by Karen Chance
I felt him move this way, having seen her come in and realizing that something was wrong. But he didn’t know what yet, didn’t see the threat. And even if I’d wanted to try the explanation I’d rejected earlier, there was no time.
Not for him.
I hesitated, because Mircea had warned me against this. Do not contact her directly, he had said. Do not force a reintegration lest it all start again, and you damage her as you once did. Let it happen naturally. . . .
But there was nothing natural about what we were. And he underestimated her; he always had. She wasn’t a child anymore, but a woman hardened by combat and toughened by experience. And she would hate me for this, for leaving her out of the decision, for letting this murderer succeed.
As I would hate myself.
Dory, I said, and felt the shock reverberate through her.
* * *
* * *
My head snapped up, and my eyes stared blankly at a slur of faces, some surprised, some intrigued, some horrified as they realized that a dhampir savage had been allowed to roam freely among them.
I didn’t care.
Because the voice came again.
Dory . . .
I swallowed, and then jerked to the side, so that a vamp who’d been jumping for me slammed into the pillar instead. He sprang off, embarrassed and furious, and I elbowed him in the face, grabbed him by the hair, and smashed his head a few times into the heavy silver tray a frightened human servant was holding like a shield. And when that still wasn’t enough, I kicked him at a senatorial guard, who sent me a nod of thanks before introducing the guy repeatedly to the wall.
I barely noticed, being too busy staring into the air, because I persisted in the idea that I was going to see Dorina.
But I couldn’t see her.
She was me.
And she was talking—oh, yes, now she was talking, in a flood of words and images and feelings, so much, too much.
“Stop it!” I yelled, and staggered into someone—
Mircea.
I stared up at him, and knew my pupils were blown wide by the change in his expression. “What is it?” he growled, although he already knew.
“She’s talking,” I said in wonder. “She’s finally talking—”
“Dorina!” Mircea shook me. “Stop it—I warned you! This is dangerous!”
“No.” I gripped him back, trying to sort through everything she’d sent. Trying to understand—
“I’m getting you out of here—”
“No!” I gripped him harder, my fingers biting into his arms. “There’s a problem—”
“I know that!”
“Listen to me. Someone’s trying to kill the consul but it isn’t her. It isn’t Dorina. I think—I think she’s trying to stop it, but—”
* * *
* * *
“—augghhh!”
Light exploded everywhere, searing, painful, overwhelming. And blinding. Suddenly, I couldn’t see a thing.
I also couldn’t hear. Or, rather, I could, but far too much. Something was confusing my mental control, letting in the surrounding voices, all of them, all at once. And unlike in a human gathering, these conversations weren’t just audible. There were mental voices, too, many more than could possibly fit into a single room, no matter how large. For there was almost nothing but masters here, pulling me in, smothering me under the weight of their vast families, turning a thousand guests into a million, a sea of voices, threatening to drown me.
I jerked back in self-defense, panting and disoriented, but that left me almost totally without senses, and the threat was growing. I could feel it, crawling along my spine, etching my mind like acid. But I couldn’t find it, even though it was getting closer, even though it was about to spring.
Damn it! I had to see.
But something saw me first. For it had been looking for me, too, feeling me as a subtle presence, as I had felt it. But not being able to locate me, either.
So it had uncloaked itself, showing its true form for the first time. And my body’s reaction to its power had told it exactly where to look. I’d just started to regain control, to begin filtering out the voices, and to dampen down that terrible light, when it hit: vicious pain and blinding static, the defense mechanisms of my prey. They were strong enough to stagger me, to cause me to clench my teeth on a scream as I fell back against the wall, to leave me gasping in agony.
But not strong enough to stop me.
Not this time.
Mircea had stumbled against the column, caught in the attack because of his proximity to me, and was as debilitated as I had been the first time. But this wasn’t my first time, and there’s a truth about pain that most people never learn, unless they’re really unlucky. Or really long-lived, long enough to have felt almost every kind there is. Pain has a signature to it, a type, a song. The first time you experience a new one, it’s a bright, white-hot, cutting edge; or a searing, brain-twisting burn; or a shattering, soul-crushing thud; or any of the thousand other forms it takes to torment you.
But the second time? Or the third? Or the fiftieth? No. It’s still terrible, still rage inducing, still debilitating, but it’s not the same shock as at first. You know this song, all its terrible highs and dismal lows; you can hum it with your eyes closed, because it’s just that familiar. Not like a friend—never that—but like an old enemy you’ve grown to know as well as to hate, his weapons and his limits.
You know what he can do to you.
But you also know what he can’t.
Which is why I came off the wall with a roar that scattered people in front of me, like a school of fish parting when a shark swims by. It would have been interesting another time, to catalogue the different reactions: young vampires spilling drinks on themselves in shock, or sinking to the floor in horror. Older, mid-level vamps, all but disappearing through doors and stairways, melting into the darkness, going dim. And then there were the oldest ones, bright, bright, so incredibly bright, their power eclipsing that of the others around them, wherever they were standing.
