by Karen Chance
“It was not successful.”
“You said you could lift it!”
Mircea’s lip curled. “You can never trust a mage.”
Pritkin glared at him briefly, but it wasn’t even close to his best attempt. He looked preoccupied, a finger tapping against his lips. “Tell me, was a method of egress attached to the spells when they were placed, in the event that something went wrong?”
“Yes, but that’s already been tried,” I said, exasperated.
“What was it?”
I glared, but I had no choice but to answer. I didn’t know what information he needed to make the spell work. “Sex with the originator or someone of his choosing. But nothing happened.”
It wasn’t as crazy as it sounds. The ritual to complete the power transfer from the old Pythia to me had required that I lose my virginity. It was a fairly standard clause in the ancient world, where sex played a part in everything from healing spells to worship. But it had given Mircea an idea. He had made sex the condition for the release of the geis as well.
It must have seemed foolproof: the geis would protect me until the ritual, whereupon it would be broken by the same act that made me Pythia, thereby ensuring that Mircea didn’t end up bound to my power. It would have worked, too, except that the spell had been doubled before the transfer was complete. Tomas had afterwards served as Mircea’s stand-in for the ritual, and I became Pythia right on schedule—but with the geis still alive and kicking.
“You are sure?” Pritkin insisted. “Because if the geis expands beyond its original parameters it becomes, in effect, a new spell. And in that case, the counterspell will not prove efficacious. That is the reason additional precautions are usually taken.”
“The geis?” Mircea’s gaze sharpened.
“Don’t ask,” I snapped, still glaring at Pritkin. “And yes, I’m sure!”
“Then there is nothing to be done,” Pritkin said with a slight shrug.
“Don’t lie to me. I need the real counterspell!”
“You already have it.”
“I don’t believe you!” I grabbed his shirt, not caring about the possible consequences. I felt like screaming in frustration. “Give it to me! I have to lift this thing. You don’t understand!”
“I have done all I can! Now give me my property!”
“I’d sooner see it destroyed than give it to you!” I told him, so angry I could barely see. I should have known. Every time I trusted that man, every single time, I ended up like this, teary-eyed and fuming. There is a saying: insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Or maybe that was stupidity.
Pritkin swore. “Is outraged modesty worth so high a price?”
I smiled at him fiercely. “I guess I’m just vindictive like that.”
“Give it to me and we part, if not friends, at least not enemies,” he warned. “And believe me when I say, madam—you do not want me for an enemy.”
“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear,” I said grimly, kicking the map back toward Mircea. “No geis, no map. Either lift this thing or you’ll never see the Codex again. I swear it!”
Pritkin didn’t reply, except by doing the last thing I’d expected. He threw off my hold as if it wasn’t there and jumped straight at Mircea. I was knocked to the side, and by the time I sat up they’d already taken the fight halfway across the cobblestone expanse, back toward the cathedral.
Mircea might have been drained from the attack at the casino, but a master vampire is still a master vampire, something Pritkin was learning the hard way. The fight was over so quickly, it was almost a non-event. A vicious jab from Mircea’s elbow sent the mage staggering back into the huge old cathedral doors, which he hit with a sickening thud. Pritkin must have been pretty drained, too, because his shields didn’t manifest to cushion the impact.
He ricocheted off the doors and sprawled limply on the steps, in a pose that called to mind a cast-aside doll. Mircea nonetheless started toward him as I scrambled to my feet. “Mircea! Don’t kill him!”
He looked up and hesitated slightly, then gave a small nod. He’d seen Pritkin in our time; he knew he wasn’t supposed to die tonight. I ran forward, worried that it was already too late, that the cracking noise I’d heard had been Pritkin’s skull. But when I knelt beside him, I couldn’t find any major injuries. I checked his pulse, then pulled up an eyelid. He might have been faking it on the stairwell; I wasn’t sure. But he’d been out cold on the barge, and if this wasn’t the real deal, he was a damn fine actor.
