Touch The Dark

Chapter 3

I woke tired, aching and seriously freaked out. My mood wasn't improved by the fact that Tomas was looming over me so that his blank, upside-down face was the first thing I saw. "Get away from me!" I croaked as I struggled into a sitting position. I had to wait a few minutes for the room to stop moving, and when it did, I was less than thrilled with what I saw. Great. I'd been dumped in Hell's waiting room. The small chamber was carved out of red sandstone and lit by only a couple of scary-looking wall sconces. They were made out of what appeared to be interlocking knives and held actual, evil-smelling torches. That told me right away that I was somewhere with a lot of powerful wards, which would have interfered with electricity. Not good.

The place would have been perfect as a torture chamber, except that instead of iron maidens and thumbscrews, it was furnished only with the very uncomfortable black leather sofa where I was lying and a small side table with a few magazines. One was a copy of the Oracle, the equivalent of Newsweek for the magical world, but like most waiting-room reading matter, it was several months out of date. I'd dropped by a certain coffeehouse in Atlanta on a weekly basis to read it, in case anything happened in my other world that might affect my new life. I doubted that the cover story for this edition, on the effect of cheap Asian imports on the magical medicines market, fell into that category, however, and the other was just a scandal sheet, PYTHIA'S HEIR MISSING! the three-inch title on this week's Crystal Gazing screamed, TIME OUT OF WHACK! I rolled my eyes but stopped because it hurt. Guess the MARTIANS KIDNAP WITCHES story they'd been leading with had sort of run dry.

"Mia stella, the Senate assigned Tomas as your bodyguard; he cannot leave you," a familiar voice reproached gently from beside the door. "Do not make things difficult."

"I'm not." After what I'd been through, I thought I was being reason personified. I felt seriously nauseous, so tired that I swayed when I forced myself to stand, and my eyes burned like I'd already had the good, hard cry I wanted. But I wasn't budging. "I don't want him anywhere near me."

I ignored Tomas and an unfamiliar guy wearing seventeenth-century court clothes and concentrated on the only friend I had in the room. I had no idea what Rafe was doing here. Not that I wasn't glad to have him—I could use all the friends I could get—but I didn't know where he fit in. Rafe was short for Raphael, the toast of Rome and the favorite artist of the papacy until he'd made the mistake of turning down a commission from a wealthy Florentine merchant in 1520. Tony had been trying to compete artistically with the Medicis: they had Michelangelo, so he needed Raphael. Rafe told him he already had more commissions than he could handle, and that, anyway, he painted frescoes for the pope. He wasn't about to travel all the way to Florence merely to paint a dining room. It hadn't been a good move. Ever since, Rafe had been painting whatever Tony wanted, including my bedroom when I was a child. He'd made my ceiling full of angels that looked so real, for years I thought they watched over me while I slept. He was one of the only people at Tony's whom I had ever regretted leaving, but I had snuck away without so much as a good-bye. I had no other choice: he belonged to Tony and, if asked a direct question by his master, had to tell him the truth. So if he was here now, it was because Tony wanted him here. It lessened my joy at the reunion somewhat.

Tomas said nothing, but he also didn't leave. I glared at him, but it didn't have any obvious effect. That was a problem since I needed to escape, and the more babysitters the bigger the challenge. There was also the fact that even looking at him made so many emotions surge through me that I was getting a headache. It wasn't the violence that bothered me so much. I'd seen enough growing up that I could shrug off the events at the club now that I was over the shock that Tomas was the one doing them. That I was no longer kneeling in a pool of blood helped, as did the fact that the vamps he'd killed had been trying to do the same to me. My attitude could be summed up pretty simply: I was alive, they were not, go me. Surviving at Tony's taught you to be practical about these things.

I also gave Tomas credit for saving my life, although I'd probably be far away from harm by now if I hadn't gone to warn him in the first place. I was even willing to overlook him carting me off without a word of explanation, considering that I hadn't been in any frame of mind for a calm discussion. All in all, I figured we were about even, except for the betrayal part. That was something else. That I wasn't likely to forgive anytime soon, if at all.

I had shared glimpses into my time on the streets with Tomas, things I never talked about with anyone, to encourage him to open up. I'd worried that he wasn't making friends despite all the attention at the club, and wondered if he had some of the same relationship phobias I did. I'd let myself get fond of him, damn it, and all the time, everything he'd told me had been a lie. Not to mention the fact that he'd deliberately stolen my will, causing me to make enough of a fool of myself that I was still fighting a blush. That sort of thing is considered serious stuff in vamp circles; had I been on Tony's good side, he would have pitched a fit about undue influence being exerted over his servant.

"Let me talk to her," Tomas told Rafe. Before I could protest, the others left the room to give us the illusion of privacy. It was all for show; with vamp hearing it didn't make any difference.

I didn't bother lowering my voice. "Let me make this simple," I said furiously. "You lied to me and you betrayed me. I don't want to see you, talk to you or even breathe the same air as you. Ever again. Got it?"

"Cassie, you must understand; I only did what I was forced to—"

I noticed that he had something in his hand. "And what are you doing with my purse?!" I should have known he'd go through it—Tony couldn't know what surprises I might have tucked away—but because it was Tomas, it felt like another betrayal. "Did you take anything?"

"No; it is as you left it. But Cassie—"

"Give it back!" I grabbed for it and almost fell down. "You had no right—"

"Tower! Tower! Tower!" My tarot deck fell onto the floor and appeared to be having a conniption. I felt tears in my eyes. It was just a stupid deck of cards, but it was the only thing I had that Eugenie had given me.

