Marya opened the door and followed him. It was, he supposed, to be expected. He said nothing.
“You’re all right?” she asked.
He avoided her eyes and went about the business of pulling a fresh outfit from the closet. “I’m a vampire, mademoiselle. Nothing hurts me.”
“When you came in with that blood all over you . . .”
“All of it was Evrard’s. Every drop of it.”
He heard her inhale a deep breath. “I’m glad.”
“You’re glad. I’m glad. Even Scott’s glad. Only Evrard is put out. So let me take my shower, mademoiselle, will you?”
He felt her warm hand on his arm. “Something’s not right. Look at me and tell me you’re okay.”
He turned to her, and her dark eyes were filled with as much worry as if he had told her all the blood was his. Very few people either saw or cared what lie beneath the image he presented to the world. Only Adelle, who had been with him forty years, and Nikolena, who seemed to see through him only at the most inopportune times. This girl had known him for mere days and already saw what only Adelle and Nika had ever been capable of seeing. A part of him wanted to reach out and touch her face, wanted to pull her to him and feel the warmth of her body against his chest. But another part of him recognized the danger, so he resisted.
He looked her in the eye and spoke very softly. “I told you, mademoiselle. Nothing hurts me.”
He turned, grabbed a handful of undergarments, and went into the shower, closing the door behind him. Restraint again. Nika would be proud.
MARYA SAT ON the edge of the bed and fingered the trousers he had carelessly thrown there. They’ll wrinkle, she thought, automatically picking them up to straighten them. But she stopped and brought the material to her face instead. The silk carried the scent of the Undead. No, she amended. Of Drago.
When he had burst through the door with blood on his hands and bloodlust on his face she had feared for him. She believed him when he said the blood was all Verkist’s, but something was nevertheless wrong. The lust propelled him, but there was something else he carried—something that weighed him down. A bone-wearying kind of fatigue. When he had looked at her just now, she had been all too aware of the furrow in his brow and the lines etched on either side of his mouth. She had been hoping that when he returned his attitude toward her had changed from this morning, but it hadn’t. For some reason he had closed himself off from her, and he seemed determined to keep it that way.
When she had followed him into their suite, she had expected him to shout at her to get out. She could have handled the anger. The quiet declaration instead that nothing could hurt him had chilled her to her core.
She laid the trousers down carefully and picked up the shirt he had likewise flung to the bed. It was of white silk, like most of the shirts she had seen him wear. She straightened it, too, and waited for him. He wasn’t long. She heard the water turn off, and a moment later he stepped out of the bathroom wearing nothing but shorts. Unlike her surreptitious glances of before, she now gazed at him openly. Regardless of his feelings for her—or lack thereof—and despite any weight of the world he might be shouldering, he was a magnificent figure.
He could hardly fail to notice her appraisal. “What happened to the shy little Gypsy I met not so very long ago?”
She cocked her head. “She met a man. And don’t call me a Gypsy.”
She caught the barest trace of a smile before he repressed it. “And I shall correct you, as well. You met a vampire, mademoiselle. Don’t forget it.”
“You’re tired.”
He pulled the trousers on. “What if I am?”
“Sit for a moment. Verkist can wait.”
He surprised her and sat next to her on the bed, close enough so that the scent of soap and shampoo overpowered that of what he was. But he didn’t touch her and made no invitation for her to touch him.
He sighed. “I just expended a great deal of energy, cherie. The equivalent of your running a marathon.”
She stared at his profile, willing him to at least look at her. “If you don’t want to talk to me, then don’t. But don’t lie to me.”
He obliged her, turning so that he met her eyes. “It’s no lie.”
A long ribbon of damp hair hung over one blue eye, and it irritated her that he didn’t bother to dislodge it. “But there’s more to it than just that, isn’t there?”
“Are you afraid I won’t get you out of here?”
She very badly wanted to smooth the careless strand from his face, but knew the gesture wouldn’t be tolerated. “No. I’m afraid I’ll lose you.”
