Death's Mistress
Page 58

“All right, that’s enough!” The cop dropped to issue a warning to whoever the joker was below, and I caught another bottle that had been about to bean me.
I whipped it back at its thrower—a young guy standing at the top of the bleachers. He and a group of friends had been talking to the driver of the Bug, who was still pointing in our direction and yelling. And then they froze, gawking at something behind me with their mouths still open.
I spun around to see almost the entire crowd staring at the huge mirror. In between showing the races, it had been reflecting interviews with noted drivers, car sponsors and paid ads. Only it was hard to imagine what that particular image could be selling.
But one thing was certain: the man seated in the large armchair wasn’t going to be giving any more interviews.
Chapter Thirty
The man sat facing the camera, legs crossed, slumped slightly to one side in a large wingback armchair. A cigarette burned in an ashtray by his elbow, which was odd, since he looked to have been dead for at least a century. His skin was brown and withered, like old leather; his hair was stark white; and his lips had shriveled up and drawn back from his teeth, giving him a sort of ghastly smile.
“And now a word with returning champion, Peter Lutkin!” an announcer burbled obliviously.
Lilly screamed.
She wasn’t the only one, and a moment later, the carefully controlled chaos wasn’t so controlled anymore. Some people were still sitting in shock, staring at the gruesome image of the dead man. But others were surging to their feet, demanding explanations, calling for their kids, gathering up belongings. The cheerful, raucous mood of a second before was completely gone.
That was particularly true after a couple of stunned drivers collided near the sidelines. One of them must have dropped some oil or gas on something inflammable, because a nearby tent went up in flames. If anyone had forgotten we were at war, the pillar of black smoke billowing skyward was a damn good reminder. The already panicked crowd broke and ran.
I jumped over the side of the car, ignoring—like everyone else—the magically enhanced voice telling us to remain calm and in position. The Boogie Board broke my fall, and the momentum of my landing pushed it off on a long glide toward the bottom of the stands. I was congratulating myself on finding a fast way off the bleachers when a sudden updraft flipped the board, leaving me dangling upside down as I careened over the driveway.
My sweat-slick fingers lost their grip about the same time that a truck flew by underneath. I dropped to the bed, then used it as a platform to launch myself at the bumper of a passing patrol car that was screaming toward the house. I rode it past a couple of wide-eyed guards and straight into the private courtyard.
Of course, I didn’t get any farther. Unlike Elyas, the consul didn’t believe in taking chances with her front line of defense. The guard who snatched me out of the air was at least a second-level master, and I strongly suspected his buddy of being a first. I wasn’t going anywhere.
Until providence intervened in the form of panicked humanity. The expensive race cars were suddenly not the only vehicles on the track, as people who couldn’t get out the main gates started cutting corners. Half a dozen plowed through the air overhead and swerved around the house, heading for the road and the ley line running through it.
One rusted El Camino clipped the plaster as it tore past the side of the house, sending a cloud of particles into the air and exposing the raw brickwork below. The vamp holding me swore. I could practically hear his thoughts. If a sideswipe could do that, what would a head-on collision do? Particularly if the car had a full gas tank.
I suddenly became a lot less interesting. As far as he was concerned, I was merely a frightened human. He thrust me and a set of magical cuffs into the arms of a young servant who was hovering under the impressive Roman-style portico, out of the sun. Then he and his buddy took off after the floating battering rams.
The young vamp had soft brown hair that brushed his shoulders, soft blue eyes and soft pink lips that didn’t completely hide glistening fangs. They were out because he was hungry. At his level, he should have been in a safe room somewhere, dreaming of plump pink wrists. But it looked like it was all hands on deck for the races, and at his power level, that meant a heavy drain on his resources.
He clearly thought a snack was in order. He smiled gently as he reached for me. “Don’t worry; this won’t hurt.”
I smiled back. “Actually, I’m pretty sure it will.”
A moment later, the stunned vamp’s arms were cuffed around one of the support pillars, and I was through the front door. There were no wards, as I’d half expected; I suppose with all the people coming and going from the races, it would have been impossible to keep them up. But it seemed odd that the consul, who wasn’t known for taking chances, would forgo such an elementary—
It hit me suddenly, like a punch to the gut, sending me staggering into a wall. Not a ward or a weapon, but a massive sense of presence. I’d been around vampires all my life, but not hundreds, not senior-level masters, not all together under one roof. My vampire sense almost blew my head off.
Of course she didn’t need wards, I thought, clutching the wall for support. Who the hell was going to walk into that? Only I had, and damned if I was going to turn tail and run because of a feeling, no matter how uncomfortable.
But if I wasn’t going to run, I had to move. The baby vamp must have called for help by now, and I was standing in the main damn hallway. Horatiu couldn’t have missed me, much less the kind of guards the consul kept on hand. And there was no Mircea around to tell anyone that this was one dhampir they shouldn’t kill.
Just breathing was hard enough; actually going anywhere sounded absurd. The very air felt thick and heavy in my lungs, like a couple extra atmospheres were suddenly pressing down from above. My breathing was ragged and my feet felt like they weighed at least a ton each. Merely staying upright was a struggle.
Just get to the next room, I told myself sternly. It’s a couple of yards, that’s all. Then you can face-plant onto the nice marble floor.
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.”