Xander took Oz to Lovecraft’s grave and found another party in progress, or perhaps it was simply an ongoing bash that would last for the duration of the festivities surrounding the Dark Congress. As they worked their way across the cemetery, Xander found himself pleased that the ruckus was still going on. He would have felt foolish dragging Oz all the way out there to end up sitting alone in the graveyard.
Not that he felt awkward with Oz. He should have, no question about that. The little guy with the spiky red hair and the taciturn manner had never been a brilliant conversationalist. Oz tended to speak only when he had something to say, whether it be out of necessity or some wry observation. In that way, he and Xander were polar opposites. But they also both had a history with Willow. Xander had been her best friend all through childhood, never allowing himself to realize that Willow loved him until the worst possible moment, when they kissed, unaware that they were observed.
Oz had taken it pretty well. Xander’s girlfriend at the time, Cordelia, not so much.
But that had been years ago, and these days Willow had no interest in guys at all. Water under the lesbian bridge, as far as Xander was concerned. Still, had anyone asked him—not that anyone could have predicted he and Oz would visit Lovecraft’s grave together—he would have guessed hanging with the wolfman would be uncomfortable as hell. Instead, it was just the opposite. They’d known each other a long time, and if they had never truly been friends, they still had a shared history. That meant Oz didn’t have to deal with the fumblings of someone trying to make conversation, and Xander knew what to expect as well. None of the romantic entanglements of the past seemed to matter at all either. It all seemed to have happened in another age, and almost to other people entirely.
“This way,” Oz said as he moseyed along a line of trees, taking what had to be the long route to get a closer view of the demon revelry. He never seemed in a hurry, even when he ought to have been. Words like “sidle” and “mosey” and “meander” seemed to have been invented for Oz.
“Kind of the long way,” Xander pointed out.
Oz nodded. “Gotta stay downwind.”
“Right. Werewolves stinky.”
He didn’t want any of the demons to catch his scent. Xander hadn’t even thought of that last night, but then again, the scent of a human in the cemetery wouldn’t necessarily draw attention. The pheromonal stew that the typical werewolf probably gave off, on the other hand, would give them away.
Together they moved along the line of trees. Xander stayed low and went swiftly, careful on his feet and ready to defend himself if the necessity arose. He reached a tall marble and granite crypt and paused to wait for Oz, thinking about the old story of the tortoise and the hare. But Oz arrived only a step or two behind him.
“What do you think?” Xander whispered, glancing around one side of the crypt. The demons at Lovecraft’s grave were capering and laughing. A terrible smell came downwind to them and Xander wondered how many of them had relieved themselves on the gravesite. His nose wrinkled and he thanked the Powers That Be that he didn’t have Oz’s wolfy senses.
Oz shrugged. “You’re secret agent man.”
Xander thought about it a moment. He had a dagger in a sheath at his back. Now he pulled it out, sheath and all, and reached up to hide it on the edge of a granite ledge that ran around the top of the crypt.
Then he paused and took a few long breaths. He squinted hard. The empty eye socket ached, but he pushed the deep, dull pain away.
“They’re not killing anybody with the Congress in town,” Xander whispered. “Plus, you’re supposed to be an ambassador, right? So we crash the party, see what we can find out.”
“Kinda doubt they’ll buy you as a demon,” Oz said.
Xander smiled, but felt no humor. “Maybe a pirate, right? But yeah, that’s my point. No pretending. No more sneaking around. We just ask. Not much of a plan, I know, but what’s the point of strategy if we know they’re not going to try to eat us?”
When Oz didn’t reply, Xander glanced over to find the stubbly-faced wolfman watching him.
“What?” Xander asked.
Oz cocked his head, one eyebrow raised. “You’ve changed.”
“You mean because I’m not clowning around all the time?”
“I’m gonna say the clown’s still there,” Oz said, “but not so much with the babbling and jokes.”
A shriek of demonic laughter carried across the graveyard. A night breeze went through the branches and something rustled the leaves of the nearest tree. Xander hoped it was just some nocturnal squirrel or a bird up past its bedtime. He took a peek at the cemetery dance going on by Lovecraft’s grave, but nothing had changed. Bottles were strewn across the grass. A demon with a crack in its skull—inside of which flames burned brightly—tilted back a liquor bottle and poured dark liquid down its throat.
“I still babble. Ask anyone. But not so much from the terror anymore.”
Oz made a small, contemplative sound. “So nights like this don’t scare you anymore?”
