I reached the top to find myself facing a heavy oak door. It was cracked slightly, pouring a line of orange firelight over the stones. I edged forward cautiously and nudged the door open with my foot. The room inside was large, but more cozy than the vast dimensions of the rest of the castle, and was perfectly circular. I peered around and realized two things: I was alone and I wasn’t likely to stay that way for long. The lit candles told me that much; no one bothered to light an unoccupied room, especially if the means to do so, like most other supplies, had to be dragged sixteen miles up a mountain. Someone was expected. I just hoped it was the right someone, since I really didn’t feel like wading through half the guards to get to him.
The room was full of booty. Several dozen plush prayer rugs brightened the walls, helping to insulate the cold stone. Many of the silver and gold vessels scattered about had Arabic words enameled onto them, the carpet was a Persian in blues and burgundies and the shiny brass lamp that hung from the ceiling didn’t look local. A sudden wave of exhaustion made the exotic colors run together, and I swayed slightly as the last of my adrenaline was used up. I hurt everywhere, but that was nothing new. What undid me was the sight of a real bed dressed with a pile of lovely furs and blankets, so high that they made a mound. I walked toward it unconsciously, my head spinning from pain and wonder.
I must have made it, because I fell onto something soft and squashy that my dazed senses identified as a feather mattress. The impact hurt my bruised ribs, to the point that I think I passed out for a minute. When I came around, I discovered that my first impression had been wrong: I wasn’t alone.
I was slumped over a body that was seeping a crimson stain onto what had been clean white sheets. It didn’t have a pulse, but that didn’t worry me. His kind never did unless trying to pass for human.
My heart was beating so hard in my chest that I thought it might shatter a rib. I noticed irrelevantly that the blood was ruining his clothes. His dazzlingly white tunic had been embroidered at the sleeves and around the slit collar in bright red and gold, but darker patches now marred the pattern in several places. I couldn’t tell how bad the wounds were, because although he was in bed, he hadn’t bothered to divest himself of his fur cloak. It was so silky that my hands completely disappeared in it. I stroked it softly, unable to believe my luck.
I stared down at my victim, and slowly undid the rag holding a sharpened wooden sliver around my waist. He didn’t move, not even to open his eyes. I told myself to get it done, but I hesitated. I’d never killed a sleeping vampire. Their daytime resting places were too hard to find to make it worth the effort; I caught them animated and bent on mayhem, not lying around wounded and helpless. This was so different from the fight to the death I’d envisioned that I simply sat there a moment, staring at him. He wasn’t at all what I’d expected.
His face had the same expressive eyebrows and long, dark lashes he’d passed on to me, but with strong, masculine features underneath that made them look quite different. He was very good-looking, but except for shadowy depressions in his cheeks, he was as white as bone. He looked ill, which was absurd, since vampires don’t get sick. Of course, the blood might explain it; the coverlet beneath him was virtually soaked with it. I had an awful idea: had someone beaten me to it? Had someone else stolen my revenge, while I struggled not to fall off that damned wall?
My hands started shaking and I couldn’t seem to stop them, and my breathing was shallow and uneven. I sat back down on the bed until the room stopped swimming, then started to pull off the remains of his ruined shirt. The wounds underneath were deep, with a few showing bone, but none looked to be in the right area for a heart blow. So why didn’t he wake up?
I told myself that a dead vampire was a dead vampire, no matter how he got that way. I got a better grip on my stake and decided to stop worrying about who had attacked him in such a half-assed way and just get it done. I positioned my makeshift weapon over the heart, but again I hesitated. I wanted him awake for this, aware enough to know who was about to end his miserable life and why. It shouldn’t happen like this, without him even waking up. Somehow, it seemed almost obscene.
“Are you going to kill me or wait for me to die of old age?” I jumped at the sudden question, and the hand that had been lying so utterly still and limp a second ago caught my wrist. I struggled, but found that I couldn’t move. I stared at my arm as it hung there in the air, the strength that had never before failed me suddenly useless. “It will be a long wait, I assure you.”
Bright amber eyes looked me over as he easily rose to a sitting position, his other arm grabbing me by the neck like an errant puppy. He smiled, showing fully extended fangs. “You had your chance. Now it is my turn.”
I fought and thrashed against the iron hold, but it was no use—I couldn’t move. I screamed, as much in rage as in fear, and the hold tightened, tearing more cries from my throat. A hand clamped over my mouth and I bit it. Someone swore, and it was in French, not a language I’d have expected under the circumstances. It brought me back to myself slightly. I opened my eyes to find Louis-Cesare bending over me, worry clearly visible in his blue eyes. Déjà vu.