"Aye. And how friendly d'you think they'd be, once they found out about the little princess?"
"She isn’t a princess—"
"Her father was a prince. You up and married her mother, and commoner or no, that makes her—"
"I'm not a prince any longer."
"Don’t interrupt," Horatiu said, scowling, as if he hadn’t just done the same to Mircea three times in a row. "She's a princess, and that's that."
"She's a dhampir, and that's that," Mircea said, the fear gnawing at his gut raising his voice. "She can’t stay here, surrounded by the very things who want to kill her!"
"And she'd be better off in France, surrounded by far more powerful types, who could sense her more easily?"
"We'd live in the countryside. And the ones here sensed her well enough, last night."
"Aye. Because she wanted them to."
Mircea narrowed his eyes.
"Don’t give me that look," Horatiu said, and Mircea wondered again how a man who had grown progressively blind over the years, to the point that he regularly got lost trying to find their house, could still see the slightest sign of defiance in his old charge. It was uncanny.
"Then explain what you meant."
Horatiu shrugged. "Simple enough. You know how she is. Runs off whenever she pleases, to play with those street children. I've told her repeatedly, they’re not proper friends for one of her station, but does she mind?" He shot Mircea a look. "Reminds me of someone else I know."
"Having friends in low places can be useful," Mircea retorted. "As we just had demonstrated."
And not that they were any different, these days. They lived in a slum region of Venice, in a house that looked like it was about to slide into the sea. While he cheated at cards and tried to sell his art, in a town where every passing boatman fancied himself an artist. And half of them were better than him!
They barely kept their heads above water, yet Horatiu was worried about standards. Mircea was worried about survival. Standards could look after themselves.
"Useful for you," Horatiu retorted. "Not for Dorina."
"Did you have a point?"
"I already said: she runs off all the time, a fact I bemoaned—and continue to do so for the lack of propriety. But I no longer worry about her safety. Fair scared me to death, she did, the first few times. But then I started following her, y'see."
"Not really," Mircea said dryly. Because the only way Horatiu had managed to follow anyone, much less Dorina, was if she let him.
"I followed her," the old man said sternly. "Yes, several times. And t'was always the same. We passed vampires here and there, can’t swing a dead cat in this city without hitting one. But they never so much as flinched. They just didn’t notice her."
"Well, they noticed her last night!"
"Because she wanted them to. She can hide or reveal her nature, or even project it, I reckon, considering how hard it hit 'em." He looked at Mircea narrowly, the vague eyes suddenly shrewd. "She takes after you in art. Did ye really think that was the only way?"
Mircea just sat there, slightly stunned. A ten-year-old dhampir was hard enough to keep track of. A ten-year-old dhampir with mental powers was frankly terrifying. And what about when she was older?
What the hell was he supposed to do when she was older?
And that assumed she even made it that far.
Mircea had a sudden, overwhelming desire to start banging his head against the table, and just not stop. Only, knowing how things worked now, he'd probably just break the table. And he'd never hear the end of that, since he didn’t have the money to replace it.
Someone cleared a throat behind him, the noise loud and unexpected. Even moreso because—impossibly—he hadn’t heard them approach. Which was why, a second later, the throat-clearer was against the wall with a knife to his neck.
"I should have scuffed a shoe?" Jerome asked, gray eyes wide.
Mircea stepped back, repressing a curse. And then said it anyway. "What were you thinking? You're hurt badly enough!"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." He glanced from Mircea to Horatiu, who was half out of his chair in alarm, and then back again. "Or to eavesdrop. But I couldn’t help overhearing."
He could have probably done that from his room, with a master's ears, so Mircea didn’t doubt it. He put the knife down. "It doesn’t matter."
"I think it does. And I think . . . there may be a way we can help each other."
Chapter Six
Present Day, Dory
Somewhere in the skies over the Atlantic
I stared at my bleary, bloodshot eyes in the tiny airplane mirror.
"Are you done?" I asked thickly, and got another horrible, upswelling surge for an answer.