He stood up and put his shirt on. “You never had me. Go wait in the other room.” He said the words very softly.
Intentionally, she had provocatively answered his question of what she was afraid of, hoping for a response that was either passionate in his denial or angry at her presumption. A heated retort either way would have heartened her. The cool rejoinder shook her, and when he had turned his eyes on her, their apathy had scared her.
She stared at him, telling herself it was the exhaustion, or perhaps just the natural aftermath to an encounter with another of the Undead, but she didn’t believe either excuse. She left the room.
Revelin looked up at her and cocked one brow.
She stared at him, trying to control she panic she felt. “I hope you have a plan for getting us out of here, Revelin, because Drago’s going to die.”
Thirteen
DRAGO SAT ACROSS from Evrard in the latter’s office, a room at the far end of the southern wing to the building. A huge desk separated the two, a massive polished beast almost as grand as Nikolena’s. Evrard was impeccably garbed and groomed, and there was no trace of blood, scars, pain, or injury on his face. A new fall of lace flowed from his collar. Only the flint in his gray eyes gave evidence that he was far from happy with the events of the day. He flicked a square of heavy paper at Drago.
Drago caught it in one hand.
“Go ahead, Drago, look at it. Your order to me to terminate the girl.”
Drago examined the outside of the folded paper. His seal, the dragon’s head, in broken red wax, was affixed. He opened the order and read it to himself. It called for a reversal of Drago’s judgment and an immediate notification of termination. His signature was at the bottom. He tossed the paper onto the desk. “I didn’t send this. Seals and signatures can both be forged. You know that.”
“I have to go by what I receive. It was all in order. As were these.” He flipped another paper at Drago. “My order to Deverick.” And another. “Deverick’s order to Scott.”
Drago snatched both easily and quickly glanced at them. Both had the correct seals and signatures.
“Satisfied, Drago?”
He threw the two orders to the desktop. “Submit to my mind. Then I’ll be satisfied.”
Evrard glared at him, his features composed, but his steely eyes full of hate. “As you wish.” He raised his arms in a gesture of openness.
Drago opened his own eyes wide and set the vampiric mirror before his adversary. When placed before mortals, the mirror revealed fantasies, but when set before the Undead, only naked truth was revealed. Drago would have his answer. The mirror never lied. “Gaze upon me, Evrard, and see the truth. Did you forge my order?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
“No.”
“Have you killed to advance your rank?”
There was only the slightest hesitation. “I’ve only killed when I needed to kill.”
Drago released his subject. It was pointless to continue. “Our business is concluded, monsieur.”
“Just like that?”
Drago pulled on the cuffs of his shirt. “Just like that. You were right. You have nothing I want.”
Evrard leaned all the way back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his face. “Yes, but at the moment that isn’t very consoling, because as I also said, you have everything I want.”
Drago sat very still. “Say what you mean, monsieur. These games bore me.”
“Do they? We shall see. The girl—the mortal you chased in such hot pursuit—she means something to you?”
Drago’s blood ran cold. “Of course not. She’s an aberration.”
Evrard slowly lowered his hands. “Good. I’m glad to hear it. Then you won’t mind if I keep her as compensation for your unfounded accusations and the embarrassment of being humiliated in my own house.”
It was what Drago had feared all along. Evrard was going to try to use Marya against him. “I do mind. I gave her life, and she will live it freely.”
A slow smile spread across Evrard’s face, twisting the long scars. “Oh, she’ll go free. But first she’ll be my guest for awhile.”
Drago kept his own features dispassionate, a habit, luckily, he had perfected centuries ago. “She’s an aberration, Evrard. She’s foul. Her blood would poison you.”
He fingered the folds of lace as if it were a woman’s skin. “I know. But she has other charms which I’m sure you haven’t failed to notice.”
Drago fought to keep the lie of dispassion on his face. “She is not a point for negotiation, monsieur. End of discussion.” Drago stood.
