Chapter Fifty-four
Mircea, Venice, 1458
Merda! Mircea grabbed the witch, clapped a hand over her mouth, and spun the two of them back against a wall. And into the shadow of the second story of a house, the kind Venetians liked to push out over the street to gain themselves a little more room.
He thickened the shade around them as much as he could, but his heart was still in his throat as what had to be a hundred vampires rushed past the opening of the alley, just a few feet away. He stayed stock-still, the woman flat against him, her frantic heartbeat sounding like thunder in his ears. And probably in their pursuers’, too, only it was drowned out by real thunder from above.
The last soldier finally passed, but Mircea stayed in place a little longer. Not because of worry that they’d double back, but more because he couldn’t get his body to move. It seemed to like the freezing-cold wall just fine.
But the witch didn’t and started beating on him, so he let her go. Only to find his arm clutched in a surprisingly strong grip. “How the hell are we supposed to get through this?” she hissed. “They’re every—”
Mircea’s hand clapped back over her mouth, winning him a glare worthy of a praetor. He ignored it. Thunder was crashing like ocean waves above them, and echoing off the high, close-packed walls all around. Rain was bucketing down, causing water to cascade off rooflines and shoot out of gutters, crisscrossing the narrow streets with liquid arcs like suspended canals. Meanwhile, the real canals rushed like rivers, adding their roar to the cacophony. But vampire hearing could not be underestimated.
Not aloud, Mircea thought at her, as hard as he could.
She jerked, and stared at him, eyes wide and startled. And Mircea felt welcome relief flood through him. It was easier to communicate mind to mind with his own kind; humans were more problematic, especially magical ones. And God knew nothing else had gone right tonight! But now, at least, they could talk.
Only the witch didn’t seem to agree.
Because he’d no sooner released her again than she started screaming. “Augghhh!”
Stop it! he thought at her frantically.
“Augghhh!”
Shut up! You’re going to get us—ooof. The last was because she’d just elbowed him in the ribs, which hadn’t mattered, and then kicked him in the shin, which had. Mircea’s still-healing bone sent a spear of pain lancing through him, and the witch took the opportunity to scramble away, bouncing off the narrow walls and looking crazed.
Mircea tackled her halfway down the alley, but slipped on some muck, sending them sliding into a wall, and giving her the chance to kick him viciously in the face and run. He felt the little space slur around him, and his eyes go fuzzy for a moment. Damn it, they couldn’t afford this!
Then his vision snapped back, allowing him to spot her, silhouetted by a burst of lightning in the middle of a small bridge, and glowing like a beacon.
Merda!
A moment later, the light flicked out, plunging the scene into darkness. But the heavens cracked open again almost immediately, along with a cannon boom of thunder. Showing Mircea a party of the praetor’s guards instead, their shiny breastplates running with lightning and all but glowing against the now-empty bridge.
Because the witch had disappeared.
The light faded and Mircea hugged cobblestones, hoping against hope that his dark hair and clothes would hide him. And he guessed they did. Because the guards’ steps pounded in another direction, and he clambered back to his feet, his mind whirling with fear and confusion.
He limped down the alley to the little bridge, but still saw nothing. Which was impossible; no human moved that fast! And she’d said she was out of power, so what . . . ?
Oh.
That was what.
A rogue pain had caused Mircea to look down at his calf, just as a dimmer scrawl of lightning flared overhead. It was less blinding than illuminating—in more than one way. He retraced his path, stepped off the bridge, and knelt beside the small, rickety structure to peer underneath.
And saw the witch, huddled in the freezing water up to her neck, probably hoping it would muffle her heartbeat, which it hadn’t. And that it would hide her from the guards, which it had. But only because they’d been distracted by the storm—one that couldn’t last much longer.
Mircea slid down the muddy bank, and got on her level.
The witch’s flame-red hair had been part of a glamourie she could no longer maintain, leaving mousy brown locks to straggle dispiritedly around a face that was less alluring at the moment than pinched and pale and freckled. She had brown eyes, too, not unattractive in their own way, but a far cry from the luminous blue she’d been wearing. Not to mention that everything she had on was soaked.
She looked like a drowned rat.
A very frightened one.
For a long moment, Mircea simply knelt there, listening to the skies, which sounded like they’d had some of Horatiu’s infamous garlic torta. He didn’t want to spook the witch more than she already was, but they couldn’t stay here. They couldn’t stay anywhere.
They were being hunted, and the noose was tightening.
Because their little ruse hadn’t worked.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. They’d managed to float away from the pier under a bit of flotsam, while everyone else stared at the burning gondola or ran for cover. The latter had been the popular choice, since vampires are even more flammable than humans, and they’d just seen two people incinerated.
