Shadow's Bane

  They were being hunted, and the noose was tightening.

  Because their little ruse hadn’t worked.

  Well, that wasn’t entirely true. They’d managed to float away from the pier under a bit of flotsam, while everyone else stared at the burning gondola or ran for cover. The latter had been the popular choice, since vampires are even more flammable than humans, and they’d just seen two people incinerated.

  But while the distraction had helped him and the witch get away, it hadn’t done much else. By the time they’d swum a safe distance, they’d barely had the strength to drag themselves onto dry land again. But they’d nonetheless been forced into a mad scramble through streets still teeming with vampires—too many of them.

  Their pursuers should have been heading for home or for the taverns and betting parlors where hunting was still to be had. And some of them were. But those were mainly the locals who had been pressed into service while the praetor mobilized her coterie of guards, who were suddenly everywhere.

  Because she wasn’t as stupid as her creatures.

  She hadn’t bought the lightning bolt story.

  Mircea and the witch had stayed alive this long only because of the storm, with the rolling thunder covering their footsteps, the pounding rain masking their scent, and the lightning causing so many helpful shadows to flicker and jump that even vampire eyes had trouble knowing where to focus. But it couldn’t last much longer. They were going to die unless they got out of this city, and did it soon.

  “I have an idea,” he said, in between thunderclaps.

  The witch had been staring at the water with a blank look. The same one she now turned on him. Her moods had ranged wildly during the chase, from defiance to desperation to strange euphoria to . . . whatever this was. But at least the panic was gone.

  “That was you,” she rasped. “In my head.”

  “Yes.”

  “The praetor . . . she used to talk to me like that. I thought”—she licked her lips—“I thought she’d found me.”

  “No.”

  The “not yet” remained unsaid, but floated almost tangibly in the air between them.

  She slowly got out of the canal, dragging heavy, waterlogged skirts behind her. And then squatted, dripping, on the muddy bank beside him. She was shivering, and he wished he had his cloak to offer her. But it was long gone, and would have been drenched in any case.

  “I have an idea,” Mircea repeated.

  She didn’t say anything for a long moment, just stared at the rushing water of the canal, which was wholly black in the absence of any lightning. It was almost mesmerizing, a river of ink, with only its movement making it visible at all. It felt strangely cozy, sopping wet though they were, under this tiny bit of shelter, while the wind howled down the alleys and the little river rushed inside its banks, masking any sign of them.

  It was so easy to imagine that they could just stay here forever, shut away from the world.

  But they couldn’t, something the witch seemed to realize, because she slowly turned her head to look at him.

  “You’re not going to like it,” Mircea admitted.

  “I know.”

  * * *

  —

  Light flashed, impossibly bright, and a waterspout exploded on a nearby building. That and a crack of thunder, loud as cannon fire, almost caused Mircea to lose his grip on the windowsill. And it did cause the witch to lose hers.

  He scrabbled for purchase on water-slick stone, and she screamed and started to fall, her eyes wide with terror, her hand reaching for him desperately—

  And snagged the hem of his shirt.

  Gah!

  Mircea experienced the unique sensation of almost being decapitated as he dangled off a third-story window ledge by a couple of fingers, while the remains of the too-close lightning crawled around his body like manic worms. He did not scream, something he would have been proud of if his throat hadn’t been too indented to allow it. But he did curse inventively for a moment, in his head.

  Good thing he didn’t need to breathe, he thought savagely, and hauled the witch back up.

  Below them, the little alley by the praetor’s palazzo roared like a living thing, sweeping anything unlucky enough to land in it straight into the Grand Canal. Mircea knew that because they’d just waded across, the witch clinging to his back, while debris battered them and winds shook them and lightning threatened to roast them. And, damn it all, he wasn’t doing that again!

  He pushed the window the rest of the way open with his chin, dragged the witch up, and shoved her through, and then scrambled after her.

  And promptly slipped on a dish of slimy little fish that had been left to rot on the floor.

  “You’re right—I don’t like it!” the witch hissed at him—why, Mircea didn’t know. He was the one whose private parts had just become intimately acquainted with the hard edge of a table.

  Very hard.

  God, so hard!

  He bit back an unmanly sob and stared into the darkness for a moment, before glancing around the small study belonging to the praetor’s secretary, hoping for a light. But of course not. The only one at the moment was the moon, flirting with the storm clouds outside, and she was a coy bitch. They’d never find anything like this!

  “Here.” The witch thrust a candle in his face that she’d seemingly pulled out of nowhere.

  “How . . . did you find . . . that?”

  “Stepped on it.” She paused, and then cocked her head at him. “Are you out of breath?”

  “No.”

  “I thought vampires didn’t have to breathe—”

  “We don’t!”

  “Then what’s wrong with—”

  “Nothing! Just light the damned thing!” Mircea snapped, and straightened up.

  And, yes, that hurt about as much as he’d thought it would.

  She waved the bent candle at him impatiently. “I’m out of magic, remember?”

  “You can’t even light a damned candle?”

