Touch the Dark (25 page)

I turned away from the mirror and searched for some sign of my clothes. I found only the boots, which had been cleaned and polished and tucked behind the door. I didn't think they went with terrycloth, and left them where they were. I'd have given a lot to at least have had some clean underwear, but I couldn't find any. I finally shrugged back into the robe and decided to go bare underneath rather than put back on the tattered, bloodstained remnants of what had once been a nice set of lingerie. I was grateful for the robe's bulkiness, since at least everything was covered. It made me look about twelve, but maybe the Senate would spring for something else if I asked. They'd been in a good mood earlier. Of course, that was before I ran off and almost got three people killed, four if you counted me. I took a deep breath and went to face the music.

There were six people in the outer room, if you included the golem in the corner. It took me a second to notice him because the blackout curtains had been drawn over the windows, blocking the sunlight. Electric lights were on and sputtering a little because of the wards, but the room was dim.

Louis-César, still in the tight jeans outfit, was leaning on the mantel, looking stressed for once. Tomas was in the red leather chair by the fire. He and Rafe were in almost identical black dress slacks and long-sleeved silk shirts, except that Tomas' was as black as his hair and Rafe's was a dull crimson. Rafe was on the couch with Mircea, who alone among the group appeared the same as the night before. Looking at him, relaxed and elegant, I could almost believe that I'd accidentally fallen asleep in the bath and that none of the stuff at Dante's had ever happened. That happy thought was crushed by the sight of Pritkin, in khaki everything like some big-game hunter, standing by the door. He didn't take his eyes off me, as if he'd like to see my head mounted on his wall over a sign reading PROBLEM SOLVED. Oh, yeah, this was gonna be loads of fun.

Rafe moved as soon as he saw me. “
Mia stella!
You are feeling better, yes? We were so worried!” He hugged me tightly. “Lord Mircea and I went to Antonio's headquarters in the city, but you were not there. If Louis-César and Tomas had not found you — ”

“But they did, so everything's fine, Rafe.” He nodded and tried to guide me toward the sofa, but I didn't want to be wedged in there. It wasn't like I could escape, no matter where I sat, but I didn't like the idea of being confined. Besides, the only people in the room I could sort of trust were Rafe and maybe Mircea, and I preferred to be where I could see their faces. I sat on the ottoman near Tomas' feet and concentrated on keeping my robe together. “I am sorry, but your clothes were unsalvageable,” Rafe said apologetically. “Others are being arranged for you.”

“Okay.” I didn't attempt to make small talk. I was about to learn what the Senate wanted, and since I was absolutely sure I wasn't going to like it, I didn't feel like helping things along.

“Mia stella.”
Rafe glanced at Mircea, who cocked an eyebrow at him unhelpfully. Poor Rafe; he always got the crappy jobs. “Could you tell us, who is Françoise?”

I stared at him. Of all the things I'd thought he might say, that would have been near the bottom. In fact, it wasn't even on the list. “What?”

“You mentioned her to me,” Louis-César said, moving to crouch in front of me. I shrank back, even though he'd carried me around the parking lot and nothing had happened. I didn't feel like taking chances. “At the casino.”

“Don't you want to talk about Tony? He's selling slaves to the Fey.”

“We know,” Mircea answered. “One of the witches you assisted came to the Circle to describe her captivity. I was allowed to sit in on the questioning, since Antonio is my responsibility. The mages are . . . quite concerned, as you can imagine.”

I was confused. “Maybe I'm being slow here, but why witches? Wouldn't humans be easier targets?” The women I'd freed had certainly been no welterweights, as one dead mage proved.

“For centuries, after their own bloodlines began to die out, that was their strategy. Have you not heard the stories about human infants being spirited away by the Fey?” Mircea asked. I nodded — it was standard fairy tale stuff. “Such children were brought up in Faerie and married into some of their great houses. It did improve their fertility, but they soon noticed that the magical ability in the children of such unions was considerably less than their own.”

“So they started stealing witches.”