But while the distraction had helped him and the witch get away, it hadn’t done much else. By the time they’d swum a safe distance, they’d barely had the strength to drag themselves onto dry land again. But they’d nonetheless been forced into a mad scramble through streets still teeming with vampires—too many of them.
Their pursuers should have been heading for home or for the taverns and betting parlors where hunting was still to be had. And some of them were. But those were mainly the locals who had been pressed into service while the praetor mobilized her coterie of guards, who were suddenly everywhere.
Because she wasn’t as stupid as her creatures.
She hadn’t bought the lightning bolt story.
Mircea and the witch had stayed alive this long only because of the storm, with the rolling thunder covering their footsteps, the pounding rain masking their scent, and the lightning causing so many helpful shadows to flicker and jump that even vampire eyes had trouble knowing where to focus. But it couldn’t last much longer. They were going to die unless they got out of this city, and did it soon.
“I have an idea,” he said, in between thunderclaps.
The witch had been staring at the water with a blank look. The same one she now turned on him. Her moods had ranged wildly during the chase, from defiance to desperation to strange euphoria to . . . whatever this was. But at least the panic was gone.
“That was you,” she rasped. “In my head.”
“Yes.”
“The praetor . . . she used to talk to me like that. I thought”—she licked her lips—“I thought she’d found me.”
“No.”
The “not yet” remained unsaid, but floated almost tangibly in the air between them.
She slowly got out of the canal, dragging heavy, waterlogged skirts behind her. And then squatted, dripping, on the muddy bank beside him. She was shivering, and he wished he had his cloak to offer her. But it was long gone, and would have been drenched in any case.
“I have an idea,” Mircea repeated.
She didn’t say anything for a long moment, just stared at the rushing water of the canal, which was wholly black in the absence of any lightning. It was almost mesmerizing, a river of ink, with only its movement making it visible at all. It felt strangely cozy, sopping wet though they were, under this tiny bit of shelter, while the wind howled down the alleys and the little river rushed inside its banks, masking any sign of them.
It was so easy to imagine that they could just stay here forever, shut away from the world.
But they couldn’t, something the witch seemed to realize, because she slowly turned her head to look at him.
“You’re not going to like it,” Mircea admitted.
“I know.”
Light flashed, impossibly bright, and a waterspout exploded on a nearby building. That and a crack of thunder, loud as cannon fire, almost caused Mircea to lose his grip on the windowsill. And it did cause the witch to lose hers.
He scrabbled for purchase on water-slick stone, and she screamed and started to fall, her eyes wide with terror, her hand reaching for him desperately—
And snagged the hem of his shirt.
Gah!
Mircea experienced the unique sensation of almost being decapitated as he dangled off a third-story window ledge by a couple of fingers, while the remains of the too-close lightning crawled around his body like manic worms. He did not scream, something he would have been proud of if his throat hadn’t been too indented to allow it. But he did curse inventively for a moment, in his head.
Good thing he didn’t need to breathe, he thought savagely, and hauled the witch back up.
Below them, the little alley by the praetor’s palazzo roared like a living thing, sweeping anything unlucky enough to land in it straight into the Grand Canal. Mircea knew that because they’d just waded across, the witch clinging to his back, while debris battered them and winds shook them and lightning threatened to roast them. And, damn it all, he wasn’t doing that again!
He pushed the window the rest of the way open with his chin, dragged the witch up, and shoved her through, and then scrambled after her.
And promptly slipped on a dish of slimy little fish that had been left to rot on the floor.
“You’re right—I don’t like it!” the witch hissed at him—why, Mircea didn’t know. He was the one whose private parts had just become intimately acquainted with the hard edge of a table.
Very hard.
God, so hard!
He bit back an unmanly sob and stared into the darkness for a moment, before glancing around the small study belonging to the praetor’s secretary, hoping for a light. But of course not. The only one at the moment was the moon, flirting with the storm clouds outside, and she was a coy bitch. They’d never find anything like this!
“Here.” The witch thrust a candle in his face that she’d seemingly pulled out of nowhere.
“How . . . did you find . . . that?”
“Stepped on it.” She paused, and then cocked her head at him. “Are you out of breath?”
“No.”
“I thought vampires didn’t have to breathe—”
“We don’t!”
“Then what’s wrong with—”
“Nothing! Just light the damned thing!” Mircea snapped, and straightened up.
And, yes, that hurt about as much as he’d thought it would.
She waved the bent candle at him impatiently. “I’m out of magic, remember?”
“You can’t even light a damned candle?”
“I could hold it out the window and hope the lightning hits it, if you think that would help!” Her eyes narrowed on him. “Or you could.”
Their brief rapport under the bridge appeared to have faded. Probably due to almost getting caught a dozen times since then. He’d foolishly thought the streets would be clearer near the praetor’s mansion, because what kind of idiots would dare to come here?