"You broke it!"

I scrambled to pick up the scattered cards, and Tomas knelt beside me. "It's the wards here," he said quietly. "There are too many—they interfere with the charm. It should be all right after we leave, or I can have it recast for you. It's a simple spell."

I slapped his hand away from my poor, confused cards. I knew how they felt. "Don't touch them!" I put them back clumsily, with shaking hands, while he sat back on his heels and watched me.

"I'm sorry, Cassie," he finally said. "I knew you would be upset—"

"Upset?!" I rounded on him, so angry I could hardly see. "You let me think you were some poor, abused kid who needed a friend, and stupid me, I fell for it! I trusted you, and you gave me up to—" I stopped and took a deep breath before I lost it. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of watching me cry. I wasn't. I shoved the cards back in my purse and checked on the rest of its contents to give myself time to get back in control. After a minute, I looked up. "Not everything that's broken can be fixed, Tomas."

"I didn't lie to you, Cassie; I swear it."

Looking into his so-sincere eyes, I almost believed him. Almost. "So you're, what, a poor, abused master vampire? Please."

"I did not lie," he repeated, more emphatically. "I was told to keep you safe. That is what I did. I had to win your trust for that, but I did not lie to do it. I never told you I was abused, although if I had, it would have been true enough. Any of Alejandro's servants could make that claim."

I couldn't believe he was doing this. I hadn't expected a heartfelt apology, but the fact that he wouldn't even admit what he'd done was too much. "You make me sick," I said, getting back to my feet. I walked to the door and stuck my head out. Rafe was in the corridor, trying to look like he hadn't heard every word. "He goes, or you get no cooperation from me."

The next second, Tomas' hands were around my upper arms, the grip just short of painful as he drew me back against him. "What do you know of abuse?" he demanded in a savage undertone. "Do you know how I became a vampire, Cassie? Would you like me better if I told you that they rounded me up with the rest of my village and took us to be hunted by Alejandro and his court? That the only reason I'm not dead is that one of his courtiers thought I was attractive enough to save for himself? That I had to watch people who had come through plague and conquest, who had fought at my side for years against overwhelming odds, be slaughtered by a madman for his sick amusement? Is that what you want to hear? If it isn't gruesome enough to win your forgiveness, believe me, I have many other stories. We could swap them, only I think you would run out before I do. You were on the streets for a handful of years; I was with Alejandro for three and a half centuries!"

"Tomas, please release Mademoiselle Palmer."

To my surprise, the oddly dressed man had intervened. I'd thought he looked like something out of Restoration England, but now realized his origins were on the other side of the Channel. His accent was faint but noticeably French. I'd almost forgotten he was there. Even weirder was that Tomas immediately did as he asked, stepping away like contact with me burned him, but those black eyes stayed on mine as if waiting for an answer. What was I supposed to say? You've had a tough time, so it's okay that you turned me over to people who may do even worse to me? Your life was messed up, so it's fine that you ruined mine? If so, he'd be waiting a long time.

"Perhaps you can trust me to guard her for a while?" It was phrased as a question, but the tall Frenchman ushered me down the corridor without waiting for an answer.

I soon got to see my old nemesis, but not in the circumstances I'd expected. Tony's fat face looked the same as always, which wasn't surprising since he hadn't changed since 1513 except for the clothes. He was wearing what I liked to think of as his goodfella suit—a pinstriped number that looked like something he'd stolen off a bouncer at a speakeasy, and maybe he had. He liked the suit because someone had told him once that vertical stripes made him look slimmer. They lied. Tony died at more than three hundred pounds, which on a five-foot-five frame meant he was approximately the shape of a soccer ball with legs. And no amount of diet and exercise was gonna change that now.

Even with the weight and the fashion sense from hell, Tony looked better than his chief enforcer, Alphonse, who stood, as always, behind his master's left shoulder. Although they were only reflections in a large mirror at the moment, I could tell they were in the old stronghold in Philly. I was surprised that even Tony would have that much nerve, to move right back in, but I should have known; lack of balls wasn't one of his failings. I knew where they were because Tony was arrayed on his usual chair, a throne that had come from a bishop's palace back when lots of carving and gilt were the in thing. The back came to a point a good six feet off the ground, but Alphonse didn't have to stretch to see past it. His height didn't help his appearance, though. He was built like someone who knew how a thug was supposed to look had put him together, but he had one of the scariest faces I've ever seen. I don't mean that in a sexy, Hollywood villain kind of way—the guy was just plain ugly. I heard once that he'd been one of Baby Face Nelson's hit men before he was turned, but it looked to me like he was the one who'd been hit—repeatedly, with a baseball bat, in the face. As a kid, I'd been fascinated with the fact that he had almost no profile because his nose stood out no more than his Neanderthal brow line.

I always crack up when movies depict vamps as gorgeous, sexy and with an endless closet of expensive clothes. The fact is, when you're dead, you look pretty much the same way you did when you were alive. Hundreds of years can teach a person a few beauty tricks, I guess, but most vamps don't bother. Some of the younger ones make an effort because it makes hunting easier, but most of the older ones don't give a damn. When you can make someone believe you look like anything from Marilyn Monroe to Brad Pitt with merely a suggestion, makeup starts to look like a waste of money.

Despite both Tony's and his pet goon's presence via enchanted mirror, I was in a good mood. I looked a hell of a lot more disreputable than either of them, with my pink bra peeking out of my shredded shirt, my scraped face oozing blood, and melted bits of vampire goo dripping down my boots. But I was alive, still human, and Tony was looking unhappy. It didn't get much better than that. Of course, Tony wasn't the only problem in sight, but I figured I stood a fighting chance since I'd made it this far. If the Senate wanted me dead, their spy could have taken me out any time in the past six months.

