Part 30 (2/2)
”Ten a.m.,” I repeated. ”I'll call you when I have exact location details.”
”We'll be there.” She made it sound as if we were all meeting for a coffee clutch.
I'd just about hit the disconnect b.u.t.ton when I added a rushed, ”Thanks, Vaughn. You're the best.”
”I agree,” Stone mumbled into the phone then the line went dead.
Great. How much had he heard? All of it if he was anything like Bran. Control issues and no sense of playing fair.
Okay, maybe I'd just screwed up Vaughn's position on the team. Mine was toast already but saving Van's life was worth it.
I only hoped Ling Mai would agree when Stone told her.
CHAPTER 60.
Jeb stood in the liquid suns.h.i.+ne of an early spring morning in one of the side chambers of the Pet.i.t Trianon in the palace of Versailles, waiting for the initial formal meeting in the salon. He looked without really seeing the designed pastoral feel of the grounds, a world apart from his idea of a rural landscape. His gaze lighted on the infamous saut-de-loup, or wolf jump, a ten-foot drop used to give the illusion of accessibility to the French people who wished to see their king and queen, but in reality kept the ma.s.ses away from the royal court.
Jeb knew how those ma.s.ses felt, frustrated to be kept just out of reach of what was truly happening. Both his shaman self and his s.h.i.+fter wolf could feel the tension among the Council members and their entourages, including Pdraig. Like the lull before a late summer lightning storm, an edgy restlessness skating the razor edge between euphoric and manic, without any clear reason for either. Not as far as Jeb could see.
He'd tried again last night to reach Philippe on the astral plane but failed. It was as if his friend danced just outside Jeb's reach, always present but at the same time aggravatingly absent. Even this location where Jeb stood had the touch of Philippe in its arrangement, or so it felt as they reached the ornate Palace of Versailles.
Leave it to Philippe to requisition several of the rooms of le Pet.i.t Trianon, a building designed for the mistresses of one king and given by another king as a retreat for the young Marie Antoinette. Philippe no doubt had to pull a few strings to have the rooms available but also would have enjoyed the irony of holding a Council meeting in a location known for its illusions.
And that's what Jeb was battling-a series of illusions, where nothing seemed quite as it was in reality. Zeid, the Dominatui who posed as a butler, was an illusion. So was this warlock who was involved with his daughter. And the traitor? The one Zeid spoke about? Within the Council or close enough to be perceived as belonging. He, or she felt very, very real, though still hidden. Illusion within illusions.
Jeb considered himself a simple man, which is why he'd avoided Council politics. But that same aversion was biting him on the a.s.s now.
”Are you ready?” Pdraig had entered the room from the far door though Jeb had not heard him. Another sign of his distraction.
”Are they prepared for the full Council?” he asked, touching the medallion within his pocket, the only overt sign of rank and power. Others had asked for robes, one even requested a crown, to show his position as one of the privileged Council members. Jeb had helped shoot down both ideas. By this stage all present should know who and what they were. Since few outsiders were invited to Council meetings, unless to face a judgment or place a pet.i.tion that had been vetted by lesser circles of power, there should be no need to flaunt who they were to one another.
But times changed.
Pdraig nodded his head. ”We're meeting in the red salon.”
Jeb followed the younger man's lead, noticing as he did how Pdraig walked on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet as he moved into the room that drew its name from the ostentatious mirrored walls and watermelon red satin chairs. He was sure they had a different name for the color but they reminded him of the late summer fruit that grew so well in the long hot weather of Mud Lake.
He also realized he was no longer focusing on Pdraig so almost ran into the young man's back as he came to a sudden halt.
With a quick shuffle Jeb side-stepped the Irishman to see what was happening.
A large, formal table that fit the room had been dragged to the center, with six formal chairs pulled up to it. On the back of each one draped a dark purple robe.
Obviously things were changing faster than Jeb expected.
Cristobal igo de Mendoza, the Council's vampire representative who was even older than the room they stood in, waited at the head of the table, his smile shark-sharp. Beside him aligned the witches and demons. Talk about an unholy triumvirate. That left Wei Pei isolated against the far wall, his eyes nervous, his fingers tap dancing along the cloak he'd already donned. Tintilla, the fae representative had not yet appeared, which was normal. She loved to stage a dramatic entrance. He wondered where she would stand in the divisions already shaping the Council. Philippe would have been dismayed. His funeral not even over and the alliances he'd carefully crafted over the years torn asunder.
It wasn't looking good for the s.h.i.+fters.
Pdraig cleared his throat, which reminded Jeb of the young man's presence. He was the only one not of the presiding group.
Before Jeb could a.s.similate the meaning of that Cristobal waved one hand toward two empty seats. ”Pdraig, if you will stand here.” He pointed to his right. ”And Jebediah, you opposite if you would be so kind. Next to Wei Pei.”
So that was where the old one saw Jeb. Not on the winning side. Not verbally aligned otherwise, but of no import or consequence.
Pdraig stood behind one of the chairs, his smile looking strained, but still in place. So how did the young man fit into the machinations already in play?
Cristobal called them to order, even without Tintilla's presence. ”If you will all don your cloaks.”
Jeb felt like Alex when she used to play dress up, but said nothing, betrayed nothing. Now was not the time.
”Ah, Tintilla, my precious. It is good of you to join us.” Cristobal's words said one thing, his tone another, but then the man had learned statecraft sparring with Henry the Eighth of England. Or was it the Seventh?
Tintilla sauntered in as was her wont, casting Jeb a quick glance that spoke volumes. The fae queen did not like surprises and this appeared to have disturbed her sense of equilibrium.
”Are we to have a theatrical event?” she asked in her high, clear voice as she swept the cloak off her chair, one to the right of Cristobal. ”If I'd known I'd have brought my own costume. One of silk.”
The vampire ignored her question as he glanced away and stated to all, ”We've waited long enough for you Tintilla, now act your age and don the cloak.”
Even Pdraig heard the undertones beneath the order as well as catching the tightening of Tintilla's patrician features. No one knew her age exactly but if they'd promoted the senior member of the Council by age alone she would now be standing in Cristobal's place.
Which raised the question: Why was the vampire being so presumptuous?
As if Jeb had asked the question aloud Cristobal waved one elegant hand. ”I know I am not our dearly lost brother, Philippe, but I'm sure he, as well as all of you know of the need for a smooth and quick transition. We do not wish the Council to be perceived as weak or indecisive in this time of change.”
”And that time would be what?” Wei Pei piped up. Jeb was glad the s.h.i.+fter had asked the question but wished he'd been able to do so with less shakiness to his voice.
”All in good time my dear, Wei Pei. First things first. Pdraig, if you would be so kind as to stand beside me here.”
Pdraig raised his chin and moved next to the vampire, close enough that Cristobal was able to drape one skinny arm across the young man's shoulders.
So that was the way of things? Jeb kept his gaze somewhere between the two of them, kicking himself for not seeing the handwriting sooner.
”I'm sure we have all known of Pdraig's devotion to not only his mentor Philippe but to the Council's business, especially in this past year.”
While Jeb buried his head in the sand and grieved the loss of Alex and his failure as a father.
”I find no need to extol his virtues to those of us who take an active part in our Council duties.”
A sharp and not-so-subtle jab at Jeb and probably Wei Pei and Tintilla as well. Jeb heard Wei Pei's quick intake of air and Tintilla's face was looking sharper and sharper by the moment.
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