by Shana Abe
Sixty thousand-
It was a fortune-more than that. It was damned near bloody unimaginable, and he had a very colorful imagination indeed. If it had been anyone else in the world saying such a thing to him, anyone, he would have jeered and walked away, because there were few things more perilous than dealing with madmen.
“Done,” the thief said, and pushed to his feet to shake Rue’s hand.
“Did he suspect anything?” Kit Langford asked his wife, watching from their bedroom window as the carriage containing their human guest rolled away down Chasen’s drive.
Rue was standing behind him; he heard the shrug in her voice. “He’s Zane. He always suspects something.”
“But he’ll go.”
“Yes.” She walked up and brushed her fingers to his, a soft, fleet intimacy that warmed him, just as her touch always did. He turned to her, taking up both her hands.
She was beautiful. Cool and dark, the night to the stars, she was always so beautiful. A smile hovered at the corners of her mouth.
“I dislike this scheme. Intensely,” he added when her smile only deepened.
“I failed to hear you devise a better one.”
“Actually, I did.”
“We cannot both go,” argued his wife, reasonable. “We cannot both vanish without word for months on end, no matter how urgent the cause. The entire tribe would be in an uproar. The council would have our heads.”
“That is why-”
“And if it were to be only one of us, you know it should be me. I’m the one with the most experience at stealing away.”
“If you think for a moment I would let you travel alone-”
“No,” said Rue. “I didn’t think that.”
It was a delicate subject, one he didn’t feel like exploring at the moment. But her eyes had grown stormy; to distract her, he bent down and pressed his lips to her temple.
“Imagine how lonely I’d be without you,” he murmured. “Tottering around, a doddering old man weeping into his shirtsleeves…”
It earned him a laugh, low and musical. “You’re far too vain for that. You’d use a handkerchief.”
He folded her into his arms. They were silent a long while, her head against his chest, rocking slowly together as the clouds outside lapped vanilla cream against the horizon. Finally Rue sighed.
“It can’t be either of us. It can’t be any of us. We can’t risk it. The lure of the song is fearsome enough at this distance. Even the elders agreed it could be irresistible up close. Whoever has that diamond now might understand its power. Might realize what we are and use it against us. That’s why it must be Zane. He won’t be susceptible to the song, and he won’t think twice about handing it over to us once he has it. Especially since he doesn’t know what it can do.”
“Unless someone sees fit to tell him. What then, little mouse?”
She stilled a moment, then tipped back her head to see him.
“He’s still our best hope.”
“Aye,” agreed Kit reluctantly. “I know it.”
Their gazes locked. The heat began to build, that deep, burning craving for her, for her body and her voice and her heart.
Rue’s lashes lowered, very demure. He felt her fingers tighten over his arms.
“Will you come to bed, my lord Langford?”
It was barely past teatime. Neither of them cared.
Paris was wet, a cold, gray city with even grayer people, the scent of decaying vegetables and clay and cattle everywhere. The sky remained leaden all the way from Avon to Strasbourg, but it didn’t truly start to snow until he reached Stuttgart, when the raw winds tore through the clouds to embed a layer of ice crystals upon his rented coach, and the road, and his coat and the gloves on his hands: every inch of the world glistening with a sly, glassy enchantment beneath the weakened sun.
The horses struggled with the frozen muck. Zane had been riding atop the diligence until then, squeezed into the driver’s perch alongside the German coachman until the cold seared his eyeballs and bit his skin to frost. He had never cared for the cramped interiors of carriages, no matter how stylishly done up. He needed the open sky, and open views.
But the horses suffered. So they traveled a great deal more slowly than he would have liked otherwise, stopping at inns, at taverns, even farmhouses, whenever the weather grew too dismal. He became used to the round-eyed looks of the country ostlers, their noses red with the wind, as the sleek new coach rolled into whichever godforsaken village arched next into view along the roads. He became used to the smell of hay mixed with sludge, and the shiny wet gloss of melted snow tracing lines along the black spokes of the wheels.