“Sit down, Drago. You’re not giving orders here anymore.”
Drago didn’t sit, but strolled to a teakwood shelf along one wall. He took a small clay horse off the shelf and tossed it into the air, catching it neatly. Then he walked back to the desk. “I warned you not to play me false, Evrard.” He squeezed his hand, crushing the figurine. “Mademoiselle Jaks leaves with me.” He dropped the broken pieces on the desktop.
Evrard smiled again. “Your threats are meaningless, Drago. You can’t kill me over a mortal, and if you so much as try anything against me, I’ll use every vampire at my disposal to stop you. You have only one option if you want to leave here with Scott and his apprentice, and that’s to do as I say.”
The Patriarch was wrong. Drago had no options. None, anyway, that didn’t involve la Belle Mort. Drago had built his reputation early in his career. Since then his two weapons had been intimidation and strength. When the first didn’t work, he fell back on the second. Unfortunately, this was a situation where intimidation was fast proving to be ineffectual.
Still, he persisted. “You will not have the girl, monsieur.”
“And how do you think to stop me without consequence to yourself?”
Drago wandered to a nearby sofa, picked up a pale gold pillow, and wiped the dust of the clay figurine from his hands onto the silk. He tossed the pillow back to the sofa and quickly scanned the room for possible weapons. Heavy furniture of wood and leather. No fireplace with fireplace tools. No tall candlesticks, no ceremonial Indian lances or hatchets on the wall. Just lots of throw rugs, pillows, and artwork. And one very tall, narrow torchiere lamp. He turned to face his opponent. “You proceed from a faulty premise, Evrard. You assume I care. I don’t. I don’t care about you, Nikolena, or rules and regulations. I don’t even fear the True Death, monsieur. You see, I’m Russian. Russians don’t fear something will go wrong, they expect that it will. There is an old saying, ‘God is too high, and the Czar is too far.’ So don’t presume that anything you can threaten will scare me or coerce me.”
For the first time, Drago saw uncertainty flicker in Evrard’s gray eyes, and for a moment, Drago had hope that the weapon of intimidation would carry the day after all.
The moment passed. Evrard’s eyes steadied, as if he came to a final decision, and he pressed an intercom button on his desk. “Secure Miss Jaks in my quarters.”
Drago drew his second weapon. Strength.
He flew over the desk and lunged at Evrard, knocking the larger man to the floor. Their bodies rolled to the wall, each trying for the other’s most vulnerable spots. Drago reached for Evrard’s neck, who countered by trying to gouge Drago’s eyes. Drago was forced to hurl the larger man’s body away from him. Evrard landed on a throw rug, slid into the sofa, and was on his feet in an instant, but Drago was ready for him and unleashed the power of his mind before Evrard could ready his defenses. It was the mirror again, and Drago hoped to blind his foe long enough with the mirror’s revealing visions to secure a physical weapon in hand.
“Take a good look, Evrard! See every hell that’s ever embraced you. I know you, Evrard. You were a Walloon mercenary, weren’t you? Do you remember the massacre of Magdeburg? Of course you do. So relive it now, as if 1631 were yesterday. Do you remember that great and splendid German city? Your imperial troops burned and plundered it in a frenzied rage, didn’t they? What part did you play? Beating? Torture? Or were you one of the soldiers responsible for carrying off the property of murdered citizens? What was your booty? Gold chains and jewels? Was the hell worth it?” Drago kept his eyes on Evrard even as he stepped backward across the floor. Evrard’s wide eyes glittered at him, and Drago knew his opponent was indeed seeing nothing but the nightmares of his past. He dared not take his eyes from Evrard. It would sever the hold.
Evrard was doing a good enough job of breaking the hold on his own. The glassy eyes started to blink rapidly, and his mouth worked silently. The lines of his scars twitched up and down like writhing snakes. Drago could feel the resistance building and could see the cords in the man’s neck and the vein at his temple strain with effort.
