“Madre María, sálvame,” Adán muttered.
Everyone looked at him. He was wearing the trousers that had been folded at his feet a few moments ago, but he was still shirtless. He had one hand to his chest, and he was turning the other hand over and back, staring at it.
“Danny?” Justin prompted softly.
Adán looked up at them, his gaze shifting from Ryan to where Justin stood next to Deonne, then back. “I’m human,” Adán breathed.
Ryan laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Just wait until you’ve digested your first meal. It’ll become real enough then.”
Adán blinked. “Food,” he breathed, his tone one of worship.
Deonne giggled. She clapped her hand over her mouth to shut it off, but Adán’s bemused expression was too funny to contain it. She brought her knees up to her chest and held both hands firmly over her mouth, but her shoulders shook as the laughter took her, and her eyes filled with tears.
Adán looked affronted. Then he smiled and the smile was full of mischief. “Yes, laugh now,” he agreed quietly. “Laugh at the man who has forgotten how to fasten the buttons on his trousers. But I want to watch you lace yourself into the corset every lady wears.”
Deonne’s laughter faded abruptly. “Corset?” she repeated.
Adán grinned.
* * * * *
Chronometric Conservation Agency Headquarters, Villa Fontani, Rome, 2264 A.D.: Rhydder was born Cadeyrn Judoc Rhydder but there was only one person alive now who remembered that. Even Llewellyn didn’t know that the bastard Saxons Rhydder hated with a blood-inducing fury had called him The Shard. Sverd!, they had warned each other as he came at them. Fifty years later he had learned that sverd meant sword. He was The Sword to his enemies. The Shard, as he had become known.
The Agency knew only that he was the leader of the dark cast — the Malsinne — and condemned him along with his gutter trash. While the Assur, the Eridu and the Lagash all had greater talents beyond the vampire race’s usual abilities to heal, extraordinary speed, strength and agility, the Malsinne did not, and everyone saw this as appropriate and evidence that the dark cast were a lesser breed.
Their weakness for human blood was another slur on their character. The siren song of the hot, coppery fluid the Malsinne found harder to resist than the other casts gave them a reputation as addicts and co-dependents. The laughing stock of the vampire race.
All this ran through Rhydder’s mind as he faced his assembled troops in the main section of their new training area one hundred feet below Villa Fontani. It was ten thirty in the morning and what passed for a vampire metabolism would be cranky in all of them. Rhydder could certainly feel it, but staying vampire for longer than a week was novel for him.
Their slowed reactions would ensure the vampire standing chained before him would be less trouble to deal with. Evelyn stood wrapped in iron chains between two of his strongest lieutenants, her head up, her expression defiant. Rhydder had instructed that the blood she had feasted upon be left on her chin. Now it had dried there like an ochre brown scaly skin and was flaking away. Her teeth were down, as if she was expecting trouble.
Well, she was in trouble, no doubt about it. Rhydder mentally sighed. He lifted his voice for the benefit of everyone in the area. “You fed upon an unwilling human despite an edict against the practice that has stood for a hundred and twenty years.”
Evelyn hissed as if she would take him on, given her freedom. The troops stirred in reaction to the threat.
Except for those on active patrol, they had all made it to the hearing. Even the lowliest recruit. Disbelief brought many of them. Satisfaction brought others, for Evelyn was not well liked. Rhydder didn’t care why they were here, only that they witnessed this. The reinforcement was necessary.
A flash of light in the corner of his eye made him glance up toward the observation box. The door of the observation box had been opened, spilling in more normal light from the rest of the base, as someone slipped into the box. As the door closed, Rhydder could see who it was leaning against the concrete barrier, gripping the steel bar that ran along the top.
Demyan Romanov. The Tsarist with too much anger locked in him. Rhydder knew that phenomenon well.
Romanov’s dark green overcoat implied that he’d come in straight off the streets of Rome. It was a chilly September day.
