Death's Mistress

Page 63

And then something happened that shook my belief that I knew pretty much everything about vampires. The masses of small bruises on the woman’s back suddenly began to change, to coalesce, to flow together into new shapes. Where there had been only ugliness before, a mar on her beauty, a crenellated ridge of mountains appeared.
His hand did a second pass, and the remaining bruises became an intricate latticework of gnarled branches, brown and black, framing the hills. And I finally figured out what he was doing. He was healing some sections of the damage in a few days, others a week, still others two, in order to have the bruises change to the hue he liked.
It gave a whole new meaning to the term “living color.”
“Nice,” I said. The overall effect was surprisingly attractive, if you ignored how it had been created. And if you didn’t care that, once the euphoria of the feeding process wore off, the woman was going to be in excruciating pain.
“She is a good subject,” he agreed.
A glance around showed that he wasn’t the only “artist” in the room. The weak struggles of other canvases ringed the walls, bare bodies splayed against exposed brick. Many of them were manacled in place to keep them upright, although most hung limp in their chains, passed out from blood loss. I assumed it was no worse than that. Death would cause the blood in the body to pool in the extremities, ruining the artists’ hard work.
Most appeared to be young women. I guess I knew why I’d had it so easy getting in.
Livid lines cascaded over one pale buttock and down her thigh, a riotous abstract design that mimicked brushstrokes. He was signing his work. “Geminus,” I said, watching the lines etch themselves across her skin.
“At your service.” He finally looked up, and it was still a shock, after all this time, to see how handsome the monsters could be. This one had bright hazel eyes, riotous brown curls and a cherubic face, which brightened in recognition. My feet suddenly slid across the polished floor and my arms flew up, pinning themselves to the wall.
Geminus pulled off my jacket and let it fall to the floor, then smoothed a hand down the length of my back to my ass. Before I realized what was happening, he had casually unzipped my jeans and tugged them down past my hips. I struggled, but I doubt he even noticed, and I certainly didn’t get anywhere.
That doesn’t happen to me often. My strength is better than average and I have a natural resistance to vampire powers. But then, most of the vamps I meet aren’t two thousand years old, either.
He cupped one cheek, running a thoughtful thumb over the skin just above the line of my thong. “I wonder, is it true what they say about dhampirs?”
He pressed down, hard enough to leave a thumb-shaped imprint behind. I didn’t need to see it to know what was happening: I don’t heal as fast as a vamp, but I’m no slouch, either.
“Interesting.” He circled me, his face thoughtful. “I can’t use vampires for my work,” he told me. “They heal too quickly—even the new ones. There is no time to exhibit a piece before it is gone, erased by the body as if it never existed.”
“What a pity.”
“It is, really. They can take so much more damage than humans.”
“You seem to have done enough,” I said, watching the woman. She’d fainted near the end of his “painting,” and now hung limp in her invisible shackles, a thin strand of drool falling from her lips. Her chest rose and fell shallowly, but her skin was dead white—except for the colorful bruising. That she would wear for a while.
“Humans are marvelous canvases,” he agreed. “But they have their limitations. Beyond the need to take such care, they also heal so slowly that my creations are static. I may as well be drawing on the wall.”
“Why don’t you? It doesn’t bleed.”
“But you offer some intriguing possibilities. You heal fast, but not too fast. I can see a landscape. It would change with the seasons over the course of an evening as you slowly healed. The centerpiece at a party, perhaps.” He looked around at the gathering crowd, people drifting over from other entertainments in twos and threes. “Like this one.”
“Too bad I’m all booked up.”
He tugged my T-shirt off over my head. “We’ll have to see if we can clear your schedule,” he told me gently.
“You’re not worried about reprisals?”
He looked at me innocently as he unhooked my bra. “You came here uninvited and fully armed. And you are dhampir.”
“I came here to talk,” I said sharply.
“But I had no way of knowing that.” He pulled the scrap of cotton away from my body and tossed it carelessly aside. It landed on the floor with the crumpled shirt, like rags I wouldn’t need anymore. “And I had to defend myself.”
“I’m warning you. Let me go, Geminus.”
