Masks (13 page)

“I don’t think you’re cut out for this lifestyle,” someone said, as Mircea swam groggily back to consciousness.

He blinked his eyes open, not that it helped much. All he saw was pillow. Until he flipped over—and
damn
, that hurt—and saw a cracked mug instead. One that was dripping cold, clear, wonderful water onto his upturned—

Mircea grabbed the thing desperately and drained it dry before he bothered to look around. “Why is that?” he finally croaked.

“Well, one thing would be, every time you go out, you almost die.”

Mircea managed to focus his eyes enough to see Jerome sitting on the foot of his bed. At least, he thought it was Jerome. “What did you do?” he asked, staring at the man’s head.

“It’s the latest thing,” Jerome told him, pausing to admire himself in the small convex mirror over the washstand. “What do you think?”

“That it looks like you’ve lost your damned mind,” Bezio said, from the doorway.

“I wasn’t asking you.” Jerome sniffed, and looked expectantly at Mircea.

Mircea thought it looked like a terrified poodle had climbed onto the vampire’s head. And died. Because, in place of his former sleek locks, Jerome now sported a wide shock of frizzy blond hair, with a shaved neck that virtually forced the two sides to stick out like, well, like a dog’s ears.

“Isn’t it fun?” Jerome asked.

“It’s . . . stunning,” Mircea said truthfully, and rolled out of bed. And went to his knees, but not because of blood loss. But because—

“What happened to me?” he whispered, wondering why everything hurt. And then he caught sight of himself in the little mirror and just stared. For a moment, he was terribly afraid he was about to be told that this was also “the latest thing.”

“I told you,” Jerome said patiently. “You almost died again. You need to stop doing that.”

“I’m sure he’ll keep that in mind,” Bezio said dryly. He looked at Mircea. “You really don’t remember?”

Mircea shook his head, and then immediately regretted it. His skin felt too tight, and looked it, too. It was also slick, shiny, and bright red. If he hadn’t been a vampire, he’d have thought he had a bad sunburn.

But that was clearly absurd.

“I could explain but . . . I’m not sure I could do it justice,” Bezio told him. “It’s better if you see it.”

“See what?”

Jerome laughed, and slid off the bed. “That’s right! He can watch it with us. Come to Marte’s room when you get dressed,” he told Mircea. “But don’t wait too long. It’s about to start!”

They left. Mircea gingerly walked over to the wash basin and repeated the performance of the previous day. The water felt as good as it had then, better even. And without the need to breathe, he could keep his whole face in the cool, cool liquid, waiting for it to stop feeling like it was going to combust.

The gown was secured by a jeweled clasp on each shoulder. Mircea didn’t bother removing them. He pushed the material aside, impatient, greedy, suddenly ravenous. And found sweet, firm flesh that pebbled under his tongue as she arched up, heedless of the nearby crowd.

Possibly because it was no longer there.

A glance showed him the final guests heading down the stairs, glasses in hand. A few paused to look back at them, and then to whisper something to each other, before hurrying away. To join the crowd beginning to assemble in the gardens below, as the contest drew to an end.

He decided he didn’t care.

“There’s to be a ceremony,” she said, as he slid the dress off the other shoulder.

“You’re going to miss it,” he told her.

Coral lips curved. “I’ve had ceremonies.”

He stood up, efficiently stripping off his cioppa, the short velvet robe worn over the doublet on formal occasions. Too efficiently, as it happened.

“Slower,” she told him, as he threw it over a nearby table.

He stopped, realizing what she wanted.

And an insane, mischievous urge caught him. He slowed his movements to a crawl, undoing the several dozen small buttons on his doublet with excruciating deliberateness. He then carefully folded the expensive garment, so that the tiny jet beads on the embroidery were inside and protected, before finding a spot for it on the table with his robe.

His client watched him through lowered lids, and said nothing.

He toed off his shoes, biting back a smile, before carefully lining them up beside the chaise. He decided they weren’t quite straight, and nudged them into line with a silk-covered toe. Better.

