Bitten in Two (15 page)

“No. I wouldn’t.”

“That is what I thought.” He nodded. “Proceed.” I held up the paper, tried to ignore the pain behind my eye that signaled the beginning of a nasty headache, and began reading.

My Own Vasil,

Can you imagine how happy your letter made
me? Before it came I was falling into the worst kind of
despair. But now I have hope. Maybe heroes exist
after all, and you are mine. But the way will not be
easy. Because you cannot see me, my love. If I stood
next to you and whispered, “I love you,” into your ear,
you would not hear it. Some prisons are so hard to
break free from that it seems nearly impossible to
think that we could ever be together. But I believe in
miracles, Vasil. So come if you can. Try your hardest
to see me, and I believe you will.

Your own love,

Jasmine

I’d dropped my head into my hand at the last line.

Embarrassed to have to read it out loud, but also feeling every word to my core, I knew my knees just wouldn’t hold me anymore. When I looked up, Vayl was gone.

I scrambled to my trunk, puled out the Party Line, and stuck the pieces into place. “Bergman! Vayl’s gone! I mean, I don’t know where he is, but I’m assuming he went out to hunt or something. Have you got him?”

“Hang on.” I heard the tapping of keys. Bergman said,

“Yeah. Looks like he’s heading to the Djemaa el Fna.” I grabbed Grief, my holster, and the jacket that hid both.

“He’s headed to that Seer’s place. Find the address for me, then tel Cole and Sterling to meet me there.”

“Okay, but… okay.”

I weaponed up, threw on the jacket, and ran down the stairs. Each step felt like a nail in my skul . Ignoring the pain, I slammed out the doors, gasping a little at the change between the cool, air-conditioned riad and hot, dry Marrakech.

People fil ed the sidewalks, and as I moved toward the old city’s central square, I passed an equal number of gaping tourists, bright-eyed immigrants, and smiling natives. Some of the last bunch felt I couldn’t live another day without their services, but I turned them al down and, miraculously, they moved on, probably uninterested in keeping up with my pace, which was nearing a run.

Bergman said, “I just got done talking to Monique. She says Sister Hafeza Ghoumari lives just off the Rue El Koutoubia. I can guide you most of the way just watching Vayl’s blip. But when you need the right door, you’l be able to find it easily. She says it’s real y distinct, with dots like brown rivets in a flowery pattern at the top, and then more dots going down the front that are in more of a triangular pattern. Also the doorframe is set with a mosaic of white and yel ow tile.”

“Okay. I’m entering the Djemaa el Fna right now.

Where’s Vayl?”

“He’s on the north edge. Looks like he’s just leaving.

Uh-oh.”

“What?”

“He’s moving kind of slow. Like he does when he’s hunting. You’d better hurry, Jaz. I think he means to get a bite to eat before he visits the Sister.”
Shit!

At night the Djemaa el Fna is like a city unto itself. And negotiating the crowds without getting your pocket picked or punching a butt-groper in the face was a feat unto itself. I skirted audiences gaping at the amazing feats of Tazeroualti acrobats and ordered myself not to get caught up in the wonder of their twisting, leaping tricks. I strode past circles of men roaring at the rambling tales of storytel ers whose nimble fingers mixed herbs and fire to make moving il ustrations in the air above their handwoven baskets. I shouldered past tourists bartering over silver jewelry or standing in line to have their fortunes told. And al the time I talked to the ring on my finger. Out loud. Like a crazy woman.

“Tel him,” I whispered. “Tel him I’m coming. He doesn’t need to do this. He doesn’t
want
to do this. Deep down, he knows it’s wrong. Don’t let him tear up his own soul… or…

whatever it is that makes him so… Vayl.”

As if in response to my pleas, Cirilai warmed my hand.

But it wasn’t much of a comfort. I could feel him, just beyond my reach, his powers rising like a winter storm. And in my own pounding head, an echo to the pain drumming through my brain,
Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!

“Bergman! I’m through. I’m on the Rue El Koutoubia now.”

“Okay, turn left. Do you see the police station?” I looked at the building. Funny. No matter where you are in the world, you can tel cops work inside the place just from the way it holds itself. No fril s. With just enough bars and cement in the picture to bring prison to the minds of those who walked through its doors. But I read the sign to make sure. COMMISSARIAT DE POLICE. “I’m in the right place,” I told him.

“Vayl’s about two blocks past that. And Sister Hafeza is another couple of blocks west. Got it?”

“Yeah.” I pocketed my Party Line. No sense in Bergman hearing what I was about to say. And I real y didn’t want him to know what I was planning.

As soon as I left sight of the police station I broke into a run. Cirilai and my Sensitivity took me straight to Vayl. He was stil on the street, his attention whol y focused on a man who’d stopped halfway up the block to talk to a group of three friends. They al wore light gray jel abas and mustaches so heavy that their lips had given up the attempt to dig out from the avalanche.

“Lord Brâncoveanu! Whew, you’re a fast walker. I thought I’d never catch up to you!”

Vayl whirled, so pissed to be interrupted that he was actual y snarling. Oddly, that put me in a great mood. I shook my finger at him and grinned. “You went off without your supper. And here I’d prepared something especial y luscious for you.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You did?”

“Absolutely!” I strode up to him and slapped him on the back. “Big fel a like you needs his nourishment, right? We can’t have you staggering around Marrakech like one of those forty-day fasters, now, can we?” I linked my arm through his and drew him into a side street. “Here, let me take you to the feast, okay?”

Halfway down the block he stopped. “I am nearly at my destination. To backtrack now would waste time I do not have. Sister Hafeza—”

“Can wait a damn minute,” I growled. “Look. You promised yourself to stop hunting.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Not at al .”

“Vasil, you made a solemn vow—”

“Poppycock.”