“He’s unconscious,” Mircea confirmed. He could sense things like blood pressure, and he would know if the mage was faking.
Mircea carried Pritkin inside the cathedral and we covered him with his cape. The place was deserted and it was still hours before dawn. He would be undisturbed until he came around. But it was too quiet and the place had a weird air about it, not like a church where people regularly congregate but like one of those deserted crypts at Pere Lachaise, beautiful but forgotten. I didn’t like leaving him there.
Mircea caught my arm, pulling me away from the mage. “He will live,” he assured me. “But when he awakens—”
He had a point. Pritkin wasn’t the type to give up, even with a possible concussion. And the last thing we needed was for Mircea to have to inflict even more damage. “Where to next?” I asked wearily. I was cold and hungry and now that the adrenaline rush was wearing off, my eyes kept wanting to close. I was really not looking forward to an exhausting search.
“We both need to rest before we go on your treasure hunt,” Mircea said, echoing my thoughts. He frowned for a moment, and then his face cleared. “I know just the place.”
Chapter 23
A short ley-line trip later and we stood before a thick oak plank with a brass doorknocker in the shape of a dragon consuming its own tail. I blinked at it blearily. Was the thing following me? Mircea let it thud against the door a few times, but no one answered.
“Most of my servants are at my country estate,” he told me, knocking again, louder this time. “But there should be a caretaker here. He doesn’t like to travel.”
I stared at the house, which looked completely deserted, and wondered if he was sure about that. With the master away, maybe the caretaker had left for parts where there weren’t daily decapitations. “I don’t think anyone’s home,” I ventured, peering in the window. I couldn’t tell much about the inside since there were sheets thrown over all the furniture, but it felt as empty as the cathedral.
Mircea only smiled. “He’s a little slow.”
“So when you said you lived in Paris—”
“I meant here.” Mircea paused to pound on the door, actually shaking the heavy wood. “Before I joined the North American Senate, I belonged to the European one. And it has been based in Paris since the early Middle Ages.”
He started to knock again, but the door was wrenched open by a tiny old man with a large nose and watery blue eyes. He peered at us myopically from under an oversized wig, while spewing a string of angry French. He punctuated whatever he was saying with wild waves of his cane, but without its support he lost his balance and would have toppled down the stairs if Mircea hadn’t caught him.
“Demmed young ruffians!” he raged, in between attempts to bite Mircea’s wrist. But despite being a vampire, he seemed to have only one fang, and it never managed to connect with anything.
“Horatiu! It’s me!” Mircea’s voice echoed up and down the street as he practically screamed in the old man’s ear.
“Eh?” the vamp squinted, but apparently it didn’t help his eyesight.
Mircea sighed. “I gave you a cord for your spectacles,” he said, rummaging around in the old man’s coat. “Why aren’t you wearing them?”
“’m a vampire. Don’t need spectacles!” Mircea was informed, as the man slapped at his hands. Mircea ignored him and finally came up with a pair of pince-nez. He settled them on the vamp’s long nose and smiled at him encouragingly. “It�
��s me,” he repeated.
“I know that!” the old man said tetchily. “Might have sent word you was coming. Got nothing prepared,” he bitched, but he did let us in the door.
We walked at a snail’s pace through a hall and up a large staircase. Horatiu was carrying a candle that wavered and flickered, casting leaping shadows on the walls, and it gave me my first clear look at Mircea. Despite the earlier libations, he was still missing half his outfit, had dirt and dust all over the part remaining, and a strand of something suspiciously like seaweed was clinging tenaciously to his hair. Seeing him like that was probably a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I’d treasure it.
“You’re going to need to change before you see the other me again,” I said, trying not to laugh. “Something that looks as much like your old outfit as possible.”
Mircea shot me a look that said he’d noticed my amusement. “I have several black suits.”
“But the shirt—”
“I also have quite a few of those.”
“Really. It didn’t look off-the-rack to me.”
