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,” she 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.