Masks

  “No, I—” Mircea stopped, wondering why he was defending himself. Or even discussing this. “Everything was fine,” he said stiffly.

  “Fine,” Jerome rolled his eyes. “That’s a ringing endorsement.”

  “Maybe she just forgot,” Bezio offered.

  “Then he should have reminded her! Admired some jewel she was wearing—she might have given it to him. Or mentioned how much he liked one of the outfits the men had on. Something.”

  “Did you see what happened?” Bezio asked. “He was almost killed!”

  “Better to be almost killed and rich, than almost killed and poor,” Jerome sniffed. “Auria says never let them get away without giving you something.”

  “Auria.” Bezio shook his head.

  “What? She’s rich—and she’s right. You want to be poor all your life?”

  “So the senator should have stopped after all that to find some trinket for Mircea?”

  “No, but she could have sent something over, couldn’t she? She’s had a whole day.”

  “She did give me something,” Mircea said, finally managing to get a word in edgewise.

  “What?” Jerome perked up. “Show us.”

  “You already saw it.” The blond looked puzzled. “The sunlight. We . . . met in sunlight,” Mircea said, finding it hard to put into words what that had meant to him.

  Particularly with Jerome rolling his eyes again. “Sunlight. Yes, that will buy a lot of hats.”

  “I don’t want hats!”

  “Well, whatever you do want.”

  “I don’t want anything!”

  Jerome sighed. “You,” he said seriously, “are a terrible whore.”

  “Thank you?” Mircea said, just before the hall was flooded by a bevy of non-bearded Venuses, who weren’t wearing much of anything else, either. And what little they were, they doffed and started scrubbing down, their intentions to join the men made clear.

  And there was no way that many were going to fit in Jerome’s abandoned tub.

  Mircea hastily grabbed a sheet.

  “Cook said you boys slipped off for a soak,” Marte said, testing the water temperature with a look of appreciation.

  “What’s the matter?” Zaneta asked, watching Mircea get out of his tub. “There’s plenty of room.”

  “I’ll say,” Bezio said, smiling appreciatively.

  “Don’t—no. No, no, no, not the hats!” Jerome said, as a couple of giggling girls splashed about, climbing into his tub. “Don’t get the hats wet!”

  “I’ve finished,” Mircea answered Zaneta, managing to grab one side of the hat table, to help Jerome move it back, while still holding up his sheet.

  “You just started,” Bezio complained, accepting an armful of attractive redhead. “Why did I drag all that hot water from the kitchen?”

  “I’m sure it will be appreciated,” Mircea told him.

  “You’re a strange man,” Bezio sighed, as a pair of soft arms grabbed Mircea from behind. And pulled him back into a softer embrace.

  “There’s plenty of room in my tub,” Besina whispered in his ear.

  “Another time,” Mircea said, trying to pull away.

  And failing.

  “I’ll even scrub your back,” she promised.

  “It’s scrubbed!”

  “Aww, he’s shy,” one of the other girls said, as he extricated himself with difficulty.

  “Or infatuated,” Marte teased. “Never fall for your clients, pretty boy.”

  “I’m not a boy,” Mircea snapped, before realizing that that was exactly what a boy would say.

  She laughed, and leaned back against the side of Mircea’s abandoned tub. “Prove it!”

  The chant was taken up by the other girls, one of whom tried to tug off his towel. Mircea somehow managed to extricate himself from that, too. And then grabbed a jug of water and made a hurried exit, to rinse off in privacy.

  “Come back,” they laughed, calling after him. “We were only joking!”

  “I’ll prove it, girls,” he heard Bezio offer.

  “Oooh, manly man,” someone said, followed by more laughter and several whistles.

  Mircea found a corner of the courtyard and rinsed off, still annoyed. Not at the laughter as much as the accusation. It was infuriating for a number of reasons, not least of which that it wasn’t true.

  The senator was . . . intriguing. Dangerous. Erotic. It was hard to completely define her, since he’d never met anyone remotely like her. But it wasn’t infatuation he felt when they were together. Under other circumstances, he’d have almost called it . . .

  Respect.

  He paused a little at the revelation, surprised. But it felt right. It had taken him a moment to realize it, simply because that wasn’t an emotion he’d ever thought to feel for a woman.

  Not that he’d hadn’t respected women in the past, but it had been of a different kind. Admiration for their beauty, their compassion, their way of lighting up a room when they walked into it. For their ability to add grace and gentleness to a world that desperately needed more of both.

  But for all that, it wasn’t the same kind of respect as he’d give to a man—a fellow warrior or a canny ruler. For women did not fight and they certainly did not rule. Not in Wallachia, and not in most places in his old world.

  But in the new . . .

  From what he’d seen so far, it seemed that the women in the vampire world had as much influence as the men. He supposed the difference between the sexes seemed less important when either could make a Child, and when power was no longer determined by the size of one’s body. And alone among the elite of his new race, she hadn’t run.

  Mircea saw her again, standing at the railing, in full view of one who had just turned a bevy of master-level vampires into powder. And staring him down. Daring him to make the attack overt, and declare them open enemies.

