Free The Council of Shadows by S. M. Stirling Page B

armored personnel carriers weighing twenty times as much. You could use that on dirt country roads, but . . .
    Tacky. Very fucking rich-bitch, Michiko- sama .
    It was chrome yellow, with a license plate bearing the mon symbol of the Tōkairin clan and the black sun pierced by a jagged trident that was the sigil of the Council of Shadows.
    On the one hand, it won’t mean anything to anyone who doesn’t know already. On the other hand, it’s worrisome that they’re so confident now. The last generation was a lot more careful about hiding. Michiko’s bunch just doesn’t give a shit. I wonder if they’ll register it as the official Trademark of Evil one of these days.
    The sports car pulled to a stop ten yards away, the quiet sound of its engine dying instantly. Harvey noted without surprise that the position would block one of his snipers and give the other the worst possible shot; Michiko probably wasn’t even consciously aware that she’d done that. He threw his cigarette to the ground, twisted it under his heel and moved to the tailgate of his pickup, which would put her back under both scopes.
    She got out of the car with a lithe catlike motion and walked towards him, smiling. She wore low-slung black Key Closet skinny jeans, which he admitted she could bring off, and a sleeveless silk shirt. It all showed the sort of figure high-bred Shadowspawn females tended to have, slim but high-tensile.
    All right if you like weasels with small tits, he thought whimsically, fighting down a hundred thousand years of instinctive terror. In her case, blond Japanese weasels.
    He bowed his head slightly as she approached. She took off her sunglasses, tucked one arm of them in the neck of her shirt and returned the gesture, a little more deeply.
    â€œHoping the water will fall out of my head?” she said, in pluperfect Californian English.
    â€œWell, you may notice I’m not offerin’ cucumbers,” he said dryly, the Texan Hill Country rasp strong in his voice.
    It was only in his imagination that she smelled of rotting blood. There wasn’t any physical way of telling her apart from any rich Yonsei girl, unless you counted the tiny golden flecks in the irises. The Tōkairin had thought they were ninja sorcerers until the missionaries of the Order of the Black Dawn arrived in the early Meiji era and told them where their powers really came from, and how to make the next generation stronger.
    â€œYou’re being very unfriendly. I can sense hostility even with those tiresome shields,” she said, pouting slightly. “Is this any way to treat a friend?”
    â€œNo,” he said.
    After a moment she shrugged. “Oh, well, if you want to be all tiresome and businesslike. I’ve got the preliminary schedule for the Council meeting in Tbilisi. Who’s coming in, when, and where they’re staying, plus the security protocols.”
    He raised his brows. “They’ve settled on those already? Bad tradecraft.”
    She shrugged. “It’s a protocol . The older generation . . .”
    He nodded. Shadowspawn tended to be fanatically conservative, more so as they got older. Many of the current Council lords had been youngsters when their parents carefully directed Archduke Ferdinand down the wrong road in Sarajevo.
    â€œWe’ve made a formal request for a security review, warning that terrorists might strike, but they turned it down. Of course.”
    â€œWe?” Harvey asked.
    â€œAh, the . . . Progressive Party, we’re calling ourselves. Or the whippersnappers, to the other side.”
    Harvey laughed; it was quite genuine, and he wished it back.
    One slim yellow brow went up. “I notice that you’re not exactly the official Brotherhood yourself, Mr. Ledbetter,” she said. “They’re not nearly imaginative enough to try using us against one another the way you have. Perhaps you’re not as different from us as