Chapter Thirteen

Radu’s place looked exactly as I would have expected, if I had bothered to think about it. Our car passed through a crumbling stone gate and up a long drive to a graveled parking area. It fronted a complex of outbuildings and a two-story main structure surrounded by colorful explosions from out-of-control bougainvillea, hibiscus and jasmine. Unfortunately, neither the overgrown foliage nor the deep twilight managed to conceal the house. The original Spanish exterior, which had probably featured simple adobe walls, was now thick with Moroccan tile work, carved pillars, gilt cupolas and more wrought iron than a New Orleans bordello.

I would have said as much, but I wasn’t looking any better. We were all a little worse for wear—except for the Fey, who was fresh as a daisy, damn him. Of course, he’d had his own seat, while I’d been relegated to the roughly one-eighth of the back not taken up with Bergtroll. Olga had been persuaded to leave her army behind, but there had been no way short of violence to stop her from coming (and even Louis-Cesare had balked at attacking the grieving widow). And then there was Stinky.

I’d had to hold him on my lap due to the lack of space, and even with the window down, things had gotten pretty ripe—to the point that Olga had started edging away from us, giving me maybe an inch of extra space there at the end. When even trolls think you reek, things are bad. The pi`ece de r'esistance, however, was the wards. I’d felt them crackle no less than three times on the way in, and had been grateful that we were expected. But even so, everyone’s hair was standing on end by the time we finally arrived, and Stinky was little more than a round fur ball with legs.

Louis-Cesare came up beside me and, before I could protest, lifted me into his arms and started toward the house. He’d done the same thing to get me into the car, but I’d been fading in and out and had hardly noticed. I would have told him to put me down, but my legs did feel a little wobbly.

Radu gave us a surprised glance when we got to the door, but refrained from comment. He was dressed in what counted as somber attire for him—black velvet and jet beads that glittered in the light from the old-fashioned lantern he clutched in one pale hand. The absence of electricity told me immediately how serious he was taking this. No plain everyday wards here—the big boys must be online to send us back to the days of candles and lanterns. It did make for a nice ambience, though, since Radu’s demented designer had not yet made it inside. Cathedral ceilings with old wood beams met us in the entryway, which featured a simple, open-tread staircase leading to a gallery landing. I spied an ominous sign for the future, however: the classic lines of a wrought-iron chandelier now dripped with a couple hundred rock crystals.

We went right, into a large living room with a huge fireplace that looked big enough to consume small trees. The only incongruous note in the old-California theme was the painting glowing over the fireplace. It was a copy of Bellini’s portrait of Mehmed II, the Ottoman sultan best known for conquering Constantinople and renaming it Istanbul. He’d thereafter considered himself the new Roman emperor, since Constantinople had been the last holdout of the glory-that-was-no-longer-Rome. He invaded Italy, but never managed to take the Eternal City. He did end up with a pretty nifty souvenir, though. I stood looking at it, but although it’s well-done—Bellini was no hack—it didn’t tell me much about the man who had been Radu’s lover and political patron. It told me more about Radu. I supposed it made sense that he’d want a memento, but still. I spared a thought as to what Drac would say if he saw it, and smiled.

“I fail to see anything amusing,” Louis-Cesare said stiffly, after laying me on the sofa. I was about to snipe back when I got a good look at him. His usually softly curling hair was a frazzled halo that crackled alarmingly whenever anyone got near it, and his normally pale face was dead white. His eyes were fever bright and there were tired lines near the corners. I hadn’t noticed when I was getting patched up, but he’d also been wounded, once in the thigh and again in the upper part of his right arm.

None of his wounds were serious for a vamp, much less a master, but judging by the state of his clothes, he’d lost a lot of blood. And that was after what had to be a strenuous day even by his standards. Yet the only time he’d fed was what you might call a light snack at the Hedgehog. I edged away slightly, perching on the end of the couch with Stinky. I put him down because the couch was leather and could be wiped clean, but he immediately crawled back into my lap. The creature seemed very needy, or maybe it was just scared. Either way, I wanted to get it a bath if I was going to continue to have it draped all over me. Having a supersensitive nose can be a problem.

“Sit, rest,” Radu said, fluttering about. “I’ll have refreshments brought.”

