Blood Spirits (18 page)

“Ready?” she asked. “Or have you changed your mind?”

Her tone made her ambivalence about me clear, but it was better than Cerisette von Mecklundburg's outright hostility. I grabbed my coat.

A few seconds later I sat for the first time in a Maserati. The sporty coupe model was bright red, built low to the ground. As soon as I was in she jammed her muscle car into gear and zoomed up the street.

The snow gave the stone buildings a stippled effect. The cobblestones roared under the wheels. I gripped my hands as she downshifted in surging spurts.

When she downshifted on the approach to the huge traffic circle at the start of Prinz Karl-Rafael Street, I said, “All right, I'm impressed with your car and your driving. How about taking it easy, before you nuke a pedestrian or a sleigh driver?”

She pulled the car into a skid, sending a sheet of snow flying up. I thought we were hydroplaning on ice, but she controlled the car perfectly as we came to a stop facing the central fountain with the young shepherdess.

She shot a glance my way. “There are no inkris, or streetcars. There will be little traffic, as today is the Stefan-Zarbat, the—”

“St. Stephen's Day, or Boxing Day. Right. I thought that was the day after Christmas, though.”

“It is, but it's generally recognized on Monday if Christmas has fallen on Saturday, here. Your inn will not provide hot meals or service, but you will pay for the day.”

Her tone mocked me. Her expression was impossible to see, what with the huge glasses and the fuzzy hat obscuring a lot of her face.

“Thanks for explaining,” I said, trying for neutral corners.

Her grip on the steering wheel tightened, then loosened as she faced straight ahead at the whirling snow that barely obscured the fountain. The figures seemed to shimmer, almost to move.

I shifted my gaze from the fountain to Phaedra. She had been frowning at the steering wheel. She said to it, “Your being here right now looks unfortunate. Again.”

“I can't help that.” I couldn't see her eyes behind those bug glasses, and I wasn't sure I wanted to, especially sitting so close to each other. It didn't take magic powers to feel her antagonism.

So I peered through the windshield at the fountain. They'd shut off the water, of course. The wind-swirled snow was relentless, partially obscuring the dancing figures, but that did not explain the giddy sense I had that the fountain figures were moving.

“I didn't talk to anyone but my parents before I came. There was no conspiracy of any kind, at least, not with me in it,” I said. “But I'm beginning to think you don't want to believe that.”

I blinked. Ghosts I'd come to terms with. The idea of the possible existence of another plane, the Nasdrafus, I was getting used to. But what possible use would be moving fountain figures, even within the weird logic, or lack of logic, of magic?

Phaedra said, “No one knows what to believe. Except that your timing is . . .” She shrugged.

“Is this you dis-inviting me to this fencing
salle
of yours?”

Now the central figure, the little shepherdess (who I understood was also St. Xanpia) twirled on her toes, smiling as smoke-hazy animal shapes gamboled about her, tongues lolling, short horns glinting, plumed tails high. I blinked and she froze. The ghost animals were gone.

“Do you wear any diamonds?” she asked, as abruptly as before.

“Diamonds?” I struggled not to yelp:
What have you been smoking?
“Does it
look
like I have any diamonds? I thought this was fencing practice.”

Did she really think that I would wear magical charms to fencing practice? No, much more likely this was her way of digging around for the truth about the rumors of the Dsaret Treasure.

That treasure did exist. The king had liquidated the last of the royal treasure on the eve of World War II, by melting it down in secret, after which it was formed into golden statues. Those were covered by plaster and hidden in the oldest church in Dobrenica, the Romanesque one high behind the city—the one dedicated to St. Xanpia. Alec had been in charge of slowly getting them replaced, without anyone finding out beyond the original conspirators.

Some of this was Gran's inheritance, faithfully kept by Milo all these decades, just in case she hadn't died in the war. Emilio, acting on behalf of Milo, had sent Gran's share to us at the beginning of September. In fact, it had arrived in Los Angeles the day I returned.

