Laws of the Blood 4: Deceptions: Deceptions (5 page)

“You are a barbarian,” the man, her enemy, said. “Don’t you remember?”

“I’ve never denied it.” She held her head up proudly, graying curls tumbling around the chiseled planes of her face. She never showed him fear, not even when he beat her. Especially when he beat her.

He was drunk, she could smell the sour wine, and saw it in the evil glint in his one good eye. He was always
at his worst in his cups. That ran in his blood, the love of drink and the viciousness that came with it. He’d passed that on to their son. That, and a genius for killing. She blessed the gift of war and cursed him for giving any weakness to her strong, beautiful boy.

He touched her, his callused thumbs tracing her cheeks. He was still a hard man, muscle and gristle beneath a layer of middle-aged fat. His hair was thin, his teeth going rotten. “I heard you were taking a new wife,” she said. “I pity her.”

His thumbs continued to caress. “You’re still beautiful,” he said. His hands settled at the base of her throat. “If I stop your heart right now, you’ll always be beautiful.”

“You’d rather see me a shriveled hag.”

“I want you to live with the knowledge that I bed beautiful girls and that they give me sons. The more sons I have—”

“You have only one son that counts.”

“I’ll kill him before your eyes. Then I’ll kill you.” He laughed, and his hands tightened on her throat. “But why should I wait?”

He had threatened her before. “You won’t do it yourself,” she said. “Not yet. You haven’t worked up the courage to do it yourself.”

“Someday I will.” He laughed. He dropped his hands to his side. “Why should I do it myself?”

They had played out this scene so many times before that even the hatred and fear were stale. She knew that it was a dream even as they went through the motions. Knowing it didn’t make it less real, less painful. She hated hating him so much, it showed that he still held some control over her.

“You are dust and bones,” she said, bringing something new into the dream. “You have no power over me.”

He smiled, a deadly, dangerous smile that sent a shaft of fear straight through her heart. “Oh, I have my little ways,” he said mildly. Stepping back, he gestured, and
she was suddenly encircled by a wall of swords.

In the dream all the blades were made of iron, and they surrounded her in an unbreakable circle. She had always feared being trapped, hated being helpless, but in dream, and in daylight, what could she do? Olympias’s body did not belong to her in daylight. Dreamwalking she could control, but never true dreaming. Priestess she had been, but never a true seer, not in mortal life. Sorceress she had been called, seductress, and far worse. She had always been hungry, for power, for love, for all the world and everything in it. Her appetite had been her Gift, and she had wielded it with no great wisdom.

Dreams had significance, any fool knew that, but repetitive nightmares were a nuisance. You’d think that after a few thousand years the traumas of mortal life would recede into vague memory and leave a person alone when she had more important things to think about. But the subconscious was a primitive bitch with blood-soaked hands and too much passion, and it would have its way with her when it willed.

But it was damned inconvenient.

She had work to do, and while even vampires needed a certain amount of sleep, Olympias’s plans for lolling around in bed today had not included falling into a dream that belonged to the woman she’d been more than two thousand years before. Why dream of past failures now? She’d seen the man who’d tormented her mortal life catch fire on his funeral pyre and placed his charred bones and ashes in the gold funeral chest herself. She had even grieved, if not for the death, at least for the passing of the youth and passion they’d shared. Her life had taken many a complicated twist and turn since the day his tomb was sealed.

She should have died herself long ago, but the assassin Cassander sent had been a creature with an appetite for more than killing. He had meant to kill her, to Hunt her. He had heard a great many evil stories about her and thought it a good thing for her to die under his fangs and
claws. She remembered to this day how it felt to wake up to the prick of the vampire’s claws on her breast. She was an old woman, a long, skinny bag of bones, her black curls long gone gray, her passion burned down mostly to embers, but for the hot coal of grief where her heart had once been. Her son was dead in a distant land, she knew his son would be put to death by a usurper soon enough. She could do nothing more to protect her family. Battles for power were being fought throughout the lands her son had won by sword and force of will. Her death was inevitable, but no more than an afterthought, a tidying up by whoever it; was who won the kingdom. It had always been that way; when a king died it was likely his family and followers died with him. She understood this, and waited, not even bothering to place guards outside her quarters in the palace where she’d taken refuge as an exile at Pydna.

