by Karen Chance
"Do you have a comb?" We probably needed to look respectable for this. The way things stood now, I wasn't sure they'd let either of us in the door.
When Mircea didn't answer, I looked up, only to see that he was holding something, and it wasn't a comb. "What's that for?"
"For you, if you do not tell me the truth."
"I already have a gun," I told him, confused. What did he think I was going to do with that thing? It wasn't a handgun; it was an M16 assault rifle. The thing was freaking huge.
And it was pointed at me.
"Oh." I suddenly got the message. I dropped the bobby pins and held up my hands, palms out. But the gun to my chest thing didn't change. "After what you just went through, it's understandable you'd be a little spooked," I said. And, wow, didn't I wish I'd thought of that earlier. "But I really am here to help. Please, take my hand and I'll prove it."
Mircea's only answer was to move back a few steps. Probably to get a better shot. Behind him, several of his vampires looked up from fire extinguisher duty and saw us. Just great.
"You can drop the glamour," he told me grimly. "I am not deceived."
"I'm not using a—" I began, but he did his disappearing act again before I could finish. It took me a moment, but I spied him across the parking lot, over by one of the limos. And, no, letting him drive off somewhere really wasn't an option.
I shifted, but in the split second it took me to get there, he had vanished. I was about to open one of the car doors, to check inside, when I caught the reflection in the windows of two blurs moving up behind me. I shifted again before the vamps could grab me, landing back across the lot, near where I'd started. I was starting to get dizzy—not a good sign. Especially when we hadn't even gotten to the damn auction yet.
I looked around, trying to spot Mircea, and almost ran into him. We both shied back, and a quick glance showed me that he'd lost the gun. Maybe he'd remembered that he didn't really need it to kill me. Or maybe he'd decided to let me get a word in. "Listen," I said. "I just want to—"
He threw a potion in my face. My mouth had been open, and I choked on an absolutely vile-tasting mess. It was green and oily and globules of it dripped down my chin to land on Billy's necklace. Wonderful. The thing had so many nooks and crannies that I'd probably never get it clean.
When I finally blinked enough of the stuff away that I could see, I found Mircea staring at me, a half-perplexed, half-angry look on his face. "That should have stripped away the glamour," he said, as if talking to himself.
"It probably would have, if I was wearing one!" I said furiously. He disappeared again. "You better hope this doesn't stain!" I yelled at the space where he'd just been, right before an arm fastened around my throat.
"You must be powerful," he whispered, his breath warm in my ear, "for that concoction to have failed."
I shifted out of the almost choke hold and landed behind him. "Will you hold still for one minute?!"
Mircea spun in another movement too fast for my eyes to track and grabbed me around the throat, palm to bare skin. I sighed in relief. "Thank you," I said sincerely, and shifted us before anyone else noticed our game of keep-away.
A moment later, I found myself pinned against a hard, cold brick wall. My body was busy informing me that maybe I'd done a few too many jumps lately, and I'd landed in a puddle and gotten icy slush in my shoe. Not to mention Mircea's grip on my neck, which was a little too tight for comfort.
"Where are we? And who are you?" I couldn't see him very well, but he sounded pissed.
"When are we," I corrected. A thin, whirling snow was falling, catching on my goopy eyelashes. I couldn't see much of anything with his body in the way, but the night was cold and damp, not hot and arid, and there were cobblestones under our feet, not asphalt. And judging from the dizziness I was experiencing, we'd jumped at least a few centuries. "And you know who I am."
"You are not my Cassandra." The tone was flat, hard. Not one I'd ever heard from him, at least not directed at me.
"Then who am I?" I really wished the road would stay still for a minute, long enough for me to get my breath back, to think.
"You are a mage, hiding under a glamour, which if you do not drop" — his hand tightened fractionally—“I will drop it for you."
