Midnight's Daughter (36 page)

I looked around frantically for the leader, but didn’t see him. What I did see was Caedmon, kneeling with his hands against the ground—no, in the ground. His fingers were buried deep in the wet, black dirt. Vines had wrapped themselves around his arms and across his back, flowing out like a living mantle behind him. He didn’t see me—his features were twisted in an intense concentration that seemed to border on pain. Nearby, two Fey warriors lay unmoving, impaled on the infant grapevines that, even as I watched, grew up through their bodies to unfurl green, waving arms at the dark sky.

“—
ever
do that again, I’ll kill you myself. My
God
, I thought you were
dead
—” Claire suddenly hugged me, tight enough to bruise my tender ribs. I grunted in pain and she let me go, looked at me for a second and burst into tears.

I spat more dirt and stared at her, not sure what to do. I’d never seen Claire this upset; she was usually the calm one. I looked up in time to see Heidar behead one of his opponents before turning all his fury on the other. “Wh-where’s the leader?” I managed to croak.

It seemed to be the right thing to stop Claire’s tears. They turned at once to rage. “Æsubrand,” she spat, her cheeks flushed and damp. “When I find the bloody evil cowardly bastard, I’m going to… going to… oh, God, I can’t think of anything hideous enough right now, but it will be bad, really, really bad!”

Heidar had almost finished off his other opponent and I decided it was safe to collapse. So I did. And immediately regretted it when Claire burst into tears again and began shaking me. “I’m not dead,” I told her as distinctly as possible with the inside of my throat coated in dirt.

“Water,” she gasped. “You need water.”

I needed a two-month vacation on a beach, but water would do. I nodded and she ran off in the direction of the house. I thought about what Louis-Cesare would say if he saw me now, after my declaration of competence, and decided to sit up. Caedmon had finished growing his crops—the two Fey were now vine-covered hillocks that had already started to form tiny green grapes. He collapsed beside me, looking smug for some reason.

“You’re early,” I croaked.

“It seems I was almost late,” he replied, lifting my grimy, scratched and bloody hand. “My apologies.” Then he drew me close and kissed me.

Power sang in the air. I felt it on my tongue, thick and syrupy and sweet, and then it flowed into me like a spring flood, and my body grasped it like a parched thing. Caedmon’s hand smoothed down my side and my whole body tingled and came alive. I opened my eyes, but I couldn’t see him. The creature holding me was a brilliant light in the darkness, bright as a sun, eternal as a mountain and utterly unmistakable for anything but what he was.

Gradually, the brightness faded and I came back to myself. My first thought was that Radu was going to need a new vineyard. The straight, symmetrical lines were no more. In their place was a riot of green—grapevines and small trees sprouted everywhere, and thin delicate garlands of bougainvillea and hibiscus draped over it all. Heavy with blossom, they swayed in the cool breeze, dropping an occasional orange or vividly pink petal onto the soft, grass-carpeted floor beneath us. The storm clouds had rolled back, and the sky was a pale, rain-washed blue.

“ ‘Caedmon’ means ‘Great King’ in Gaelic,” I said, as a vine burst into flower over my head, like a living firework.

“Does it?” Caedmon looked mildly interested. Heidar gave a yell and chased a retreating Fey into the vines.

“And your loyal retainers would be where?”

The king shrugged. “Serving my interests in Faerie. That is why we were to meet tonight—I needed time to contact and assemble them. But when an informant told me the Svarestri had been seen in this area, I sent word to my people to join me here as soon as they might, and returned to be on hand in case anything went wrong in my absence.”

We sat in silence for a moment while I picked red petals out of my hair. “Claire’s uncle was part Fey,” I finally said. “He couldn’t have made all that wine, otherwise.”

“Hmmm.”

“And her father was Dark Fey. Making her just slightly over half-Fey.” I shot Caedmon a dirty look. “You planned this.”

His lips twisted wryly as he unwound an overly affectionate vine that was trying to twine up his arm. “My dear Dory, I assure you, I did not plan for the deaths of two of my oldest retainers, nor for my own nephew to try to murder me.”

“But you did plan for Heidar to end up with Claire. You sent him to that auction, didn’t you?”

“What we parents must do to get our offspring happily settled.”

“Why?” I asked in bewilderment. “Why not just introduce them?”

