Sadira, on the other hand, came around to stand next to me on my right. She was willing to stand with me, but her placement opened the door for her to jump ship if things got too ugly.

Macaire shifted in his chair, reclining while stretching out his left leg. His eyes paused over each of us before he finally drew a breath to speak. “Benvenuto, Sadira. It has been a long time since you were last in Venice.” His Italian was smooth and flawless, as if he were a native.

“Grazie,” she murmured as she bowed to the trio. “It is rare that I leave my home, but it is always good to look on the loveliness of Venice.” Despite the anxiety I could feel washing off her in small waves, her tone remained its usual calm, as if nothing could disturb her tranquility.

I thought I was going to gag, but I kept my mouth shut and my face blank.

“Please, come sit near us. It seems we have much to catch up on.” The silver-haired Elder motioned with a careless wave of his right hand for her to take a seat on the stairs before him.

Macaire was not the leader of the Elders, not even the strongest of the three. That was and always would be Jabari. However, Macaire loved to play with his prey. He liked to toy with their minds, break their spirits before he broke their bodies. It was a trait Sadira shared with him, one many nightwalkers shared.

“I am honored, but I would like to remain beside my daughter,” she said, lifting her chin slightly. I raised one eyebrow in surprise before I could catch it. Macaire had given her an easy out, an extremely generous opportunity to save her own skin. She wouldn’t get a second chance.

“Yes,” he hissed. Macaire’s eyes slid over to me and his gaze narrowed. “Mira. It has been a long time.”

“Not since that last little job in Nepal,” I said with a pleasant smile. It was a little nudge, a friendly reminder that I had fulfilled the requests of the Coven in the past. One of the Coven toadies had contacted me several years ago to eliminate a vampire who was causing some problems in a small village in Nepal. He was leaving behind a large trail of bodies. It was raising too many questions, and a major media organization was starting to look into it. I destroyed the nightwalker and it was covered up as a rare disease sweeping through the remote area. After the job, I stopped by Venice as a way of politely checking in before returning home. At the time, only Elizabeth had been in residence on the island.

“Yes. Well, it seems you were quite busy in England recently.” I opened my mouth to argue, taking a step forward, but Macaire raised a silencing hand. “Jabari told us of how you were attacked by a horde of naturi not far from London. Nasty business.” Macaire shook his head, while resting his elbows on the arms of the chair. He folded his hands over his stomach and watched me for a moment as if thinking. “We are grateful that you saved the lives of Sadira and our Jabari. It would have been a dreadful loss.” He paused for half a second, and I thought I saw something in his eyes, but he quickly pushed on. “But it seems your little display has caused some problems that need dealing with.”

“What problems?” I flinched, the muscles in my shoulders tensing. What new horror was I opening myself up to? I took a small step forward, wishing I could push Danaus and Sadira behind me a little better, but I could offer only so much protection.

“I’ll let our visitor explain,” Macaire blandly said.

At the same time, a door to the left of the dais opened and a woman walked out. She was African American, with rich black hair that poured past her shoulders and large, lovely brown eyes. She walked across the room with a natural ease and seductive grace that could bring men to their knees. I’d seen her do it. Her name was Alexandra Brooks and she was a werewolf. I’d known her for nearly five years, but I doubted that the Coven was aware of it. During the long centuries, lycans and nightwalkers had learned to tolerate each other. On rare occasions, nightwalkers and shapeshifters would team up for some mutual fun, but the peace never seemed to last long.

We had held a contest once. It was Valerio’s idea. We grabbed a poet and made him decide which race was more alluring: vampires or lycans. Poor fool. It really was a no-win situation for him, but we found it entertaining. After more than two weeks of allowing his senses to feast on a handful of vampires and a choice selection of weres, he made some interesting comments. For this poet, vampires could be extraordinarily sexy just standing still, quietly occupying space like the white, slender beauty of the Venus de Milo. On the other hand, lycans seemed to come alive with sexual allure the moment they moved. Their energy flared and filled the room, brushing against its occupants; an exquisite blending of animal and man.

To my surprise, we released the poet after he made his comments. Both sides seemed content with the assessment, and Valerio’s interest had wandered elsewhere. I later heard that the man committed suicide a few months after escaping our collective clutches.

Behind Alexandra, a prime specimen of male beauty strolled in. At well over six feet, he looked as if he were built of pure muscle with a hint of granite. A seeming child of the sun, the stranger possessed thick blond hair and bronze skin. His features were soft, with full lips and small cleft in his determined chin. He was also a lycanthrope. His movement was too liquid to be human, and with him came the scent of nature. Not the same as you would smell when the naturi were near, but definitely woodsy with a musky hint of man.

If the circumstances had been different, I would have happily taken the time to get to know the shifter. Unfortunately, my main concern then was making sure Alexandra didn’t say anything to reveal our friendship.

I smiled coldly at the woman, my fangs peeking out. “I never thought I’d see the day when the Coven let a mongrel loose in the main hall.”

Alexandra sharply halted and glared at me, but said nothing. She and the male lycan were outnumbered in the court of nightwalkers. As an emissary, she expected a level of protection from the Elders, but that didn’t mean the members of the court couldn’t mock her in an attempt to get her to attack. If she attacked, a nightwalker had every right to defend herself.

I walked over, drawing closer with each circle I closed around her. The sharp click of my heels on the marble was the only sound in the enormous room. The blond man stiffened when I slipped between him and Alexandra, but he didn’t move, didn’t even change his even breathing pattern. “Tell me, Alexandra, are you still an Omega or did a Beta finally have pity on you and make you his bitch?”

Alexandra growled low in the back of her throat at me, and I saw a subtle shift in her eyes for a second. Her brown eyes had faded to liquid copper as the wolf in her fought for control on the swell of anger. Lucky for us both, she caught it in time. She wouldn’t risk changing here—it was too dangerous with this many vampires hanging about; she wouldn’t survive the night.

Of course, after my last comment, I was asking for her to rip my throat out. There were three grades to the werewolf pack. There was the Alpha male and female; leaders of the pack. Everyone else generally filtered down to the Beta class. And then there were the Omegas hanging on the periphery of the pack, not exactly a part or accepted, just barely tolerated. They were permitted the scraps of the kill after everyone else had eaten, and they served as the whipping boy for the family. The only thing lower than an Omega was dead.

“Arresto, Mira,” Macaire said mildly with a vague wave of his hand. There was no censure in his voice, only a note of boredom and maybe a hint of amusement. “It seems you have already met our Ms. Brooks,” he continued, switching to English for Alexandra’s benefit.