This was not the kind of place where you wanted to be caught wearing sweats.
“They really went all out, didn’t they?” Ray said, looking about in awe at the mirror-like surface of the marble.
Or maybe it was the silk banners framing every door that got his attention, emblazoned with the Senate logo in vibrant red and gold. Or the pairs of guards, rippling with power, who framed the banners. Or the high-arched ceilings, or the floors inlaid with the consul’s personal emblem in lapis and coral, or the ancient statues and priceless vases stuck carelessly in niches, like bric-a-brac.
So, yeah. All out.
I couldn’t recall being that impressed the last time I was here. But then, I’d been trying not to collapse under the burden of the power that practically permeated the walls. Which wasn’t exactly fun at the moment, either, so it was a relief when we finally stopped in front of a door.
Which promptly opened in my face.
“When you said Jonathan, did you mean Waldron?”
I blinked at Marlowe, who had been looking worse every time I saw him and now appeared to have been dragged through a combine backward. He was still in the purloined clothes from last night, despite having had plenty of time to change. In addition to being ill-fitting, they were now dirty and torn and bloody. I stared at a hairy knob of a knee, which was poking through a rip on one trouser leg. He looked like a hobo.
“What?” I asked stupidly.
“The necromancer,” he said, and then popped back inside before I could answer. I guess the idea was for me to follow him, which I would have—if there hadn’t been two grim-faced soldier types still in front of me.
One of whom was flat out staring me down.
And fingering the pommel of the sword at his side. You know, the sword he looked like he’d like to show me personally just as soon as I gave him the slightest excuse. Like trying to push him out of the way, for instance.
It occurred to me that this level of animosity was a little unusual. Not if we had met somewhere at random—plenty of vamps have taken against me through the years for the terrible crime of existing. And that was without my occasional diplomatic failure. But here. Now. In the consul’s home, within a short distance of a bunch of people who would not be happy to see me in pieces.
Not until they’d questioned me, anyway.
Of course, if he’d been among those whose feelings got hurt last night…
But no. He’d still have to have his lady’s permission to provoke me, since anything else would end with him as target practice for the night. And, of course, she wouldn’t give it. She was classier than that.
Sure she was.
He was still staring at me, and I hadn’t really noticed before that the helmets had protrusions—nose guards and huge chin guards that obscured most of the face. But his stance was enough to make it clear that he was getting a little intense. Like he might not wait for that provocation. Which would be a shame, since if I was about to take a hit, I’d at least like to deserve it.
“I like your skirt,” I told him, smiling gently. And felt the other two guards crowding up behind.
Yeah. This was going to be fun.
Or maybe not.
“Hey! Hellooo?” Ray said loudly, squeezing between two masters, either one of whom could have squashed him like a bug. “We’re here already. Where the hell’s your manners? Let the lady through.”
And weirdly enough, they did. Maybe because Ray had just alerted the whole hallway to the fact that there might be a problem. Or maybe because no one wanted the ignominy of attacking a guy three or four ranks below them. That didn’t exactly add to a person’s rep, not to mention that I would then have been within my rights to demand reparations for any harm done to my servant.
And I wouldn’t be asking for cash.
Upper-level vampire customs were pretty intricate, but Ray seemed to have them down cold. Either that, or he’d gotten lucky. But, hey, I’d take it.
“That was pretty slick,” I told him, as we passed down the hall, unimpeded.
“Don’t talk to me,” he whispered savagely.
“Sorry. I just wanted to say—”
“Nothing. Don’t say anything.”
I brushed his shoulder, and got the stare of death. “You had a fuzzy.”
“God, just—I can’t take you anywhere.”
And then we were through.
Chapter Thirty-one
As interrogation rooms went, it wasn’t bad. It looked a lot like the house I’d just left, but instead of French country, it was English library. Or maybe French library, since the carpets were Aubusson and the paintings were lacking hunting parties or dogs.
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.