She did not think she would be surprised when the killer came, but she was. She expected a knife, or poison at the very least, even though they were not a subtle people. What she got were claws, and hungry eyes shining out of the dark. Something raced in her blood when she saw him, but it wasn’t fear. Truth was, it had been so long since she had known desire that she didn’t recognize it when it beat in her veins. She had felt as one already dead, until her killer made her feel alive again.

He took her from her bed and out into the moonlight on the mountainside. He left her in a clearing and folded the shadows around himself. Out of the night he listed her supposed crimes and told her to run for her life. He called himself her Nemesis, said he was one of the gods’ own furies.

The legends of the Furies came from ancient vampire custom to take the most wicked and sacrilegious of mortals as lawful prey for sins against gods and humankind. Even now it was Lawful for a strigoi to accept that sort of contract, though the Strigoi Council discouraged anyone knowing about this ancient custom. The Council
strove for neutrality in all mortal affairs and would force Enforcers to submit triplicate forms requesting a Hunt to go through a screening committee if they could manage to wrest any more power from the Nighthawks. It was hardly any fun being a vampire anymore; at least she hadn’t had any fun for a long time.

She’d had fun that night, the night she’d died as Olympias the queen and become Olympias the companion. She’d seduced the dear, idealistic boy. She hadn’t known she still had it in her to make men want her, but the one who Hunted her was no man; his needs were different, more complex than mere hunger for soft, youthful flesh. He’d come to eat her, but she’d run at the head of a pack of maenad priestesses in her youth in Epirus; she understood the Hunt. Old woman she might have been, but her spirit was strong, and she knew how to call up the magic within her, though the flame of it had been beaten down long ago by the husband she’d buried. Hers had been the final triumph, for her place beside him in his tomb was never filled. Instead she’d gone into the bed of a vampire. First he gave her back her youth, slowly, sip by sip, then he gave her immortality. Lover or executioner, at least he’d accomplished his mission to take her from the mortal world, which was how he justified his conscience and taking Cassander’s gold to himself.

Except she’d never quite completely slipped away from the stage of mortal affairs. She was too well versed in the power games and politics mortals played. She understood kings and generals and the intrigues of courts and harems. Her bloodsire could go about his merry way—he didn’t call himself Orpheus anymore, and the last she’d heard he’d moved to Alaska and was running with a wolf pack. . . she really ought to send him a note—but Olympias carried on the work she’d taken up helping to protect the strigoi from mortals when she was barely more than a newborn Hunter.

And, frankly, she could use a vacation as much as Istvan could.

And here she was, thinking about her lurid past, when she’d planned to spend her resting hours dreamwalking in search of the horny Lora’s potential love bunny. Last night she’d had too much work getting him to forget about what happened to get information out of him as well. The man’s mind was strong, the strongest she’d encountered in centuries. Lora was right in believing that he’d make a magnificent vampire, but Olympias was not in the recruitment business. The world had more than enough strigoi already, in her opinion. He was a magnificent specimen. Though she hated playing matchmaker, Olympias couldn’t blame anyone for wanting him. If she still had interest in that sort of thing . . .

She had made a promise to check the man out, and though she’d wasted most of the day with dreams and recollections, she managed to slowly turn from her side onto her back—because a vampire her age wasn’t as dead in the daylight as she seemed—and attempted to focus her psychic energy on traveling outward, into the minds awake to the world. It didn’t help that Bitch decided to jump up on the bed when she moved and tried to get her to wake up by licking her face for at least an hour.

