A Taint in the Blood (44 page)

Oh, God, that is good
, was the first thought.

Like eating a fine rare Chateaubriand when you’d been skiing all day . . .

. . . or like the floating feeling after sex, like the first stage of drunkenness in good company, like
triumph
. Power flowed into him; he could feel his mind uncoiling like a thing of steel and smoothly meshing gears.

Then shame. Then:
But I wish I were with Ellie. This is good, but not enough to drive me mad as I feared. I can stop . . . now.

He did, and stepped back, licking his lips and wiping his chin, and forcing himself not to grin; the poor girl wouldn’t know it was relief at his own self-control. The impulse to strip off her clothes and throw her down on the floor and take her savagely was there too . . .

Cheba wobbled off and collapsed into a chair, hand to her neck.

“You . . . bit me,” she said wonderingly. “You are so strong, so quick . . . you . . .”

Her voice was quiet with the artificial calm that came with a feeding attack. She took the hand away and looked at the red smudge on it.

“You bit me. I could feel you drinking.”

“Yes, I bit you and drank some of your blood. I will again several times over the next few days. It will not hurt and you will be none the worse for it after a little while. What I am is not catching; you must be born so. Now don’t cause me problems!”

There was a discreet knock at the door. He opened it, and his pseudo-renfields came through, with a house servant pushing a dolly with the last of the trunks on it. The servant was blankly incurious, probably a survival trait; Guha and Farmer simply carried it through to the suite’s bedroom. When they came back Farmer gave him a smoldering look after his eyes flicked to Cheba. There was hate in it, though they’d discussed this necessity when they were briefing each other on the mission.

He wishes he could feed,
Adrian thought.
He has enough of the genes to want, but not enough to be satisfied if he does. Poor bastard; that’s the combination that makes for a Jeffrey Dahmer, if it’s not spotted early, if you don’t know what’s happening. But he must not let it interfere with our work!

Guha hacked him on the ankle with the toe of her boot. He screeched, cut it short as she grabbed him by the ear:

“Stay in character, Jack! Last warning!
Think
in character! Or I’ll kill you myself.”

He nodded, took a deep breath and bowed slightly to Adrian along with his partner.

“Lay out my dinner jacket, Farmer,” he said quietly. “White tie. Guha, get the girl cleaned up. Order her a meal from the kitchens and show her where she’ll sleep—there will be bedchambers for my personal attendants.”

It would create a little gossip when the maids changed the sheets and realized he was sleeping alone, but not too much—Shadowspawn considered their private lives
private
.

“Find her some clothes, too. She doesn’t speak much English, but I suspect she understands more, so be cautious. And she’s pretty good at trying to kick you in the crotch while gouging out your eyes, so be cautious about that, too. Get her settled in and then dress for dinner yourselves—I’ll need you to lend me countenance later. Let’s get going.”

A couple of presentable attendants were the minimum he could sport and not be the Shadowspawn equivalent of a homeless beggar.

“Cheba,” he said, switching back to Spanish.

She was coming to life again, and looked up warily.

“This is Anjali Guha, and this man is Jack Farmer. They both speak your language”—tolerably, at least—“and they are my trusted servants. They will not harm you, but you must do as they say when I am not here.”

It was time to put in his appearance at the party.

 

 

“Excuse me,” a voice said behind her. “You dance so beautifully.”

Ellen turned and stopped her solitary drift to the music. It was the man . . . Shadowspawn . . . who’d first appeared as an owl in the killing hall, but now in a cutaway coat and white tie, trimly elegant rather than unselfconsciously naked. She met the yellow eyes . . .

Click
. A feeling like rubber bands snapping inside her head. Emotion surged up as the doors in her mind opened.

“Shhh!” Adrian said—she could
feel
that it was Adrian behind the disguise.

What he calls the link.
I
can feel it too, now. He’s happy, and afraid, and very determined. But I didn’t realize he could be so fierce.

