Midnight's Daughter

Page 7

Claire was in a constant struggle for dominance with her legacy, which her uncle had given the personality of a crotchety old woman. Yellowing antimacassars remained on the furniture despite the fact that she hated them, because they reappeared whenever she moved them and shortly thereafter something of hers would go missing. Yet I’d slapped paint all over the place and suffered no ill effects. Maybe the house hadn’t liked the faded cabbage rose wallpaper, either.
I had just finished packing when I heard a yelp followed by a series of thumps. From the landing, I saw Miss Priss sitting in front of the cellar door, looking smug. I went to the kitchen and got the key and a lantern, since Claire’s uncle had never run electricity down there. Then I went to rescue the Senate’s great warrior.
He was at the bottom of the cellar steps, lying in a heap. The last person to piss off the house had been one of my clients, who had tried to go upstairs without an escort. He’d not only been transported to the basement but ended up stuffed into a small trunk in the corner. The trunk had since been moved—I was using it for a nightstand—so the vamp had fared better. The only obvious harm was to his hair, which had come loose from its clip and fallen all over his face.
“The house is a little . . . temperamental,” I explained as he got his long legs back under him.
“What is this place?” He looked around, eyes bright with interest.
I glanced at the dark cave, trying to see the attraction, but it looked as bad as always. The only saving grace was that the dim light hid the peeling, bilious green paint that had been applied around the time Eisenhower was president, and shadowed the rusting metal hulk in the corner. It didn’t help to conceal the heaps of crates, however, since they were scattered all over the place. Claire had been planning to clean them out, assuming that the house was amenable, for fear that they constituted a fire hazard. “The basement. The stairs automatically send trespassers here.”
“It is far more than that,” he said, picking his way through the crates to where an old set of shelves held bottles of various colors. Claire’s uncle had fancied himself an alchemist, but had never found the secret to turning lead into gold. Or much of anything else, according to her. “Your friend made this?” Louis-Cesare had picked up one of the delicate blue glass vials that had always reminded me of oversized perfume bottles.
“She’s a null. She can’t do magic.”
Louis-Cesare inhaled. “Magic was not required here. This is art.”
“I don’t know that I’d get too close to that, if I were you,” I advised. Moisture had beaded the outside of the glass, and his fingers left prints in the damp dust. I didn’t know what it was sweating, but it was better to be safe than in a hundred pieces. I’d probably have a hard time explaining to Mircea why his red-haired boy hadn’t even made it through the first day. “Pip’s experiments could be a little . . . volatile.” As demonstrated by the multicolored stains on the basement walls, courtesy of years of explosions.
“I sincerely hope so,” he said obscurely. To my consternation, he opened the vial and ran a fingertip over the wet end of the plug. Before I could stop him, he brought it to his lips.
“Pip was an alchemist,” I informed him, resisting the urge to step back. “Anything could be in there.”
He raised a dark brow. “Alchemist? Is that what they call them now? The last time I visited this country, there was a more colorful term in use. Moonshiner.” He went back to browsing the shelves, exactly like a connoisseur in a wine shop. I narrowed my eyes at the pile of metal in the corner—the still, I presumed—and suddenly a lot of things made sense.
“You’re telling me these crates contain booze?”
“Booze.” He rolled the word over his tongue as if he liked the sound. “Yes, I remember that one. And ‘giggle water,’ and ‘hair of the dog’ and, my personal favorite, ‘hooch.’ ” I stared, both at the oddity of hearing those words in his accent and for the realization that some of the slang wasn’t exactly current. I scowled. Thank you, Mircea. If Louis-Cesare’s knowledge of the rest of the country was as archaic, he was going to be just a huge help.
Before I could comment, there was an unearthly wail from upstairs. After a start, I identified it as both of Pip’s cats suddenly deciding to mew in unison. I told Louis-Cesare to help himself—Claire had crates of the stuff—and ran upstairs to find the two miscreants sitting in the bay window, screeching steadily.
“Cut it out!” They ignored me as usual. “No tuna for either of you for a week,” I warned. “You’ll eat dry food and like it.” The threat had no discernible effect, and I decided that a little rough love was in order.
I’d reached out to snatch Jackanapes by the scruff of the neck when a face suddenly appeared in the window. Ancient pewter eyes, clear and cold as spears of ice, met mine. I stared at the handsome face, but made no move to let my visitor in. Unlike the Dark, who tend to populate the same corners of the world where I frequently hang out, the Light Fey are rarely seen. And it usually isn’t a good thing when they do show up.
