Curse the Dawn

Chapter Eight

Caleb's sphere made little headway against the gloom and was soon covered in a thick layer of dust. It was like the one I felt clinging to my skin, gritty and all-encompassing, as if the place resented not being able to drown us and was trying to slowly bury us alive. It didn't have far to go.

The swath of destruction carved by the ley line hadn't reached down this far, but it looked like some of the tremors it caused had. There were cracks in the walls as big as my thumb and chunks missing from most of the steps. We picked a zigzag path up the solid parts to the top, only to find yet another dark-as-night corridor.

Pritkin took point while Caleb brought up the rear. The rooms in this section were mostly residential, including the palatial suite used by Mircea when he was in residence. We stepped through the doorway into his rooms, and it was suddenly difficult to tell that we were in an underground fortress in the middle of a crisis.

The walls were covered in drywall painted in tasteful, muted colors of wine and deep gold. They complemented the Italian marble floors, the gilt moldings and the hand-painted ceilings. Mircea was the Senate's chief diplomat, so his quarters took on the role of embassy. It was here, among the priceless antiques, Swarovski chandeliers and unknown paintings by the world's great masters, that he welcomed dignitaries, soothed ruffled feathers and struck deals.

Away from the main entrance, signs of the disaster were more apparent. In places, the elegant Venetian plaster had erupted with raw red stone, the bones of the place peeking through the veneer. And everything was covered in a layer of fine red dust. I could taste the tang of it in the back of my mouth and feel it coating the inside of my nostrils. Even an overlooked spiderweb high in one corner was caked with it.

Pritkin found a couple of candelabras and some matches, giving us each a light source, and we split up to make the search go faster. The two mages concentrated on the common areas, while I went down the main hallway, opening bedrooms. Most were pristine except for the dust, their elegant furnishings untouched. But Mircea's private rooms were in more disarray.

The bed linens hung half off the large pedestal bed, and one pillow clung to the mattress in a silent battle of wills with gravity. The ornate wardrobe was open, but most of the clothes, like the priceless paintings on the walls, had been left behind. Yet there were only blank niches in the walls where Romanian folk art had recently stood.

Mircea's home away from home was beautiful, elegant and designed to impress. As a result, it said little about the man who lived here. Like the BBJ and the Armani wardrobe, it was what people expected to see. But I found it telling that his servants, when fleeing for their lives, had left the Sèvres and the Swarovski and had grabbed a collection of painted tin crucifixes and worthless wooden spoons.

It bothered me that, in their position, I wouldn't have known what to take. I stared around at the things they'd left, like an intricately carved set of jade figurines on a shelf, and realized that I'd have probably made all the wrong choices. I didn't know what were treasured memories and what were just decorations. Like I didn't know his hopes, his dreams or his fears, if he had any. .

My heel caught in a puddle of silk by the bed. As I freed it, I found one personal item that had been overlooked in the rush: an old, beat-up book. The black leather cover was worn at the edges and the gilt lettering on the front had mostly faded, with only a few small specks left to gleam in the candlelight. But it was undoubtedly a photo album.

I glanced around, but the guys were nowhere in sight. I knelt on the floor and opened the cover with slightly shaking hands. Mircea had the diplomat's ability to talk for hours without actually saying much, and what he did say was often suspect. I'd heard two versions—so far—about how he became a vampire, and still had no idea if either was true.

But photos didn't lie. At least, not as often as master vampires. And suddenly I was confronted with a whole album containing hundreds of photos of Mircea.

Only it didn't.

The photos had a theme, all right, but it wasn't him. On every page the same face stared out at me—that of a beautiful, dark-haired woman of approximately my age. She combined sloe-eyed sultriness with petite delicacy and would have stopped traffic in no makeup and wearing a muumuu. Only she preferred form-fitting clothes that showed off a trim, athletic figure.

One picture showed her eating at a café. She was wearing old-fashioned clothes—forties era, at a guess—consisting of a white short-sleeved suit and a striped scarf. She was waving a fork around and laughing at someone off camera. Her hair was glossy and sleek in a sassy bob that made a mockery of bad hair days. Her nose didn't turn up at the end, her cheekbones were sculpted, and if she had any freckles they didn't show. She could have been a model for an early issue of Vogue.

