Chapter Forty-seven

This time, I woke up alone.

The bed was the same as before, so I was still at the consul’s. Oh goody. Even better, someone was bitching.

“—don’t care! I need to talk to her!”

Oh, damn it all to hell. I threw an arm over my face, because that was Marlowe and seriously? I hadn’t lived an exactly perfect life, but what had I done to deserve this?

I lay there for a while, contemplating various vile things I could do to the consul’s stooge. But I honestly wasn’t up to any of them, and repressed aggression would only give me a headache. I got up.

And discovered that I still had no clothes, other than for my bandages. I looked everywhere, but couldn’t find any, not even Louis-Cesare’s trousers. So I wrapped myself in a blanket and peeked out the door.

A couple vamps were there, lounging against the wall, apparently enjoying watching Marlowe have a fit down the hall. Until they saw me. And suddenly stood to attention, like soldiers when an officer walks by.

I blinked groggily at them.

“Uh.”

They didn’t say anything. I got the impression that they were waiting for me to continue my thought, which would have worked better if I’d had one. As it was, we all just stood there, them at what looked like parade rest and me swaying slightly until I grabbed hold of the door.

And acquired a thought.

“Clothes,” I croaked, and to my surprise, one of the guys all but disappeared.

I watched him flee down the hall and frowned. I was pretty sure I’d just said “clothes,” not “I’m going to kill you horribly,” but I wasn’t sure. My head had the fuzzy feeling of a ten-day bender, and right then, I wasn’t sure of anything.

I considered talking to Guy Number Two, but was afraid I’d scare him as well.

“Um,” I said tentatively.

Guy Number Two stayed in place.

So far, so good.

“So. Could you tell me what—”

I stopped, but not because he’d run away. But because somebody else had heard me and shoved his way past Guy Number Three down the hall. “Damn it! I told you to tell me the moment she was awake!”

That was Marlowe, striding this way.

At least, he was until something amazing happened.

Like, seriously amazing.

Like, I actually rubbed my eyes amazing, since I was obviously hallucinating.

What I thought I saw was Guy Number Two—a tall dude who could have been a James clone except for pointier teeth and less hair—put out his arm and place a hand on Marlowe’s chest, stopping him.

Now, half the time Marlowe goes around in Elizabethan slops like a nutcase, and the rest he’s wearing whatever wreck he’s made of his family’s latest effort to dress him like a person so he doesn’t embarrass the hell out of them. Again. However, it’s a case of looks being deceiving, because he is a first-level master and a Senate member.

And Guy Number Two was not.

My brain was finally coming back online, at least enough for me to make a decent guess: Guy Number Two was a strong third- or maybe a weak second-level master. In other words, strong enough to do some impressive shit, but not this impressive. I started to wonder if maybe he had some kind of mental issue, because he was about to be a rather large stain on the carpet.

Only he wasn’t.

“Damn it! Get out of my way!” Marlowe snapped.

“I’m sorry, sir.” And for another strange thing, Guy Number Two did not sound sorry. He sounded . . . annoyed? Put-upon? Slightly bored?

It was bizarre.

Until he cleared it up for me.

“Lord Mircea gave strict orders.”

“Fuck Lord Mircea,” Marlowe snarled. “I’ve waited long enough!”

“And you’ll wait some more. Sir.”

I grinned.

I decided I liked Guy Number Two.

And then his paler friend was back, along with someone else.

“Lady Dorina! How wonderful to see you up and about! How are you feeling this fine morning?”

Burbles, living up to the name.

And looking it, too. I don’t know what I’d expected, but what I got was a jolly round dude with a jolly round face, a double chin, warm brown eyes, and cute little pink lips hiding the fangs that wouldn’t have gone well with that face at all. That, frankly, would have looked absurd. Burbles was a cross between a black Santa Claus and the Michelin Man, and I didn’t know what to do with him at all.

I went with: “Hello.”

“Hello!” He was almost overcome with joy. “You are looking very well, if I may say so.”

It was a lie, but said with such utter conviction that I almost believed it.

It also cleared up an old mystery for me. Mircea’s masters—which is what I guessed all these guys were, or else Marlowe would have been doing more than standing there vibrating at me—were renowned diplomats. Everybody knew it; everybody said it. Their master was the consul’s chief ambassador and resident miracle worker, so it made sense that the family would be, too.

Only I’d never believed a word of it.

Not that I’d met every one of Mircea’s vamps, or even his masters. Until recently, I’d spent most of my time avoiding Mircea, and that included the family. However, I’d met enough through the years to have a serious WTF reaction every time someone told me how charming they were.

They were not charming.

Unless you counted not beating me up and/or hissing at me, like half the vamps I met, so I guess that was something.

But still.

Yet, now I was getting the full treatment, and it was eye-opening. Burbles was sweet. Burbles was joyful. Burbles was thrilled to finally meet me, which was absurd. No vampire—except Louis-Cesare, who was mostly crazy anyway—was ever happy to see a dhampir.

So why was I smiling back at him?

I stopped myself.

It was actually hard.

