by Karen Chance
“What?”
The wind was almost blowing his voice away, and must have been doing equal damage to mine. Or maybe it was the half dozen car alarms going off now, or the still-loud helicopter, or the continued explosions. Because he couldn’t hear me.
“I said, I’ll take the car!”
“No, we’re not far! Are you in position?”
“Fin! Just go! Now, now, now!”
“Now? All right, I’m coming!”
“No! Not here! I didn’t mean—”
But, sure enough, here they came, swinging about in a big parabola and then speeding this way. And fuck it, they were going to get caught! Or worse.
“Stay here, and keep down,” I told the reporter.
“Like hell! I’m coming with you!”
I tried snarling in his face again, but I guess the first time had been more surprise than anything else. Because he didn’t scare easy. Which had been more people’s epitaphs than I could count, and how did I end up in these things?
And then James grabbed the reporter and me simultaneously, dragging us out of the ditch and up to a face as thunderous as I’d ever seen it.
Oh, thank god.
Someone to babysit.
I broke his hold and danced backward, and the expression somehow got worse.
“Immunity,” I reminded him, as the warehouse burned merrily behind us, as somebody with a bullhorn told us to drop our weapons, and as red and blue flashing lights announced the arrival of more cops.
And as a speedboat laden with a troll doll, a Hulk, and a tiny madwoman sped by on the water, with everybody onboard yelling at me.
“Watch that one! He’s trying to be a hero!” I told James. And then I took off, dodging through the chaos and getting up a good head of steam before hitting the side of the dock and jumping—
Straight onto the middle of the boat.
Damn, that was . . . that was pretty good, I thought, grinning, and grabbing for purchase. Granny grinned back. Fin floored it, sending a huge spray of water at the mages on the dock, who hadn’t been quite fast enough to catch me.
“Okay.” Fin told me breathlessly. “I admit it. You do a pretty good distraction.”
And then we were gone.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Mircea, Venice, 1458
The ship creaked and groaned, the old boards protesting the rough seas. It was raining again, with the skies as angry as the water. But this was a merchant ship, built to travel long journeys to distant ports. Mircea wasn’t worried about sinking.
It was almost the only thing he wasn’t currently worried about.
He couldn’t see too well. His head had landed sideways, cheek to unshaven cheek with the not-so-animated corpse below him. It nonetheless allowed him to stare outward at pile after pile of baby vampires, stacked like cordwood all along the sides and middle of the ship’s great hold. There were hundreds of them, their eyes closed, or open and staring blankly upward—either way, insensate. Unaware and therefore unconcerned about the fate that awaited them.
Unlike Mircea. Whose mental gifts allowed him the dubious advantage of knowing exactly what was happening, but not having any way to stop it. He struggled against whatever power was holding him, but didn’t manage to so much as wriggle a finger.
Merda!
The worst thing about this whole fiasco was that it was his own damned fault. He should have been more cautious. He should have expected a trap. And part of him had. He thought he’d been so careful. . . .
Not careful enough!
He’d picked up the strange angler with his human bait in the Rialto, the great marketplace of Venice, earlier that evening. It was one of the creature’s favorite fishing spots, especially right after dusk. Mircea hated that time of day. Even though the darkness allowed him to be out and about, he really wasn’t comfortable until the terrible sun had left to stalk another land entirely.
But the angler was stronger than he, and always made an early start of it. So Mircea had to as well. And then had to find him in the crowded zoo the Rialto turned into after dark.
Only the space-deprived Venetians would have put their abattoir, banking center, and marketplace all in one small area, leading to the sight of well-dressed men having to dodge flocks of goats, bawdy prostitutes trying to seduce wide-eyed farm boys, and clueless tourists having their pockets picked while they stared at Egyptian spices, Byzantine silks, Murano glass, exotic foodstuffs, and a crowd thick with Turks, Greeks, Spaniards, Slavs, Jews, and Moors.
And that was just on land.
The canal was busy, too, with everyone trying to pack up and leave at once, before members of the city watch showed up to levy fines—or a swift kick—to merchants staying open past the evening bell. It was chaos, as usual, and as usual Mircea found himself trying to avoid getting run over by a hefty woman chasing a live goose, or getting slapped in the face by the long sticks a boy had slung over his shoulder, strung with straw hats. All while trying to spot someone who was working very hard at not being seen.
But then, there were other senses.
Mircea slipped into the protection of a colonnade and closed his eyes. Immediately he felt calmer, his mind filtering out the noise and bustle around him, piece by piece. First the animals, with their squawks, bleats, and coos. Then the people, talking, laughing, fighting, and bartering. And finally the incidentals: waves slapping the side of the canal, wind whistling across the rooftops, a stray dog pissing against a column, music from a nearby tavern, and the smell of newly lit torches, sweaty bodies, and the sea.
Until there was only one thing left.
They were slippery gleams on his mental horizon, cool against the human heat, still against the bustle. Vampires, coming out of their sanctuaries, peppering the square. Most of them were bright to his mental eye, like jagged bits of lightning glimpsed through churning dark clouds. He mentally excluded them as well. He wasn’t looking for young and bright, but old and dim, someone who was hiding his true power, someone who didn’t want to be found, someone—
Like that.
