Karen Chance - [Cassandra Palmer 04]

by Curse the Dawn (v5. 0) (html)

  “But you’re a master vampire.”

  “And you are Pythia,” he said pointedly. “At the moment, our power merely makes us better targets.”

  “Not for long,” Casanova said, his voice muffled because he’d ended up squashed behind two huge vampires. “The Senate has a staff working to strengthen the wards.”

  “Wards don’t have eyes and ears,” Marco argued.“They’ll never replace a well-trained bodyguard.”

  Maybe not, I thought, but they were a lot less creepy. I didn’t know the new guards, but I assumed they were part of Mircea’s personal stable. Because they gave off enough energy in the confined space to send a current prickling over my skin. And it wasn’t the usual light frisson, either. The energy in the air felt like an electrical storm, with power crawling over my arms, itching my scalp, making me want to scream.

  Both masters, then.

  I managed not to scrub at my arms, but when the nearest turned flat gold eyes on me, I forgot my training and shrank back slightly. He smiled, a slow baring of fangs, while the other looked at me like I was something funky he’d found growing at the back of the refrigerator. Then the doors opened and we spilled out into a private hallway.

  It contained a potted palm, a small strip of carpet and the six guards who had preceded us framing the only door. One of them hurried to open it and we passed into a large foyer. For a moment, I just stared. Unlike my old quarters, which could have belonged in any hotel on the strip, this one was themed. The motif being flogged to death appeared to be the Old West, or some designer’s idea of it. The two-tiered chandelier was made of antlers, there were oil paintings of cowboys on the red flocked wallpaper, a cow skin rug made a black and white puddle on the floor, and a rough wood entry table supported a cowboy-and-rearing-horse sculpture in bronze.

  Casanova noticed my expression. “The Consul preferred the blue suite,” he said stiffly.

  “Imagine that.”

  A wizened old vamp hobbled toward us, looking unhappy. “What’s all this?” he demanded in a quavery voice.

  Most humans would have taken one look at the liver-spotted hands and wild clumps of white hair and guessed him to be about a hundred. And they’d have been off by four centuries. He wore pince-nez on his long nose, despite the fact that they didn’t help his blind-as-a-bat status, and he was almost deaf to boot. But Horatiu had been Mircea’s childhood tutor and was the only person I’d ever heard tell off the boss.

  “The master needs to rest!” Horatiu said, surveying the army of guards attempting to crowd in through the door. “Out, all of you!”

  When the guards uniformly ignored him, he shuffled over to one of the larger vamps and began attempting to push him out the door. That had about as much effect as a fly trying to move a boulder, but Horatiu didn’t appear to notice. The guard didn’t fight back, just stood there with a long-suffering look on his face and let himself be pummeled.

  “I’m sorry,” Casanova told Mircea in a low tone. “I assigned a staff to these rooms, but Horatiu arrived with the refugees from MAGIC and—”

  “Threw them out.”

  Casanova nodded. “He said they weren’t trustworthy. I tried to reassure him, but—”

  “It’s all right,” Mircea murmured.

  “I said out. Are you deaf?” Horatiu demanded, now resorting to kicking. “How do they grow them so big?” I heard him mutter.

  Sal sighed and lit another cigarette. “The guards are needed for the master’s protection.”

  “And what do you think I’m here for, young lady?”

  Alphonse opened his mouth and Mircea shot him a look. He shut up. “I’m sure Horatiu is perfectly capable of seeing to my well-being,” Mircea said mildly.

  “I’ll sneak them in later,” Casanova murmured, and Mircea nodded.

  The huge vamp that Horatiu had been thumping reluctantly gave ground, getting pushed all the way back to the elevator before the old man was satisfied. Then the brushed nickel doors opened, spilling four more guards into the already packed hallway. Horatiu broke into infuriated Romanian while the rest of us followed Casanova into a large living room. Marco and the two guards Mircea had brought with him moved quickly through the apartment, checking for intruders. I wondered how they’d be able to tell. The obviously mad designer had only been warming up in the foyer; by the time he made it in here, he was working on all cylinders.