I swallowed, and felt it against his palm. I wondered how much longer I'd be able to do that, how much tighter that grip had to get before I couldn't swallow, couldn't breathe. It didn't feel like it had far to go, but I couldn't think of a damn thing to say to stop this. The one thing that had never occurred to me was that Mircea would mistake me for one of the people we'd been fighting. Because I knew him, instinctively, unmistakably, I'd just assumed he'd feel the same way.
Obviously I'd been wrong.
I could feel his fingers on my throat, flexing against the muscle there, and I knew I had to say something, do something, now. But I couldn't shift again, not this soon, not with panic and exhaustion eating at my consciousness. And I was sure I'd black out before I could remember something that might convince him to wait a minute before he killed me—
Mircea's hand abruptly fell away and I gasped, little black dots dancing in front of my eyes as my lungs fought with my throat to get enough air into my starved system. I felt his hand grip my chin, knew when he brushed my hair away from my face, but it seemed pretty trivial next to not asphyxiating. Light fingertips trailed over a couple of faint ridges on my throat, stilling directly over bright, sensitive skin.
"Where did you get this?" His voice was faint, but I wasn't sure if that was him or me. My ears were still ringing, whether from the shift or the half-choking thing I wasn't sure. It took me a couple of seconds even to understand what he was talking about. And then I realized why he'd released me, why I probably wasn't going to die tonight—at least not by his hand. I sagged against the cold brick, so relieved I would have laughed, only it would have hurt my throat too much.
"Where?" His voice was stronger now, more insistent; maybe he'd had a chance to recover from the shock. I glared at him, a hand on my abused neck. He could give me the same opportunity.
"Where do you think?" I snapped.
Bite marks were like fingerprints; no two alike. I'd been wearing the mark of his teeth in my flesh for days, like a brand. It was probably the main reason Alphonse and Sal and even the Consul, in her own way, had been so cooperative. And if they'd recognized it, Mircea certainly had.
"It is my mark, yet I did not give it to you."
"Didn't give it to me yet," I corrected. There was no way to hide the fact that I was from his future. His Cassie couldn't shift people through space, much less time. So I'd already given that much away. The trick was not to give anything else.
"Why didn't you tell me? I might have injured you!"
"Might have?"
His touch was back in an instant. Strong fingers wound into my hair, rubbed at the back of my neck, trailed carefully over the healing wound until I couldn't feel it anymore. Not the pain, at least, but the two little bumps remained. They weren't hard, but they were obvious, at least to me. I guess they must have been to him, too, because he bent his head and kissed them, carefully, lightly, lips soft and warm against the tiny scars.
It wasn't a particularly sensual touch, but my body reacted immediately, with a rush of wild adrenaline. For a minute, my fingers clenched in his coat, not caring about the cold or that he smelled like smoke or that I had green goop trickling down my neck.
"They're still there," I said shakily, as he slowly stroked the length of my throat.
"They will always be there," he murmured. "You are mine. They announce the fact to all who see you."
"It's a little more common to get a ring," I said breathlessly. "Not to mention being consulted first!"
"I am a gentleman, dulceata?" he said reprovingly. "I would never enter a lady's house—or head or body—unless she invited me."
"But I didn't—" I began, and stopped. I hadn't explicitly given permission at the time, but I
hadn't exactly thrown him out of bed, either. And when I had finally managed to put up a struggle, Mircea had let go. Even as far gone as he'd been, he'd let go.
"As I thought," he murmured, and kissed me. And it was still as warm, as wet, as necessary as water. I found myself returning the kiss with an enthusiasm that I vaguely thought might not be all that ladylike, but he didn't seem to mind. He kissed me until I was dizzy with it, heat spreading through me like I'd drunk something rare and strange and addictive. So addictive that it took me a moment to remember that feeding the geis was not the plan here.
I tore away, chest heaving, cold air prickling along my bare arms. I hunched my shoulders against the chill and gulped down a noise that absolutely was not even a little bit like a moan. "Would you please not do that?" I whispered. It was hard enough to think as it was, without him sending my hormone levels to join my blood pressure.
