Midnight's Daughter
Page 34

“No alcohol,” Mircea said without bothering to look at him. I guess he must have smelled it.
“Forgive me, my lord,” Jack murmured obsequiously. “I merely thought, to prevent infection—”
“She is dhampir,” Mircea said curtly. “She doesn’t contract infections. Leave us.”
Jack bowed deeply and backed out of the room, either to show respect or because he didn’t dare turn his back on Mircea. There was a vibrating tension in the air, sort of like the tremors before a volcano erupts. I concentrated on staying upright while Mircea carefully washed the wounds on my back, wetting an area, patting it dry, pausing to apply pressure here and there to the cuts that were still bleeding, then starting over again. I wouldn’t let him touch my stomach—I assumed I was going to die anyway, so what was the point?
Slowly, the letters began to show more clearly. It took forever and was excruciating, but I was so close to passing out that I barely noticed.
“Can you read it?” Augusta asked when Mircea had finished and set the bowl aside.
“Bandage her wounds,” he said after a moment, ignoring her. “See that she lives.”
“Mircea!” My lips were numb, but somehow I forced the words out. “If you do not finish this tonight, if you leave him any avenue by which to return, I wash my hands of the whole affair. Next time, you will hunt him alone.”
The only answer I received was the door shutting softly behind him. My head drooped to rest on the edge of the bed. My reflection showed that a few of the shallower cuts were already starting to knit together, blurring the edge of some words like random strokes of an eraser. The whole thing would be illegible in a few hours.
Drac had carved his challenge to Mircea into my flesh, then gutted me and left me to stagger back on my own to the house the vamps were renting. And it had worked. Mircea had gone off to meet him, but instead of killing the son of a bitch who had just carved up his daughter, he was going to trap him in some concoction of the Senate’s, all neat and tidy and problem solved.
I swallowed bitterness and stared at the door, trembling with exhaustion and waiting to pass out from the blood loss. It had some impressive dents where my fist had hit it earlier, but it was solid. Nonetheless, I could dimly hear a low-voiced conversation on the other side. I was breathing in pants, trying to get enough air into my lungs to satisfy their craving, but I managed to catch snatches of it anyway.
“The Consul grows impatient and demands a solution, or at the very least an update. I have to tell her something—”
“She will have her solution, tonight.”
“And what will that be? The dhampir is right. You must kill him!”
“This is a family matter, Augusta—it does not concern you.”
Jack’s voice sounded again, stronger than the others, perhaps because he was making no effort to be quiet. “Do I have your permission to attend her, master?” I didn’t catch the reply, but the door opened a moment later and in he came, with bandages, a new basin of water and a small black bag. I eyed it suspiciously, but he took out only a length of thread and a scary-looking needle. He tugged me onto the rug and examined my stomach with a critical eye.
“He may not have been responsible for the deaths of Jack’s victims, but he has been making vampires without permission, and not registering them. For that alone, he will surely be sentenced to death. Kill him now and spare your family the shame of a public execution.”
“Release my arm, Augusta. I do not have time to discuss this with you, even were I so inclined.”
Jack had started to sew me up, and I badly needed something to distract me from the pain. Why wasn’t I unconscious? The needle plunged in and out of my flesh as I stared at the door, straining to hear the conversation.
“Mircea!”
“You do not understand the situation.” Mircea’s voice was calm, but I knew him well enough to recognize the thread of anger running through it.
“What is there to understand? If he had insulted one who belonged to me in such a fashion, I would crack his skull like an egg!”
“And thereby give him exactly what he wants!”
Jack used fine, even stitches, I noticed in something like a daze. He’d have made a good tailor. “If he wants to die, he has merely to say,” Augusta whispered viciously. “There would be no lack of volunteers to grant his wish!”
“And they would be slaughtered for their trouble. Why do you think he provokes me—threatening Radu, attacking Dorina? He wants to die by my hand and no other.”
“Then give him what he wants!” I would have echoed Augusta’s sentiment if I’d had the strength.
“No.” Mircea’s voice was hard as stone. “Let him live and remember, not die and forget!”
I heard him stride away and a moment later, Augusta slammed back into the room. “She will live, master,” Jack told her, unruffled. “I swear it.” He patted my hair almost fondly. “I am not surprised that the count did not like this one. There is no fear in her.”
I wondered, as I finally allowed myself to pass out, how anyone could be so wrong.
