Death's Mistress (46 page)

I don’t know how I got there; I have no memory of moving at all. But suddenly, I was staggering into what looked like an armory, with long curtain-draped windows along one side and glass cases full of weapons lining the other. And face-planting was definitely out.

A couple of male servants were sitting at a table, polishing some of the implements. If those were for tonight’s challenge, it didn’t look like anyone was fooling around. There wasn’t a practice sword in the bunch. Since I didn’t want any of them used on me, I staggered on through without stopping.

I made it through the door on the other side, but had no idea where the hell I was going. And there hadn’t been too many clues in the projected image as to which room in the football- field-sized house might contain the dead man. All I could recall about his surroundings was the edge of a fireplace and a bit of rug, which could have come from anywhere.

But the half dozen scurrying servants I encountered in a narrow hallway were headed toward the left wing. They didn’t look panicked—good servants never looked panicked—but they weren’t wasting any time, either. Neither did I, dogging their heels the whole way into a largish sitting room at the end of the corridor.

It was a symphony in yellow: from the silk drapes to the brocaded upholstery to the shade of the dead man’s skin. Bingo. I slipped inside the door, barely getting a glance from most of the few dozen people present. But one curly head jerked up abruptly.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Marlowe demanded. He had the harassed look of a vampire up during the day who’d been up all night, too. He was also still wearing the same suit from the previous evening, which had started out rumpled and was now approaching embarrassing.

“Through the front door.” For once, I wasn’t trying to be flippant. I just didn’t have the energy left to explain.

Marlowe, of course, scowled. “Mircea needs to take his own advice, and practice some discretion. Bringing you here is not wise!”

“What happened to Lutkin?” I asked, forgetting to mention that Mircea hadn’t brought me anywhere.

“What does it look like?” He motioned for the servants who had blocked my path to step aside. He was probably hoping for some tasty tidbits like last time, only I was fresh out. Since my ass would be out the door a second after he realized that, I didn’t waste any time examining the dead man.

I’d certainly seen more gruesome deaths. There was no blood to contrast nicely with the bright yellow decor. In fact, the body was bone dry, with not only the blood but every other fluid sucked out of it. Even his eyes had shriveled up and were lolling on his cheekbones, barely held in place by the desiccated cords.

It still looked strangely like he was staring at me. I quickly searched for something else to look at, and found it in the fingertip bruises ringing his neck. Shit.

“No fey made those, no matter how powerful,” Marlowe said as I bent for a closer look. And damn it, he was right. Those were the telltale signs of a vampire pulling blood through the skin and not caring whether he left a mark.

“It looks like a revenant got to him,” I said. They were never satiated, and sometimes got carried away. But why go to all the trouble to break in here with an ocean of prey just outside?

“One of those mindless animals would never have gotten past the guards, or the man’s shields,” Marlowe said, echoing my thoughts.

“But at least this clears Louis-Cesare,” I pointed out.

“And how did you determine that?”

I frowned. “You said it yourself—no revenant did this. So Lutkin was obviously killed for the rune. He must have murdered Elyas for it, and now someone returned the favor and took it.”

Marlowe’s scowl didn’t budge. “If he had the rune, why didn’t he use it? He’s a powerful mage from a prominent family. Unlike Elyas, we cannot suppose he did not know how!”

“Maybe he didn’t get a chance,” I said slowly. “Look at him.”

Lutkin’s hands looked more like claws now, the knobby bones and ligaments standing out starkly against the shrunken skin. But that didn’t affect their position. One was dangling off the side of the chair, a glass of wine still wedged between the lifeless fingers. The other was curled harmlessly in his lap. Even more telling, his feet were still crossed at the ankles; he hadn’t even had time to stand up.

“That doesn’t help our case,” Marlowe said irritably. “The only creature who could drain someone this quickly is a first- or possibly a strong second- level master. Like Louis-Cesare.”

“And like half the people in the house right now! The collective energy almost knocked me down when I came in the door. Are all the challengers staying here?”

“About a third, give or take. The rest are scattered around the city.”

“And most if not all of them are on the premises, right?”

That was a good bet, considering that it was broad daylight out. A first-level master could withstand that easily enough, but the power drain would be immense. And no one was going to risk that kind of loss right before facing combat—not when the stakes were this high.

Marlowe stared at the corpse, looking angry and frustrated. “On the premises, but with no motive! They weren’t at the auction and had no way to know that the mage might be important.”

“Who else could have gotten in here?”

Marlowe made a disgusted sound. “You mean other than Lutkin and the dozen other mages who insisted on giving their interviews out of the boiling sun? That would merely leave the challengers and their servants, all of whom were on the guest list. And the press and their support staff, who are doubtless about to descend on us like the vultures they—”

“What about Geminus and Ming-de?” I interrupted. Because none of the people he named were supposed to know about the rune, either. “They could do something like this without breaking a sweat.”

“Geminus has an apartment in the city, but Ming-de brought half her court. We couldn’t accommodate them all and she elected to take a house for the duration.”

“Either of them could have snuck in here,” I pointed out. “Geminus probably knows the place like the back of his hand and Ming-de is strong enough to fog the mind of even a first-level master.”

“As is Louis-Cesare.”

“And he killed Lutkin for what? The hell of it? He had no motive, Marlowe!”

“I am sure that will be Mircea’s argument. Lutkin was at the auction. He was at Elyas’s cocktail party. Now he’s dead. Either he killed Elyas for the rune and has now been killed for it himself, or someone assumed he had it and he died for nothing. Either way, Louis-Cesare is innocent.”

“Sounds logical to me.”

