Midnight's Daughter

Chapter Sixteen

Branches whipped across my face with a sting like tears. The hard-packed snow slid under my feet as I ran, but I couldn’t stop or even slow down. The sky was a pale, leaden gray overhead, but darkening rapidly. There was worse weather coming. I should turn back, return to the dismal but warm interior of the tavern, but I couldn’t. I would never go back there, to that malodorous, ill-lit, cramped little place. I couldn’t stand to see fear in the eyes of the men, to have them shrink back when I passed, to listen to them whisper about the evil that had come among them. Even though it had been the whispers that told me of what I would find.

I paused on the top of a steep, rocky slope, drawing clear, cold air into my starved lungs. The wind that keened down crags and across frost-armored trees was bitterly cold, but it was blowing the other way. I could see the smoke, but not smell it. Not yet.

The valley stretched out in front of me in wave after wave of white, broadening and finally merging with the plains below. A few snowflakes drifted down, catching on the ends of my hair. There was a haze of white in the air over the other end of the valley. Soon, it would consume the smoke, and what I sought would be lost until spring revealed the tattered remains. No. I had to get there first.

I plunged down through the trees, leaping, stumbling, and half fell into a rough clearing. Now I could smell the smoke. The air was filthy with it, its acrid taste in every breath, coating the inside of my throat, my lungs. I knelt down on the hard-packed snow in front of blackened ruins that in no way resembled the village they had once been. Already, delicate crystal flakes were trying to cover the ugly, smoking remains, as if the forest resented the mar on its beauty. Soon, they would succeed.

I cautiously picked a path through the smoking ground toward the only heap that had yet to collapse. It didn’t look much like a house—it could have been a storage shed or even a shop—but I didn’t have time to search through the entire charred landscape for clues. I tugged on the few intact boards and they fell inward, disintegrating even before they hit the floor.

They left a hole big enough for me to slip through, but there was precious little to see. A few scorched pots, a scrap of cloth that suddenly burst into flame, crumbled to ash and blew away on a breeze. Nothing else.

I crouched among the ashes, sifting through the still-warm remains with my fingertips. What had I expected? The bodies were outside, scattered charred bones and wisps of hair crisped by the heat. Indistinguishable. I could have walked over hers on the way here, unknowing. There was nothing to show that this had once been her house, no object left intact that might have been hers, no familiar scent on the breeze. No memory, however vague, from the time I must have spent here.

Nothing.

Wet flakes melted on my face, running in cold rivulets down my cheeks. A wisp of bitter smoke curled from the rubble, extinguished almost immediately by the plop and hiss of a wet clump of snow. I looked up and realized that it was falling more heavily now, piling up in soft drifts against the black lumps outside. The wind was picking up, too. I should leave—now, before I was trapped in this white hell.

I lingered a few minutes longer anyway, strangely reluctant to go, to admit defeat. But, the cold was running chilly fingers along my body, leeching my heat, making me shiver. I backed out of the tiny space, and immediately the wind and snow reached out to grab me. The village’s remains were only dark shapes now, dimly visible through a heavy snowfall. Fierce, bitter cold wrapped around me, and I stumbled over a protrusion, falling flat on my face. A quick pain pricked my palm. I looked down and saw nothing, but my hand closed over a hard, metal shape, long and sharp. My numb fingers recognized the familiar feel of a dagger.

The wind howled around me as I stumbled to my feet, but I made it to the trees and the scant protection they offered. I glanced down at the weight in my hand, and it was a treasure, the blade so bright it reflected the white-flocked canopy above me almost like a mirror. The hilt was engraved, a complex rendering that must have cost a fortune. No peasant’s protection this. A grim-looking dragon, obviously carved by a master’s hand, clutched a cross, its slit, angry eyes staring outward in obvious challenge.

I shoved it into my belt, glad to have the protection it offered. Even more valuable, it was something to prove to myself that I had been here, that it hadn’t been just a dream. I had come, even if it was too late.

I woke up to the shrill sounds of a very unhappy Duergar. When he saw I was awake, Stinky stopped the caterwauling and crawled into my arms. I hugged him, feeling his tiny chest rising and lowering in frightened breaths. As with Caedmon, I couldn’t get a clear scent reading on him, but he picked up so many smells it would have been difficult anyway. At the moment he smelled like soap and dirt and raw beef. It was oddly comforting.