Drago kept backing, adjusting his position solely by memory. He was almost there. It stole from his concentration, though, and with a roar Evrard shattered the mirror’s hold.
“You highborn bastard! What do you know about being a real soldier? My men died every day of hunger and disease!” He raised a hand at Drago, and a ball of flame grew and flew across the room.
Drago ducked and grabbed the torchiere next to him, smashing the top of the lamp against the edge of an adjacent table. The shade and bulb exploded in a shower of broken glass, leaving the long, narrow lamp base. “‘Your men?’ You were a mercenary, Evrard. You were only out for yourself. And I very much doubt if you ever went hungry.”
Drago whirled toward Evrard just as another fireball hurtled toward him. He twisted to the side, but he was too slow. He felt the heat from the flames sear his chest, and an instant later Drago’s shirt was on fire. With a scream Drago soared at Evrard, the lamp held in front of him like a battle lance. Drago’s momentum drove the end of the lamp through Evrard, pinning him to the wall. The Patriarch’s shriek drowned out Drago’s, who was trying to rip at the burning shirt with one hand and keep his enemy affixed to the wall with the other. Evrard was bleeding and thrashing like a fish caught on the end of a spear, but as bad as the injury appeared, it wasn’t life threatening unless Drago could reach Evrard’s heart or spine. But the fire’s touch had sent a debilitating wave washing over him, and he couldn’t find the strength needed to finish the job. The two men struggled against the wall, their frenzied cries and movements sapping their strength.
Evrard wrenched himself free from the wall and lunged toward his desk. “You’ll pay for that, Drago. That, and everything else!”
Too late, Drago remembered the intercom. He pushed Evrard away from the desk, but not before Evrard’s hand stabbed at the button.
“Now, dammit!”
Drago stood and spun toward the door, but again was too late. The door flew open with the force of a storm, and a dozen vampires streamed into the room like a gale.
“Stop him, now!” Evrard shouted.
A vampire raised a semiautomatic weapon and emptied a clip of bullets into Drago. The shots didn’t burn with silver, but they knocked him off his feet and kept him on the floor writhing in pain. He heard someone yell not to kill him, but when he felt silve
r shackles bind him and a silver helmet take his sight, the burning pain would have made him beg for death, had not it first taken his consciousness.
MARYA KNEW something was wrong. Even without the feeling of foreboding she had had earlier, it took no great insight to know something very bad had happened.
Drago had been gone for four hours. Three hours ago one of Verkist’s vampires had knocked on the door, wanting Marya to change rooms. She had refused to go without Revelin and Callie, and when the vampire had looked into Revelin’s eyes, he had decided not to argue. Thus, all three of them had been moved. The new room was in the southern wing, but like the old one, had no windows.
“Revelin, is he dead?”
He was slouched in a chair, his eyes closed and one hand on his head. Callie sat next to him in a companion chair. “If he is, there’s nothing we can do for him. We have to take care of ourselves now.”
That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “But do you think he’s dead? Can you sense his aura? You can do things like that, right?”
Revelin sighed. “Yes, but . . . I don’t have the kind of connection with him I have with Callie.”
At that Callie leaned over and put an arm on his. He looked at Callie and smiled. “And in a building this large with so many vamps nearby . . . it’s difficult. I don’t sense his True Death, but I could be wrong.”
Marya resumed her pacing, but to her surprise Revelin was out of his chair and beside her before she could take two steps. “Marya, listen to me. Drago’s survived for hundreds of years. The chance of him meeting the True Death in this place, at this time, is remote.”
She wasn’t reassured. “But . . .”
“Look. If Drago had nothing to rely on except good sense and winning personality, he’d have bloody gotten himself offed a long time ago. But he’s strong. He’s so strong he can afford to live his life tweaking the devil’s nose. Besides, Verkist wouldn’t dare kill him. Even if he had, don’t you think the bugger would have come here by now to gloat?”
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