Guess not.
Despite a life spanning way more centuries than I liked to remember, I didn’t have a lot of experience with hangovers. Or with what came before them. My metabolism usually whisked anything I gave it out of my bloodstream before I had a chance to know it was there, which was great when drinking socially or deciding to eat a whole pie. But it was a bitch when you just wanted to drown your sorrows.
Or when you really, really needed to.
I tried to talk my stomach into not losing the one concoction that could put me on my ass. Or, in this case, on a toilet lid while hanging over a sink, trying to keep down what really wanted to come back up. And the bitch of it was, the damned stuff wasn't even helping.
Or maybe it was and I just couldn’t tell, because God.
"Dory? Are you all right in there?" Radu's voice floated through the lightweight plane door.
I tried to answer, and immediately regretted it.
"Dory?"
My stomach was not cooperating with my vocal chords right now, and I really wanted Radu to go sit back down. The stewardess apparently did, too, because she was trying to get the drink cart past. I could hear her telling him to please resume his seat, something that had no effect because 'Du was used to hearing only what he wanted to, even from people with a lot more clout than a pretty girl in the friendly skies.
Which were about to get a lot less friendly, because Marlowe had just joined the party.
"What's wrong with her?" I heard him demand, somewhere back in the world of the living.
"I don’t know. She isn’t answering."
A sharp knuckle rapped imperiously on the door, while I wished for a trashcan or possibly to die.
"Dorina! What is wrong with you?"
The fact that I'm thirty-five thousand feet in the air with three bottles of fey wine in me, I didn’t say, because I was busy.
Two and a half now, I thought, and ran some water in the sink, because it was getting ripe in here.
"I think she's almost done," Radu said, sounding relieved. And then annoyed. "Young woman, cease banging my ankles with that infernal contraption immediately."
"My apologies, sir," came the least sincere reply ever. "But it’s time for drinks service."
Drinks, I thought.
Oh, God.
"She isn’t done, she's puking it all up and we don’t have any more," Marlowe said, rattling the door. "Let me in!"
It was softly spoken, because we weren't in one of the senate jets, or the smaller, Saudi-prince-on-a-budget version that Mircea owned. Those were busy ferrying people to whatever confab the consul was currently holding about the war. And, as the newly elected leader of the vampire world, her word was law, even when that word required—gasp—flying coach.
So that was where we were, three stooges in the cheap seats, because that had been the only thing left on exactly zero notice. Which would have been fine, since I wasn't used to private jets anyway, and since the only other alternative, ley line travel, was a mile-a-second roller-coaster through rivers of pure power. Which, if your shield wobbled even for an instant, could incinerate you before you could scream.
On the whole, the cheap seats had sounded fine.
Until I found out what Marlowe had pla
nned for in-flight entertainment.
"Damn it! Open this door!"
He was getting louder, not that it mattered since Radu was currently berating the stewardess noisily enough to alert the whole plane. If they kept this up, the pilot was going to turn around and take us back to JFK, and the only thing I could think of worse than being piss drunk and hungover at the same time was doing it at JFK. Which, as airports go, stands for Just Fucking Kill me already and—
Somebody's fist punched through the door.
Judging by the huge ruby on one finger, it was Marlowe's. Not surprising, since the arrogant prick wasn’t used to waiting—or to being flipped off, considering the expression in the eye that appeared in the newly made hole. A second later, the hand was back, the latch was flicked and I had company.
A lot of company, because Radu was muscling in, too, possibly to get out of the way of the cart. Only that wasn't helping, because the stewardess—now alarmed about a broken door and a possible ménage a trois in the Mile High Club—was pulling on 'Du. Who was flapping back at her ineffectually with those long, pale hands of his, because he had the usual vamp fear of breaking the fragile humans. Which meant he was basically wrestling with the equivalent of a spun glass statue and wasn't getting anywhere.
Until he turned to try to break her hold and ended up pushing her inside and shoving the door closed behind them.
Leaving me scrunched into a corner with Marlowe, virtually nose to nose.