I glanced across the huge room to where Tomas had entered. He stood near the door, technically obeying my request to keep away, but it wasn't nearly far enough to suit me. He was talking to one of the chamber guards, a matched set of four six-foot blonds who looked like they'd walked out of a medieval tapestry, complete with battle-axes slung across their wide backs and helmets with little nose guards. I noticed that he'd thrown a black denim jacket over his club wear; it matched the jeans but made him look like a motorcycle badass. His face was in shadow so I couldn't see his expression, but it probably wouldn't have told me anything. At least, nothing I wanted to see.

It was creepy how I had to fight not to go to him, how I desperately wanted to see him light up for me the way he never did for other people, to hear him say that everything was going to be okay. I knew what he was, knew how he'd lied, yet part of me still wanted to trust him. I hoped it was only a lingering effect of the earlier mental invasion, and told myself to get over it. My eyes were going to have to get used to the fact that he might look like my Tomas, but he wasn't; the man I'd thought I knew had never existed outside my imagination.

I dragged my attention back to the main event, which shouldn't have been as hard as it was, considering the display. A thick mahogany slab had been carved into a massive rectangular table that, other than the row of seats along the far side, was the only furniture in the room. It looked like it weighed about a ton and was raised on an equally mammoth black marble platform reached by a set of gleaming steps. It lifted the Senate a good three feet above where lowly petitioners, or prisoners in my case, were allowed to stand. The rest of the room—or cavern, since I found out later it was several levels belowground—was carved out of red sandstone and painted with jumping flames by huge black iron chandeliers. The mirror propped up on the left of the table was a discordant, ugly note, but only because it currently reflected Tony's face. Other than that, the decorations consisted of the bright banners and coats of arms of the Senate members that hung behind each of their seats. Four of those shields were draped in black, and the heavy, brocaded chairs in front of them were turned to the wall. That didn't look good.

"I demand compensation!" I turned my attention back to Tony, who was repeating his demand for at least the fifth time. He belongs to the "reiterate your point until they give in" school of debate, mainly because he hasn't had a lot of practice. No one in his family ever does anything but bow and scrape and, after hundreds of years of that kind of thing, it dulls a person's edge. "I took her in, brought her up, treated her as one of our own, and she deceived me! I have every right to demand her heart!"

I could have pointed out that, since I wasn't a vamp, staking me was a little overkill, ha-ha, but preferred to concentrate on more important issues. Not that I thought the Senate would care about Tony's business arrangements, but it was a rare chance to tell off the slimeball and I wasn't about to miss it. "You had my parents killed so you could monopolize my talent. You told me my visions were helping you avoid the disasters I saw and were being passed on to warn others, while all the time you were profiting off them. You're mad that I cost you some money? If I ever get close enough, I'll cut off your head." I said it matter-of-factly since killing Tony was an old dream and not one I had much chance of fulfilling.

Tony didn't seem too upset about my outburst, which was what I'd expected. People had been threatening him for centuries, but he was still here. He'd told me once that survival was a more eloquent answer to his detractors than any other, and I suppose it still was. "She has no proof that I had anything to do with that unfortunate business. Am I to sit here and be insulted?"

"I Saw it!"

I turned to the Senate leader, officially called the Consul, intending to plead my case, but she was petting a cobra large enough to wrap twice around her body, which I found pretty distracting. It looked tame, but I kept an eye on it anyway. The vamps tend to forget that what would be annoying for them, like a bite from a poisonous snake, would be a bit more serious for the mortals who worked with them. Those of us who survived long enough learned to be real observant.

"The woman is delusional," Tony was protesting, spreading his chubby white hands innocently. "She has always been dangerously unstable."

"Then I am surprised you relied on her predictions."

The Consul's voice slithered around the room, almost a tangible presence against my skin. I shivered just from the overflow of her power, and was thankful it wasn't directed at me. At least not yet. She didn't dress in flowing white linen and gold headdresses anymore, but I guess when you're that strong, you don't need to show off. I wasn't disappointed, though, considering that her outfit consisted mostly of multicolored snakes slithering and twining over her so thickly that only occasionally a patch of bare skin showed. Their scales caught the torchlight and shimmered like she was clothed in living jewels: onyx, jade and emerald, with the occasional flash of ruby eyes. It was more than the outfit that commanded attention, though; the authority in her voice and the intelligence in those dark eyes showed that, in some ways, she was still a queen. I hadn't recognized her and no one had bothered to introduce themselves, but Rafe, at my back for moral support, I guess, had whispered a name in my ear as we approached the table. At my startled look, teeth had flashed in his dark beard as he gave me his usual rakish smile. "It wasn't an asp that bit her, mia Stella."

"I did not rely on her," Tony was lying smoothly. "She was a convenience only."

Rafe's hand on my arm tightened, and I bit my lip. Repeated outbursts might annoy the Consul—not a smart move—but it was hard to stay silent. I had no idea how much money I'd made the little toad through the years, but it was a lot. I knew for a fact that he'd cleared at least ten million when he bought citrus futures right before a series of natural disasters wrecked the California orange crop and caused the price to skyrocket. That didn't happen every day, but it wasn't an isolated incident, either.

