“Not so much, when you have all the information.”
His head turned toward her, waiting.
“She’s ill,” Mihaela blurted. “The doctor she saw couldn’t find anything wrong, but Elizabeth thinks it might be something to do with this. With vampires and hunting. What if it’s something serious? Something terminal? Or worse, what if it’s some curse? What if he—” She broke off, waving one hand dismissively, because she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. They sounded stupid spoken aloud.
István, however, couldn’t leave it there. “Saloman? Why would Saloman curse her?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s a curse of Luk’s or something. He made the damned prophecy in the first place.”
“If you believe Szilágyi or his memory of the event.”
“Well, the first bit came true. She did smite Saloman’s friends—the vampire Severin in New York—just as the prophecy foretold.”
István considered that too. At last, he stirred. “In many ways,” he observed, “Miklós, our revered librarian, is a fussy old woman. But one of the things he’s right about is that you can’t make decisions based on ancient prophecies. They’re vague, contradictory, and subject to the failings of whoever made them, whoever wrote them down, and whoever’s reading them. Szilágyi’s words needn’t mean it’s Elizabeth’s destiny to die in Saloman’s fights. Feeling ill doesn’t mean she’s dying or cursed. I know Elizabeth’s in a scary place right now—scary for us, that is. I don’t think she’s frightened in the least.”
“But she is, István,” Mihaela burst out. “Oh, I don’t mean she’s scared of Saloman or his influence, because she clearly isn’t! But I think this illness thing scares her. What it is, what it might lead her to do. And that’s what scares me.”
István nodded thoughtfully.
Mihaela drew in her breath and pressed her back into the lounger. “She’s not the same girl we tried to warn about Saloman a year ago, is she?” A girl István himself had never been indifferent to.
Rather to her surprise, István smiled. “She’s sort of . . . grown up,” he said. “But in any way that matters, I think she is the same. If she wasn’t, you wouldn’t be out here worrying about her.”
Thoughtfully, Mihaela watched him stand up and walk back in the direction of the house. He had a point.
But she still needed to get Elizabeth away from Saloman.
Sauchiehall Street in Glasgow on a Friday night was an unexpectedly lonely place. John Ramsay had come out mainly to get away from the fussing of his mother and the snoring of his father, whose traditional start to the weekend was two hours in the pub, followed by ten on the sofa and a Saturday-morning hangover. John had already offended him by refusing to join him for the two hours.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get drunk. Part of him longed for the release of alcohol-induced forgetfulness. It was just that he couldn’t bear the helplessness that went with it. Lying under clear Afghan skies, unable to move while monsters killed his comrades, was more than enough helplessness to last him a lifetime. And so here he was, feeling like the only sober person in the city, while all around him couples and crowds of friends milled in and out of the clubs, bars, and restaurants, laughing and talking and shoving one another, oblivious to anything except the next drink, the next dance, the next fun, or just the next fuck. Just as if the world were still the same.
Isn’t it?
The voice froze his blood. Stopping dead, he swung around to see where it came from. Two lads swerved to avoid him. One said, “Forgot your warning lights, mate!”
John ignored him. Peering among a crowd of young girls in short black skirts and dramatic makeup, he saw a woman watching him. Although she wasn’t close enough to have spoken the words he’d heard, neither was anyone else.
He turned his steps toward her, dodging through the crowd. She wore an open trench-style raincoat over a red dress that seemed to be glued to her tall, slender form. But it wasn’t her figure that drew John. It was her poise, the complete lack of embarrassment with which she met his stare. She didn’t flirt; she didn’t beckon. She was merely curious.
As soon as the space between them was empty, John said, “Who are you?”
The woman gave a half smile, as if he’d disappointed her, and turned on her high heels, walking with swift, incomparable grace toward St. George’s Cross.
“Wait,” John called, running after her.
She moved too fast, dodging among the crowds of young people who littered the street outside a nightclub. When he got past them, there was no sign of his quarry. John glanced at the nightclub with irritation, and strode grimly toward the bouncers who guarded the doorway.