  There were mounted heads on every wall, everything from deer and longhorn cattle to buffalo and reindeer, including two bare skulls flanking the flat-screen TV mounted above the oversized fireplace. A grizzly bear rug took pride of place under two cowhide-covered sofas facing each other across a lacquered horn coffee table, the whole lit by another horn chandelier. A neon cactus brightened a rustic bar in the corner, which had stools shaped like saddles. The whole managed to look pricey and outrageously tacky at the same time.

  Mircea hesitated for a moment on the top step leading down into the sunken morass of kitsch, as if slightly stunned. “It was like this when I took over,” Casanova said, sounding defensive. “I plan to remodel, of course.”

  “I dunno.” Sal plopped down onto cow skin and stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray shaped like a spittoon. “It’s different.”

  “It’s vulgar,” Casanova snapped.

  “And the rest of this place isn’t?”

  “It’s fine,” Mircea said, crossing the barn-wood floor to join her.

  Casanova went to the wall and flicked a switch. There was the sound of a quiet motor, and what had seemed like a solid wall began to retract. It slowly opened to reveal a huge balcony with the long dark rectangle of a private infinity pool reflecting the glittering panorama of the Strip. Okay, maybe a person could forgive the decor for a view like that.

  In addition to the master suite, the penthouse boasted three additional bedrooms, one of which had been ear-marked for Rafe. Marco and one of Mircea’s guards helped get him there, supporting him without making it obvious that that’s what they were doing. I didn’t think Rafe cared much about dignity at this point. When he raised his head to gaze numbly around, he looked wrecked, eyes heavy and mouth swollen.

  “Do you need anything?” I asked, having followed them in. I didn’t get an answer. Rafe was out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  “A rebirth is hard enough on its own,” Marco said, noticing my expression. “And with the burns on top of it . . . he’s gonna be out a while.”

  “He’ll be okay, though, right?”

  “He survived the process, so yeah. He should be fine.”

  I studied Rafe’s face. He had deep hollows under his eyes and a few limp curls falling over his forehead. His bare wrists on top of the sheet looked fragile. He didn’t look fine to me. “We need a nurse,” I decided.

  “We know how to take care of our own,” the guard said dismissively. He was one of those who had given me the evil eye in the elevator. It didn’t look like I was growing on him.

  “I’m sure you do,” I said, fighting to stay civil despite nerves that had passed raw hours ago. “But considering the extent of his injuries, I would prefer to have a professional sit with him.”

  “Explain to her,” the guard told Marco, ignoring me.

  “They’re not allowing unauthorized personnel in senators’ quarters,” Marco said. “That includes nurses.”

  “Then get an authorized one!” I could feel my pulse start to throb in my temple. “And I guess I should be happy you aren’t referring to me as ‘it,’” I told the guard, “but it’s usually considered polite to look at someone when you’re talking to them.”

  “Cassie—” Marco began.

  “Rafe almost died, Marco! He needs proper care. Not some guy who’s too busy blindly following orders to—”

  I abruptly found myself jerked up to meet a pair of dazzlingly golden eyes glittering with a serpent’s hypnotic stare. The guard was smiling, but there was nothing of warmth in the expression—the eyes too flat, the smile too amused, something a litt
le too hungry about it to be kind. Like a cat that had some small animal cornered and was savoring the moment before snapping its neck.

  “You wish me to look at you, human?” he asked silkily. “My pleasure.” And the air in the room went electric.

  I’d been through this kind of thing enough by now not to go into total shock and freeze up. Some of the vamps at Tony’s had liked to play scare-the-human when there was nothing better to do, and I’d learned a few coping strategies through the years. But the strongest of Tony’s goons had had only a fraction of this one’s power.

  Already, despite the tricks I’d learned for keeping my mind clear, I was starting to fog over. The room went dim as quickly as if someone had thrown a switch. A suffocating darkness shouldered in that crowded my lungs and wouldn’t let me breathe. The only bright spots were two scarlet-tinged eyes with huge black pupils that had nearly devoured the gold. And all I could think was that Nietzsche had been right: sometimes when you look into the abyss, the abyss looks back.