She clamped at her thoughts, and she could sense something helping her. He bowed over her hand and murmured:

“Allow me, darling. You must not spike noticeably. Use
this
. Think of it and it will help you contain. And if you are read, it will collapse your memories back to the rest state.”

A shape appeared in her mind; the sense that saw it was not sight, or touch, or hearing, but it had something of all three.

Wait a minute
, she thought, under the muted rush of relief; she could feel how huge it was beneath the artificial barrier.

He
could
have done things to my mind when we were together. I’d never have known and he would have gotten whatever he wanted. But he didn’t. He let me leave even though it hurt him. He
does
have willpower like titanium steel.

Then he went on aloud: “But this always goes better with two. May I have this dance?”

She nodded wordlessly, biting her lip. He placed his right hand on her waist, took her left and led her into the waltz; the musicians played a little louder, and they had the floor to themselves. He smiled at her, his own expression visible behind the stranger’s face and the blank golden eyes.

“Oh, thank
God
, Adrian,” she said softly, swaying across the marble with him. “I feel like I want to
live
again.”

“And I as if I have a reason to live again,” he answered.

She swallowed. “You know what happened up there. After you left, and I had to watch some of it.”

“Yes. That is how things are done at such affairs.” A crook to his mouth. “You see why I am alienated from my family, Ellie.”

“Thank God for
that
.” Sharply: “What happened to that girl you hauled off?”

“Nothing bad.” His face went stiff. “Well, nothing
very
bad . . . I’m here as an agent, Ellie, an infiltrator. I have to . . . fit in. I had to feed on her. Forgive me.”

He looked miserable at her scowl, and she squeezed his hand as they moved to the music.

“Silly, I’m
jealous
, that’s all. I know you wouldn’t hurt her. You saved her life by getting her out of that . . . that horrible place before things started. But once we’re out of here, dude, it’s strictly my veins or the blood bank!”

His laugh was delighted. “You know, you are not only the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, particularly in that dress—”

Ellen snorted. “Your sister picked every stitch I’ve got, down to the thongs. And she’s actually better looking than I am, come to that.”

“If you like adolescent boys with small perfect breasts,” he said, and she muffled a snort of laughter. “And I cannot fault her taste in clothes
or
in women.”

“Do you
really
have a thing for Marilyn Monroe?” Ellen asked.

He looked at her blankly for a moment. “You . . . actually you
do
look a little like her, don’t you? But with a better figure, and your face has more animation. You are more . . . elegant.”

“Elegant? Wait until you see my new tramp stamp,” she said wryly. “It’s stopped itching, at least. And she thought
that
really added to my ass; so much for her taste. It’s got
all
the colors the tattooist had on hand.”

His eyes went a little wider. Then he smiled and let his hand shift a little backward as they turned. His face was abstracted for an instant, though the smooth grace of his movements was unaffected as they danced. Something tickled slightly over the base of her spine.

“It’s actually rather pretty, if a bit loud,” he said. Then a slight frown. “It’s not just colored knotwork, either. There are glyphs worked into it—ideographic Mhabrogast.”

That made her feel as if the skin there was still burning. Then his face cleared.

“Not active glyphs . . . not a Wreaking. Just commentary.”

“What does it say?”

“Hard to translate . . . Mhabrogast concepts usually are. Something like . . .
appropriate to purpose
, or
confluence of aspects
with overtones of enjoyment-fulfillment . . .”

“
For a good time, call Ellen?”
she said dryly.

“More like,
She’s a beauty
. On that, if nothing else, she and I agree. And besides being beautiful, you are the most remarkably brave person I know, as well. I do not deserve you, but I shall enjoy my good fortune nonetheless.”

“So will I!”

He leaned closer and whispered in her ear:

“You are also supremely bite-able, and at last I am able to say that and not feel sorry for myself, or guilty. I was feeding on Cheba and thinking of
you
, my Ellie. Jealousy adds to my long-standing hatred for my sister.”