"Why?" He looked genuinely puzzled.
"Because we're not…we don't…It's complicated, all right?"
Mircea was able to convey more by a small facial movement than I'd gotten from some entire conversations. At the moment, he had sarcastic eyebrows. "Dulceata? the only time I have ever left such a mark was to punish or to claim."
"Maybe I—"
"And when it is punishment, I do not feed from the neck."
I swallowed and shut up. I wasn't going to win this way. If I kept on talking, it wouldn't be long before he'd have the whole story out of me. And maybe that wouldn't matter but maybe it would. Because there weren't too many people who could contemplate the kind of torture he faced and not be tempted to try to avert it. He wouldn't succeed, but he would almost certainly alter time in the attempt.
I glanced around, but there was no one in view. I could see because of the light emanating from a couple of stuttering lanterns on either side of a nearby doorway. It was attached to a house that stood shoulder to shoulder with those on either side, a long row of four-story medieval dwellings listing together like old drunks. None of the others had lanterns, or shadows moving against the curtains at their windows. That, plus the fact that my power tends to take me where I need to be, meant that this was probably the place.
"There's a party in there tonight," I explained, trying for calm when my every nerve said now and hurry and it's in there. The idea that the Codex might be only a dozen yards away was enough to make my thoughts a little tangled even without Mircea's help. "A couple of dark mages are about to auction off a book of spells. We have to get in there and buy it or steal it or get it before anyone else does or—"
Mircea suddenly jerked me against him and pushed us both back against the wall. "Not the time—" I began, then the air crackled and tore, like all the lightning in Europe had decided to descend on us at once. There was a rush of wind and the world tilted horribly. A second ear-numbing crack and a flash of impossible purple light later, and an ornate barge sat in the middle of the narrow street, so large that its hull almost brushed the buildings on either side.
I stared at it, afterimages from the sudden storm dancing around the reality of a huge ship just blatantly blocking the road like that. I had only time to think, yeah, this probably is the place, before Mircea was dragging me into the shadows of an almost nonexistent alley between two inebriated buildings. His gaze was furiously intent. "Where are we?"
"Paris, 1793," I managed to gasp, not sure he'd be able to hear me. I'd had to lip-read to understand him, because of the symphony of mostly percussion instruments that had taken up residence in my ear canals. "At least, I hope so."
Mircea was silent for a moment, that lightning-fast brain doing some catch-up. "Why?" he finally asked.
"I told you. We're going to a party."
From over his shoulder, I watched a ramp extend outward from the barge until it touched the icy street. It was red, like the hull, where a rich crimson formed the background for great coils of gold and blue and green that my recovering eyes finally identified as an elongated dragon. Its carved snout formed the prow of the boat, with its front claws each holding a glowing golden ball, positioned almost like headlights. Its long, snakelike body ran down the side to end in a barbed tail near the prow. There were no oars or sails or other evidence of propulsion systems, not that much of anything would explain how it had gotten landlocked between buildings with no water in sight.
Four large men in gold armor came down the ramp. Their suits were covered all over in little scales, mimicking the ones on the dragon. They took up places on either side of the ramp, two by two, holding up long spears like an honor guard. Then, from the dragon's belly, floated a tiny chair holding an even tinier woman. Her impossibly small feet were wrapped in satin lotus shoes, and I didn't have to ask why the levitating chair, because no way could those minuscule things have held even her weight.
At first glance, she looked helpless, like an overdressed doll that had to be moved around by her attendants. The image contrasted starkly with the power that radiated from her like a small supernova, flooding the street with an invisible but almost suffocating force. The guards were for show; this beauty didn't need any defenders.
"Who is that?" I managed to croak.
"Ming-de, Empress of the Chinese Court—roughly the same as our Consul," Mircea whispered, his breath frosting the air in front of my face.
