“My full title wasn’t in the papers.”
“It wasn’t? Then where did I hear—” He scrunched his face in a thoughtful frown, then snapped his fingers. “I know. I overheard Vlad. He was on his usual rant about being controlled by the government.”
“He should take a number on that one,” I said.
“Yeah, well, he threw a tantrum every time there was a news story about you working with Saber. He hates it that you’re, like, a vampire Nancy Drew.”
“But I don’t know Vlad, and he couldn’t know my title.”
“He didn’t. Not until a sneaky, backstabbing vamp told him.”
“This vamp have a name?” Saber asked.
“Marco.”
THREE
004
Marco?
My lungs seized. My heartbeat stopped.
Panic squeezed my vision to a pinpoint.
It couldn’t be the same Marco. The one who, with his vampire henchmen, had followed me to the beach at the dark of the moon on July 21, 1800.
As a human, he’d been incensed when I refused his offer of marriage. As a vampire, he kidnapped me and offered me to Normand to turn. As a conniving Judas, he’d incited the townspeople to burn us out.
The villagers had come at dawn to the stone-and-timber house King Normand ruled, but they hadn’t killed me, because they couldn’t find me. The night before, Normand had sealed me in his own coffin in the half basement under the house. This was my punishment for making daylight escapes from his little kingdom, and he’d watched while his human slaves bound the coffin in silver chains. I’d known from a vision that the townspeople were attacking, but I hadn’t warned Normand. I’d wanted to die. Instead, I’d lain in the coffin listening to the pleas and screams of those dying aboveground. I was certain the villagers had turned on Marco, too. That he had died with everyone else. He must have, or he would’ve come back—if not for me, then for Normand’s treasure. Wouldn’t he?
When Maggie had unearthed me and the newspapers ran a story about her “bizarre” discovery, I lived in quiet terror for months that Marco would learn I was out of the box and come back. To keep daymares at bay and to protect Maggie, I’d checked the historical society records for any trace of Marco. Predictably, the city fathers had failed to record mention of local vampires. Searching the church records was a bust, too, so I turned to Dave Corey, my handler at the Vampire Protection Agency. Some vampire hunters had taken fangs to prove kills, rather like taking scalps. There was a set in the VPA records attributed to a Marco of Spanish or Mexican descent, but that’s all Dave had.
I stewed in silence for a long seven months about Marco coming back when I got a clue—and a boyfriend who did more digging through his own official channels. Saber found scores of Marcos registered with the VPA, none of whom seemed remotely connected to me. More vamps named Marco had been slain before the VPA was established. Conclusion? The Marco I had known was either stoking fires in hell or had moved on. Way on. Looking over my shoulder was only holding me back. Still, how curious that the Marco in Atlanta would know my full title. It may be nothing, but probing Jo-Jo for more answers was smarter than sticking my head in a sand dune.
I dragged air into my lungs, and my heart restarted in painful thuds. Vision returned with a rush that left me dizzy. I eyed Jo-Jo, who looked paler than normal. Had I frightened him? He’d sure scared the bejeebers out of me.
“What is Marco’s last name?”
“Uh, I don’t know, Princess. We’re not big on keeping our human surnames, if we ever had them.”
“Does he have a nickname?” Saber asked.
“We call him Marco the Mouth because he’s—pardon me, Your Highness—a kiss-ass and a snitch.”
Which fit the Marco I’d known, but I kept my breathing even. Lots of vampires were double-dealing, backstabbing, powertripping pains in the fang.
“Have you ever heard anyone call this Marco by the name Sánchez or Vega? Or Sánchez y Vega?”
“No, never. In fact, Saber here looks more Latino, and Marco sure doesn’t sound Spanish or Mexican.”
A ray of hope sparkled. “What does Marco look like?”
“Pretty much white bread, like me. His skin is a shade darker than mine. Blond, blue eyes, maybe five foot eleven.”
Though the height was off a few inches, it was near enough with shoe lifts, and he could’ve dyed his hair. But Marco’s eyes had been black brown, and he wouldn’t be caught—well, dead—wearing contacts. He’d been sensitive about so much as dirt specks in his eyes, even as a vampire.
The specter from the past vanished, and I sagged into Saber.
“It’s all right, Cesca. It’s not the same vampire.”
“Princess,” Jo-Jo cried, falling to his knees and thunking into the coffee table on the way down. “I could die a thousand deaths that I upset you. What can I do to make amends?”
“You can teach Cesca how to fly,” Saber said.