The entire rig had cost a great deal to rent. Few companies wished to hire out as far as he was going, and fewer still drivers. But hard gold always managed it; the Paris company had found a fellow with cousins in Munich. He would get that far before starting over again.
Strapped to the back of the carriage was a single trunk holding his garments and shoes and a very decent bottle of sherry. Inside the carriage were the more valuable things: his picks, his spare pistol, and bullets and powder horn. Three daggers, a dirk, and a single sheath of rice paper, tucked thin and small into the lining of his valise.
In Rue’s neat, slanted writing, the paper read:
Pest
Oradea
Satu Mare
Carpathian range? No farther.
No more than twelve carats, no less than one-half; a cast of blue; uncut. Heavy in the hand.
Draughmurh? Drawmur? Drahmer?
It was precious little to go on. It was precious little to tie up his life and his establishment for an entire season, no matter how competent his associates or how satisfying his reputation. There had been nights he lay awake in the lice-ridden pallets that passed for beds in most hotels when he’d wondered when, precisely, he had lost his reason. There could be no other answer to this journey. Rue’s imploring eyes and careful lies be damned: he had no true idea of where he was going. He had nearly nothing to go on, guesses and dream-work from a clan of creatures who could answer only, It sings and It calls and You must bring it back to us when he asked for clearer directions.
Merde.
Too often he’d just settle back against the squabs and watch his boots drip. He’d been traveling over a month now, well versed in his guise as an English gentleman on the Grand Tour. He’d patronized so many tea parlors and coffeehouses and card rooms that the mere thought of downing another cup of tepid liquid amid the chatter of foreign tongues made his skin crawl.
He spoke French well, German tolerably. After that, he was no better off than the role he played, a bored English sophisticate with a taste for legends and gemstones.
The land passed by his window in depressing sameness. France, Germany, Austria: all gray and dun and somber skies.
Sixty thousand pounds.
He’d buy a castle in Tuscany. There’d be no bloody ice there.
Despite fresh horses and his new coachman’s best efforts, they could not cross the Danube to reach the city of Pest before the sun sank into a thick red and purple horizon, ending the final day of October. Zane settled for Óbuda instead, across the river, smaller, and, from what he could tell, slightly more stylish. The Hungarians here sported wigs and buckled heels he had last seen in the heart of Paris. The women were hooded and painted and walked the cobblestone streets in dainty, mincing steps, never far from their escorts. He’d garnered more than a few glances just checking in to the hotel-scruffy, unshaven, his trunk and greatcoat spattered with mud. The King’s View was a veritable palace of plasterwork and imposing marble angels, but after three straight days without a good night’s sleep, Zane reckoned the Marquess of Langford could afford it.
From his balcony he watched the skyline begin to illuminate, yellow flames that gradually connected into pictures through the dusk, outlining buildings and steeples and streets, the indigo emptiness of parks checkerboarding the glow. Pest glimmered and the river
glimmered with it, its banks edged silvery white with the last dusting of snow.
The Danube was a wide, gray line between the two cities, dotted with fishing boats and ferries and great flocks of crows; their high-pitched cackles bounced back at him across the waves.
The balcony curtains swelled and folded, gently tapping his legs. The breeze lifted his hair. He’d already undone his waistcoat and settled in with his sherry to watch the birds when the floorboards outside his room squeaked, and stopped, because someone had paused at his door.
Zane had his pistol primed when the knock came.
“Monsieur? Monsieur Lalonde?”
He placed his foot against the door, held the pistol down at his side, out of view, and turned the knob. A lanky man with watery blue eyes looked back at him.
“Oui?”
“My deepest regrets for disturbing you, sir,” said the hotel clerk in French. “You were left a missive at the front desk just now.”
The man held out his hand. A cream-colored envelope rested on his palm, Zane’s name-his real name-and room number inscribed in lavish script upon the vellum.