Instead, he suddenly pressed against me, a line of heat down my back, and without warning grasped my breasts. It was a firm grip, but not rough, designed for humiliation rather than pain. It was a domineering stance: his clothed groin against my bare ass, the slow glide of his hands over my motionless body, his fingers plucking at my nipples, compelling them to hardness. He was saying without words that he could do whatever he liked with me, that I was no match for him, just a canvas to be molded to his will.
He rested his chin on my shoulder while his hand continued to lazily stroke my breast. “For someone so powerless, you have a big mouth.”
“And for someone attacking a representative of a fey princess, you have a lot of nerve.”
My voice didn’t shake, but I was becoming seriously disturbed, not least because his men were watching. They had crowded close on all sides, clearly relishing the newest diversion their boss had designed. Their thoughts skittered across my skin like grasping hands, making me cringe with just the echoes of what they planned to do to me. I’d been too angry to be afraid before, but some of those images had my heart hammering in my chest hard enough to hurt.
“I don’t know any princesses,” Geminus told me, sounding amused. “But next time she’s in town, do tell her to stop by.”
The crowd seemed to think that was funny. I wasn’t feeling so amused. I’d assumed my chances with Ming-de were pretty low. She was powerful enough that even the fey were going to think twice about challenging her, particularly when there was no evidence that she’d done anything more than place a bid. But I’d had higher hopes for Geminus.
He was a senator, not a consul, with far less personal power to draw on. And his own Senate wasn’t likely to protect him over a power play gone wrong. I’d thought that there was at least a decent chance that he’d panic at the thought of facing the fey and cough up the rune.
Only he didn’t appear to be panicking.
“You may not know her, but you know something about a piece of her property,” I said. “You were at the auction—” An unseen hand suddenly clasped me around the throat, restricting my air. Not enough to truly choke me, but a definite warning.
I hadn’t planned to mention Naudiz, hadn’t even wanted to bring up the fey, especially not in front of an audience. But I wasn’t going to stand there and be drained—or whatever else he had planned. Let him explain what the fey wanted with him.
After a moment, the pressure eased a bit. “What princess did you say?”
“Read the note. Left-hand-side pocket of my jacket.”
He picked it up off the floor and felt around the pocket. He took enough time to read the note two or three times, before he finally moved away. The power holding me broke at the same moment, so abruptly that I went to one knee.
“And what does this princess want with me?”
“To do you a favor.” I got my back against the wall before I even pulled up the jeans.
“I like favors from pretty women,” he told me easily. “Come.”
I jerked the T-shirt back on, not bothering with underwear, grabbed my jacket and followed him through a door on the far side of the room. We passed down a long corridor, which gave me a moment to get my breathing under control and remind myself that I wasn’t allowed to kill him. Yet.
We eventually stopped at an office. Or, at least, I guess it was supposed to serve that function. It was so stuffed with weaponry that it was a little difficult to tell. I shoved an antique shield off a chair and sat down, as Geminus got behind the desk.
“What is this princess going to do for me?”
“Her name is Claire, and she’s half-human,” I told him shortly. “She grew up here and only recently claimed her heritage when she agreed to marry a Blarestri prince. But she’s never really gotten used to the way the fey do certain things. She’s a vegetarian pacifist, for instance; she hates unnecessary violence.”
“I’m fascinated.”
“You should be. Anyone else would have just turned you over to her family for punishment.”
“I don’t recall angering any fey. Not of the royal kind, at any rate.”
“They tend not to like it much when you steal from them.”
“Then I am fortunate, for I have stolen nothing.”
“You were seen at the club, right before the fey ended up dead and the rune went missing.”
It was a lie, but I thought it was worth a shot. But he didn’t take the bait. “Was I?”
“And you’re certainly strong enough to take out a fey warrior.”
“You flatter me.”
I glanced up at the wooden sword mounted over the fireplace. It was old and crumbling, barely held together by some stained twine, but carefully preserved behind a glass case. Two thousand years ago, Geminus had gotten his start as a gladiator, one of the few ways for poor young men of the time to rise to fame and fortune. He was rumored to have been fearless, despite a seer prophesying that he would die on the arena sands. He hadn’t, instead winning the sword and his freedom after successfully defeating numerous opponents.
By all accounts, he’d been doing the same thing ever since.