Estelle froze midscream.

"Did you betray me?" Marsilia asked.

Estelle jerked. Shook her head frantically. "No. No. No. Never."

Marsilia looked at Wulfe. He shook his head. "If you control her enough to keep her on the chair, Mistress, she can't answer with truth."

"And if I don't, all she does is scream." She looked into the bleachers. "As I told you. You can try it yourself if you choose? No?" She pulled Estelle's hands off the chair. "Go sit by Wulfe, Estelle."

A Hispanic man came to his feet on one of the seats behind me. He had a tear tattooed just below one eye and he, like Wulfe, hopped down to the floor via the seats, though without Wulfe's grace. It was more as if he fell slowly down the bleachers, landing on hands and knees on the unforgiving floor.

"Estelle, Estelle," he moaned, brushing by me. He was human, one of her sheep, I thought.

Marsilia raised an eyebrow, and a vampire followed Estelle's human at three or four times his speed. He caught up to him before the man had made it halfway across the floor. The vampire had the appearance of a very elderly man. He looked as though he'd died of old age before being made a vampire, though there was nothing old or shaky in the hold he kept on the struggling man.

"What would you have me do, Mistress?" the old man said.

"I would have had you not allow him to interrupt us here," Marsilia said. I glanced at Warren, who frowned. She was lying then. I'd thought so. This was part of the script. After a thoughtful moment Marsilia said, "Kill him."

There was a snap, and the man dropped to the ground—and every vampire in the place who had been breathing stopped. Estelle fell to the ground, four or five feet from Wulfe. I glanced away and unexpectedly caught Marsilia staring at me. She wanted me dead; I could see it in the hungry look she had. But she had more pressing business just now

Marsilia gestured at the chair in invitation to Stefan. "Please, accept my apologies for the delay."

Stefan stared at her. If there was an emotion on his face, I couldn't read it.

He'd taken a step forward, and she stopped him once again. "No. Wait. I have a better idea."

She looked at me. "Mercedes Thompson. Come let us partake of your truth. Witness for us the things you have seen and heard."

I folded my arms, not in outright refusal—but I didn't go waltzing over either. This was Marsilia's show, but I wouldn't let her have the upper hand completely. Warren's hand closed over my shoulder—a show of support, I thought. Or maybe he was trying to warn me.

"You will do as I say because you want me to stop hurting your friends," she purred. "The wolves are more worthy targets… but there is that delicious policeman—Tony, isn't it? And the boy who works for you. He has such a big family, doesn't he? Children are so fragile." She looked at Estelle's man, dead almost at her feet.

Stefan stared at her, then looked at me. And once I saw his eyes, I knew the emotion he was trying to hold back… rage.

"You sure?" I asked him.

He nodded. "Come."

I wasn't happy about doing it, but she was right. I wanted my friends safe.

I sat on the chair and scooted forward until my arms wouldn't be stretched out trying to reach the sharp brass. I slammed both hands down and tried not to wince as the thorns bit deep—or gasp as magic pulsed in my ears.

"Yum," said Wuife—and I nearly jerked my hands away again. Could he taste me through the thorns, or was he just trying to harass me?

"I sent Stefan to you," Marsilia said. "Will you tell our audience what he looked like?"

I looked at Stefan, and he nodded. So I described the wizened thing that had fallen to my floor as closely as I could remember it, working to keep my voice impersonal rather than angry or… anything else inappropriate.

"Truth," said Wulfe when I finished.

"Why was he in that state?" Marsilia asked.

Stefan nodded so I answered her. "Because he tried to save my life by covering up my involvement in Andre's… death? Destruction? What do you call it when a vampire is killed permanently?"

The skin on her face thinned until I could see the bones beneath. And she was even more beautiful, more terrible in her rage. "Dead," she said.

"Truth," said Wulfe. "Stefan tried to cover up your involvement in Andre's death." He looked around. "I

helped cover it up, too. It seemed the thing to do at the time… though I later repented and confessed."

"There are crossed bones on the door of your home," Marsilia said.

"My shop," I answered. "And yes."

"Did you know," she said, "that no vampire except Stefan can go into your shop? It is your home as much as that ratty trailer in Finley is."

Why had she told me that? Stefan was watching her, too.

"Tell our audience the why of the bones."

"Betrayal," I said. "Or so I am told. You asked me to kill one monster, and I chose to kill two."

"Truth," said Wulfe.

"When did Stefan know you were a walker, Mercedes Thompson?"

"The first time I met him," I told her. "Almost ten years ago."

"Truth," said Wulfe.

She looked toward the bleachers again and addressed someone there. "Remember that." She turned to stare at me, then glanced at Stefan as she asked me, "Why did you kill Andre?"

"Because he knew how to build sorcerers-demon-possessed. He'd done it once, and you and he planned on doing it again. People died for his games—and more people would die for yours, both of yours."

"Truth," said Wulfe.

"What care we how many people die?" asked Marsilia, waving at the dead man and speaking to everyone here. "They are short-lived, and they are food."

She's meant it rhetorically, but I answered her anyway.

"They are many, and they could destroy your seethe in a day if they knew it existed. It would take them a month to wipe all of you out of existence in this country. And if you were creating monsters like that thing Andre brought into existence, I would help them." I leaned forward as I spoke. My hands throbbed in time with my heartbeat, and I found that the rhythm of my words followed the pain.

"Truth," said Wulfe in a satisfied tone.

Marsilia put her mouth near my ear. "That was for my soldier," she murmured in tones that reached no farther than my ears. "Tell him that."

She lowered her mouth until it hovered over my neck, but I didn't flinch.

"I do think I would have liked you, Mercedes," she said. "If you weren't what you are, and I wasn't what I am. You are Stefan's sheep?"

"We exchanged blood twice," I said.

"Truth," said Wulfe, sounding amused.

"You belong to him."

"You would think so," I agreed.

She let out a huff of exasperation. "You make this simple thing difficult."

" You make it difficult. I understand what you are asking, though, and the answer is yes."

"Truth."

"Why did Stefan make you his?"

I didn't want to tell her. I didn't want her to know I had any connection to Blackwood

whatsoever—though probably Adam had already told her. So I attacked.

"Because you murdered his menagerie. The people he cared about," I said hotly.

"Truth," Stefan ground out.

"Truth," agreed Wulfe softly.

Marsilia, her face angled toward me, looked obscurely satisfied. "I have what I need of you, Ms. Thompson. You may vacate the chair."

I pulled my hands off the chair and tried not to wince—or relax—as the uncomfortable pulse of magic left me. Before I could get up, Stefan's hand was under my arm, lifting me to my feet.

His back was to Marsilia, and all his attention seemed to be on me—though I had the feeling that all of his being was focused on his former Mistress. He took one of my hands in both of his and raised it to his mouth, licking it clean with gentle thoroughness. If we hadn't been in public, I'd have told him what I thought of that. I thought he caught a little of it in my face because the corners of his mouth turned up.