Death's Mistress (Dorina Basarab, #2)(115)
“Otherwise what?”
“It will be out of the princess’s hands. Her family will take over the hunt for the stone. And they may wonder how someone as astute as the empress could be taken in by such a fraud. They may also wonder why she has yet to retaliate against anyone for the duplicity.”
“She hadn’t paid for it,” Crabby said, frowning. “It disappeared before it could be authenticated, and the transfer of funds was never made. She lost nothing.”
“She lost a valuable object that she had every reason to assume was rightfully hers. She lost face in front of the other bidders, most of whom now know that the stone is missing. She also lost the advantage it would have given her at tonight’s challenge.”
“You are accusing the empress of cheating?” The little thing looked outraged. He had yet to communicate a damn thing to the empress, whose beautiful face was as serene as ever. But her long fingernail guards were going clack, clack, clack on the arms of her throne.
I was starting to think that “translator” might not be quite the right word.
“I am merely pointing out what the fey might think,” I said, eyeing him suspiciously. “If the stone is returned to her before the challenge tonight, everything can be forgotten.”
“And now you accuse her of what? Stealing her own property?”
“It was not her property; it was fey property. And your lady is wise. Perhaps she had discovered this and realized that the only way she could retain the stone was to—”
I didn’t get any further, but I did discover what the two guards were for. A few seconds later, my butt hit the dirt in front of the elegant circular driveway. Frick and Frack were waiting just outside the gate, huddled in the inadequate shade of a small maple. They weren’t bothering to conceal themselves anymore, I guess because I’d already spotted them. They took in my disheveled appearance and grinned.
I grinned back and glanced up at the blazing sun. “I guess we better get started. It’s a three-mile hike back to the car.”
The double doors to the Manhattan triplex were opened by a beautiful young man with silky blond hair, big blue eyes and a pulse. I hadn’t expected a phalanx of guards—this was a private residence, not vamp central—but a human doorman was almost a novelty. “You’re late,” he admonished gently, stepping to the side.
Since I hadn’t bothered to call ahead, I thought that a little strange. “Sorry.”
He let me in, but not my shadows. I’d left them in the lobby, assuming Geminus wouldn’t want to talk in front of Marlowe’s men. The last rays of the setting sun streamed in the floor-to-ceiling windows as we crossed the large foyer.
It made the one at the Senate’s New York office look like a poor relation. A crystal chandelier sparkled from a twenty-foot-high ceiling, lighting up a sweep of carreraclad stairs edged by an elaborate wrought-iron railing. A shining path of marble led off to the left, where I could see a glimpse of a double-height ballroom through another set of doors.
“Main salon,” the doorman said, indicated the ballroom with a sweep of his hand.
I passed through, expecting an ambush but not getting one. The room was huge, with tall windows looking out over the twighlit cityscape. The decor reminded me a lot of vamp central, all old woods, gilt-edged moldings and, in this case, a black, white and gold color scheme. It was the sort of room that called for grand masters in heavy gilt frames on every wall, yet despite there being plenty of space, there wasn’t a painting in sight.
But then, there was a reason for that.
A vamp stood by the fireplace, his cap of auburn hair shining under the lights. He didn’t look up as we approached; his focus was on the young woman writhing face-first against the wall. Her dress was long, red and pooled around her high heels. She hadn’t been wearing anything under it, and her bare skin gleamed in the low light.
Her hair was down, except for a few sweaty strands clinging to her cheeks. It cascaded almost the full length of her back, until the vamp brushed it carelessly aside. It flowed over her shoulders like a fall of russet silk, revealing a scarlet ribbon laced up her back. The ribbon was threaded through a set of corset piercings that framed her spine, eight tiny golden loops biting deeply into her skin and glinting palely.
The vamp stood behind her, toying with the piercings. He ran a finger up and down the tiny loops, just hard enough for them to tug at her skin, to bite a little bit harder than usual, to pull a groan from her lips. His back was to me, so I couldn’t see much of him, just dark auburn curls tickling his neck and the back of a tuxedo. He’d taken the coat off and draped it over a nearby chair, leaving him in white dress shirt and perfectly fitted black slacks.
At first I thought I’d caught him in the middle of dinner. Vampires could feed by touch, pulling blood molecules through the skin, or through the air in the case of a master. And the woman was definitely being fed upon, if her reaction was anything to go by. She hugged the wall, panting, as he slowly began drawing the ribbon from its little loops.
She had it pulled tight, and it slithered out easily, over skin already so sensitized that every tiny tug made her tremble. His finger drew a line down her spine, causing a quick, indrawn breath and a helpless shudder. It might have been pleasure or pain now, because he’d stopped being careful. His touches were raising bruises as he let the blood pool under the skin, not bothering to absorb it all.