Rhydder turned back to face Evelyn. “You know the penalty for feeding from a human if you are one in my ranks. Everyone here knows it. The penalty is carefully explained to you when you join.”
The murmur was more distinct this time. They knew.
Rhydder could feel fury flickering at the edges of his control. “Discipline is not a thing you apply only occasionally and when the mood is right. You either have discipline, or you do not.”
He shot his hand out to point at her chin. “You do not!”
Her upper lip curled up, displaying her teeth. The threat was very clear this time. Evelyn knew she had nothing left to lose and she was old enough to fight when she was backed into a corner rather than simply give up.
Rhydder had expected this and had chosen his ground accordingly. He had good footing here. Unlike the rest of the base, which was a part of the ancient underground catacombs that honeycombed the city, the training area had never been finished off. It was still raw cavern. Beyond the known areas, Rhydder had not yet ventured. But the known sections, with their rough terrain, jagged stone buttresses and uneven surfaces, were perfect for training recruits and Rhydder had claimed the catacombs as his as soon as he had seen them.
But he had chosen a relatively flat and smooth area to stand upon for this confrontation and his troops now ranged around him and Evelyn in an unformed mass. Formations and parades weren’t possible here.
Rhydder addressed his troops. “Tell me the penalty for feeding from a human?”
“Termination.” The word came back from many mouths.
Evelyn hissed again, but this time she leapt. The chains and the guards only slowed her down. She dealt with the guards, a boot to each throat. She used the kick to each throat as leverage to push herself high up into the air and launch herself upon Rhydder, using the weight of the chains about her to bring herself down like a missile. As she fell, she pulled out a knife she had tucked away in her boot and brought it up for the strike.
It might have worked except that Rhydder had been expecting Evelyn to try something and had strapped his sword belt on over his Levis before walking out into the training area. He gripped the sword, spun out of Evelyn’s way and withdrew the sword all at the same time. He brought the sword around in a flat arc, his arm at full stretch. His momentum did the rest. Evelyn was neatly decapitated as she landed where he had just been standing.
There was barely a ripple of reaction from the men. Good.
Rhydder leaned over and ripped a piece of fabric from Evelyn’s shirt before her body began to disintegrate. The chains that had been holding her fell in on themselves with quiet clanking sounds. He cleaned his sword.
“Back to work, everyone,” he said, with a snap in his voice. “And someone see to Sulayman and Lin.” The two guards were still prone on the ground where Evelyn had dropped them. Maybe they had broken necks, or a crushed larynx each. Evelyn had been playing for keeps. They’d need time to heal and would have to have their patrol shifts covered. Rhydder felt his temper flicker a little more. All in all, Evelyn had done him no favors.
Demyan Romanov had made his way down to the training area floor and was picking his way across the rocks and debris to where Rhydder stood, slipping between the Malsinne with a disapproving look on his refined features. Rhydder had judged him to be an Eridu. Disapproval came naturally to them.
Rhydder waited until Romanov came right up to him, forcing him to stand next to the blood on the ground, knowing it would bother the Eridu that much more. Rhydder was in no mood to accommodate his sensibilities.
“There are ways of handling such matters that don’t require such.
..extremities,” Romanov said.
“Wrist slapping,” Rhydder growled. “Not interested, thanks.” He shoved the sword back into the scabbard and looked at him, waiting for Romanov to spit out his reason for this visit. Romanov was the first of the original Agency members to extend themselves and make their way down here to the catacombs. Rhydder was curious to know what had forced him to make such an effort, but not curious enough to drag it out of him.
As an Eridu, Romanov would be highly empathic. He could read for himself that Rhydder wasn’t in the mood for pussyfooting around with social niceties.
Around them, Rhydder’ troops were moving, clearing away the chains and garments that were all that were left of Evelyn, and picking up the two injured guards. They were separating and going their own way now that the informal court-martial was over. The training area gradually emptied. A few Malsinne moved around them as they went about their business. The area suddenly seemed echoey and huge.
Romanov cleared his throat. “I have a favor to ask, Rhydder.” His dark brown eyes glanced at him and looked away.