“This is not going to be pretty,” Gerry whispered to Sara as the first of the people they were meeting entered the restaurant’s private dining room.

“It never is,” she whispered back.

“True. I’m here to insult you to your face while you buy me an expensive lunch,” Gavivi said, going to a seat at the head of the long table.

She either had amazing hearing, or no compunction about showing off her psychic talent before them. Either way, this did not put Sara in her place. It pricked her pride, of course, but she also thought it was stupid for anyone higher on the food chain to be impolite to Olympias’s chief slave. They tended to forget that the Enforcer of the City was one of the Strigoi Council. Olympias was among the most ancient and dangerous of their kind, and
Sara was the person they had to see first if they wanted to ask anything of her mistress.

Gavivi was an elegant, tall, chocolate-skinned woman with short curls dyed golden blonde. She wore a turquoise silk suit, and her long nails and eye shadow perfectly matched the vibrant color of the silk. There was nothing inconspicuous about this particular companion.

“You have excellent hearing, and terrible manners,” Gerry said, though he rose to stand politely while Gavivi took her seat. It was clear from the look she gave him that Gavivi wasn’t sure if the action was gentlemanly, or that of a mere servant of a vampire acknowledging a vampire’s lover’s higher status.

The status thing bothered Sara in the oddest ways. She knew that if she were a companion she wouldn’t be one of the ones that rubbed it in to the less psychically gifted. She’d be very serious about the whole thing, aware of the honor and responsibility of someday having companions and slaves of her own. She’d prepare for the future rather than just reveling or groveling in the throes of companionship.

“You look sad,” a voice she’d never heard before said.

She looked up, not realizing that she’d been staring at the tablecloth or that anyone else had entered the dining room. She saw that the man who’d spoken was distinguished looking in a bland way. He had the look of a high-level bureaucrat, a tall man with nondescript features, commanding and utterly forgettable all at once. He had a high forehead and fading blond hair, and wore wire-rimmed glasses over pale blue eyes. He was dressed in a gray suit, his shirt and tie a matching ice blue, the tailoring subdued but expensive. If Sara had not known exactly who he must be she might not have recognized him for what he was. He did not display the glow of charisma that shone around Gavivi and every other companion Sara had met. There was power there, she realized, but it was as restrained and subtle as the cut of his clothes. The look he gave her was full of sympathy,
the sort of look she would normally have found offensive, but—

There was such deep understanding in his eyes. He was the sort of person, that, when he looked at you, he looked at you.

Oh, yes, he had a great deal of psychic talent all right. Sara managed to shake off the spell and remember that she and this companion weren’t the only people in the room. She even managed a small, knowing smile—that the companion returned with a full-wattage grin and a deep, rich laugh.

“I’m with Rose Shilling,” he identified himself. “Sorry if my comment was presumptuous, but you were looking sad, Ms. Czerny. I see it as my duty to try to make a lady smile.” He then shook Gerry’s hand before he turned to Gavivi and finished introducing himself. “Roger Bentencourt.”

From the admiring look in Gerry’s eyes and the way Gavivi preened, Sara could tell that the others were affected by the man’s concentrated attention, while she wondered how he’d learned her last name. Mind reading was the explanation she preferred, as she hated the notion that such a companion would take any interest in anything outside the immediate wants and needs of his vampire lover. Sara was certain that Rose, a contented, complacent, retiring, and decidedly old-school strigoi, wouldn’t be bothered with anything so déclassé as learning the names of another vampire’s slaves. Sara didn’t like the idea of a companion taking initiative of any sort. Rather, Olympias wouldn’t like the idea; she didn’t like the idea of anything that might make her job more complicated than it already was.

Making my life more complicated, that is.
Sara tried not to think that thought, not in this room full of psychics far stronger than herself, but the bitter words flitted through her mind before she could stop them. Chances were good that neither of the companions noticed. She was only a slave.