by Karen Chance
And because they were vampires, they were spinning so fast that the sound of their clothes snapping and their feet scraping across the concrete rooftop made almost as much noise as the musicians. They streamed around us, the throbbing beat and flowing colors sweeping us up into the madness for a heady second, and confusing my already spinning head. Then they were gone, whirling off to another part of the roof, leaving Louis-Cesare and I looking at each other, breathless and laughing.
Until I spied the food.
Vampires don’t technically need to eat, and the younger ones don’t even have working taste buds, meaning that their parties often times don’t include food. At best, I’d been hoping for a lackluster buffet with some wilted lettuce and maybe a few pasta salads that hadn’t gone off yet. But that . . . was not what I got.
Hassani’s people had devised a street vendor type of set up, the kind sometimes seen at big Indian weddings where there are a ton of people to feed with different preferences. Here that meant happy little booths scattered about everywhere, draped with bunting or shiny fringe or topped by balloons, and each with a different specialty. I guessed the idea was to promote circulation, with people who wanted to eat being encouraged to make the rounds.
I was encouraged.
Especially when the spicy scents from the closest booth drifted over, and my stomach woke up to complain that I’d eaten practically nothing for twenty-four hours. That was a rare event in the life of a dhampir. We have revved up metabolisms that help promote healing and give us added power in fights, but they come with a price: we’re hungry all the time, with our stomachs making regular, strident demands. Whatever Maha had done to calm down my system while she healed it had also banished hunger—until right now.
“Put me down,” I told Louis-Cesare, my mouth watering. As soon as he complied, I ran to the nearest booth and—yes! I’d thought so.
The vendor was passing out plates of ta’meya, an Egyptian version of falafel made with fava beans instead of chickpeas. But that didn’t tell the whole story, not by half. Onion, garlic, leek and parsley were added to the mix, giving it a vibrant green color, while coriander, cayenne, cumin and paprika spiced it up before it was made into little balls and fried.
It was always delicious, but after a day with no nourishment, the pillowy soft on the inside, crunchy on the outside, hot and spicy bundles were almost literally heaven.
“Don’t fill up,” Louis-Cesare warned me. “Look what’s next.”
He nodded at something further down the roof and, sure enough, another little booth smelled even better. I hurried over, still stuffing my face with ta’meya, and then just stood there in something approaching awe. Because this one had shawarma, with a huge tower of lamb and another of chicken, their fat caps sizzling and dripping mouth-watering flavor all down the already highly spiced meat.
I had one of each kind, in two huge stuffed pita breads with tahini and roasted vegetables. And while I was working on those, we passed a fatteh vendor giving out plates of an ancient Egyptian feast food. The fried crispy flatbread was piled high with rice, meat, and veggies, and all doused in a sensational buttery, garlicy, vinegary tomato sauce.
“Oh,” I said, pointing with a pita.
“I’ll get a tray,” Louis-Cesare said dryly.
And damned if he didn’t find one somewhere. I was too busy jumping to the next roof to see where, because there was a vendor with bamia over there, a delicious okra stew with chunks of beef, tomatoes, onions, garlic, and spices. There was also a guy with kofta—spicy meatballs with a yogurt dip—and another with mahshi—peppers, zucchini, eggplants and cabbage leaves stuffed with lamb and rice and tomato sauce, and spiced with cinnamon and herbs, which sounds nasty but tastes divine.
“Your tray,” Louis-Cesare said, coming up behind me and proffering a shiny brass version, which was good because my hands were full. And we hadn’t even made it to the desserts yet.
But they were coming up. I could see a vendor on the next roof with zalabya, fried doughballs in sweet syrup, kind of like Egyptian doughnut holes. And another further on who I was pretty sure had Om Ali, the best damned dessert in a city of great desserts. It had layers of puff pastry soaked in milk and mixed with nuts, raisins, coconut and sugar. The whole thing was then baked and served with warm cream and garnished with more nuts, usually pistachios and almonds. It was basically Egyptian bread pudding, and was rivalled only by one I’d had in New Orleans once with a caramel whisky sauce.