He shook his head, dislodging the flock of butterflies that had come to rest there. Some fluttered off, but one lit on his knee, fanning extravagant orange wings in voluptuous contentment. “Heidar is just over one hundred of your years old—a teenager, by our standards. And, like most young men of his age, the last thing he wants is to follow orders from his sire. Had I told him in advance that I meant her for him, he wouldn’t have touched her—nor, in all likelihood, would she have had him.” He smiled at me smugly. “As it was, their attraction had an irresistible forbidden quality to it.”

“That resulted in an heir for you.”

“Already?” Caedmon’s smug grin widened. “That’s my boy.”

I refrained from slapping him. Just. “How is it that no one knew? I thought the Fey are obsessive about genealogy.”

“Oh, yes, particularly among the noble houses.”

“Then why did Æsubrand know nothing about Claire’s uncle?”

“We are obsessive about
our
ancestry, Dory.” When I still looked blank, he elaborated. “Light Fey ancestry.”

It took me a moment to understand what he meant. “You’re telling me Claire’s uncle was Dark Fey?”

“I believe his great-great-great-grandmother was a quarter Brownie. It works out to a very small percentage for Claire, but enough to make any child born to her and my son more than fifty percent Fey. And therefore, by our laws, my legitimate heir. Assuming it is male, of course.”

“And you think the Svarestri will accept a king who is part Dark?” I couldn’t see someone like Ǽsubrand bowing to Olga or Stinky. Or anyone with similar blood.

“There is nothing in the old rules about what kind of Fey blood it must be,” Caedmon assured me. “I suppose it was considered so obvious that it must be Light that it was never written down. As for the Svarestri, if I am right about their intentions, no Blarestri ruler will satisfy them for long.”

“Which is why you’ve been skulking about, pretending to be dead?”

Caedmon grinned delightedly. “Skulking. Was I really? How… divine.”

“Caedmon!”

He laughed. “Do you have any idea, Dorina, how long it has been since anyone has dared to address me so familiarly? Skulking.” He laughed again.

Heidar came through the forest of vines, dragging an unconscious, or possibly dead, Fey behind him. He looked up and saw us, and a delighted smile broke over his features. It was so like his father’s that it might have been a mirror image.

“That is why,” Caedmon whispered as his son came closer. “If the Svarestri believed me dead, I thought there would be no reason for them to attack my son, who they knew could never rule. It would give me time to find him and your friend while my retainers searched for Ǽsubrand. The only factor I did not anticipate was Claire proclaiming to all and sundry that she was carrying my heir!”

“Which forced Ǽsubrand to go after her if he wanted the throne.”

Caedmon sighed. “My sister spoiled him; I always told her it would end badly.”

“But it hasn’t ended. He’s still on the loose, and now he knows you’re alive.”

“There are always problems, Dory. That is why we live for the few shining moments that make the rest worthwhile.”

“Do you see, lady?” Heidar beamed at me, dropping his trophy at his father’s feet. “I told you he wasn’t dead.” The Fey moaned, so I supposed he was still alive. “Where is the Lady Claire?” He looked a little apprehensive. “We… we have something to tell you, Father.”

I looked around, frowning. “She went after water for me.” But that had been a while ago, hadn’t it? I wasn’t sure. My time sense had taken a beating.

I looked toward the house, and it was eerily still. No half-breeds, Fey or otherwise, roamed about outside, and if anyone moved within, it wasn’t obvious. Louis-Cesare, I suddenly recalled, had said he would join me. And Radu should have had the wards back up by now, only I hadn’t felt anything. I glanced at Caedmon. “I hope you enjoyed the moment, because I think the problems are back.”

Oddly, the house looked more sinister in broad daylight than it had under an overcast sky. It also looked deserted. We paused in the little courtyard with the fountain, but the only discernible sound over the trickling water was the buzzing of a few insects hovering about the bougainvillea and my own breathing. It sounded loud and harsh in my ears. The Fey didn’t seem to be breathing at all.

They had that in common with the corpse lying half in, half out of the shadowy hallway. The hair was black. I bent down and rolled the face toward me, but I didn’t know him. Not one of Radu’s humans, then.

I checked his shoulder and back, but there was no black circle tattooed anywhere I could see. Nor was there a silver. That didn’t mean he wasn’t a mage, of course. Just that he wasn’t a very good one.