What’s wrong with the club? the same woman’s voice asked, half-amused, half-curious. Don’t go in if you don’t want to.
John stopped dead, tugging instinctively at one ear. One of the bouncers folded his arms and gave him a repelling stare. John wasn’t going to get in very easily.
Damn it, where the hell are you? The thought had no sooner filled his mind before it was answered by a musical laugh and he knew his worst nightmare had come true: Another vampire was speaking inside his head. He was the only one who could hear her.
I’m in the doorway ten yards down the road. You’d never make a vampire hunter.
The word chilled him, and yet he was conscious of a thrill at the same time, the same thrill that had lifted him talking to Elizabeth Silk in the hospital.
John winked at the scowling bouncer and strolled away, hand in pocket. The fingers of his right hand curled around the sharpened wooden stick he’d put there yesterday. He’d felt like an idiot at the time, but Elizabeth’s e-mail had urged him to do it. She’d said he’d feel safer; she’d said he’d be safer. He halted at the next doorway, a student hall of residence.
The woman—the vampire—in the red dress stood there as she’d promised, lighting a cigarette.
So what’s your story, soldier? You think very loudly for a mortal.
John took a step closer. “You heard me.”
She took the cigarette from her lips and regarded him. “Anyone can hear you, if they choose. You need to get control of that for a comfortable life. For a life at all.”
John narrowed his eyes. “Are you threatening me?”
“Nah,” said the beautiful vampire carelessly. “I’ve had my tea.”
The reminder of childhood conversations over whether someone had already eaten “tea”—dinner to most of the world—and was therefore available to play made John grin without meaning to, and the vampire accorded him a wink by way of reward.
“Are there many of you in Glasgow?” John asked.
She shrugged and took a draw on the cigarette. “Enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“For you to run into if you keep your eyes open. What’s on your mind, soldier?”
“You,” John said with a half laugh, waving his hand from her to the street in general. “Vampires. It’s all new to me, and I’ve no idea what to do about it.”
“Nothing you can do,” said the vampire. “It just is.”
“It shouldn’t be, though, should it?”
The vampire’s lips twisted. “You’re talking to the wrong person, son.” She considered him, head leaning to one side. “I’d tell you to talk to the hunters, but they’re a bunch of bastards, and you look as if you’ve been in the wars already. Literally.”
John didn’t let his gaze drop for a moment, or allow his facial expression to alter. Without warning, the vampire gave a smile that took his breath away.
“Cheer up,” she said. “If I was a hundred years younger—and hadn’t had my tea—I’d invite you home for a bite. You take care, soldier. You’ve got rare gifts for a mortal, and some of my kind won’t like that.”
She moved forward and John grasped his stake harder, but she only stepped out of the doorway and resumed her walk toward St. George’s Cross. With a last draw on her cigarette, she dropped the butt
on the ground and stood on it.
Experimenting, John sent his thought after her. That’s a filthy habit. You should give those things up.
What for? I’m not going to die of lung cancer, am I?
John gave a twisted smile and turned back toward home. He didn’t even know her name, but without meaning to, she’d filled his floundering life with powerful new purpose. He hoped Elizabeth Silk was online, because he had a thousand questions for her.
Saloman stepped over the twitching, injured vampire bodies that lay on Adile Aslan’s luxurious carpets, until he found Adile herself, huddled on a cushion in the corner. Once, possibly only a few days ago, she’d been beautiful, wealthy, ambitious, and, probably, bored. She’d run a successful business with her handsome husband and lived in a big, opulent house with two sweet children. And then Luk had come.
The children had been taken away by grandparents, to whom they clung. Her husband was dead, and Adile herself was thin and pale and exhausted, with two betraying puncture wounds in her neck that Luk hadn’t troubled to heal.
“Was it worth it, Adile?” Saloman asked sadly.
“He promised me everything,” she said dully. “Not just moderate success, but everything. I’d have been his queen.”
