were available beside the one Grigor had reserved for his chew toy. Tatiana remained standing as Svetla did what she was told.
Once the other woman was seated, Grigor spoke to Tatiana. “Tell us what happened.”
“Lord Ivan is dead.” Tatiana reached into the pocket of her varcolai leather coat, curled her gloved fingers around the broken bits, and tossed what was left of him across the table. The shards of stone skipped over the wood; the largest—a bit of eye and forehead—came to rest in front of Syler, Dominus of the House of Bathory.
She’d once considered him a tentative ally. Now with Ivan gone, she wasn’t so sure. The security of that connection had to be determined.
The other Dominus looked on with curiosity. Timotheius, Dominus of the House of Paole, gasped, always the dramatic. “How did this happen?”