Xander did not face him. He kept his focus on the demon revelers. “I’m terrified on a regular basis. It’s automatic—kind of like breathing. But there’s no upside to it. When things get ugly, the only way to make it to sunrise alive is to do the job.”
“See, that’s pretty much what I mean,” Oz said. “When did it become your job?”
Xander turned to look at him. “The day I met Buffy. I just didn’t know it then. What about you, fuzzy? You’re here too, and you’ve been gone for ages. This isn’t your job.”
Oz nodded. “Yeah. Pretty much a werewolf, though. It’d be easy to say I got dragged into it, but I’m not totally sure I believe in coincidence anymore. The wind blows us around, and we land where we land.”
With a laugh, Xander shook his head. “I’m not the only one who’s changed. That’s about the most I’ve ever heard you say at one time. What’s up with that? You on some philosophical journey or something?”
“Pretty much.”
Xander grinned. That reply seemed more like the Oz he knew.
A death cry tore across the warm night. Xander turned and peered once more around the side of the crypt, wondering if one of the demons had turned on the others. Whatever truce kept them from killing humans in Providence might not apply to other demons. Or maybe all the drinking had led someone to take things too far.
The hideous scream devolved into a choking gurgle.
Oz moved behind Xander for a better view. He tensed, as though about to rush toward Lovecraft’s grave. Xander put up a hand to halt him. At the gravesite demons and monsters had started to shout and chitter in a language that hurt Xander’s ears. The towering creatures whose faces were masses of tentacles drew together, glancing around for some unseen enemy. A winged monster took flight from a branch that its weight had nearly pinned to the ground. The vulturelike thing started to flap upward in an odd, lazy fashion, almost in slow motion.
A dark figure appeared as though from nowhere, stepping out from some kind of night cloak. Grim and bearded and wielding a sword that gleamed ghostly in the moonlight, he ran at Lovecraft’s grave marker, put a foot on the stone, and launched himself into the air. The sword whistled in the dark, cleaving the vulture thing in half. Blood showered down upon the revelers and the two halves of the corpse struck the ground wetly.
There were other screams, but only a few. These were not helpless children, but demons, some of them creatures of heinous evil and savagery. A chorus of anger filled the night and they charged at the swordsman. He moved with inhuman swiftness, severing limbs and saturating the soil of Lovecraft’s grave with the blood of monsters.
Tiny missiles like antique perfume bottles sailed end over end in an arc above the demon revelers, first two, then three more in rapid succession. Only one hit the ground and shattered harmlessly. The other four hit demons and exploded in a burst of hellish fire, like some kind of supernatural napalm. Xander smelled burning flesh and fur instantly.
A small man—a goblin or a human barely over four feet tall—appeared from his hiding place behind a heavy marble headstone. Xander figured he’d hurled the bottles, but now he had some kind of small ax, a double-bladed thing that he swung with deadly skill.
The branches swayed again in the tree where the vulture thing had roosted. A man dropped down from the limbs, dark-haired and broad-shouldered, strong enough to snap someone in half. None of them said a word as they continued the slaughter. More of the demons tried to flee. A stunningly beautiful red-haired woman in a summer dress came walking toward the melee as though she were out for a stroll in the park. The only thing that gave her intentions away was her sword, and then she, too, began slaying demons.
Oz and Xander watched the massacre in breathless astonishment. How had this happened? They’d come only to talk, but there would be no answers today if the four killers finished their work. Even so, Xander did not even consider trying to intervene.
Then Oz started out from behind the crypt.
“Hey!” he said.
Xander swore and hauled him back by the T-shirt. “What the hell are you doing?”
His eyes were too narrow and his teeth too sharp, as though he had been about to wolf out. “I can’t watch this. They were here in peace.”
“Yeah,” Xander whispered, staring at him. “Tonight. Most nights they’d be cutting us up into little bitty pieces. Human tartare. I don’t like watching it, but you can’t get in the way. You’re one of them, remember? You’re not human. These guys aren’t playing.”
Oz hesitated, and in that moment of silence between them, Xander realized that the screaming had stopped. There were no more roars or snarls or curses uttered in guttural demon tongues, no shrieks of fear or agony.
Only the two of them were behind the crypt, but Xander could hear the breathing of a third person.
“Crap. He’s right above us, isn’t he?”
Oz glanced up with remarkable nonchalance. “Yeah. Guy with a beard. All bloody. Sword.”