Tony's moneygrubbing had never been my main problem with him, though. The thing that caused me to snap, besides finding out about my parents, was his decision to let fire ravage a city block because he wanted to buy some real estate in the area cheap. I had told him about it a week in advance, plenty of time for him to have called in a warning, but of course he hadn't I'd stared in horror at newspaper photos of charred children's bodies and had one of those lightbulb moments. Some checking had confirmed what I already suspected: he'd used my talent to help him plan assassinations, mastermind political coups and successfully run drugs and illegal weapons past the authorities. And those were just the things I knew about. The day I finally put all the pieces together, I'd promised myself that, somehow, I would make him pay. He had, too, but in my opinion, not nearly enough.

"Then she should be no great loss. You will be remunerated for your claim."

"Consul, with all due respect, the only thing I want is for her to be returned to me. I am her rightful master, as I am sure my own will agree."

"No." The dark gaze slid to me momentarily, and I suddenly knew what a rabbit feels when it looks up and sees a hawk. "We have plans for her."

Tony blustered on, and I began to notice that Alphonse wasn't making any effort to help his beleaguered employer. My estimation of his intelligence took a hike. If Tony argued himself into a belated grave—permanently this time—Alphonse would get a chance to seize control of the operation, and that worked for me. Alphonse and I weren't exactly friends, but as far as I knew, he had no reason to want me dead besides the fact that Tony had ordered it. I grinned; keep talking, Tony. Unfortunately, one of the two huge vamps in leopard-skin loincloths that framed the Consul's chair came forward and removed the mirror after a minute. Too bad; I'd started to enjoy myself.

Pressure from Rafe's hand warned me to keep a blank expression. Just as it wasn't a good idea to show fear or weakness in a court situation—and this was pretty much the court of courts—it also wasn't bright to show too much amusement. Somebody might take it as a challenge, and that would be very bad. I quickly readjusted my expression to the poker face I'd used growing up. It wasn't hard: the little joy I'd been able to summon would have died anyway when I turned back to the Senate. With no more Tony around to distract them, everyone's attention was suddenly on me, and it was unnerving, even to someone who had regularly attended family meetings. Tony had insisted, after his resident telepath was turned and lost her powers, that I be there, especially if rival families were going to send reps. I don't know why. I can't read minds and the odds of my Seeing something about anyone present were slim. I'd told him a hundred times, I can't switch on the gift like turning on a TV, and when it does come, I don't get to choose the channel. He'd ignored me, maybe because he liked the prestige of having his personal clairvoyant at his side like a trained dog. Anyway, after the number of very frightening people I'd seen, I had thought nothing could impress me. I'd been wrong.

Besides the Consul's, there were twelve places at the table. More than half were empty, but the ones that were filled made up for it. A dark-haired woman sat nearest to me, dressed in a long velvet gown. A little cap decorated with pearls as big as my thumb framed her face, and heavy gold embroidery traced its way up her burgundy skirts. Her skin had the opalescent sheen of naturally pale skin that hasn't seen the sun in centuries, and was marred only by a ridge of scar tissue around her throat that a silk ribbon didn't quite conceal. Someone had gotten close enough to this beauty to take her head but hadn't heard that this alone won't kill a vamp. If the heart is intact, the body will mend, although I winced at the amount of effort it must have taken to heal a wound like that.

Next to her sat the only person at the table I recognized. I could hardly fail to do so since Tony boasted about his connection to the famous Dracula line at every opportunity, and had portraits of all three brothers on the wall of his throne room. He had been made not by Vlad III Tepes, the Dracula of legend, but by the great man's elder brother, Mircea. We'd entertained him in Philly when I was eleven. Like many children, I loved a good story, which was lucky since there was little Mircea liked better than to go on about the bad old days. He'd told me how, when his younger brothers Vlad and Radu were in Adrianople as hostages—the Ottoman sultan didn't trust their father to honor a treaty otherwise—Mircea encountered a vengeful gypsy. She hated his father for seducing and then throwing aside her sister, who'd been Dracula's mother, so she cursed Mircea with vampirism. I think the idea was to end the family line, since a vampire can't father children and everybody had assumed that the hostages weren't coming back. But, as Mircea pointed out, she actually did him a favor. Shortly thereafter, Hungarian assassins working with some local nobles captured, tortured and buried him alive, something that might have been a real downer if he hadn't already been dead. Under the circumstances, it was more an inconvenience than anything else.

I'd been too young when I met him to realize that the handsome young man who told me Romanian folk tales was actually older than Tony by about a century. He sent me an encouraging smile now out of a face that had looked thirty for five hundred years. I smiled back in spite of myself; I'd had my first crush on those brown velvet eyes, and I'd forgotten how attractive he was. Those same features had won his longer-lived brother Radu the title of "the Handsome" back in the sixteenth century. Mircea paused to brush a speck of lint off his snazzy black suit. Other than Rafe, who preferred more casual chic, Mircea was the only vamp I knew who cared much about modern fashion. Maybe that was why I'd never seen him wearing the court regalia of old Wallachia, or possibly the clothes then had just sucked. In any case, he looked completely up-to-date now, except for the long, black ponytail. I was glad to see him, but even assuming he remembered me fondly, I doubted one vote would do me much good.

