Death's Mistress (25 page)

On the other hand, I had to convince Louis-Cesare to ignore Elyas’s offer and that wasn’t going to be easy. Christine was within his grasp; all he had to do was turn Ray in, and it was a sure thing. Blackmail, on the other hand, included risk: Ray might be lying and Elyas might dig in his heels, counting on the word of a Senate member to beat out that of a nightclub owner.

No. Louis-Cesare wasn’t going to take a chance like that. Not when he could walk upstairs and end this right now.

Get away, keep Ray alive and willing to talk. That was the plan. I glanced down at the deserted alley. The fire escape made getting out of here easy, except for one small problem. The rest of Ray was in a guest room somewhere, and I didn’t even know which one.

“If you’re lying to me to save your skin, I’ll find out,” I told him, dragging us back through the window. “And I’ll be ten times worse to you than Elyas.”

“Yeah. Like I could make this shit—”

Ray cut off midsentence because someone rapped on the bathroom door. I paused half in, half out of the window. “Dorina, it has been half an hour,” Louis-Cesare said. “Are you ready?”

Ray and I stared at each other. “Almost,” I said quickly. “Let me just . . . uh . . .”

I slithered the rest of the way through, set the duffel on the counter and started pawing through it. I had things in there that could kill a person fifty different ways, but my less lethal alternatives were few and far between. I’d been going into a vampire club, and not a lot works on them.

And that’s especially true for first- level masters. I rejected magical cuffs—he’d be out of them in five seconds—a stun spray—he probably wouldn’t even feel it—and a disorienting sphere, which I already knew was a waste of resources. I finally had to admit that I had nothing that could trap Louis-Cesare long enough to do any good.

“Dorina?”

“Coming!”

I started pulling on the dress, or trying to. But that top would have defeated a puzzle master. “Where are you?” I mouthed at Ray, who was watching me anxiously.

“You mean my body?” he mouthed back.

“Of course! Where is it?”

“In the tub.”

“What?”

“That old guy left me and never came back.”

Typical. Horatiu had probably forgotten he was there. “Get out the front door, fast.”

Small eyes popped. “By
myself
?”

“Yes! Go to the car.”

“What?”

“To. The. Car. I’ll stall him.”

I ran a comb through my hair, which was still wet, forming a sleek cap around my head. I tried again to sort out the straps, but it was hopeless. They were a twisted mess that made no logical sense.

“Dorina. Is there a problem?”

I threw open the door. “I can’t get the straps right,” I said.

Louis-Cesare stood there, his hand raised for another knock. His face was wearing that expression men get when a woman takes three times longer to get ready than she’d promised. It didn’t last long. Okay, I thought, watching blue eyes dilate black. Maybe the dress looked better than I thought.

“A little help?” I prompted.

He hesitated for a moment, but he finally stepped behind me. He made a few minor adjustments, the calluses on his fingertips catching slightly on the soft material. Miraculously, the dress fell into place, every shining strap lying perfectly flat against my skin.

I twisted in front of the mirror. I decided that it wasn’t too bad. It was sleek and simple, and it let the cut do the work instead of requiring embellishments. And it fit perfectly, except for being maybe an inch or two too long. But the plain black satin heels should take care of that.

A hand smoothed down my side in a totally unnecessary movement. It lingered in the indentation where waist flared into hip, burning through the thin silk, sending a jolt to the pit of my stomach. “Elyas is waiting.” His voice was rough.

“Let him wait.” I sat down on the bench at the foot of the bed and pulled on the thigh highs. They were gossamer soft, like spiderwebs in my hands. Utterly impractical, they’d probably run within minutes. But they felt like a dream.

I pointed my toe and pulled one on. It felt utterly decadent, a silky, sensual glide all the way up to the wide band of lace around the top. I pulled on the other and then pushed the skirt out of the way to admire my pretty new hosiery.

It was rare to find pure silk hose these days, but that was what they felt like—light as a feather with a pearlescent quality that caught the light. It subtly drew attention in all the right places, making my legs look unusually long and better-shaped than they actually were. I flexed a leg, enjoying the feel of the silky stuff sliding against my skin.