When another alabaster face joined the first, my unrest turned into something darker. I felt rather than heard Louis-Cesare come up behind me. “We have company,” I said unnecessarily.
A third Fey joined the others in my front yard. He caught the eye the way a newly drawn sword does—beautiful and deadly. His hair was the same cold, bright mantle as the others, and he was dressed similarly in nondescript gray. So how did I know he was the leader? It might have had something to do with the power that hit me, even through the wards, like a slap in the face.
“Send out the half-breed, vampire.” The leader’s voice was musical, with an odd lilting accent.
Louis-Cesare caught me by the wrist, keeping me from retrieving a little present for our guests from my pack. “What do you want with her?” he demanded. I struggled against his grip and found myself unable to break it. That was getting old, fast.
The Fey ignored the question. “We have no quarrel with you. Do not give us one. Send out the half-breed or we will come in and take her.”
“Let go of me,” I told Louis-Cesare quietly. I had no idea why the Fey were so interested in me, but if they wanted a fight, I’d be more than happy to give them one.
Instead of answering, Louis-Cesare increased the pressure on my wrist until I dropped the weapon. He bent his head until his lips found my ear, and even then, his words were so soft that I felt more than heard them. “The Fey are neutral in the war. I believe Lord Mircea would prefer to keep them so.”
“That’s his problem,” I said in a normal voice. I didn’t give a damn if the Fey heard me or not. I smiled at the leader. “I’ve always wondered what color you bleed. What say we find out?”
I didn’t get a verbal answer, but the fist he raised to smash my window was clear enough. So was the response to the assault by the house, which didn’t like trespassers any more than I did. The offending Fey ended up in the branches of a mulberry bush, halfway across the yard, an expression of slight surprise on his face. His companions did nothing, but their very stillness seemed a threat, especially when their eyes swiveled in unison back to us, silent and unreadable. The cats screeched on.
Louis-Cesare abruptly turned and headed for the hall, dragging me with him. I didn’t resist because I thought he was about to help me teach the Fey a lesson about name-calling. He stopped just inside the kitchen, and we both stared at the pale face that had appeared in the glass pane of the back door. “Is there another way out?”
“Let go of me and I’ll clear this one,” I told him irritably. I would complain—forcefully—at another time about being dragged about like a doll, but for the moment I preferred to save my strength for fighting Fey.
“Answer the question!”
“The front is impassable.” It had long been blocked by heaps of crumbling furniture that Claire wanted gone but that the house seemed to like exactly where it was. After a lengthy struggle, they had reached a compromise: the furniture stayed, and she kept the door to the entranceway closed so we didn’t have to look at it.
“There are no hidden ways?”
“No.” I managed to swing my pack around to where I could reach the contents with my left hand. The sound of shattering glass let me know that someone had figured out how to get past the ward on the living room window. “Except for the portals,” I added.
“Like the one at the foot of the stairs.”
“Yes. There’s another in the pantry. Claire and I use it to take out the trash the easy way. It lets out in back. And there’s one in the cellar.” I stuffed weapons into easily accessible inner pockets of my jacket, and grabbed a kitchen cleaver for good measure. “I’d take the one in the pantry if I were you.”
I started for the hall, but my collar suddenly bit into my throat and I was yanked back against an unyielding chest. “You are not going to attack the Fey,” Louis-Cesare informed me tersely.
I jerked away from him, glaring. We were going to have to talk about personal space. “That’s not your call.”
The sound of splintering wood whipped me around to see the Fey breaking through the ward on the kitchen door. He looked a little frazzled, with all that silver hair a crackling nimbus about his impassive face, but he was still standing. A second later a sword appeared in his hand as if by magic, which it probably was.
Louis-Cesare plucked the cleaver out of my hand and got a grip on the back of my jacket, pulling me off my feet like an unruly kitten. I dangled there, torn between outrage and discomfort, unable to do much about the interloper. Luckily, the house took care of the problem, deluging him with a hail of pots, pans and kitchen utensils. He staggered backward and fell into the demon hole, which contracted around one of his legs, trapping him. Another Fey, a newcomer with long black hair, appeared behind his shoulder and began trying to tug him out, while two more slipped past him. The last thing I saw before the door to the hall swung shut was the ancient iron stove advancing on them menacingly.