Adriana flinched at the bitterness in my words, hanging in the air, but didn’t argue the point. She walked back to the desk, then picked up and put on a lovely pearl ring, part of a suite of jewelry laid out for her. She continued to speak with her mind, which was getting tiring for me. Not tiring, as in I was annoyed, but tiring, as in exhausted.
I understand her concern, and would be more forgiving, were it not that she is so determined to use this situation to take my mother’s place as high queen.
Adriana put on the last of her jewelry and stepped toward the couch where I was sitting. Now she spoke aloud—she had shut me out of her mind as easily as closing a door. Someday, I vowed, I was going to be able to do that. Projecting is all great and good, but I was sick to death of having sirens and other telepaths wander in and out of my thoughts at will. If it took training and practice, I’d train and practice. Some thoughts should not be available for public consumption.
“Shall we? We don’t want to be late.” Adriana gestured toward the door. I walked out ahead of her and was pleased when Baker and Griffiths immediately fell in around us. I forced myself to smile, smile, smile as we went to join King Dahlmar and the others for a private dinner.
The dining room we were using tonight was elegant, decorated in shades of sea green, turquoise, and gold. There were two layers of linen covering the tables, a dark teal underlayer covered by creamy white. The dishes were fine china, and above each place setting was a small bowl made from half an abalone shell, cradling flowers floating in water. The effect was lovely, and the room smelled wonderful even before the food started to arrive.
I had fully intended to sit next to Adriana, but we were the last to arrive and there was only one place open at Dahlmar’s side. Adriana smoothly crossed the room to greet Dahlmar, who rose … followed quickly by everybody else. My cousin’s fiancé helped her into the seat between him and Natasha, then sat. I took the last remaining chair, between Olga and a man who didn’t appear to be either Ruslandic or Siren.
The staff began moving about, pouring water, bringing in baskets of fresh baked bread that smelled like heaven. I wished, mightily, that I could eat bread, but that was not going to happen. So I turned my head away and distracted myself as best I could by checking out my dinner companions.
It turned out that the man I didn’t know was the American ambassador, so at least we could talk about the weather and television we liked. Olga pretended not to know English, which suited me fine.
Dahlmar and Adriana only had eyes for each other. They were in love, pure and simple. He acted proud, protective, and possessive. She practically glowed every time she looked at him. I was very happy that they’d found each other.
Next to Adriana, Natasha looked … odd. There was a strangely vacant expression on her face, as if she weren’t quite all there. The movement of her hand as she reached for her water glass was jerky and uncoordinated, so it was no surprise that she knocked it over. Everyone jumped, and in that instant of distraction I felt the flare of magic and saw a drop of golden fluid being slipped into Adriana’s water glass out of the corner of my eye.
“Don’t drink that,” I ordered as Adriana lifted the glass while servants cleaned up the spill and cleared away the plates from the first course. I leapt to my feet so fast that my napkin and fork went flying. In the next heartbeat, I was at Adriana’s side, reaching for the glass and her wrist.
She froze, giving me a wide-eyed look. King Dahlmar’s expression darkened. He took the glass from her hand, turned to me and said, “Explain, please.”
“There’s something wrong with Natasha.” I gestured toward her.
She was the only person who hadn’t pulled away from the table, stood up, or otherwise reacted to my racing to the rescue. Even now, though her name had been spoken and people were looking at her, she just sat there, staring blankly into space, her expression empty and dazed.
“I’m guessing it’s a compulsion spell of some sort. She slipped something into that glass while you were all distracted by the spilled water.”
A man suddenly appeared beside me. As he stepped into view, I realized I had seen him sitting at the table when Adriana and I had entered the room and I had instinctively “cased” the joint. So, family, friend, or member of the wedding. But clearly, more than just that. He bowed slightly to King Dahlmar. “If I may?”
The king gave a curt nod. “Please do.”
Who the hell is this? The way he spoke to Dahlmar made it obvious he was with the Rusland contingent. He reminded me a bit of the late, and sincerely lamented, Ivan, King Dahlmar’s personal bodyguard. Ivan had been one scary SOB. A mage of considerable skill, Ivan had once gotten his king safely out of an attempted coup and out of Rusland without a scratch. This man was cut from the same cloth, only better-looking—tall, dark, and very handsome. His hair was cut close to his head; there was a touch of gray at each temple. He had a square jaw, penetrating hazel eyes, and the kind of aristocratic bearing that made me wonder if he was a royal cousin. I knew from Baker’s briefing that the king’s best man was a friend from his childhood. Perhaps this was that man.
Most people in Natasha’s position would have moved or reacted by now—protesting the accusation, arguing her innocence—even if she was guilty. Instead, the bridesmaid was a prettily dressed-up doll with nobody home in her eyes.
Still holding the water glass, the man moved with liquid grace around the table until he was standing over Natasha. I felt power rise in a warm, liquid rush as he began murmuring. There was a sharp flare of heat and a sound like a gunshot. Natasha stiffened in her chair and shrieked something in her native language.
He spoke, his tone one of complete command. I didn’t have a clue what he said, but I could tell he wasn’t talking to Natasha. Somehow he’d trapped the person controlling her and was forcing him or her to answer questions using Natasha’s mouth.
“Damn it. I have got to learn Ruslandic,” I muttered softly. Dahlmar overheard and began translating, speaking so quietly I don’t think anyone else could hear.
“Igor used Natasha to form a link to the witch who had taken use of her body. The witch swears she was not trying to kill Adriana, that she is not connected to the Guardians of the Faith.”
I thought furiously. “What did she put in the glass?”
“Igor?” Dahlmar demanded.
The mage barked the question in Ruslandic. Natasha screamed again, twisting and turning in her seat as though pinned in place.
“Peanut oil,” Igor answered.
Adriana paled a little.
I turned to her. “I take it you’re allergic to peanuts?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “But it wouldn’t have killed me.”
Natasha shouted something that I didn’t understand, but suspected was along the lines of “See, told you.”
“What would happen?” Igor asked.
“I’d break into hives. They are miserable, and last for days.”
“And wouldn’t you look just lovely in all your wedding photos?” I noted sarcastically.
It was a petty, catty, and very feminine thing to do. At that moment I believed what the witch had said. The Guardians of the Faith were into bombs and shoot-outs, maximum carnage, maximum press coverage: in short, terror. This was the exact opposite. It had all the signature markings of the usual siren bullshit. If this witch, whoever she was, was jealous of Adriana for any reason, and she’d touched that peanut oil, even one drop might be deadly to Adriana. I didn’t say this out loud. The fewer people who knew, the better. After all, I’m siren enough to have to worry about it.