I stared at her, the album open on my knees, feeling strangely dizzy. I felt something else, too, something I couldn't quite define, but it heated my cheeks and burned in my stomach like acid. There were no photos of me in this room. Not one. But there was an entire album devoted to this mystery woman. Whoever she was, obviously she was important to Mircea.

More so than me.

Something hit the clear plastic protecting the image, rolled to the edge of the book and was absorbed by the cracked leather binding. I blinked away more somethings, vaguely appalled. This is stupid and petty, I told myself. With everything I had to worry about, here I was, preoccupied with who Mircea might be—God, I couldn't even think it. And that was even more stupid.

What had I believed, that he'd been some kind of monk for five hundred years? After seeing the way women regularly threw themselves at him? And I couldn't very well be jealous of events that had happened long before I was born, even if they did involve beautiful, sophisticated brunettes.

I looked down at a crinkling sound to see that my fist had balled around the page with the photograph, crushing the plastic and threatening to put permanent creases in the paper. Okay, maybe I could. All right, I very definitely could.

Mircea's sexual history was something I'd been able to put out of my mind, at least most of the time, because I hadn't known any of the people involved. At least, I hadn't thought so. Now I wondered.

He was closer than I'd like to the Chinese Consul, who had become fond of him while he was on a diplomatic mission to her court and who still sent him expensive presents every year. He'd also been pretty friendly with an icy blonde senator and a passionate raven-haired countess—and those were just the ones I knew about. The women had been pretty diverse in status, personality and background, but they had one thing in common: they were all heartstoppingly beautiful. Like this woman.

I flipped to the back of the book and got another shock. The brunette turned up again, but this time, she was jogging through a park. And the earbud to an iPod trailed down across her left shoulder. I went back through the album and realized that the photos were in chronological order—old sepia images from maybe the nineteenth century giving way to early black and white, then to bold sixties-era color and finally to the modern day. And, except for superficial details, she looked the same in every photo. She was a vampire, ageless and eternally beautiful.

Just like Mircea.

I put the album down with shaking hands and told myself to get a grip. I was just really emotional right now, that was all. That's why I was feeling this way, like I wanted to gouge those pretty dark eyes out with my thumbs.

That was so very not me it was scary. I didn't get possessive about people, any people. I never had. And Mircea and I didn't have an exclusivity agreement, didn't have any agreement at all, in fact. He could see anyone he wanted. Only for some reason it hadn't occurred to me that he might actually be seeing—might, in fact, be doing a hell of a lot more than just seeing—someone who made me look like one of Cinderella's ugly stepsisters.

With my thumbs

.

"Find anything?" I turned to see Pritkin coming in the door. He glanced around without interest. Maybe he didn't realize whose room this was, or maybe he just didn't care. Mircea was only another vampire to him, and Pritkin had never been fond of those.

"No. Nothing." I didn't make any attempt to hide the book, and his eyes passed over it uninterestedly.

"Same here."

"Feels like a ghost town," Caleb murmured, joining us. I disagreed. Ghosts were livelier than this.

"They must have gotten out," Pritkin said. "Trust the vampires to have an escape route even in a supposedly impregnable fortress."

"But I doubt they stuck around to help anyone else," Caleb added, glancing at me. I didn't deny it; I doubted they had, either. "There may be people farther up. Let's go."

We were in the foyer, heading for the main entrance, when the crystals in the chandelier overhead started to chime. A blue and white vase that I really hoped wasn't Ming danced across the central table and crashed to the floor before I could grab it. The ground beneath my feet groaned and shuddered for a long moment, and I had to brace one hand against the wall to keep my balance.

"An earthquake?" I said in disbelief. "What's next? A tsunami?"

"It's probably the upper levels settling," Pritkin said, but he didn't look convinced. "We should hurry."

We exited into the corridor and Caleb started for a door near a set of steps cut into the rock and going up. "I wouldn't do that," I advised.

He paused, his hand on the doorknob. "Why not?" He gave me a suspicious look from under lowered brows, like he suspected me of assisting the vamps to hide some nefarious secret.

As if they needed my help.