  “I could hold it out the window and hope the lightning hits it, if you think that would help!” Her eyes narrowed on him. “Or you could.”

  Their brief rapport under the bridge appeared to have faded. Probably due to almost getting caught a dozen times since then. He’d foolishly thought the streets would be clearer near the praetor’s mansion, because what kind of idiots would dare to come here?

  Our kind, Mircea thought, and limped next door with the candle. He discovered that the secretary’s bedroom was even more of a disaster than the cubbyhole, with stinking piles everywhere. But it did have a low-banked fire burning across from the bed, which managed to light the wick.

  All right, then.

  He reentered the small study and placed the thing on top of a cabinet, where it did little more than gild the darkness. But it would have to do. The witch started searching through the heaps on the floor, including one that contained a pair of unwashed hosen that she had some low-voiced curses for. While Mircea broke open an elaborate ivory box, rifled through the papers on the table, pawed through a little slanted writing desk, checked out a bookcase, and even shook out some fine green draperies, in case something had fallen into the creases.

  But found only dust.

  The praetor’s shield was missing.

  “You’re sure it’s kept here?” the witch whispered, looking as frustrated as he felt.

  “Of course I’m sure! I’ve used it before!”

  “Well, didn’t you ever see where it was kept?”

  “Here!” Mircea picked up the ivory case, and thrust it at her. “It’s supposed to be right here!”

  “Well, it’s not.”

  “I know that!”

  “And without it, we’re not going anywhere.”

  “I know that, too!”

  “I hope so,” s
he said grimly, shoving sodden hair out of her face. “If you expect me to somehow shield us in the ley lines, you’re going to be very disappointed. I couldn’t manage that at my strongest; I definitely can’t do it now!”

  Mircea bit back a sharp comment, because it wasn’t fair. Weak the witch might be, but he was no better. Damn it, they had to have that shield!

  Without it, they would be dead by morning, if not sooner. But with it . . . his fist clenched. He’d visited Abramalin in far-off Egypt and come back the same night. The ley lines were terrifying but also unbelievably fast, and seemed to crisscross the entire world. Meaning they could go anywhere, anywhere at all!

  Including Paris to tip off the consul about the damned praetor!

  He started searching the desk again.

  “You’ve done that already!” the witch whispered.

  “Perhaps I missed something.”

  “I was watching; you didn’t!”

  Mircea whirled on her. “If you have a better idea, I’d love to—”

  Damn it! He’d knocked a half-full glass of wine off the overcrowded table, which shattered against the hard tile of the floor. Both of them froze, waiting for startled cries and running feet.

  But none came.

  After a moment, the witch let out a breath, and Mircea felt his spine unclench. The praetor was having another of her endless parties, and the servants were overworked as it was. They weren’t going to go looking for . . . messes to . . . clean up. . . .

  His thoughts stuttered to a halt as he watched the puddle of wine, gleaming like blood in the low light, drain away under the wall. Until there was nothing left. Just a vague pink stain on the floor.

  “What is it?” the witch asked, as he knelt beside it.

  “I’m not sure.”

  He ran his fingers over the fine scrollwork on the paneling. It had an acanthus-leaf design interspersed with rosettes, none of which appeared to be movable. But when he tapped faintly on the wall above the stain, it sounded hollow.

  He looked up at her. “Perhaps . . . another room?”

  “What are you talking about?” The witch leaned over his shoulder. “What other room?”

  A section of wall suddenly slid back behind another, leaving an opening just big enough for a person to fit through.

  Mircea looked up at her. “That one.”

  The hidden room was dark, even by vampire standards. It looked like it had a window, the twin to the one they’d crawled through, but it had been boarded up, letting in only a few thin flashes whenever a lightning bolt burst outside. But it wasn’t the darkness that bothered Mircea; he was used to that.

  It was the smell.

  The anchovy-and-dirty-clothes odor of the study was worse, mixed with months of accumulated grime, because Mircea didn’t think the maids were ever allowed in here. This wasn’t like that; it wasn’t a bad smell, although there was a good bit of dust involved. It was just . . . whatever the underlying scent was, he didn’t know it.

  And he’d thought he knew them all.

  After more than a decade as a vampire, Mircea had built up an impressive scent catalogue in his head, despite not being a Hound, what those of his kind were called who had particularly sensitive noses. He’d seen a blind one navigate a crowd once with perfect dexterity, even stopping to pick up an old woman’s dropped purse and offer it back to her. He’d talked to him later in a bar, and discovered that he could almost see, the scent clouds in his head resolving themselves into hazy images of people, canals, even buildings, that in some ways were more distinct than anything Mircea’s eyes could perceive.

  That vampire would probably have known everything in the room in a moment, where it was and what it was, even in pitch-darkness. But Mircea wasn’t that vampire, and the skin of his neck was ruffling. He motioned to the witch to hand him the candle, then pushed it through the gap and held it up, the small flame illuminating . . .

  Nothing, because a couple lanterns had just flickered to life, all by themselves.

