Of course.
They were peas, dried ones. Which had been in a bowl, being prepped for someone’s dinner. But which were now mostly squashed. He sat there and blinked at them for a minute. Until someone burst in through the doorway and jerked him up. Someone with angry blue eyes and a familiar face that he couldn’t quite—
Oh, yes.
Paulo.
“Damn it! I knew we should have sent someone to get you!” the blond said, shaking him.
“Why didn’t you?” a harsher voice asked. It was the one that had been swearing earlier.
Bezio, Mircea thought vaguely.
“Martina said he’d be fine!”
“Martina seems to take a lot of liberties with other people’s lives!”
“Master?” Paulo reminded him tightly.
“That doesn’t give her the right—”
“It gives her every right,” Paulo snapped. “Will you stop thinking like a human?”
“So she bought him just to kill him?”
“No. Something must have gone wrong, gotten out of hand—”
“Out of hand, he says!” Bezio made a disgusted sound. And then somebody stuffed Mircea into a spare chair.
He thought that was a bad idea, considering the magnetic quality of the floor. But surprisingly, he stayed put, although he didn’t feel any of the strength that usually came from feeding. He felt more like he might just float away at any moment.
He felt odd.
He must have looked it, too, because suddenly, there were two concerned faces peering into his own, looking strangely funny this close.
“Are you all right?” Bezio asked.
“Yes,” Mircea said, trying to swat him away. And failing, because his arm didn’t seem to work. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“And tonight?” Paulo added. “How did it go?”
“She said I should come again,” Mircea told him proudly. “And then . . . and then I asked . . . I asked her—” he broke off, gasping in memory.
“You asked her what?” Bezio looked concerned.
“I asked . . . do you mean now?” He broke into peals of laughter.
Bezio let out a grunt that might have been exasperation or relief. “I worry about you,” he said, shaking his head.
“I don’t,” Mircea said, and for the first time in a long time, it was true. He didn’t know what had happened tonight, but something had. Something important. Something that had left him feeling lighter, although he supposed that could be from the blood loss.
“They bit me,” he told them.
“We noticed,” Paulo said dryly.
“I think they might have taken too much.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Do we have anyone else?” Bezio demanded, while Mircea was still trying to come up with an answer to that.
“No. And he couldn’t usefully absorb anymore right now anyway. Not at his age.”
“You’d think they’d have damned well thought about that, before they all but drained him!”
“They’re nobles. Just be glad they didn’t kill him.”
“That’s yet to be determined,” Bezio said darkly.
And the next thing Mircea knew, he was being slung over a brawny shoulder and carted up the back stairs. Which were a good deal narrower and shorter than the ones in front, which probably explained why his head kept hitting the ceiling. Or maybe that was him.
“Stop trying to get up,” Bezio told him irritably. “We’re not there yet.”
“Where?” he asked, his tongue feeling thick and heavy in his mouth.
And then he had his answer, when he was flopped down on his own bed, so soft, so comfortable, so . . .
“What’re you doing?” Mircea asked, not wanting to open his eyes to find out why Bezio was tugging on him.
“Getting your boots off!”
“Damn,” Paulo added. “The color has run all over his shirt—”
“Would you stop worrying about his damned clothes?”
“I’m not worried about them! But that crook of a tailor assured me that the color was fixed—”
There was some more swearing, and some more conversation Mircea couldn’t manage to follow. They talked so fast. It all became a blur of sound, a ribbon spiraling off into . . . into . . .
Someone slapped him. Hard. Mircea’s eyes flew open to see Bezio kneeling over him, hand raised. “What—”
And then he hit him again.
Mircea tried to put an arm up to block the assault, but it didn’t work. “Stop it,” he slurred.
“Then stay awake,” Bezio said harshly.
“It’s almost dawn—”
“It won’t be dawn for another two hours.”
“Don’t care. Want to—”
“Go to sleep; I know. But you can’t.”
Mircea stared at him, the waves of exhaustion pulling at him, threatening to drag him under. “Why not?”
“Because you’re a vampire!”
“If a human falls asleep hungry, their body just uses some of their stored fat,” Paulo explained. “They wake up the next morning a bit thinner, that’s all. But if a vampire goes to sleep without enough reserves to make it through the day, he doesn’t wake up at all. Understand?”
Mircea blinked, both at the candle Paulo was holding, which seemed impossibly bright in the darkened room, and at the implication. “I’ve been hungry before—”
“Yes, which was your body trying to force you to feed. It’s too weak to do that now. But you have to—”
He stopped abruptly, Mircea didn’t know why. Until someone else bent over him, golden nails sliding down his cheek to cup his chin. Martina.
She looked like she’d just come from a client. Dark hair down and reaching almost to her feet, makeup slightly smeared, embroidered silk robe loosely tied, revealing a vee of smooth olive skin going all the way down to her naval. Dark eyes assessing as she looked him over.
Mircea stared up into them, wondering what they reminded him of. And then the shiny black eyes of the senator’s living armbands came to mind. It really was alarming how similar they were, he thought, more than a little disturbed.