"Those are Marlowe's rooms." Kit Marlowe, onetime playwright, was now the Consul's chief spy. And in the paranoid Olympics, he took the gold. I was betting that even in a magical fortress surrounded by guards, he'd warded his rooms. And, knowing him, probably with something lethal.

Caleb took his hand away under the pretense of straightening his lapels. And didn't put it back. I guess he agreed with me.

The emergency lights were still working on the next level, casting a red stain over the old rocks. The passage at the top of the stairs turned a couple of times, passing shadowy rooms filled with strange equipment. Cables snaked underfoot, walls were lined with a lot of slimy things in jars, upended cages were everywhere and the overhead fluorescents flickered like horror movie lighting.

"Sigourney Weaver shows up and I'm out of here," I muttered, surprising a laugh out of Caleb.

"We already killed the alien," he reminded me.

"You sure about that?" Pritkin asked.

He was a little ahead of us, around a bend in the passage. We caught up with him to find that this level was also empty—of people. But there were plenty of other things prowling, flying and oozing around to make up for it. It looked like someone had been running a menagerie that the disaster had set loose. A very creepy menagerie, I decided after getting a close-up look at something pale pink and orange that was sliming its way out of a hole in a crate. A mass of jellylike similar creatures could be seen inside, waiting their turn. The pretty colors didn't help obscure the fact that it was frighteningly like a huge slug.

Only it had small, angry, coal-black eyes. Intelligent ones.

I scrambled back, fighting an urge to lose my dinner, while Caleb swore and pulled a gun. I caught his arm. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" His brief good humor was completely gone.

"You can't just kill it."

"You didn't have that problem in the chamber!"

"We were being attacked in the chamber!"

"And now we know by what. Some perverted experiments your vampires were running!"

He took aim again, but I guess his powder must have been wet, because the gun didn't fire. He scowled, muttered a spell and tried again. This time, the gun worked fine, but I knocked his arm and the shot went wild.

The sound was enough to send a small stampede down the corridor, away from us. "I said, no killing!"

Caleb glared at me. "She's Pythia," Pritkin reminded him quickly.

"Not mine," Caleb said grimly.

"Then who is? Or do you intend to fight this war without one?"

The two stared at each other for a moment, and then Caleb swore. "We can't do this with those things jumping us at every turn!"

"They don't look too interested in attacking to me," I pointed out.

"And what about the ones that are?"

"We'll take care of them if and when we find them."

"And if these creatures find a way out of here? You want to let something as potentially lethal as the things we killed loose into the general population?"

"We're nine levels down! And these don't look too dangerous to me."

"Looks can be deceiving. We know nothing about their abilities, about why the vampires were breeding them," he argued stubbornly.

I watched as the slug thing started to ooze away from us. The underground streams would probably survive the pending implosion. What if the creature got into the water system? What if several did, and they started to multiply? There could be thousands within weeks.

"Most will die anyway," Pritkin pointed out quietly, "of starvation or drowning or by being crushed under a mountain of rock." He nodded to where a couple of sort-of birds were already feasting on something's remains, tearing off strips of flesh with their long black beaks. "Or at the claws of the larger predators. It's kinder this way."

I stared at the impromptu feast and felt my stomach roil. "Do what you have to," I finally said. "I'll be at the top of the stairs."

The sound of gunfire and the smell of smoke followed me up. It was dark and silent at the top except for a faint blush of light from below. I sat down, wrapped my arms around my knees, leaned my head against the wall and tried not to think at all. Which was when a hand reached out from the dark and covered my mouth.

I was dragged kicking and fighting into a blacked-out room. A light flared—only a single candle—but in the dense dark it shone like a searchlight. It highlighted a small table cluttered with papers and the man sitting behind it. His curls were in disarray and his cashmere sweater was dirty and torn. But the bright brown eyes and quick smile were the same as ever. "Rafe!"

He stood and moved around the desk and I all but threw myself in his arms. I'd known he was probably okay, but some part of me hadn't believed it until now. My heart expanded in my chest at the sight of him, whole and unhurt, exhilaration flooding my veins like bright water.

"Look what I found prowling the corridors," Marlowe's voice said cheerfully from behind me. "She has two mages with her, Pritkin and one I don't know."