Mircea’s eyes opened. The angler had cloaked himself in shadow, the vampire way of going dim and unnoticed, even while standing in the middle of a crowd. Or, in this case, in the shadow of a portico, while his lure bobbed around the nearby market stalls, drifting idly among the vampires looking for their nightly supper.
Not realizing that, tonight, they were the prey.
Mircea’s focus was drawn to two babies who seemed to be hunting together. That wasn’t unusual in most places, where baby vampires were part of a family and learned the tricks of the trade from their older “siblings.” But here in Venice, most of the young vampires had no family, and were far too skittish to trust anyone.
Here, they hunted alone.
But perhaps these two had been brothers before the Change, and were turned together. Or perhaps they had met on the perilous way to Venice’s vaunted “safety,” and learned to trust. Or perhaps, like Mircea, they had some talent with the mind, which allowed them slightly more control than most their age—
His speculation ended abruptly, when the trap snapped shut. The girl had walked between two market stalls, the vampires trailing close behind her. And when she walked out . . .
She was alone.
Mircea, who had been slouching against the side of the building, trying to look like he was waiting for someone, suddenly stood up straight.
For weeks he’d hunted the hunter, but had yet to answer one simple question: what was happening to all those vampires? They seemed to disappear into thin air, wafting away like the early-morning fog that plagued Venice this time of year. He had never been able to find them, and without them, he had nothing.
Until tonight.
Mircea wandered over, careful to wait until the girl was on the other side of the market, attracting the attention of
another hungry soul. Then idly passed by the space between the stalls, glancing in swiftly before moving on. And frowning.
Because the space was just a space, boring and empty, unless you counted a few pieces of rotten fruit disdained by seller and buyers alike. But not by a small mouse, which was daring to feast in the open. It paused when Mircea walked by, its bright black eyes alert, its tiny hands stilling on its prize.
And then scampered away, taking a half-eaten plum along with it, as Mircea sighed his disappointment—and his frustration. He’d been looking right at her. He couldn’t have been mistaken.
But there was nothing there. As demonstrated when a passing vendor, a bald man with a basket of melons on his head, bustled through, trampling the remaining plum into the pavement. And almost barreling into Mircea on the other side, before muttering a quick “scuxa” as he squeezed past.
Leaving Mircea with a bigger frown and a determination to figure this out. A quick duck behind a bunch of departing vegetable sellers took him between the stalls and out of sight of the angler. And a careful balancing act stopped him just inside the makeshift corridor, allowing him a chance to bend over and carefully examine the stones in front of him, to see if he could find any sign of a trap.
There was none.
Just the pavement, grimy from a hundred boot prints, awaiting the next squall to wash it clean; the sickly sweet smell of the crushed fruit, its juices running like blood in the spaces between the stones; the feel of cracked grit and the rough-smooth-rough surface of the rock under Mircea’s questing hand.
And the shock of someone’s boot making a brutal connection with his backside.
Mircea fell forward into a black emptiness that reached out and grabbed him, pulling him down, down, down—and spitting him out—
Into the boat of the damned.
“Got another one!” somebody called, as Mircea hit the boards like a sack of grain.
“Already? She’s earning her keep tonight!”
“For once,” came the cynical first voice, as muscular legs in dirty hosen walked over Mircea.
He’d landed facedown, suddenly unable to move, even to put his hands out to break his fall. Or to fight when he was roughly grabbed under the armpits a moment later, at the same time that someone else seized his feet. And sent him flying.
“Sleep well,” the first voice said cynically, as Mircea landed on a pile of bodies, and found himself staring down into the open, unseeing eye of a corpse.
He didn’t cry out. Whatever spell had immobilized his body worked on his vocal cords, too. He lay there silently, bleeding from what was likely a broken nose, as several humans thumped back up a ladder.
Leaving him in a makeshift graveyard.
Well, at least he knew what had happened to the vampires, he thought, trying to tamp down panic.
Normally, it would have bubbled up into wild laughter, his usual, completely inappropriate response to impossible situations. It was why he’d been able to lead a retreat of the tattered remnants of his father’s army, after a fool’s invasion of the Turkish lands, before they were butchered like all the rest. The laughing knight, his men had called him, amazed that he seemed so insouciant in the face of danger.
They’d never known: he’d just been hysterical.
The same had been the case when, a year or so later, a party of senior vampires had come across him and Horatiu fleeing their homeland, in search of he knew not what. They’d knocked him off his horse, circled him round, and then just stayed there, staring at the days-old baby vampire laughing at them from his puddle of mud. And hadn’t killed him.
Well, some of them had started to, but the vampire in charge had stopped them with a raised hand. And had continued to regard Mircea with a slightly perplexed look on his face. Mircea had looked right back, and laughed and laughed and laughed.
In the week prior, he’d been cursed, tortured, and buried alive; he’d watched his parents be butchered and their lands overrun by the faithless cowards who had once pledged them fealty; he had been overwhelmed by the bloodlust of his new state, which had caused him to almost kill a young woman after it drove him mad; he had been chased—rightly—by an angry mob trying to avenge her, and been forced to abandon his wife, in case he end their union by killing her, too.