The advice had the opposite of the intended effect on me. “I’m not hungry,” I lied. “Is there anywhere I can clean up?”

The rambling old place was staffed by some of Mircea’s stable, several of whom came in as we were speaking. Like all good servants, they’d anticipated their master’s needs. The one carrying a tray and bottle was well-known to me—unfortunately.

“Geoffrey, can you show Dorina to the gold room?” Radu asked. “Be back in an hour, Dory, or Chef will sulk. He’s so pleased to have someone new to cook for, he’s been slaving away all day.”

“I’ll remember,” I said, giving Geoffrey the hairy eyeball. It’s hard to look dignified in a few rags, a pair of bloody boots and a velvet cloak, especially when you have a filthy fur ball wrapped around your neck, but I tried.

Ever the proper English servant, Geoffrey inclined his head without hesitation, nothing in his carriage giving away the fact that he’d vastly prefer to show me to the closest garbage heap. “Of course, my lord.”

I followed Geoffrey out the door as the second servant, a human, started undoing his cravat. He was handsome, with tawny hair and eyes and a healthy, youthful complexion. I hastened my steps, overtaking my guide in my hurry to get away before Louis-Cesare started in on his appetizer.

I took a wrong turn and ended up in a grassy courtyard with a small fountain and a couple of fruit trees. The night sky was dark blue overhead, soft with the glimmer of stars, but the illumination from the house made it possible to see without being obtrusive. A light breeze, cool but not cold, blew in from a small iron gate set in the wall, which was weighed down by a mass of overgrown honeysuckle. It was surprisingly charming.

“Your rooms are this way, unless you intend to bathe in the fountain, miss,” Geoffrey commented from over my shoulder.

I thought of the wreck Stinky would likely make of any bathroom. “Yeah. This is good. Fetch towels and some soap, would you?”

Geoffrey hesitated for a full five seconds—a new record—before I heard his quiet “Yes, miss.”

I actually did end up bathing in the fountain, although not by choice. Stinky, it turned out, did not like water and was even less enamored with soap. He made it clear that he had no intention of getting to know either of them better. To make a long story short, I insisted, he demurred, I pulled him off me and threw him in the fountain, he leapt out and I chased him around the courtyard and threw him back in. And so on. It ended with both of us soaking wet in a fountain filled with bubbles, but Stinky was going to need a new name. At least for a little while.

I wadded up the Fey’s velvet cloak in an attempt to dry Stinky’s hair. Since he was basically a fur ball with claws, that was harder than it sounds, but I had started to make headway when I heard a noise behind me. I turned to find Louis-Cesare standing at the edge of a puddle staring at me with a strange expression.

“That garment is doubtless worth a fortune,” he observed as Stinky tried his best to shred the Fey’s cape. The material stretched but didn’t rip, trapping him long enough for me to finish the job. He fled under a pink rhododendron as soon as I let him loose, and immediately began rolling in the dirt. I sighed.

“You planning to rat me out to the Fey?” I demanded.

“No.” Louis-Cesare put a bundle of cloth and a bottle of wine down on the edge of the fountain. He saw the direction of my gaze. “I thought we deserved a drink.”

I thought that was the most sensible thing I’d heard him say yet. I sorted through the bundle, which turned out to be clothes, while he poured us both a drink and a half. As I’d feared, Radu’s idea of appropriate attire was scary. The white linen tunic was okay, with a high neck closed with black ribbon ties and long, full sleeves. But it had been matched with a heavy white wool skirt and two black aprons covered in red and gold embroidery. Traditional Romanian female attire. I refrained from wincing, if only barely.

“Lord Radu said you would find these garments familiar,” Louis commented. I looked at him suspiciously. He looked sober enough, so why did I get the impression he was laughing?

“Yeah, that’s the problem,” I said sourly. Unfortunately, the choice was between wearing Radu’s offerings and dining nude. My T-shirt was being held together by a safety pin borrowed from Olga, and the few dry patches on my jeans were stiff with blood.

“Radu has… unusual taste,” Louis-Cesare agreed, sitting on the edge of the fountain. I realized I wasn’t the only one relegated to borrowed attire, although he’d definitely gotten the better of the bargain. A cascade of lace spilled down the front of his antique shirt, and buttery leather pants hugged better legs than any vampire deserved. To go with it, he had a nice peach complexion, the darkest I’d seen on him yet, and his hair was back to its usual shiny abundance. The lamplight from the house filtered through the trees overhead, dappling it with gold.

