“You stand up for your kind when few do,” he said. He bowed slightly, bending forward at the shoulders, a gesture that managed to confer respect without detracting from his own dignity. “I am Marid, I was born in the city of Babylon, and I am two thousand, eight hundred years old. More or less.”
I could have been forgiven for falling on the floor with hysterical laughter right then. But I was stuck. “I didn’t think I could be surprised anymore.”
“Neither did I,” he said.
“It’s not that I’m skeptical or anything, but you sound so … so…” I could have said any number of words—modern, ordinary, American. But that wasn’t right. “You don’t sound like you’re over two thousand years old.”
Ned came through the front doors, looking pleased with himself. “That’s because you have to change your accent if you want to blend in, but no one ever mentions that, do they? You think actors on the stage of the Globe sounded anything like the fellows on the BBC? God, no. We’ve all adapted. Most of us, anyway.”
“Well, Ned,” Marid said amiably. “Did you get what you wanted out of this?”
The Master of London was rubbing his hands together, gleeful. “This turned out to be far more interesting than I was expecting.”
“What were you
expecting?” I said, horrified.
He shrugged. “A bit of banter, a bit of posturing. Not the threat of a werewolf pit fight there on the stage.”
I turned to Ben. “Can we call a cab or something?”
Emma said, “No, we can take you back—”
Sighing, I said, “No offense, but I think I’ve had enough vampire hospitality for a while.”
Ned raised placating hands. “Please, Kitty, peace. You can’t afford to throw away allies.”
“Is that what you all are?”
“Kitty. Please stay,” Ned said. “You’ll break Emma’s heart if you go elsewhere.”
I would, too. Damn. She actually had her hands clasped together, pleading. Heaving a sigh, I turned away and paced, wolflike. I didn’t say yes, but I didn’t say no.
Marid—the man who had just told me he was alive when Babylon was the height of modern civilization—interrupted with a calm statement. “You know of Roman. You know of the Long Game.”
“Yes. I’ve faced him down twice,” I said.
He raised a brow. “And lived?”
“I had help,” I said.
“No doubt.”
“So you know about him, too,” I said.
“I’ve known about him from the beginning. There was no Long Game before Roman.”
Another piece of information landed with a thud. “Then you must know who his allies are, where he has power, how to stop him—”
“I didn’t say that,” Marid said, tilting another inscrutable smile.
I looked back and forth between the two Masters. “Do either of you know who’s with Roman and who isn’t?”
“Not all of them,” Ned said. “Some have been playing both sides against the middle for centuries. They’ll have to choose allegiances soon. Many of them don’t believe that time has come.”
“I think many of those will not take Roman’s coins in the end,” Marid said. “They’ve known their own power too long.”
“I hope you’re right, of course,” Ned said. “I’m not sure I’ll depend on that hope, however.”