“Would you like some breakfast? We have some glorious blueberry muffins or heavenly eggs Benedict or—my favorite—a simply divine bananas Foster that our chef makes with bourbon whipped cream. Oh!” He raised his eyes to the ceiling with a hand on his heart. “So good!”

“I’ll have that,” I found myself saying.

I had no idea why.

I don’t even like bananas.

“Excellent choice. I know you’ll be pleased! And perhaps you’d like to pick out an outfit for today?”

“Uh . . . I don’t have any clothes here.”

“But of course you do!” And then Burbles’ hand found his mouth, and his eyes widened in horror. “Oh! You haven’t seen your closet!”

I laughed. I don’t know why. Maybe because he’d intended me to, or because Burbles had just elbowed Marlowe out of the way without apparently noticing.

Or giving a damn.

“Please allow me,” he said, and I somehow found myself back inside what I was only now realizing was a very nice room. Very nice. I stood there in my blanket, taking in the elaborate crown moldings and the massive amount of space and the huge bed and the large, well-appointed sitting room and the closet I hadn’t opened yet because I’d assumed it would be empty. But which instead was big enough inside to count as another bedroom and was stocked full of stuff.

All of which appeared to be in my size.

“What’s this?” I asked, sticking my head in and looking around.

“Your wardrobe,” Burbles told me, making a slight moue of dissatisfaction. “Very preliminary, of course, but we haven’t had a chance to inquire about your preferences yet.”

I looked over my shoulder. “We?”

“Your father, Lord Mircea, lent you thirty or so of his masters. Just to help you get started,” he quickly assured me. “Until you assemble your own.”

“My own what?” I was still trying to figure out how all these clothes got in here.

He looked surprised. “Staff.”

“For . . . ?”

Burbles regarded me for a moment. For the first time, he appeared a little nonplussed. “For . . . whatever you need us for. As a senator—”

I burst out laughing.

Burbles continued to look slightly off-balance.

I appeared to be harshing his buzz.

“Is . . . is something wrong?” he asked, while I started sorting through the clothes, trying to find an outfit that wouldn’t make me look like I was heading for the Oscars.

“Nope. Just that you’re a little behind the times. I’m not a senator anymore.”

In fact, I was kind of surprised I was still alive, all things considered. But Mircea had been there, and I was pretty sure I’d seen Louis-Cesare running into the gallery, looking crazed, just before I passed out. So that probably explained it.

“I—when did this happen?” Burbles asked, appearing confused now. And the fact that I had a really strong urge to walk over, pat him on the back, and tell him everything was going to be okay seriously worried me.

The guy was good.

“About the time I stabbed the consul in the neck?”

He just blinked at me for a moment, and then this . . . fluttering . . . went across the room. Marlowe, who had been bitching in the hall, suddenly shut up, and the three other vamps—two in the doorway, and Burbles a respectful few paces outside the closet—did this thing where they went up on their toes and just . . . fluttered. Shivering all over like birds rippling their plumage.

It was weird.

I’d been looking around for something comfortable to wear, because I didn’t want a waistband to rub against my wound, but hadn’t found anything. So I was eyeing the bathrobe on the back of the door, which would do to get me home, where I had a whole closetful of old sweats waiting to embrace my kicked-around bod. So I reached for it—

And heard a sudden intake of breath from the vamps, and not the good kind. More the Grandma-seeing-your-full-Goth-ensemble-for-the-first-time kind. And hating it.

I felt a small, tentative touch on my shoulder—Burbles, looking even more adorable with huge eyes and a pleading face. “Please?”

It was a whisper.

“Please what? What is wrong with you?” I asked him, because cute or not, he was starting to freak me out.

“Your presence is requested in the salon, my lady, and . . . more formal attire would be . . . preferable.”

Which looks like a totally fine sentence, right? Except that it completely fails to replicate the inflection—and seriously, what Burbles could do with his voice was kind of amazing—which made “preferable” sound like “avoid the terrible heat death of the universe.”

I had no freaking idea what was going on, and was too beat-up to care. I didn’t want bananas Foster. I didn’t want to get dressed up. I sure as hell didn’t want to hang out with anyone in the salon, except possibly Louis-Cesare, and why did I get the impression that this was not about him? I just wanted to go home.

It had been a long night.

“Don’t call me lady,” I said, and finally located some sweats. They were purple and plush, and looked suspiciously like something Radu would pick out, but clothes were clothes. And they felt positively decadent against my abused skin.

I sighed in relief, turned around—

And saw a doorway full of faces staring at me. There was a line of vamps all the way up either side, peering around the jamb, and more in the opening. I didn’t know how they did it. They must have been climbing on top of one another, like some kind of circus act.

With fangs.

“What?” I asked.

And the next thing I knew, I was being engulfed, and me and my sweats were being stuffed inside a “robe,” which was actually more of a caftan stiff with embroidery and little seed pearls and what looked like actual jewel chips making up flowers and leaves and tiny birds and shit. And then I was being hustled out the door, until Burbles yelled: “Waaaaaaaaaait!” And everybody stopped to look at him.

“Shoes,” he pronounced, in a tone that suggested that Armageddon could be avoided only by locating the right footwear.