  Someone’s hand was on my arm, but I could barely feel it, and I couldn’t hear at all. The master’s power filled my brain, stuttered along my nerves, blocked out everything else. I was starting to forget what I’d been saying and why it had seemed so important. In another few seconds, I’d forget a lot more—where I was, maybe even who I was—until there was nothing left but one simple idea: to obey.

  Remember, I told myself savagely, digging my nails as hard as I could into my palm, and the pain dulled slightly the rushing voice in the back of my head. I stared into ancient, alien eyes and was too empty to play games. “Go ahead and show everyone how powerful you are,” I said unsteadily. “But when you’re finished, I want a goddamned nurse in here!”

  The eyes held mine for another second, two—and then blinked and looked away. And just like that, the tension broke, the lights came on and the rushing sound was replaced by the soft breath of the air-conditioning and Marco’s cursing. I could still taste bile at the back of my throat, acid and dark, but I knew who I was.

  “You don’t want to be doing that,” Marco was telling someone while keeping a tight enough grip on me that I didn’t fall. “This one’s the boss’s woman!”

  The guard’s eyes narrowed. “She’s human.” He looked confused and vaguely disgusted. “I haven’t heard anything about—”

  “Yeah. The master’s been busy. I’m sure he’ll get around to formal introductions eventually. In the meantime, be a little more careful, huh?” Marco dragged me away from the stunned-looking guard and back toward the main living space.

  We reached the hallway and I stopped, needing a second to arrange my face before dealing with the others. Marco sighed and glared at me, arms crossed and brows knitted. And I decided that as long as he was already pissed off, we might as well get something straight.

  “You need to stop introducing me like that,” I said seriously. “Talking about me like I’m property—”

  “Is the only thing some of them are gonna understand.”

  “Tell it to someone else. I grew up at a vampire’s court; I know the protocol. And that’s not it!”

  “You grew up at the court of a two-bit hood with delusions of grandeur,” Marco shot back. “You’re gonna have to get used to the fact that Mircea’s retainers are older and a lot more traditional than those you grew up with. And based on what I’ve seen so far, you don’t know shit about protocol.”

  “All I did was ask for a nurse!”

  “It’s not what you say; it’s how you say it. You don’t talk to an old family master the same way as you would a brand-new vamp or a human.”

  “I’ve met plenty of older vamps!” I said, stung. “I’ve met the Senate—”

  “And if you weren’t connected to the master and also Pythia . . .” Marco shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Other people’s prejudices are not my problem,” I told him furiously. I couldn’t believe that I was getting this lecture from Marco of all people. A guy who acted like an extra from The Godfather was telling me I needed to improve my manners?

  “If you don’t learn some etiquette, they will be,” he said flatly. “A lot of the older vamps are touchy. They’ve been around five, six hundred years; some even longer. They’ve been waiting to hit first-level status, to be emancipated, to become the master of their own fate. But it ain’t happened yet. And most of ’em have figured out that it never will.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I asked, honestly bewildered.

  “Some of our vamps didn’t start with us,” he hissed. “A few, like Nicu in there, have had three or four masters. For hundreds of years they’ve been shuffled around like cattle, with no control over who they served or what they did—no control over anything. All they’ve had—and all they’re ever gonna have—is respect because of their age and abilities. And if they think you ain’t showing ’em that respect, they’re gonna react.”

  I swallowed, too drained for a lecture right now but sensing that this might be one I needed. No one at Tony’s had been that old besides him and Rafe. And come to think of it, Tony had been pretty damn touchy about his dignity. I’d always thought it was because of his huge ego, and maybe it was. Or maybe there were still a few things I didn’t understand about vamps.

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I didn’t realize—”

  “Yeah, I know. But these are things you have to think about. Because you know what Nicu is thinking right now? He’s wondering if this was a hint, if the boss’s lady disrespecting him was Mircea’s way of telling him that he’s out of favor. He’s wondering if maybe he’s about to be disowned—again—and shuffled off to another court where he’ll have to spend the next fifty years clawing his way into a position of respect. If he survives that long. He’s wondering if the ax is about to fall.”