The shirt he left in place, the mass of embroidered linen as long as a tunic, the extra needed for pulling through the slashes in the doublet. The belt and hosen were easily dealt with, but he stretched out the process, being as careful with them as Paulo could have hoped. He was still dithering about, trying to find the best way to fold a garment that was in no way square, when he heard bracelets clink.

And looked down to find a beautiful face—and yes, it was beautiful, how had he ever thought otherwise—staring up at him from a few inches away.

And then the shirt was torn in two, leaving him wearing only a few scraps of expensive linen.

“I thought you wanted a show,” he said, in mock protest.

“I’ve had shows, too,” she said, and jerked him down.

Mircea surfaced, hard enough to send a plume of water splashing against the wall. It left a large mark on the old plaster, which he watched soak in as he tried to summon the memory again. It didn’t work.

The last thing he recalled was being pulled down onto the chaise. And catching his breath at the implication that she’d had shows but not him. And his immediate resolve to correct that deficiency.

He stood there for a moment, naked, dripping, and quivering in frustration, waiting for more. Which stubbornly refused to come. He scowled at his reflection, but stopped because it hurt. Even tiny movements did. Not too surprising, since the sunburn or whatever it was had not been confined to his face.

Mircea twisted in front of the small mirror, frowning. If it
had
been the sun that left him like this, shouldn’t his face be the worse off? Or his hands? They’d been exposed for far longer, after all. But they were actually less of an issue than the back of his body, which was several shades darker and far more painful than the front.

He looked like a pig on a spit that a careless servant had left to roast for too long without turning. He hadn’t blistered, or if he had, his body had already taken care of it. But he understood why he’d been sleeping on his stomach.

He finally started dressing, using the shirt from his red outfit in place of the one designed for the black. It matched well enough, although he was certain Paulo would notice the difference. Not that Mircea would have cared if he could just remember—

The smooth, olive-skinned body was draped in acres of shimmering silk, so diaphanous that it might have been merely a glittering cloud. It concealed well enough when bunched together, but offered tantalizing glimpses of the treasures below whenever she moved. Or stretched, or arched up shamelessly, destroying the last of his resolve.

Mircea feasted on the silken purity of a long throat as he worked his way through the excess fabric. “I hadn’t planned . . . on this today,” she laughed, as he fumbled with her belt.

“But you did . . . plan on it,” he said, still kissing her, as the stubborn thing finally came free.

“It crossed my mind. When you’d recovered.”

“I’m recovered.”

“So it would seem,” she murmured, pressing up against him. “Your mistress fed you well.”

She hadn’t, but Mircea didn’t feel the need to point that out. Or anything else, for that matter. Not when the gown parted, revealing, as he’d suspected, that she wore nothing underneath.

He paused a moment, transfixed by the smooth, olive-skinned body, the full breasts, the dark nipples, the small waist.

And the long, shapely legs that parted to allow him room between them.

Mircea knelt beside the chaise, his lips finding the taut flesh of her inner thigh. And moving up in a slow, dragging caress. She was like honey warmed in the sun, he thought dizzily: sweet, fragrant, and, finally, liquid.

She arched up at his every movement, flagrantly passionate, directing him with her body and the soft sounds she made where she wanted him to go. Mircea followed the hints, gave her what she wanted, but it was so goddamned hard. Hard to go slow, hard to wait for the gradual buildup of passion when he was already there, hard to enjoy part of her and not have all of her.

He didn’t want to go slow. He wanted to make love in the sunshine, as he hadn’t in so long. He wanted to feel alive again, just for a little while. He wanted to find out if such a thing was even possible.

He wanted . . . he
wanted.

He growled and moved closer, hands gripping her hips, his body sprawling half over the chaise in his eagerness. He heard her laugh above him, and then felt his head being pulled up to meet a pair of amused dark eyes. “Enjoy it,” she murmured. “Next time is on my terms.”