“Oh,” I said, my eyes getting wide. I started that way, but was too late. Hassani wanted to speak to us as well, it seemed, and he’d sent a delegation to find us.
I only knew that because Louis-Cesare shouted it at me as we were swept up by a laughing, chattering, and carousing throng. I found myself grabbed under the arms and taken on a wild ride across a number of rooftops, so quickly that I barely had a chance to realize what was going on. And when we hit down, I suddenly had a bunch of people I didn’t know hugging me and laughing and taking selfies.
Whatever reservations Hassani’s court had had about us, they appeared to have disappeared. Somebody put a new drink into my hand, and somebody else plopped a flower crown onto my head, a popular accessory tonight as half the crowd seemed to be wearing them. I supposed it was a nod to the ancient Egyptian practice at festivals, or maybe it was just because.
There was a lot of just because going on.
And not only with the locals. I stared around, dizzy and wondering where my food was. But before I could ask, Louis-Cesare was borne away by a troop of guys dressed in harem pants and tasseled vests.
“Wait,” I said.
The crowd did not wait.
Instead, I was borne over to a bier with a table and a pergola, with some yellow draperies fluttering overhead which were so narrow that they basically just striped the stars. Hassani was reclining on a chaise, this time in a more comfortable looking outfit of a galabeya in unbleached cotton, with a pale blue caftan over the top. His only concession to the festivities was a flower crown, which had fallen to a jaunty angle over one ear, and a goblet of something in his hand.
He waved me up and up I went, mourning my lost tray, only to find it deposited on a low table in front of our chaises before I even sat down. My mood perked up. The consul saw and laughed.
“Eat, eat,” he said with the usual generous Egyptian hospitality.
I took him up on the offer. A young vamp who looked a lot like Lantern Boy but wasn’t kept my glass filled with the local version of lemonade. It was called limoon and didn’t have any alcohol, but went really well with the spicy food.
And some of the offerings needed something to cut the heat, although not the ones on my tray. But they were only half the story, because Hassani kept urging me to also try this hors d’oeuvre and that drink from a seemingly endless stream of passing waiters. Mezze is the Egyptian version of tapas, enjoyed at cafes and dining tables all across Egypt. And Hassani’s chefs had done him proud.
So, in addition to everything on my plate, I ended up consuming pieces of fennel-marinated-feta with olives on skewers; baba ghanoush—the spicy roasted eggplant dish—with flatbread; huge dates stuffed with nuts and honey; dukka—a roasted leek spread—on tiny potato pancakes; salata baladi, a salad made from chopped tomatoes, cucumber, onion, pepper and spicy rocket; lamb and chicken kebobs with the crunchy burnt bits perfectly paired with a lime yogurt sauce; and roast pigeon stuffed with onions, tomatoes and rice.
The result was a captive audience for whatever the hell Hassani wanted to talk about, because I honestly didn’t think I could move. Like ever again. Seriously, if anyone wanted to restrain a person without the needs for cuffs, this would do it.
He eyed up my massive pile of small, empty plates with apparent approval, but then summoned a boy with coffee, served Turkish style in tiny cups that were rich and dark and syrupy sweet. I drank one anyway, because it smelled divine, and made no apologies. I was basically in a food coma by that point, and not responsible fo
r my actions. I reclined and watched the latest group of dancers through rheumy eyes full of spice-induced tears.
They’d been there a while, shimmying and shaking and managing some pretty impressive feats of acrobatics while I ate, but I hadn’t really given them my full attention. I still didn’t, being too busy feeling grateful that I’d worn what was essentially a muumuu, rather than one of Radu’s skin tight numbers, or I’d have split the seams by now sure as hell. And then I almost did anyway, although for a different reason.
Because Louis-Cesare was one of the dancers.
