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.
Chapter Forty-eight
“What’s going on?” I asked Burbles, because he’d stuck himself to my side like a charming burr.
“The consul has formally noticed you,” he told me, brown eyes gleaming. “Even better, she came to you. It is a great honor. For you and the entire house!” He was literally quivering with joy.
I started to explain that I could give a shit, and just wanted to know where we were going. But another look at his face, and I gave up. Let the damned vampire be happy for five minutes. It wouldn’t last.
Not around here.
Instead, I hurried, as much as I could in what I now saw were embroidered slippers. They matched the robe, the background a deep blue velvet that was almost invisible because it was so heavily encrusted with embroidered fruits and flowers and ribbons and bows. And gold insects, their minuscule wings raised above the rest and fluttering, fluttering, fluttering.
Like my horde of vamps, who appeared almost as awestruck as Burbles—why, I didn’t know.
The bitch wanted something.
I mean, come on.
But nobody was telling me what, so down the hall we went, and one nice thing about my suddenly acquired entourage was that they took no prisoners. Get in the way of the Dory train? Screw you, here’s a wall. Stop in the middle of the hall to stare at the consul and the crazy dhampir coming atcha? Wow, bet that hurt.
Not that I saw my guys actually shove anyone, unlike Her Highness’ up there, who seemed to view it as a sport. But elbows and feet can be so careless, can’t they? And this train was on a roll.
We covered a lot of ground, winding like a centipede through a warren of hallways and crossways, this-ways and that-ways. Until my head was spinning and I didn’t have any idea where we were. But I guess the boys did, because the fluttering suddenly intensified, and then we were spilling out of a tight passageway into a huge, sunny room.
It actually wasn’t sunny, of course, but it gave that impression. It was big, with high ceilings and chandeliers that rivaled Radu’s, and a nice, soft yellow paint job. There were coordinating draperies over faux windows that didn’t exist because vamps hate windows, and mirrors to reflect the light around, and a lot of healthy-looking plants spilling over their containers onto gleaming white-and-yellow-veined marble floors.
The flora wasn’t so much a surprise after I spotted Caedmon, over by a wall, arguing with Louis-Cesare.
I couldn’t see them very well because the consul’s huge guards had stopped in front of me, making a very serviceable wall. One that towered almost two feet above my head, which one of my entourage was still trying to comb out. I pushed him away, and peered through a gap in the wall at the action, the sound of which floated clearly across the room, because the acoustics in here were pretty great.
And because neither man was bothering to lower his voice.
“—could have been anyone!” Caedmon was saying. “There are other vargar—”
“Who would have reason to hurt the consul?”
“Yes, in fact!” Caedmon’s voice snapped like a whip. “Or have you forgotten that my dear brother-in-law just tried to kill her two weeks ago—along with the rest of her court?”
“And now his wife is here to finish the job.”
Caedmon made an explosive sound of mingled anger and disgust. “My sister came to warn you of her husband’s intent, else he likely would have succeeded! Yet now she turns around and tries to kill the queen herself? Are you mad?”
Louis-Cesare glared at him. “Non, m’sieur, nor am I stupid. Everyone knows your sister wants her son on the throne instead of her husband—”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“—and coups begin with discrediting the former leader, do they not? Had Aeslinn’s attack on this senate succeeded, his stock would be high—too high for her to successfully supplant him. But with him discredited and a stockpile of these superweapons at her command—”
“You are mad.”
“—she could dislodge him and put her son in his place—”
“And promptly lose the war, having just crippled the Senate! She is not insane, vampire!”
“I agree, m’sieur.” Louis-Cesare was doing his haughty Frenchman routine, and he did it well. He was six foot four, but Caedmon still had something like eight inches on him. Yet he somehow managed to look down his nose at him anyway. “She is not insane. She is diabolique. Murdering the consul would throw the Senate into disarray, leaving her time to carry out her coup without having to worry about our invasion—”
“And afterward? She doesn’t want the gods back any more than we do!”
“Even more of a reason to overthrow her husband, then. He is the one trying to bring them back, is he not?”
“Among others! He is hardly the only true believer, and if you continue to attack highborn fey, you’re only going to add to their numbers! You understand nothing of the situation in Faerie—”
/> “And why is that? We ask you for information, and you refuse it—”
“Perhaps I don’t trust you—imagine that!” Caedmon’s eyes widened in pretend surprise.
Louis-Cesare’s narrowed. “We are supposed to be allies, yet you tell us nothing and now your sister has tried to kill our consul—”
Caedmon was looking genuinely angry now. “For the last time, she had nothing to do with it!”
“Yet Lord Mircea saw evil intent, quite clearly, in her mind—”
“Where he had no reason to be! She isn’t one of your creatures, vampire!”
“He had every reason, and do not change the subject—”
“I’ll pursue any subject I damned well please. Or I would, but we are leaving your hospitality.”
The last word had another of those inflections, one that made it sound like he’d said something else altogether. Something that started with f and ended with u, which made it really weird that Louis-Cesare was smiling at him.
It wasn’t a nice smile, but still.
“You may go,” Louis-Cesare said. “She cannot. She has been formally accused.”
“You have no right to judge her!”
“On the contrary, the treaty clearly states—”
“That you need two witnesses, and at senatorial level, for one of her rank! You have one, and his motive can easily be called into question.”
For the first time, Louis-Cesare looked confused. “What motive?”
Caedmon’s own sneer was actually pretty good, if a bit worrisome. Usually he was Mr. Calm-and-Collected while the rest of us went to pieces, but not now. “Lord Mircea brings suit against my sister, and then graciously offers to drop the charges in return for me dropping my claim to his daughter. I know how such games are played, vampire, and better than you.”
“You are accusing Lord Mircea of lying?”
And, uh-oh. Louis-Cesare’s voice had just gone very quiet, which was usually the prelude to letting his rapier do the talking. But he was injured, and Caedmon was . . . Caedmon . . . and there’d been enough bloodshed tonight. I started trying to forge a path between the guards, who weren’t budging.