I watched the jeweled dragons on Ming-de's dress coil and twist and writhe in ways that I initially thought were due to the flickering lantern light. But no, a small gold one scurried along the hem of her gown, bright as fire against the crimson silk, and I realized they had minds of their own. "But how did she get here?"
"Ley-line travel," Mircea said, as the whole party proceeded indoors in a stately procession.
"What?"
There was another flash, of green this time, and a crash loud enough to make me jump. I blinked, and when I looked again, a large gray elephant complete with gold howdah was standing behind Ming-de's barge. The elephant didn't appear to have as much room as it would like, and it let out a thundering trumpet of protest. A guard's head poked up from the back of the barge and shouted something, then the huge ship lurched forward a scant few feet until it hit a lamppost and had to stop. It was starting to look like a party where the hosts hadn't thought enough about parking.
After a moment, the elephant knelt and an Indian couple got out. They were wearing gorgeous outfits of peacock blues and greens, although nothing seemed to be moving. Between them they had on as many jewels as I had in my little bag, and the sapphire on the guy's turban alone was as big as my fist. But they didn't have to denude themselves for the auction; when they headed for the door, a small flying carpet bobbed along in the air behind them, carrying a chest. I felt my stomach fall. If these were examples of the bidders I was up against, I was in trouble.
"Okay. What is going on?" I demanded.
"Maharaja Parindra of the Indian Durbar. Like our Senate," Mircea explained. "I believe the woman is Gazala, his second."
"But how did they get here?"
"They came through the ley lines."
"You said that before. Not helping."
Mircea quirked an eyebrow at me. "You have never surfed a ley line?"
"I don't even know what that means."
"Really? Remind me to take you sometime. I think you will find it…exhilarating."
I stared at him and tried really hard to remember what, exactly, we were talking about. His mouth pursed into an odd almost-smile, his earlier intensity forgotten or, more likely, masked. "I will be happy to elucidate later. But for now, I would appreciate a more coherent explanation of our presence here."
"We're going to bid on a spell book. You just saw our competition."
Mircea gave me a skeptical look. "I know Ming-de well, but only because I was once the Senate's liaison to her court. And I have met Parindra but once, because both have a reputation for rarely traveling beyond their own lands. If they wanted such an item, they would send a servant."
"Well, obviously they didn't,"
I said, rummaging around in the remains of Mircea's jacket until I found a handkerchief. I wiped away as much as I could of whatever he'd thrown at me; luckily it had mostly dried and a lot of it dusted off. "At least it doesn't smell," I said sadly.
Mircea took the handkerchief and set to work on a green smear on my neck. His knuckles barely brushed me, and even then it was through the satiny weave of the linen. It was an odd sensation, close enough to not quite touch, warm enough to not quite feel, the sleeve of his jacket whispering along my bare arm. "Why did you come back for me?" he murmured, stroking lightly, pressing just hard enough for me to feel the embroidered initials on the cloth. "Do I not exist in your time?"
Define "exist," I thought, as the small square worked its way downward, the banded ends just tickling the top of my breasts. "The Consul wouldn't let me come alone," I breathed.
When I'd talked to Billy about taking Mircea along, he'd still been relatively lucid—as much as the geis allowed anyone to be. But if the Consul had been desperate enough to order him confined, then he was too far gone to help me. And I really needed competent help.
If Mircea died, I had no doubt that the Consul would blame it on me. And, unlike the Circle, who seemed to have too many problems to concentrate all their energy on hunting me down, she struck me as the single-minded type. If she wanted me dead, I had the definite impression that I would get dead. Really fast.
"You could have chosen another senator," Mircea pointed out.
I couldn't come up with a convincing lie with goose bumps trailing over my skin, following his caress with slavish devotion. "The other you was busy," I said, snatching the damn handkerchief away before I went out of my mind. This wasn't going anywhere and I wasn't a masochist.