Not for the first time, I envied vamps their recuperative powers. He still looked a little worn around the edges, more the warrior than the fashion plate, but he’d be right as rain by morning. I doubted I’d be so lucky. I slumped on the side of the fountain, struggling with the fact that I’d gotten winded chasing a baby Duergar. Changing clothes suddenly seemed like way too much trouble, at least without that drink first.

“Where’d you get the wine?” I asked as Louis-Cesare passed me a glass. It turned out to be a dark, fruity red, Radu’s own label.

“It was meant for dinner; I found it on the butler’s tray.”

“So Geoffrey actually did me a favor?” The wine hit my empty stomach hard, but I didn’t care. Occasionally my weird metabolism actually comes in handy. “Will wonders never cease?”

“He is yours to command.”

“Who? Geoffrey?” He nodded and I laughed. “Sure he is.”

“You are Lord Mircea’s daughter.”

“And the stain on the family honor,” I reminded him.

“Like a good butler, Geoffrey prefers things tidy.”

“He has threatened you?” Louis-Cesare sounded surprisingly grim, considering that he’d done the same himself not too long ago.

“Everyone threatens me; it’s not important.”

“You deserve his respect!”

“For what? Being the boss’ little girl?” I waved my glass, sloshing some wine over the side. It looked strangely like blood in the dark. “’Fraid that’s outweighed by the whole killing-off-his-kind thing.”

“I have seen you kill no one who did not deserve it. And you handle your… disability… admirably.” He stopped, looking slightly uncomfortable. “I did not think a dhampir capable of such compassion.”

I stared. By God. A compliment. From Louis-Cesare. That wine was just going right to his head.

And then, of course, he ruined it. “I am glad you have come to your senses about Lord Radu.”

“Come to my senses?”

“To help protect him. It is the only intelligent way to proceed.”

“How exactly is letting Drac run free intelligent?” I demanded.

Louis-Cesare’s eyes narrowed. “He will be caught eventually. It is only a matter of time with the forces the Senate currently has in the field.”

“Except they aren’t gunning for him.”

“He has shown a lack of judgment in the past, a reputation borne out by his current alliance. He cannot help but run foul of the Senate before long.”

“That’s one theory.” And not one I shared. People had been underestimating Drac for centuries. He might be crazy, but he had the Basarab cunning and was utterly ruthless about how he used it. Not a good combo. “But then, you gotta wonder why, if the Senate can deal with him, Mircea went to the trouble of drafting us.”

“He hopes to end this before his brother spills more innocent blood.”

“And you don’t care about that?”

“Radu’s blood is also innocent!” I thought that was debatable, but didn’t say so. Louis-Cesare looked like he was getting a little heated again. So much for having a pleasant, low-key conversation.

“Why do you care so much what happens to Radu?” I asked, knowing I’d probably regret it. “Didn’t he abandon you?”

“He is also my sire!”

“And Mircea is mine. It’s never bought him a lot of slack, actually.”

Louis-Cesare gave me a condescending look. “Has it not? You are here now, in answer to his call—”

“Because of Claire!”

“—as you should be. You would not exist but for him, as I would have died centuries ago if not for Radu. We have a debt to the family.”

A little wind was playing fitfully through the trees, tossing the leaves about, but when I looked upward, I could see the stars in patches. I took a deep breath of cool night air and told myself not to overreact. “You’re confusing me with a vamp,” I said shortly. “Just because Mircea donated some sperm doesn’t mean I’m bound to him.”

“There are other ties than magic. Loyalty, obligation, love—”

“I do not love Mircea!”

“And whether you acknowledge them or not, you feel them, too. You belong by his side when he needs you.”

What I felt was a burst of anger, hot and fierce. Damn him for stirring to life that old, bitter craving, the one that wove itself around the word belong. I’d never belonged anywhere. It was the first lesson I’d ever learned, drummed into my bones and ripped into my flesh long before the infant that would become Louis-Cesare was even born. And it was the one I made sure I never forgot.

“You’ll see how much love I have for the family,” I told him savagely, “when I plant a stake in Drac’s cold, dead heart.”

