And Guy Number Two was not.
My brain was finally coming back online, at least enough for me to make a decent guess: Guy Number Two was a strong third-or maybe a weak second-level master. In other words, strong enough to do some impressive shit, but not this impressive. I started to wonder if maybe he had some kind of mental issue, because he was about to be a rather large stain on the carpet.
Only he wasn’t.
“Damn it! Get out of my way!” Marlowe snapped.
“I’m sorry, sir.” And for another strange thing, Guy Number Two did not sound sorry. He sounded . . . annoyed? Put-upon? Slightly bored?
It was bizarre.
Until he cleared it up for me.
“Lord Mircea gave strict orders.”
“Fuck Lord Mircea,” Marlowe snarled. “I’ve waited long enough!”
“And you’ll wait some more. Sir.”
I grinned.
I decided I liked Guy Number Two.
And then his paler friend was back, along with someone else.
“Lady Dorina! How wonderful to see you up and about! How are you feeling this fine morning?”
Burbles, living up to the name.
And looking it, too. I don’t know what I’d expected, but what I got was a jolly round dude with a jolly round face, a double chin, warm brown eyes, and cute little pink lips hiding the fangs that wouldn’t have gone well with that face at all. That, frankly, would have looked absurd. Burbles was a cross between a black Santa Claus and the Michelin Man, and I didn’t know what to do with him at all.
I went with: “Hello.”
“Hello!” He was almost overcome with joy. “You are looking very well, if I may say so.”
It was a lie, but said with such utter conviction that I almost believed it.
It also cleared up an old mystery for me. Mircea’s masters—which is what I guessed all these guys were, or else Marlowe would have been doing more than standing there vibrating at me—were renowned diplomats. Everybody knew it; everybody said it. Their master was the consul’s chief ambassador and resident miracle worker, so it made sense that the family would be, too.
Only I’d never believed a word of it.
Not that I’d met every one of Mircea’s vamps, or even his masters. Until recently, I’d spent most of my time avoiding Mircea, and that included the family. However, I’d met enough through the years to have a serious WTF reaction every time someone told me how charming they were.
They were not charming.
Unless you counted not beating me up and/or hissing at me, like half the vamps I met, so I guess that was something.
But still.
Yet, now I was getting the full treatment, and it was eye-opening. Burbles was sweet. Burbles was joyful. Burbles was thrilled to finally meet me, which was absurd. No vampire—except Louis-Cesare, who was mostly crazy anyway—was ever happy to see a dhampir.
So why was I smiling back at him?
I stopped myself.
It was actually hard.
“Would you like some breakfast? We have some glorious blueberry muffins or heavenly eggs Benedict or—my favorite—a simply divine bananas Foster that our chef makes with bourbon whipped cream. Oh!” He raised his eyes to the ceiling with a hand on his heart. “So good!”
“I’ll have that,” I found myself saying.
I had no idea why.
I don’t even like bananas.
“Excellent choice. I know you’ll be pleased! And perhaps you’d like to pick out an outfit for today?”
“Uh . . . I don’t have any clothes here.”
“But of course you do!” And then Burbles’ hand found his mouth, and his eyes widened in horror. “Oh! You haven’t seen your closet!”
I laughed. I don’t know why. Maybe because he’d intended me to, or because Burbles had just elbowed Marlowe out of the way without apparently noticing.
Or giving a damn.
“Please allow me,” he said, and I somehow found myself back inside what I was only now realizing was a very nice room. Very nice. I stood there in my blanket, taking in the elaborate crown moldings and the massive amount of space and the huge bed and the large, well-appointed sitting room and the closet I hadn’t opened yet because I’d assumed it would be empty. But which instead was big enough inside to count as another bedroom and was stocked full of stuff.
All of which appeared to be in my size.
“What’s this?” I asked, sticking my head in and looking around.
“Your wardrobe,” Burbles told me, making a slight moue of dissatisfaction. “Very preliminary, of course, but we haven’t had a chance to inquire about your preferences yet.”
I looked over my shoulder. “We?”
“Your father, Lord Mircea, lent you thirty or so of his masters. Just to help you get started,” he quickly assured me. “Until you assemble your own.”
“My own what?” I was still trying to figure out how all these clothes got in here.
He looked surprised. “Staff.”
“For . . . ?”
Burbles regarded me for a moment. For the first time, he appeared a little nonplussed. “For . . . whatever you need us for. As a senator—”
I burst out laughing.
Burbles continued to look slightly off-balance.
I appeared to be harshing his buzz.
“Is . . . is something wrong?” he asked, while I started sorting through the clothes, trying to find an outfit that wouldn’t make me look like I was heading for the Oscars.
“Nope. Just that you’re a little behind the times. I’m not a senator anymore.”
In fact, I was kind of surprised I was still alive, all things considered. But Mircea had been there, and I was pretty sure I’d seen Louis-Cesare running into the gallery, looking crazed, just before I passed out. So that probably explained it.
“I—when did this happen?” Burbles asked, appearing confused now. And the fact that I had a really strong urge to walk over, pat him on the back, and tell him everything was going to be okay seriously worried me.
The guy was good.
“About the time I stabbed the consul in the neck?”
He just blinked at me for a moment, and then this . . . fluttering . . . went across the room. Marlowe, who had been bitching in the hall, suddenly shut up, and the three other vamps—two in the doorway, and Burbles a respectful few paces outside the closet—did this thing where they went up on their toes and just . . . fluttered. Shivering all over like birds rippling their plumage.
It was weird.
I’d been looking around for something comfortable to wear, because I didn’t want a waistband to rub against my wound, but hadn’t found anything. So I was eyeing the bathrobe on the back of the door, which would do to get me home, where I had a whole closetful of old sweats waiting to embrace my kicked-around bod. So I reached for it—
And heard a sudden intake of breath from the vamps, and not the good kind. More the Grandma-seeing-your-full-Goth-ensemble-for-the-first-time kind. And hating it.
I felt a small, tentative touch on my shoulder—Burbles, looking even more adorable with huge eyes and a pleading face. “Please?”
It was a whisper.
“Please what? What is wrong with you?” I asked him, because cute or not, he was starting to freak me out.
“Your presence is requested in the salon, my lady, and . . . more formal attire would be . . . preferable.”
Which looks like a totally fine sentence, right? Except that it completely fails to replicate the inflection—and seriously, what Burbles could do with his voice was kind of amazing—which made “preferable” sound like “avoid the terrible heat death of the universe.”
I had no freaking idea what was going on, and was too beat-up to care. I didn’t want bananas Foster. I didn’t want to get dressed up. I sure as hell didn’t want to hang out with anyone in the salon, except possibly Louis-Cesare, and why did I get the impression that this was not about him? I just wanted to go home.
It had been a long night.
“Don’t call me lady,” I said, and finally located some sweats. They were purple and plush, and looked suspiciously like something Radu would pick out, but clothes were clothes. And they felt positively decadent against my abused skin.