Xander could smell it now, the stink of the blood of a dozen different breeds of monster and demon. Something dripped onto his shoulder and he wished he could make himself believe a pigeon had just anointed him.
Oz grabbed his shirt and jumped away from their spot behind the crypt, practically dragging Xander across the ground, a reminder of the strength of the werewolf. The blood-soaked warrior, whose beard was only thick, dark stubble, dropped from the roof of the crypt.
“Pitiful!” the swordsman snarled, advancing on them, though he kept his sword point lowered, angled out to one side. “Look at the two of you, cowering back here! What is wrong with you? Those maggots were tainting this holy ground with their presence, with their pestilence, and you do nothing? You simply stand idle while evil is at hand? You disgust me!”
Xander scrambled to his feet, shook loose from Oz, and took a step toward the swordsman.
“Hey, back off, Jack Sparrow. You think you’re something special, slaughtering a bunch of dumb monkeys who aren’t supposed to fight back?”
He glanced at the ledge of the crypt’s roof, where he’d left his dagger. The swordsman flung it at him, sheath and all, and the knife thunked to the dirt. The message was clear. Xander could pull the dagger if he wanted to, but sword boy felt pretty confident it wouldn’t do him any good.
The huge, broad-shouldered monster hunter came out of the trees to the left of the crypt. The little man and the gorgeous redhead marched around from the other side, where they’d scattered the pieces of two dozen night beasts across the cemetery grounds.
Oz growled.
Xander shot a quick glance at him and knew it was time to get out of the way. Oz didn’t stand a chance against all four of them—not after what Xander had just seen them do—but he had better odds than a one-eyed, unarmed man. Oz began to change. Fur sprouted on his flesh and his bones cracked and popped as they reasserted themselves. Fangs lengthened as his jaws extended.
The werewolf stood hunched over, halted halfway between man and wolf.
The towering Asian man rushed toward Oz, hatred etched upon his features. He reached around behind his back and drew a long dagger that seemed almost blue in the moonlight, but Xander knew from the glint of intent in the silent man’s eyes that the blade was silver.
“Tai!” snapped the bearded swordsman. “No!”
The silent warrior froze. His chest rose and fell in deep breaths and his eyes gleamed with malignance.
The little man laughed softly.
“He dislikes loup-garou,” said the woman, her accent French, her voice as sultry as her form. Xander would have found her a great distraction if his life weren’t in peril.
“Tai,” the swordsman said, the name now inflected with warning. “You cannot. This one is allied with the deathless Slayer. He is a hero, just as we are.”
As we are. Xander stared at him for a second, doubting anyone so bloodthirsty could have pure motives, but in the man’s eyes he saw only grim purpose and perhaps nobility. These people were monster hunters. Hard as it was to accept after the massacre he had just witnessed, it was obvious that they did think of themselves as heroes, and on most days that might well be true.
With a deep exhalation, the silent man sheathed his silver dagger. Tai might not like werewolves, and might be even less fond of the idea that he and Oz were on the same side of the war against the darkness, but he backed away from them.
With a soft growl, Oz shapeshifted, resuming his human form.
“You have a name?” Xander asked, focusing on the swordsman, who was obviously the leader.
“Malik,” the swordsman replied with a nod of his head. “Tell the Slayer—the Summers woman—that we will speak soon about what must be done.”
“Yeah. I’ll pass that along,” Xander said.
Malik scabbarded his sword and turned away. He and Tai and the other two—the redhead and the little man—merged with the shadows and slipped away into the darkness, almost as though they themselves were wraiths.
“Well,” Xander said after a long moment had passed, “that was interesting. Most places you’d have to pay good money for that kind of entertainment.”
Oz glanced at him. The edges of his mouth twitched up in the hint of a polite smile and then he started back the way they’d come. Xander followed. Scaling the fence around the cemetery did not get easier the more frequently he did it, but Xander found it did become more annoying. He hoped never to have to visit Lovecraft’s grave again, at least not at night—preferably not during the day, either.
Once again, the car remained where he’d left it in front of the half-finished house. As Xander pulled out of the dirt drive, a man walking a dog shined a flashlight on him. Probably a curious neighbor. Xander was glad to be gone before the guy resorted to calling the police. The dog barked wildly and strained at its leash, but the guy held on tight.
If the dog was barking at Oz, he didn’t seem to notice.
