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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 flexedthe 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?”

    “Yes, I would love to hear that explanation. I’m sure you expect us to believe you had nothing to do with this?” Zephrim asked. He ruled the House of St. Germain fast and loose, letting just about anything go unchecked as long as it was in the name of alchemy.

    “I didn’t. Not in the slightest.” Tatiana’s rage curled around her with comforting warmth. Behind secure mental barriers, she imagined turning her metal hand into a sword and skewering Lord Zephrim in the manner Vlad Tepes most often favored—through the groin and out the throat. The thought caused an inappropriate smile to crease her lips. She covered it quickly by drawing a handacross her mouth before speaking. “The comarré whore is now in league with a powerful coven of witches. Lord Ivan and I