For some reason, that thought made me almost nauseous. I killed vampires, but my targets were usually revenants, the masterless psychos who were little more than animals. Vamps who stayed, however marginally, within the law had little to fear from me, although I didn’t let that get around. And now I was expected to kill those who not only were within the rules but helped to make them?
“Dory.” It took me a moment to realize that Louis-Cesare had been talking. Caedmon was regarding me with compassion. I’d probably been leaking my inner turmoil all over the place.
I looked at Louis-Cesare and drew a complete blank. I am usually a fairly glib liar—nothing like dear old Dad, of course, but good enough for most circumstances. Yet I couldn’t think of a thing to say. Neither alternative was acceptable, but as least I had options. But if Louis-Cesare discovered what Drac had planned for Radu, I’d never get a chance to figure a way out of this. He’d move him back to MAGIC even if he had to cart him off bodily, and that would seal Claire’s fate as surely as if I’d killed her myself.
“Drac has Claire,” I finally said, hoping my pause would be mistaken for shock. “He says not to come after him, or he’ll kill her.”
Louis-Cesare nodded, but Caedmon appeared confused. “Who is this? Another vampire?”
“Dracula,” I said, realizing that I’d used the diminutive. Radu was right; it was a bad habit. To my surprise, Caedmon didn’t look like the full name meant any more to him than the short version. So much for Uncle’s notoriety. “I want to find Claire because I prefer not leaving my friends to face hideous deaths,” I explained shortly. “What’s your excuse?”
A puzzled frown creased his brow. “I am looking for my king, of course.”
“And you think they’re together?”
He looked at me as if I might be a little slow. “One would presume,” he said drily.
I had a feeling I was missing something, but I hurt too much to care. “What’s this king’s name?”
Caedmon shrugged beautifully, causing his velvet cloak to shimmer around him before falling once again into perfect folds. “I do not know.”
“You don’t know your own king’s name?”
“I am not certain the noble lady has yet gifted him with one,” he said slowly. He looked at me curiously. “Can it be you do not know?”
“No!” I hopped up and was immediately sorry. The room tilted sideways and I sank to one knee before strong arms caught me. I looked up into a pair of concerned emerald eyes, and discovered that they were even more breathtaking at close range. “I don’t know. After a month of searching, I don’t know a damn thing. You think you could enlighten me?”
“But, if you are her friend, surely she told you?”
“Told me what?” I was still feeling grateful to him for the revved-up healing, but my nerves had taken a beating. If I felt better, I’d probably have been bitch slapping that pretty face by now.
He seemed to realize that and spread his hands apologetically. “That she is with child. Your friend is carrying the next ruler of Faerie.”
I stared at him for a long moment, then burst out laughing. Claire? In a dalliance, not just with a Fey, but with their king? When did she fit it in, between growing my weed and doing the grocery shopping? I got this crazy image of her taping a note on the fridge in her fine, precise hand: “Out screwing Fey king, be back around eight. Don’t forget to feed the cats.” It was absurd.
“Is she well?” Caedmon asked Louis-Cesare in an undertone. “I haven’t lent energy to a human in some time; perhaps I overdid it—”
“She isn’t human,” Louis-Cesare corrected him. “She is dhampir.”
“Truly?” The Fey’s eyes brightened above a surprised smile. “I have heard of such beings, but never before had the pleasure of meeting one.” He unfastened his cloak and draped it around my shoulders. It was soft and clingy, and smelled slightly of some kind of subtle cologne, or maybe that was just him. I couldn’t seem to get a scent catalog on the Fey. It was like he was a breath of wind that blew scents to me from every direction except his own. It was confusing, but also intriguing.
He peered into my face, eyes literally glowing with curiosity. “My people can never resist any new experience,” he said. “We find one so rarely.”
“Uh-huh.” The idea of seeing just how many new experiences I could show him flitted across my mind. “And how did Claire end up dating a Fey?” I asked.
“That is a very good question,” Caedmon replied unhelpfully. He pulled me nearer despite the fact that this also brought him into closer contact with Stinky, who was clinging to me like a limpet. My thoughts were too confused to protest, even had I felt like it. Why hadn’t Claire mentioned any of this? And why had I noticed nothing unusual? I thought I’d remember something like a seven-foot-tall glowing Fey hanging out in our living room.