For a moment he only stared at it. The clerk waited, his narrow face betraying nothing. Zane closed the door, stuck the pistol into the waistband of his breeches at the small of his back, then opened the door again and took the envelope from the man’s hand.
“Merci.”
He found a coin in his pocket-God knew which country it was from-and flicked it to the clerk, who smiled and bowed and retreated down the sconce-lit corridor.
When the door was bolted again, he broke the wax seal.
Veuillez nous joindre pour notre célébration le samedi, 31 octobre, à neuf heures du soir.
Le dîner sera accompagne d’un orchestre.
Le Comte du Abony
Zane looked up from the invitation, frowning. Samedi was Saturday, today. Tonight.
Someone knew of him. Someone knew he was here; he’d never heard of a Comte du Abony; he could not imagine how the fellow had heard of him. Unless the drákon had somehow managed it, had figured out where he was going to be and when…
But they would not know his room number. And Rue would never make the mistake of revealing his name.
He glanced once more at the river outside, then quickly drew the curtains. He stood motionless against the silk-papered wall, fading into shadow with the falling night while his thoughts bled into theories and conspiracies and extremely improbable coincidences.
Through the sheer organza he saw a crow land atop the stone rail of the balcony; it peered at him sideways with fiercely black eyes, then shoved into the air again.
The Comte du Abony lived in an actual palace. Zane had walked to it, because it turned out not to be far from the fashionable King’s View, and the clerk had made it politely clear that even an Englishman could find it if he kept to the main boulevards. To guide him, he had the address and the surprising brilliance of the street lanterns, which dangled from fanciful iron posts twice as tall as a man.
He supposed only a very great fool would openly respond to the cordially worded card in his pocket. And anyone who knew his name would also know that Zane was no fool.
Yet he was going. He was walking. He had his dirk and his rapier and his wits; he had his best court clothing; whoever the hell this comte was, Zane meant at least to get a good look at him. And then, should the man wander off alone-too much wine, a willing woman-perhaps they might exchange a few words…
In any case, he wouldn’t risk spending the night in the hotel, not now, and for that alone Zane felt a particular urge to inflict a bit of pain upon someone.
His walking stick tapped the pavement very lightly. His gold-buttoned tricorne was tipped aslant over his wig, rakish, but it was only so that he could keep his sights clear. He nodded amicably to the passersby who nodded to him, studying their faces, following his senses and the clerk’s directions, and the growing line of coaches crowding the streets.
Sedan chairmen hauling high, teetering boxes passed him at a trot. Horses gleamed fat and glossy beneath the oil lanterns, snorting plumes of frost. The crests on the coaches-on the doors, on the hubs of the wheels-were painted in gaudy reds and greens and yellows, vivid blues. By the time he could hear the orchestra playing, Zane’s saunter was getting him to the comte’s dinner ball more quickly than any of the fine nobles trapped in their carriages.
He had meant to approach the celebration the way he did all unknowns, in a circle, from behind, where he could watch and judge from a prudent distance before stepping into commitment. But half the city seemed to be headed there, and from three blocks away he could see there would be no furtive arrival into this place; it was gated and fenced in tall, serious spikes, and there were liveried guards at every corner.
Very well.
At the gatehouse he handed his square of vellum to a footman, who accepted it stoically, bowing him up the raked drive. The massive bronze-studded doors of the palace entrance were already open. As he climbed their steps, a wave of heated air pushed past: paprika and perspiration and the musky confusion of too many perfumes.
Zane entered the atrium-more footmen, blazing candles, a mosaic of high, stained-glass windows glowing azure and saffron above. The music grew brighter, the heat more intense.
He’d been in many of London’s finest homes; he’d seen ballrooms by both candlelight and the useful darkness of the new moon. One dead summer’s night as a boy, he’d even gotten as far as the drawing room in the town residence of the Princess of Wales-only on a dare, and only because deep down he hadn’t really believed that he could.
