—

ADAM DREW IN A BREATH AS THE BOND BETWEEN HIM and Guccio tightened. He wondered, briefly, how long Guccio had been planning this moment. Wondered if he should kill Bonarata or let Guccio do it—and then kill Guccio.

Today wasn’t going to be Guccio’s day if Adam had anything to say about it. Not because he was a fan of Bonarata’s—he wasn’t. But Bonarata was the best path to peace for Adam’s people. If Bonarata died and Adam was involved, even if only as a “blood slave,” the same hell that Larry had promised if Adam killed Bonarata on his own would still rain down upon his family.

Quickly, Adam did as instructed. Maintaining the handshake, Adam leaned forward as if he were going to do one of those European manly hugs that were so popular on the mob movies he’d grown up with. He reached up and put his free hand on Bonarata’s shoulder, feeling the vampire stiffen in surprise and the beginning of a realization that all wasn’t well.

That Guccio hadn’t been talking to some waitstaff or minion when he’d said, “Hold him.” That he’d been commanding Adam.

Guccio also began to move.

Bracing his legs, Adam pulled Bonarata sharply toward him with their clasped hands. At the same time, he used the hand on the vampire’s shoulder to push him into Guccio.

Surprised by the unexpected impact, Guccio hadn’t managed to draw whatever weapon he’d been reaching for, and was trapped momentarily with his hand tangled under his jacket.

Adam used that moment to pull Bonarata around and into Marsilia. He trusted Marsilia would hold Bonarata off Adam long enough for it to be clear that Adam wasn’t trying to kill the Lord of Night and wasn’t under Guccio’s control. He also hoped that she’d be able to keep any of Guccio’s confederates from killing Bonarata while Adam was taking care of business.

To help that result along, Adam said, “Protect him, Marsilia.” And also as he faced Guccio, who was rapidly recovering his balance in all senses of the word, Adam said, “Don’t let him kill me, either, please.”

The table erupted in a spray of drinks, crystalware, and dining utensils as Guccio seized the tablecloth (moss green today). The vampire cracked the cloth like a whip, turning the remains of the meal into airborne weapons.

A water glass hit Adam in the chest hard enough to hurt, and the pitcher of ice water shattered at his feet, making the footing treacherous. Adam trusted the soles of his shoes to protect him from the glass, but the water- and ice-covered floor would be slick.

Guccio smiled, showing white fangs. Then, instead of attacking, he began a slow, backward dance designed to keep Adam on the wet floor and allow Guccio to pick his strike.

Adam thought the fangs were intended as some sort of threat display, but, since they were only slightly longer than those of Mercy’s cat Medea, they didn’t do much to intimidate him. Guccio had kept the tablecloth in his left hand, gripped lightly near the fabric’s center. More interesting was the dagger Guccio held in his right hand.

Adam knew weapons. This one was old and well made. The blade bore designs in bright silver, and Adam assumed it was real silver. He was also pretty sure that the designs were probably a sign that the blade was—

“Careful,” Elizaveta called. “There is magic in that dagger. Old and corrupted. I can’t tell what it does.”

Yes. That’s what he’d thought. Probably it wasn’t a problem—ensorcelling blades, no matter what D&D had taught a generation or two of young people, was no easy matter. That’s why smiths like Zee had been so prized and feared.

—

THE FIGHT STARTED BEFORE MATT COULD PUT A WORD in Adam’s ear—and he wasn’t sure what it would have been, anyway. Everyone else got up from their tables, too. The little healer’s people got her out of the room, though she didn’t look too upset by the fight and kept turning around to get a look.

And it was a pretty thing, this fight. Matt thought of himself as a peaceful man. But he couldn’t deny that there was beauty in violence, a battle between two well-trained warriors.

Guccio was typical of noblemen of his era. Flash and pretty words that sought to disguise just how dangerous he was. Becoming a vampire hadn’t slowed him down or given his blows less power. He had been fighting for hundreds of years, and every moment of that showed, both in his movements and in the choreography that he gave this fight.

—

ADAM LET GUCCIO GUIDE THE FIGHT WHILE HE PAID attention to the vampire’s fighting style. The most notable thing about it so far was how much the vampire liked to talk.

“How did you manage to slip my leash?” Guccio asked. He held the dagger low and centered, its tip pointed at Adam’s heart. But he was being careful, choosing his strike, because even though Adam was bare-handed, he was still a werewolf.

Adam didn’t answer, so Guccio found his own answer. “You belong to Marsilia,” he said sagely. And also incorrectly.

Adam, who’d been thinking about ending this quickly, decided that maybe the vampires here needed a demonstration of what a werewolf could do. Bonarata didn’t need to believe that Adam could take on a Gray Lord—but maybe he should know that Adam wasn’t a weakling, either.

“No,” he said softly. “I belong to Mercy.”

Adam knew a little something about fighting with a blade. The Army had begun his education, but he’d had half a century to add to what he knew. The best knife fighter Adam had ever encountered held a knife just like Guccio did. Guccio was the product of an earlier age, with all of those years to practice.