“The Fey will find your friend. You cannot so much as look for her without risking her life,” Louis-Cesare commented, derailing my train of thought. “Do you truly think Dracula will hesitate to do as he says?”
No, I didn’t. Which brought me back to my previous dilemma. I could ignore Drac’s ultimatum, stall for time and hope Caedmon managed to rescue Claire. But however powerful he might be, he obviously didn’t understand our world very well, and that gave Dracula a huge advantage. I couldn’t leave Claire’s fate in the hands of the Fey any more than I could dump the whole problem on Mircea. Somehow, I was going to have to get her back on my own. I just wished I had even a vague idea how.
Radu’s place looked exactly as I would have expected, if I had bothered to think about it. Our car passed through a crumbling stone gate and up a long drive to a graveled parking area. It fronted a complex of outbuildings and a two-story main structure surrounded by colorful explosions from out-of-control bougainvillea, hibiscus and jasmine. Unfortunately, neither the overgrown foliage nor the deep twilight managed to conceal the house. The original Spanish exterior, which had probably featured simple adobe walls, was now thick with Moroccan tile work, carved pillars, gilt cupolas and more wrought iron than a New Orleans bordello.
I would have said as much, but I wasn’t looking any better. We were all a little worse for wear—except for the Fey, who was fresh as a daisy, damn him. Of course, he’d had his own seat, while I’d been relegated to the roughly one-eighth of the back not taken up with Bergtroll. Olga had been persuaded to leave her army behind, but there had been no way short of violence to stop her from coming (and even Louis-Cesare had balked at attacking the grieving widow). And then there was Stinky.
I’d had to hold him on my lap due to the lack of space, and even with the window down, things had gotten pretty ripe—to the point that Olga had started edging away from us, giving me maybe an inch of extra space there at the end. When even trolls think you reek, things are bad. The pièce de résistance, however, was the wards. I’d felt them crackle no less than three times on the way in, and had been grateful that we were expected. But even so, everyone’s hair was standing on end by the time we finally arrived, and Stinky was little more than a round fur ball with legs.
Louis-Cesare came up beside me and, before I could protest, lifted me into his arms and started toward the house. He’d done the same thing to get me into the car, but I’d been fading in and out and had hardly noticed. I would have told him to put me down, but my legs did feel a little wobbly.
Radu gave us a surprised glance when we got to the door, but refrained from comment. He was dressed in what counted as somber attire for him—black velvet and jet beads that glittered in the light from the old-fashioned lantern he clutched in one pale hand. The absence of electricity told me immediately how serious he was taking this. No plain everyday wards here—the big boys must be online to send us back to the days of candles and lanterns. It did make for a nice ambience, though, since Radu’s demented designer had not yet made it inside. Cathedral ceilings with old wood beams met us in the entryway, which featured a simple, open-tread staircase leading to a gallery landing. I spied an ominous sign for the future, however: the classic lines of a wrought-iron chandelier now dripped with a couple hundred rock crystals.
We went right, into a large living room with a huge fireplace that looked big enough to consume small trees. The only incongruous note in the old-California theme was the painting glowing over the fireplace. It was a copy of Bellini’s portrait of Mehmed II, the Ottoman sultan best known for conquering Constantinople and renaming it Istanbul. He’d thereafter considered himself the new Roman emperor, since Constantinople had been the last holdout of the glory-that-was-no-longer-Rome. He invaded Italy, but never managed to take the Eternal City. He did end up with a pretty nifty souvenir, though. I stood looking at it, but although it’s well-done—Bellini was no hack—it didn’t tell me much about the man who had been Radu’s lover and political patron. It told me more about Radu. I supposed it made sense that he’d want a memento, but still. I spared a thought as to what Drac would say if he saw it, and smiled.
“I fail to see anything amusing,” Louis-Cesare said stiffly, after laying me on the sofa. I was about to snipe back when I got a good look at him. His usually softly curling hair was a frazzled halo that crackled alarmingly whenever anyone got near it, and his normally pale face was dead white. His eyes were fever bright and there were tired lines near the corners. I hadn’t noticed when I was getting patched up, but he’d also been wounded, once in the thigh and again in the upper part of his right arm.
