It was almost the only thing he wasn’t currently worried about.
He couldn’t see too well. His head had landed sideways, cheek to unshaven cheek with the not-so-animated corpse below him. It nonetheless allowed him to stare outward at pile after pile of baby vampires, stacked like cordwood all along the sides and middle of the ship’s great hold. There were hundreds of them, their eyes closed, or open and staring blankly upward—either way, insensate. Unaware and therefore unconcerned about the fate that awaited them.
Unlike Mircea. Whose mental gifts allowed him the dubious advantage of knowing exactly what was happening, but not having any way to stop it. He struggled against whatever power was holding him, but didn’t manage to so much as wriggle a finger.
Merda!
The worst thing about this whole fiasco was that it was his own damned fault. He should have been more cautious. He should have expected a trap. And part of him had. He thought he’d been so careful. . . .
Not careful enough!
He’d picked up the strange angler with his human bait in the Rialto, the great marketplace of Venice, earlier that evening. It was one of the creature’s favorite fishing spots, especially right after dusk. Mircea hated that time of day. Even though the darkness allowed him to be out and about, he really wasn’t comfortable until the terrible sun had left to stalk another land entirely.
But the angler was stronger than he, and always made an early start of it. So Mircea had to as well. And then had to find him in the crowded zoo the Rialto turned into after dark.
Only the space-deprived Venetians would have put their abattoir, banking center, and marketplace all in one small area, leading to the sight of well-dressed men having to dodge flocks of goats, bawdy prostitutes trying to seduce wide-eyed farm boys, and clueless tourists having their pockets picked while they stared at Egyptian spices, Byzantine silks, Murano glass, exotic foodstuffs, and a crowd thick with Turks, Greeks, Spaniards, Slavs, Jews, and Moors.
And that was just on land.
The canal was busy, too, with everyone trying to pack up and leave at once, before members of the city watch showed up to levy fines—or a swift kick—to merchants staying open past the evening bell. It was chaos, as usual, and as usual Mircea found himself trying to avoid getting run over by a hefty woman chasing a live goose, or getting slapped in the face by the long sticks a boy had slung over his shoulder, strung with straw hats. All while trying to spot someone who was working very hard at not being seen.
But then, there were other senses.
Mircea slipped into the protection of a colonnade and closed his eyes. Immediately he felt calmer, his mind filtering out the noise and bustle around him, piece by piece. First the animals, with their squawks, bleats, and coos. Then the people, talking, laughing, fighting, and bartering. And finally the incidentals: waves slapping the side of the canal, wind whistling across the rooftops, a stray dog pissing against a column, music from a nearby tavern, and the smell of newly lit torches, sweaty bodies, and the sea.
Until there was only one thing left.
They were slippery gleams on his mental horizon, cool against the human heat, still against the bustle. Vampires, coming out of their sanctuaries, peppering the square. Most of them were bright to his mental eye, like jagged bits of lightning glimpsed through churning dark clouds. He mentally excluded them as well. He wasn’t looking for young and bright, but old and dim, someone who was hiding his true power, someone who didn’t want to be found, someone—
Like that.
Mircea’s eyes opened. The angler had cloaked himself in shadow, the vampire way of going dim and unnoticed, even while standing in the middle of a crowd. Or, in this case, in the shadow of a portico, while his lure bobbed around the nearby market stalls, drifting idly among the vampires looking for their nightly supper.
Not realizing that, tonight, they were the prey.
Mircea’s focus was drawn to two babies who seemed to be hunting together. That wasn’t unusual in most places, where baby vampires were part of a family and learned the tricks of the trade from their older “siblings.” But here in Venice, most of the young vampires had no family, and were far too skittish to trust anyone.
Here, they hunted alone.
But perhaps these two had been brothers before the Change, and were turned together. Or perhaps they had met on the perilous way to Venice’s vaunted “safety,” and learned to trust. Or perhaps, like Mircea, they had some talent with the mind, which allowed them slightly more control than most their age—
His speculation ended abruptly, when the trap snapped shut. The girl had walked between two market stalls, the vampires trailing close behind her. And when she walked out . . .
She was alone.
Mircea, who had been slouching against the side of the building, trying to look like he was waiting for someone, suddenly stood up straight.
For weeks he’d hunted the hunter, but had yet to answer one simple question: what was happening to all those vampires? They seemed to disappear into thin air, wafting away like the early-morning fog that plagued Venice this time of year. He had never been able to find them, and without them, he had nothing.
Until tonight.
Mircea wandered over, careful to wait until the girl was on the other side of the market, attracting the attention of another hungry soul. Then idly passed by the space between the stalls, glancing in swiftly before moving on. And frowning.
Because the space was just a space, boring and empty, unless you counted a few pieces of rotten fruit disdained by seller and buyers alike. But not by a small mouse, which was daring to feast in the open. It paused when Mircea walked by, its bright black eyes alert, its tiny hands stilling on its prize.
And then scampered away, taking a half-eaten plum along with it, as Mircea sighed his disappointment—and his frustration. He’d been looking right at her. He couldn’t have been mistaken.
But there was nothing there. As demonstrated when a passing vendor, a bald man with a basket of melons on his head, bustled through, trampling the remaining plum into the pavement. And almost barreling into Mircea on the other side, before muttering a quick “scuxa” as he squeezed past.
Leaving Mircea with a bigger frown and a determination to figure this out. A quick duck behind a bunch of departing vegetable sellers took him between the stalls and out of sight of the angler. And a careful balancing act stopped him just inside the makeshift corridor, allowing him a chance to bend over and carefully examine the stones in front of him, to see if he could find any sign of a trap.
There was none.
Just the pavement, grimy from a hundred boot prints, awaiting the next squall to wash it clean; the sickly sweet smell of the crushed fruit, its juices running like blood in the spaces between the stones; the feel of cracked grit and the rough-smooth-rough surface of the rock under Mircea’s questing hand.
And the shock of someone’s boot making a brutal connection with his backside.
Mircea fell forward into a black emptiness that reached out and grabbed him, pulling him down, down, down—and spitting him out—
Into the boat of the damned.
“Got another one!” somebody called, as Mircea hit the boards like a sack of grain.
“Already? She’s earning her keep tonight!”
“For once,” came the cynical first voice, as muscular legs in dirty hosen walked over Mircea.
He’d landed facedown, suddenly unable to move, even to put his hands out to break his fall. Or to fight when he was roughly grabbed under the armpits a moment later, at the same time that someone else seized his feet. And sent him flying.