"I assume they are the cause of the gunshots?" Rafe asked, smoothing my tangled hair.

"They're doing mercy killings of the experiments," Marlowe said, sounding amused.

"Now?"

"Why not now?" I asked.

"Because the wards will fail in fifty-three minutes," Marlowe answered, "rather taking care of the problem." The ground rumbled under our feet again as if to underscore his words.

"Then why are you two still here? We haven't found any bodies, so I'm guessing there's a way out."

"There are several," Rafe agreed, glancing at Marlowe.

I turned to find the Senate's spymaster regarding me thoughtfully. The candlelight gleamed off the small hoop in his left ear and leapt in his dark eyes. I knew that look; I'd been getting it a lot lately. It usually meant, I wonder if she's actually stupid enough to fall for this? And usually, the answer was yes.

"I'm going to hate this, aren't I?" I asked, resigned.

"Perhaps not." Marlowe tapped the roll of papers on the desk, which I now realized was a schematic, presumably of MAGIC. "You are here on a rescue attempt?"

"Yeah. Only, so far, we haven't found anyone to rescue."

"Most of those who survived the blast have already been evacuated. However, one area remains populated—the mages' holding cells."

"The prisoners are still here? Why?"

"A cave-in," Rafe said. "For security reasons, there is only one way into the cells, and the wards failed in that section." One long finger traced a line on the map two levels up from our position. "It cut them off from any hope of rescue."

"We went over the schematics and questioned the mages, but there's no convenient back door," Marlowe added. "And the cave-in is too extensive for us to clear in the time we have. Almost the entire length of the passageway was affected."

I blinked at him. "I must have heard wrong. You remained behind to rescue humans?"

He grinned behind his goatee. "Well, one, anyway."

"What about the others?"

He shrugged. "You can rescue them, too, if you like."

"Oh, thank you! Now tell me what this is really about."

"The answer to a prayer," he said piously.

"You pray?"

"Naturally," he said innocently. "Of course, I didn't say to what."

"Stop teasing her, Kit," Rafe reproached. He looked at me. "If we are to rescue anyone, we must hurry."

I decided I could get the story out of Rafe later. "It's not that simple," I told them. "Spatial shifting doesn't work the same as time travel; my power doesn't give me a preview. Without knowing where I'm going, I could end up inside a wall or, in this case, a bunch of rock."

"It is thirty meters to the area we believe to be clear," Marlowe told me.

"You believe?"

"The wards are reporting that area as safe. However. ."

"However, what?"

"They may not be completely reliable. Not with this level of damage."

I stared at him. "Not completely reliable means I could shift into the middle of a rockfall, Marlowe! No guesses—this is going to be hard enough as it is. I have to know!"

He just looked at me, but Rafe's eyes slid to the right to an area still swathed in utter darkness. A hissing sigh came out of the gloom, and a moment later, the Consul appeared so suddenly that it was almost as if she'd shifted in. I knew better—she'd probably been there all the time, but she'd been so still I hadn't noticed her. And considering that she was dressed in her everyday outfit of live, writhing snakes, it was a good trick.

Ancient, kohl-rimmed eyes sized me up, and as usual, they didn't look as if they liked what they saw. "I will tell you exactly, Pythia," she informed me. "And then you will do as we have bid."

It wasn't a request. She swept regally out the door and Rafe, Marlowe and I followed. Rafe went downstairs to round up Pritkin and Caleb, while Marlowe and I ran up two flights after the Consul.

The dust became thicker as we ascended, and small siftings of sand were starting to trickle down the walls every time there was a mini-quake. "What happens when the wards go?" I asked as we reached a tumbled mass of stone and dirt at the top of the second flight of steps.

"The levels above this one have solidified into a solid mass," Marlowe told me. "Without the support of the wards, their weight will crush anything below it."

"So, no pressure, then." I stared at the passageway to the left, which, as Marlowe had said, was totally blocked. Red sandstone from the lower levels had mixed with deep yellow from the upper, forming a jumbled mass that didn't appear to have even a small gap at the top. It was like the corridor had been reabsorbed by the rocks around it.

"We believe that it is blocked almost to the cells themselves, which have an independent ward system for added security," Marlowe told me quickly.

