Death's Mistress (Dorina Basarab, #2)(52)

“Now. I was leaving when you arrived.”

“Then we’ll go together. You promised him the information; you’ll deliver. And I’ll be there to hear it at the same time he does.”

“That does not guarantee you anything.”

“This is my city. I have contacts he can only dream of, and I have no intention of fighting fair. I’ll get to it first.”

He looked like he wanted to argue some more, but boots were coming up the stairs, and there was no time. “Agreed.”

Gunther appeared in his doorway, a Luger in his hand and a backup at his waist. They looked a little incongruous next to the blue satin robe. “Okay, I take it back,” he told me, heading toward the stairs. “You do know how to bring the drama.”

“You really are a bodyguard?”

“I like to diversify.”

I caught his arm. “They’ll shred you!”

“I’m not planning to fight them. But demanding what they want will buy you a few seconds. I suggest you use them.”

He disappeared into the stairwell, and Radu flew down the hall, dragging Ray by the arm. He pushed me back into Louis-Cesare’s room while pressing something hard into my hand. “It’s brand-new. I came to town partly in order to collect it. Please, please, please don’t scratch it!”

“What about you?”

“Lord Cheung can’t hurt me because of the truce, and anyway, with you two gone, he’ll have no cause.” Radu opened the heavy old wardrobe, shoved back the clothes and pushed me inside. I was about to ask what good he thought that was going to do when he gave another shove, and I was falling.

I slid on my back, headfirst, down something like a laundry chute, and landed on very hard concrete. And a second later, Ray arrived, his knee driving the air out of my lungs. I’d have liked a moment to lie there, wheezing, but Louis-Cesare landed—on his feet, the bastard—and helped me up in order to steal the keys.

We were in an underground garage filled with fabulousness, but there was no doubt which car was ’Du’s. We were in a hurry, but I took two seconds to stare anyway. A Lamborghini Murciélago convertible deserves it. Hot damn, I thought, feeling a grin breaking out over my face. And then I was running toward my new upscale ride.





Chapter Fifteen


We were already late, but we didn’t have far to go. I stared up at the familiar limestone building, with its turn-of-the-century architecture and its Central Park views. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Elyas recently purchased the penthouse,” Louis-Cesare informed me, with a twist to his lips.

“Is he crazy? Out of everywhere you could have met, he invites you here?”

“He likes taking risks.”

He also liked being a dick. He’d taken the penthouse a couple floors above the apartment Mircea had recently acquired. I strongly suspected that he’d chosen that penthouse in that building just to spite him. It was the sort of petty one-upmanship that the world’s most powerful creatures regularly engaged in, as opposed to doing anything useful.

An attendant jogged over, and Louis-Cesare got out of the car. He’d driven, because there hadn’t been time to wrestle him for the keys. I started to follow and then stopped, watching curiously as he walked around the hood.

And opened my door.

I stared at him blankly as he offered me a hand. It was beyond bizarre, but after a moment, I took it anyway. He helped me out and turned to the attendant, who had shied back when he saw Ray. Louis-Cesare tossed him the keys. “Do not let him drive.”

“Very funny.” I opened the back door and dragged Ray out. “We can’t leave him here.”

“You expect to take a headless vampire to a social event?”

“No, but there’s an outside chance Cheung’s boys tracked us, and I don’t want them staking him while we’re inside.”

Louis-Cesare looked pained. Ray was even dirtier than I was, and his bright red briefs had gotten a tear across the butt at some point, flashing a glimpse of hairy cheek whenever he moved. An awesome trophy he was not.

We marched Ray under the portico, past the horrified-looking doorman and over to a cherrywood-paneled elevator. I leaned Ray against the wall, fished my cell phone out of the duffel and called Mircea’s apartment. Mircea’s old tutor and longtime butler answered. “What?” he demanded querulously.

No amount of training has ever taught Horatiu the proper way to answer a phone. Mircea doesn’t give a damn, since most of the people who call him on his public line do so to grovel anyway, and he’s the only one with any control over the old vamp. Not that I think he has much.

“It’s Dorina,” I yelled, because he can’t hear worth a damn.

“Who?”

“DORINA!”

“Well, there’s no need to shout.”

“Is Mircea there?”

“No, no. Everyone’s gone,” he said impatiently. “Middle of the night, isn’t it?”

“Do you expect him back soon?”

“Not for a few hours. Why?”

“No reason. I’m coming up.”

Louis-Cesare quirked an eyebrow as I replaced the phone. “I need a bath,” I said, before he could ask. He just looked at me. “What?”