At the Countess’s sneer, he gulped and sidled out of our way with green goo trailing, snail-like, in his wake. The Countess sniffed contemptuously and pulled me onwards. A circle of space opened around us at every step as she continued in a low murmur, “As I said, I wasn’t involved in that nightmarish decision. As it happens, I left the country for a good number of years after that, carrying out my own little adventures. However…”

Her plucked eyebrows lowered menacingly and caused the closest undead server to nearly drop his tray in his haste to flee her field of vision.

“Once I returned and discovered the situation, obviously I had to step in to sort things out for everybody’s sake—at least, as much as that fuddy-duddy council would allow. There are all sorts of tedious rules, you know, about overstepping on another necromancer’s territory…but luckily, Leander has always been a clever boy.”

Her lips tugged into a smile that was, if possible, even more menacing than her scowl. “All he needed was a bit of helpful guidance as to how, exactly, he might prove to Netherpool and everyone else on the council that he had no need of their direction—or interference—any longer.” Her smile widened. “And as that ended up clearing out a few spaces on the council for new blood to take their seats…well! Here we are, and everything’s proceeding much more sensibly nowadays.”

“So that’s how he ended up with Netherpool’s old minions.”

My murmured words formed a statement, not a question, but she responded with a small, regretful shake of her head. “Some things about Leander are inexplicable even to me, I’m afraid. But I should have known that he’d find a good use for them one day. The look on Netherpool’s face when he found out how Leander had transformed those pitiful creatures of—ahh!” She came to a halt at last, squeezing my arm. “Here he is now. How very delightful!”

Delightful was not the word I would have chosen for Sebastian Netherpool, any more than I’d ever call the Countess harmless.

He was attractive, I supposed, in a purely objective sense. Rather disturbingly, I could even see what might have formed the first model for Leander’s sense of style in Netherpool’s purple velvet tailcoat, the oversized diamond buttons on his waistcoat, and his long, tumbling gray curls.

But his wide shoulders, the deep lines engraved in his sagging face, and his hulking build weren’t the only differences between him and his ex-ward. The redness in Netherpool’s face signaled an intoxication that looked habitual—and I’d never once felt a chill of instinctive repulsion when I’d looked into Leander’s own eyes…or when I’d seen how he’d looked at me.