Chapter Fourteen
“Dorina!” Hands were clenched frantically on my shoulders. Whoever was holding me was shaking. I gripped strong arms in both hands, struggling to reconnect with the present. “Are you all right?” someone demanded.
I was back, I realized. Shocked to the core, but back. “Never better.” My laugh sounded thin and ragged even to me. I let it peter out.
My eyes focused enough to see Louis-Cesare staring down at me. He didn’t look much more composed than I felt. Panic had washed the color from his face, leaving his eyes insanely blue. “You are not all right.”
“It wasn’t so bad,” I said, still half-confused about where we were. My eyes saw grass and stars and fireflies, but my brain kept telling them they were wrong. Only the lighting was right: the dim glow from the house approximating candle flame. “He wanted to be sure I lasted long enough to deliver the message. . . .”
Louis-Cesare said something extremely rude in French. I blinked at him. It took me a moment to realize that he was talking about Drac. But how did he know . . . ? “You saw.”
He nodded grimly. I felt the flex of strong biceps under my palms as his grip tightened. “As if the memories were my own.”
I peeled a wet strand of grass off my cheek. It felt clammy, like the touch of Jack’s hands. “Sorry about that.” It seemed pretty inadequate, but it was the best I could do at the moment.
I managed to sit up. The hands gripping my shoulders dropped away, but the fingers dragged almost reluctantly down my arms. It was a tiny thing, lasting the space of a heartbeat, but it sent something weightless coiling through my stomach.
I leaned against the water-slick side of the fountain for support, but it wasn’t enough. The scene around me telescoped without warning and I sagged face-first into more wet grass. Louis-Cesare pulled me back into his arms. I should have protested, but the heat of his chest at my back was soothing. I’d get up and face whatever had just happened; I’d force my body to a strength I didn’t feel, in a minute. . . .
We sat there not saying anything. I was too confused to speak. I hurt, but not in the right places. I wanted to clutch my stomach, even though it was one of the few parts of my body that didn’t ache. But it felt like it should, like those stitches were still being punched through my flesh. Like it had really all just happened again. And then there was the feeling of Louis-Cesare’s heart beating against my back, his legs solid on either side of mine. He had dropped his head to my shoulder, and the sound of his breathing in my ear was steady and sweet. “I’m sorry, too,” he whispered, and I found I couldn’t talk at all.
His thumbs began digging into the knotted muscles of my shoulders, kneading the tension expertly away. After traveling from my neck to the small of my back, they worked their way up again, wringing the aches from my body. I closed my eyes, feeling my muscles relax one by one, and my head dropped forward. I heard my own murmur of contentment, but it sounded impossibly far away, lost in the hypnotic stroking of Louis-Cesare’s hands.
There was a sharp callus along the side of his index finger. He flinched a little when I reached out and captured that hand, held very still while I stroked lightly over it. The skin was uneven, just a little rough, and the flesh beneath was hard. He was watching me touch him, and I could hear his breath halt in his throat.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d sat like this with anyone. Kindness after cruelty, warmth in a cold place, tenderness instead of suspicion: none of it was supposed to come to me, and certainly not from a vampire. Uncertainty fluttered through my stomach. What was I doing? I dropped his hand and started to move, to pull away, when his voice stopped me. “Why did Dracula torture you?” he asked softly.
“What did Jonathan do to you?” I shot back, expecting that to end the conversation.
He surprised me. “Something similar. Someone important to me . . . a witch . . . was taken by the Black Circle. They intended . . . you know they steal power, from whom-ever they can?” I nodded slowly, barely moving my head. I didn’t say anything, afraid to break the mood, afraid that he would disappear back inside that shell of his and I’d never find out what was going on. “What you may not know is that, taken to extremes, it kills their victim.”
Actually, I did know that. A normal human isn’t simply someone with no magic; he is a completely different species. If magical creatures lose all their magic, that doesn’t somehow transform them into norms. It kills them, by draining away something they need to exist as much as humans need blood.
“What happened?” I asked cautiously.
Louis-Cesare shrugged, and I could feel the movement along my back. “I offered myself in exchange.”
“You did what?” I was sure I’d heard wrong.
“Jonathan is addicted to magic the way some humans are to drugs. But, as with drug addicts, he has difficulty finding a steady supply. Powerful magic users—the only kind that can appease his hunger—are not easy to catch. And even when he is successful, the sacrifice can only provide one ‘hit.’ Then the subject dies, and another must be obtained.”