Fury's Kiss (42 page)

I plopped down in a big red leather chair, since it was the only one left. Ray appropriated the matching hassock. That left us facing the interrogation squad, who had arrayed themselves in front of the fire.

Mircea was sitting the closest, and looking as perfectly pulled together as always, or maybe that was just compared to Marlowe. Radu, on the other hand, was looking like nothing had ever happened. He had changed into a frothy confection of a shirt and champagne knee pants, the latter reflecting the flames that someone had stoked up, because this place was always cold. For once, he matched the room, while Mircea’s dark, modern suit looked like an anachronism.

Louis-Cesare wasn’t in sight, and for some reason—some stupid, stupid reason—I felt my stomach fall a little. And then he came through a side door with a tray of coffee, looking edible in a pale blue shirt and fawn trousers. And, suddenly I remembered all the reasons I had for not wanting to see him.

Sometimes I don’t make sense, even to me.

But it wasn’t really an issue right then, because Marlowe had no intention of allowing time for small talk.
“May we begin?” he said crisply, and threw something at me.

I flinched, but it stopped in midair, a little flash of light that resolved itself into the rotating head of a man. It wasn’t a flat, computer-like image, but solid and 3-D, like one of Madame Tussaud’s pieces had suddenly come to life. It was creepy as hell.

Of course, considering the subject, that was a given.

The pale gray eyes, white-blond hair and manic expression would have been disturbing enough—Jonathan didn’t even try to look sane. But it wouldn’t have mattered. The guy could have been the friendliest-looking on the planet, and the memory of the last time I’d seen him, and of his face as he pushed his fingers and then his whole hand into Louis-Cesare’s side, would have been enough to send a bad taste flooding my mouth.

It didn’t seem to be making Marlowe too happy, either. His previous neutral expression had slipped into a sneer of distaste. “Is this the man you meant?”

“I—yes.”

“How certain are you?”

“He didn’t name himself, but I don’t know a lot of necromancers. And I’ve only ever wounded one.”

“Wounded?”

“He said I clipped him.”

“Well, I thought you did more than that,” Radu said, sounding aggrieved. “The bastard was supposed to be dead months ago!”

“He is not so easy to kill,” Louis-Cesare said quietly.

He was watching the revolving head entirely without expression. As if he wasn’t looking at the face of the man who had kept him prisoner for months, taking him to the edge of death night after night, in order to drain him of every last bit of magical energy. And then feeding him up, coaxing him around, relying on Louis-Cesare’s abilities as a powerful first-level master to bring him back from the brink.

But only so he could do it again. And again. And again.

And yet Louis-Cesare just stood there, as calmly as if we were discussing the weather. I didn’t think I could do that, if I were him. In fact, I wasn’t feeling so calm anyway. I had a real, deep-seated desire to grab that smug, revolving face, to sink my fingers into that pasty flesh, to squash it between my hands and watch it explode like a—

I suddenly noticed that everyone was looking at me strangely. But nobody said anything. I sat back in my chair and folded my hands.

“If that is all she has for identification, he may well be,” Marlowe told Radu sourly, after a moment. “It’s damned little to go on.”

“He wasn’t in a talkative mood,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “But he knew Radu was my uncle. And not many people do.”

“And it is a favorite device of his,” Louis-Cesare added, “to feign death. To take on a new name and begin again, throwing off his pursuers. He is Waldron this century; when I knew him, he was VanLeke.”

“This century?”

“He was born, as far as we can ascertain, sometime in the Middle Ages,” Marlowe said shortly.

I blinked, thinking I’d heard him wrong. “What?”

Louis-Cesare nodded. “I do not know the exact year, and am not certain that he does. But he mentioned once, while I was his prisoner, that he remembered his father taking him to Cordoba when Spain was still under Muslim rule.”

“But…that would make him what? Five, six hundred years old?”

“At least, yes,” he said, his voice steady. As was his hand when he handed me a cup of coffee. “I would say older. I did not get the impression that the Reconquista was threatening the city at the time. He and his father had fled there specifically because it was quiet.”

