by Karen Chance
The conversation was making me vaguely uncomfortable all of a sudden; I wasn’t sure why. “People dream all the time,” I pointed out. “And some feel incredibly real, when you’re in them.”
“And when you come out?”
I didn’t answer, thinking of a few I’d had lately.
“Ah, well, you’re probably right,” Caedmon said, toying with the knife I’d been using to eat apples, when I’d had any apples. “But I have heard a young child give a battle cry from a long-dead language while playing with his friends. And seen a girl weaving a pattern she thought she’d invented, but which was once the standard of an ancient king. And watched a bard sing a song that hadn’t been heard in ten thousand years, and quiet an entire hall.”
And, for a moment, so did I. A huge hall of gray stone rose up around me, with tables running along three sides, and an old man—or a fey, I guessed—sitting on a stool at the center, and slowly rising to his feet along with his song. It echoed off the walls and out the windows like a blaze of trumpets, startling several birds from the rafters. While among the fey, food trembled on spoons untasted, wine went undrunk, and the whole chamber stayed utterly silent, mesmerized by the long-lost ballad come to life once more.
Then the image winked out, as abruptly as it had come, leaving me blinking and swallowing and shaking my head.
Damn, I wished he’d stop doing that!
I drank wine, and wished for something stronger. This sort of thing happened around Caedmon occasionally, and it was . . . unsettling. At least with Dorina, I’d actually seen the stuff; I just didn’t remember it. But with Caedmon . . .
Sometimes Caedmon freaked me out.
I caught him watching me, and I shook my head to clear it. I wanted to ask if he’d done that on purpose, but if he hadn’t . . . I didn’t want him knowing that Dorina could pick up his thoughts, even stray ones. Caedmon was as secretive in his own way as a master vamp, and I didn’t think he’d care for that.
“So you’re telling me you’re a believer?” I said, a little hoarsely.
“I’m . . . open-minded. I know you humans think us so old, me especially”—he flashed a grin—“but it doesn’t seem that way to us. Quite the contrary; there never seems to be enough time to experience all of life’s wonders. I take some comfort in the idea that, perhaps, we will have a second chance.”
“And Alfhild? Did she get a second chance?”
He gave a quick bark of laughter, but there was no mirth in it this time. “No. The view was that she’d already had one, and no one wanted to see what she would do with a third! And not just in this life; they were also worried about the next. What if she came back? What if she remembered? Would they ever be safe? Would their families?”
I narrowed my eyes. “So they did . . . what? Take her back to the tower to molder some more?”
“No. They took her to Earth. And killed her here, it was said, in front of a great throng of those she had wronged. My great-uncle swung the blade himself, lest any of his people be targets for her partisans’ revenge. And afterward, her bones were burned, releasing her spirit into a cold, alien world, ever to walk unfamiliar pathways, moaning and crying and dreaming of revenge she’ll never have. For she can never now go home.”
I shivered; I admit it. The story was bad enough, but Caedmon’s delivery was worthy of an Oscar if they have one for “seriously creepy.” And then he suddenly stopped, dead still, and turned to stare at something outside the tent.
“What is that?”
I dropped the wineskin and grabbed the knife. “What is what?”
“Not sure, but I feel a sudden chill . . . something ominous . . . something cold . . .”
I started to head out, but he grabbed my arm.
“No, wait. I think . . . I think . . . oh. Oh no!”
“What is it?”
“Dory—”
“What?”
“I think it’s Alfhild!” And then he lunged at me, from zero to a hundred in about a nanosecond, and I jumped and yelped and smacked him, over and over, and he laughed and laughed and laughed.
“You bastard!”
“I assure you,” he gasped, “my parents were married with great ceremony!”
I smacked him some more. It did not appear to help. “Some bedtime story! Do not tell Aiden that one!”
Caedmon grinned at me from the floor, where he’d ended up. “Well, not until he’s older.”
“Not at all! Or God help you if Claire finds out!”
He watched me from under spilled golden hair. “Claire must stop smothering the boy. I understand her concern; we all do. And it is not without merit. But keeping him here, on Earth, tied to her apron strings—”
“He’s a year old!”
“Yes, but he won’t stay that way. Sooner or later, he must come back to court.”
“Maybe when you’ve figured out who tried to kill him!”
Caedmon frowned. He didn’t like to be reminded that his grandson was here because he’d been in danger in Faerie. But it was nonetheless true. If Claire hadn’t been unable to face one more dinner among a court whose lips smiled and smiled, and whose eyes shot daggers, Aiden wouldn’t be here now.
She’d decided to take her baby for a walk, because he was fussy and teething and it seemed to soothe him, rather than hang out at the high table. And when she went back to the nursery, it was to find the maid on the floor, in a puddle of blood, and an unknown assassin probably lurking nearby. So she turned around and ran, and didn’t stop until she reached New York, and who could blame her?
Caedmon, apparently.
“You don’t approve,” he said, watching me.