“Yes, but an agreement was worked out between the Fey and the Silver Circle in 1624, stating that no more abductions were to take place.”

“I guess it's sort of void now.”

Mircea smiled. “On the contrary. The light elves swear they know nothing of this practice, and that it is solely the dark who are involved.” I frowned. From what Billy had said, it sounded like the opposite was true. “The dark, of course, claim the reverse,” Mircea said, noticing my expression, “but in any case, it is not our concern. We will not be drawn into Fey politics because of one person's greed, as we made clear to their ambassadors a few hours ago. Antonio will be dealt with, but that ends our involvement.”

I wasn't surprised. Despite their presence at MAGIC, the vamps had never been all that interested in other species' affairs. They cooperated as far as they did only to guard their own interests. “Just the one witch came forward? What happened to the other two?”

“They must have been dark,” Pritkin said, watching me narrowly, “under interdict by the Circle for their crimes. Otherwise they would not have been so quick to flee. Our witch learned little about them because they were gagged much of the time. But she said that one of them recognized you and insisted that they help you against the dark mage. Yet you said you did not know them.”

“I don't.” I couldn't tell him about Françoise — it would sound crazy and I didn't understand it myself. Magic users tend to live longer than most humans, but witch or no, if it had really been her in that French castle, she should be long dead of old age. Not to mention that it took some memory to immediately recall the face of a person seen for a few minutes hundreds of years ago. I'd recognized her because, for me, our meeting had just happened. But how she had known me was an open question.

“And I suppose you also do not know the pixie who aided you in freeing your servants? She is a well-known operative of the Dark Fey.”

Pritkin was getting on my nerves. “No, I don't. And they weren't my servants.”

“You told me you watched Françoise burn to death.” Louis-César was apparently a single-minded kind of guy.

I decided to go with his comment, since Pritkin didn't believe anything I said anyway. “What happened to the mage? Did you kill him?”

“You see; she doesn't even try to deny it!” Pritkin came striding across the room. I'd have figured out he was pissed off even if I hadn't been able to see him, since my new toy jumped against my wrist with an almost electric tickle. I managed not to yelp, but I stuffed my hand farther into the pocket of the robe so the bracelet didn't show. Something told me Pritkin wouldn't be happy to see it.

Tomas had moved to stand between us. It unnerved me that I hadn't seen him do it, but I was grateful to have a barrier between me and the mage. The guys at Tony's had always believed that war mages were dangerous, bloodthirsty and crazy. Considering that the people saying this were multiple murderers who worked for a homicidal vampire, I tended to take their opinion seriously.

“Why would I deny it? Possessing him saved your life.” I hadn't expected a thank-you, but it would've been nice if he'd stopped glaring at me.

“I would prefer to die than be saved by the dark arts!”

“We'll keep that in mind next time,” Tomas said. I giggled. I wasn't trying to antagonize anyone, but I was dizzy from hunger and exhausted. At the moment, it really was funny. Only Pritkin didn't seem to think so.

Mircea stood up as someone rapped on the door. “Ah, breakfast. Tempers will doubtless be better after we have dined.” A young man wheeled in a cart that had me salivating from the smell alone.

A few minutes later, I was halfway through a tray of pancakes, sausage, hash browns and fresh fruit. It had been served on a nice silver platter with real china dishes, linen napkins and genuine maple syrup, mellowing my mood towards the Senate considerably. I'd just poured myself more tea when Pritkin made a sound of disgust. I couldn't imagine what his problem was; he had a tray, too.

“It doesn't bother you at all, does it?” he demanded. I noticed that not only was he not eating, but he was staring at me the way I had probably looked at the wererats at the casino. Like I was something he couldn't quite figure out but knew he didn't like. My mouth was full so I raised an eyebrow at him. He gestured wildly. “Look at them!”

I forked up some sausage and glanced around. The vampires were feeding, but they weren't having pancakes. They can eat solid food, as Tony proved often enough, but they can't obtain nourishment from it. There's only one thing that will give them that, and they were taking full advantage. Louis-César had apparently already eaten, or maybe it was true about what they said of the Senate, that its members were so powerful that they had to feed only about once a week. Rafe, Mircea and Tomas had joined me for breakfast, however, and they were, of course, dining on the satyr-were hybrids from Dante's.

