Chapter Fourteen

Mircea, Venice, 1458

The rain hadn’t stopped; if anything, it was heavier now, splashing down on the canal and the top of Mircea’s gondola. It should have blotted out the lights on the palazzo ahead, just as it had smothered the moon and gutted the torches outside the other great houses they’d passed. But the palazzo defied the weather, burning so brightly that it almost appeared to be on fire, with every window flooded with light and flickering with the moving shadows of guests.

The gondola hit the dock, a gentle bump, and Mircea leapt out. To no reception, because the guards who should have been there were huddled under the loggia, trying to stay out of the rain. And mostly failing; the wind kept blowing it in the sides.

One of them glanced at him uninterestedly as he approached, hurrying through the wet with his cape clutched around him. He should have been known to them, after the numerous times he’d visited during the past two months, but there was no recognition in those eyes. A vampire not even twelve years out of the grave wasn’t worth remembering.

He did not ask how old they were. He didn’t have to. The bright silver breastplates with the Medusa-head design, the rich green silks, and the short-bladed falchions they wore were all impressive, but less so than the power they were radiating. Which threatened to burn him even yards away.

The city watch was supposedly there to keep order in the vampire population, but in Mircea’s experience they were the guardians of the elite. And as these were guarding the most elite of all, he supposed it made sense that they were so bright with power that his inner eye could barely look at them. They could have reined that in while he fumbled around under his cloak for the letter granting him admission, but they didn’t. Watching him squirm was probably the most entertainment they’d had all night.

Until he couldn’t find it.

Damn! He’d been in such a hurry that he must have left it at home. And there was no possibility of getting in without it. He knew that even before one of them gave him a friendly shove that almost resulted in his taking a bath in the canal.

“Run back to your master, dog. Tell him you broke your leash!”

Mircea’s hand reached unbidden for his boot, and the knife therein. And then froze, stock-still, like the rest of him, when two swords suddenly flashed in his face. He hadn’t even seen them move.

“Or maybe we’ll tell him ourselves, when we deliver your gutted carcass.”

Mircea backed slowly away, hands where they could see them, and they let him go. The impression conveyed was that it was more from a desire not to get wet than any concern over him, or the feelings of his nonexistent master. A vampire forced to use one such as him as an errand runner wasn’t worth fearing.

But that was the thing about power, Mircea thought, as he nipped down an alley and started scaling the side of the palazzo: it made a person complacent. The guards out front were impressive in size and outfitted luxuriously, right down to the stone in the pinkie ring one had sported on a meaty finger, which exactly matched his emerald silks. But they were there more for show than anything else.

After all, who would be crazy enough to burgle the praetor?

The term was an old-fashioned way to designate the leading magistrate in a territory. And since Venice was one of the wealthiest and most influential vampire territories in all Europe, its praetor was rivaled only by the awe-inspiring consul herself. Mircea had a healthy respect for that kind of power.

But he was also running out of time to help his daughter, and he wasn’t going home empty-handed. Not when he knew that the praetor’s pinch-nosed bastard of a secretary always kept his window open, to air out his fetid work space. Fortunately, that was true even in a rainstorm, which was why all the papers near the window were already soggy even before Mircea slid neatly over them.

And then almost broke his neck anyway, because the place was a wreck.

The pompous creature insisted on calling it a studiolo, as if he were Petrarch, hard at work on his latest scholarly achievement, surrounded by art and antiquities. In reality, it was a cramped cubbyhole off the vamp’s bedroom, filled with dirty wineglasses and smelly plates of anchovies he kept forgetting about, which slowly moldered under tall piles of books, clothes, and household accounts. Which was why Mircea had to crawl under a table to get out of the mess.

But he managed it. And once he shed his soaked cloak in the quiet corridor beyond, he looked almost respectable. He ran a hand through his hair, stashed the cloak behind a vase, and joined the party.

And quite a party it was.

