I could still see Louis-Cesare’s mutilated body, with Jonathan tenderly stroking the multiple wounds he’d inflicted. I understood what Mircea meant; one death was far, far too good for him. I’d have loved to give him one for each and every scar, but wasn’t sure I’d given him even one. He’d fooled me with the illusion that Louis-Cesare was dead. No vamp healed an almost decapitation in a couple of minutes, not even a master. Especially not a master so drained of power he couldn’t even stand up. What I’d taken for a challenge had been Jonathan’s attempt to convince me not to risk my neck trying to save a corpse. Too bad for him that I don’t reason well in the midst of a killing rage.
Now I was faced, just like last time, with cleaning up the mess Mircea’s revenge had left behind. Was Jonathan really dead? Or had it been another illusion? We’d found several charred bodies that might have been his, but could just as easily have belonged to one of his little helpers. No one seemed to know exactly how many mages he’d brought along, how many bodies we should expect to find. I had no choice but to play it safe and assume that I now had a revenge-crazed dark mage after me, along with who knew how many other people. All because Mircea had to do it his way.
He started to get up, a hand outstretched toward me. “Don’t,” I warned him. “Just. Don’t.” The hand fell to his side.
It was too much, after centuries of ignorance, to have this all dumped on me now. Along with Louis-Cesare’s memories, I probably had nightmare material for at least the next millennium. Even worse, there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about any of it. It was over, except for the mopping up. And suddenly I was so very tired.
We stared at each other for a heartbeat. Despite the gloom, I could see the faint lines of exhaustion etched onto that ageless face. Mircea looked as tired as I felt, and the sad, almost defeated look in his eyes was one I’d never seen. My hands clenched, and it was with a kind of horror that I saw one fist come up, the knuckles brushing lightly across the smooth line of his cheek. Then I whirled on my heel and started for the door, desperate to get away before I showed a weakness I’d regret.
“Dorina. Where are you going?” The voice was soft, careful.
“Back to New York. Back to my life.” I paused, my hand on the aluminum facing of the door. “And Mircea—the next time you need a favor… don’t call me.”
Postscript
He didn’t call. He wrote instead. Although I almost didn’t get the letter.
Ever since an unfortunate incident involving a lack of morning coffee and the postal uniform’s uncanny resemblance to Byrthinian demon battle dress, my mail is thrown in the general direction of the house while the carrier books it down the street. This morning, I fished one piece out of a hydrangea bush and another off the porch roof. Then I prized Mrs. Luca’s poodle away from Stinky and took him back inside.
I added the letters to the ones I’d collected that morning from the basement. Claire was in Faerie for the moment, but she still sent regular notes through the portal, which her uncle had used as a conduit for bringing in bootleg supplies. Because of the timeline difference, I’d found three letters that morning, each dated several weeks apart. They all said the same thing: she was fine; Heidar was fine; Caedmon was impossible—apparently, no one fusses over an expectant mother like the Fey, especially when the mother in question is carrying the heir to the throne.
As Claire said, she was still pretty freaked-out, both about the pregnancy and, even more, about all the creatures she had killed at Radu’s. A strict vegetarian, she was having a hard time accepting that she had drained most of the experiments dry of magic, and thereby of life, without even realizing it. The only ones who had survived were those, like Stinky, who were at least part Fey. Her gift seemed to have less of an effect on them. I supposed that was just as well—a part-human null was going to have enough trouble being accepted at court without draining the nobility dry.
She also wrote that she’s looking into possible Fey cures for my fits. A word was all it took for Caedmon to have a lab set up where she could explore the new flora to her heart’s content. Pretty soon, she’s going to have him as whipped as Heidar.
Of the other letters, the first was from Mircea. Purely a business proposition, he said, with no family strings attached. I raised a brow at that, but read on. Claire’s disappearance meant the bills were now all coming in my name.
Mircea wanted to know if I would be willing to work with the task force the Senate was forming to deal with problems caused by the war. Specifically, I would help to hunt down more of the dark’s special experiments and see that they were taken to Radu for examination. I might also assist in rounding up illegal immigrants from Faerie before they started snacking on humans. And, of course, ensure that the import of Fey wine was strictly prohibited.