I stared up at him. “Oh. My. God. You’re a pompous dick
and
an asshole. You’re a pockhole!” His nostrils flared so wide I’d have sworn he’d just gotten a good whiff of Yousef and Kamal. “Your services are no longer necessary. Gather your things and—” I waved him off. “Even in your current state you know I’m good for you. In fact, I’m probably the only thing standing between you and a permanent gig in Vampere hel . So listen up. I know you. I know what you’re going to do to yourself if you start hunting again, and I promised myself to help you. Which is why Berggia and I arranged wil ing donors for you these last three days who agreed to make it look like they were victims. But today I overslept, and obviously Berggia got sidetracked too.”
Probably by the
demon bitch. I can see this whole mess being one of her
underhanded schemes.
I went on. “I can see you’re hungry.”

Red flared in his eyes. “Starving.”

“So do me.”

We stood in a wide street lined with pink and brown buildings, some of which had rickety awnings attached above their tal doorways. These displayed smal lights that did little more than beam down, laserlike, on their museum-quality doors. The buildings were souks whose owners, during the day, would set out huge plaid bags ful of herbs and spices, or hang hand-spun skeins of wool from long white poles. Pleasant shopping even at noon, because swaths of material had been stretched across the street from roof to roof to cut the glare so that people could stand and haggle. At night, however, that meant deep shadows fil ed the al eyways.

Vayl pul ed me into the darkest spot, where part of a wal had crumbled away and no one had bothered to repair it. I don’t know why I thought he’d argue against my plan. He wasn’t the vampire I knew. He was a prequel. Like the Statue of Liberty must’ve looked when we first got her. Kind of obnoxious and brassy until she developed that eye-pleasing veneer that only the pounding of the elements and surviving to a ripe old age wil get you.

Stil , when he wrapped one arm around my waist, when my hands flattened against his chest, I couldn’t help the anticipation. And when his fangs sank into my throat, my gasp wasn’t purely pain. I closed my eyes and held him, fal ing into the rush of emotion like I’d just come off a water slide. Except when I surfaced I only had a second to gasp for air. Because it was already time for another ride.

Just like I had on the tower in Australia, I reached for Vayl through Cirilai. But this time, understanding the power he’d given me then to walk in his past, I visualized the specific time I needed to relive. And as my blood and Vayl’s powers danced, I opened my eyes. Over my
sverhamin
’s shoulder I focused on a window, its bars as black as the snakes that had once kil ed his beloved dog.

No, I don’t want to go to his childhood. Take me to
1777. Show me why Vayl really left England.

Yeah, I’d mostly bought his story that he’d taken Helena away for her own safety. Except for the part of me that didn’t buy the idea of Vayl running. From anybody.

Like hard edges wil when you’ve stared at them too long, the bars blurred. Then they started to bend. I blinked.

And when my vision cleared I realized I’d been gazing out of my carriage, leaning forward because mud from the large back wheel had splattered up onto the glass. I looked closer. Yes, there it was staring back at me. The reflection I’d hoped for.

A dark-eyed Rom whose curls were long enough to tie
with a velvet bow at my neck. I wore a white shirt with a
straight, stiff collar. It was covered by a superbly tailored
black suitcoat unbuttoned to reveal my gold waistcoat. I
could feel the quality of my matching breeches beneath
my hands. One clutched my thighs so tightly I might have
given myself bruises had I not supped of immortality. The
other held a black walking stick that matched the shoes
whose gold buckles twinkled up at me as if to remind me
of the event I had just deserted. The accessories
whispered,
Opera
, while my white knuckles shouted,
Danger!

My home filled the frame of my window like a painting.

So unreal, those three lovingly crafted floors of redbrick
and mortar fronted by a broad brick stair. The door had
been whitewashed, as had the window frames. Pink roses
arched over the entryway. I found that strange, even
though I had lived in the house all these seven years. It
seemed to me that somewhere the home I had taken from
a dead man should show black, like the corruption that
oozed from my heart, filling my lungs with such vile hatred
that sometimes the desire to maim, to murder, overcame
all other thought.

But the brightness of the people within those walls
stole all the shadows away. I did not deserve them. Not
Berggia, nor his kindly wife. And never my dearest
Helena, whom I would have chosen as a daughter even
had she not been a helpless orphan when I found her
begging on the streets the night after I vanquished the wolf
who had tried to destroy her.

“Father!” Her scream, too faint for any but my ears,
pulled me out of the moving carriage. Later I would
castigate myself. Self-pity had blocked my senses from
detecting her fear and pain. Else I would have leaped to
her rescue sooner, would have burst through the door
before Roldan could have done more than startle her as
she sat in our flower-filled drawing room, reading from one
of the many books she could never convince me to touch.

By the time I reached her, Helena was lying on the
floor beneath the wolf, the bloody gashes on her arms and
long rips in her skirts raising in me a fury such as I had
not experienced since the deaths of my sons.

I knew, deep in my mind, that if I had been a human
father I would have roared my rage, and perhaps even the
chandelier would have shaken in response. But I had
traded fire for ice, and now I was glad of the cold wind that
swept through my murderous thoughts, forcing them into
order, adding a thread of calculation that would make
Roldan’s death more likely and infinitely more painful.

I strode forward and, grabbing the wolf by both his
ears, yanked backward. His scream, high-pitched as
Helena’s, brought a smile to my lips.

I took stock of my daughter. Shock had distanced her.

The hands that held her torn bodice closed shook like
leaves in a storm.

“Helena!” I snapped. Her eyes came to mine, hurt that
I would speak to her so given her terrifying circumstance. I
steadied my tone, willing her to respond in kind. “My
flintlock is in my desk. It is loaded with silver.”
She nodded.