Speaking of a need to update a wardrobe, the vamp next to Mircea—the same one who had been loitering around the waiting room—looked like a GQ ad, if the magazine had been printed in the seventeenth century. Considering that I'd spent a lot of time in a Goth club, I didn't object to the embroidered frock coat, frothy shirt and knee britches he was wearing. I'd seen weirder getups, and at least this one was flattering—silk hose shows off legs better than most modern styles, and his were worth playing up. The sticking point was that the whole deal was in buttercup yellow satin. I'm sorry, but a vamp in yellow is just wrong, especially when you throw in bright blue eyes and glossy auburn curls cascading halfway down his back. He was very handsome, with one of those open, honest faces you automatically trust. It really irritated me that it belonged to a vamp. I gave him a tentative smile anyway on the theory that it couldn't hurt, and thought maybe I'd get a brownie point for being the only other one in yellow in the room. Of course, my happy-face T wasn't looking its best at the moment, which maybe explains why he didn't smile back. He was watching me almost hungrily, the weight of his gaze so intense that I spared a thought to hope he'd already eaten. I needed to get this blood off me before I started looking to someone like a walking hors d'oeuvre.

The remaining vamps, two on the far side of the Consul, were so alike that I assumed they had to be related. I found out later that it was a coincidence. The man was almost as old as the Consul, having started life as one of Nero's bodyguards even though his mother had been a slave captured somewhere much farther north than Italy. He'd been one of the emperor's favorites for having even more sadistic tastes than his master: want to guess who really burned Rome? The woman, who looked so much like Portia that I did a double take, had been born in the antebellum South. She was said to have killed more Union soldiers in the twenty miles or so around her family home than the Confederate military did, and to have mourned the end of the war and the easy hunting that had gone with it. So, different eras, countries and backgrounds, but they looked like twins with their milky complexions and wavy dark hair. They even had similar eye color, a light brownish gold, like the light through autumn leaves, and were dressed in complementary outfits of white and silver. Admittedly, his was a toga while she looked like she was on her way to a Savannah ball, but they looked good together.

The Consul gave me time to size everyone up before she spoke, but when she did, I had no desire to look anywhere else. Wherever her kohl-rimmed gaze landed, it felt like tiny pinpricks along my skin. The sensation was not quite painful, but I had the impression that the pins could become swords very easily. "You see how many of our seats are empty, how many voices silenced." I blinked in surprise. I'd assumed there was a problem, but not that—four ancient vampires aren't exactly easy to kill. But she confirmed it. "We are greatly weakened. The loss of some of the greatest among us is felt keenly by all in this room, but if it continues, it will echo around the world."

She stopped, and at first I thought it was for a dramatic pause, but then she zoned out on me. Some of the really old ones do that sometimes, drawing into themselves for a minute or an hour or a day, and forgetting that anyone else exists. I'd gotten used to little time-outs with Tony, so I didn't let it bother me. I noticed that Tomas had been joined at the door by yet another guy I didn't know. What looked like a life-sized statue stood near him, a rather crude one with no paint to cover its clay exterior and poorly defined features. Tomas and the new guy seemed to be arguing about something, but their voices were too low to hear. I had a brief moment of nostalgia for Tony's audience hall, where most of those present were murderous scumbags, but at least I knew their names. I was jumpy enough standing in blood-soaked clothing in front of a group of vamps powerful enough to kill me with little more than a thought, without also having to work in the dark. Rafe was a comfort at my back, but I'd have preferred someone whose specialty was more in the guns-and-knives line.

"We are missing six of our number," the Consul abruptly continued. "Four are irrecoverable, and two others hover on the edge of the abyss. If any power known to us can restore them, it will be done. But it may well be that we strive in vain, for our enemy has lately obtained a new weapon, which can undo us at our very conception." I resisted the urge to glance back at Rafe, whom I hoped was following this better than I was. Maybe he could fill me in later if the Consul never got around to making sense.

"Tomas, attend us." She had barely finished speaking before Tomas appeared beside me. "Can she be of use?" He was resolutely not looking at me. I wanted to yell at him, to ask what kind of coward couldn't even hold my gaze while he betrayed me, but Rafe's fingers tightened almost painfully and I regained control.

"I believe so. She occasionally speaks when there seems to be no one there, and tonight… I cannot explain what happened to one of the assassins. There were five. I killed three, and her ward dealt with another; but as for the last…"

"Tomas, don't." I definitely did not want him to finish that sentence. It would not be good if the Senate decided I was a threat, and if they found out about the exploding vamp, they might feel a tad on edge. How can even an ancient master fight against something she can't see or feel? Of course, Portia's intervention had been a fluke—I don't go around with an army of ghosts and I sure as hell can't command any that I meet up with to fight for me—but there was no way the Senate could know that. I somehow doubted they'd take my word. Most ghosts are too weak to do what Portia's friends had managed; she must have called every active spirit in the cemetery and, even working together, they had barely had enough power. It wasn't something I could duplicate, but if the Senate didn't believe that, it could get me killed.

Tomas' jaw tightened, but he didn't look at me. Big surprise. "I am not sure how the last assassin died. Cassandra must have killed it, but I did not see how." That was true, but he had definitely seen frozen vamp parts all over the aisle, and there weren't a lot of ways they could have gotten there. I was surprised he'd hedged his reply for me, but it didn't matter. One glance at the Consul was enough to show that she wasn't fooled.

Before she could call him on it, the short blond who'd been eavesdropping from the doorway suddenly darted around the guards and ran towards us. I wasn't worried; it was easy to see by the way he moved and the suntan on his cheeks that this was no vampire. Two of the guards followed, so quickly that they were just smears of color against the red sandstone walls, then overtook him. They reached us first and put themselves between Rafe and me and the newcomer, although they didn't try to restrain him. In fact, they seemed more interested in keeping an eye on me.