  He and the witch looked at each other.

  “You first,” she said.

  Mircea went in.

  Chapter Fifty-five

  Mircea, Venice, 1458

  Mircea looked around, still not sure what he was seeing.

  The room looked like a storehouse for weapons, only he didn’t know why anyone would bother keeping these. Baskets held sword and ax blades that were almost eaten away by rust, their pommels long since lost to time. Ragged quivers were full of arrows that looked like they’d disintegrate with a breath. An old piece of cloth—possibly a banner, judging by the shape—lay on a table, so tattered and burnt that it would have been impossible to display any other way.

  Yet it had once been magnificent: a heavy weight of silk with glimmers of gold here and there, their brightness undimmed by time. And it had some sort of pastoral scene painted on it, although it was so faint now that he couldn’t quite make it out. He bent closer, putting out a hand—

  And had it grasped by the witch, hard enough to hurt.

  “Careful.” Her voice was rough. “It looks like the praetor collects more than just human art.”

  Mircea frowned, not understanding. And still didn’t when he raised the candle, because the lanterns left deep shadows draping the walls in places. And sent light dancing over maps he didn’t recognize, books he couldn’t read, and strange-looking shields with designs he’d never seen. And clothing . . .

  That was trying to crawl up his arm.

  He dropped the candle, and the witch’s hand abruptly tightened, jerking him back. “Fey,” she told him, before he could ask. “And old—very old. I don’t even know how the spells are still active.”

  Mircea stared at the mail shirt now gleaming on the floor. Unlike the weapons, it showed no ravages of time, shining as brightly as if just made. And it hadn’t felt like metal, but more like silk against his skin. He’d never seen anything so fine.

  He looked at the witch, because something had just registered. “Fey?”

  “Yes, fey. You know.”

  Mircea didn’t know.

  She put fingers beside her ears and wiggled them at him.

  He just stared.

  And then snapped out of it, because they didn’t have time for this! “The fey are a myth! A tale told to frighten children!”

  “Like vampires?”

  Mircea stared at her some more.

  And then caught a pair of greaves trying to inch their way out of a basket. Which was less of a concern than the fact that they stopped as soon as he spotted them! He looked at them, slumped innocently over the weave, and felt a hard shiver crawl up his spine.

  “Be careful what you touch,” the witch said, completely unnecessarily, and moved off to begin a search. Mircea retrieved his guttering candle and took it as far from the damned armor as he could get. Only to be distracted by something on the banner.

  Or to be more precise, something in the banner, which moved between the rents, shivered over the threadbare patches, and thundered across once-verdant fields, now gray with age. Something that sent little puffs of dust up, here and there, as it traveled across the surface. Something . . . impossible.

  Half in disbelief, half in wonder, Mircea edged closer, tracking the movements of tiny riders on tiny horses, silently braying hounds, beaters with their little sticks, driving prey before them, and deer that flickered in and out of sight as they fled across ghostly fields—

  And then off the cloth entirely, golden light that hadn’t come from Mircea’s candle following them as they jumped to something covered by a sheet.

  Mircea sidled over and gave a cautious tug. The fabric slithered away to reveal a huge, leather bound book on a wooden stand. It was open to a page where a hunt was depicted, one he could see clearly now, because there was no corruption here. Like the mail shirt, it looked like it had
been finished yesterday, the colors so glossy and bright that he was almost afraid to touch it, lest he smear the paint.

  But he did, after a brief glance over his shoulder at the witch, who was muttering to herself and whacking at something in a basket with a piece of broken spear.

  Mircea turned back to the book, and gingerly turned over a gossamer page, being careful to touch only the unpainted edge. And then another and another, because they were like nothing he’d ever seen: illustrations, in vibrant hues picked out in gold, that would have been wondrous enough on their own. But, like the ethereal hunt, they also moved.

  He saw nobles riding in procession, their gilded leather trappings gleaming under a painted sun; peasants tilling the land, the soil under their tiny plows so warm and rich that he swore he could smell its scent; people dancing around a painted bonfire, the little sparks glowing like jewels as they rose off the page and into the gloom; and two navies clashing in the midst of a majestic, rolling sea, which sent what felt like miniature sprays of water up at him.

  He turned page after page, eagerly, almost hungrily. They were painted poetry, all of them, more perfect than any masterwork he’d ever seen. Far more, he thought, after sighing a little too hard on a page, and sending a noble’s hat flying, which the tiny man scrambled around and only just managed to catch.

  Mircea stared at him, sure he’d been mistaken, and accidentally brushed the edge of a painting. And had a very small, very angry squirrel glare at him from under the edge of his fingertip. And then push out from beneath the pad to bark at him in outrage.

  He grinned, utterly enchanted, and turned over another page.

  And felt his smile grow puzzled.

  That was . . . strange.

  The illustration took up both pages this time, bright and colorful, like all the others. But instead of a distant view of an expansive scene, it showed only a close-up of a crowd—very close. So much so that Mircea could see virtually nothing, except the backs of jostling, milling people.