“Cordoba was retaken in 1236,” Mircea said. “Meaning he could be eight hundred or more, assuming he was telling the truth.”

“He had no reason to lie to me,” Louis-Cesare said.
“At the time, he did not believe I would ever leave his hands again.”

Everyone went silent for a moment, out of respect for what he’d been through. Everyone except me. I wasn’t interested in mourning what had happened. I was interested in making sure it didn’t happen again.

And it could, if one damned necromancer was still alive. Louis-Cesare had fallen into Jonathan’s hands because he’d traded himself for Christine, to be drained in her place. And Jonathan had never forgotten his source of unlimited power or ceased trying to get him back.

“I don’t understand,” I said harshly. “I know it’s possible to extend life with magic, but
that
much?”

“It can be done,” Marlowe said grimly.

“Then why doesn’t everyone do it?”

“Because not everyone wishes to go mad!” He made a savage gesture, and the disembodied head disappeared.

He was looking a little tense, so I looked to the others for an explanation. Which Radu was happy to provide. ’Du loved to lecture.

“Magical humans are symbiotic creatures,” he told me pleasantly, crossing one silk-hosed leg over the other and sipping at his coffee. “Unlike vampires, or normal humans, they derive energy from two different sources. In effect, they are human talismans, feeding from the natural magical energy of the world as well as from food.”

“I thought they made magic.”

“It would be more accurate to say that they process it, transforming it from its natural, wild form into something they can use. Some of them are better at that than others, of course, and those who are tend to live longer. They can rely more on their magic as their human bodies begin to fade. It’s quite fascinating, really.”

“The stronger the mage, the longer the life,” Ray said, quoting an old saying. Which was a mistake, because it reminded Marlowe that he was there.

“You. Out,” he said, hiking a thumb over his shoulder.

“Why? I was there—”

“And you gave your statement last night. I don’t know what the hell you’re even doing here.”

“Supporting my master.”

“Supporting—she is
not
your master!”

“Yeah, well. We’re in negotiations.”

And suddenly something shifted behind Marlowe’s eyes. The rich brown went dark and flat and dead, and I put a hand on Ray’s arm because he did not need to make a wrong move right now. Not that I thought it was too likely. He’d frozen in place, the bones in his wrist going completely rigid. It was like I was gripping a statue.

Until Marlowe said: “Get. Out.”

Ray got out.

Sometimes he could be smart.

There was a momentary lull while coffee cups were refilled and Marlowe presumably choked down his desire to kill everyone in sight.

“If it’s something that they can do naturally, then why does it drive them mad?” I finally asked.

“There is nothing natural about what Jonathan does,” Louis-Cesare said.

But Radu shook his head. “A mage consuming someone else’s magic is no more unnatural than a human taking drugs. The problem is the amount.”

“Jonathan is overdosing?” I guessed.

“In a way, yes. But he doesn’t really have a choice at this point. It is possible to extend a mage’s life, but it requires a great deal of energy. And as the years pass, the amount needed grows, as their human side breaks down and they become more and more dependent on magic to survive. Considering his age, it is safe to say that Jonathan receives all or almost all of his life energy from magic, and his body cannot possibly produce so much on its own.”

“But it’s still just magic.”

“Yes, but it isn’t
his
, you see. And mages are supposed to feed off a mix of food and magical sources. When they start feeding their bodies
only
magic, it throws off that balance. And when they begin feeding them multiple different
types
of magic, since it is not usually possible to obtain as much as they require from a single source, and when some of those types are not even human…”

“They short-circuit their brains.”

“Something like that. It’s very much like a human taking too many drugs, and mixing them in ways they weren’t designed to be mixed. It rarely ends well.”

“None of which is the point,” Marlowe said severely.

“The point is, where is he getting it?” Mircea said.

Marlowe nodded. “He is hemorrhaging magic every moment, simply by existing. Not to mention any spells he may do, and if he was the one behind last night’s fiasco—” He threw up his hands. “Even were he on the premises—”

“He wasn’t,” I replied. “At least, that’s what he said.”

“He was likely telling you the truth. He is not one to risk his own neck,” Louis-Cesare said bitterly.

