Fury's Kiss (49 page)

“They’re not,” he said, pulling me to the side as a fist started pounding on the door.

It was loud enough to cut through the din and make me jump again, although I’m not a jumper. But my nerves were a little frayed at the moment. A fact that
wasn’t helped when a line of bullets suddenly strafed the door from the other side.

“So I guess we’re going with distraction, huh?” I yelled, as the room went wild.

Louis-Cesare didn’t answer; he just grabbed my hand and pulled me through a horde of waiters beating it with trays of illegal booze, good-time girls fighting croupiers for cash and tough guys pulling guns. And then the door gave way and a bunch of blue-coated cops burst in, yelling orders we couldn’t hear over the din.

Louis-Cesare grabbed my hand and pulled us onto the stage along with the ensemble, who had packed up their instruments and were disappearing behind a cheap red curtain. And down a hall. And behind a set of stairs.

Until we got hung up behind the bass player, who couldn’t get his huge instrument through a narrow exit.

I looked behind us, but there was nothing there. Not even the cops, who had probably assumed that the curtain fronted a wall. “I think we lost her,” I told Louis-Cesare breathlessly, who didn’t look convinced.

Maybe because the lights took that moment to flash out.

“Shit!”

He didn’t say anything. He just picked up the bass, with musician still attached, and threw it behind us. And then jerked me through the doorway. And then on a breathless trip through a stream of memories that went by so fast, they made me nauseous.

I found that the only way to deal was just to concentrate on my feet, which were running over surfaces that changed between steps: scuffed hardwood to mossy stone to cigarette-strewn concrete to inlaid marble to rocky seashore to—

Fire-lit dirt?

I looked up, blinking, when the scene stayed constant for a few seconds. And saw a slur of dark greenery and bright stars that didn’t make sense because I was dizzy and really confused. Like part of my brain was still trying to catch up.

“Where are we?” I slurred, grabbing Louis-Cesare for info and balance.

And got neither. He didn’t answer, and then we lurched and almost went down. I stared at him stupidly for a minute, because Louis-Cesare was a master swordsman; he didn’t stumble. The man practically looked like he was dancing just walking across a freaking room.

Or going to one knee.

Or leaning heavily against me.

Or crumpling to the ground in my arms.

I let him down to the ground, and went into a defensive crouch over him, looking wildly around for our attacker. But all I saw was a tree-strewn hillside under a huge black sky, the Milky Way glittering overhead like a starry rainbow. A small, tumbledown shack stood near the bottom of the hill, and a bonfire was burning at the top. But nothing moved, except for a cool breeze rustling the treetops, a rogue meteor burning up along the horizon and the firelight flickering down the hill.

It looked like we’d outrun her—for the moment.

The bonfire was a ways off, but it was still bright enough to send shadows to play over Louis-Cesare’s face, giving the illusion of movement. But that was all it was. Because he just lay there, even when I shook him.

I pushed up his shirt, which had gone from fine linen to rough homespun, thinking maybe she’d caught him between one transition and another. It doesn’t take much time to slip a stake between the ribs, or to run a knife edge over a neck. And it wasn’t like she hadn’t had enough practice.

But there were no wounds, no blood. No obvious problems at all that I could see. I ran my hand around his throat, then down through the lacings on the front of his shirt. And encountered only fine, unbroken skin. And sat down abruptly, feeling dizzy again from sheer relief.

For a second, I thought seriously about passing out. But I couldn’t afford to do that. Not when it looked like he’d beaten me to it.

Which made no sense. Master vampires didn’t pass out. Master vampires kept coming until you chopped them into little pieces, and sometimes even then. But people didn’t go running around in other people’s memories, either, so tonight was obviously about new experiences.

I looked up again.

There were people circling the bonfire. I could see their bodies if I squinted, silhouetted against the light. Could hear their laughter when the wind was just right, feel the reverberations of their feet if I concentrated. They were pounding out a rhythm to the accompaniment of drums, a flute and what might have been a lyre. It was almost hypnotic: dark figures whirling around a tower of flame, sparks flying high into the sky, a riot of color and light and movement on an otherwise dark hillside.