It was like talking to Tsigana. Only Tsigana had never been this gullible. Adile raised her eyes from the carpet and would have glared at Saloman if only she’d been able to summon the energy. Luk had sucked it all out of her while he lived in her house and recruited his followers and his expendable fighters to throw in Saloman’s path.
“You took it from me,” she told Saloman.
“No, I didn’t. He never gave it to you because he never had it.”
“And now, because of you, he’s gone.”
Another burst of rebellion cleared up, a few more vampires to forgive and persuade. He might have been making progress, but looking around the carnage that was Adile’s house, Saloman doubted it. He needed to find Luk, and soon. He’d almost gotten to him this time. Almost.
“Where did he go?” Saloman asked, watching as a vampire whose back had been broken began to sit up very slowly and gingerly. Halfway there, he met Saloman’s gaze and gave a rueful smile and a shrug that said, Sorry. You were right; I was wrong.
“Away,” Adile said, and started to cry huge, silent tears. They weren’t for her husband. Or at least, not yet. Saloman whirled around and sat beside her. His heart beat fast with sudden relief and, beyond it, excitement.
“Far away?” he asked.
Adile nodded. “He won’t come back, will he?” she whispered.
He was right: Luk was leaving Turkey. He’d gathered the support he needed, and now, at last, Saloman could stop fighting the same battle over and over and return the city to peace. Before he went home to face Luk.
“No,” he said. “He won’t come back.” He licked one finger and touched the woman’s bruised, abused throat. She didn’t flinch, but her eyes lifted to his, startled and wondering. “May your pain make you strong and not bitter. We’ve all been used by Luk.”
Standing up, he walked back across the room toward the door. He glanced back once, and the recovering vampires who’d fought him an hour ago jumped to their feet with alacrity to follow him.
I won’t let this happen in Budapest, he promised.
How will you stop me? came the immediate response.
Saloman smiled. He’d meant Luk to hear, and he did. Because he was too afraid still not to listen. That was another relief. Budapest is mine.
Count the days, Saloman, and make the most of them.
Chapter Eleven
The vampire Dante was thrilled. Budapest was in the grip of a massive electrical storm, and the crashing thunder vibrated through his new, ultrasensitive self like an entirely new experience. The pelting of the rain on his upturned face made his skin positively sore, like hailstones. He felt as if he were drawing the forked lightning from the sky into his own body, boosting his already massively greater strength and energy. The angry thunderclaps seemed only to echo his own power.
Besides which, the storm matched the atmosphere he desired for the occasion. Black skies, filthy clouds obscuring moon and stars, thunder and lightning—every good horror film should begin with these things. And Dante was determined to make an impression.
Luk, interestingly, was not immune to the storm either. The Ancient had paid only erratic attention to his surroundings on the journey into Hungary, as if his mind were on higher things, like power and revenge. Dante had no quarrel with that, but it was good to see Luk smile at the thunder; it meant he was paying attention.
They had eight Turkish vampires with them. Not a great haul, much to Luk’s fury, for although the presence of an Ancient had impressed every vampire they encountered, Saloman’s was the name and reputation they knew. The discontented would cling to Luk for a while, using him in their quest for freedom from Saloman’s restrictions on matters like killing, but with each defeat they’d trickled back to Saloman. All Luk could do was latch onto other rebels and annoy Saloman. And at least Saloman was annoyed.
Should Luk defeat him, it would be a different story, of course.
Another fork of lightning flashed across the ominous sky, briefly illuminating the narrow street and the carved stone angel above the doorway on the left. Dante had nearly walked past it. Again. As the thunder tore through his head, Luk stopped dead, gazing up at the angel, frowning.
“Maximilian,” he said slowly. “That is Maximilian’s work.”
Impatiently, Dante began, “Who the hell is—” He broke off. “Oh. Saloman’s other creation? Did he enchant it?”
“You spotted that? Good for you. Yes, he enchanted it, and through it the whole building. Subtly, and not badly done.” He reached up, as if trying to touch the angel, then dropped his hand back to his side. “He carved it too. Most talented sculptor I ever saw. He could have been better than Michelangelo. . . . One of the strongest of the new vampires too, ambitious. We could use him, although I suppose he will side with Saloman.”
