None of this was making me feel warm and fuzzy.

About fifty people milled about the hall, some talking in small groups, others by themselves. Men wore suits and tuxedos. Women wore gowns. Most eyes flashed with a shapeshifter glow. People turned and looked at us, looked at Curran, looked at the handle of my sword protruding over my shoulder. A few men looked lower at my chest. They were shapeshifters and notoriously difficult to kill, while I was a human. The fact that I carried a sharpened strip of metal on my back didn’t worry them any. I was an oddity, the human mate. They appraised me like a horse at a livestock market, and my breasts were clearly making a bigger impression than my sword.

Curran locked his teeth.

“We just got here,” I whispered. “It’s too early for you to start killing people.”

“It’s never too early for me,” he said.

“Double standard much?”

Hibla met us halfway across the hall and led us to our seats. Curran and I sat at the head table on the right side of an oversized wooden chair that wanted very much to be a throne and had to belong to the head of the table. Place of honor. Whoop-de-doo. At least my back was to a solid wall.

Curran took his seat, I sat next to him, Desandra sat next to me, and Andrea parked herself on the other side of Desandra and looked at the balcony. Raphael sat next to her, and Mahon and Aunt B sat next to him. George stood behind her father. Barabas stood behind me.

“You’re hovering,” I told him.

“I’m supposed to hover.”

I settled in the large chair. The minstrel’s gallery loomed above us to the right. It bothered me. I couldn’t see into it. If someone shot at us, I wouldn’t know until it was too late. We might as well have pinned a target to Desandra’s head.

“Hibla?”

Our guide leaned toward me. “Yes, lady?”

“Could you tell me who chose these seats?”

“Lord Megobari.”

Great. Changing seats would likely offend him to death, and besides, all seats at this table offered a great target from the gallery.

Curran leaned to me. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t like the gallery. She isn’t safe.”

People turned toward an entrance directly across from us.

“Someone’s coming,” Barabas murmured.

Curran inhaled. “Kral.”

Jarek Kral walked into the room. He wore a black suit and walked as if everyone in the room owed him allegiance. A few people glared back, while others tried to fade into the woodwork. Four men walked behind him, moving in unison, a well-honed unit. The way they scanned the room for threats telegraphed experience. Wasn’t surprising. Jarek didn’t strike me as the type to make friends.