Okay. Maybe not that last part.

Alamaya got on with her unpleasant job, and the words pushed the Red King into a rage. He gritted his teeth, and . . . things moved beneath his skin, shifting and rolling where nothing should have existed that could shift and roll.

I stared at him with one eyebrow lifted and that same wolf smile on my face, waiting for his reaction. He hadn’t been talked to like this in a long time, if ever. He might not have much of a coping mechanism for dealing with it. If he didn’t, I was going to die really horribly.

He did. He mastered himself, but I thought it was close—and it cost the woman on the altar her life.

He spun and slammed the obsidian knife into her right eye with such force that the blade broke off. She arched her body up as much as her restraints allowed and let out a short, choked scream of agony, throwing her head left and right—and then she sort of slowly relaxed into death. One leg kept twitching and moving.

The Red King ran two fingertips through the blood that was seeping from her eye socket. He slipped the fingers into his mouth and shuddered. Then he turned to face me, completely composed again.

I’d seen behavior like that before. It was the mark of an addict scoring a fix and full of contentment that he had a body full of booze or drugs or whatever, and therefore the illusion that he could handle emotional issues more capably.

That . . . explained a lot about how the Red Court had behaved during the war. Hell’s bells, their king was a junkie. No wonder they had performed so inconsistently—brilliant and aggressive one moment, capable of making insane and idiotic mistakes the next. It also explained why there was strife within the Court. If the mark of power was control of one’s blood thirst, indulging it only when and where one chose, and not with every random impulse, then anyone who knew about the Red King’s condition would know that he was weak, inconsistent, and irrational.

Hell’s bells. This guy wasn’t just a monster. He was also paranoid. He had to be, because he knew that his bloodlust would be seen as a sign that he should be overthrown. If it had been happening for very long, it would have driven him insane. Even for one of the Red Court, I mean.

And that must be what had happened. Arianna had somehow tumbled to the Red King’s weakness, and was building a power base aimed at deposing him. She’d be building her own power, personal, political, and social, inasmuch as the vampires had a psychotic, blood-spattered, ax-murdering version of a society. Dealing appropriately with one’s enemies was critical to maintaining standing in any society—and for the Red Court, the only two enemies were those who had been dealt with appropriately and those who were still alive. She literally had no choice but to take me down if she was to succeed. And a Pearl Harbor for the White Council wouldn’t hurt her any either, if she pulled it off.

Oh, I had to make sure this little lunatic stayed king. As long as he was, the Council would never face a competent, united Red Court.

The Red King spoke a moment later, and wiped off his fingers in Alamaya’s hair as he did.

“My lord accepts your petition to challenge the duchess. This slave will be sent to fetch her while you wait.”

“Not so fast,” I said, as Alamaya began to rise. “Tell him I want to see the girl.”

She froze between us, wide-eyed.

The king moved a hand in a permissive gesture. She spoke quietly to him.

His lip twitched up away from his teeth a couple of times. But he gave me a curt nod and gestured at the altar. Then he stepped to one side and watched me.

I kept track of him out of the corner of my eye as I approached the altar.

Maggie, wearing little metal restraints that had, ugh, been made to fit children, huddled on the far side of the altar. Blood had spilled out from the altar, and she had retreated from it until she was pressed against the wall, trying to keep her little shoes and dress, both filthy already, out of the blood. Her hair was a tangled mess. Her dark eyes were wide and bloodshot. She was shivering. It wasn’t terribly cold out tonight—but it was cold enough to torment a child dressed in only a little cotton dress.

I wanted to go to her. Take those restraints off. Wrap her up in my ridiculous cloak and get her some food and some hot chocolate and a bath and a comb and a brush and a teddy bear and a bed and . . .

She saw me and flinched away with a whimper.

Oh, God.

I ached, seeing her there, frightened and miserable and alone. I know how to handle pain when I’m the one feeling it. But the hurt that went through me upon seeing my child, my blood, suffering there in front of my eyes—it went to a whole new level, and I had no idea how to deal with it.

But I thought it would probably start with tearing some more vampires to bloody shreds.

I took that pain and fed it to the storm inside me, the one that had been raging for endless hours and that flared up white-hot again. I waited until my rage had been stoked hot enough to dry the tears in my eyes. Then I turned to the Red King and nodded.

“Deal,” I said. “Go get the duchess. I’ll take out the garbage for you.”

Chapter 44

Alamaya departed the temple in silence. Within a minute she was back. She bowed to the Red King—a full, kneeling bow, at that—and said something quietly.

The Red King narrowed his eyes. He murmured something to the girl and walked out. Conch horns blew and the drums began again as he appeared to those outside.

Alamaya had to raise her voice slightly to be heard. “My lord wishes you to know that this place is watched and warded. Should you attempt to leave with the child, you will be destroyed, and she with you.”

“Understood,” I said calmly.

Alamaya gave me a more conventional bow and hurried out after the Red King.

When she was gone, I took two steps over to the altar and the dead woman upon it. Then I said, “All right. Tell me what I’m looking at.”

From the improvised Rolling Stones T-shirt bag tied to my sash, Bob the Skull said, in his most caustic voice, “A giant pair of cartoon lips.”

I muttered a curse and fumbled with the shirt until one of the skull’s glowing orange eye sockets was visible.

“A big goofy magic nerd!” Bob said.

I growled at him and aimed his eye at the altar.

“Oh,” Bob said. “Oh, my.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“The ritual curse they’re setting up,” Bob said. “It’s a big one.”

“How does it work? In ten seconds or less.”

“Ten sec—Argh,” Bob said. “Okay. Picture a crossbow. All the human sacrifices are the effort you need to pull back the string and store the energy. This crossbow has its string all the way back, and it’s ready to fire. It just needs a bolt.”

“What do you mean, a bolt?”

“Like the little girl hiding back behind it,” Bob said. “Her blood will carry the stored energy out into the world, and conduct that energy to the target. In this case, her blood relatives.”

I frowned for a second. Then I asked, “Does it have to be Maggie, specifically?”

“Nah. One bolt is pretty much like another. Long as you use a compatible knife to spill the blood, it should work.”

I nodded. “So . . . what if we used a different bolt?”

“The same thing would happen,” Bob said. “The only difference would be who is on the receiving end.”

“It’s a loaded gun,” I said quietly. I frowned. “Then why’d they leave me alone with it?”

“Who you gonna kill to set it off?” Bob asked. “Your little girl? Yourself? Come on, boss.”

“Can we disarm it then? Scramble it?”

“Sure. It’d blow this temple halfway to orbit, but you could do that.”

I ground my teeth. “If it goes off the way they mean it to, will it kill Thomas?”