by Karen Chance
I didn’t know whose arms held me, didn’t care. I wanted her, like I’d never wanted another kill in my life. I wanted to feel that smooth flesh ripping under my hands, wanted to taste her blood, wanted to—
“Dorina! Do not—”
“Silence.”
Mircea shut up, but the arms around my middle tightened. I could feel his power, soothing, calming, but it couldn’t reach me, wasn’t enough, not against the red tide pulling at me. The dhampir strength that comes only in my fits was rising. With that amount of strength, all poured into one hard, swift lunge, I could have her. I. Could. Have. Her.
And as soon as I did, I was dead. The thought cut through the writhing echoes, going straight to my core. I didn’t know if it was my thought or Mircea’s, but it was true, either way. She’d kill me, and if she didn’t, the guards would. I could feel them, hovering nearby. Ten, twelve—I couldn’t tell but enough. More than enough.
But it was so hard to care.
“I’m right here.” The words, low, sibilant, taunting, ripped through my brain, seething like fire ants, tearing like shrapnel. Squeezing one eye shut, I flattened a hand against my ear, but it did no good. The words were inside my head.
“She is stronger than I expected. Or perhaps you are helping her, Mircea.”
“No, Lady.”
“Release her, then. Let us see what manner of control she really has.” The arms around me didn’t budge. “You would defy me on this?”
“With . . . regret, Lady.”
And suddenly, the snakes were back, and this time, they’d brought friends. It felt like my body had been invaded by a sea of tiny spiders. I could feel them seething underneath my skin, in my head, every movement of their hair-fine legs displacing some of my flesh. The tiny erosions were multiplied by thousands, millions, until my skin was cracked and running and my flesh was flaking off the bone.
Someone squeezed my shoulder, and spiders scurried outward from the touch, crawling up through cracks in my flesh to scuttle across my skin. I considered screaming, but my lungs were teeming with them, too, sloughing away like the rest of me, and drawing the necessary breath would only split me open like a rotten fruit. So the spiders seethed and I didn’t scream.
“Enough!”
The single word sliced through the black haze in front of my vision, leaving me gasping on the floor, where I’d somehow ended up. The consul laughed again, but this time, it didn’t resonate. It was just a laugh. Like the carpet I was drooling onto was just carpet.
I clawed in a breath and coughed it out again, and didn’t even try to get up. I just lay there, blinking away moisture. Sweat, I told myself firmly, as my heart beat a staccato rhythm in my chest.
Someone knelt in front of me. “Are you all right?”
I made some small sound. It was supposed to be a laugh, but even I had to admit, it sounded more like a whimper. Pathetic, some part of my mind said.
I told that part to suck it.
“This is why you will never be a consul, Mircea,” he was told as he gathered me up. “No matter how strong you become, you are not ruthless enough.”
“I can be ruthless, Lady.”
“But not with everyone.”
The room swam a little about me, and my skin felt clammy and cold. But Mircea’s arms were a warm, steadying presence around me. “No. Not with everyone.”
“Unlike Anthony.” Her voice suddenly switched to a more businesslike tone. “Louis-Cesare must be found. Once Anthony learns he is lost, our case will be as well.”
“He will be found.”
“In time? We must produce him tonight, after the challenges.”
“We are doing what we can. You know the difficulty.”
“I also know the solution. He has shown an interest in this one. He went to her aid last night.”
“He went to collect his mistress—”
“Do not take me for a fool, Mircea.” The voice cracked like a whip. “I do not care that Louis-Cesare indulges his perversions, only that he fights for me while he does it. We cannot find him; therefore he must find us. If he has a bond with this creature, her pain will bring him faster than any other lure we have.”
“They do not have a bond. Therefore such a tactic would gain you nothing and be a waste of a resource,” Mircea said. His voice was calm, but the hand on my arm pressed hard enough to hurt. “Remember Tomas.”
There was no reply to that, but the room suddenly became noticeably chillier.
My eyes managed to focus on the consul, who was standing a few yards away. There were plenty of seats around, but she was probably afraid to crush her little pets. I watched the swarm of tiny snakes she wore in lieu of clothes writhe across her form from neck to feet, a glimmering, gleaming mass in constant motion. The first time I’d ever seen that trick, I’d thought it pretty cool.
I wasn’t feeling so much like that now.
“Top pocket,” I gasped, a little desperately. I really, really didn’t want to feel those things writhing inside me again. I thought once more and I might just go crazy permanently.
Three sets of eyes focused on me, but it was Mircea’s hand that slipped inside my jacket. Dark eyes ran swiftly over the short letter Claire had given me. His face did not change, but the body holding me relaxed slightly.
“I am afraid we shall have to find another method, Lady,” he said, handing the letter over.
Marlowe took it from him. “What is it?”
“A letter from a Blarestri royal princess, appointing Dorina her envoy to act for her in all matters concerning the stone. Any action taken against her representative will be considered to have been taken against the princess herself.”