“It wasn’t. Ming-de sends me one every year, on my birthday.”
“How kind of her. Any particular reason?”
Mircea blinked lazily. “I don’t suppose you would like to tell me what the mage meant by ‘outraged modesty’?”
I licked my lips, feeling a residual tingle on my tongue that tasted suspiciously like a certain psycho war mage. “Not really.”
“Then I think I, too, will keep my secrets, dulceata?.”
“Yeah, but you have more than me,” I muttered.
He quirked an eyebrow. “I am beginning to wonder.”
We ended up in Mircea’s rooms, which were composed of a small dressing room and a larger bedroom. The painted wardrobe I’d seen at MAGIC had pride of place, beside a silk tapestry showing a green dragon eating its own tail. I stared at it in exhaustion. It was starting to get creepy. “The ouroboros.”
“The symbol of the Sárkány Lovagrend,” Mircea corrected me, his eyes on Horatiu.
“What?”
“The Order of the Dragon,” he translated, moving closer to his servant. The old man was doing something near the fireplace that faced the large bed. It took me a moment to figure out what, because the paper spill he was holding was pressed to a soot-covered brick several feet to the left of the grate instead of to one of the dusty logs. “It was a society set up in Hungary by King Sigismund. My father became a member and…Let me do that,” Mircea offered, his eyes on the rapidly burning paper.
Horatiu smacked him on the shoulder. “Didn’t I teach you anything about respecting your station?” he demanded. “Always running about, playing with the servants’ children, thinking that cheeky grin of yours was going to let you get away with all sorts of irresponsible behavior.”
“So nothing’s changed,” I murmured.
Mircea sent me a wounded look while wrestling the old man for the spill. “What a nice blaze,” he said loudly, managing to get the paper away from Horatiu just before it set his hand on fire.
Horatiu regarded the cold interior of the fireplace proudly. “Yes it is, isn’t it?”
After a few moments, Mircea managed to coax the logs to life. “I don’t suppose there’s anything to eat?” he asked. He didn’t look hopeful, but my stomach grumbled expectantly anyway.
“Eat?” Horatiu peered at me blankly. Apparently he’d assumed that Mircea had brought takeout.
“She is my guest!” Mircea said emphatically.
Horatiu muttered something that sounded disappointed. “Well, I suppose I could go out and try to find someone,” he said doubtfully. “But with all the troubles nowadays, the streets are often deserted after dark.”
“I meant for her.”
“Eh?”
“Is there any food suitable for a human?” Mircea asked patiently.
“Well, if you’d sent word,” Horatiu said huffily. “I can’t be expected to know you’ll be bringing home one of them, can I? Not to mention that the shops are mostly empty in any case, what with everything going to the army!”
“A ‘no’ would have sufficed,” Mircea said. His glance at me was rueful. “My apologies. My hospitality is usually somewhat more…hospitable.”
“Not a problem.” I sat on the plush rug in front of the hearth and stretched my hands out to the fire. For the first time that night, I was almost warm and I didn’t have to worry about someone sneaking up on me.
“The cellars are intact, I believe?” Mircea inquired.
“Yes, yes. Plenty of wine.” Horatiu just stood there. So did Mircea. “Do you want me to go get some?” the old man finally asked.
“That would be nice,” Mircea said politely. Horatiu tottered off, still muttering to himself, just loudly enough to be understood. Mircea sighed and started searching a squat cabinet in a corner.
“It is an ouroboros, though, right? The order’s symbol?” My eyes had wandered back to the tapestry. The dragon’s scales were green, and its eyes, picked out in gold thread, seemed to move in the low light of the fire.
“Yes, I suppose,” Mircea said absently. “It is an ancient protection symbol, of a girdle of power encasing something precious. And that’s what they were trying to do—guard Europe from Turkish invasion. Why?”
“I keep seeing it lately, everywhere I go. It’s starting to weird me out.”
Mircea laughed. “The ouroboros is the mages’ emblem. It is ubiquitous in our world.”
