I missed my long hair. It was barely past my shoulders now and there wasn’t much I could do with it, besides letting it loose or pulling it back into a ponytail.
Curran leaned toward me, his voice barely above a whisper. “Why didn’t those two ever get together?”
“I have no idea. Why would they?”
“Because all the other Masters of the Dead are in relationships. These two are unattached and always together.”
Shapeshifters gossiped worse than old ladies. “Maybe they did get together and we don’t know?”
Curran shook his head slightly. “No, I had them under surveillance for years. He never came out of her house and she never came out of his.”
The People took the seats across from us.
“Any pressing business?” Ghastek asked.
Mahon pulled out a piece of lined paper.
Half an hour later both the People and the Pack ran out of things to discuss. Nothing major had happened, and the budding dispute over a real estate office on the border between the Pack and the People was quickly resolved.
Wine was served, followed by elaborate desserts that had absolutely nothing on Martha’s honey muffins. It was actually kind of nice, sitting there, sipping the sweet wine. I never thought I would miss the Pack, but I did, a little. I missed the big meals and the closeness.
“Congratulations on the upcoming wedding,” Ghastek said.
“Thank you,” I said.
Technically, Ghastek and the entire Atlanta office of the People belonged to my father, who had been quietly reinforcing them. Two new Masters of the Dead had been assigned to Ghastek, bringing the total count of the Masters of the Dead to eight. Several new journeymen had joined the Casino as well. I made it a habit to drive by it once in a while and every time I did, I felt more vampires within the white textured walls of the palace than I had before. Ghastek was a dagger poised at my back. So far that dagger remained sheathed and perfectly cordial, but I never forgot where his allegiance lay.
“Ghastek, why haven’t you married?” I asked.
He gave me a thin-lipped smile. “Because if I were to get married, I would want to have a family. To me, marriage means children.”
“So what’s the problem? Shooting blanks?” Desandra asked.
Kill me.
“No,” Ghastek told her. “In case you haven’t noticed, this city is under siege. It would be irresponsible to bring a child into the world when you can’t keep him or her safe.”
“So move,” Desandra said.
“There is no place on this planet that is safe from her father,” Rowena said. “As long as he lives . . .”
Ghastek put his long fingers on her hand. Rowena caught herself. “. . . as long as he lives, we serve at his pleasure. Our lives are not our own.”
Nick Feldman walked through the door. The Order of Merciful Aid typically didn’t attend the Conclave. Not good. Not good at all.
“Here comes the knight-protector,” Raphael warned quietly.
Everyone looked at Nick. He stopped by the table. When I first met Nick, he’d looked like a filthy bum who cleaned up well when the occasion demanded it. When I saw him again, he was working undercover for Hugh d’Ambray, my father’s Warlord, and he’d looked like one of Hugh’s inner circle: hard, fast, without any weakness, like a weapon honed to unbreakable toughness. Now he was somewhere in between. Still no weaknesses, short brown hair, leaden eyes, and a kind of quiet menace that set me on edge.
Nick hated me. My mother was the reason for Nick’s unhappy childhood. I suspected it wasn’t the main reason he hated me, but it definitely helped. Nick detested me because he got close and personal with my father. He’d seen with his own eyes how Roland operated, and he thought I would turn out the same way. I was happy to disappoint him.
“Enjoying dinner like one big happy family?” he said.
“The knight-protector honors us with his presence,” Rowena said.
“Hey, handsome,” Desandra winked at him. “Remember me?”
They had gotten into it before and nearly killed each other. Nick didn’t look at her, but a small muscle in the corner of his left eye jerked. He remembered, alright.
“What can we do for you?” Curran asked.
“For me, nothing.” Nick was looking at me.
“Just spit it out,” I told him.
He tossed a handful of pieces of paper on the table. They spread out as they fell. Photographs. My father’s stone “residence.” Soldiers in black dragging a large body between them toward the gates, nude from the waist up, purple and red bruises covering the snow-white skin. A black bag hid the head. Another shot, showing the person’s legs, the feet mangled like hamburger meat. Whoever it was, he or she was too large to be a normal human.