It didn’t look like something that should be in Louis-Cesare’s memories. Or even in the consul’s. It looked like a pagan kaleidoscope, something that predated history: violent, primitive, dangerous, raw.

It didn’t make me want to go up and say hi.

And I didn’t know what they could do for him if I did. Vampires healed themselves, for the most part. There were potions that could counteract the effects of curses, and low-level necromancers that could speed up healing in the case of particularly nasty wounds. But neither of those was likely to be available here, and anyway, they didn’t apply. Louis-Cesare hadn’t been cursed or wounded. Louis-Cesare was just out cold.

Which left me in a mess.

I couldn’t transition us out of here, because I didn’t know how. And with my guide unconscious, I had no way to contact Mircea and find out. Besides, I’d been a good girl and avoided snooping, so I didn’t know Louis-Cesare’s memories any better than my other half did. Even assuming I figured things out on my own, the only place I could take us was back into my memories.

Where she’d be onto us in about a second.

I closed my eyes for a moment, and just breathed.

I’d had a plan, at the beginning of this crazy ride. It
wasn’t much of one, admittedly, but it was the best I’d been able to come up with under the circumstances. And it still was.

Get him out. All the rest of the hundred or so things clamoring for attention could wait. Just get him out.

Get him out before she found him.

Get him out before she killed him.

Just fucking Get. Him. Out.

I opened my eyes.

We needed to get moving, to put some space between us and where we’d come in. It didn’t matter where—just so the bitch would have to look for us, instead of stumbling over us. Somewhere I might get a few seconds’ warning when she showed up. And somewhere under cover, so I could stash Louis-Cesare out of sight.

I knew where he was; if she came, I’d leave him here and run, because it was me she wanted. If I got away, I could tell Mircea where to go to retrieve him. And if I didn’t…

Well, I’d have a really good incentive to make sure that I did, wouldn’t I? Or to hope that Mircea could find him anyway. Or that he’d wake up on his own and figure a way out.

None of which was going to happen if she found him first.

I got my hands under his arms and started dragging him backward, toward the shack.

It wasn’t far off, and it was downhill, thank God, over a path made of trampled grass that was slick enough to minimize the friction. It should have been a pretty easy trip, despite the six feet four inches of pure muscle I was dragging. But it wasn’t.

Either this mental stuff was exhausting or the week I’d had was finally catching up with me, but I was panting like a steam train and sweating like a pig. And that was before we’d made it halfway there. I stopped for a rest, crouching in the dirt, wishing to God I had something to use as a—

I stopped, cursing myself for being an idiot. The damned place looked so real, it was easy to forget that it
was
in my head
. I could dream up a stretcher—hell, I could dream up a freaking wheelchair, if I wanted—and save my back and legs and thighs, all of which had started seriously to protest.

Only I couldn’t.

I tried again, and again got nothing. I couldn’t remember what I’d done before, but staring at the ground and hoping really hard obviously wasn’t it.
Of course not
, I snarled, and grabbed Louis-Cesare again, preparing to continue with my old buddy the Hard Way.

So much for dreaming up a bazooka if anybody threatened us.

Like the monster in the tall grass, for instance.

I froze, hoping it was a trick of the light. Because I was pretty close to crazed right now, and didn’t need yet another problem. Especially not one with two huge, narrowed eyes peering at me from the side of the path. But there they were anyway—evil, dark and soulless—reflecting the bonfire light like the flames of hell.

And then slowly crossing.

Okaaaay.

I carefully lowered Louis-Cesare to the ground again. No reaction. I edged around him and slowly moved to the side of the path. No reaction. I gradually put out a hand. No reaction.

I jumped forward and parted the grasses—

And had no freaking idea what I was looking at.

It was lying on its side, big and brown and lumpish, and vaguely donkey-like, if donkeys were the size of Clydesdales. And covered in dreads. And simpleminded, because it was not only crossing its eyes but grinning, the massive lips pulling back from equally massive teeth and a lolling tongue.

And then it noticed me looking and it farted.

I just stared for a moment, bewildered.

