Indifferent, some men shrugged. A few moaned, "Not again."

"No," Renard said with a shake of his dark head, "you always win. And besides that, there is no prize."

"What would you like to do, then?"

"Women," one of the men shouted. "Bring us some women."

Darius frowned. "You know I do not allow females inside the palace. They pose too much of a distraction, causing too many hostilities between you. And not the easy hostilities of a few moments ago."

Regretful groans greeted his words.

"I have an idea." Brand faced him, a slow smile curling his lips, eclipsing all other emotions. "Allow me to propose a new contest. Not of physical strength, but one of cunning and wits."

Instantly every head perked up. Even Tagart lost his wrathful glare as interest lit his eyes.

A contest of wits sounded innocent enough. Darius nodded and waved his hand for Brand to continue.

Brand's smile grew wider. "The contest is simple. The first man to make Darius lose his temper, wins."

"I do not-" Darius began, but Madox spoke over him, his rough voice laden with excitement.

"And just what does the winner gain?"

"The satisfaction of besting us all," Brand replied. "And a beating from Darius, I'm sure." He offered them a languid shrug and leaned back in the velvet cushions of his chair. He propped his ankles on the tabletop. "But I swear by the gods every bruise will be worth it."

Eight sets of eyes swung in Darius's direction and locked on him with unnerving interest. Weighing options. Speculating. "I do not-" he began again, but just like before he was silenced.

"I like the sound of this," Tagart interjected. "Count me in."

"Me, too."

"And me, as well."

Before another man could so easily ignore him, Darius uttered one word. Simple, but effective. "No." He swallowed a tasteless bite of fowl, then continued with the rest of his meal. "Now, tell me more of the vampires' doings."