Karen Chance - Tempt the Stars

“Then they know. And likely more than was reported. They would have investigated even without the incident with Apollo. And with it—that’s two major attempts to circumvent the ouroboros in as many months. They could not possibly have failed to notice. And yet the response to your mother’s announcement . . . it almost sounded as if most of them had no idea.”

I frowned. “Maybe the leaders are trying to keep from panicking everyone, until they can decide what to do.”

“Cassie, the council are the leaders. There is no head; each member has a single vote. It was set up that way after the wars, when no one wanted more bloodshed over who would rule. That isn’t to say that they have no factions, and of course some members’ votes carry others. But we’re not talking about a vote, we’re talking about information they simply do not seem to have had.”

I thought about that for a moment, and ate mushrooms. I was stuffed, but they had been browned on the griddle in butter, and then covered with melted cheese and crusty meat bits and, well. “But somebody has to decide what is brought up. I mean, they couldn’t talk about everything —they’d never do anything else.”

“That is what the Adramelech does.”

“The what?”

“Your mother referred to him as Adra, for short. I am not sure why.”

“I am,” I said dryly. Mom hadn’t exactly been on her best behavior in there. Or maybe she had.

At least she didn’t kill anybody this time.

“She didn’t seem pleased about the composition of the council,” Pritkin agreed. “But while not, perhaps, polite, the term was not an insult. Adramelech is a title, not a personal name. He functions as the speaker or president of the council.”

Damn. And he’d seemed like the nice one. “I thought you said the council doesn’t have a head.”

“It doesn’t, if you mean someone with more power than anyone else. He is mainly there to maintain order.”

“So he’s the one who should have maybe got around to mentioning that the old gods were about to stage a comeback?”

“Not necessarily. The Adramelech only organizes matters to be discussed and attempts to keep the debate on topic. He doesn’t usually propose topics himself.”

“Then who does?”

“Whoever has the oversight of the region in question.”

“And who has oversight of earth?” I asked, because Pritkin was sounding grim.

“You saw. That was the reason he was called forward. Asag of the Asakku.”

Great. “So, what reason does this Asag guy have for just ignoring the return of one god and the kids of another?”

Pritkin shook his head. “I don’t know. And I’m not likely to. I had difficulty even obtaining the basics on your mother. No one wants to talk about the ancient wars—or how they ended. Most go about trying to pretend they didn’t happen.”

“So they’re about to let them happen again?” I asked, in disbelief. “They can’t be that blind!”

“It’s not a matter of being blind,” Pritkin said, drinking beer. “It’s . . . fear, terror even. You have to understand, Cassie, the demons who dared to face the gods once . . . they were ancient compared to the ones you saw, powerful beyond belief, and bloodthirsty to a fault. They gloried in battle, lived for it, reveled in it. And yet they fell, as one of the few who would talk to me about it said, like a sky full of falling stars. Those who survived believe they cannot fight—”

“They can’t if they won’t even try! Would they prefer to be slaughtered?”

“They’d prefer not to think about it at all. The ones who lived—remember, they were those who didn’t interest your mother or the other gods. Who weren’t powerful enough to be pursued, or who survived by hunkering down, by playing it safe, by being cautious—”

“You can be too cautious. You can die hiding under a bed or whatever the demon equivalent is, as much as on your feet, fighting.”

Pritkin sent me an odd look.

“What?”

“When I met you, you preferred running, liked hiding. You told me several times it was what you were best at.”

“Yes, but it made sense then, when all I had to worry about was Tony. But it won’t help us now. Like it won’t help them!”

If anything, it would help our enemies, if the council decided to hide its collective head in the sand until a hungry god came along and ripped it off. No wonder Mom had been pissed. She must have looked over the group and wondered what had happened to the kind she’d fought. Or maybe she’d wished she’d left a few of the scarier ones alive.

“You look furious,” Pritkin said, watching me.

“I just—I can’t understand not fighting for your life— for what you want. Just giving up—”

A corner of his mouth quirked. “No. You would not understand that. You never stop trying, do you?”

“What else is there?”

“Despair. Hopelessness. Anger. Depression.”

“But those don’t get you anywhere.”

He huffed out something that might have been a laugh, only it didn’t sound happy. “No. They don’t.”

I drank beer and didn’t say anything. Because I got the impression that we suddenly weren’t talking about the council anymore. But I wasn’t sure, since I couldn’t see his expression.

The proprietor had apparently not trusted scent to drum up enough business, and had draped strands of twinkly lights around the front of the shop. As a result, darkness shaded Pritkin’s eyes, which were above the lights, but under the shade of the awning. But cheerful, incongruous colors splashed everywhere else—green over a cheekbone, amber along a toned arm, rose across his neck. It looked like he was swimming in rainbow water.

He ducked his head slightly, and his eyes caught the light when he moved, flashing brilliant emerald. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Stay so . . . hopeful. Optimistic. Certain . You grew up around some of the most cynical creatures outside of demons. You saw the way they view the world, always hungry, always scheming. How their every waking thought is about improving their position in some way—”

“They’d say that it also improves their families’ position, and their allies’,” I reminded him. “Vampires aren’t selfless in the human sense, maybe, but they take care of their own. Sometimes better than humans, since it hurts their power base if they don’t.”

“Which is my point. It always comes back to them somehow. And you grew up in that, were steeped in it, and yet . . . you came for me.”

“Yeah, well, you know. That wasn’t entirely . . ”

“Wasn’t entirely what?”

“I just meant, I got something out of it, too, so you can’t say—”

“What did you get?”

“I—we covered that, remember?”

“No. No, I don’t remember. I thought we decided that you could find many other people—”

“Not many . I don’t know too many half-demon war mages.”

“—others, then. To assist you in my place. Such as Caleb. Or Jonas.”

“Yes, well . . . that’s . . ”

“But no, that’s not quite right, either, is it?” He tilted his head. “You said something else . . . something about needing me, for me. What did you mean?”

“I meant—I mean, well, we’re friends—”

“Are we? Are we friends?”

“I—yes. What else would you, uh . . ”

“I am not sure what I would call it. I had never given it much thought until recently. There did not seem to be a point.”

“Yes, yes, exactly. And there’s no reason to suddenly—”

“But I suppose I shall have to now, if I am returned, that is. Won’t I?”

“Um,” I said, and stopped. Because I knew how Pritkin argued. I ought to; it was his favorite hobby. Which would have been fine, except that he was better at it than me. And right now he was going in for the kill.