“Of Aiden going back to Faerie? Hell no. But it’s not my call. It’s Claire’s.”
“My son did have a small role to play in the boy’s conception.”
“Uh-huh. And if you want him to be able to conceive anymore, you’d better not drag him into this.” I looked pointedly downward. “Or get involved yourself.”
Caedmon looked pained and crossed his legs. I knew he was joking with me, but I didn’t think he realized that I wasn’t. If he got Aiden hurt, Claire would freaking geld him.
I decided to get back to the point. “So, the Light Fey, barring batshit-crazy fey queens—”
“Princess. I think she was going for queen.”
“Whatever. But barring people like Alfhild, all dead fey go back to Faerie?”
He nodded. “Of course, I cannot speak for the Dark Fey, as I do not know their habits here. But I would suspect that, at the very least, their bones are sent through a portal.”
I thought about that. It was interesting—I hadn’t known much about fey beliefs before—but it didn’t help with my original question. “So, Olga promised to send the boy back if he died, and then he said something else. Just a few words. Do you remember?”
“Vaguely.” Caedmon’s head tilted. “It seemed mere nonsense. Was it important?”
“I don’t know.” It was probably nothing, just confusion from the pain and shock. But I decided I’d have Olga ask him when he woke up.
I don’t like mysteries.
“Are you done?” Caedmon asked, watching me wrap up the remains of my feast, not that there was much left. I hated to admit it, but swan made for a damned fine meal. Especially fat young swan raised on popcorn and peanuts by the locals.
“Yeah.” I agreed. “All ready for bed.”
“Excellent idea.”
I put a hand to his chest, which was infringing on my space suddenly. “Alone, your majesty.”
“Why so formal? Call me Caedmon.”
“Okay, then. Alone, Caedmon.”
“You know, I always find that I sleep better after exercise.” I suddenly found myself on my back, with a randy fey king on top. “Wanna wrestle?”
“Get off me!�
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“Don’t tell me you’re still toying with that annoying vampire.”
“Louis-Cesare. And yes.”
“And here I thought you’d be bored with him by now.”
“Not bored.”
“Give it time.”
“Caedmon—”
“I’ll tie one hand behind my back,” he offered.
“Tie both, and your legs while you’re at it!”
“Ah.” Green eyes glimmered down at me, so dark they were almost black. “But that would leave me at your mercy, and I suspect that could be . . . dangerous.”
I flipped him, and a second later the knife he’d been playing with was at his throat. “You have no idea.”
His eyes flashed, but his lips slid into a purely evil smile. “But then, danger has always been something of a hobby of mine. I’ll spot you both arms—”
“You’ll behave or I’ll kick you out!” I said, and climbed off. He sighed, but didn’t look too displeased. Probably because toying with me was just the overture, wasn’t it?
The main event hadn’t even started.
I grabbed the wineskin and leaned back against the side of the house. I didn’t offer him any. Consider it a beer tax. “What are you really doing here?” I asked. “And don’t lie.”
“I never lie.”
“My father says the same thing. It’s even true, most of the time. Yet somehow . . .”
“Your father is an excellent diplomat. Prevarication is part of the skill set.”
“And you’re a king. What’s the skill set for that?”
He ran a finger up the side of my bare foot. “Everything. And just when you think you know it all, you discover that you require something else. It’s why I learned long ago to arrange help where I need it.”
“Like you need it from Claire?”
Dark eyes met mine, shining in the lamplight. “She likes you. Trusts you. After that little display today, I can see why. You could do her a service—”
“Her or you?”
“Does it have to be exclusive?”
“And what service would that be?”
“Persuade her to contact her father. He has the resources I need, but reaching him has been . . . challenging. But she could arrange a meeting—”
“Caedmon—”
“—here, on neutral ground—”
“Caedmon.”
“—we’re in-laws, after all, or will be soon. We should have met already—”
“Caedmon! Did you not see what happened today?” I gestured at the garden. “Did you somehow miss the massive freaking dragon tearing up the place?”
“No, she was magnificent.”
“Or the horrified woman running off in tears after she changed back?”
“She lost control, and was embarrassed. It happens—”
“That’s not what happened!”
I drank wine, and debated whether I should even be talking about this, because it was Claire’s business, not mine. But I knew Caedmon, and I didn’t see him going away without some kind of explanation as to why his plan, whatever it was, wasn’t going to work. And I thought Claire had enough to deal with without taking on her father-in-law.
“It’s getting stronger,” I told him, after a moment.
“What is?”
“Her dragon half.”
“Of course. She’s growing up—”
“Maybe she doesn’t want it getting stronger, Caedmon! Maybe she doesn’t want to think about it at all!”
“And why not?” He sounded puzzled. “Power is safety, in your world as well as ours—”
I laughed, and drank more wine. “It’s not always safety.”
“Yes, it is.” He still sounded puzzled, but also vaguely wary, like I’d just suggested that the sun comes up in the west or something. I wondered again what Faerie was like, that Caedmon, a being so old and—presumably—wise, couldn’t conceive of a single question to which more power might not be the answer.
