Death's Mistress (Dorina Basarab, #2)(53)
“You are a dhampir on your way to a vampire cocktail party, and you are worried about your toilette?”
“No,” I said defensively, as he started to smile. “And you’re the one who wanted to park Ray somewhere.”
“Very true.” It was a genuine smile now, curving his lips, lighting his eyes, and I blinked. I hadn’t seen one too often from him, and it was ridiculously attractive.
“I don’t get why Elyas involved you in all this,” I said as the elevator doors opened. “If he wanted to talk to Ray, he could have gone himself or sent one of his men. It’s not like the guy was hard to find.”
“Lord Cheung is known as a competent duelist. Elyas . . . is not. The truce will only last as long as the war, and once it is lifted, Lord Cheung will be well within his rights to demand satisfaction for his loss and for the indignity perpetrated on his servant. Elyas preferred me to have to deal with that eventuality, rather than him.”
“But why didn’t he just buy it?” I asked, confused. “Cheung is a businessman. If Elyas offered him enough—”
“The winner of the auction was Ming-de,” Louis-Cesare said simply.
He didn’t need to say anything else. Ming-de was the powerful Chinese empress, their version of a consul. It would be a rare vampire who wanted to risk breaking a promise to her, and certainly not one who resided in her territory. She could crush him like a bug, and probably would, if he crossed her.
“So no reversing the sale.”
“The auction was yesterday, and Elyas spent most of the last twenty-four hours bombarding Lord Cheung with offers, pleas and threats. To no avail.”
We got out at Mircea’s floor, and I rang the doorbell. “If the auction was last night, why was Elyas pestering Cheung?” I asked. “Doesn’t Ming-de already have it?”
“The fey who owns it refused to bring it here until a sale was agreed upon. He was due to arrive last night, after the auction, at which time the evaluation would be made. If the rune was genuine, it would be delivered tonight and payment made. That is why Lord Cheung is here, I suspect. He no doubt planned to deliver the rune to the empress personally.”
“Only he can’t,” I realized. “He obviously doesn’t know where Ray put it, or he wouldn’t be chasing us all over the city.”
Louis-Cesare nodded. “The auction took place here, because most of the participants were already on hand for the races. But Lord Cheung’s business kept him in Hong Kong until today. He wasn’t here when the fey came through the portal, and therefore he doesn’t know where the rune is. As far as we can determine, only one person knows that.”
Well, no wonder Ray was a popular guy.
A tiny old vampire with a nose to rival Ray’s and tufts of silver-white hair finally answered the door. Unlike most vamps on the planet, Horatiu doesn’t actually hate me, maybe because he’s not entirely clear on what I am. The watery blue eyes don’t work right, and he hasn’t been able to see his hand in front of his face in centuries. Which might explain why he didn’t so much as flinch at the sight of a bloody dhampir and a headless guy on his doorstep.
“Who’s that with you then?” he demanded.
“This is Raymond.” I pushed him forward.
Horatiu squinted behind his glasses. “You’re a strange-looking one.”
Ray shot him the finger, but of course Horatiu didn’t see it, so that was all right.
“And this is Louis-Cesare,” I said.
“Ah, yes. The mumbler.”
“I refuse to shout every word I utter,” Louis-Cesare explained wryly.
“There he goes again,” Horatiu sniffed. He sniffed again, and this time made a face. “You need a bath, young lady,” he informed me.
“I know. So does Ray.”
“Use the master’s room,” Horatiu ordered. “The guest ones are all taken. I’ll take this . . . person . . . to mine.” He ushered Ray’s body off, and Louis-Cesare and I headed through the understated opulence of Mircea’s digs.
He’d only acquired the apartment recently, so he wouldn’t have to do anything so gauche as stay at a hotel when he was in town. As a result, it was still primarily the way it had been when he bought it, in quiet shades of camel and sand with little personal stamp over the designer blandness. The only exceptions were a few bright postmodernist paintings spotting the walls. They were new, and they gave the place an energy it had sorely lacked the last time I was here.
Louis-Cesare stopped in the living room to make another call, and I made a detour by the kitchen. I’d skipped dinner and my stomach was protesting, and no way was I getting anything to eat upstairs. At vampire parties, the snacks serve themselves.
The kitchen turned out to be bright and functional, all honey-colored wood and matching striated marble, and looked like no one had ever used it. Which, considering who lived here, may well have been the case. I pulled open the fridge and, as I suspected, the food on offer was minimal. But somebody up there loved me because there was beer. I pulled one out, drank half of it and then just stood there for a minute, soaking up the cold air.
My head hurt. Come to think of it, so did my neck, my left shoulder, the right side of my rib cage, my ankle and my right hand. In contrast, my ass felt fine, except for a slight tingle from where a certain someone’s hands had rested.