“You still intend to go after him,” he asked incredulously, “even though it could mean your friend’s life?”

“He’ll come after us. I thought that was the plan.”

“Using Lord Radu as bait was your plan!”

“Which he currently is,” I pointed out.

“Dracula will never try to reach him through such defenses! I did not understand until I saw them for myself, but it is true. He is as safe here as at MAGIC.”

I didn’t feel like debating it. There were no defenses good enough to keep out Drac if he wanted in, but convincing Louis-Cesare of that would be counterproductive. And even if I felt like trying, I doubted I was up to it. Even my anger had sputtered out against the overwhelming tide of exhaustion. I stared at a flickering firefly in the grass, feeling oddly dislocated. “Whatever.”

Louis-Cesare said something else, but it sounded very far away, like he was speaking underwater. I was so tired my eyes didn’t want to focus, to the point that the firefly’s path blurred into a long, continuous neon line. And then it happened again. It was like drowning, sinking helplessly down into dark, frozen depths. But instead of water, I was floundering in a sea of memory.

I realized that the drumming sound I was hearing wasn’t my heart, but someone beating on a door. It took a moment to realize it was me. The door opened to reveal a pissed-off female vamp in a diaphanous white negligee: Augusta, a Senate member. Her outfit stayed white until I lurched into her, soaking the front of the expensive nightwear in enough blood to indicate a mortal wound. I looked down to find that I was wearing only a man’s long overcoat that was gaping open in front. Under that was a lot of blood and what looked to be half of my intestines, which I was keeping inside by pressure from the hand that hadn’t been needed for beating down the door.

“My back,” I whispered.

“I’ll fetch a doctor,” Augusta said faintly. She looked hungry, but I didn’t care. At that moment, she couldn’t have done much more damage. She dragged me over to a big bed and tried to get me to lie down.

I shook my head. “My back,” I repeated.

“I know. Don’t worry—I won’t put any pressure on your stomach.”

“No!” I was trembling with the effort of standing up, but I couldn’t lie down. “Look at my back. It’s a message, for Mircea.” The vamp had been paying so much attention to my ruined stomach that she hadn’t even noticed that the back of my coat was completely drenched, and not by water.

I was trying to get the coat off, but couldn’t manage with only one hand. Augusta helped, then stopped when it was half off to stare in shock. I could see what she saw in the mirror of a small rosewood dressing table, not that I needed the reminder. Someone had carved letters into my flesh, although the blood, part dried and part fresh, blurred them, making them impossible to read.

“Get Mircea,” I whispered, kneeling on the floor, gripping the bedpost to stay partially upright. I heard her leave the room, shouting, and for a small woman she had a surprisingly strong voice.

What seemed like only a few seconds later, Mircea came in, shaking black snow off his greatcoat. He smelled of coal dust, horses and cheap perfume. He knelt by my side. “What happened?”

“You sent me to find your brother,” I gasped, fighting to stay conscious. “Unfortunately, I succeeded.”

Mircea began peeling the coat the rest of the way off. His expression was carefully blank, but his eyes were amber fire. Another vamp entered the room, carrying a basin and a towel. “Master,” he said, bowing to Augusta but managing not to spill the water. “I would like to clean up the girl.”

Augusta gave a bark of laughter. “I’m sure you would.”

“I was an orderly in South Africa, master. I survived the Zulu War; I know something about knife wounds.”

That wasn’t the only way he knew about them. Jack was Augusta’s current pet—and he’d been a monster even before she’d turned him. He stupidly offered Mircea the basin. One savage movement later, both it and Jack went flying against the wall. Jack hit hard enough that his body actually left an impression, tearing away the wallpaper to show the bricks underneath.

He didn’t get to his feet, but cowered on the floor where he’d fallen, hands on his head, not daring to look up. He’d have seemed almost pitiful if I’d had any emotion to spare. I didn’t, and it looked like Mircea felt the same. “Do it,” I told him. “You have to.”

Mircea’s hand smoothed my hair gently. Then he snapped his fingers and Jack reached out a trembling hand to retrieve the basin. He crawled with it to the door and was gone. Faster than I would have believed possible, he was back, with more water and several towels. He also carried a bottle of whiskey, but no glasses.

“No alcohol,” Mircea said without bothering to look at him. I guess he must have smelled it.