They spoke very little on the drive back to the hotel. It was a pattern for them. Xander did not think there was much to be said until they had Buffy and probably Giles in a room. Figuring out who Malik and his buddies were would fall to them. Even so, he replayed the scene of carnage from the cemetery over and over in his mind, searching for any clue to the identity of these newcomers. The one thing he and Oz briefly agreed upon was that Malik and the others seemed human.
All of these thoughts were racing around his mind as Xander pulled the rental car into the garage beneath the hotel. They’d gone down to the third level, and he was scanning for a parking space when Oz stiffened in the seat beside him.
“Back up—fast,” Oz said, glancing calmly over his shoulder.
Xander looked in the rearview mirror and knew it was too late to back up. The ramp leading back up to the next level had been blocked by a pack of werewolves.
“I love this city,” Xander said. “I’m moving here. Or at least being buried here.”
More werewolves slipped out of the shadows between cars. Several leaped up on top of cars and SUVs. Car alarms started going off.
“That’s good. People will come.”
Oz shot him a look that questioned his intelligence. “That’s not good. People come, they get eaten.”
“That’s bad,” Xander replied.
“Thanks for that, Egon.” Oz turned to him, one eyebrow arched.
The werewolves began to move in around the car. Xander knew they could tear the doors off easily. Again he glanced in the rearview mirror.
“So do we try ramming them?”
“We won’t get far.”
“Okay, Mr. Optimism. What’s your plan, then?” Xander asked.
The car began to rock slightly from the weight of the werewolves pressing up against it. The air conditioner was running on low, and Xander twisted the knob to shut it off. The stink of musk permeated the inside of the car.
Then the wolves by Oz’s window separated to reveal a muscular guy with shaggy blond hair and a scraggly beard. He looked like some kind of cowboy, only without the hat. Xander decided he had seen too many movies.
“Who’s this?” Xander asked, voice in a whisper though he knew with their keen hearing, the wolves would catch every word.
Oz frowned. “Just another wolf. Put it in park.”
Xander sighed and did as he asked.
Oz rolled down the window. “You guys mind getting out of the way? We’re trying to park here.”
The shaggy man bent to peer in at Xander, then focused on Oz. “Mr. Osbourne, why haven’t you scented us out? You have been here quite long enough to have located any of the packs represented—”
“Pretty sure I mentioned? I’m not part of a pack. You said if I came here, I’d find some answers as to what you’re up to. I’m finding them. Figured you’d show up eventually, let me know what you have planned.”
The shaggy blond growled in a voice so low that it was almost a purr.
“As I told you in Portland, you have been chosen to be an ambassador of the lycanthropic community—”
“Because I know the Slayer,” Oz interrupted.
“That, and because of your discipline. You have reined the beast more successfully than most. It is often said that in politics, cooler heads prevail. We will send two ambassadors. I am the first. I sometimes succumb to my temper. It would be helpful to have you as our second. You agree?”
Oz hesitated.
Xander leaned over and smiled through the open window at the shaggy man. “He’d love to. He’s honored. That means you’re not eating us, right?”
The shaggy man never took his eyes off of Oz, who finally nodded.
“Good,” the other wolfman said. “the Congress begins tomorrow at dusk. Rest—if you can.”
Then he shapeshifted, his fur blond but streaked with a rust color. The wolf trotted between two cars and vanished into the shadows, and then the others bolted, running up the ramp to the next level and otherwise disappearing into cars and stairwells.
Xander let out a long breath and put the car in drive, cruising for a parking space. Only when he had shut off the car and stepped out, dropping the keys into his pocket, did he turn and stare at Oz over the roof.
“Well, at least we know when it starts.”
Oz nodded. “There’s that. It might even help if we had a clue about where the big shindig is supposed to go down.”
Xander slapped his forehead with an open palm. “I really don’t like this city.”
“Maybe it’s just politics you don’t like.”
* * *
Tara held Willow’s hand as they walked along Prospect Street on College Hill. The neighborhood of antique homes was remarkably well preserved, and with the warm lights on inside and the moon and stars above, there was something incredibly charming about the area. They could have been living quietly in a place like this, away from the bloodshed and the monsters, if fate had been kind to them.
The thought brought a sadness to Tara’s heart and she pushed it away. She wouldn’t do that to Willow. Surrendering to melancholy would be unfair. Willow squeezed her hand and Tara glanced at her, smiling shyly.
It felt almost as though they had come here only to stroll hand in hand and be in love. Tara would have given anything to make that the truth. Instead, though, they were doing something she would never have imagined in a million years.
