Faint moonlight illuminated lily pads and dark water as Kit tore down the river, his movements as assured as if he'd done it a hundred times. Cypress roots stuck up here and there, crowding the boat where the stream was narrower; shallow sandbars lurked just under the surface, ready to beach him; and some branches hung heavy and too close. Yet he didn't hit a single one.
His actions were swift and sure; his hands on the wheel of the boat never so much as trembled. But that was the problem. They were bloody well supposed to!
Like he was supposed to be able to call on Liam, or Heinrich, or a dozen others to let them know that something had gone seriously wrong. Yet he couldn't. Even his brain didn't seem to be under his own command.
What had that dhampir done to him? What kind of magic could do this to anyone, much less a master? And, most importantly, how did he break it?
He roared internally, pouring everything he had into getting any kind of response from his suddenly alien body. And, finally, he did. It was a tiny thing, and nothing that would actually help. But it felt huge nonetheless, when he was able to lift his index finger a scant quarter inch off the steering wheel --
And was promptly slapped down for it -- hard.
His whole body shook with the rebuke, which hurt more than anything the dhampir had managed to do to him. It was as if fire licked every cell, leaving him bent over and clinging to the wheel, to keep from passing out and falling from the boat. It was terrible.
And terribly useful.
For, in that moment of crystalline agony, he heard something -- no someone -- a male voice muttering commands at the back of his mind. Commands that somehow overrode his own, like someone was using his eyes to see by the faint moonlight, using his hands to steady out the small craft, using him . . .
Like a puppet.
Necromancer, Kit thought, the snarl in his mind like bared fangs.
And immediately, the hold tightened, coiling throughout his body, like a fist around his throat.
Someone didn't like him knowing. Someone would have preferred him to continue blaming that little dhampir. But slick though she might be, she couldn't do something like this. He hadn't thought anyone in the world could, not even a group of necromancers working together. He was a first-level master, supposedly one of the most powerful creatures on earth. This wasn't possible.
But it was happening, nonetheless.
And try though he might, he couldn't seem to make enough difference to so much as upset the little craft. And now they were slowing, coming up on a pier jutting out into the water. Where several men waited by a car.
Kit stopped the boat and leapt onto the pier, his voice greeting them by name, although he'd never met them. Never even seen them, although he would never forget them now. He memorized their faces, every crease, every line, and judging by how many of those there were, they weren't using glamouries. That did not bode well for him, but at the moment, he was less concerned with that that with what they were saying.
"Why did you choose him?" a tall man with a craggy face under an expensive haircut demanded. "Of all people --"
"He was the only one who drank the rum," Kit heard himself say. "Her servants all had wine --"
"Then put it in the wine!"
"We discussed this," the second man, a vampire, commented. Older, white haired, a definite Castilian lisp. Kit didn't know him, but he hadn't met everyone in Alejandro's entourage. "It's detectable in wine. Not to you, perhaps, but to us. It had to be spirits."
"Don't lose your nerve, Eric," Kit added. "This is almost over."
"Yes, if you can't hold him!"
"I can hold him. And it's better this way." Kit felt his hand come up, to stroke his own chin. "Marlowe's her chief of security. He can go anywhere, do anything, and no one will question it."
"Until they try to talk to him mentally, and it doesn't work! Until she does --"
"The concert will keep her attention. He'll come from behind. She'll never know what hit her."
"And Mircea?" the Spaniard demanded. "If your consul is removed, but he remains, this is all for nothing. My master is not willing to meet him in combat. He has already said, he will not attempt it."
"Then your master's a --" Craggy began, before Kit's hand clamped on his upper arm.
"He will not have to," he told the vampire easily, feeling his face stretch into a smile. "I'll turn on Basarab as soon as I've finished with her. If I manage to kill him, all is well. If I don't," he shrugged. "I'll keep him busy long enough for your lot to do it for me, while "rescuing" your poor consul from the chaos."
"And once she is dead? If they capture your avatar?"
"As soon as Senator Marlowe kills his consul in a dastardly bid for power, he is dead. His men may not act, but half the senate will be there, including the consul's own guards. He won't live to tell anyone anything."
"You had better be right. My master is risking a great deal --"
"And we're not?" the craggy man interrupted. "Do you know what the vampires will do to us if this blows up? Who they'll give us to?"
"Yes," the Spaniard smiled slightly. "I have made his acquaintance."
"They say he can keep a man alive for weeks before death."
Months, Kit thought viciously, and wished like hell that the senate's chief torturer was here right now.
"Come, gentlemen," he heard himself say. "We have gone on a long journey together. Let us not lose our nerve at the final hour."
"It is not nerves," the Spaniard said, bristling. "You said you had thought of everything, yet you lose track of your intended avatar for several hours. And when you finally return with him, he is burnt, beaten and bloody . . . and half bald!"
"Alliteration at its finest!"
"I am perfectly serious, 'Reverend'," the Spaniard snapped.
"As am I. But as you know, the potion does not take effect immediately, and I had no way of controlling him until it did so. I expected him to be at his Lady's side all evening, but circumstances . . . intervened."
"And if they 'intervene' tonight?"
"That is why Eric is here, as a backup should I falter. But I assure you, that will not be the case. By this time tomorrow, your master will be in position to challenge for leadership of the North American Senate, and we," he glanced at his accomplice, "will be as rich as Croesus."
The other two did not smile back, but they didn't argue anymore, either.
"Now, let us concentrate on finding me a new tuxedo," Kit said. "And perhaps," he added, looking ruefully up at his singed curls. "A hat."
Chapter Eleven