Our kind, Mircea thought, and limped next door with the candle. He discovered that the secretary’s bedroom was even more of a disaster than the cubbyhole, with stinking piles everywhere. But it did have a low-banked fire burning across from the bed, which managed to light the wick.
All right, then.
He reentered the small study and placed the thing on top of a cabinet, where it did little more than gild the darkness. But it would have to do. The witch started searching through the heaps on the floor, including one that contained a pair of unwashed hosen that she had some low-voiced curses for. While Mircea broke open an elaborate ivory box, rifled through the papers on the table, pawed through a little slanted writing desk, checked out a bookcase, and even shook out some fine green draperies, in case something had fallen into the creases.
But found only dust.
The praetor’s shield was missing.
“You’re sure it’s kept here?” the witch whispered, looking as frustrated as he felt.
“Of course I’m sure! I’ve used it before!”
“Well, didn’t you ever see where it was kept?”
“Here!” Mircea picked up the ivory case, and thrust it at her. “It’s supposed to be right here!”
“Well, it’s not.”
“I know that!”
“And without it, we’re not going anywhere.”
“I know that, too!”
“I hope so,” she said grimly, shoving sodden hair out of her face. “If you expect me to somehow shield us in the ley lines, you’re going to be very disappointed. I couldn’t manage that at my strongest; I definitely can’t do it now!”
Mircea bit back a sharp comment, because it wasn’t fair. Weak the witch might be, but he was no better. Damn it, they had to have that shield!
Without it, they would be dead by morning, if not sooner. But with it . . . his fist clenched. He’d visited Abramalin in far-off Egypt and come back the same night. The ley lines were terrifying but also unbelievably fast, and seemed to crisscross the entire world. Meaning they could go anywhere, anywhere at all!
Including Paris to tip off the consul about the damned praetor!
He started searching the desk again.
“You’ve done that already!” the witch whispered.
“Perhaps I missed something.”
“I was watching; you didn’t!”
Mircea whirled on her. “If you have a better idea, I’d love to—”
Damn it! He’d knocked a half-full glass of wine off the overcrowded table, which shattered against the hard tile of the floor. Both of them froze, waiting for startled cries and running feet.
But none came.
After a moment, the witch let out a breath, and Mircea felt his spine unclench. The praetor was having another of her endless parties, and the servants were overworked as it was. They weren’t going to go looking for . . . messes to . . . clean up. . . .
His thoughts stuttered to a halt as he watched the puddle of wine, gleaming like blood in the low light, drain away under the wall. Until there was nothing left. Just a vague pink stain on the floor.
“What is it?” the witch asked, as he knelt beside it.
“I’m not sure.”
He ran his fingers over the fine scrollwork on the paneling. It had an acanthus-leaf design interspersed with rosettes, none of which appeared to be movable. But when he tapped faintly on the wall above the stain, it sounded hollow.
He looked up at her. “Perhaps . . . another room?”
“What are you talking about?” The witch leaned over his shoulder. “What other room?”
A section of wall suddenly slid back behind another, leaving an opening just big enough for a person to fit through.
Mircea looked up at her. “That one.”
The hidden room was dark, even by vampire standards. It looked like it had a window, the twin to the one they’d crawled through, but it had been boarded up, letting in only a few thin flashes whenever a lightning bolt burst outside. But it wasn’t the darkness that bothered Mircea; he was used to that.
It was the smell.
The anchovy-and-dirty-clothes odor of the study was worse, mixed with months of accumulated grime, because Mircea didn’t think the maids were ever allowed in here. This wasn’t like that; it wasn’t a bad smell, although there was a good bit of dust involved. It was just . . . whatever the underlying scent was, he didn’t know it.
And he’d thought he knew them all.
After more than a decade as a vampire, Mircea had built up an impressive scent catalogue in his head, despite not being a Hound, what those of his kind were called who had particularly sensitive noses. He’d seen a blind one navigate a crowd once with perfect dexterity, even stopping to pick up an old woman’s dropped purse and offer it back to her. He’d talked to him later in a bar, and discovered that he could almost see, the scent clouds in his head resolving themselves into hazy images of people, canals, even buildings, that in some ways were more distinct than anything Mircea’s eyes could perceive.
That vampire would probably have known everything in the room in a moment, where it was and what it was, even in pitch-darkness. But Mircea wasn’t that vampire, and the skin of his neck was ruffling. He motioned to the witch to hand him the candle, then pushed it through the gap and held it up, the small flame illuminating . . .
Nothing, because a couple lanterns had just flickered to life, all by themselves.
He and the witch looked at each other.
“You first,” she said.
Mircea went in.