His wrinkled.
"How much did you lose?" he demanded, with exactly zero sympathy.
"Fuck you," I whispered, as my stomach rumbled threateningly.
And then did it louder when Radu elbowed me in it. It seemed that the stewardess had decided we were some sort of terrorist group, or possibly mad, and was defending her flight by beating the hell out of 'Du. And screeching, at least until Marlowe snapped a "Go to sleep!" in her direction.
Radu blinked at him over top of the woman's head, as she abruptly slumped in his arms. "You said we couldn't do that."
"I said you couldn’t, and answer me!"
I guess that last was aimed at me, although he was still glaring at 'Du. Who was glaring right back, and imperious former sort-of-kings do it pretty well. Radu was one of the only people I knew who wouldn’t be intimidated by an angry chief spy.
Well, and the gal about to hurl all over him.
"Answer me, and stop that!" Marlowe said, which would have been confusing except that I’d just started poking him in the stomach. Hard. Which was better than what was about to happen if he didn’t get out of the way.
"Before you hork it all up, did you get anything?" he demanded, shaking me.
"Not done horking," I said indistinctly, and saw his eyes widen.
A split-second later, I was bent over the sink, doing a repeat performance, and Radu was berating Marlowe. But not about me. Radu has his own form of kindness, even compassion, at times. But from his perspective, I was already taking care of my problem, while he still had his.
"You mean to tell me we could have just—why are we subjecting ourselves to this?" Radu demanded, gesturing around at the completely unacceptable accommodations over top of the woman's thick bun. It was starting to come down now, and her lipstick had smeared all over the mostly normal summer suit that Marlowe's men had stuffed him into, which already had him in a mood. And that was before we ended up in steerage, as he determinedly kept calling it.
"We have a treaty with the mages—"
"As if anybody pays attention to that old thing!"
"The senate pays attention," Marlowe snapped. "We're the ones bound to enforce it!"
"Yes, when it suits you—"
"Which it does when the only advantage to breaking it is to your overweening pride!"
"Over—" Radu's eyes widened and his back straightened, causing the unconscious woman to flop over to the other side. "Why you insufferable—"
"Peasant? Yes, yes, I was actually—or damned close to it—"
Someone new started banging on the door.
"Why am I not surprised?" Radu said, managing to pop an imperious eyebrow despite the circumstances. "The complete lack of any kind of breeding—"
"My kind were bred to survive. Something you know very little about!" Marlowe snarled, and slammed open the door.
Radu looked both confused and outraged by that, although the latter might have been because of the steward who had just been jerked inside and passed over. Leaving him draped with unconscious humans he was struggling to see past. "I still seem to be here!" he nonetheless managed to point out.
"Yes! Thanks to your—" Marlowe caught himself, but not in time. He'd been on edge all day, maybe because he had two high-level missing persons, a couple assistants he didn’t trust at all, and a war to fight. The latter of which would become increasingly difficult if our new allies found out that we couldn’t even corral our own people. And they would find out, despite Marlowe's attempts at remaining incognito by using human transport, and pretty damned fast, too.
Because we weren't the only senate to have a spymaster.
"Thanks to my what?" Radu asked, sounding ominous.
And then somebody knocked on the door again.
"Oh for—go to sleep!" Marlowe said, forcefully enough that I felt the suggestion hit me on its way to knock out the latest sweet young thing in the doorway.
"You first," she said, and slipped inside, shutting the door. Leaving her and Marlowe staring at each other over my backside, while I struggled to throw off the unintended suggestion.
And then wondered why I bothered, because a nap sounded really good right now.
"Who the hell are you?" Marlowe demanded, looking her up and down. She had on a stewardess outfit, a neat blue and white number that complimented a trim figure and a blond updo, but obviously wasn't one based on the fact that she hadn’t hit the floor yet.
And those shoes, I thought groggily. No human would wear four inch heels in a job like hers. It was always the little things that gave it away. Not that I cared how many vamps they stuffed in here.