"I will speak, Consul, and you had best instruct your servants not to lay hands on me unless you wish to escalate this to war!" The blond's booming voice was well-educated British, but his outfit didn't match it. His hair was the only normal thing about him—close cropped and without noticeable style. But his T-shirt was crossed with enough ammunition to take out a platoon, and he had a tool belt slung low on his hips that, along with a strap across his back, looked like it carried one of every type of handheld weapon on the market. I recognized a machete, two knives, a sawed-off shotgun, a crossbow, two handguns—one strapped to his thigh—and a couple of honest-to-God grenades. There were other things I couldn't identify, including a row of cork-topped bottles along the front of the belt. The getup, sort of mad scientist meets Rambo, would have made me smile, except that I believe in showing respect for someone carrying that much hardware.

"You are here on sufferance, Pritkin. Do not forget that." The Consul sounded bored, but several of her snakes hissed in the guy's direction.

The man sneered, and his bright green eyes were scornful. I wondered if he had a death wish, and pressed back against Rafe. His arms slid around my waist and I felt a little better. "She is not vampire—you have no right to speak for her!"

"That can easily be remedied." I jumped as a low, sibilant voice spoke in my ear. I twisted in Rafe's grip to see a tall, cadaverous vamp with greasy black hair and glittering beetle eyes bending towards me. I'd met him only once before, and we hadn't gotten along. I somehow didn't think this time would be any different.

Jack, still sometimes called by his famous nickname, had had an abrupt end to his early career in the streets of London when he met Senate member Augusta, one of those missing at the moment, while she was on a European vacation. She showed him what a truly ripping good time was before bringing him over. He had been promoted to the Senate only recently, but had served as their unofficial torturer almost since she made him. He'd come to Philly to do some freelance work once and hadn't liked that Tony refused to throw me in as a bonus for a job well done. I'd been relieved not to see him in the Senate chamber when I arrived, and there was no entrance on that side of the room. But figuring out where he'd come from was not as big a priority as wondering why his lips were curled back and his long, dingy fangs fully extended.

Rafe jerked me away and Tomas shifted to be able to watch both new arrivals. Before things got more interesting, the Consul intervened. "Sit down, Jack. She belongs to Lord Mircea, as you know." Mircea smiled at me, apparently unfazed. Either he trusted Jack a lot more than I did, or the fact that he was Tony's master, and by vampire law mine as well, didn't mean much to him. I was betting on the latter, knowing my luck.

Jack backed away, but he didn't like it. He gave a whine like a child deprived of a treat as he assumed his seat. "She looks like a slut."

"Better than like an undertaker." It was true—his heavy Victorian clothes would have looked perfectly at home in a funeral parlor—but that wasn't why I said it. I'd learned early that fear was power, and I was deathly afraid of Jack. Even in life he'd been a monster; now he was the sort that even vamps gave a wide berth. But I wasn't going to give him the advantage of knowing how he affected me. Not to mention that terror was an aphrodisiac to him—Tony had said that he actually preferred his victims' fright to their pain—and I wouldn't give him the pleasure. He bared his fangs at me again in response. It could have been a smile, but I doubted it.

"The mages do not have a monopoly on honor, Pritkin," the Consul continued, ignoring Jack and me like we were two naughty children acting up in front of a guest. "We will keep our agreement with them if they keep theirs with us."

I started, and gave the man—no, the mage—another look. I'd met mages before, but only renegades who occasionally did jobs for Tony. They had never impressed me much. Most of them had serious addictions to one illegal substance or another—a by-product of living constantly under a death threat—and their habit had Tony's blessing since it kept them eager for work. But I'd never before seen one in good standing, especially not a Circle member, if that's what he was. Tony feared both the Silver Circle and the Black, so I'd always been curious about them. The rumors that circulated about the Silver Circle, whose members supposedly practiced only white magic, were scary, but the Black wasn't talked about at all. When even vamps find a group too daunting to gossip about, it's probably best to avoid it. I wondered which type he was, but there was no sign or insignia that I could see anywhere on that weird getup.

He gestured at me. "She is human and a magic user; that makes her fate ours to decide." He flexed his hands as if he'd like to grab something, maybe a weapon, maybe me, maybe both. "Give her to me and I swear you will never have reason to regret it."

Mircea was regarding him the way a good housewife looks at a bug crawling across her newly cleaned kitchen floor. "But Cassie might, would she not?" he asked in his usual mild voice. I'd never heard him raise it, although he'd stayed with Tony for almost a year.

The Consul looked as cool as a bronze statue, but a wave of power fluttered by me, like a warm summer breeze with tiny drops of acid in it. I flinched and resisted the urge to wipe at my skin. If the mage noticed it, he gave no sign. "We have yet to determine who has the better claim, Pritkin."

"There is nothing to discuss. The Pythia wants the rogue returned to her. I have been sent to fetch her, and by our treaty you have no right to interfere. She belongs with her people."

I had no idea what he was talking about but thought it strange that he seemed so concerned with my future. I'd never met him before in my life and it didn't help my confusion that none of the mages who came to Tony's had ever given me a second glance. As merely the vampire's pet clairvoyant, I'd been beneath contempt. It had annoyed me that outcasts with no more status in the magical community than I had treated me like a charlatan at a carnival. But at the moment I'd gladly take a little scornful indifference. The whole session was beginning to feel like a bunch of dogs fighting over a bone, with me as the bone. I didn't like it, but there wasn't a lot I could do about it.

"She belongs with those who can best defend her and her gift." The Consul did serene well. I wondered if it was natural talent or if her two-thousand-odd years of life had helped teach her composure. Maybe both. "I find it interesting, Pritkin, that your Circle now speaks of protecting her. Not so long ago you asked our help in finding her, dead or alive, with the implication being that the former was preferable."