Mircea made his way through a chain of rooms, some devoted to dancing, some to gambling, and others to lounging and deal making, and all of them awash in people. For this wasn’t merely a party, just as it wasn’t merely a house. It was the vampire counterpart to the Doge’s Palace and every bit as splendid, with the same type of inlaid floors, mural-covered walls, and fine paintings and statuary.

Normally, he had to force himself not to dawdle in front of the latest piece of art, because there was always something new. But tonight, he felt his steps quicken, not slowing even at the sight of a faun caught in perfect, fluid marble. Or at the fascinating snippets of mental conversation that he wasn’t supposed to hear, but that floated his way anyway, thanks to his growing abilities.

“—merely pointing out that age isn’t the question; it’s all about power—”

“And you think the praetor is more powerful than the Lady?”

“Not now perhaps, but in time—”

“How much time? The consul is two thousand years old! If you really think—”

“I don’t think anything. Except that power ebbs and flows, like the tide. Best watch the current, see which way it goes.”

Mircea normally would have paused at that, because he had reason to have some loyalty to the consul in question. But there were always schemes and power plays, and he had more immediate concerns. And the consul was perfectly able to take care of herself.

Of course, the same could be said for the object of his search, whom he finally spied in an open courtyard at the end of the hall. And who spied him at almost the same time, lifting a glass and laughing. “Mircea! Come join us!”

The husky, somewhat masculine voice belied an elegant appearance, which could have stepped right off an ancient plinth. It helped that the elaborate hairstyles preferred by Venetian ladies, full of swags and braids and buns, mimicked closely those of old Rome. And that the current favorite style of evening gown, with its low-cut top and flowing draperies, could, if one squinted, be mistaken for ancient attire. Her coloring was perfect for the part, too: burnished olive complexion, huge brown eyes, and high, arched brows as dark as his own.

She drew the eye, but that wasn’t why he was here. It also wasn’t why she was surrounded by sycophants, flatterers, and hangers-on, who coveted the vast patronage she controlled. For the praetor, the most powerful person in Venice and one of the leading lights of the vampire world, was a woman.

It was one of the many things that Mircea was still adjusting to in his new reality, where either sex could make Children, where power trumped everything else, and where none of the old rules applied.

But he was getting used to it. Like he was getting used to the perpetual parties, because Lucilla seemingly did business nowhere else. Which probably explained why there was such a throng in the garden.

Although there might be another reason, Mircea realized, finally breaking through the crowd to see what all the excitement was about.

The little party within a party was situated in the open courtyard at the heart of the house, although it was half covered tonight by a series of awnings to keep out the wet. They seemed to be working, at least enough to protect the lamps burning here and there along the walls. But in the center—

Mircea jumped back, along with the crowd around him, as something huge came sailing at them out of the firelit darkness. It hit down on the wet flagstones where he had just been standing, then snarled and righted itself, ignoring the blood turning the puddles beneath it a darker color. It took Mircea a moment, despite the fact that he was almost on top of the thing, to realize what he was seeing.

He pulled away as it resumed its feet, a huge brown bear shaking wet fur onto the squealing partygoers, and taking off—

For the house.

“No, no, my cowardly creature. Not that way.”

The booming voice was coming from someone standing in the center of the garden, where the awnings didn’t reach. A man was laughing in the deluge, a bloody sword dripping onto the stones around him, a hand raised. Or no, Mircea thought, as a series of doors slammed shut behind him without human aid, not a man.

A mage.

As if to underscore Mircea’s thought, a whip spiraled out of the mage’s hand, formed from some kind of blue-white light. It snapped through the air as the injured animal reared back, its one avenue of escape cut off, and a cascade of sparks rained down on the pavement. They hissed in the water, and the vampires around Mircea pulled back, their instinctive fear of fire overcoming their enjoyment of the entertainment.

The animal, on the other hand, had nowhere to go.

It turned, fur wet with both blood and rain, dragging a back foot that leaked a crimson line across the wet stones. It was injured and vulnerable, surrounded by fire and gleeful faces laughing at its distress, and cheering for the death that was inevitable now. It roared in pain and confusion, and scuttled away from the strange light it didn’t understand.