  I stared at Marco, sickened. “I’ll talk to him. I’ll explain—”

  Marco rolled his eyes. “Yeah. ’Cause that’ll go over great. Don’t worry about it; I’ll tell him you just don’t know no better. But you gotta realize that things are different now. You’re not a little hanger-on at a court nobody cares about. People pay attention to what you say, so you gotta do the same.”

  “Okay,” I said, feeling about two inches tall. God, could today get any worse?

  “I’m not the best person to be telling you this,” Marco said, looking frustrated. “We gotta find you a teacher, and not one of those hicks you came up with—”

  “You two may as well come in here,” Sal called from the living room. “It’s not like everybody can’t hear you anyway. And we hicks would like a few words.”

  Great.

  Casanova had gone when we reentered the living room, probably back to corral the chaos. But Alphonse, Sal and Mircea were sitting on cowhide. Mircea and Sal were on either end of the same sofa, with the middle seat occupied by lunch in the form of a young blond man. That left the other couch for me and the guys, although it was hardly a squeeze—the thing had to be nine feet long.

  Sal and Alphonse topped up their drinks at the awful bar while Mircea finished his dessert. I recognized him as one of Casanova’s stable who usually worked the front desk. We’d pulled a few shifts together and he gave me a slight smile as he got to his somewhat unsteady feet. One of the guards escorted him and the main course, a twenty-something brunet, toward the foyer.

  Amazingly, Mircea looked tired even after a double feeding. He was sitting slightly slumped down, with his hands crossed over his stomach and his head tilted back. It would have been a normal enough pose for anyone else, especially after a hard day. But Mircea didn’t do relaxed. He usually had a frisson of energy around him, and not just from the power he gave off. It was noticeably absent tonight.

  I stared at him, trying to focus on his eyes and not on the tired lines around them. Mircea wasn’t supposed to get tired. Or sick. Or hurt. It was one of the things that had made him so attractive to me, even as a child. In a world where alliances were constantly sh
ifting and people were constantly dying, Mircea was stable, strong, eternal.

  Except that he wasn’t.

  Which meant that, one day, I could lose him, too.

  If I was honest, that was my biggest reason for not wanting to let him any closer than he already was. Having someone was the precursor to losing him. It had happened over and over. It was easier not to want anything—not from Mircea, not from anyone.

  Wanting, needing—they were so close, and needing always hurt.

  “Cassie?” Mircea was looking at me strangely. I suddenly realized that I’d just been standing there, staring at him.

  “How much blood did Rafe take?” I blurted.

  Mircea gave me a small smile, but Marco hung his head and Sal burst out laughing. “What?” I demanded.

  “It’s considered impolite to inquire about someone’s Change,” Horatiu informed me, tottering in with a folding table and a loaded tray. I jumped up to help him—and not just because the tray smelled divine—but good manners only won me a glower. “Sit down, sit down! Were you brought up by wolves, young woman?”

  “By Tony,” Sal said, reclaiming her seat.

  “Ah. The same thing, then,” Horatiu said, trying to balance the tray while wrestling with the folding table.

  “Don’t mind him,” Alphonse said, rescuing my dinner before it hit the carpet. “That old goat lectures me all the time.” That didn’t reassure me much; Alphonse’s idea of good manners consisted of remembering to bury all the bodies.

  “That old goat can hear you,” Horatiu said tartly.

  “That’s a first,” Alphonse muttered, settling my dinner across my knees.

  I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I smelled the roast beef sandwich Horatiu had rustled up. It had grilled onions and mushrooms and tangy little banana peppers and was pretty much my idea of heaven. The only thing that would have made it better was fries instead of the mountain of salad off to one side, but I didn’t feel like complaining.

  I dug in while Sal frowned at me. It didn’t take me long to figure out why. She was hyperconscious of appearance, or so I’d always thought. But having met the family, her attitude was starting to make more sense. She might not have the age or the power of Mircea’s masters, but she was damned if she wasn’t going to outdress them.