The princess had lived in a splendor of pink alabaster and baroque furniture. She drank tea from tiny silver-trimmed cups; her linens were powder blue embroidered with real gold; her hallboy snored. Zane had been thirteen, barefoot, a dark intruder who had not touched a thing. He’d never thought to see a more make-believe place than that, and it had only been the royal antechamber.
But this comte, it seemed, had outsplendored the princess. Here were columns of warm ocher marble inlaid with turquoise and panels of citrine. Oil paintings of bearded men and doe-eyed women draped in furs and velvet and crowns of jewels reached as high as the second floor. Enormous vases of fresh flowers-orchids, in October-guided the guests toward another set of doors; Zane slipped behind two lords and a trio of ladies, close as a shadow as they crossed the threshold into the ballroom. When the butler moved to announce them, he glided off, swallowed in an ocean of satins and lace.
For all the grandeur of the chandeliers, it was darker in here than it should have been. Slices of moonlight washed visibly through the far windows, gleaming pale along the shoulders and wigs of the revelers crowded there. The orchestra labored away in a box set high above the crush. They had their own branches of candles to play by, an uneasy glow that cast shades of fiddles and horns and flutes against the dark red ceiling.
In the center of the ballroom, a wide X of couples were performing the quadrille, slow and stately movements that seemed at odds with the hectic prattle of the room. Someone laughed very loudly in his ear; Zane angled away.
He worked his way to a wall so there could be no one behind him. He set himself to searching faces again, because he knew what the drákon looked like, and he knew what his kind looked like, even if he did not know the features of this comte.
Bobbing into view was a short, plump woman in a wig teased high with feathers and swaying droplets of diamonds. She started, staring straight at him, hard and focused-his fingers grazed the handle of his dirk-and then, abruptly, her face cleared. She broke into a delighted smile.
“My dear! There you are! There you are indeed!”
She spoke not French but English, heavily accented but perfectly intelligible. Zane remained taut where he was as she swept toward him, champagne in one hand and the other reaching for him.
“Come along, come along! This is the way!”
He made an instant decision: she didn’t appear to h
ave a weapon; her breath reeked of alcohol; her delight seemed genuine. He allowed her fingers to close over his and she led him across the floor, over to a corner particularly dense with people…no, he saw, coming closer, not merely people. Men. Dandies and lords, beaux in lawn and ruffles and long-skirted coats, surrounding a solitary woman.
This one was younger, white-skinned, garbed in ruby silk cut very low across her chest. She was laughing at something one of the beaux whispered in her ear, her chin down. Her gloved hands clasped her fan across her lap.
“Chérie, only look!” exclaimed Zane’s escort, presenting him with tipsy satisfaction. “Here he is!”
The lady in ruby glanced around, pleasure still teasing her lips and lighting her face, her eyes sparkling dark, her hair powdered into heavy curls. Her skin was pearled, her cheeks brushed with pink; she wore no patches for beauty, no jewelry, and very little paint-and he grasped at once how she had managed to draw so many moths to her corner. He had never seen a woman so exotically luminous. His mouth actually went dry.
But…surely he knew her. Aye, he knew that he did-
“It is he, is it not?” insisted the tipsy woman, now hanging on to his arm. “I recognized him right away, just as you said-those eyes, mais oui, such a color! I have the chills! I said to myself, who else could it be?”
The lady in the ruby gown lifted her chin and fixed her gaze directly to his.
“Yes,” she said in a velvet tone. “You’re quite right, Marie. It is he.”
And with a jolt of profoundly unpleasant shock, Zane realized he was gaping at Lia Langford.
CHAPTER THREE
She had known precisely how it was going to be. It was strange that she did, because she’d never actually seen any of it, not the composition of the dancers and chairs, not the colors, not the chamber; none of the dreams that came to her offered sight. But Lia had known.