“No,” someone said, a soft cry of distress.

Mircea glanced around, because that had sounded like a child’s voice, and he couldn’t imagine what one would be doing here. But he saw nothing. Except for the faces of the crowd, splashed with fire and now with spell light, enjoying the mage’s version of a bear baiting. Which was even less fair than the ones in the Campo Sant’Angelo, where the bears were chained to a stake before the dogs were turned loose on them.

“He cheats?”

The same childish voice came again, sounding outraged. Mircea looked around once more, and once more saw nothing. But that was less surprising this time, with the people around him crowding closer, their momentary fear forgotten, as animal and man circled each other, looking for an advantage.

The bear wouldn’t find one, because the mage wasn’t using magic just to fight it. He was also using it to slow the creature down. Mircea didn’t know how, but he had seen enough bear baitings to know that an injured animal becomes more enraged, more deadly, as it feels the end approaching.

It doesn’t look around vaguely, as if half-asleep, and stumble drunkenly even on the legs that hadn’t yet been injured.

The mage was taking no chances, it seemed. Which put this out of the range of sport, if such it had ever been, and into that of slaughter. And lost whatever mild interest Mircea might have had.

But that wasn’t true of someone else.

“He can’t do that! He’ll kill it!”

Mircea’s head whipped around, his heart suddenly pounding. Because this time, he had recognized the voice. And yes, it had been a child’s—his child’s.

“Dorina!” he whispered, staring about, and wondering if he was going mad. There was no possible way she could have followed him here. Not when she was well, and certainly not when he had left her in such a state!

“It’s only bad when we’re both awake at the same time,” she told him, matter-of-factly. And then the crowd roared again, as that strange lash connected, sending the animal limping back in pain and the mage bowing and twirling and showing off. “Daddy, make it stop!”

“Make what stop? Dorina! Where are you?”

“That man hurting the bear. Make him stop!”

Mircea was turning around in circles now, scanning faces, tubs of ornamental bushes, awnings sagging low under the weight of water, putti on plinths. And not seeing his daughter anywhere. He probably looked mad, and would have been receiving more attention, except that the fight had just escalated.

“Make it stop! Make it stop!” Dorina sounded frantic, as the bear acquired another jagged wound.

“I can’t make it stop,” Mircea said, feeling more than a little frantic himself. “The creature doesn’t belong to me.”

“Then I’ll do it.” And the next second, Mircea had the very disturbing feeling of something peeling off his skin, almost like he was shedding it.

But instead he was shedding something else. Something that flitted across the open space like a ripple of air, and sank into the wounded body of the bear. Which shuddered all over, as if in the throes of its final moments, causing a roar to go around the garden and the mage to bow some more, encouraging the applause.

Which is why his back was turned when the bear suddenly leapt up from the ground and struck.

The mage must have been shielded, drawing the barrier down enough that it was indistinguishable from his skin, to make it seem that he was risking more than he was. Because the blow would have dropped him otherwise. As it was, it knocked the sword from his hand, and sent him staggering.

And by the time he regained his footing and turned, it was to the sight of a large brown bear, wet and bloodied and furious—

And holding the sword.

Mircea did a double take, and then just stared. Because he’d seen dancing bears and fighting bears and even a little bear cub on a leash that went around with a bag tied to its neck, like the trained monkeys some of the panhandlers used, collecting donations from the festival crowds. But he’d never seen this.

He didn’t understand how he was seeing it now, because how the hell—

Oh. That was how. Because the sword that the grandstanding mage had been using wasn’t the usual, lightweight sort carried for personal safety. Perhaps he hadn’t thought that one of those would work against such an opponent, or perhaps he had simply wished to show off.