“Not necessarily,” Dante said thoughtfully. “As I recall, it was Maximilian who led the conspiracy against Saloman and killed him back in the seventeenth century. No one knows where he is now.”
Luk dragged his eyes down from the angel and laughed. “Saloman taught him well! They both killed their creators. Is this your ‘club’? The building is full of vampires and humans.” His eyes glittered. Although he didn’t talk about it so much, Luk was still eternally hungry.
“We need Angyalka on our side,” Dante said uneasily. “I’ve done my research on her. Once, she was Zoltán’s lover—Zoltán, who deposed your friend Maximilian—until Saloman appeared on the scene. Clearly, she follows whoever is the strongest, with one important caveat. She doesn’t tolerate anyone breaking her rules. No violence or feeding on the premises. It keeps her safe from the hunters. I’ve made sure the others understand the rules.”
Luk curled his lip. “I do not follow rules. I make them,” he said, and pushed open the door beneath the stone angel. Impatiently, Dante beckoned the others to follow. In a fresh bolt of lightning, he caught sight of the angel again, and instead of the exquisite carving, he saw now just a dull, all but featureless decoration. Surely that was a bad omen? As if his powers lessened when Luk left his side, as if he weren’t quite as in control as he wanted to be.
He bolted upstairs after Luk, taking the steps two and three at a time, which at least helped restore his confidence. Dante, before he’d been turned, had been a fit man for sixty years old, but he would never have contemplated bounding up a steep staircase at such a pace. As a vampire, it seemed, all things were possible.
And once Luk had killed Saloman, Dante couldn’t wait to go home to America, oust the current vampire leader, Travis—once Dante’s partner in crime and now, against all the odds, Saloman’s ally—and take over the reins of human and vampire government. As yet he hadn’t quite decided on his methods, but he rather thought a bit of te
rror, carnage, and war might be best. Humans could be shown the murderous power of their unsuspectedly undead neighbors and allowed to go on their inevitable rampage against them. There would be mass slaughter, mainly of humans, and out of the chaos could step wise old Senator Dante, adviser to several successive United States presidents and the most influential politician of his age, the only man who could restore calm and order. They’d never guess he was a vampire himself until he just didn’t die, and by then it wouldn’t matter. He would be too firmly in control.
But this was no time to daydream. He had to keep Luk in order while letting him impress the local vampires enough to follow him. Just like Turkey, really.
When the vampire bouncers welcomed them inside without so much as a glance of suspicion, Dante’s elation rose higher. With his new, immortal eyes, he was even more appreciative of the Angel Club’s interior decor, its contrast to the outer dinginess of the entrance sharper than ever. He could even appreciate the loudness of the music, the relentless sensuality of its vibrating beat. It was a young band of human males who’d clearly grabbed and held the audience’s attention—although whether for their musical talent or the sheer handsomeness of their singer was debatable.
Dante’s visits here as a human had been a trifle frightening, since he hadn’t been able to tell people from vampires. Now he knew at a glance, and he’d never guessed just how high the proportion of vampires was. Decidedly this was a fine recruiting ground. None of them even troubled to mask—apart from Luk, who allowed only his undead status to be read.
Dante, who was learning all the time, knew he had to keep the secret of his own identity for a little longer. They didn’t want Saloman or his loyal cohorts turning up before they were finished here. To this end, he was sure Luk was helping to cloak him, for several of the vampires here were strong, strong enough to see through the best mask Dante could muster. And among those strong vampires was the Angel’s beautiful owner herself—Angyalka.
He recognized her at once. Her luscious hips seemed to shimmer as she sashayed across the room toward the bar in her simple yet sexy black dress and boots. Dante remembered being surprisingly aroused by her beauty on his previous visits here; now, with his heightened vampire sensuality, he seemed to sizzle. He wanted to bite Angyalka. He wanted to screw her across the bar.
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