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“What’s the occasion?” “We’re hosting a diplomatic summit.” She turned on her foot and looked at me, her eyes sharp. “My dear, don’t tease me.”
The Guide to Major Powers, which I had purchased during the summer and which had cost me an arm and a leg, listed Lady Ilemina as the Preceptor of House Krahr together with two pages of her titles and decorations, some of which included words like “Slaughterer of” and “Supreme Predator of.” The Khanum had an equally long list of titles studded with gems like “Spinebreaker” and “Gut Ripper.” All things considered, I was glad only one of them was coming.
“Ours is an old rivalry,” he said. “You can’t blame us. They are barbarians. Do you know how one becomes a Khan? One would expect a proper progression—a ruler’s son, learning statecraft at his father’s knee, studying with the best tutors, gaining experience under the guidance of talented generals on the battlefield, building alliances, until finally he takes his rightful place, supported by his power base. One would expect this, but no. They elect him. The army gathers and votes.” He spread his arms. “It’s ridiculous.” Of course hereditary aristocracy was much better. That never went wrong.
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Vampires were a carnivorous species. Their cuisine was sophisticated, but they were perfectly happy to bite through the neck of some random woodland creature, pop it on a stick, and scorch it over a fire.
My father loved my mother completely. He also mistrusted the modern world. He understood it, but it moved too fast and all its dangers seemed magnified to him. He viewed each drive to the store as a failed suicide attempt and each major city as a den of cutthroats and thieves lying in wait for their victim. He would never dream of keeping my mother from doing something she wanted to do. But sometimes when my mother was about to leave on an errand, especially if she had to drive into the city, he would look at her just like that, as if he wanted more than anything in the world to wrap his arms
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Life is trade; we trade our labor for its fruit, we trade hours of study for knowledge, we trade pleasure for pleasure or sometimes for wealth, security, or offspring. I have made thousands of deals. I cannot deal with these people. I have nothing they want. I offer them peace, but they don’t want it. They only want war.”
She was right. It made perfect sense and it was so awful. The sadness of it took your breath away. “This is marvelous,” Caldenia said. “Press that lever and you can wrench her heart right out. You couldn’t ask
“I’m inclined to be generous.” Out of the mouth of a Merchant, there were no more dangerous words.
Her Grace had artfully arranged herself in a chair by the window and indulged in a cup of hibiscus tea and her tablet. Judging by the small smile on her lips, Caldenia was reading something with a lot of smut or a lot of murder.
“Attosecond?” Gaston asked. “I’m guessing it’s a very, very small fraction of a second,” I said. “One quintillionth of a second,” George said without raising his head from his reader. Jack pondered him. “Have you started memorizing random crap again to amuse yourself?” “No, I’m connected to the wireless,” George said. “I googled it.”
Odalon had written a communique to House Meer. He read it to me as we walked through the orchard, the pallet with the dead trailing behind us. “It is with great regret that I must inform you that Lord Beneger and Knights Uriel and Korsarad have fallen victim to Turan Adin, having attacked him as he entered the dining hall during dinner.” “Like cowards,” Ruga added on my left. “Fallen victim?” Vampires saw themselves as predators, not prey. That was a scathing insult. “Indeed,” Odalon smiled, baring his fangs. “Their resistance lasted but a few breaths, and despite our most valiant efforts,
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“It is an up close and personal war, fought with savage weapons,” Odalon said. “At first when you’re young and dumb and you hear about it, you think it will be glorious. That you will be like the hero of old, ripping through the ranks of your enemy. Then you find out what six hours of fighting with your sword is really like. The first hour, if you survive, is exciting. The scent of blood is intoxicating. The second hour, you are injured but you keep going. The third hour, you realize you’ve had your fill of blood. You want to be done. You want off the battlefield. In the fourth, you notice the
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