The consul’s expression did not change, but her snakes writhed a little faster. “Find him!” she snapped, and strode from the room. She didn’t use the door; the fireplace was apparently an illusion, too, because she passed right through it. I was starting to wonder if anything in this house of horrors was real.
Except the bodies.
“What was the point of that?” Mircea demanded, as soon as she’d left.
“The consul is becoming . . . concerned . . . that the problem with Louis-Cesare may backfire on her,” Marlowe said carefully.
“Explain.”
“Should she lose him to Anthony, it will be a defeat on her own soil in front of her colleagues. Such a loss could damage the prestige she needs to lead in the war. And if she wins . . .” He took a deep breath he didn’t need. “She knows we need to be strong at this juncture, but she fears that some of us may be becoming too much so.”
Mircea had been wiping my face with his pocket handkerchief, but at that, he looked up. “She is suspicious of my loyalty?”
“Ambition has blinded better men.”
“And more foolish ones. I have no plans to challenge her authority.”
“Perhaps not now. But with the Pythia under your control—”
“She is under the Senate’s control.” He paused. “More or less.”
“She is under your control, Mircea,” Marlowe insisted. “Her loyalty is to you. She is suspicious of the consul—”
“With reason. That stunt with Tomas was ill-conceived. I warned her as much at the time.”
“You suggested using him!”
“Using, not abusing, Kit. I never suggested butchering the man! That backfired, as anyone who knows Cassie’s temperament should have expected.”
“But we do not know it. You do. And you were strong enough before. Now, you have control of the Pythia as well as Louis-Cesare’s loyalty through his attachment to Dorina—”
“And how did she find out about that? What did you tell her, Kit?”
“Only what she asked. She’d already heard as much from Anthony. He thinks it’s the best joke this century.”
“Anthony is not you! You could have denied it.”
“I could have betrayed my duty, you mean, in order to save this—”
“Careful.”
�
�Mircea, what the hell is wrong with you? I’m beginning to think that damned geis addled your brain!”
“Or cleared it.”
I lay utterly still, content to let them believe I was more or less out of it. Which wasn’t far from the truth. Between the general oppressiveness of the house and the consul’s idea of a good time, I was a little under the weather. The room kept shimmying like a belly dancer every time I opened my eyes, so I mostly didn’t.
I didn’t understand a lot of the conversation, but the basic idea came across. Mircea was growing powerful enough that the consul was starting to worry about him. And given the way she handled problems, I didn’t think that was too healthy.
Apparently, Mircea didn’t, either. “She truly thinks I would move against her?”
“She wonders if one with so much power will be content to serve for the rest of his life,” Marlowe said.
“I am content to live, Kit. Perhaps it is something you have forgotten how to do.”
“You are making no sense.” Marlowe sounded confused and resentful. “You do realize that?”
“Then tell your Lady this. The love of power destroyed my family once; I do not wish to see history repeat itself. I will serve her loyally until such a time as she moves against those I consider mine.”
“You want me to give an ultimatum to the consul?”
“No. Merely to request a concession. For an old and trusted ally.”
“There are those who would serve her without such concessions.”
“Yes. Sycophants are always easy to find. They are also easily swayed by the next power who promises them more. How many offers have I turned down to stay with her?” Mircea asked, suddenly angry. “Why this? Why now?”
“It’s Anthony,” Marlowe admitted, “at least in part. He has been whispering in her ear since he arrived, warning her that Louis-Cesare would add too much to your personal power base.”
“She must surely see why!”
“Of course, but his words reinforced her own concerns. This was . . . a test.”
“An unnecessary one.”
“Was it?” Marlowe’s dark eyes were serious. “You chose family over the needs of the Senate. Over her.”
“This would not have helped either, as I believe I made clear.”
“And now another member of your family has gone rogue. He must be brought in, Mircea. She cannot allow such a direct challenge to her authority to stand.”
“I am not hiding the man in my closet, Kit! I know no more of his whereabouts than you do.”
“And if you did?”
Mircea met his eyes steadily. “I abandoned a member of my family once, long ago. I swore then never to repeat the error.”
“Then I trust you are prepared for the consequences!” Marlowe snapped, and stormed out. The reporters tried to squeeze through the open door, but a nudge of power slammed it in their faces. I heard someone yelp.
“You can almost see the consul’s hand up Marlowe’s ass,” I said, blinking my eyes open. The room trembled a little at the corners, but it was better than it had been a minute ago. I decided that was good enough, and sat up.
“It may seem that way,” Mircea said, rising and crossing to the small bar in the corner. “In reality, it is more that they think alike and always have done.”
“You know he’s going off to report to her right now.”
“I doubt that will be necessary,” Mircea said wryly. “There are few rooms, if any, in this house that I would consider truly private.”
I assumed that was a warning, although I didn’t have any deep, dark secrets to spill. And if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t be talking about them here. “He’s right, though. Risking yourself for me wasn’t smart.”
Mircea poured something that I really hoped was whiskey into a couple of glasses. “When one serves such a mistress, occasionally it is useful to make a show of force,” he said, handing me one. “Otherwise, she may forget which among her servants are courtiers and which are ciphers.”