Rhydder hid his surprise. “Ask, then,” he said warily.
“Have you had the chance to meet Pritti, yet?”
“The psi-filer?” Rhydder recalled the shy, tiny woman with thick, black long hair that seemed to flow everywhere. Her huge eyes had followed him around the garden, the night of their ‘welcome’ party, as if she expected him to break out into violence if she looked away even once. “I remember her. I also remember she didn’t stray far from you side.” He cocked his head. “Are the rumors about you two true?”
Romanov’s gaze didn’t shift by a millimeter. “Yes,” he said flatly.
It roused a faint sense of admiration for the man that Rhydder didn’t want to feel. He had enough on his plate.
“Pritti is ill,” Romanov began.
“Don’t you mean she’s dying?” Rhydder asked. “She’s looks old enough.”
Romanov’s only reaction was a slight narrowing of his eyes, which told Rhydder that he was keeping all his emotions under tight leash. Interesting.
“Yes, she’s dying,” Romanov said. “But there is a physician who might be able to help her with a special therapy. I would like you to come with me to see this doctor.”
Rhydder stared at Romanov, trying to guess at everything that might not have been said in such a simple statement. “That seems far too ordinary a task to come bait me in my den and ask a favor of me in order to complete it.” He crossed his arms. “What is the therapy for?”
Demyan glanced away, then brought his gaze back firmly to meet Rhydder’ eyes. “To extend her life.”
Rhydder dropped his arms and headed for the stairs to the main level. “You’re out of your fucking mind, Romanov.” He heard the Eridu scrambling to catch up, his shoes slipping on the loose stones. Rhydder leapt over a small up-thrust of rocks.
“She’s dying, Rhydder.”
“So?”
“She’s dying of old age.”
“Psi tend to do that.”
“She’s not even thirty, Rhydder.”
He could hear Romanov’s labored breath as he scrambled behind him and wondered why the Russian was bothering with this. He had admitted they were intimate, but no one had ever had any success saving a psi-filer from dying of old age at thirty. No one. Romanov was on a fool’s errand if he thought he had found a cure.
Rhydder pushed open the lower door and held it open for Romanov, which gave him the chance to look at the man as he asked his question. “How long has Pritti been working for the agency?”
“Nearly ten years.”
That didn’t improve Rhydder’s mood. Ten years was a third of a fucking lifetime for psi. In his terms, ten years was the same as six centuries. Six hundred years of working for the same people. Rhydder couldn’t even begin to understand the dedication and loyalty Pritti must have to remain with one organization that long.
He climbed the stairs three at a time, shouldered his way into his office, unbuckled the sword belt and hooked it over the hat stand in the corner. By the time he settled into the oversized chair behind the desk, Romanov was just stepping into the office.
The Eridu entered warily, but Rhydder could see determination in his face. His jaw was set and his lips were set in a straight line.
Rhydder waited, curious to see what he did next.
“How old are you, Rhydder?”
“None of your fucking business,” Rhydder said, shocked.
“Forgive me,” Romanov said. “I retract the question.” He held up a hand signifying peace. “I was born in the year 1571 in St. Petersburg, even as it was being burned by the Tatars. That means I have walked this earth for four hundred and thirty eight years. If I had devoted one third of that time – one hundred and forty-six years – to one master, I would expect more in return than a shrug, when I was in trouble. Wouldn’t you, Rhydder?”
“She hasn’t spent over a century with us,” Rhydder said gruffly, although Romanov’s echo of his own thoughts didn’t go down well at all.
“She may as well have,” Demyan returned softly. “She gave us a third of her life and I can assure you she had not been treated like a member of the family in that time. But still, she stayed.”
For a small moment Rhydder actually hated the Eridu for the unsettled feeling he was stirring in his gut. He didn’t want to start thinking of Pritti as anything other than a hated psi who happened to be doing them a favor. That left it nicely black and white.