“Forgive me, my lord,” Jack murmured obsequiously. “I merely thought, to prevent infection—”

“She is dhampir,” Mircea said curtly. “She doesn’t contract infections. Leave us.”

Jack bowed deeply and backed out of the room, either to show respect or because he didn’t dare turn his back on Mircea. There was a vibrating tension in the air, sort of like the tremors before a volcano erupts. I concentrated on staying upright while Mircea carefully washed the wounds on my back, wetting an area, patting it dry, pausing to apply pressure here and there to the cuts that were still bleeding, then starting over again. I wouldn’t let him touch my stomach—I assumed I was going to die anyway, so what was the point?

Slowly, the letters began to show more clearly. It took forever and was excruciating, but I was so close to passing out that I barely noticed.

“Can you read it?” Augusta asked when Mircea had finished and set the bowl aside.

“Bandage her wounds,” he said after a moment, ignoring her. “See that she lives.”

“Mircea!” My lips were numb, but somehow I forced the words out. “If you do not finish this tonight, if you leave him any avenue by which to return, I wash my hands of the whole affair. Next time, you will hunt him alone.”

The only answer I received was the door shutting softly behind him. My head drooped to rest on the edge of the bed. My reflection showed that a few of the shallower cuts were already starting to knit together, blurring the edge of some words like random strokes of an eraser. The whole thing would be illegible in a few hours.

Drac had carved his challenge to Mircea into my flesh, then gutted me and left me to stagger back on my own to the house the vamps were renting. And it had worked. Mircea had gone off to meet him, but instead of killing the son of a bitch who had just carved up his daughter, he was going to trap him in some concoction of the Senate’s, all neat and tidy and problem solved.

I swallowed bitterness and stared at the door, trembling with exhaustion and waiting to pass out from the blood loss. It had some impressive dents where my fist had hit it earlier, but it was solid. Nonetheless, I could dimly hear a low-voiced conversation on the other side. I was breathing in pants, trying to get enough air into my lungs to satisfy their craving, but I managed to catch snatches of it anyway.

“The Consul grows impatient and demands a solution, or at the very least an update. I have to tell her something—”

“She will have her solution, tonight.”

“And what will that be? The dhampir is right. You must kill him!”

“This is a family matter, Augusta—it does not concern you.”

Jack’s voice sounded again, stronger than the others, perhaps because he was making no effort to be quiet. “Do I have your permission to attend her, master?” I didn’t catch the reply, but the door opened a moment later and in he came, with bandages, a new basin of water and a small black bag. I eyed it suspiciously, but he took out only a length of thread and a scary-looking needle. He tugged me onto the rug and examined my stomach with a critical eye.

“He may not have been responsible for the deaths of Jack’s victims, but he has been making vampires without permission, and not registering them. For that alone, he will surely be sentenced to death. Kill him now and spare your family the shame of a public execution.”

“Release my arm, Augusta. I do not have time to discuss this with you, even were I so inclined.”

Jack had started to sew me up, and I badly needed something to distract me from the pain. Why wasn’t I unconscious? The needle plunged in and out of my flesh as I stared at the door, straining to hear the conversation.

“Mircea!”

“You do not understand the situation.” Mircea’s voice was calm, but I knew him well enough to recognize the thread of anger running through it.

“What is there to understand? If he had insulted one who belonged to me in such a fashion, I would crack his skull like an egg!”

“And thereby give him exactly what he wants!”

Jack used fine, even stitches, I noticed in something like a daze. He’d have made a good tailor. “If he wants to die, he has merely to say,” Augusta whispered viciously. “There would be no lack of volunteers to grant his wish!”

“And they would be slaughtered for their trouble. Why do you think he provokes me—threatening Radu, attacking Dorina? He wants to die by my hand and no other.”

“Then give him what he wants!” I would have echoed Augusta’s sentiment if I’d had the strength.

“No.” Mircea’s voice was hard as stone. “Let him live and remember, not die and forget!”

I heard him stride away and a moment later, Augusta slammed back into the room. “She will live, master,” Jack told her, unruffled. “I swear it.” He patted my hair almost fondly. “I am not surprised that the count did not like this one. There is no fear in her.”

I wondered, as I finally allowed myself to pass out, how anyone could be so wrong.