And then his mistress smiled. “You did well tonight. I’ve already been informed, she wishes to see you again.”
“That might be hard,” Bezio rasped. “If he’s dead.”
“Bezio,” Paulo said warningly, but Martina didn’t look angry.
“He will live,” she said, dropping Mircea’s chin.
“He’s not even hungry,” Bezio protested. “He should be starved, crazed even—”
“He was fed, was he not?” Martina’s dark eyes slid to Paulo.
He nodded hastily. “Yes. As soon as he returned. As much as he could take, that is. But at
his age—”
“See that he feeds again before morning.”
“Yes, of course. That is, we’ll try. I’ve already sent for Roberto. He was off today, for his sister’s wedding, but we should be able to—”
“It won’t matter how many humans you bring in, if he can’t absorb the blood,” Bezio argued.
“What’s the alternative?” Paulo demanded. “I’d feed him myself, but it wouldn’t help. My blood isn’t that much stronger than—”
“But yours is,” Bezio said, cutting him off and looking at Martina. “You could feed him.”
For a moment, there was silence.
“It . . . it might be wise,” Paulo said, tentatively. “He won’t be able to absorb that much more tonight; there’s not enough time. But yours, being so much richer—”
“No.”
“But it wouldn’t take much,” Bezio argued. “And it could save him!”
“He doesn’t need saving. He will live.”
“But you
could ensure that, with nothing more than—”
Bezio cut off because his audience suddenly wasn’t there anymore. Martina had turned and left, as abruptly as she’d come. Leaving the bearded vampire staring after her.
“And you could ensure a longer life if you learn to hold your tongue,” Paulo hissed, grabbing Bezio’s arm as he started after Martina.
“But a couple of drops might—”
“She said no.”
“Why? What on earth—”
“It doesn’t matter why.”
“You didn’t expect her to agree, did you?” Bezio accused, scanning his expression. “You knew she’d refuse!”
Paulo closed his eyes, looking stressed. But he didn’t let go of Bezio’s arm. “She doesn’t feed anyone.”
“Why not?” Bezio persisted. “She doesn’t have to bind them. She isn’t taking on any responsibility. She’s giving away a little power, that’s all. And it isn’t as if she can’t spare it!”
He rubbed his arms, as if the electric flow of Martina’s power was still coursing over them. Mircea could feel it, too, where she’d gripped his chin. It felt like the indentation of her fingers was still there, as if she’d painted him with some kind of indelible ink.
But it wasn’t enough to shut Bezio up.
“A human won’t be enough!” he argued. “You know that. He’s too far gone—”
“I don’t know that—”
“Look at him!”
Harassed blue eyes slid his way. Mircea didn’t know what Paulo saw, but when he spoke again, it was harsh. “Martina won’t. We’ll have to come up with something else.”
“Then who else do we have? You said Auria—”
“She’s out with a client.”
“Then call her back!”
“She isn’t Roberto! And she’s with someone important. I can’t just—”
They kept talking, but Mircea couldn’t seem to follow it anymore. The brief euphoria from downstairs was gone. His chest felt heavy, as if someone was sitting on it. His limbs were like iron, impossible to raise. If he’d been breathing, it would have been labored. He just needed . . . he needed . . . he . . .
Someone slapped him again. His eyes flew open, but he didn’t see who it was. But a soft, dimpled, perfumed arm slid under his nose. It didn’t look like Martina’s. It didn’t smell like hers, either. She used neroli, a musky, bitter orange scent that complemented her exotic good looks. This was lighter, fresher, sweeter . . .
If laughter had a scent, Mircea thought, his head swimming, it might be something like this.
“Are you going to drink,” someone asked, amused. “Or sniff me all night?”
He knew that voice, but he couldn’t place it. Didn’t try. He did try to feed, but couldn’t seem to raise his head enough, couldn’t even seem to remember—
“Help him!” Someone said harshly, and then he was being pulled up, and held to a neck too short to be Martina’s, next to tinsel earrings that were swept aside along with a wealth of dark curls. And then—
And then Mircea stopped caring about anything, because blood was coursing down a sweetly scented neck, as a perfectly manicured nail broke the surface for him. He watched it, mesmerized, until the first drop touched his lips, slid over his tongue, found its way into his starved body. And then he was gripping her, harder than he’d thought he was able, harder than could have been comfortable, because she let out a surprised “oh!” But he barely noticed with sparkling, wonderful, life-giving power bursting on his tongue.
And then everywhere else. He could feel it coursing through his veins, filling him in a way he’d never been able to define, but which was unmistakable. Nothing else felt like taking blood, nothing else came close. Alcohol, drugs, even sex paled in comparison when he was this starved. Blood was everything; blood was life. Without it, there was nothing else. But with it, oh, with it, oh, with it . . .
The dark room suddenly flooded with color. The scent of the woman’s cologne became richer, more enticing. The sounds of the old house—creaks and groans and sighs of the wind outside—had a depth and resonance unknown to mortal ears. The whole world was suddenly vibrant and alive. And so was he.