“But they just use a plain silver circle,” I protested. I’d always thought it showed a real lack of imagination. The oldest magical organization on earth, and that was the best they could do?
“The older version of their symbol was an ouroboros. It was stylized over time into something easier to reproduce. They say they chose it because it is the alchemical symbol for purity, and silver stands for wisdom.” Mircea’s tone left no doubt as to what he thought of that claim.
“Protection, purity and wisdom.” A lot of things came to mind when I thought of the Circle. Those three weren’t on the list.
Mircea held out a dusty bottle. “Burgundy,” he said triumphantly.
“But you just sent Horatiu for wine.”
“Yes, a fact he’ll remember for perhaps five minutes.” He filled a couple of glasses that looked reasonably clean and passed me one.
“Thanks.” I took a sip. It was good. “What happened to him?”
“Horatiu?” I nodded. “I am afraid I did.”
“What? But isn’t changing someone that old considered kind of…inadvisable?”
“Very much.” Mircea ignored his wine in favor of rummaging around in the wardrobe. He soon produced a paper-wrapped package that smelled like sandalwood. “Yes, I thought I would have another.” He lifted up a corner of the paper. “And it’s in white.”
I narrowed my eyes at it. Ming-de’s little gift, I assumed. “You look better in color,” I snapped.
He sent me a sultry look over his shoulder. “Really? Most women think I look better in nothing at all.”
I backpedaled fast. “So why did you change him, then?”
Mircea shrugged. “He was my childhood tutor. I visited him on his deathbed, to find his skin as pallid as the sheets but his mind as sharp as ever. He knew he was dying, and he was highly incensed about it. He lay there, his body failing, and demanded that I do something, in the same voice he’d used to terrorize me as a child—”
“And you caved?”
“I agreed to his proposition,” Mircea said with dignity.
“You caved.”
He sighed and pulled on the shirt. “I’m afraid so.”
“But why is he like that? If you turned him, shouldn’t he have vampiric sight?” Not to mention hearing, sense of balance and the ability to cross a room faster than a meandering caterpillar.
“Normally, yes. But Horatiu was dying when he went through the transformation; had I hesitated at all, he would have been gone. And changing someone in such ext
remely poor health is, as you said, inadvisable.”
“Then why do it?” An eternity like that wouldn’t have struck me as a great gift.
Mircea poked at the fire, not that it needed it. The room was already warming up nicely. “Because I did not know what I was doing,” he admitted, having tortured the logs to his satisfaction. “You forget, I was not chosen for this life; I received it because of an old woman’s hatred for my family. I was cursed.”
“What does that have to do with Horatiu?”
“Everything. I had no one to advise me, dulceata?. No one to give me any knowledge of my new state. Perhaps in another time it would have been different. Today, the Senate itself oversees such masterless vampires as are created, few though they are. But then…nothing was so simple then. I didn’t know this would be his fate.”
“I never thought about what it must have been like for you,” I said slowly, “to suddenly wake up changed.”
He smiled grimly. “It did not happen as quickly as that. It was a week before the transformation was complete, and even then…Such things were fables, stories told to frighten children! How could such a thing have happened? To me, a good Catholic?”
“But vampirism is a metaphysical disease. It doesn’t have anything to do with—”
“But I didn’t know that, Cassie. I didn’t know anything. I could enter a church, pray the rosary, do things I had always been told were impossible for the damned. And yet the sunlight I’d walked in all my life suddenly burned me, the food of my youth no longer nourished me, and even my body was changing in ways that, at the time, appalled me. I did not wish to see more than everyone else, to hear things better left unknown, to toss and turn in my bed, feeling every heartbeat within a mile calling out to me…”
“You accepted it in time, though.”
“I don’t know that that is quite the word I would use,” Mircea said dryly. He unself-consciously stripped off the bedraggled trousers, laying them on the bed, where he tackled them with a brush. “I was in denial, refusing to admit, even to myself, what was happening.”