“Really?” Marlowe asked sourly. “Then how about this? Louis-Cesare murdered Elyas over Christine. He was caught in the act and is currently in fear for his life. He panicked and ran before he could stand trial, and has now killed a scapegoat to bolster his case.”

“That’s ridiculous! He’s on the run and yet he comes here, of all places? Why not attack the man in his own home if he wanted him dead?”

“Lutkin is a powerful, wealthy mage. His home is doubtless riddled with protection spells that Louis-Cesare would have no way of knowing. But he is quite familiar with the consul’s home and could easily evade security.”

“Without being seen?” I demanded. “Coming or going?”

Marlowe arched an eyebrow. “It seems you do not know Louis-Cesare as well as I had thought.”

I didn’t get a chance to ask what that meant, because a gaggle of reporters took that moment to storm the room. There was a metric ton on hand to cover the races, and it looked like every single one of them was trying to crowd into the limited space. I realized why a second later, when the consul’s spokesman entered the room, looking harassed.

He looked a lot more so when he saw the corpse. The elegant Mircea Basarab stopped in the middle of the room, ignoring the clicking cameras, the lights and the horde of hovering reporters. And said a very bad word.

“Lord Mircea, what can you tell us about the unusual state of the body? ”

“Is there a reason proper security measures weren’t in place to prevent—”

“How do you feel this will affect the current state of Senate/Circle relations?”

“Can you comment on the rumors circulating about you and the new—”

“Clear the room!” Mircea snapped, and a dozen vamps fell over themselves to obey. I was a little surprised. The vamp press would print what the consul told it to, but the mages were under no such restraints. Mircea was usually more careful around them. But then, putting a positive spin on this might just be beyond even his abilities.

“This is insufferable!” he said, glaring at the corpse, as if it was his own fault he was dead. “There is no way we can cover this up. Elyas was ours, but the Circle is already demanding an explanation for Lutkin’s death. I have just been informed that they have a delegation on the—” He stopped, finally catching sight of me. “What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t bring her?” Marlowe asked, his face reddening.

“I didn’t even know she was here!”

Marlowe rounded on me. “You told me—”

“That I came in through the front door. Which I did.”

“You came—how?”

“I walked.”

Marlowe’s face flushed, and okay, maybe that last little quip hadn’t been so smart. I started to explain when Mircea cut me off. “You promised to stay out of this, Dorina.”

Actually, I didn’t remember promising anything of the kind, but I didn’t think now was a good time to correct him. “You said you didn’t care if Lutkin had the stone or not. But Claire does. She wants the stone no matter who has it. I came here hoping to ask him some questions, and found him like this.”

“You did not ‘find him.’ Not in the middle of a vampire stronghold! You cannot be here! Do you not understand—”

“I understand that the list is shrinking. Lutkin is dead, and
subrand couldn’t have killed him. Not like that. And Cheung is also in the clear, at least for Elyas’s death. He was at my place last night—”

“Along with others. Why did you not tell me you were hosting royalty?”

“It slipped my mind?”

Mircea didn’t look like he thought that was funny, and the next moment, I felt a couple of large shapes move up behind me. “You’re throwing me out?”

“You promised to stay out of this,” Mircea said grimly, as someone grabbed my arm. “And so you shall.”

“I can help you, Mircea!”

“Yes, you can!” he said savagely. “You can help me by—” He cut off, and the color drained from both vamp’s faces. It was almost comical, it happened so fast. And then something hit me that wasn’t funny at all.

I had never really understood the old “ton of bricks” analogy, but I did now. It felt exactly like that, like some massive weight had just descended on me, crushing me. I didn’t even try to stay on my feet; I went to my knees, and prayed I wouldn’t be on my face next.

But the pressure wasn’t the worst of it. “A pretty little monster. I had forgotten about this one, Mircea,” a female voice said.

And with those words, a hundred voices slipped into the spaces between my thoughts, skittering like bugs into the dark corners. I could feel them, writhing inside my skull—spiders, snakes, every small, dark thing prying into every small, dark space inside me. If I hadn’t already been on my knees, that would have done it.

“She was just leaving,” Mircea said tightly.

“Oh, do let her stay,” the counsul said, bending down to me. “It appears she knows all our secrets, in any case.”

“She knows nothing that is not known to the meanest of our servants.”

Lustrous black hair slipped over a bare shoulder, and a few strands clung to the sweat on my face. Until a slim bronze hand wiped them away, gently. Her skin was papery, almost scaly, and finely abrasive. I could almost feel my own skin crawling up my face, trying to get away from that inhuman touch.

“She is not a servant, Mircea.” A single finger tipped my chin up, so that I was looking into a bronze face, beautiful and cold. “Yet she may prove helpful.”

I stared into dark, kohl-rimmed eyes, and felt a coiling tightness reeling out from my gut to my spine. I tasted blood in my mouth, felt it sing in my ears, as my dhampir sense reached new heights. It was screaming—but not a warning. This time, it was a siren song, a pure driving need, breathtaking in its simplicity. For one brief moment, I had no other wish, no other purpose, no other reason for existing, than to sink my teeth into that slim throat.

And that didn’t make sense. I’d met her once before, and I hadn’t had this reaction, hadn’t even come close. I didn’t know why, but the consul was trying to bring on one of my fits. And she was doing a damn good job of it. I wanted to kill her so badly, I could taste it.

She laughed, a sound like the scrabbling of claws against glass. “Yes, I think she will do very well.”

“Do? For what purpose?” Mircea asked.

The consul’s lovely face turned up to his. “To help us locate our problem Frenchman, of course.”

The pressure released so abruptly that I fell. But I was already rolling as soon as I hit the floor, my hand reaching into my coat for a stake, my feet coming under me—and then I was picked up around the waist and crushed back against an unyielding body.