They did not run. They did not hide. But they also did not attack, holding back, seeing what I would do.
And looking vaguely surprised when I passed them by, uninterested.
For I was after something else, something deadlier than any of them, something I’d encountered before. Something that was still attacking: cutting, harsh and cruel. But not enough.
This time, I would have it. This time, I would kill it. But I had to find it first.
And it was no longer riding the woman I’d seen earlier. I found her, looking wide-eyed and shell-shocked, being supported by two others. So my prey wasn’t just riding, then, but controlling.
Who was it controlling now?
I didn’t know, and it was getting harder to concentrate. The creature knew I was hunting it, but wasn’t concerned, was laughing at me, and sending static from all sides now. I couldn’t see anything but leering vampire faces; couldn’t hear anything above the static’s awful roar; couldn’t use my inner eye, not with the massive crowd everywhere, hiding the one I needed to see. There were so many voices—
Until I screamed, the psychic shock waves spreading across the room like a scythe through wheat. Vampires, mages, human servants—they all went down. All except two. The vampire queen, standing still and terrible at the top of her dais, and the man suddenly running at her from across the room.
I had no weapons, and there was no time to get inside his head. I saw the queen glance at me as I started to run, not for her but for the creature clothed in the flesh of a man. I failed to reach him, but not because I was too slow. But because I was thrown backward, not slapped this time but belted, so hard and so fast that I hit the wall again, a dozen yards away, before I could blink. And the jolt of the blow—
* * *
* * *
&nb
sp; Put me back in charge.
But the tag team handoff was a little abrupt, like me face-planting onto the nice marble floor when I bounced off the wall. It left me feeling like a punching bag that somebody had beaten all the stuffing out of at the gym. I somehow managed to get my shaky arms underneath me, to raise my head—
And then just stayed there, blinking in confusion, as what looked like a desert storm blew up in the middle of the room. It engulfed the man leaping at the queen, which would have been strange enough, because that’s not something you see every day. But then the whirling winds hardened into what looked like a shell of earth, a large globe behind which another storm broke with blinding fury.
I saw what looked like a hundred spells hit the sides of the shell, all at once, in bursts of color and light. Saw the consul blink, a tiny thing, a half expression. Saw her power spike as she fought to keep the fury contained. And heard Dorina tell me that she couldn’t sustain that level for long.
No shit, I thought back groggily.
I’d no sooner had the thought than the great shield cracked and buckled and shattered, exploding in a thousand pieces that lashed my face, even this far away. I saw something fall out of the other side, in swirls of dissipating magic. Saw it crash against the bottom steps of the dais and shatter like glass. Realized that it was the man, who was nothing but a collection of charred bones now.
The sand-laced winds had scoured him clean.
The consul was untouched, but not unscathed. I saw her stagger back against her throne, and the fact that she’d actually show weakness told me what the man had been carrying. Those explosions must have been caused by more of the superweapons we’d encountered, hundreds of them, enough to leave even a consul vulnerable.
And somebody was prepared to take advantage of it.
Through half a dozen doors, vampires surged into the room, all but flying at the dais. But they weren’t wearing the clothing of just one family. They weren’t from a single clan, and several were from competing ones. Which told me that this wasn’t—
—a normal assassination. They were being—
—controlled, by that creature who had attacked us at Claire’s—
—and who was here, riding someone new—
—but who? There was no way to know—
—except it wouldn’t be one of the controlled, lest we attack them and the creature lose its focus—
—but there was no one else! No one still conscious—
—no one except—
My eyes widened.
And then I grabbed the knife my last assailant had dropped, jumped up and threw—
Straight at the consul.
Chapter Forty-seven
This time, I woke up alone.
The bed was the same as before, so I was still at the consul’s. Oh goody. Even better, someone was bitching.
“—don’t care! I need to talk to her!”
Oh, damn it all to hell. I threw an arm over my face, because that was Marlowe and seriously? I hadn’t lived an exactly perfect life, but what had I done to deserve this?
I lay there for a while, contemplating various vile things I could do to the consul’s stooge. But I honestly wasn’t up to any of them, and repressed aggression would only give me a headache. I got up.
And discovered that I still had no clothes, other than for my bandages. I looked everywhere, but couldn’t find any, not even Louis-Cesare’s trousers. So I wrapped myself in a blanket and peeked out the door.
A couple vamps were there, lounging against the wall, apparently enjoying watching Marlowe have a fit down the hall. Until they saw me. And suddenly stood to attention, like soldiers when an officer walks by.
I blinked groggily at them.
“Uh.”
They didn’t say anything. I got the impression that they were waiting for me to continue my thought, which would have worked better if I’d had one. As it was, we all just stood there, them at what looked like parade rest and me swaying slightly until I grabbed hold of the door.
And acquired a thought.
“Clothes,” I croaked, and to my surprise, one of the guys all but disappeared.