  And the consul had backed down first. If he hadn’t, Mircea doubted he would be here, since he had no illusions about his odds of surviving a battle between those two. Unless, of course, she had.

  And, somehow, he didn’t think she had.

  Chapter Twenty

  Mircea had just finished rinsing off, and was trying to find a dry spot on the sheet to use as a towel, when someone handed him one. He turned to see Sanuito in the doorway, holding more towels and a sadly depleted tray. But the girls had left a few items, which he offered silently to Mircea.

  Mircea dried off and then knotted the towel around his waist while perusing the contents. There were the usual perfumes that the Venetians put on everything from gloves to linens to shoes to themselves: rose water, orange water, jasmine, and lemon. A bit of scattered makeup, which was used in Italy by men as much as women, who rouged their cheeks and dyed their hair to look younger. And a pot of some noxious smelling ooze that Mircea quickly passed over.

  He passed on most of the rest, too, but accepted a tooth powder and a mouthwash, both flavored with cinnamon, and a cloth and toothpick to apply the former.

  For some reason, Sanuito lingered, glancing back over his shoulder, Mircea assumed at the beauties splashing around in the tubs. They’d brought torches with them and placed them in the few old sconces that still clung to the walls. And the flickering firelight reflecting off beads of water and glistening young flesh and wicked grins was enough to hold any man’s attention.

  But when he turned back around, his expression wasn’t what Mircea would have expected.

  “Can—can I get you anything else?” he asked, voice low.

  “No, thank you.”

  He glanced again over his shoulder, the firelight on one side of his face making his pockmarks stand out starkly. Then he turned back to Mircea and spoke hurriedly. “I—they say you’ll see her again. Is it true?”

  “See who?”

  “The se
nator.” His voice was barely a whisper now. “Will you?”

  “I’m not sure,” Mircea said slowly, wondering why Sanuito cared. “I think she might have more important things to concern herself with, just now.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Sanuito!” one of the girls called to him from the house.

  The vampire jumped, and then looked quickly back at Mircea. “But you might?”

  “Yes, I suppose it’s—”

  “Then you’ll need this,” he whispered, shoving something into Mircea’s hand. And then he ran back inside without another word. Leaving Mircea holding the pot of nasty-smelling substance.

  And wondering what the hell.

  “He’s like a frightened rabbit, isn’t he?” Someone laughed.

  Mircea looked up to find Marte silhouetted in the doorway, the firelight behind her making the thin yellow robe she’d put on almost superfluous. For a moment she looked like someone else, a siren with slanting almond eyes, heat reddened lips and a body that explained why she merited one of the house’s finest suites. But then she moved into the garden and became just Marte again, of the dimpled smile and bouncing curls and tinsel earrings that caught the light.

  And Mircea’s attention.

  “It was you,” he said, startled.

  “Probably.” She grinned cheekily. “Depends on what ‘it’ is.”

  “You fed me. The night after . . .”

  She dimpled. “Drop the towel and maybe I’ll tell you.”

  Mircea did a double take, and then stared at her, outraged. And she dissolved into peals of laughter. “Oh, ye gods, oh help,” she said, leaning against a low stone wall and gasping.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Oh, love, you’re always funny. You just don’t realize it. Which is half the fun.”

  “But it was you,” he persisted. He’d assumed that Martina must have changed her mind and come back, but Martina didn’t strike him as the compassionate type. And she didn’t wear tinsel earrings.

  “And single-minded, let’s not forget that,” Marte added wryly. “You know, you could have a much better time if you’d just . . . unclench . . . a little.”

  Mircea just looked at her.

  She sighed again and rolled her eyes heavenward. “Yes, I fed you. Don’t you remember?”

  “Not very well. I was—”

  “Bad off,” she said bluntly. “I don’t know why Martina didn’t get me earlier.”

  “Martina?”

  “She fetched me—from under a client, no less! I thought she was exaggerating, until I saw you.” She cupped his chin. “Poor baby.”

  He covered her hand with his, and then brought it to his lips and kissed it. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

  She smiled again. “You know, a few more years of experience, and you’ll be devastating.”

  “If I have those years, it will be due to you,” he said, amazed that she could dismiss saving his life so easily. “Although I don’t understand why Martina didn’t just help me herself.”

  “No one knows why Martina does anything,” Marte said. “Least of all me.”

  She used a flowerpot as a step up, and seated herself on top of the low wall, heedless of the fine silk of her robe.

  She had painted toenails. The sheer decadence caught him by surprise. Although not as much as when questing, naked toes slipped beneath the waistline of the towel.

  And goosed him.

  “Stop that!”

  She laughed. “If you really wanted me to stop, you’d move away.”

  He promptly started to, only to have her hook both feet around his backside and pull him in. He ended up with a nice view of a taut stomach and pert breasts under the thinnest of silks. But it was the feet sliding up and down his thighs, pushing at the boundary of the towel, which was making it hard to concentrate.