“Baudet de Poitou,” Louis-Cesare said hoarsely from behind me.

I whirled around. “What?”

“An ancient breed of donkey. We called him Jehan after his bellow—and the local drunk.”

I licked my lips, swallowing my heart back down. “What’s wrong with him?”

“
Rien.
He did this every year.” Louis-Cesare got an arm underneath himself. “Someone would clean out the vat and dump the residue under the tree.”

I belatedly noticed that the path diverged, with one branch going to the shack and the other to a large, round wooden tub with suspicious stains around it. Reddish purple ones. Like those ringing the donkey’s mouth like badly applied lipstick.

“It made him useless for days,” Louis-Cesare added, looking disapprovingly at the great creature.

“Because it made him sick?”

Louis-Cesare looked surprised. “
Non.
Because it would ferment.” His lips pursed. “I suppose you could say he is now…drunk off his ass.”

Jehan bellowed agreement and let out another fart. I squatted down on the path and put my arms over my head. And just stayed there for a minute.

“What happened?” Louis-Cesare finally asked me.

“You passed out.”

“I did not.” It was said with such conviction that I almost believed it.

I turned my head and looked at him through the gap by my elbow. I debated arguing it, but decided I wasn’t up to it right now. “Okay. Then what do you remember?”

“Only that it was becoming…difficult.”

“It?”

“The transitions between memories.”

I raised my head. “But that’s not hard. We do it all the time. Normally, I mean.”

“This is not normal.”

And on that, at least, we could agree.

He’d struggled back to his feet while he spoke. I hadn’t helped because something told me it wouldn’t be appreciated, and because I was feeling a little unsteady myself. But he let me put an arm around his waist as we finished hiking to the shack, supporting me as I supported him. And when we got inside, he quickly made
the acquaintance of a blanket-covered pile of straw on the floor.

I looked around, not that there was much to see. A table but no chairs. A dirt floor. Three stone walls, old and rough and more or less supporting a thatched roof. Which was kind of irrelevant since it was letting in starlight through no fewer than five different holes.

But at least I could see. Between the stars and the light from the bonfire flickering across the stones, I could pretty much make out everything. And for a tumbledown shack in the middle of nowhere, it was stocked pretty well.

“Did you do that?” I asked Louis-Cesare, eyeing the spread laid out on an old table.

It wasn’t anything fancy—coarse brown bread, wine, cheese, butter. And it looked like a lot of it had already disappeared, judging by the greasy wooden platters littered with crumbs and the empty wine barrel lying on its side. But still.

Louis-Cesare shook his head, and then stopped, wincing. “No. It is too difficult. I do not think I can imagine anything into existence at the moment.”

“You don’t think you can?” I repeated, my heart sinking.

“No, why?”

Because I’d kind of been counting on that bazooka. “Because I can’t, either.”

He frowned. “But this is your mind.”

“But it’s
your
memory.”

He peeled off his now-filthy shirt, which had gotten the worst of the path outside. It left him in rough brown trousers that laced up the front, a greasy bandanna around his neck and a pair of scuffed boots. “But you are gifted. Like your father.”

“No,” I reminded him sourly. “
Dorina
is gifted. And thankfully, she’s not here.” I glanced around again. “Wherever here is.”

“France,” he told me, reclining against the hay. “About ten miles from Saumur. Near the village where I grew up.”

“And the bacchanalia going on outside?”

“Vendanges.”

“The grape harvest?”

He nodded. “When I was young, before…” He licked his lips. “Before it was decided to send me away, I lived on a farm in the country. Every year, the local vineyard would hire young people to help pick the grapes, and to stomp them into wine. And once harvest was over, they threw a party.”

“That’s one word for it.” I turned back to the table and started loading up a tray, because it might be only imaginary food, but I was hungry.

“It became customary for young couples to leave early,” Louis-Cesare agreed. “And find one of these. The farmer had four or five scattered about the vineyard to make processing easier. The grapes did not have so far to go.”

“Just as well,” I said, eyeing Jehan through the missing wall. Who stared the stare of the completely blitzed back at me. But at least he didn’t cut wind again.