I watched him flee down the hall and frowned. I was pretty sure I’d just said “clothes,” not “I’m going to kill you horribly,” but I wasn’t sure. My head had the fuzzy feeling of a ten-day bender, and right then, I wasn’t sure of anything.
I considered talking to Guy Number Two, but was afraid I’d scare him as well.
“Um,” I said tentatively.
Guy Number Two stayed in place.
So far, so good.
“So. Could you tell me what—”
I stopped, but not because he’d run away. But because somebody else had heard me and shoved his way past Guy Number Three down the hall. “Damn it! I told you to tell me the moment she was awake!”
That was Marlowe, striding this way.
At least, he was until something amazing happened.
Like, seriously amazing.
Like, I actually rubbed my eyes amazing, since I was obviously hallucinating.
What I thought I saw was Guy Number Two—a tall dude who could have been a James clone except for pointier teeth and less hair—put out his arm and place a hand on Marlowe’s chest, stopping him.
Now, half the time Marlowe goes around in Elizabethan slops like a nutcase, and the rest he’s wearing whatever wreck he’s made of his family’s latest effort to dress him like a person so he doesn’t embarrass the hell out of them. Again. However, it’s a case of looks being deceiving, because he is a first-level master and a Senate member.
And Guy Number Two was not.
My brain was finally coming back online, at least enough for me to make a decent guess: Guy Number Two was a strong third- or maybe a weak second-level master. In other words, strong enough to do some impressive shit, but not this impressive. I started to wonder if maybe he had some kind of mental issue, because he was about to be a rather large stain on the carpet.
Only he wasn’t.
“Damn it! Get out of my way!” Marlowe snapped.
“I’m sorry, sir.” And for another strange thing, Guy Number Two did not sound sorry. He sounded . . . annoyed? Put-upon? Slightly bored?
It was bizarre.
Until he cleared it up for me.
“Lord Mircea gave strict orders.”
“Fuck Lord Mircea,” Marlowe snarled. “I’ve waited long enough!”
“And you’ll wait some more. Sir.”
I grinned.
I decided I liked Guy Number Two.
And then his paler friend was back, along with someone else.
“Lady Dorina! How wonderful to see you up and about! How are you feeling this fine morning?”
Burbles, living up to the name.
And looking it, too. I don’t know what I’d expected, but what I got was a jolly round dude with a jolly round face, a double chin, warm brown eyes, and cute little pink lips hiding the fangs that wouldn’t have gone well with that face at all. That, frankly, would have looked absurd. Burbles was a cross between a black Santa Claus and the Michelin Man, and I didn’t know what to do with him at all.
I went with: “Hello.”
“Hello!” He was almost overcome with joy. “You are looking very well, if I may say so.”
It was a lie, but said with such utter conviction that I almost believed it.
It also cleared up an old mystery for me. Mircea’s masters—which is what I guessed all these guys were, or else Marlowe would have been doing more than standing there vibrating at me—were renowned diplomats. Everybody knew it; everybody said it. Their master was the consul’s chief ambassador and resident miracle worker, so it made sense that the family would be, too.
Only I’d never believed a word of it.
Not th
at I’d met every one of Mircea’s vamps, or even his masters. Until recently, I’d spent most of my time avoiding Mircea, and that included the family. However, I’d met enough through the years to have a serious WTF reaction every time someone told me how charming they were.
They were not charming.
Unless you counted not beating me up and/or hissing at me, like half the vamps I met, so I guess that was something.
But still.
Yet, now I was getting the full treatment, and it was eye-opening. Burbles was sweet. Burbles was joyful. Burbles was thrilled to finally meet me, which was absurd. No vampire—except Louis-Cesare, who was mostly crazy anyway—was ever happy to see a dhampir.
So why was I smiling back at him?
I stopped myself.
It was actually hard.
“Would you like some breakfast? We have some glorious blueberry muffins or heavenly eggs Benedict or—my favorite—a simply divine bananas Foster that our chef makes with bourbon whipped cream. Oh!” He raised his eyes to the ceiling with a hand on his heart. “So good!”
“I’ll have that,” I found myself saying.
I had no idea why.
I don’t even like bananas.
“Excellent choice. I know you’ll be pleased! And perhaps you’d like to pick out an outfit for today?”
“Uh . . . I don’t have any clothes here.”
“But of course you do!” And then Burbles’ hand found his mouth, and his eyes widened in horror. “Oh! You haven’t seen your closet!”
I laughed. I don’t know why. Maybe because he’d intended me to, or because Burbles had just elbowed Marlowe out of the way without apparently noticing.
Or giving a damn.
“Please allow me,” he said, and I somehow found myself back inside what I was only now realizing was a very nice room. Very nice. I stood there in my blanket, taking in the elaborate crown moldings and the massive amount of space and the huge bed and the large, well-appointed sitting room and the closet I hadn’t opened yet because I’d assumed it would be empty. But which instead was big enough inside to count as another bedroom and was stocked full of stuff.