Six hundred years. In six hundred years he had lived dozens of lifetimes, in countries the world over. He had lived and loved in such a way that he could barely recall all the friends and faces that had passed through his life.
Rhydder lifted his leg under the desk and pushed out the visitor chair sitting in front of it with his boot. He indicated the chair with his hand. “Tell me the rest.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Bushland, near Beechworth, Victoria, Australia, 1879: Deonne prodded experimentally at her stomach, then turned her hand over and rapped at the boning with her knuckles. A solid thud rewarded her efforts.
“Wow,” she breathed, fascinated.
There were corsets in her time, but they were fashion statements and the ‘boning’ was nothing of the sort. This whalebone cage had her strapped in tight, making her breasts lift, keeping her back straight, and reducing her waist measurement by inches. She could relax inside the corset and still look regally upright. “I think I’m in love,” she murmured, putting her hands around her waist. The tips nearly met in the middle.
“Wait until you have to run, work or climb onto a horse,” Justin warned her. “Now, the corset cover.” He held out the ivory colored linen garment.
“Another layer?” she asked, taking it and shaking it out so she could find the opening.
He grinned. “You’ve got two layers of petticoats after this, then you get to put the dress on.”
“It’s ninety freaking degrees! I’m already sweating wearing just this.” But she slid the linen top on over the corset anyway. She was secretly enjoying herself. Ryan had turned his back while she stripped and Justin had been forced to help her with the drawers and camisole. Once she had those on, Adán and Ryan had settled near the fire to watch as Justin had coached her on the methods and madness of nineteenth century fashion.
The first items after the drawers and camisole had been pale stockings. She slid them on, but they stopped short not far above her knees. “They’re not long enough.”
“That’s where they go to,” Justin assured her, and handed her two rubber circles. “Garters,” he explained. “To hold the stockings up.”
It was a strange sensation to stand there in silk stockings and white underwear. Strange and strangely erotic. Mindful of Ryan’s company, Deonne wrenched her thoughts back to the ordinary.
The next two items were boots. She had seen engravings and photos of similar boots, with low, narrow heels and hooks for laces up the front. This p
air looked very authentic. She bent over and slid them on, not surprised to find they fit her feet. Justin closed and fastened one while she did the other by watching and imitating what Justin was doing.
As Justin had tightened the stays on the corset, pulling in her waist and forcing her to stand upright, she had caught her breath and looked over her shoulder at him. “Do I want to know how you know so much about a lady’s undergarments in this century?”
“From taking them off, I imagine,” Ryan said dryly from his post by the campfire.
“Then being forced to put them back on the lady afterwards,” Adán finished. “Ah, underthings. They were an especial treasure.”
“They did have their charms,” Ryan agreed, with a small smile. “Although in Constantinople, a lot of layers were skipped simply because it wasn’t practical in the heat. The British had stricter ideas about propriety.”
“You did well with the sizing,” Justin observed as he tied off the stays. “There’s not a lot of wriggle room for adjustment with these.”
“That was Cybelia’s doing. She translated Deonne’s measurements and supplied the dress and things. My biggest headache was carrying it all for the jump here. Deonne is wearing meters more fabric than we do.”
“Here comes the fun bit,” Ryan warned Deonne as he finished fastening the two layers of petticoats around her waist. He picked up a pile of black and white striped fabric.
“Let me look at it,” Deonne asked, her interest pricked.
“Believe me, it looks like nothing when you’re not wearing it,” Justin assured her. “Let’s put it on first, then I’ll let Adán take a photo of you for you to look at.”
“How do I take a photo?” Adán asked. “With positive thinking? I landed here with the clothes on my back. I don’t even have ID.”
“You don’t need ID right now,” Ryan assured him. “Here, catch.” He tossed a small implement in Adán’s direction. Adán shot out his hand and caught it, then turned it over. It was a common throw-away camera that Deonne had seen hundreds of. They could capture two or three-dee or motion, but their range didn’t extend far.
Romani Armada (Beloved Bloody Time) Page 36