Frost was worried about fighting Marsilia, the vampires had told me. That’s why he’d chosen a challenge of three. He didn’t like the odds of going against her by herself, but he thought he could come up with two other vampires stronger than hers. Likely he was right—so she’d chosen a different way.

If Adam had come with me, maybe she would have used him instead. He was a werewolf, and necromancy would have no effect on him. But she would work with what she had.

“Yours is the challenge and the manner of challenge,” Marsilia said coolly, as if she hadn’t just jerked his chain. “You chose now, and a three-way challenge. My choice is the place and the official. I choose here. It is large enough and remote.” She smiled at him. “Since it is in my territory but owned by you, I thought it appropriate.”

Owned by Frost. That made sense if he was the money man.

Marsilia paused for a moment and looked around. “Almost symbolic since one of my colleagues destroyed it yesterday.”

Adam would be surprised to find out he was her “colleague.” But I kept my face still.

“And for the officials, as the Master of Ceremonies tonight, I call upon Stefan Uccello, also known as the Soldier.”

One of Frost’s vampires said, “That is unacceptable. He is yours. The Master of Ceremonies cannot be yours.”

I’d quit looking at the magic threads that bound Frost to his vampires. It produced an eye strain, like those bizarre patterns that showed a 3?D picture when observed through unfocused eyes. I couldn’t tell if Frost was making the vampire talk or if the vampire in question was doing it on his own.

“I am not Marsilia’s,” said Stefan. “I do not belong to her seethe.”

“He speaks truthfully,” Frost told his people. “I witnessed this myself. Marsilia treated him so shamefully that he left her seethe, and she was too weak to prevent him. A real man, a real soldier, would never serve such a one. We can accept him—in all ways.”

Rat bastard. He was right, but that didn’t make him any less of a rat bastard. I could see, even if no one else did, that those words had hurt Stefan. Here he was, helping her again as if his menagerie mattered not at all to him.

“It is my place to remind you of the rules,” Stefan said, his voice even. “You, William Frost, have chosen three against three. Two fighters, with you as the captain of yours, and Marsilia as the captain of hers, with the other two participants on either side yet to be chosen. The fight is to the death of the captains.”

“Excuse me,” I said diffidently. “But both the captains are already dead.”