I sat staring into the darkness as Stinky slowly quieted. I must have made some kind of sounds in my dream to so upset him, but I couldn’t imagine why. It hadn’t quite been a nightmare, although it had the flavor of deep sadness, of important things left undone or done too late. And it had been unbelievably real. I could almost smell the charred wood and feel the sharp sting of pine needles across my face. In a warm bed in a well-heated house, my body shivered from biting cold and bitter loss.

I had no idea what it meant. My dreams usually involve things jumping out at me from dark alleys, dragging me off, ripping me open—my subconscious isn’t exactly subtle. The things that frighten me tend to be tangible, like the knife. But although it had borne the family symbol, it hadn’t been menacing. No one had attacked me and I’d suffered no physical pain, unless you counted the slight sting of the blade’s point. And if that was the worst injury I suffered on this job, I’d throw a party.

After a few moments, I gave up and tried to return Stinky to his nest of blankets on the floor. Despite the bath, I suspected he had fleas, and didn’t want him sharing my bed. But he resisted, and those sticklike arms were stronger than they looked. I got a good look at him and realized that it hadn’t been my distress that woke him up, after all. His little stomach was hugely distended. The whitish gray skin under the lighter fur on his belly was pushed out like he’d swallowed a softball.

Pitiful brown eyes stared at me, round as coins, begging me to make it better. I looked helplessly back. I’m pretty good with battlefield wounds and emergency triage, but nothing in my long experience taught me what to do with a sick Duergar. Then he got that look on his face, and I snatched him up and pelted for the bathroom.

Stinky was very sick. Very, very sick. And by the time I got him and the bathroom cleaned up, I wasn’t doing much better. I’d been sleeping in my T-shirt, which had been laundered while I was at dinner, but it was unsalvageable. I threw it and the bath towels in the laundry chute and fell into bed, only to feel silken skin slide luxuriously along my own.

I sat up in time to keep Caedmon, who’d appeared out of nowhere, from taking a swipe at Stinky. To be fair, the Duergar had been trying to scratch out his eyes. I snatched Stinky away and scowled at the Fey. “He doesn’t seem to like you.”

The moonlight spilling in through the lattice-covered windows painted silver diamonds across the Fey’s chest but left the rest of him in darkness. Light reflected in those startling eyes for a moment, causing them to gleam like a cat’s caught in the beam of a flashlight. Then he moved and was again all silhouette and shadow. “It needs to learn to distinguish friend from foe.”

“And you came by in the middle of the night to tell me that?”

Caedmon stretched out on the bed, his silver dressing gown falling around him in perfect folds. He ignored the spitting and hissing fur ball a few feet away and gave me a limpid look from under a pale sweep of lashes. “I heard the commotion and feared for your safety.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Heard it how? The door is solid oak.” Louis-Cesare might have managed it, but I hadn’t expected the Fey’s senses to be quite that sharp. “Are you next door?”

“Alas, no. Your uncle placed me in an entirely different wing. Judging by the smell, I believe it to be near the trash heap.”

“And you didn’t complain?” Caedmon had struck me as someone used to the best. And he certainly wasn’t shy.

He shrugged, causing the neckline of his robe to slide off one shoulder. It was obvious that he hadn’t overdressed for the occasion. “I saw no need, as I do not intend to use it.”

“The Fey don’t need to sleep?”

He laughed, and the old stories are true—it really was like the sound of bells. “Why waste the night sleeping when there are far more pleasant things?” He traced a pattern in the air and a stray moonbeam bent itself into the shape of a flower. It floated slowly down to rest against my hand, and I swear, for a moment it felt as if it had actual weight, before dissipating like smoke.

Stinky didn’t seem impressed. He gave a tremendous heave, pushing long, twiglike toes into my abdomen, and launched himself at the Fey. A second later, he was tied securely in the blanket and tossed back in the bathroom.

I hadn’t even seen Caedmon move, but there he was, casually leaning against the bathroom door. That robe was thin enough to be declared illegal in most states, I decided, slightly dazed. Then something hit the door behind him with a thud, and he sighed. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like me to dispose of that creature for you?”