I have had it with these motherfucking vamps on this motherfucking plane, I thought suddenly, and giggled.
"What is wrong with you?" Marlowe demanded.
"Do we get those little pillows in tourist class?" I asked the girl, ignoring him.
Her lips twitched. "I think that could be arranged."
"Oh, good." I looked around, but didn’t see one. But Marlowe's chest proved to be surprisingly comfortable.
For about five seconds.
"Wake the hell up!" he told me, which didn’t help, because most of my sleepiness was due to too much booze, rather than a vamp suggestion.
But two other people's weren't.
And, for the record, six people in a tourist class loo is too damned many, especially when two of them are fairly hysterical.
Make that three, I thought, as 'Du went down, being trampled by stewardess #1's sensible shoes.
"It's all right, Caroline," the blonde said, catching the other woman's eyes. "Go back to sleep. I'll deal with this."
"Deal with it how?" Marlowe asked. "Who are you?"
"You, too, Greg," she added, because her male counterpart had woken up, and already had a fist halfway to Marlowe's face.
"She's European consular security," I said, sitting on the side of the sink and pulling my knees up, because Radu was still flailing around on the floor.
"How did you know?" she asked, curious and a little wary. "Can you read my mind?"
"Not in the skill set."
"That's not what I hear."
"And where would you hear anything?" Marlowe demanded.
"We have sources, same as you." The woman tilted her head at me. "If you don’t carry your father's gift, how did you know?"
I sighed, and thought longingly about that pillow. "You're a vamp in disguise, following us—"
"Which I could be doing for any number of reasons."
"—and you've no aura."
I swatted groggily at the air, where the power that envelops all vamps was sparking and hissing, filling the cramped space with what looked like colorful fog. Two clouds of it, because Marlowe and Radu's powers were duking it out. But hers wasn't. As far as I could see, and with my new, Dorina-enhanced vision, I could see a lot, it just wasn't there at all.
"Anybody with that kind of talent is picked up by special forces early," I added. "And since Marlowe doesn’t know you, and considering why we're here—"
"That's enough!" he told me, before I gave the game away.
Like we had any game.
"I know why you’re here," she said, looking from Marlowe to me and then to Radu, who had regained his dignity and was now sitting primly on the john. Her forehead wrinkled. "At least, I think I do. Radu is Louis-Cesare's Sire; if anyone can find him, it should be him. And Lord Marlowe is the consul's chief of intelligence. Anthony is her foremost ally, and she is planning strategy for the war; of course she needs him back. But you . . . if you don’t have your father's gift, what can you do?"
"Tell her nothing!" Marlowe said, staring at her. He hadn’t seemed to notice the lack of aura until I pointed it out, but now that he had, he was obviously unhappy about it. Maybe because, without one, he couldn’t tell what family she belonged to, and it was making him twitchy.
"She didn’t have to announce herself," I said, watching his hands. Which were kind of looking like they'd appreciate being wrapped around someone's neck. I'd seen Marlowe angry plenty of times—it was practically his default around me—but today was something new. Today was something special.
And that probably wasn't good.
That probably meant he hadn’t leveled with us.
I started wondering exactly how this could manage to get worse, while he and the girl glared at each other. "Check my bona fides," she told him tersely. "I work directly under Senator Heinrich. Ask him if you—" she broke off, because Marlowe had just gone into that creepy, slack-faced mode masters use when communicating mentally. She glanced at me, looking half exasperated and half freaked out that this was what we called a rescue team.
But it was either that, or risk alerting everyone to the consul's inability to keep up with her allies right when she needed to look strong. Vamps had a tendency to fight like cats—powerful, deadly, short-tempered cats—and most of them were pissed that she'd somehow ended up as their leader anyway. Not that it was supposed to last for long; the unprecedented alliance of the world's vampire senates was only for the duration of the war, and only because they'd finally found something scarier than they were. Namely a bunch of ancient gods who had decided to come back from outer space, or wherever the hell they'd been hanging out since the Iliad, and stomp all our asses.