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tapestry, complete with battle-axes slung across their wide backs and helmets with little nose guards. I noticed that he’d thrown a black denim jacket over his club wear; it matched the jeans but made him look like a motorcycle badass. His face was in shadow so I couldn’t see his expression, but it probably wouldn’t have told me anything. At least, nothing I wanted to see.
    It was creepy how I had to fight not to go to him, how I desperately wanted to see him light up for me the way he never did for other people, to hear him say that everything was going to be okay. I knew what he was, knew how he’d lied, yet part of me still wanted to trust him. I hoped it was only a lingering effect of the earlier mental invasion, and told myself to get over it. My eyes were going to have to get used to the fact that he might look like my Tomas, but he wasn’t; the man I’d thought I knew had never existed outside my imagination.
    I dragged my attention back to the main event, which shouldn’t have been as hard as it was, considering the display. A thick mahogany slab had been carved into a massive rectangular table that, other than the row of seats along the far side, was the only furniture in the room. It looked like it weighed about a ton and was raised on an equally mammoth black marble platform reached by a set of gleaming steps. It lifted the Senate a good three feet above where lowly petitioners, or prisoners in my case, were allowed to stand. The rest of the room — or cavern, since I found out later it was several levels belowground — was carved out of red sandstone and painted with jumping flames by huge black iron chandeliers. The mirror propped up on the left of the table was a discordant, ugly note, but only because it currently reflected Tony’s face. Other than that, the decorations consisted of the bright banners and coats of arms of the Senate members that hung behind each of their seats. Four of those shields were draped in black, and the heavy, brocaded chairs in front of them were turned to the wall. That didn’t look good.
    â€œI demand compensation!” I turned my attention back to Tony, who was repeating his demand for at least the fifth time. He belongs to the “reiterate your point until they give in” school of debate, mainly because he hasn’t had a lot of practice. No one in his family ever does anything but bow and scrape and, after hundreds of years of that kind of thing, it dulls a person’s edge. “I took her in, brought her up, treated her as one of our own, and she deceived me! I have every right to demand her heart!”
    I could have pointed out that, since I wasn’t a vamp, staking me was a little overkill, ha-ha, but preferred to concentrate on more important issues. Not that I thought the Senate would care about Tony’s business arrangements, but it was a rare chance to tell off the slimeball and I wasn’t about to miss it. “You had my parents killed so you could monopolize my talent. You told me my visions were helping you avoid the disasters I saw and were being passed on to warn others, while all the time you were profiting off them. You’re mad that I cost you some money? If I ever get close enough, I’ll cut off your head.” I said it matter-of-factly since killing Tony was an old dream and not one I had much chance of fulfilling.
    Tony didn’t seem too upset about my outburst, which was what I’d expected. People had been threatening him for centuries, but he was still here. He’d told me once that survival was a more eloquent answer to his detractors than any other, and I suppose it still was. “She has no proof that I had anything to do with that unfortunate business. Am I to sit here and be insulted?”
    â€œI Saw it!”
    I turned to the Senate leader, officially called the Consul, intending to plead my case, but she was petting a cobra large enough to wrap twice