Page 222 of Maksym

No compulsion. No telekinesis. No slipping sideways through shadow. No elegant vanishing into whatever protection old monsters believed money could purchase.

Lucian stared at me with hatred so focused it should have warmed me.

It did not.

“You counted on us not comparing notes,” I said to him, though the chamber heard every word. “That was foolish. I built a career comparing notes.”

His jaw flexed. I turned back to the Council.

“The central charge is not complicated. Lucian Devereaux kept human blood slaves. Alastair Crowe aided and facilitated that operation. Others were involved and will be identified through the ongoing investigation.”

The words blood slaves entered the room and seemed to darken the projection screen behind me.

“Blood slavery was outlawed over a century ago by Kazimir Kozlov, King of Kings.”

My gaze moved to Kazimir.

He remained seated. Pale, ancient, implacable. If he felt anything at hearing his law invoked against a member of his own Elder Council, he did not show it for public consumption.

“That law binds vampire society,” I said. “It was not advisory. It was not ceremonial. It was not dependent on whether the offender sat on an Elder Council or wore old blood with an expensive accent.”

Lucian’s nostrils flared.

“Under that law,” I continued, “jurisdiction over Lucian Devereaux and all vampire participants belongs not to this Council as a trial body, but to the Kozlov Court. This Council has authority to recognize the charge, preserve the evidence, restrain the accused, and remand them to the proper sovereign jurisdiction.”

The Magistrate watched me without expression.

Good.

A judge who betrayed too much before the question was formally asked either lacked discipline or wanted appeal. This one had neither problem.

“I therefore petition this Council to remand Lucian Devereaux and Alastair Crowe to the Kozlov Court for proceedings under the blood slavery edict and all related laws. Anything less would tell every old creature in this room that forbidden appetite may still bargain for venue.”

I let that sentence rest.

Then I said, “It should not.”

For one long moment, the chamber held.

Then Lucian surged to his feet as much as the guards and cuffs allowed.

“This is preposterous.”

The word cracked through the room, stripped of its earlier silk. His British accent sharpened around the edges, no longer refined so much as serrated. Pain, fear, and fury had begun to show through the tailoring.

He yanked once against the cuffs. The runes flared. Lucian hissed. I hoped it hurt.

“This is an ambush,” he spat. “A theatrical ambush staged by a turned whore with a grudge and a Kozlov leash.”

The chamber went lethal. Maksym stood. So did Kazimir. That was enough.

Lucian stopped speaking for half a second, and in that half-second I saw him understand the distance between insult and survival had narrowed to a thread.

The Magistrate’s staff struck stone before anyone else moved.

“Lucian Devereaux,” he said, still not raising his voice, “you will be silent unless recognized.”

Lucian’s mouth twisted. He was too frightened now to obey gracefully and too proud to obey without protest.