The blond's eyes flashed dangerously. "Do not presume to put words in the mouth of the Circle! You don't understand the danger. Only the Circle can protect her, and protect others from her." For the first time he looked directly at me, and the snarl on his face would have bared fangs if he'd been a vamp. As it was, it told me I had another enemy to worry about. His gaze flicked over me like a whip, and he didn't seem to like what he saw. "She has been allowed to mature unschooled, cut off from everyone who could have taught her control. It is a recipe for disaster."

I met those narrowed green eyes and something that looked almost like fear crossed over them for a second. His hand moved to the knife in a sheath on his wrist, and for a moment, I actually thought he was going to throw it at me. Rafe must have thought so, too, for he tensed, but the Consul's voice cut in before anyone could move. "The Silver Circle was once great, Pritkin. Do you tell us that you cannot protect one of your own merely because she roams beyond the fold? Have you become so weak?"

His face darkened with anger and his hand continued to fondle the knife, although it stayed in its little leather holder. I looked into those crystalline green eyes and suddenly the picture came together. I knew who, or at least what, he was. The Silver Circle was said to have a group of mages who were trained in combat techniques, both human and magical, who enforced their will. The mages at Tony's had been scared to death of them because they were authorized to kill rogue magic users on sight. Mages who pissed off the Circle weren't allowed ever to use magic again; if they did and were discovered, it was a death sentence. But why had the Silver Circle sent a freaking war mage after me? Most people even in the magical community treat clairvoyants like shysters with no more ability than a Halloween witch; we don't even register on the radar for them. But the fact that there are a lot of con artists doesn't mean that some of us aren't real. I wondered if the Circle had finally come to that conclusion, too, and decided to start eliminating rivals to their power, beginning with me. It sounded like my kind of luck.

If the mage attacked me while I was under the Senate's protection, I was pretty sure they could kill him and get away with it. Even the Silver Circle couldn't protest the death of one of their members if he'd brought it on himself. The odds were good, then, that he wouldn't kill me, but I still sent Tomas a glare. He could have given back my gun once we'd arrived. It wasn't like I could hurt any of the Senate with it, even if I was crazy enough to try, and it would have been a comfort. Especially if he'd planned on letting war mages come in armed to the teeth.

"She already bears our greatest ward. She drew strength from all of us tonight; it was not only your vampire who saved her!"

"No, it was a joint effort, as this entire enterprise must be," GQ cut in smoothly. I was surprised that anyone dared to speak for the Consul, but no one challenged him or even seemed to find it odd. Maybe the Senate was a democratic bunch, but if so, they'd be the first vamps I knew who fit that category. The hierarchy at Tony's was based on strength, with "might makes right" pretty much the only rule. The other families were the same, as far as I knew. The Senate ruled because they were strong enough to scare even vamps like Tony, which meant the redhead couldn't be as harmless as he looked, or they'd have eaten him alive years ago.

To my surprise, GQ acknowledged that I was in the room instead of simply talking about me like I was a stick of furniture. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Louis-César," he said and executed a damn good bow. "A votre service, mademoiselle." His eyes were intent as he looked at me, but he'd toned it down some. I no longer had the impression that I might be on the menu.

Unlike most twenty-first-century females, I know the proper response to a formal bow. Both the governess and chief tutor Tony assigned me had been born in the Victorian era, so I can curtsy with the best of them. I thought I'd forgotten most of that early training, but something about Louis-César made it come flooding back. He missed the no doubt amusing sight of me trying to live up to nanny's standards in blood-spattered four-inch go-go boots and a micro-mini because he was looking at the Consul again.

I was so focused on the scene at the high table that I completely failed to notice the second attempt on my life that night. My first clue was when a wave of power hit me like a sandstorm had blown up out of nowhere. Hot, stinging flecks scoured my cheeks for a second, before Tomas shoved Rafe aside and tackled me, hard enough to knock the breath out of my lungs when we slammed into the floor. I was faceup, which allowed me to see two of the chamber guards standing immobile in the middle of the room, their flesh slowly evaporating from their bones like it was being eaten off by invisible insects. A second later, the bare skeletons crashed to the floor, hearts and brains having disappeared along with the rest of their soft tissue.

I barely saw what happened next because none of it was at normal human speed, and Pritkin was in my way. He was beside me in a crouch with a wicked-looking knife in one hand and a gun in the other. Another knife and a couple of small vials hovered in the air beside his head, as if held by invisible strings. For a second, I thought he'd decided to take me out with the whole Senate watching, but he wasn't looking at me. The statue I'd seen by the door earlier was suddenly beside us. Despite the fact that it had only vague indentations for eyes, it seemed to be looking at Pritkin as if awaiting orders. I recognized what it was now that I saw it move, although I'd never seen one before. Golems had been feared by the wizards Tony employed only slightly less than the war mages. They were clay figures brought to life by ancient Hebrew Kabbalah magic. Originally, they ran errands for rabbis strong enough to create them. Maybe some still did, but these days most served the knights, as the war mages were properly called.

Pritkin pointed to me and the golem turned its blank stare in my direction. "Protect her!" The golem took his place, its empty eyes fixed on me, while its master joined the fight. I looked away from the creature, which was creeping me out more than the assassins, to see Jack rounding off against one of the remaining guards. The guard was growling, low in his throat like an animal, but Jack looked like a kid on Christmas morning, all flushed cheeks and bright eyes. He waved Pritkin off with an impatient gesture that clearly said, This one's mine.