“You took a hell of a risk for a reminder.”
Mircea joined me with his own drink. The sofa was right across from the dead guy; it almost looked like the three of us were having a quiet drink together. Very quiet, on his part.
“It would not have been, under normal circumstances,” he said. “She would not expect me to turn over a high-ranking family member to be slaughtered for a crime he did not commit.”
“It sounded to me like that’s exactly what she expects.”
“She is frightened. And when someone holds that much power, their fear can be dangerous. That is why I want you out of this, Dorina. There are creatures involved in this from whom I cannot protect you.”
I bit my lip on the knee-jerk retort that I didn’t need protection. Normally, it was true. But there weren’t too many things on Earth who could go up against the consul when she was in a mood. Not and live, anyway.
Which made me wonder why Mircea had done it.
I almost asked, but something stopped me. Probably the same thing that kept me from asking him about the vision I’d seen, about the mother I couldn’t remember. I wanted to know, and I didn’t. As long as I didn’t bring it up, didn’t mention it, that brief glimpse of her remained real and vivid in my memory, something I’d never had before. But if I caught him in a lie, if I found out that this was nothing more than another ploy to get me to do what he wanted, I’d lose it. I’d lose her.
Just like, if I probed too deeply into this new attitude of Mircea’s, I might find that it masked the same old schemes. Was this sudden concern because Louis-Cesare had shown some interest in me? Was it merely what Marlowe had said—a way to bind a powerful ally more closely? If so, I’d have thought that Mircea would be more encouraging of a relationship, instead of all but warning me off. Unless he thought that’s what I would think, in which case—
Damn it. I realized that I wanted it to be real, all of it, wanted him to have cared about her, wanted him to care about me. And I was so very afraid that he didn’t. It was easier not to ask, to let the possibility last a little longer, even if it meant not learning anything else.
God, I could be such a coward sometimes.
“You think the consul is afraid of you?” I asked instead.
“Perhaps, in part. It is a balancing act with which every sovereign has to deal; the more powerful a courtier, the more useful, but also the more dangerous. No one can sustain herself in authority by relying solely on yes men, but gather too many powerful, ambitious courtiers around ...”
“And one day, one of them will replace you.”
It was strange, but I had never really thought about just how much power Mircea had. All senators seemed impossibly godlike, up there in the clouds somewhere, making decisions for us poor mortals. And compared to the vamp on the street, they were. But in fact, senators varied a lot in personal power and in the alliances each house was able to call on in an emergency.
And Mircea had always been very good at making alliances.
“I am not that one,” he said firmly. “Occasionally she needs to hear that.”
“And the other part?”
“The current situation has us all on edge. I cannot recall another time when so much has been in flux all at once. Anthony’s court, possibly about to face numerous challenges; Alejandro’s, weakened by years of misrule and neglect, about to topple; and our own Senate, devastated by the war, about to be rebuilt.”
“It might be rebuilt better.” I could certainly see room for improvement.
“Perhaps. But one thing is sure: it will be different. Loyalties will be tested. Age-old alliances will have to woo new members or they will not survive. And change is not something our people face with equanimity.”
“Hence the freak-out.”
“Yes.” There was a knock on the door, and a servant discreetly looked in. “The Circle is here,” Mircea said, rising. He looked at me, and his face went completely blank. “I meant to send this to you today,” he sa
id, taking something out of his coat. “I cannot give you back your memories, Dorina. I can but give you mine.”
I didn’t understand that cryptic phrase, and had no time to ask him about it before the Circle’s people burst into the room and deluged him.
I found myself out in the hall, after getting elbowed out of the room by hungry journalists. It looked like the Circle had brought some of their own, along with medics—too late—and a couple old guys in suits.
I looked down at the small book Mircea had pressed into my palm. It had a leather cover that looked new, but what it was protecting wasn’t. There were a few dozen pages inside of good, thick paper that had aged to a deep gold color. I stared at them, uncomprehending, for a long moment.
Images covered the pages on both sides. Some were hasty sketches, done with a firm hand in dark ink, a few quick strokes picking out delicate features. Others were fully realized miniature paintings, the paper beneath them mottled with age, but the colors still as vibrant as the jewels that had once been crushed into their pigments. The subject of each was the same: a young dark-haired woman.
At first, I thought the images were of me, but I’d never worn those clothes, never posed for those sketches. And then I found one of her in front of a window, with her sleeves rolled up and her arms coated in flour, and my mind reeled. My fingers brushed the surface of the soapy old paper, tracing the raised edges of the ink in disbelief. These hadn’t been hastily thrown together in a few hours, as a prop to some devious scheme. It must have taken months, years, to do them all. . . .
Suddenly, I couldn’t make anything else out. Everything was a bright, smeared blur, like trying to see something when it was held right up against my face. Then I looked back at Mircea and everything came into focus again.
He was staring at me over the heads of the milling mages, silently. He should have been rearranging those handsome features into a concerned mask to placate the Circle. But there was still no expression on his face, no emotion in those dark eyes.
Maybe he didn’t know how to do this, either, I thought blankly.
