They did their job.
I started for the great hall at a dead run, and from every side, Marlowe’s masters jumped out at me. And looked everything from comically surprised to seriously pissed when the Senate’s ceremonial guards jumped for them. And quickly demonstrated that they’d been picked for more than how good they looked in a leather skirt.
Meanwhile, I ducked between masters, dodging the knives Marlowe’s boys had switched to, because I guess they didn’t want to spray bullets into the crowd. There was no time for subtleties, or apologies for the drinks that went flying or for the important types who got elbowed or for the outfits worth the price of a house that were splattered with hors d’oeuvres. There was only time—
For nothing, because somebody grabbed me.
But it wasn’t Marlowe.
Dorina had been hovering in the air overhead, and had dropped down on top of me like a bird of prey taking a mouse. Suddenly, I was seeing everything through the garbled vision of two sets of eyes. And even more worryingly, I was running again, correcting the stumble I’d taken when she took me and fumbling at my belt for the gun and—
Oh, no you don’t!
* * *
*
I’d finally spotted the creature, riding a nearby woman. It had been startling, disturbing. A black miasma that crouched over her like a malevolent shadow.
But I could do little about it as I was. My freed consciousness was extremely limited in ability, and was only slightly better with an avatar. To attack the creature enough to drive it out, to force it back inside its own body, I needed mine.
And, to my surprise, it came running into the gallery a moment later, chased by what looked like an army of vampires.
One of which was quickly attacked by another.
I stared for a moment, at the sight of senatorial guards flowing out to protect a dhampir.
Then I dropped down to join her, and to finish this—
Only to discover that she was fighting me.
I felt our hand spasm, dropping the gun we’d been holding, and our feet falter, sending us stumbling into a column. She was trying to take us to the floor, to ground us until one of the dark-haired master’s servants could subdue us. Or, worse, until Mircea could.
I felt him move this way, having seen her come in and realizing that something was wrong. But he didn’t know what yet, didn’t see the threat. And even if I’d wanted to try the explanation I’d rejected earlier, there was no time.
Not for him.
I hesitated, because Mircea had warned me against this. Do not contact her directly, he had said. Do not force a reintegration lest it all start again, and you damage her as you once did. Let it happen naturally. . . .
But there was nothing natural about what we were. And he underestimated her; he always had. She wasn’t a child anymore, but a woman hardened by combat and toughened by experience. And she would hate me for this, for leaving her out of the decision, for letting this murderer succeed.
As I would hate myself.
Dory, I said, and felt the shock reverberate through her.
* * *
*
My head snapped up, and my eyes stared blankly at a slur of faces, some surprised, some intrigued, some horrified as they realized that a dhampir savage had been allowed to roam freely among them.
I didn’t care.
Because the voice came again.
Dory . . .
I swallowed, and then jerked to the side, so that a vamp who’d been jumping for me slammed into the pillar instead. He sprang off, embarrassed and furious, and I elbowed him in the face, grabbed him by the hair, and smashed his head a few times into the heavy silver tray a frightened human servant was holding like a shield. And when that still wasn’t enough, I kicked him at a senatorial guard, who sent me a nod of thanks before introducing the guy repeatedly to the wall.
I barely noticed, being too busy staring into the air, because I persisted in the idea that I was going to see Dorina.
But I couldn’t see her.
She was me.
And she was talking—oh, yes, now she was talking, in a flood of words and images and feelings, so much, too much.
“Stop it!” I yelled, and staggered into someone—
Mircea.
I stared up at him, and knew my pupils were blown wide by the change in his expression. “What is it?” he growled, although he already knew.
“She’s talking,” I said in wonder. “She’s finally talking—”
“Dorina!” Mircea shook me. “Stop it—I warned you! This is dangerous!”
“No.” I gripped him back, trying to sort through everything she’d sent. Trying to understand—
“I’m getting you out of here—”
“No!” I gripped him harder, my fingers biting into his arms. “There’s a problem—”
“I know that!”
“Listen to me. Someone’s trying to kill the consul but it isn’t her. It isn’t Dorina. I think—I think she’s trying to stop it, but—”
* * *
*
“—augghhh!”
Light exploded everywhere, searing, painful, overwhelming. And blinding. Suddenly, I couldn’t see a thing.
I also couldn’t hear. Or, rather, I could, but far too much. Something was confusing my mental control, letting in the surrounding voices, all of them, all at once. And unlike in a human gathering, these conversations weren’t just audible. There were mental voices, too, many more than could possibly fit into a single room, no matter how large. For there was almost nothing but masters here, pulling me in, smothering me under the weight of their vast families, turning a thousand guests into a million, a sea of voices, threatening to drown me.
I jerked back in self-defense, panting and disoriented, but that left me almost totally without senses, and the threat was growing. I could feel it, crawling along my spine, etching my mind like acid. But I couldn’t find it, even though it was getting closer, even though it was about to spring.
Damn it! I had to see.
But something saw me first. For it had been looking for me, too, feeling me as a subtle presence, as I had felt it. But not being able to locate me, either.
So it had uncloaked itself, showing its true form for the first time. And my body’s reaction to its power had told it exactly where to look. I’d just started to regain control, to begin filtering out the voices, and to dampen down that terrible light, when it hit: vicious pain and blinding static, the defense mechanisms of my prey. They were strong enough to stagger me, to cause me to clench my teeth on a scream as I fell back against the wall, to leave me gasping in agony.
But not strong enough to stop me.
Not this time.
Mircea had stumbled against the column, caught in the attack because of his proximity to me, and was as debilitated as I had been the first time. But this wasn’t my first time, and there’s a truth about pain that most people never learn, unless they’re really unlucky. Or really long-lived, long enough to have felt almost every kind there is. Pain has a signature to it, a type, a song. The first time you experience a new one, it’s a bright, white-hot, cutting edge; or a searing, brain-twisting burn; or a shattering, soul-crushing thud; or any of the thousand other forms it takes to torment you.
But the second time? Or the third? Or the fiftieth? No. It’s still terrible, still rage inducing, still debilitating, but it’s not the same shock as at first. You know this song, all its terrible highs and dismal lows; you can hum it with your eyes closed, because it’s just that familiar. Not like a friend—never that—but like an old enemy you’ve grown to know as well as to hate, his weapons and his limits.
You know what he can do to you.