The other guard was out of the picture, clawing at his chest where blood was welling up around the rapier that had been thrust completely through him, as if his heavy chain mail wasn't even there. Its blade stuck almost a foot out of his back, glinting a dull red in the flickering light of the chandeliers. I'd always thought rapiers were dainty, almost effeminate things when I'd seen them in the movies, but apparently I'd been wrong. This one had a wicked blade, as if a double-edged dagger had been stretched out to an inch wide and three feet long. As I fought to get a breath, Louis-César pulled it out of the vamp's chest and, in the same, flowing motion, decapitated him. It was done with a liquid speed that fooled my eyes for a moment into believing he'd missed. Then the head fell off the neck and bounced across the floor.

The vamp's eyelids were fluttering and his fangs were bared when his head rolled to a halt not a foot away from me, its helmet miraculously still on. I swear the mouth moved, snapping on empty air as if trying to reach my neck, even as his life's blood spread around him in a widening stain. I must have been making some type of strangled noise, or else the golem perceived the head as a threat, because it quickly kicked it away. That would have been nice, except that it overestimated the weight and sent it sailing across the Senate table to thud wetly against the wall behind the belle's careful coiffure.

A trail of blood marred the shining tabletop in front of her and a spray of droplets descended on her hair, where they sparkled like tiny rubies. She fished the head out from under the table and politely offered it to her companion, who equally politely declined. He was busy cleaning up the table by holding his hand over the spilled blood. Droplets flew up to meet his palm like they were iron and he was a magnet. As with Tomas earlier, they disappeared into his skin like lotion. "This sort of thing is getting tiresome," he said conversationally, and the belle nodded in between licks of the glistening spine that peeped out of the ruined neck of her prize.

I had to close my eyes for a moment and fight to keep my stomach in place, but at least I wasn't screaming. First, it wouldn't have looked strong in front of the Senate, and that would be bad. Second, my throat was still raw from almost getting strangled earlier. Third, I couldn't get enough air, thanks to Tomas' weight. I tried to shift him to one side, but it was like trying to move a marble statue. He only pressed down harder until I cried out in pain; then his body softened, melting against me like a warm satin comforter. It might have been soothing except that I couldn't breathe deeply or move, and Jack and the other guard had danced dangerously close.

I didn't understand why no one had killed the guard, especially since he had drawn his huge battle-axe and was looking at me with the single-minded concentration most guys reserve for the Playboy channel. If the Senate wanted me dead, wouldn't it have been easier to let Tony do it for them? And if they didn't, why wasn't Louis-César doing an encore of his previous performance instead of simply standing there? Maybe he figured the guard would never get past Pritkin, Rafe and Tomas, but I wasn't so sure. The axe blade looked awfully sharp to me, and I knew how fast vamps could move. All the guard needed was a split second and I would be the main course for Miss Georgia 1860 whenever she finished her appetizer. But no one did anything except for Tomas, and he merely crawled higher up my body, to the point that he would have been able to give a detailed report on the lace pattern in my bra if he'd been asked. He looked calm, but I could feel his heart jumping against my skin. It wasn't comforting to know that he was worried, too.

I looked past his dark head to where flames from the candles were dancing along the axe's huge blade, which was all of about four yards away. As I stared, the guard lunged towards me, gnashing his teeth like a cornered tiger, and it was all over as suddenly as it had started. Jack was a streak of ugly, dark green fabric and a flash of pale hands. I blinked, and the guard was on the ground, his limbs pinned down by four large knives buried through his flesh in the underlying stone. Two of them were substantial things with old wood handles, like they might once have been kitchen implements. The others were the shiny silver pieces belonging to the mage, who called them back to him with a gesture once Jack was in control of the captive. They tore out of the vamp with an audible ripping sound and flew to him, one settling into the wrist sheath and the other disappearing down his boot. He hadn't even bothered to use the ones at his waist. He and the golem moved off to allow Tomas to haul me to my feet. Although he'd just helped save my life, his eyes were cold when he looked at me, like chips of green ice.

The Consul appeared unruffled by the disturbance, but a tiny frown marred her otherwise perfect face. "Be careful, Jack. I want answers, not a corpse."

Jack smiled beatifically up at her. "You'll have both," he promised and bent towards the body. I quickly looked away but heard the sounds of ripping flesh and popping bones. I guessed that he'd retrieved his knives, breaking the limbs of his victim in the process. I swallowed hard several times. I'd forgotten how interesting court life could be.

"As I was saying, madame, la mademoiselle is obviously unwell. Perhaps we could explain things to her after she has had a chance to rest?" Louis-César spoke as casually as if the events of the last few minutes had never happened. Meanwhile Jack had taken a set of gleaming surgical tools from a case he'd pulled out of a pocket. He lined them up slowly by the side of his struggling victim, giving a soft, hissing laugh as he did so. Great; at least someone was having fun.

"We do not have the time to waste, Louis-César, as you know."

"Ma chère madame, we have all the time in the world… now." They exchanged a look, but I couldn't interpret it. "If I may suggest, I could explain to Mademoiselle Palmer our dilemma and report back before dawn. That would give you time to complete the… interrogation." He gave me a glance, and my panic at the thought of being alone with a guy who'd just shish-kebabed a powerful vamp must have shown. He quickly added, "Raphael may accompany us, of course."

I didn't like the fact that he could read me so easily, but knowing I'd have a friend along did make me feel better. At least until I saw Jack start to pull a long, gleaming cord of intestines out of the vamp's now open gut, draping them like a string of sausages over his arm. He paused to lick his fingers like a kid with ice cream, then glanced up and gave me a wink. The skin between my shoulders crawled like it would like to creep off somewhere else. I decided I wasn't going to enjoy this conversation no matter who was involved.