None of his wounds were serious for a vamp, much less a master, but judging by the state of his clothes, he’d lost a lot of blood. And that was after what had to be a strenuous day even by his standards. Yet the only time he’d fed was what you might call a light snack at the Hedgehog. I edged away slightly, perching on the end of the couch with Stinky. I put him down because the couch was leather and could be wiped clean, but he immediately crawled back into my lap. The creature seemed very needy, or maybe it was just scared. Either way, I wanted to get it a bath if I was going to continue to have it draped all over me. Having a supersensitive nose can be a problem.
“Sit, rest,” Radu said, fluttering about. “I’ll have refreshments brought.”
The advice had the opposite of the intended effect on me. “I’m not hungry,” I lied. “Is there anywhere I can clean up?”
The rambling old place was staffed by some of Mircea’s stable, several of whom came in as we were speaking. Like all good servants, they’d anticipated their master’s needs. The one carrying a tray and bottle was well-known to me—unfortunately.
“Geoffrey, can you show Dorina to the gold room?” Radu asked. “Be back in an hour, Dory, or Chef will sulk. He’s so pleased to have someone new to cook for, he’s been slaving away all day.”
“I’ll remember,” I said, giving Geoffrey the hairy eyeball. It’s hard to look dignified in a few rags, a pair of bloody boots and a velvet cloak, especially when you have a filthy fur ball wrapped around your neck, but I tried.
Ever the proper English servant, Geoffrey inclined his head without hesitation, nothing in his carriage giving away the fact that he’d vastly prefer to show me to the closest garbage heap. “Of course, my lord.”
I followed Geoffrey out the door as the second servant, a human, started undoing his cravat. He was handsome, with tawny hair and eyes and a healthy, youthful complexion. I hastened my steps, overtaking my guide in my hurry to get away before Louis-Cesare started in on his appetizer.
I took a wrong turn and ended up in a grassy courtyard with a small fountain and a couple of fruit trees. The night sky was dark blue overhead, soft with the glimmer of stars, but the illumination from the house made it possible to see without being obtrusive. A light breeze, cool but not cold, blew in from a small iron gate set in the wall, which was weighed down by a mass of overgrown honeysuckle. It was surprisingly charming.
“Your rooms are this way, unless you intend to bathe in the fountain, miss,” Geoffrey commented from over my shoulder.
I thought of the wreck Stinky would likely make of any bathroom. “Yeah. This is good. Fetch towels and some soap, would you?”
Geoffrey hesitated for a full five seconds—a new record—before I heard his quiet “Yes, miss.”
I actually did end up bathing in the fountain, although not by choice. Stinky, it turned out, did not like water and was even less enamored with soap. He made it clear that he had no intention of getting to know either of them better. To make a long story short, I insisted, he demurred, I pulled him off me and threw him in the fountain, he leapt out and I chased him around the courtyard and threw him back in. And so on. It ended with both of us soaking wet in a fountain filled with bubbles, but Stinky was going to need a new name. At least for a little while.
I wadded up the Fey’s velvet cloak in an attempt to dry Stinky’s hair. Since he was basically a fur ball with claws, that was harder than it sounds, but I had started to make headway when I heard a noise behind me. I turned to find Louis-Cesare standing at the edge of a puddle staring at me with a strange expression.
“That garment is doubtless worth a fortune,” he observed as Stinky tried his best to shred the Fey’s cape. The material stretched but didn’t rip, trapping him long enough for me to finish the job. He fled under a pink rhododendron as soon as I let him loose, and immediately began rolling in the dirt. I sighed.
“You planning to rat me out to the Fey?” I demanded.
“No.” Louis-Cesare put a bundle of cloth and a bottle of wine down on the edge of the fountain. He saw the direction of my gaze. “I thought we deserved a drink.”
I
thought that was the most sensible thing I’d heard him say yet. I sorted through the bundle, which turned out to be clothes, while he poured us both a drink and a half. As I’d feared, Radu’s idea of appropriate attire was scary. The white linen tunic was okay, with a high neck closed with black ribbon ties and long, full sleeves. But it had been matched with a heavy white wool skirt and two black aprons covered in red and gold embroidery. Traditional Romanian female attire. I refrained from wincing, if only barely.