“Where will they hold this witch hunt?” Tanya asked.

“Somewhere in the bowels of Paris, deep in the catacombs, no doubt. But we’re staying in the Bristol,” Galina said.

“And when does it all start?” Tanya asked.

“Tonight. Midnight. Four hours each night, for three nights. On the fourth night, they make their decision.”

“Why not just get this farce over and overthrow Senka?” Tanya asked.

“Because it is not just the other two elders. There is a voting block of older vampires, five usually. They each get one vote. The elders two. Even Senka gets a vote, just one.”

“Who are the other vampires? Do we know?” Lydia asked.

“Not yet. We’ll have to wait till we get to tonight’s meeting,” Galina said with a sigh. “The five old vampires will be chosen at random just before the testimony is to begin.”

“Clever,” Lydia said.

“Well, we’ve had thousands of years to work out the particulars, now haven’t we?” Galina said.

“Might not have thousands more if they try to interfere with our preparations for the Vorsook,” Lydia said, shaking her head.

Tanya spun to her and pointed one finger. “And that should be a focus point for our case.”

“That Senka was wise enough to let you and your angelic husband have free rein when the Vorsook arrived in Rome?”

“Although who could have predicted that they would be in the right place at the right time?” Lydia said.

“Perhaps that is also a point to make. The odds are infinitesimal, yet it happened. Does not this Elder Mausya have some facility with probability? She should grasp that intuitively,” Omega said suddenly.

“Mausya’s talent is probability. Omega is right,” Tanya said. “Okay, with that at the core, let’s build the rest of our case. We have less than thirty minutes until we land.”

“Approximately twenty-four, depending on local weather conditions.”

“Thank you, Omega. Tick tock. Let’s get at it,” Lydia said.

Chapter 9

“Visitors, Detective,” said the voice of the desk sergeant on the phone. “Important ones.”

He’d been expecting the call since the last time his phone had rung. Declan O’Carroll had been on the line, asking if he could bring Chris Gordon around to talk about the demon murder, like it was no big thing. He’d immediately called his boss, Lieutenant Weston, and suddenly the whole station was swarming with cops who weren’t on shift and had no business being there but were, like most of the world, intensely curious about God’s Hammer on Earth. The chief was also in his office, at a time of day he normally wasn’t. Politics.

“Send them in, please,” he said, then stood up and caught Lieutenant Weston’s eye, giving him a nod.