Tara and Willow were hunting witches.
Finding them had been remarkably simple. In a city this old, with its Puritan history, there were sure to be witches, and of course there would be witches sent as ambassadors to the Congress. Willow had come up with the idea and Tara thought it perfect. In fact, it was so obvious, Tara wondered why she hadn’t come up with it herself. They had used the computer in the hotel’s business office to do an online search for tarot readers, magick stores, and occult bookshops in Providence and made a list of the ones that seemed the most, well, sincere. Beginning with Roberta’s Bell, Book, and Candle, they’d gone inside and begun looking at books and herbs, talking between themselves, making it obvious that they were witches and in the city for the Congress. At the third stop—the second had been the office of a tarot reader who had gone out of business—they’d been interrupted by an excited fortyish witch who seemed almost giddy with anticipation of the Congress.
Willow had guided the conversation expertly and soon discovered the name and address of the most revered witch in Providence, the leader of a coven respected throughout New England, and whose membership dated back to the Mayflower. Tara had found herself a bit troubled by Willow’s talent for deception, even for a good cause. It brought back difficult memories.
Now, though, she refused to dwell.
They enjoyed the summer night and the smell of spicy food cooking in a restaurant they passed. They had done a good deal of walking, but Tara did not feel tired. Instead, she felt energized as they walked up Prospect Street, studying the front of a row of town-houses in search of the home of Margaret Hood.
When they found it, Tara started toward the front door.
Willow tugged her hand back and pulled her in close for a soft kiss. They studied each other’s eyes a moment, and Tara blushed at the passion she saw in Willow’s gaze, then glanced away and tucked her hair behind her ear. But then Willow kissed her again, and any trace of shyness evaporated. When they broke off the kiss, Tara was breathless.
Hand in hand, they went up the steps of the brownstone and rang the bell. Tara could hear music playing inside, a jazzy little something that reminded her of Madeleine Peyroux. Of course, she hadn’t been around for a while, so perhaps it was a brand-new CD from Madeleine. She’d have to check that out.
The bell received no immediate response, so Willow rang it again. After a few seconds, footsteps could be heard from within, a woman’s heels on hardwood floor. They heard the lock being drawn back, and then the door opened inward to reveal a lovely woman of perhaps forty-five with chestnut hair and beautiful skin.
“Yes?” the woman asked, an almost mischievous sparkle in her eyes.
“Are you Margaret Hood?” Willow asked.
“I am, sister,” the woman said.
“My name is Willow Rosenberg. This is Tara Maclay.” Squeezing her hand, she nodded at Tara. “We were hoping to ask you a few questions about the Dark Congress.”
The woman glanced down at their clasped hands, then up at Tara. She smiled kindly.
“That’s why we are all here,” she said, stepping back from the door to allow them entrance. “Come in. And please, call me Maggie.”
“Thank you, M-Maggie,” Tara said, surprising herself by stuttering a bit. The woman’s presence, the powerful magickal aura surrounding her, was both warm and intimidating at the same time.
The townhouse had been decorated with antiques and fresh flowers, and Tara felt as though they were stepping back in time. Maggie’s home was pristine. She could almost believe the witch had lived in this place since the era when the elegant homes of College Hill had been new.
Maggie led them down a short corridor toward an arched doorway. Excited, enthusiastic voices drifted out to them—the voices of women with purpose. Through the archway they found themselves in a living room—Tara wondered if parlor were a more accurate word—that seemed also to have been transported to the present from some bygone era. Women were gathered in the room, sitting on chairs and sofas or standing in front of the windows, some quietly perusing the bookcases. They seemed a wonderful assortment of women, many facets of the feminine, with complexions of various hues, some smooth with youth and some lined with age. Some were dressed with immaculate sophistication, others with a kind of dark wildness that struck Tara as post-post-Goth.
They had only two common elements. Each of those women emanated a sense of confidence, and each of them fairly seethed with magick. This could not be Maggie Hood’s coven. It seemed clear that many were from out of town and some were strangers to one another. They had come for the Congress.
“Sisters,” Maggie said, entering the room, “we have new arrivals.”
The witches all turned at the sound of her voice, and that was when Tara and Willow noticed the silver-haired woman in the shadows by the bookshelf at the back of the parlor.
“Catherine?” Willow asked.
There could be no mistaking her. Catherine Cadiere had an ageless radiance and emanated magick more powerful even than Maggie Hood’s.