But as far as I was concerned, that was Gran's (and Milo's) business. So I said, “I don't own any diamonds. Or pearls. Or rubies. Argh, I wish they wouldn't do that. It makes me dizzy.”

“Who is doing what?” Her high voice had sharpened. If drawling hadn't been habitual she probably would have sounded shrill.

“Xanpia and her animals and fauns. On that fountain.” I pointed. “They're dancing around.”

Phaedra's shoulder jerked back so she could face me, but all I saw were the greeny-black bug eyes of the sun glasses. Then she rammed the car into gear, and we took off.

Why so upset about the dancing animals at that fountain? She didn't speak again as we jetted over the bridge and up the hill to the posh area. The streets were empty. I remembered from summer that the Danilovs lived a block away from Ysvorod House, but these were long blocks, what with the extensive gardens surrounding each mansion.

Phaedra turned up a narrow driveway that had been shoveled, but was fast filling up again. When I caught sight of the front of the manor, I recognized from summer the winged lions and dancing fauns carved into the pediment. The rest of the Danilov home was obscured by the garden, unlike Mecklundburg House, which had a more shallow front garden that afforded a splendid view of the mansion's Palladian lineaments from the street.

As Phaedra pulled up close to a side door, I wondered if Mecklundburg House had been designed with public entertaining in mind, because this house seemed more isolated, if not reclusive, its exterior Renaissance-era.

We entered. The hall opened into an enormous complication of arches and vaultings in the Renaissance style. Like at the Eyrie, the center was a dome rounded with windows, and below it a glassed-in conservatory. Halls led off in every direction. They were not the smooth plaster of so many Renaissance buildings, but gorgeous boiserie, complete to gilt moldings.

The conservatory was filled with reflected light. As we walked by it, the sight of lemon trees threw me back to UCLA, on my way to fencing class. The sense of dislocation in time and space sharpened when we entered a long gallery.

Warm? Tony wasn't kidding. The heat nearly blasted me back out into the snow. The room was a picture gallery of paintings going back centuries, with a complicated rosewood ceiling carved in knotwork patterns, and a roaring fire in a stone fireplace big enough to park a car.

The zing and clash of steel echoed. My gaze arrowed straight for Tony, who looked up expectantly as Phaedra and I walked in, shedding coats and gloves and hats as fast as we could.

It could have been summer again. He sauntered toward us, wearing his usual loose white shirt over a black tee shirt, jeans, and boots.

Danilov lifted his saber in casual salute, then resumed lunge stretches. Honoré was a few paces away, dressed entirely in black and looking more like Bertie Wooster's evil twin than ever as he warmed up by practicing footwork. He was tall, slim, and impossibly elegant in those tailored fencing duds.

Phaedra led me to one side, where racks of equipment had been lined up next to a long table. We set down our armloads of winter gear, and I hesitated, wanting to strip to my leotard, but not sure if I should.

A few paces away a good-looking guy in old jeans shrugged into a white fencing coat—not the rumpled general issue ones I was used to at my university fencing class, but fitted, coming down mid-thigh like a military tunic. He had curly dark hair. I recognized him as Niklos, Tony's main aide-de-camp.

The guy who'd shot me.

His gaze lifted, our eyes met, then he advanced. “You are Mademoiselle Murray, yes?” he asked in French-accented English. “I must tender apologies, me, for my actions at the castle. I trust that your bones, they were not involved? No damage, one could say, serious?”

“Nope,” I said, trying for ultra-cool. When I caught Tony grinning at me I added, “Except now I'm way out of shape.”

Niklos made a large gesture, smiling. “We must make the amends for that.”

“Tea?” Danilov drawled. “Or coffee?”

I wanted to say
Iced tea, and heavy on the ice
, but I didn't want to be rude as he gestured with his sword toward the side table set with a splendid tea service, and Russian-style glass cups in silver holders.

Phaedra was dressed in ski clothes that showed off her thin, taut body. She was in splendid shape, her clothes so snug they were the next thing to a leotard. In relief, I shrugged out of my long-sleeved shirt, then sat on the floor to take off my boots and socks. I felt their gazes, quick, then away. Something was going on, and it had nothing to do with my togs.

