Death's Mistress (Dorina Basarab, #2)(55)

Everyone except for Louis-bloody-Cesare.

He didn’t live by the vamp code; he had his own. It was classist and had a heavy overtone of noblesse oblige, and it frequently made me want to smack him, but it was a code nonetheless. He didn’t always act in ways that would benefit himself, the mess with Alejandro being a prime example.

Every other vamp I knew would have either sacrificed Christine, if Tomas was considered too much of a threat, or have killed him and taken her back. Some of them would have made Alejandro pay for the insult later, but none would have so much as considered any other options. They probably wouldn’t have even seen any.

Vampires were emancipated when they reached the level of their master, and sometimes before, because the more powerful they became the harder it was to control them. Eventually, the problems in keeping them outweighed the benefits. I could just see Mircea’s face if someone suggested that he divert a huge amount of his personal power for more than a century to hold a vampire in thrall who could be of absolutely no use to him. Yet Louis-Cesare had done exactly that.

First-level masters varied in power, and obviously, Louis-Cesare had been stronger than Tomas. But even so, the cost must have been enormous, a constant, ongoing drain with no end in sight. And for what? The benefit of a vampire he didn’t even know? It was the sort of behavior that made my brain hurt because it challenged everything I knew about the self-serving breed.

Not that it mattered. Whatever he looked like, whatever he acted like, Louis-Cesare was a vampire. I needed to remember that.

I also needed to figure out what the hell I was going to wear. I didn’t intend to try to compete—vampire parties are all about outshining, outdazzling and outdoing everybody else, and my wardrobe wouldn’t have been up to the challenge even if I’d had access to it. But I also wasn’t wearing a smelly old T-shirt that wasn’t even mine.

Fortunately, Mircea is a shade over six feet tall, while I am barely five two. That makes his shirts on the order of dresses for me, easily hitting midthigh or lower, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t spare one. He was the biggest clotheshorse I’d ever met; if he hadn’t had a steady stream of mistresses through the years, I’d wonder about him.

I’d settled on a big shirt and maybe a cummerbund for a belt by the time I stepped out of the shower—and saw a piece of black silk hanging from the hook behind the door. It was a dress, sort of. It was mostly straps on top, cleverly designed to reveal more than they covered, yet managing to stay on the right side of slutty. The skirt was more problematic, long and black and slit high enough that my lack of underwear was going to be a problem.

“There’s some panties and things on the counter,” Ray said, from inside the duffel.

I’d parked it on the floor beside the door. I picked it up and peered into the hole in the side. “Are you spying on me?”

“Hell, yeah. Get me out of here.”

“Why? So you can get a better view?”

“So we can talk while you get dressed.”

“I’m not getting dressed,” I told him, threw a towel around myself and went out into the bedroom. It was dark and empty, except for the wash of light from the bath, so I passed through to the living room. Louis-Cesare was on the couch with the lights off, staring out over the view of Central Park.

I held up the dress. “What is this?”

He looked up, his eyes dark in the dim light. “I had it sent over.”

“It’s one o’clock in the morning!”

“Concierge,” he said simply, like he’d picked up the phone and ordered a pizza.

“There are shoes.” I’d tripped over a pair of black satin heels on the way out of the bathroom.

“You wished to dress for the occasion—”

“I said I wanted a bath.”

“—and I thought to oblige you. And myself. I have never seen you in a gown.”

I crossed my arms and glared at him. “How did you know my size?”

He just looked at me. And yeah, okay, I could probably guess his pretty accurately, too, if it came down to it. Not that it mattered.

“I’m not wearing this.”

He regarded me in silence for a moment. “Do you wish to fight with me, Dorina?”

“Yes!” At the moment, that was exactly what I wanted.

“If it will help.” I blinked. He’d spoken in the toneless kind of voice new vamps used when they hadn’t yet learned to operate dead vocal cords. Except Louis-Cesare never made slips like that.

A passing car lit up his face for an instant, and the strained blankness of his expression jolted me with an unpleasant shock. He looked like a vamp for the first time: the face beautiful, but pale and cold, like it was carved out of marble; the chest immobile, unbreathing; the eyes fixed and unblinking. I felt a chill run down my spine.

The man I knew was haughty, impatient, demanding, passionate. Not this blank. Not this thing.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I demanded.

“Nothing.” Toneless, flat, dead.

Yeah, that was convincing.





Chapter Sixteen


I walked over, the dress trailing on the floor behind me. I sat on the edge of the coffee table across from him because I was still dripping. “Try again,” I told him.

He didn’t say anything.