I did a double take, but it was definitely him. He’d lost the top half of the tux, including the shirt, had acquired a tasseled vest, and was strutting with the locals. I looked down at my cup in concern, wondering what the hell they’d put in there. And then I was pulled up to join the festivities, which no, no, no, not right now!
Luckily, Hassani intervened, shooing off the boys and allowing me to retake my seat and just watch while they and my husband put on a show.
And a damned show it was. I don’t know if it was my appreciation of the other dancer that had prompted it, or if everyone’s joy was infectious, but Louis-Cesare was cutting a rug. He was watching the others, who had slowed down their gyrations to something approaching human speeds, and copied their steps pretty well.
Or their shimmy, I guess I should say. Because male belly dancers seemed to have many of the same moves as the women. Meaning that there was a lot of hip gyrating and undulating going on, along with something that looked a lot like twerking to my uneducated eyes.
They moved freely around the big open space, turning and twisting and shaking that ass, at least Louis-Cesare did. He wasn’t so great at some of the more complex movements, but he had this sinuous quiver down pat that was, uh, memorable. It was the fencing, I thought, staring at my husband’s shapely form more than was probably diplomatic.
But . . . dat ass.
He finally decided that I’d had enough time to digest, which was highly debatable in my opinion, but Hassani was talking to some courtier on his other side and wasn’t available to rescue me. So, I ended up dancing, too. Or something that vaguely passed for it, and I didn’t even have alcohol to blame it on.
It was probably going to end up on the local version of a jumbotron, I thought in horror, just any minute now.
Fortunately, I had a reprieve when a group of plate spinners showed up for the next act. I’d glimpsed them on one of the rooftops as we sped past, but hadn’t had a chance to stop and check them out. And now I didn’t have to. Hassani didn’t travel to the performances, they travelled to him, so we had a front row seat.
If it hadn’t come with more mezze, it would have been perfect.
I let Louis-Cesare take the hit this time, who worked his way through a dinner he didn’t technically need but seemed to enjoy, while the plate spinners did their thing. They were followed by some sword dancers, which was impressive until you considered that they were vamps; some fire jugglers that were impressive because they were vamps; and a woman oud player, with an instrument that looked like a lute and sounded like a Greek guitar, who sang some hauntingly beautiful songs whose words I didn’t understand.
Or maybe part of me did.
Louis-Cesare had reclined behind me and his body was a line of heat up my spine, countering the chill in the air. The night sky was beautiful, with Hassani’s amazing shields able to bring the Milky Way startlingly close and clear. And the torches surrounding our little bier were started to burn low, giving everything a dreamy, dim, golden glow that wrapped me in the same sense of warmth as Louis-Cesare’s arms.
I’d remember today, I thought. Not the pain; I rarely remembered that kind of thing, having had so much of it through the years that it was meaningless, just the background noise of my life. But days like this one . . . yeah. This was burned into my brain.
And then Hassani ensured it.
“Are you enjoying the party?” he asked, leaning over, and keeping his voice low so as not to interrupt the singer’s performance.
“Very much.” I hoped I didn’t sound as sleepy as I felt.
“That is good. I wanted to talk to you earlier, but were told that you were indisposed.”
“I don’t heal as fast as a vamp,” I said. “Not even with help.”
“Really?” A dark eyebrow went up. “That makes your actions over the last few days even more commendable.”
I didn’t know what to do with that, especially coming from him. “Thank you.”
“It is I who should be thanking you—both of you. My court owes you a debt we can never repay.”
I tried to summon up some brain power, in order to respond appropriately, but most of the available blood was being bogarted by my stomach. “That’s, uh, I mean, you don’t have to—”
“That is kind of you,” Louis-Cesare said smoothly, rescuing me. “Anything that strengthens our alliance is of mutual benefit, not only to us, but to the war effort.”
Hassani smiled at him politely for a moment, and then his eyes slid back to me. “But perhaps I can make at least a small down payment.”
“A down payment?” I echoed, confused.
“Yes, indeed.” He leaned closer, almost enough to whisper in my ear. “I think I know what the fey want with your sister.”