“You know each other?” Maggie asked, a flicker of confusion upon her face.
“We do,” Catherine replied, glancing around at the others. “Sisters, meet my apprentice, Willow Rosenberg. Her lover is called Tara.”
One of the witches—a slender, twentyish girl with Romanesque features and purple hair—studied Tara closely.
“But she’s a cat,” the purple-haired girl said.
A shudder went through Tara. She felt the feline in herself, knew that she could transform at any moment, but most of the time she tried not to think about what Catherine Cadiere’s magick had made her, or the fact that within her soul was the spirit of the cat that had once been Catherine’s familiar, just as Tara now was Willow’s.
“She’s a witch,” Catherine said, “but also a witch’s familiar.”
A ripple of unease went through the room. At first Tara did not understand and thought they did not want her there. But when she glanced at Maggie Hood and saw the way she eyed Catherine, she realized that the other witches were troubled by the spellcraft involved. Tara wondered if they were wary or simply jealous.
“Well,” Maggie said, “both of you please come in.” She gestured for them to join the group. “I don’t recall Catherine’s ever taking an apprentice before, Willow. You must be something special.”
“Oh, she is,” Tara said, almost defensively. Sometimes she found it difficult to stand up for herself, but championing Willow felt as natural as drawing breath.
Whatever conversation had been going on when they arrived was dropped. All the focus had turned to Willow and Tara and Catherine.
“She is extraordinary,” Catherine agreed. “I had only just begun to mentor her when the Congress was announced. In truth, I’d left them both in Greece and had not expected to encounter them here.” She glanced at Willow. “But you’re quite enterprising, aren’t you, darling?”
Tara flinched at “darling.” It might have been an old-fashioned term of endearment, a somewhat belittling, diminishing word, as though Catherine spoke to a child, or it might have suggested something else. Before she could decide which, Willow had begun to reply.
“Always have been. It’s a big part of my charm.”
The women laughed politely.
“Willow tells me they have some questions about the Dark Congress,” Maggie announced.
Catherine smiled. “Of course they do—and about Kandida, I suppose.”
All of the witches seemed to warm to her instantly at the mention of Kandida.
“Come in and join us,” Catherine said. “And we shall speak of many things.”
Room was made on a sofa for Willow and Tara to sit together. A tray of grapes, cheese, and crackers was on the coffee table, but Tara could not bring herself even to nibble. When wine was offered to them, she took a glass only to avoid being perceived as rude to their hostess.
Maggie Hood began by telling them the tale of Kandida and Trajabo, most of which Tara and Willow already knew. It diverged from the version Giles had told them only in that it was more elaborate and filled with examples of the great wisdom of Kandida as a member of the Dark Congress. She might have been a river demon who preyed on humans, including children, but the witches seemed willing to overlook that fact due to her diplomatic acumen. Tara thought it seemed quite like human politics.
“Kandida’s return could mean a great peace unlike anything this world has ever known,” Catherine said, picking up where Maggie had left off. “Or it could be the harbinger of the destruction of humanity.”
“Kind of a big variable there, don’tcha think?” Willow said.
Catherine smiled. “Resurrection is never simple.”
She did not so much as glance at Tara, but she may as well have.
“It would have been better, I suspect, for Kandida to remain imprisoned in the riverbank for eternity. With the Congress shattered and the creatures of darkness set against one another, they were disorganized. But her return has convinced both her betrayers and her allies to convene, which means there will be debate, and there will be voting.”
The purple-haired girl, whose name turned out to be Alice, chimed in.
“Many demon tribes want to live peacefully among humans. Others want to return to their own, dark dimensions.”
“Yes,” Catherine said, hushing the girl with a look. “But there are those who want to tear the world apart—to remake it in their image, or to destroy it entirely. Those who desire the latter, of course, want it for themselves, not to share with the others.”
“Yet Kandida is a powerful orator, loved and respected for her wisdom and ferocity by those ancient enough to have known her then,” Maggie Hood went on. “If she can gather the ambassadors together and broker a treaty, she can guide the Dark Congress to peace. The ancient records say she wanted demons to live at peace in the shadows of the human world. If the Congress votes to support her, humanity will be safer than it has been in thousands of years.”
“And if they vote against her?” Tara asked, glancing nervously at Willow.
Catherine Cadiere smiled. “If they vote against her, darkness will consume the world, and humanity will be slowly exterminated.”
Willow’s eyes widened. “Well, she’s got my vote.”