"I need more than a good guess," I reminded him.

"You shall have it," he said, steering me back down a few steps.

We both looked up at the Consul, who remained at the top. "You never saw this," she ordered.

"Saw what?" I asked, bewildered. She was just standing there, a slim figure who, I suddenly realized, was only about my height. Funny; she'd always seemed taller.

Marlowe's arm curved around my waist, moving me back even farther right as there was an abrupt burst of motion. Suddenly there were snakes everywhere—a thick mass of black, squirming shapes that boiled up around the Consul's feet and legs. They swarmed up her body, twined around her neck, flowed over her face and twisted into her hair. A particularly fat one forced its way past her lips and started down her throat, distending the flesh on either side of her neck as it undulated.

"Marlowe! Do something!" I cried, horrified.

He didn't say anything, but his grip tightened as more snakes appeared and began to cleave her flesh, their black bodies sheathed in red as they forced their way inside her. I could see them moving in writhing patterns under her skin, the small ones pulsing like overfilled veins, larger ones distending her form in ghastly ways as they tunneled inside, seeming determined to consume her. There was a sound like a ripe fruit bursting, and suddenly there was no woman at all. Only a corridor filled with slick, gleaming creatures writhing in a puddle of bloody goo.

"Oh, God!" I stumbled backward and would have fallen without Marlowe's arm around my waist. I stood transfixed by shock and revulsion as the truth slowly dawned. The Consul was still there; she'd just changed form.

The snakes found holes in the rockfall through which a human could never have fit. We watched them wriggle away, slipping into the earth as easily as water, until they had all disappeared. Then Marlowe slowly lowered me into a seated position.

"Are you going to be sick?"

I shook my head. I was too freaked out to be sick. "I'd heard stories. .»

He sat on the step next to me, facing the darkness below, and stretched his legs comfortably out in front of him. "About us turning into mist or wolves or bats?"

"Yes. But I didn't believe. . I thought they were myths."

"For the most part, they are. There are very few of us who live long enough to acquire the sort of power needed for bodily transformation." His voice was admiring, as if the Consul had done a particularly nifty parlor trick."I've heard stories that Parendra—the Consul's Indian counterpart—can do it, too. They say he becomes a cobra."

I didn't say anything. I was too busy trying to swallow the lump that had risen in my throat. It felt like I might be sick after all, and then I wondered how the Consul would take that, if she'd be offended when she got back, all hundred pieces of her. .

I swallowed the lump back down.

"It can be a little. . disturbing. . the first time you witness it," Marlowe said, glancing at me. "I recall being somewhat taken aback myself."

Taken aback. Yeah. That covered it.

We sat there for a few moments while precious seconds ticked away. And then she was back. Dozens of dusty, scaly bodies wriggled their way out of gaps in the rockfall and fell onto the sticky floor. I blinked, and the Consul was the Consul again. She staggered over to the far wall and stood there, trembling slightly, looking more shaken than I'd ever seen her. Marlowe started toward her side, but she waved him back.

"It is blocked for thirty-two and one-half meters," she told me, sounding perfectly composed. "All the way to the mages' holding cells. Their wards are all that is keeping this level intact, and they will not last much longer." She looked at Marlowe. "You will accompany the Pythia on her errand."

I shook my head. "The more people I take with me, the faster my power is drained." And it was pretty low already.

"And the more desperate men become, the less clearly they think," Marlowe responded."These cells are among the most secure in the Circle's control. As a result, they house the most dangerous criminals. You cannot go alone."

I wasn't sure I could go anyway. The idea of shifting into a place I'd never seen was making me feel a little faint, not to mention that I wasn't entirely clear on exactly how far a meter was. "So, it's about thirty yards, right?" I said nervously.

Marlowe sighed. "A little over thirty-five. But perhaps you should add one to be safe."

Right. Like anything about this was safe. But it was either try or accept defeat and go home now. And we were running out of time.

The ground shook again, longer and more violently than before, throwing me to my knees. The vibrations ran through my skin into my bones, doing weird things to my balance even this close to the ground. And then a crack opened up right in front of us, exposing jagged, striated rock, with sand pouring over the edge like water.