For a moment, I was treated to the sight of half a dozen master vamps, some of them probably hundreds of years old with courts of their own, diving for the floor and scrabbling around as if finding the right shoes was a matter of life and death.

And I guess they did, only I couldn’t see them because of all the butts in the way, but something was stuck on my feet. Then the lot of us were shuffling down the hall, which was all I could do in whatever the hell I was wearing, and while batting at some lunatic behind me who was trying to comb out my bed head. And while being pressed in between a phalanx of vamps like the filling in a very weird sandwich.

I’d have fought back, but I didn’t have the energy. And I kind of thought that, if they were going to drag me to an interrogation room and chain me to a wall, they’d have done it already. And wouldn’t be so concerned about my wardrobe.

So I had no idea.

Until the fluttery vamps and the clueless dhampir spilled out into a room at the end of the hall, only to see—

Oh.

That was why.

What I guessed was the salon Burbles had mentioned earlier turned out to be a small room with the dark wood paneling and low burning fire of a gentleman’s study, only sans the books. And plus a glittering vampire queen, all in red, because she’d changed from the mostly green ensemble she’d worn before. I suppose because of all the blood.

She was surrounded by her own entourage, a bunch of absolutely massive vampires that I barely noticed because it was kind of hard to look anywhere else.

You had to give it to her; she knew how to command a freaking room.

The outfit helped. It had what I initially thought were red and burgundy flames licking up it, raised from the underlying crimson satin by exquisite embroidery. Only flames don’t move like that. I was still having trouble focusing, but my eyes suddenly got their act together and caused me to almost jump back in alarm, but Burbles was practically on my heels and wouldn’t let me.

Because the “flames” were snakes. The embroidery—and the charm animating it—was so good that they were positively lifelike, with emerald eyes, and tiny garnet or ruby flakes for scales. And little onyx tongues that flicked out here and there, while the bodies squirmed around the tight sheath and plunging neckline.

Her hair was down, a dark river rippling to her knees, and it was spotted with rubies, too, little ones that glittered in the firelight like drops of blood. She wasn’t wearing a necklace, although the J.Lo-worthy décolletage gave plenty of room for it. I guess she thought she’d already made her point.

Or maybe she was making another one by showing off the unscarred expanse of golden skin on her throat.

Well, I thought.

And then I didn’t think anything else.

Except, damn, I wanted that outfit.

The queen’s arrival had apparently thrown everybody into a kerfuffle—everybody except me. Because I wasn’t all that interested in genuflecting if she’d only showed up to murder me in person. But I guess not. Because a long silk-draped arm extended, and a ring-bedecked hand rose into the air, and then just stopped, halfway up.

I looked at it.

The rings contained rubies, too, huge old-world things in heavy gold settings. They glimmered and gleamed and showed off how slender her fingers were. The nails were bloodred and slightly pointy, with a little golden glister at the tips. Impressive, the whole damn ensemble.

I was suddenly kind of grateful for the caftan.

I also had no idea what I was supposed to be doing, but I guess it was something, because everybody was staring at me expectantly. I spied Radu, making some kind of gesture I couldn’t see because I could glimpse him only in between the bodies of the queen’s servants, who were some kind of mutants. Seriously, there wasn’t one under seven feet tall.

“You may kiss her hand,” Burbles informed me, a whisper in my ear.

Yeah, I thought. And she could kiss my—

“Dory!”

That was Radu, speaking aloud, because I guess whatever mental message he’d been trying to send wasn’t getting through.

Not surprising. My head felt heavy, closed off, almost leaden. I wanted to sit down.

No—better yet, I wanted to go home.

But here was some more nonsense I had to get through first.

“Kiss the hand,” Radu said, fairly shrilly, bouncing around behind the tall guys. “Kiss the hand!”

Why? Is she the pope? I didn’t say, because Radu finally fought his way through the crowd and grabbed my head, bobbing it downward before I could tell him where to go.

I did not kiss the damned hand. But I guess it must have looked like I did. Or maybe Her High-and-Mightiness figured that was as good as she was going to get, because it finally withdrew.

“We thank you for your service,” the vision informed me. She glanced around the room. “Twice in a month a dhampir has come to our aid when others failed. It will be remembered.”

Okay. Well, that was bright and shiny, I thought, in some relief. She’d actually wanted to do something nice for a change, and thank me.

I was almost impressed.

She looked back at me. “Is Lady Dorina available? I should like to speak with her.”

“It, uh, doesn’t work quite like that.”

“How does it work?”

The question was mild enough, but it was kind of like Burbles’ comment. It wasn’t the words so much as the inflection. And the fact that she was standing there, glimmering at me, surrounded by a dozen of the biggest vamps I’d ever seen, while her snakes squirmed and her jewels glinted and I started to feel inadequate, which pissed me off. Because, Hey lady, don’t recall inviting you to stop by.

“She comes out when she wants to,” I said flatly. “Or when she sees a threat. I don’t control her.”

“Ah. Then come with me.”

She swept out, along with her entourage, and I found myself being hustled after her, in the middle of mine.