  Even in Venice, a city where it wasn’t unheard of for dresses to be cut low enough to bare nipples, feet were still properly covered up. A flash of ankle was scandalous, an unshod foot, particularly on a young, attractive woman, unheard of. And the Venetian women knew it, wearing ridiculously high platform mules when they went out. It was ostensibly to keep their skirts out of the street, but in reality to showcase what was locally agreed to be the most erotic part of their bodies, albeit still properly covered by thick stockings.

  There would have been a riot over this, Mircea thought, as a certain body part predictably perked up, pressing against the stone between her legs.

  “Mmm, very nice,” Marte said, as if she realized she had him trapped.

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked, looking up into amused dark eyes.

  She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Let’s see. It’s a cool night. There’s a warm, fresh-smelling boy in front of me.” Her feet jerked him closer. “I get urges.”

  He braced his arms on either side of her. “And do you always follow your urges?”

  “Mostly.” She smiled impishly. Probably because she’d just managed to pull the towel free in back. “You know, I was wrong. I like you clenched just fine,” she said, as she explored the territory in question.

  Mircea pressed hard against the stone, to keep the rest of the towel in place. And because he didn’t have a choice. Reawakened from a two-year drought, his body was ravenous, and Marte looked good enough to eat.

  And tasted it, too, when she thoughtfully bent down, putting wine-colored lips within reach. They were plump and sweet when she pressed them against his for a moment, before sliding them down to the chords in his neck. “Mmm. Virgin territory,” she murmured.

  “Hardly.”

  She chuckled, and mouthed his Adam’s apple. “I meant, she didn’t bite you.”

  “Who?”

  “Your senator, of course. Who else?”

  “No.”

  The lips paused against his skin. “Well. We’ll have to do something about that, won’t we?”

  “Why? What difference does it make?”

  She pulled back and looked at him. And for once, the brown eyes actually appeared serious. “If she doesn’t bite you, she isn’t hooked. She’s just playing with you.”

  “Isn’t that the idea?”

  A slender eyebrow went up. “The idea is to engage her emotions. Make her want it. Nuzzle her neck. Let her feel your heartbeat against her skin. If she doesn’t get the idea, put your mouth on her, just over the pulse—”

  “You expect me to take her blood?” Mircea asked, incredulous. One didn’t even do that to an equal without permission. He’d never heard what the penalty was for feeding—or attempting to do so—from a senator.

  But he could guess.

  “Not unless you’re tired of living,” Marte confirmed dryly.

  “Then why—”

  “Who said anything about blood?” she asked. “Or teeth? Use your lips. Taste her skin. Roll her heartbeat under your tongue. Let her feel your need grow, your hunger. If she doesn’t object, start to suck—without teeth. Raise your own bloodlust; make her feel it. If you’re lucky, your need will ignite hers.”

  “And if it does? Say she bites me. Then what?”

  “Then, my dear, you might have just won yourself a patron—and a powerful one.”

  “You sound like Jerome.”

  “Yes, I heard what he said to you. He has a point.”

  “For him, maybe. I don’t want money—”

  “This isn’t about money,” the voice sharpened. “If you play your cards right, this could be about a master.”

  “I don’t want a master, either.”

  “You want to take advantage of your opportunity, while you have it,” Marte snapped.

  Mircea looked at her, confused and a little angry. “I think that’s my affair—”

  “Yes, and a hash you’re making of it. Look at Au
ria. She’s been waiting for a chance like this for the better part of a century—”

  “Then perhaps Martina should have sent her,” Mircea said stiffly.

  “Perhaps she should,” Marte said, and then sighed when he started to turn away. A small hand found his shoulder, and turned him back. To where a rueful smile greeted him. “I’m sorry. It’s just—I like you. I don’t want to see you ruin this for yourself.”

  “I’m not.”

  She shook her head, hard enough to make the curls bounce. “You are, you just don’t know it yet. Like you have no idea how fortunate you’ve been; no idea what a patron like that could do for you.”

  “I can make my own way.”

  “You can’t.”

  “You seem to be doing all right.”

  “Seem being the word,” she responded, and there was no humor in her face this time. “That’s all any of this is, Mircea. All any of us are—an illusion. We wear fine clothes, live like our betters, tell ourselves we don’t have to be like all the rest. That we don’t need a master; we’re better, more capable, more independent than that.”

  “Maybe we are.”

  “We’re not. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. The illusion can be stripped from us, all of it, anytime, with no warning. Merely for angering the wrong person.”

  “There are laws—”

  “Yes, and how well did they protect you?”

  Mircea had no answer to that.

  “The only law our world understands is power. You either have it, or you’re under the protection of someone who does, or you are defenseless.”

  “You don’t have to tell me. I lived like that for two years—”

  “Two years. Try two hundred. Try forever,” Marte said, her eyes dark. “We live on sufferance, and we toady, and we crawl, and we take whatever they dish out because we know, and they know, that we don’t have a choice. Most of them pay us, but they don’t have to. Most of them don’t hurt us, but they can. We know it, they know it, and it colors everything between us, every thought, every action, every emotion. Everything . . . that might have been.”

  Mircea didn’t ask who she was thinking of when she said that. But he did put a hand on her shoulder—and had it abruptly shrugged off. He still wasn’t used to that, to just how strong frail looking women could be when they were also vampires.