I'd seen similar scenes so often growing up that it had hardly registered. Any prisoners taken alive were always used for food. One of the few things considered truly depraved in vamp circles is to waste blood, even that of shape-shifters. Blood is precious; blood is life. I had grown up with that mantra; apparently, Pritkin had not.

The only thing that sort of threw me was the sight of Tomas feeding from the neck of a handsome young were who looked vaguely familiar. He had chocolate brown eyes that matched the dark fur that started halfway down his hips and framed his heavy sex. He'd been stripped and bound hand and foot with thick silver chains. That was standard operating procedure since humiliation was part of the punishment, but I thought it might be less than effective in this case. I didn't know how he felt about the chains — weres aren't fond of silver — but satyrs actually prefer to be nude. They believe wearing clothing suggests they have something to hide, that some part of their bodies isn't perfect. This one didn't have anything to be ashamed of, and his body was reacting to the feeding in the usual manner, making him even more impressive. It must have been an involuntary response, though; his face was so distorted with fear that it took me a minute to identify him as the waiter who had greeted me at the satyr bar.

The scene bothered me, and it wasn't because I had met the were or because he was obviously terrified. Better that he learn his lesson now and avoid trying the Senate's patience in future; they weren't known for giving third chances. I finally decided that my brain was objecting to the sight of fangs extending from Tomas' lips, and to seeing him swallow the satyr's blood like it was his favorite vintage. It seemed I was still having trouble putting “Tomas” and “vampire” in the same category.

Despite my unease, I didn't look away. It was considered a sign of weakness to show emotion when witnessing a punishment, and rude to ignore it since the whole point of having it in public is for it to be seen. I did, however, refocus my attention on Mircea. Watching him enjoy his meal bothered me less than watching Tomas, and he was in my line of sight anyway.

“I thought you didn't like were blood,” I said, trying for what passed for normal conversation at the courts. Mircea had been present when Tony had the alpha executed, but had declined the honor of draining him. “You told me once that they're bitter.”

“It is an acquired taste,” Mircea responded, letting the black were draped over his knees fall to the floor. “But I cannot be choosy. I will need my strength tonight.”

I poured more tea and eyed Pritkin's untouched plate lustfully. “Are you going to eat that?” I couldn't help it; I was starving for some reason, probably thanks to Billy Joe. The mage ignored me, staring at the unconscious were in horror. Mircea slid the mage's plate across to me and I dug in gratefully.

“Did Antonio have any more trouble with that pack, after their leader was killed?” he asked, as if he knew what I'd been thinking.

I poured syrup over the mage's untouched hotcakes and slathered on some butter. “I don't think so. At least, I never heard of any more problems. Tony didn't always tell me everything, though.”

Mircea gave me a sardonic look. “That makes two of us,
dulceaţă. Bogãtia stricã pe om.
”

“You know I don't understand Romanian, Mircea.”

“Prosperity, like want, ruins many.”

I shook my head. No way would Tony risk angering the Senate and the Circle for profit alone. “I'm thinking it's more power Tony wants. He has money.”

“You are wise beyond your years. Do your ghosts teach you such things?”

I almost blew hot tea all over Tomas. “Ha! Not likely.” The only things Billy had ever taught me were some illegal card tricks and a few dirty limericks.

“Do you hear yourself?” Pritkin was looking at me with revulsion. “That thing just committed murder and you didn't even blink! Are you enslaving the spirits of the dead, as you did your ghost servant and the dark witches? Is that why you sit there and say nothing?”

I almost decided it wasn't worth the trouble. But I was feeling much better since polishing off the pancakes, and Pritkin really needed a reality check. “First of all, the were isn't dead; he only passed out. Second, I don't ‘enslave' spirits; as far as I know, that isn't even possible. And third, weres don't leave ghosts. Neither do vamps. I don't know why, but they don't.”