Instead, he’d brought one of the new type being developed at the Venetian armories for the export trade, and designed to be used in battle. One with a thick, two-edged blade and an unusual pommel, where the old handguards had been woven together to form a sort of basket to protect the user’s hand. And which the long, curved claws of a bear could snag quite effectively, it seemed, even without human dexterity.

Not that dexterity appeared to be a problem, because the bear was wielding the weapon like a trained swordsman. Or a trained swordswoman, Mircea thought grimly, recalling Horatiu’s frequent complaints that Dorina was running around with the local children again. And fighting up and down their narrow street using the wooden swords someone’s grandfather had made, playing knights and pirates and whatever else their imaginations could devise.

And, apparently, someone had given them some instruction, because the bear’s stance wasn’t half-bad, Mircea thought, and then shook his head, because he was clearly losing his mind.

Only, if he was, so was the rest of the garden. Everyone was in flux, yelling, laughing, squealing, and pointing. Or pulling back out of the way of the chase, which was quickly moving around the confined space. Or jostling for position with all the newcomers flooding in to see what the fuss was about.

Everyone, that is, except for Mircea.

Who knew he should do something, but had no idea what.

For a moment, he just stood there, hugging the wall and staring like everyone else. Both because the spectacle deserved it and because, while he wasn’t sure what to do, he knew instinctively what not to do: he must not give any indication that he had any special knowledge of what was happening. The farce of a man being chased about by his own pet, which was now spanking him with the flat of the sword every few steps or so, might look amusing, but that could quickly change.

Very quickly.

Mircea had recently brokered an agreement with the Vampire Senate for his dhampir daughter, whom they would normally have killed on sight, to remain unharmed—as long as she stayed under his care and in Venice. Even then, the agreement was good only until she grew up, but at least it gave her a modicum of safety. A modicum that would last exactly as long as her mental abilities remained unknown.

For his kind respected power above all things—as long as it was theirs. But power they didn’t have and couldn’t counter, in the hands of a despised dhampir? Dorina would be dead the moment they knew.

Dorina, Mircea thought softly, careful not to raise even his mental voice. Because many of the vampires here tonight were senior enough that they might pick up on a stray thought, as he had done. That is sufficient. Go home now.

He’ll hurt the bear some more if I do!

I don’t think he’s going to be hurting anything tonight, darling, Mircea thought, which was an understatement. The mage was hysterical, staring around between blows, yelling the names of other mages whom he seemed to believe were pranking him. And then tripping over something, Mircea didn’t see what. And huddling in a little ball, arms over his head, whimpering every time a sword smack landed.

Can you get home alone? Mircea asked. Surreally, the bear looked his way, and nodded.

He swallowed. Go then.

And she did. Because Dorina was always obedient, although one had to remember to state exactly what was required. Otherwise, she had an impressive ability to find ways around even some of his most carefully worded instructions.

Like that one, he thought, as the sword was discarded, flung away into some bushes.

In favor of the whip.

No, no! Mircea thought, but it was too late. Because the whip, which had been sizzling against the ground like a snake made out of lightning, was even easier to use than the sword. The bear scooped the nonburning handle into its mouth, and turned toward the doors to the main part of the house, which were open again thanks to everyone coming this way.

Everyone who suddenly found themselves facing a huge, angry, fire-wielding bear.

Things went about the way one would expect after that, with Mircea being all but trampled as a houseful of finely dressed people screamed and fought and stepped on one another in their panic to get away.

By the time he made it back to his feet and into the house, it was to see overturned tables, shattered vases, burning draperies, and a long, blackened, still-smoking line on walls and floors and furniture, showing where the bear had been. He ran to the front door, just in time to see a fiery whip flaring in the distance, appearing to levitate down the bank of a canal. Because the dark hulk that carried it, and that his softhearted daughter was not about to leave behind, was no longer visible against the night.

Mircea sagged back against the wet bricks of the palazzo, feeling dizzy. And watching two finely dressed guards crawl out of the canal, cursing. And wondered, not for the first time, if he was up to this.

Parenting, he had discovered, was harder than he’d thought.