Niniane squeezed Tiago’s power-corded hand and then released him as they stepped into the quiet, cool luxury of the penthouse.
Carling’s attendant Rhoswen appeared in the foyer, blonde hair pulled back in a sleek chignon and face smooth, serene. In profile she resembled a perfect cameo. The Vampyre had been young when she had been turned, perhaps eighteen or twenty. What had been so compelling at that age to make her seek out vampyrism, and what had convinced the Vampyre that had made her? Young humans were much like any other species, Niniane had found. They were all sure they would live forever. Whereas when she had been eighteen, she had been sure she would not live out the year.
A weight settled on her chest as Rhoswen walked toward her across a polished parquet floor. The problem with forging ahead with the Niniane of the future, she realized, was that she still loved reading Elle, still loved every shade of those damn pink lipsticks in her purse every bit as much as her old persona, Tricks, had, and she felt woefully inadequate for the challenges she faced.
She had to come up with a better coping strategy and fast. Why was she struggling with the thought of meeting again with the Dark Fae delegation and Carling? Tiago towered behind her, a menacing black-clad figure that promised death to anyone who dared to threaten her.
Not that anybody would threaten her to her face. If the attacks weren’t two separate incidents, if there was an actual mastermind behind both of them, that someone would wait until she was alone and vulnerable before trying again. And besides, when she had worked for Dragos she used to have meetings all the time with heads of state and senior government officials, from both the human domain and the Elder demesnes. She’d had no problem dealing with them, even when her life had been in danger from her uncle Urien.
She tilted her head and pursed her lips. Maybe that was it. She should just pretend she worked for someone else. She would work for the real Niniane, who read the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal; who also read works of literature with deathless prose and haunting, tear-jerking endings (bleck); and who managed her own portfolio of stock options. That chick was a well-dressed bitch in a strand of pearls you didn’t want to cross.
The fake silly Niniane smiled. “Hi, Rhoswen,” she said. “Are all of you except Cowan settling in all right downstairs?”
For a brief moment the Vampyre looked disconcerted. It was a good strategy to keep Vampyres off balance whenever possible. “Thank you, your highness,” said Rhoswen. She had a lovely speaking voice, a low, pure contralto. “We are doing well. We regret any distress Cowan’s actions may have caused earlier.”
Niniane lifted one shoulder. “Well, he did lose his head over it.”
“As he should have,” said Rhoswen.
Just as Carling had stopped the scene earlier from escalating to further violence, she could have stopped Cowan with one Power-filled command, but no Vampyre master would tolerate anything but complete obedience from her children. The stance was a harsh but necessary one. A Vampyre who lost control in public was a menace to everyone.
Rhoswen’s brief disconcertment had smoothed away as if it had never existed. The Vampyre said, “Chancellor Riordan, Justice Trevenan, Commander Shiron and Councillor Severan are all awaiting you in the library.”
Ooh, that sounded like a game of Clue. Somebody was going to get bashed in the head with a lead pipe or a candlestick. Not that the real Niniane would notice something like that. The real Niniane already had a clue; she wouldn’t play a game of Clue.
She said, “Lead on, Macduff.”
Rhoswen inclined her head and turned to lead the way. “I was in theatre before my transformation,” said the blonde, as her heels tapped on the hard wood floor. “Did you know, the real phrase is not ‘Lead on, Macduff’ but actually ‘Lay on, Macduff, and damned be him that first cries, Hold, enough!’?”
Sometimes Vampyres got pedantic when they got older, which was a function of how their once human brains coped with their unnatural age. And the real Niniane would never stoop to squabbling with an attendant.
The fake silly Niniane told Rhoswen, “Yes, but I was not quoting the play. I was quoting the quote. Nobody says ‘Lay on, Macduff’ when they invite somebody to go ahead of them. That would sound stupid. Everybody says ‘Lead on, Macduff.’”
She grinned over her shoulder at Tiago, who strolled behind them. He wore his harsh assassin’s face, but his dark gaze contained a fugitive twinkle.