Marlowe snatched me back as the floor beneath us completely disintegrated. Vamps don't fly, but he moved fast enough that it almost felt that way. The next thing I knew, we were down to the curve in the stairs, choking on a billowing cloud of dust.

"Go now!" the Consul ordered. I hadn't seen her move, but she was somehow beside us. I didn't wait to see how much more ground we were about to lose, just tightened my grip on Marlowe's shoulders and shifted.

We landed in another world—cold, sterile and dust-free, with sputtering lights and gray concrete walls. "This way," Marlowe said, pulling me down a corridor.

We passed a long row of cells, most of which had an occupant. I quickly realized that, unlike in human jails, the people incarcerated here weren't conscious. They were frozen in some form of stasis, leaning against the walls of their three-foot-deep cells like department store mannequins, staring outward with expressions ranging from startled to angry to defiant.

I stared back at them in mounting concern. Ten, fifteen, twenty—and this was only one half of one corridor. There was likely at least this many in the other direction, and probably more than one passageway. .

It was simply impossible. I could feel it in my bones, like the jerking pulse of my own heart. There was simply no way could I shift so many. Even if I'd been well-rested, I could have made only four or five trips, taking out two at a time. As things stood, I'd be lucky to rescue the man the vamps seemed so interested in and still get the rest of my own party out.

We stopped in front of a cell containing a middle-aged man with frizzy brown hair. Marlowe worked to get the ward on his door to release while I glanced at the cells on either side of him. One contained a red-haired woman with a sly, calculating look on her face. The other held another middle-aged man who was losing the fight with male-pattern baldness, despite there being charms for that sort of thing. Maybe he'd been too proud to use them—his expression was certainly haughty enough—or possibly the Circle didn't allow such vanities in its cells.

Neither of them looked particularly sympathetic, but the thought of what was about to happen to them sent cold chills across my skin nonetheless. This was my doing. Not my fault—I hadn't told Richardson to betray us, hadn't thrown the spell that caused this. But if I'd left that meeting when Pritkin had warned me, none of this would have happened. His voice came back to me suddenly: "They'll die of starvation or drowning or by being crushed under a mountain of rock." I looked into the man's face and shuddered.

A ward snapped, the buzz ringing in my bones like a struck tuning fork, and the frizzy-haired man tumbled bonelessly into Marlowe's arms. "How many can you take?" Marlowe asked me.

"I. . not this many," I said, admitting the obvious.

"Tell me which ones."

"Which ones?" I stared at him. "You're asking me to choose who lives and who dies."

"Someone has to do it," he said with a shrug, hoisting the man onto his shoulder. "And the Senate has no stake here. We have the one we want."

I looked at the red-haired woman again. She had gray eyes that, in the flickering light, seemed almost conscious, almost aware. We stared at each other, her stiff and lifeless as a doll, me as wooden as a carved statue. In a few more minutes, she'd be dead. Or I'd take her and the rest would die. Like the human servants the vampires had housed upstairs, like anyone who had happened to be on the upper levels. It seemed so horribly random.

"There has to be a way," I said desperately.

"A way to do what?" Marlowe asked, his brow knitting.

"To rescue them. All of them. We can't just leave them here!"

Marlowe stared at me blankly. "Yes. We can. In approximately forty minutes this entire level will collapse and in the process take out those below it. Your compassion is admirable, but if we don't leave soon, none of us will get out of here. And I, for one, would miss me."

"And I'm sure a lot of these people would be missed, Marlowe!"

The light directly above us took that moment to blow out, raining plastic and glass onto the corridor floor and throwing Marlowe's face into shadow. The darker atmosphere accentuated the harsh planes of his face, making them visible behind the jovial mask. For a moment, he looked as dangerous as everyone always said he was.

"If there was a way to save them, we would do it. But there isn't," he said flatly. "And keep in mind where we are. For all you know, these people deserve their fate."

My gut clenched, my usual deny-repress-ignore method for dealing with uncomfortable facts suddenly not working so great. I looked up and down the corridor at the faces, young and old, hard and soft. They had won the Circle's enmity, but so had I. If Richardson had had his way, I'd be in one of these cells, too. They were no different from me, except that they were about to die. Condemned because I'd made a stupid mistake.