There was something like a lick of hot wind in his voice, something that made her shiver slightly. Familiar yet not.

That’s the first time a Shadowspawn’s looked at me like that and it didn’t scare me. Well, not
really
scare me. It’s sort of predatory, yes, but I can see it’s
Adrian
in there. And . . . yeah, I really do love him, I guess. It won’t be easy, but I want to try.

“
You’ve
got a better butt than she does,” Ellen said, just for the pleasure of seeing his smile. “And you’re
here
.”

The tune came to an end, and they turned and applauded the musicians. Then she heard more applause from the formal staircase. Ellen swallowed and made herself turn, smiling, as the glyph sprang into her mind.

Christ, that’s strange
, she thought.
It’s as if my thoughts were operating on two sides of a plane of glass!

“Be ready,” Adrian murmured.

She could feel her emotions running on parallel tracks, the fear-hate-fascination-loathing-longing that Adrienne produced, and the bubbling joy at restored hope as well. The mistress of Rancho Sangre was there, gowned and jeweled now, with her parents, and the three Shadowspawn who’d flown in right after Adrian.

Dmitri Usov was in immaculate white tie and black dress coat; with his long blond hair it made him look a little like a mad, murderous conductor in a Romantic opera about an old-fashioned orchestra. Dale Shadowspawn . . . she blinked.
He
was in Apache costume, or a version thereof, complete with tunic and headband and leggings. Not touristified, though the fabrics were fine dark cloth, and there was platinum on the hilt of his long knife.

And Michiko, in the full ceremonial splendor of a
Hōmongi
kimono, with patterns of floral roundels and birds swirling along the seams of the pale-green silk, encircled by an embroidered
fukuro obi
and topped by an elaborate hairdo held with long jade pins. Even her step in the sandals and white divided-toe socks had a mincing look.

Oh
, she thought.
They’re expecting this Hajime guy. He’s really old-fashioned.

“Ah, Mr. Peterson,” Adrienne said. “I see you’ve made my Ellen’s acquaintance.”

“A great pleasure,” Adrian said neutrally. “You are to be envied. In fact, I
do
envy you.”

“I envy
you
, a little—it wouldn’t be really appropriate for me to dance with her tonight; we’re being very formal.”

“Wilbur!” Jules Brézé said from behind her, delight in his voice. “Good God, it
is
you!”

Adrian extended his hand for an old-fashioned shake, rather than the touch of the fingertips that most younger Shadowspawn used. His shields clamped down like a surface of mirrored alloy, until his own perception dimmed.

“Good God, Wilbur, it’s been . . . nearly sixty years!” his father said.

“Yes,” Adrian said neutrally; he ruthlessly crushed a squib of panic. “A very long time, Jules.”

And there were several unanswered letters from you to Wilbur,
he thought.
Men change, even postcorporeals. Jules
believes
you are Wilbur, Adrian. He will interpret anything you say in that light.

“Let’s get a drink. Adrienne is stuck with the greeting tonight, until the grand entrance of our would-be mikado.”

The ground floor of the
casa grande
was a series of interconnected chambers, mostly opening into each other through arched entranceways in a Moorish-Iberian style. They ducked through into a smaller room, more of a broad passageway around a courtyard, and took cocktails from a tray.

“
À votre santé
,” Jules said.

“Your health,” Adrian replied.

He sipped. Then his brows rose. “A classic Deauville! Now, that does take me back.”

Cognac, Coquerel Calvados, Van Gogh triple sec and lemon; the fruit flavors tingled over his tongue. It had been a popular mixture in the 1920s.

“Always one of your favorites, as I recall,” Jules said.

It’s the first time I’ve ever met my own father socially,
Adrian thought.
Since I was thirteen, at least, and he is utterly unchanged. He’s not a bad fellow, for a mass murderer.

“I never thought I’d see you alive again,” Jules said. “It is . . . not a good sign, when a man is as out of contact as you have been.”