In a single week, he’d gone from prince to pauper, from hero to monster, from someone surrounded by family to someone utterly alone, except for a mangy horse and a half-blind servant.
What did this idiot think he was going to do to him?
What did anyone?
The vampire had finally raised an eyebrow, and looked back up at his men. “This one’s not worth it. Too young to provide any sport.”
“But, my lord. He invaded our lands!”
“My lands,” the older vamp had corrected dryly. “Back to the hunt with you.”
The others dispersed, leaving Mircea lying in the mud and giggling helplessly at his savior. Who had looked down at him again, and slowly shaken his head. “Get to Venice, son,” he said, gathering up his reins. “If you can.”
“W-what?”
“There’s safety for you there, if you can reach it. A place for those with no masters to guide them. Go there if this life still has any meaning for you.”
Then he’d disappeared, in a flurry of flying hooves and flowing mane. The beautiful horse he rode was so swift that it had vanished beyond a hill before Mircea could pull himself back to his feet. And reassure a frightened Horatiu, who had been clinging to the neck of their far less impressive nag, and staring at him with huge eyes.
“Why the devil are you laughing?”
Mircea hadn’t responded. Just buried his face in his horse’s neck, and laughed some more. And, finally, when he was able to get himself under control, he’d looked up. “Feel like a sea voyage?”
Now he was on another one, because Venice hadn’t been quite the haven he’d expected. Nothing was when you had no power in a world that valued nothing else. But he hadn’t died, no, not any of the times—and he’d lost count of how many there had been—when he damned well should have. And he wasn’t dying tonight, he thought, putting everything he had, every ounce of power, into moving, just an inch—
And failed.
Damn it!
He felt panic welling up again, and gave himself a mental slap. Not now! There had to be a way out of here! There had to!
He sent his eye rolling around, trying to see more of the room.
It looked like a battlefield, only tidier. Including the gore, because some of the bodies were bleeding, or had limbs lying at strange angles, perhaps broken or dislocated by the fall. He watched one sort itself out, the broken fragments slowly working back into shape, the blood that a moment ago had been dripping down the arm suddenly reabsorbed. But the vampire himself never moved, never so much as fluttered the eyelashes lying closed and motionless against his too-pale cheek.
So the body was working, but the mind . . .
Where was the mind?
Probably still inside whatever darkness was pulling at him, Mircea thought, feeling it slowing his brain and paralyzing his body. As it had done since he fell through . . . whatever he fell through. He glanced up, but the ceiling was unbroken. Just old, cobweb-covered boards, dusty and full of mouse droppings.
Until what looked like a dark puddle opened up out of nowhere, an inky blackness darker than the pits of hell, which spewed forth—
The redhead.
She hit the floor hard, but was able to catch herself, landing heavily on hands and knees. Whatever this paralysis was, it didn’t seem to affect her. Which was evidenced even more when she flipped over and started screaming.
It wasn’t in Venetian or Italian or any other language Mircea knew, so he couldn’t follow. Plus, he was distracted, staring at the pool of darkness still swirling about the ceiling above her. He’d only re
cently learned about portals—mage-made devices for traveling from one place to another almost instantaneously—and he wasn’t sure this was one. The only other he’d seen had been brilliant—a spill of yellow-white fire—and had sounded like every ocean crashing onto every beach, all over the world, all at once.
It had been deafening and terrifying, and completely unlike the quiet darkness on display here. But then, they couldn’t very well have captured any vampires with a golden maw screaming at them, could they? So they’d camouflaged it. Or else it was some other manner of mage trickery he’d yet to learn about, which was most of it, since he avoided the creatures like the plague.
Beastly people.
Like the ones thundering down the ladder now.
Mircea hadn’t gotten a good look at them before, but judging by their tread, it was the same two, one carrying a cudgel and the other having a meaty hand laced with lightning. Which dimmed and went out when he saw the woman. “Damn it!” He glared at her. “Not again!”
The other mage seemed even more incensed. He was a scarred-up specimen half his friend’s weight, with greasy dark hair and a nose that looked like it had been broken twice as much as Mircea’s, to the point that it had given up retaining any shape whatsoever. But it flushed like the rest of his skin when he suddenly rushed over, grabbed the screaming redhead, and slapped her hard across the face.
That stopped the screaming, but did nothing else. “I won’t!” she yelled. “I won’t do it anymore! You can’t make me!”
“Want to bet?”
“Ye’re a whore,” his companion said, coming forward. “In the stews when we found you, giving it up to any old codger with the cash. Now you wear nice clothes and eat good food. What’s so wrong with that?”
“I might have been a whore,” she shouted, “but I wasn’t a murderer—of children!”
The thin man raised his hand again, but the other mage caught his arm. He looked like a typical bruiser, one of the burly types who unloaded ships down at the docks, in between boasting about their sexual prowess and pissing into canals. But there was more than a glimmer of intelligence behind those black eyes.