Chapter Seventeen
Dorina, Faerie
As it turns out, fey shields do have limits, if very, very high ones. Half an hour later, Ray and I finally managed to fight our way out of the waterlogged sphere, which had become trapped behind some large rocks at the bottom of the waterfall, and drag ourselves onto solid land again. That left us inside a cavern behind the falls, but I did not feel like complaining.
Judging by the way Raymond collapsed face down on the wet sand and just stayed there, neither did he.
I wasn’t sure if his position was because vampires do not have to breathe, or because he simply did not want to see any more of Faerie. In spite of everything, I found this place to be fascinating. He did not appear to agree.
For a while, we simply lay there, him face down and me face up, enjoying the view.
And, as I was beginning to expect from Faerie, it was spectacular.
Right above me, imbedded into the ceiling of the cave, was some kind of ancient fossil. I couldn’t name it, as I couldn’t name anything here, and I only had bones to go on in any case. But it looked like a winged dinosaur.
Not a dragon, although it had a similar body, albeit far smaller and slimmer. But the head was wrong, being too streamlined, and the tail was different. But it was the wings where the real difference lay, because they were feathered. I knew this, not because any feathers had survived who knew how many centuries, but because their outlines had been filled in . . .
With opal.
At least, it looked like opal. I could not be certain, as this was an alien world. But when I rolled my head slightly, back and forth, the bright blue and green colors shifted in a familiar way, sparkling down at me from the surrounding dull brown rocks like a piece of stained glass.
The feathers must have lasted a long time, giving the stone time to work its magic. It had ignored the bones—a dull, yellowish skull, a cage of ribs, a tail mostly sunk in rock—but had spilled delicate colors down each plume. The picture was so complete that I could see the individual barbs, the tiny feathers within a feather that grew out of the shaft.
They splayed out exuberantly, with one wing mostly hidden by the creature’s body, but the other looking like it was still in flight. I stared up at it for a long time. I did not understand why it was so bright, but perhaps it was the angle of the sun, spearing through gaps in the falls crashing to my right.
The sunlight didn’t penetrate very far. The waterfall was large, and the volume of liquid spilling over the top of it astonishing. It created a thick, white curtain, which contrasted nicely with the black soil inside the cave and the greenish hue of the pool of water beneath the falls. Every so often, I would se
e a brief flash of sky or of the rocky slopes of the riverbank outside, but for the most part, the view was opaque.
But some light did make it in, and reminded me of the ley lines, being striations of color that bled onto everything else. It striped the rocks inside the cave, the damp sand, and a few crystalline structures in the stone. It was really quite lovely, if less spectacular than the formation above.
But then, that seemed to be true of all of Faerie.
It was lovely. . . right up until it tried to kill you.
I slowly got back to my feet.
Raymond lay where he was, and for now, I thought that was best. I needed to check the cave, to make sure that nothing dangerous lay within, while he needed to rest. People often thought that vampires were like wind-up toys: give them enough blood and they just kept going and going. But it wasn’t true. They had more stamina than humans, but they could get tired, too, and he had been through a good deal.
I left him where he was and set off to explore.
The cave was surprisingly big, with quite a few stalagmite and stalactite formations spearing up from the floor and down from the ceiling as I left the relatively open, sandy area near the falls. It was mostly composed of the same brownish stone I’d seen near the mouth, except for the formations, which were a mottled brownish/gray. The sand underfoot was mostly brown as well, except for the black soil near the entrance. I supposed that it must have been carried downstream by the water and deposited there. It looked to come from a different region.
There was enough light to illuminate more of the beautiful fossils that studded the cave here and there. I saw a flash of color underfoot and pushed away some sand to find myself looking at the remains of a beaver-like animal. It had a broad, flat tail that had been filled in with a sheet of bright yellow opal in one stunning, unbroken piece. Like with the feathered creature, the body only had a few spots of color among the bones, but the tail was magnificent.