The cause of death was a heart attack brought on by the fact that someone had thrust a long, skinny blade through it. I looked up, and saw Caedmon noting it, too. Louis-Cesare may as well have signed his name to the body. Farther down the corridor, I saw a spill of gold against terra-cotta. Without being told, Caedmon started around the back and Heidar circled around toward the front entrance. I followed the trail of bodies into the house.

A blond and two brunets later, I was in the living room. The painting of Mehmed had swung out into the room, revealing an empty three-tiered shelf. Okay, so I knew where Radu had kept his power source, whatever it was. There were no bodies in the room, but a wash of blood-scented air slapped me in the face as soon as I entered. I didn’t see any puddles, and it would take something that big to send off so much of an odor. But the door to the main entryway was open, and there was a cross-breeze.

I ripped the leg off a chair, getting a jagged but sharp edge, as I scented the air. The blood wasn’t Claire’s. That I would have recognized immediately. But it did seem familiar. I couldn’t figure it out until I got close enough to see into the hallway.

“Do let him catch his breath, Jonathan.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

My eyes took in a succession of quick images: Radu being held off to the side by two vamps, the power signature around them unmistakably that of masters; no sign of Claire; a puddle of blood big enough to have drained a human in the center of the floor; and above it, hanging from the balcony railing, a nude, frighteningly pale body. I felt a chill so sudden and so cold that it rivaled anything the Fey had managed to summon. And I realized why the blood had smelled so familiar.

“The amount of blood he is losing will not do,” Drac was saying. “We wouldn’t want him to expire before our guests arrive.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that. I had him for almost a month once.” The oily voice belonged to the blond-haired, gray-eyed human with a poker in his hand. Jonathan. He stroked a hand down Louis-Cesare’s bloody torso, and there was something sickeningly intimate about the gesture. “He’ll survive—for a while.”

I couldn’t understand it—why was Louis-Cesare just hanging there? He had no weapon, but a master vamp
is
a weapon—a formidable one. And the restraints holding his arms to the balcony were merely rope—I could see where his weight had caused them to sink into the flesh of his arms. He’d been lashed to the ironwork balcony so that his body dangled downward, almost in a cruciform position, his toes not able to touch the floor tiles. He might not be able to get any leverage using his feet, but he could snap the ropes in an instant, as easily as a human might break a thread. So what was going on?

There were half a dozen mages standing around, several of whom I remembered from the Bellagio, and five vamps. But even outnumbered, Louis-Cesare should have been putting up some kind of resistance. I sure as hell would have been.

Jonathan was standing close enough that Louis-Cesare’s unbound legs could have swung up, locked around his throat and snapped his neck, probably in the time it took to blink. Yet they didn’t. Even when Jonathan worked the poker into Louis-Cesare’s already mutilated chest, he did not so much as grunt.

My heart lurched sickeningly, caught between fear and outright panic. Was he already dead? Had one of the shafts sticking out of his chest pierced his heart? It was possible—he looked like some parody of Saint Sebastian, red wounds like gaping mouths over all that pale flesh. But no, he was still bleeding. I saw a light trickle seep out around the poker. And dead bodies don’t bleed.

Jonathan traced the outline of the wounds he’d inflicted on his captive’s chest and belly, his touch an obscene mixture of delicacy and brutality. The new flow of blood seemed to dissipate into mist at his touch, a tiny wisp floating from Louis-Cesare’s tortured form to wrap itself around the mage’s hand. “Ah. It begins,” he murmured, as my heart kicked hard against my chest, sick realization curling in my stomach. He was bleeding him of power, of life, little by little. Yet Louis-Cesare did nothing.

The only reason I could think of for the suicidal passivity was Radu’s imprisonment. Maybe they had threatened him if Louis-Cesare fought back? It didn’t make a lot of sense, as he knew perfectly well what Drac had planned for his brother, but it was the best theory I had. I grabbed the mage standing guard at the door, who had been too caught up in the little torture session to notice the wild-looking woman sneaking up on him. His neck snapped almost silently, any tiny sound covered by Jonathan’s thick voice.

There was blood under the mage’s fingernails as he caressed his prize, toying with the purple bruises and crusty blood around the older wounds. It slicked his hand and stuck his fingers together, thicker than honey as it dried. The urge to snap the thin man’s neck made my fingers twitch sharply as he leaned in, staring at Louis-Cesare with a hungry look. “Do you remember how inventive I could be?”