“I’d think two members of the Fey would get on better than you.”

Caedmon tilted his head slightly, regarding me somberly. “I will ignore that,” he finally said. “But I would strongly suggest that you never again compare a member of the high court with a dirty half-breed. It is rather like comparing a human to a particularly mangy cur. The nobles who know less about your world would almost certainly… take offense.”

I sat up. “I’ve been called a dirty half-breed myself on more than one occasion.”

Caedmon didn’t reply. In fact, I doubt he even heard me. I looked down and realized that the sheet that had been covering me had slipped when I moved, and that I was currently providing him with a free show. I snatched up the coverlet and his expression tilted perilously close to a grin. I suppose gold velvet wasn’t particularly off-putting.

“I appreciate the thought, but adornment is not needed. Bare skin will do admirably.” He carelessly let his robe drop and turned in a full circle, hands outspread. He not only hadn’t overdressed; he hadn’t dressed at all. “Many strange things are said about us,” he continued, “but most are quite exaggerated. For instance, the Norse believe all Fey to have a flaw somewhere on their person, a mar to their beauty. Fey women are even said to be hollow, with a beautiful frontal appearance but no backs!”

In the dim light, he burned like a pale flame, his hair a flowing nimbus around his head. And if his body had a flaw, I didn’t see it. “Nici un lucru sã nu crezi, cu ochii pânã nu vezi.” The liquid syllables fell with ease from his lips.

My mind was busy with other things, so it took me a moment to realize what I’d heard. Seeing certainly was believing in his case, but that wasn’t the point. “I thought you didn’t understand Romanian.”

Caedmon sat on the side of the bed, naked and gloriously aroused. “In a life as long as mine, one picks up a great deal of esoteric knowledge.”

“You read the note.”

He looked slightly surprised. “Of course. Wouldn’t you? But obviously I could say nothing around the vampire.”

“Louis-Cesare? He’s all right,” I said absently. Caedmon had started stroking my leg through the coverlet, and it was distracting.

“Then you have told him of the ultimatum?” He saw my expression. “No, I did not think so. I do not trust him, either.”

“Why not? You just met him.”

“He’s a vampire, and others of his kind have been causing considerable trouble at home of late. It is possible that they are behind the current unrest, encouraging those who should know better to try for honors above their station.”

This suddenly didn’t sound like a seduction attempt anymore, despite the hand on my thigh. “Why are you really here, Caedmon?”

He tried to lift the coverlet, and I slapped a hand down on it. He grinned, unrepentant. “I told you. I have never before had a dhampir—I quite look forward to it. And afterward we can discuss our mutual problem.”

“Let’s discuss it now.”

He laughed. I seemed to be providing him with a lot of entertainment. I hoped he enjoyed it, because it was all he was going to get. After my emotional roller coaster of a day, I was in no mood for games. Especially not with a strange Fey.

“But I think much better after—”

“Caedmon!”

He sighed and lay back, spilling a waterfall of pale hair over the bed and providing the moonlight with a very attractive playground. I could swear the beams seemed to bend a little around him, as if trying to touch as much of that opalescent skin as possible. “We have common cause: we both want the girl,” he informed me. “You to save her from this rogue vampire, and I to discover whether or not she carries the heir.”

“And if she does?”

“I will see to her safety. You have my word.” That should have been laughable—for all I knew, Caedmon was here to kill Claire, not to save her. Not to mention that I never take anyone at his word, much less a very strange stranger. But when Caedmon said it, the hoary old line took on dignity and weight. I found myself oddly reassured, and it pissed me off.

“Won’t it be a little difficult to guard her in New York?”

Caedmon sent me an old look. “I will not endanger all of Faerie for one woman’s convenience, as you surely must know. But do not be alarmed.” He stroked my side as if I were a flustered pet. “It may not be an issue. Perhaps there is no pregnancy at all, or possibly the child is female. Then your friend may stay where she likes.”

“What, women don’t rule Faerie?”

“Certainly not.” He feigned shock. “Or, rather, not in the civilized areas. The Alorestri presently have a female leader—terrible woman—but they have always been unorthodox. It comes from living so near the border, practically side by side with the Dark. They need every pair of hands for defense, and once women are warriors, it is difficult to keep them out of politics.”

