Pirate's Alley

I studied the woman, who’d walked onto the dais and taken the seat pulled out for her by one of her male companions, the one with short black hair as opposed to the one with short blond hair. Both men looked to be in their early thirties; the woman was a pickled ninety if she was a day. Although she could be a thousand.

 

Note to self: Look up the life span of faeries. I hoped the faery search would be more fruitful than the hours I’d wasted trying to learn about elf reproduction while Eugenie cried in her bedroom.

 

Finally, the other council members filed in from the room behind the dais. First came a man too pale and perfect to be anything but vampire. “That’s Garrett Melnick, the head of the Regents,” Alex whispered. “Etienne was going to be their other council member.”

 

Melnick looked like actor James Franco if he joined M?tley Crüe. Boyish posing as hair-band grunge, all in black leather.

 

The elven contingent of Mace Banyan and Quince Randolph needed no introductions, although they both looked gratifyingly cold. Rand’s gaze locked on to me as soon as he walked in the room, and he smiled. I gave him a finger-wave, the most I was willing to concede, although damned if he wasn’t pretty in his powder-blue snow-prince sweater. He must have a closet filled with every shade of blue.

 

We’d had a short conversation last night after Alex and I returned from dinner, deciding the weather was too awful to visit City Park. He’d not been able to tell me much of what to expect today, except to keep my eyes open and be ready to think on my feet. That didn’t bode well.

 

“That’s the Elder from Asia, from Tokyo, I think. His name’s Sato,” Alex said, nodding toward the dark-haired man who entered with Willem Zrakovi. Both wore ankle-length black robes.

 

“Since when do wizards wear robes?” I whispered. “That’s falling into every human stereotype ever created.” Jeezum. Next thing you knew, they’d be waving around magic wands.

 

Speaking of which, I moved my bag containing the elven staff between my feet so I could get at it if I felt the need to wave something around myself.

 

“The First Elder thought they’d look more intimidating in robes than in business suits,” Alex whispered back. “They look like they’re on their way to a costume party at Hogwarts.”

 

Finally, a handsome black man of indeterminate age walked out of the back, accompanied by a handsome Frenchman whose age I knew all too well.

 

Jean Lafitte looked great for a 230-year-old pirate who’d recently died for at least the fourth time that I knew of. He was six-foot-two of alpha pirate, his dark hair pulled back in a short ponytail, his dark blue eyes sharp and serious. He had full lips, a strong chin, and a jagged scar along his jawline in case one forgot how lethal he could be.

 

The indigo double-breasted waistcoat emphasized his slim waist, and light-colored breeches were tucked into black leather boots that almost reached his knees. Add the ruffled white shirt and he was ready to attend any nineteenth-century ballroom in style.

 

He gave Jake a light, somber nod and let his gaze linger on me a second before taking a seat next to Toussaint Delachaise. His companion took the center chair and pulled the microphone toward him.

 

“If everyone could take a seat, please.”

 

This was my first look at Adrian Hoffman’s father, Geoffrey, the First Elder and also the representative for the UK and European Union wizarding communities. I saw the resemblance to his son. He wasn’t as flashy as Adrian, but had the same bone structure, the same good looks, the same haughty bearing. I guess one didn’t become grand poobah of all wizards without cause for arrogance. He’d probably been horrified that his baby boy had fallen for a vampire, conspired with elves, and gotten himself turned.

 

I’d spent a lot of my sleepless nights thinking about the First Elder, putting together my theory as to what he knew, and when he might have known it. I was ninety-nine percent certain he was up to his robe-wearing ass in the whole elf-vampire-wizard political mess. I couldn’t prove it, however, so I had no intention of sharing it here unless I got backed into a corner.

 

After the introductions, including an awkward moment when Hoffman forgot the Faery Queen’s name and called her Ravine instead of Sabine, the room fell quiet. I waited with my eyes glued to the closed door behind the dais. Of all those charged with crimes, who’d come out first? Would it be Adrian himself, who’d conspired against a fellow wizard and set me up to be killed? Lily, the elf who’d started the whole conspiracy? Etienne, her vampire conspirator? Jonas, the necromantic wizard who’d turned against his own people for money? Or the Axeman of New Orleans, the big, lumbering undead serial killer who’d become the conspirators’ weapon?

 

“The first thing I’d like to do this evening,” drawled Hoffman, looking down at a stack of papers he’d placed before him, “is call for the testimony of the person who was at the heart of all the problems experienced in the preternatural world three weeks ago. The person, indeed, at whose feet the bulk of the blame could rightly be placed.”

 

Good. Lily would go first. She deserved every punishment they could throw at her.

 

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