Whatever. I kept my jeans on over my tights, and began some ballet stretches to warm up.

Phaedra said to me, “You will find extra jackets here. There are also gauntlets, but mostly men's sizes. I have an extra pair.”

“Women don't fence here?”

She lifted a shoulder, her mouth tight. “Some do. But this is our private
salle
.”

She stood next to her brother, who wiped his damp brow. Phaedra whispered something to him. Tony backed up, taking up a lazy stance next to the fireplace, in spite of the blast of Hades roaring out.

Danilov gave Phaedra one of those sharp shrugs with covert facial expressions, like,
This was your idea
.

The welcome I'd hoped for—a truce, maybe even the hand of friendship—had vanished like smoke going up the chimney. Instead, I felt that uneasy, crawly sense along the back of my neck; something that happens when I think people are talking about me, and not in a good way.

Phaedra whirled around and advanced on me.

“I don't suppose you'll tell us the truth,” Phaedra drawled, “but I will ask. What are you doing here in Dobrenica?”

I got up from the floor and took first position in ballet, as if beginning a set of warm-up
plies
would somehow force the incipient interrogation into becoming the fencing practice that I'd been invited to.

They were all watching me, except for Honoré, who practiced fully extended lunges into a target on a wooden post some five yards away, his profile completely absorbed, as if he existed in a different space.

I made myself do right foot through all five positions. They waited for me to speak. So I said, “First tell me why I owe you any answer, seeing as how you've offered me nothing but hostility ever since you laid eyes on me?” When she didn't shoot back a hot retort, I tried to get the better of my temper. “I apologize for my lies at the duchess's party last summer, but you know, I wouldn't have done that if you people hadn't acted like I was going to rob you right down to your underwear the second I walked through those doors.”

“What we heard, before you walked through those doors, was someone chatting up Alec and doing her best to take Ruli's place.” Phaedra leaned against the table laden with breakfast.

“What?”

She crossed her arms and gave me a level stare from her assured place on the moral high ground. “You were using her name while shagging Alec up and down the Adriatic coast, last summer. Then you came here, and we thought—Tante Sisi thought—she said she thought—you were doing your best to take Ruli's place and marry Alec. You certainly had him by the—” She stopped herself.

Honoré muttered something and lunged at his target. He skewered the center of the one-inch circle inside the painted heart.

I couldn't quite hear him, but it sounded like he'd spoke the German word for fuss again,
Dienstbeflissenheit,
and the others turned his way with complete attention. Odd.

When Honoré went on practicing, Danilov poured coffee, then shot me a speculative glance across the table. “It appeared to us that you'd done something to Ruli,” he said, his tone light, as if it didn't much matter. “You used her name. Shopped at her favorite places. Flirted with di Peretti and those
connards
on the coast.”

“Yes I did. To flush her out of hiding—we thought, we hoped. And then I came here. Without Alec knowing. I didn't pretend to be Ruli here, in this city, until Alec and the duchess, your Aunt Sisi, asked me to. So why didn't you bring these questions to either of them?”

The Danilovs cut fast glances at Honoré.

He was busy lunging at the target.

Phaedra said, “We did. Alec said it was to flush Ruli out of hiding, and Tante Sisi agreed.”

I jerked my chin at Tony as I began the
grandes plies
. “
You
tried to kidnap me the next day and haul me off to that castle of yours, where you had Ruli locked up as a prisoner, so do
not
try to scam me about my conspiring against Ruli.”

Tony raised his hands, palms out. “I'm not saying anything here.”

I shot a glare at Phaedra as I jerked my thumb Tony's way. “
He
knew I was here to find out about my grandmother's background. As for the shagging, there wasn't any. Alec was a perfect gentleman on the Adriatic coast.”
Worse luck
. “And during the entire time I stayed at Ysvorod House, he camped out somewhere else.”

Danilov leaned his hands on the breakfast table. “Tante Sisi said that you and Alec were observing the surface proprieties to stop gossip. She convinced us that going along with your pretense would lead to exposure.”