I looked up to find Louis-Cesare watching me. I couldn’t complain about lack of expression now. He looked like a starving man faced with a banquet he couldn’t have. It made me furious all over again.

He looked away. “The dress suits you.”

“You have good taste,” I said acerbically. In some things.

I picked up the delicate black satin strappy things pretending to be shoes. Trust a man, I thought darkly. They had to be six inches, with heels so high and so thin, they looked like they would snap at the slightest pressure. I slipped them on and then just stared. Whoever designed them had to be a sadist. They were a broken ankle waiting to happen.

“You did this on purpose,” I accused.

“I can have something else sent, if you prefer,” he told me, challenge sparkling in those blue eyes.

My own narrowed. “These will be fine.”

I slowly stood up, feeling like I was wearing a pair of stilts. It had been years—decades, really—since I’d owned a pair of stilettos, and I suddenly recalled why. My left ankle buckled, and I corrected myself, glaring down at it. If I could run along the edge of a rooftop and never miss a step, I could walk in these damn shoes.

And I did. For about two steps. Then I wobbled, stumbled and ended up on my butt on the bed.

One of the shoes had gone flying. Louis-Cesare retrieved it and knelt in front of me, his eyes amused. “There is an art to it.”

“How would you know?”

“I used to wear them.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“At the French court. They were all the rage—among both sexes—for a time.”

I tried to imagine Louis-Cesare, all six foot plus of hard muscle, in a pair of high heels. And, despite everything, I laughed. “Care to show me how it’s done?”

“I do not think those are my size,” he said, grasping my calf in one large hand. I went a little dry-mouthed.

His fingers were warm on my arch for a moment, as he slid the shoe back in place. He looked up, his eyes suddenly serious. “I suppose it is useless for me to request that you remain here while I attend to this.”

I just looked at him.

“It will be difficult for me to protect you without breaking the truce.”

It was moments like these when I wondered if he truly understood what a dhampir
was
. “I don’t need protection.”

“Against some of those who will be there tonight?” His jaw tightened. “Yes, you do.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” I promised, with a straight face.

He smiled slightly. “Why am I not reassured?”

He pulled me to my feet and drew my hand through his arm in one smooth, natural movement, with no signs of flinching. I didn’t know a single other vampire, including family, who didn’t tense up slightly when I came within arm’s reach. Yet, from day one, he’d never minded getting close, had in fact used every possible excuse to do so.

Strange behavior for someone pining away for his mistress.

But then, maybe I’d just been available, an easy conquest, a creature he didn’t have to worry about offending because our natural relationship was antagonistic anyway. I really didn’t know what he felt, if anything. I just knew what I did.

“Then maybe we should take out a little insurance,” I said, and sank to my knees.

He looked confused, until my fingers went to the button of his trousers. I saw it register, felt when he stilled completely, not even breathing. And then he caught my hands.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?”

“Why?”
It was in a low, urgent tone I’d never heard him use.

“Because it helps to take the edge off.” He looked like he didn’t understand my answer. “I’m dhampir,” I reminded him. “We have these fits, remember? Rage-induced blackouts where we kill everything in sight?”

“
That
is all it takes to control your fits?” He looked incredulous.

“I didn’t say it controlled them. I said it took the edge off, much the way good-quality weed does. If someone provokes me enough, I’ll still go under. But not as easily. Now let go, or are you the only one who gets to touch?”

Apparently so, because he pulled me back to my feet, keeping my hands trapped between us. His were strong, with the warmth of familiar calluses. I felt my breath speed up as I remembered what those hands could do.

Something of my thoughts must have shown on my face, because he flushed slightly. “I was told that you had found a cure.”

“It’s genetic. There is no cure.”

“Lord Mircea said—”

“You asked him about me?”

“He mentioned it in passing.”