“How distressing for you.”

Caedmon smiled. “Oh, I like strong women, Dorina.” I hadn’t seen the hand that had wormed its way under the covers, but I felt it when it slid up my calf. “In fact, I prefer them.”

I reached under my pillow. “And precisely how can you help me?”

He eyed me in amusement. “Refrain from stabbing me and I will tell you.”

I let go of the weapon, but kept it near to hand. Caedmon noticed, but didn’t appear worried. “You are in a difficult situation, little one. If you are to get back your friend, you must give this Dracula the lives of two others whom you esteem. Either that or risk attacking him and possibly losing her nevertheless. Is my summary accurate?”

“Close enough.” He didn’t get any kudos for that; he’d had enough clues from the letter. “What do you propose to do about it?”

“You need two men,” Caedmon said. “One is already here, and the other—” He thumped himself on the chest theatrically. “I can be him.”

I stared. It was hard to imagine anyone who looked less like Mircea. “You? Not on the darkest of nights! I doubt you could fool a myopic servant, much less his own brother!”

“You forget my people’s ability at glamourie. I assure you, I can.”

I shook my head. “And you forget the vampire sense of smell. Drac could tell the difference from across the room—from across several rooms! He’d never buy it.”

“But I will not be across the room, little one. He will never see me so close—”

I was about to ask how he expected to manage that when I heard something. It was faint, but this house had settled long ago; there was no reason for the stairs to creak unless someone was on them. Judging by the way his hand tightened on my leg, Caedmon had heard it, too. So much for questions about his hearing—it was at least as good as mine.

Or maybe better. “Louis-Cesare,” he mouthed. I don’t know how he knew, but I didn’t question it. The last thing I needed was for Louis-Cesare to think I was in collusion with the Fey. He was suspicious enough as it was. Caedmon seemed to reach the same conclusion, because he tossed the coverlet on the floor, threw a leg over me and started kissing my neck.

I pushed at him, but it got me exactly nowhere. I was getting extremely tired of strong manly types. Whatever happened to the ninety-pound weaklings? The kind I could maybe still beat up? “What are you doing?”

“Providing me with an excuse to be here,” he murmured in my ear. Then he bit it.

“Caedmon!”

“Dorina!” Louis-Cesare’s muffled voice came through the thick wood. I stared at it, wondering why I suddenly felt guilty.

Caedmon took the opportunity of my distraction to cop a feel. I didn’t bother to repress a squeal, since I knew his excuse wouldn’t work. I had a reputation for being very cautious about my lovers—with good reason. I’d had more than one try to kill me. No way was Radu going to believe I’d invited someone I’d just met for a rendezvous.

The Fey had started working his way downward. Warm lips slid along my collarbone, putting the long line of his neck directly under my nose. I did the only thing I could under the circumstances. I bit it.

Caedmon leaned into the feel of my teeth in his flesh as if to a caress. It startled me enough that I jerked back, ripping my fangs through his skin instead of sliding them out as I’d planned. Blood dripped down the perfection of his chest in a dark stain, and he groaned loudly. I don’t think it was from pain.

The door to the hall burst its hinges and Louis-Cesare stood there, pale and deadly, with eyes like liquid mercury. Someone grabbed me around the waist. It wasn’t Louis-Cesare, because he had moved like quicksilver, getting an arm around the Fey’s injured throat in a stranglehold. Caedmon didn’t appear to have noticed. His eyes were on me, and an odd little smile played about his lips. “If you wanted it rough, my dear, you had only to say.”

“Let me go,” I ordered Geoffrey. My only answer was having the coverlet, which he’d snatched from the floor, thrown over me. “I mean it! Put me down this minute!” I felt myself being carried into the hallway, but the damned blood loss ensured that there was little I could do about it. “Goddamnit, when I get my strength back—” I heard what sounded like a war starting up behind me, but I couldn’t see anything for the damned sheet. I decided on a different tactic. “If you let them kill each other, Radu will stake you!”

“The master’s son is quite able to take care of himself. And I very much doubt he will kill an honored guest. Sadly, none of us are permitted to do so.” The tone was Geoffrey’s usual imperturbable one. But he let my head bounce off a half-dozen walls, vase-topped plinths and wall fixtures on the way to wherever we were going.