“It’s not safe if it takes over,” I told him shortly.
“Takes over . . . what?”
I waved the wineskin around. “Her. Her life, her family, her garden, her kid. Everything. Everything that matters, anyway.”
“Dory. What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about getting your life stolen, right out from under you. About thinking you’re finally someplace that almost makes sense. You have people around that you care about, and who seem to care about you. You’re in a good place, or as good as you’re ever likely to be, and then—bam! It’s all gone. Not because you made a mistake, not because you got something wrong, but because life just decided that today, you lose.”
No matter what you do.
Caedmon took the wineskin away. Just as well. It was mostly empty now anyway.
“Are you drunk?” he asked me. He looked concerned.
I lay on my side, pillowing my head on my arm, and sighed at him. “I wish.”
“Then make some sense—please. I am starting to worry about myself.”
“So is Claire.”
“Claire is worried about me?”
“No. She’s worried about her other half. The one that’s getting stronger every day, to the point that stuff is starting to happen. It was hard enough to manage when it was younger, and smaller. But now . . .”
“Power isn’t an asset,” Caedmon said, like he finally got it.
“Not when you can’t control it.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at me. And then reached over to brush a bit of hair out of my eyes. I was sleepy, so I didn’t object, and his expression softened.
“Maybe it isn’t about control.”
“What else is there?”
“Letting go.”
I just lay there, silently, because that didn’t even compute. Or maybe I was just too sleepy to figure it out. I yawned, and he smiled again, a little ruefully this time.
“You’re never what I expect.”
“What do you expect?”
“Tonight?” He leaned over to kiss my cheek. “Nothing. Go to sleep, Dory.”
It was the last thing I remembered.
Chapter Fourteen
Mircea, Venice, 1458
The rain hadn’t stopped; if anything, it was heavier now, splashing down on the canal and the top of Mircea’s gondola. It should have blotted out the lights on the palazzo ahead, just as it had smothered the moon and gutted the torches outside the other great houses they’d passed. But the palazzo defied the weather, burning so brightly that it almost appeared to be on fire, with every window flooded with light and flickering with the moving shadows of guests.
The gondola hit the dock, a gentle bump, and Mircea leapt out. To no reception, because the guards who should have been there were huddled under the loggia, trying to stay out of the rain. And mostly failing; the wind kept blowing it in the sides.
One of them glanced at him uninterestedly as he approached, hurrying through the wet with his cape clutched around him. He should have been known to them, after the numerous times he’d visited during the past two months, but there was no recognition in those eyes. A vampire not even twelve years out of the grave wasn’t worth remembering.
He did not ask how old they were. He didn’t have to. The bright silver breastplates with the Medusa-head design, the rich green silks, and the short-bladed falchions they wore were all impressive, but less so than the power they were radiating. Which threatened to burn him even yards away.
The city watch was supposedly there to keep order in the vampire population, but in Mircea’s experience they were the guardians of the elite. And as these were guarding the most elite of all, he supposed it made sense that they were so bright with power that his inner eye could barely look at them. They could have reined
that in while he fumbled around under his cloak for the letter granting him admission, but they didn’t. Watching him squirm was probably the most entertainment they’d had all night.
Until he couldn’t find it.
Damn! He’d been in such a hurry that he must have left it at home. And there was no possibility of getting in without it. He knew that even before one of them gave him a friendly shove that almost resulted in his taking a bath in the canal.
“Run back to your master, dog. Tell him you broke your leash!”
Mircea’s hand reached unbidden for his boot, and the knife therein. And then froze, stock-still, like the rest of him, when two swords suddenly flashed in his face. He hadn’t even seen them move.
“Or maybe we’ll tell him ourselves, when we deliver your gutted carcass.”
Mircea backed slowly away, hands where they could see them, and they let him go. The impression conveyed was that it was more from a desire not to get wet than any concern over him, or the feelings of his nonexistent master. A vampire forced to use one such as him as an errand runner wasn’t worth fearing.
But that was the thing about power, Mircea thought, as he nipped down an alley and started scaling the side of the palazzo: it made a person complacent. The guards out front were impressive in size and outfitted luxuriously, right down to the stone in the pinkie ring one had sported on a meaty finger, which exactly matched his emerald silks. But they were there more for show than anything else.
After all, who would be crazy enough to burgle the praetor?
The term was an old-fashioned way to designate the leading magistrate in a territory. And since Venice was one of the wealthiest and most influential vampire territories in all Europe, its praetor was rivaled only by the awe-inspiring consul herself. Mircea had a healthy respect for that kind of power.
But he was also running out of time to help his daughter, and he wasn’t going home empty-handed. Not when he knew that the praetor’s pinch-nosed bastard of a secretary always kept his window open, to air out his fetid work space. Fortunately, that was true even in a rainstorm, which was why all the papers near the window were already soggy even before Mircea slid neatly over them.