I narrowed my eyes but let it go. “I’ve found something that cuts down on the frequency of the attacks, and controls some of the symptoms. But there are problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

I sighed. For a Frenchman, he was the hardest damn man to seduce I’d ever seen. “It brings out dormant magical abilities in humans.”

It was Louis-Cesare’s turn to narrow his eyes. “You are speaking of fey wine? Do not tell me you are still taking that concoction.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you.”

“It is dangerous!”

“So am I, without it!”

“And that is worth risking your life? You do not know—”

“I haven’t had a full-on attack in weeks. And the last time I did, I was conscious.” His expression said he still didn’t get it. “I was
conscious
, Louis-Cesare!” I repeated, struggling to find words to explain just what that meant.

But there weren’t any. He’d never had to worry about blacking out for days, only to wake up in some unknown location, covered in blood and surrounded by corpses. He would never understand the constant nagging fear that next time it wouldn’t be an enemy I killed. That next time I would wake up to find my hands buried in the throat of a friend.

Something must have shown on my face, because his gaze softened. “I thought your friend was looking for a cure.”

“She was. She is. But so far, no luck.”

“There are other physicians. Have you sought out their help?”

“I don’t need them. I have something that works.”

“Thus far. You have no idea what the long-term effects might be.”

“Whatever they are, it’s a damn good trade!”

He set his jaw, that old stubborn look coming over his face. “There must be an alternative.”

“There is.” I deliberately slid my hands up his chest.

“Dorina—”

“Don’t. Don’t say anything.” I didn’t want to talk anymore. I didn’t want to think. I wanted to drive him as crazy as he had me, wanted to see him lose control, wanted him to
feel something
when I damn well left.

I cupped his face in my hands and kissed him. His body was a tight wall of muscle, as yielding as rock. But his lips were warm and soft as they met mine, asking nothing, forbidding nothing, surrendering to my need as I had known, deep down, that he would.

He tasted like smoky whiskey and Louis-Cesare, an elusive sweetness that had haunted me in odd moments for weeks. I pulled him even closer, and my leg wrapped around him, hunger mounting as I deepened the kiss. I felt a surge of pure satisfaction as his arms went around me, one hand settling on my nape, the other cupping my jaw, the thumb stroking with a terrible gentleness.

It was so easy to lose myself in this, in the searching caress of his tongue, in the silken press of his lips. Running my hands over the broad planes of his back, I traced light fingertips over the knobs of his spine, felt the smooth roll and flex of hard muscle under the soft material of his shirt. So warm . . .

And so dangerous. A dhampir inside his defenses, at his neck, close enough to kiss or to kill. He had to feel it.
I
felt it, the usual tingling sensation of a vampire’s presence screaming a warning along my nerves.

Yet his only movement was to draw me nearer, his hands sliding down my sides to grasp my hips. It left us close, so close, as I never was with any of them, never could be, because being this near meant violence, meant fear, meant death for one of us. It always had and it always would, and there was no goddamned other way it could be. And yet he was still there, hard and hot and
so close
. . . .

So close, the scent of her, wild and comforting at once, enveloped him. He needed to stop this; he needed to leave. If he immersed himself in that scent, grew to depend on it, need it, it would starve him when it was gone.

He was already too hungry as it was.

Shut
up
, I thought savagely. I didn’t want one of Louis-Cesare’s random memories intruding, especially not of some other woman. Not here, not now. This was
mine
.

I deliberately slipped, falling backward onto the bed and dragging him down on top of me. “Dorina—”

“You’re breathing heavy.”

“Vampires don’t breathe.”

I pressed up against him, and his breath caught in his throat. “Guess you’re right,” I said, and flipped him.

The high slit made it easy to straddle him. So I did, before running my hands down to the waist of his trousers again, and tugging his shirt loose. I liked the way his hands clenched on my arms as I unfastened his belt, the delightful tensing as my fingers slipped just inside his trousers.

He did nothing to help me, his own hands curved around my waist, softly stroking my skin through the silk. But he didn’t stop me, either. My hands smoothed around his hips, my fingers finding the dimples at the base of his spine.