Mircea drank, and drank and drank, until his body could stand no more, until he was laughing, no, giggling, against a perfect set of breasts, beneath a fine linen shift that was never, ever coming clean after this.
“You owe me a chemise,” someone agreed, as he was lowered back into bed.
Someone threw a blanket over him, and someone else tucked it in, as if he was a child needing tending. Mircea scowled, and started to protest. But then he noticed how cozy everything was, with the rain pattering on the roof just above his head, and the wool covering warm, and the bed so, so soft . . . like the lips that found his forehead.
He really hoped they weren’t Bezio’s.
“Not quite,” someone said.
And then, finally, finally, he was allowed to drift off to sleep.
Chapter Twelve
Mircea awoke between two plump country lasses, with pink cheeks, round bottoms, and generous bosoms. And fine blue veins that he substantially lightened before getting out of bed. Yet he still managed to stagger and have to grab the bedpost, like an old drunk.
He stood there, swaying, for a long moment, caught between weakness and a strange elation.
The former was familiar enough—the sickening lurch of having too little blood in reserve. He had no idea what to make of the latter. But the combination made him feel like he might simultaneously fall over and fly away, and resulted in roiling nausea he had no way to relieve.
He was never going to understand vampire bodies, he thought grimly, stumbling over to the wash basin. And resisting with difficulty the urge to stick his whole head inside. And then deciding to hell with it and doing it anyway.
It felt amazing. So much so that he ended up pouring the entire pitcher of water over his hair. It seemed to help, God knew why.
He just stayed there for a while, arms braced against the sides of the basin, dripping. And wondering why the water had a taste and the wall had a smell and the basin seemed to be rippling around the edges, like it was laughing at him. And then somebody else was, too.
He looked back over his shoulder to see one pert miss frankly enjoying the view of his backside. All of it, he realized, because he wasn’t dressed. He walked back over and pulled the blanket off the girls and around himself. Which left him warmer but otherwise no better off, since they were already falling asleep in each other’s arms. And the amount of blood they’d donated meant they would probably stay that way all night.
Mircea pulled the second blanket over them both and stumbled downstairs, still hungry. And wondering where his clothes were. And what the hell he’d been doing to make him feel like he had the world’s worst hangover.
He found out the answer to one question, at least, as soon as he entered the kitchen.
The cook was stirring something in the large, three-legged pot she used to cook pasta. Bezio was occupying a stool churning butter. And Paulo was bending over the big worktable, where the pieces of Mircea’s red outfit had been laid out in all their splotchy splendor.
Before he could ask what Paulo was doing with them, a servant with a prominent Adam’s apple burst in through the back door. He had two dead herons tucked under his arm, their feet flopping about comically. Especially after he saw Mircea and abruptly turned around, trying to fit back through the door, birds and all.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” the little cook demanded, snagging him by the arm.
“He’s hungry,” the man said, staring over his shoulder at the big bad vampire wobbling on the stairs.
“And?” she asked, relieving him of one of the herons, looking it over with a frown. “Fresh caught?”
“Yes. But I have to—”
“
Does that smell fresh to you?” She shoved the bird into his face.
“I—it’s what Guilio said—”
“I told you to buy from Zuane. Guilio’s a crook. And his wife’s a damned rivenditrice. She buys leftovers from genuine farmers and then resells them along with stories of how she just dug them out of the earth this morning—when they’re days old already! Bah.”
“Yes, but these aren’t vegetables—”
“And they’re not fresh, either. Looks like her husband is trying the same trick with meat.”
“S-should I go back—” the man asked, looking frankly hopeful.
“Oh, they’re long gone by now,” she told him impatiently. “And there’s no way to prove where you got ’em, in any case.”
“I can try—”
“You can try to make me a Saracen sauce without spilling anything,” she said sternly.
“S-Saracen?” The man looked at her blankly.
“You made the same one just last week! Almonds, currants, ginger, cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, galangal, grains of paradise. And nutmeg. Grind it all together and splash with verjuice—and don’t stint this time! I need extra to cover the smell on those two.”
“A-all right,” he said, but he didn’t go anywhere.
The cook poked him with a long handled spoon. “What’re you waiting for? A blessing?”
“No, just—” he looked at Mircea. “I gave last night,” he blurted out, shrinking back.
“It’s all right, Lucca,” Paulo said, with a sigh. “He fed already.”
“But he’s hungry. Look—his fangs are showing!”
“And he’ll be hungry for a few days. But that’s nothing to you.”
“Nothing? He half drained me last night!”
“I was here, remember?” Paulo said patiently. “And he did nothing of the sort.”
“But I wasn’t supposed to give again, not so soon. I fed Danieli two days ago. And Besina three days before that—”
“It was an emergency.”
“—and I’ve been stumbling about all day, as a result. Pure dizzy with it I was,” he announced dramatically.
Which was somewhat spoiled when he gave an energetic hop, courtesy of the cook applying a broomstick to his posterior. “Liar! You were whistling coming down the road. Think we’re deaf?”