“Which means he was having to project over a distance,” Marlowe said. “Which requires even more energy. Someone, somewhere, is feeding him a great deal of power. A very great deal.”

“Which may well be why we haven’t heard from him,” Radu pointed out. “He doesn’t need Louis-Cesare if he is being fed, so to speak, by someone else.”

“But why?” I asked. “What does a smuggling ring need with an ancient, crazy necromancer?”

“This isn’t about a smuggling ring!” Marlowe snapped.

Mircea agreed. “Smugglers work best in secret, trying to hide their tracks and avoid the authorities. They rarely provoke them, and certainly not in such ways.”

“Then who does?” I asked.

“Someone who wants to make them look bad.”

“What?”

Marlowe nodded. “That could be one point of this whole fiasco—making us look like fools. We finally persuade the senates into an alliance for the war—an alliance, I might add, that is paper-thin and hanging by a thread—”

“You think this is about the war?”

“What else? If someone wanted to make us look weak, they could hardly do better than to kill our agents at will, to attack us in our own base—”

“We think that’s why they—whoever they are—needed
Jonathan,” Radu explained. “To attack Central. There’s not too many ways in there, you know.”

“And then there’s the matter of what they did when they broke in,” Marlowe said, and threw something else into the air.

This image was flat, black and white and grainy. A security camera feed, I supposed. It hovered in the air like the other, only it was transparent enough that I could see Radu blinking at me from the other side. I shifted in the chair slightly, putting the wall as a backdrop, and saw the main doors at Central. Frick was being buzzed through at the head of the group of Slava’s boys, who filed into the lobby and—

“What are they doing?” I asked, stunned.

“Slitting their throats,” Marlowe said, as the group did exactly that, almost in unison.

And, as anyone would, the vamps at the desk ran forward to try to stop the slaughter—and ended up being part of it. Frick threw something on the ground, sending a wash of smoke into the air that obliterated the camera feed for a moment. And when it cleared, the guards were gone and the gaping hole I had found when I arrived was in their place.

It looked like a pit out of hell, the edges still smoking and on fire. Which didn’t stop Jonathan’s zombies from jumping down into it in orderly rows. They were completely fearless, completely without hesitation, despite the fire and vamp flammability and the resistance they were about to meet. I watched them, mesmerized, the hair standing up on my arms, the eerie quiet making it all the more disturbing.

“They bypassed the main defenses by going through the floor,” Mircea told me. “And then proceeded to kill everyone they came across. The acid compound in their veins made it easy.”

I nodded. The fight with Slava had given me a heads-up—I had known to stay out of range. But the vamps at Central hadn’t. And even if they won a fight, the tainted blood that sprayed all over them would begin eating them alive, slowing them down, and then the next group
they met, when they were already confused and weakened and in pain—

I shuddered. And apparently I wasn’t the only one.

“Turn it off,” Radu rasped.

“She needs to see—”

“She’s seen! Turn it off!”

The staticky horror blipped out, like an old-fashioned TV signal, and Radu got up and went to the bar. Which is how I ended up with a glass of very fine port.

It didn’t help much.

“They killed every single person there?” I asked. “I thought maybe someone…was hiding.…”

“No,” Louis-Cesare said. “Only Radu and Ray survived, thanks to you. Those creatures killed everyone else.”

There was a short silence. Very short, because Marlowe wasn’t in the mood for introspection. Marlowe was in the mood for blood.

“But that is all they did!” he rasped. “They didn’t even bother to turn off the damned cameras! We’ve watched the whole event now, several times, and there was no copying of files, no attempt to access the vault, no prisoners liberated. They came in, they killed everyone, the end.”

“Why?”
I asked, bewildered. “And how do you get a whole group of people to die for you? Especially like
that
?”

“We believe they were likely already dead when they arrived,” Mircea said quietly. “And that the throat slitting was merely a diversion. As to the why…It is possible that the idea was to give everyone a reason to question whether the alliance should stand. And, if it does, under what leadership.”

It took me a moment to process that. “You’re saying this could be someone on
our
side?”