He didn’t understand what she meant by that, but for some reason, it sent a shiver down his spine.

But the “enjoy it” part he understood perfectly.

“Are you coming?” The voice was jarring, and unwanted enough that Mircea snarled as he spun toward the door.

Jerome jumped back, blinking. And then stayed where he’d landed, hidden partly behind the door, with just his head protruding around the jamb. His usually big gray eyes were huge.

Mircea put a shaking hand up to massage the bridge of his nose, but jerked it away when that hurt, too. He stood there, panting, for a moment, in pain. And frustrated enough to have punched through the damned wall.

He wasn’t sure what he believed about the Divine anymore, after all that had happened to him, but he knew there
was
a God.

Because He hated him.

“I—it’s just—it’s starting,” Jerome squeaked. And then scampered away, like a frightened rabbit.

Mircea stood staring at the door for a long moment. And at nothing else. He finally sighed and finished dressing, pausing to run a comb through his hair briefly before following after the smaller vampire out the door.

He tried to call up the scene again as he navigated down the narrow, twisting stairs: blue, blue sky, soft breeze, drifting curtains letting through glimpses of dazzling sunlight.

Although not as dazzling as the sight spread out below him.

Dark hair spilled out around her, a sort of reverse halo. Sunlight glistened off skin that looked like it had been oiled, soft and supple and begging to be touched. She stretched invitingly underneath him, the ripple of lean muscle under golden skin made liquid by sunlight.

The sight was almost painful.

But she wasn’t ready, wasn’t even close, and Mircea had never hurt a woman. He didn’t intend to start now. So he stayed in position, shaking, breathing hard, eyes searching the small area fruitlessly.

Until a pot of some sweet-smelling lotion appeared as if my magic beside his hand.

He didn’t know where it had come from; didn’t care. He accepted it gratefully, using his teeth to pull out the cork. He spilled it out quickly with shaking hands, smoothing it over his quivering shaft.

“Hurry,” his client ordered. And Mircea’s brain, which was clearly attempting to ruin his life, threw up a comment wondering what had ever happened to slow.

He ruthlessly suppressed it, but her lips twitched anyway.

He responded by sliding a gentle, seeking finger into her wet heat.

He was rewarded with a small gasp, and an undulating arch that took more of that finger inside herself. He swallowed and added a second, and a bone-deep shiver went through her, before he felt her deliberately relax around him. Allowing him to stroke deep inside, to hear her groan as he touched just
there,
to feel her hips shift and rotate as he began a slow circular caress over the sensitive spot, pleasuring and stretching at the same time.

He drew back and added a third finger, before beginning to thrust carefully, seeing sweat begin to gather and glisten in the hollows of her throat, between the full breasts, down the center of the taut stomach. His need was now great, to the point that he was shaking with it, but he continued until she began to rock harder, arching up to meet every
thrust, her breath making low growls in her throat. Until the growls finally formed words.

“I’m not going to break. Do it.”

Mircea didn’t need to be told twice. He slid smoothly into her, trembling with the effort of restraint, his hands curling over her hip bones, pulling her onto him. She gasped and tightened convulsively around him, and he bit his lip, struggling for control. Before drawing back with agonizing care and then thrusting forward, a little harder than at first.

The sensation tore through him, as much mental as physical. For two years, he had been dead, in every sense of the word. He had thought he would never be anything again, never do anything. That he had been cursed to a hopeless existence, little more than a shade, doomed to walk in darkness, cold and alone for whatever time he had left.

And yet here he was, making love in the sunlight.

It seemed impossible; it seemed absurd. But he could feel it on his shoulders, like a rich mantle. Could taste it on the warm air that blew over them. Could see it glisten on a few strands of his hair as they blew in the breeze. And in the sheen in her eyes as she looked up at him, knowing and strangely compassionate. He uttered a choked cry, and made another thrust, more powerful yet, bringing his hips up tight against her.

She met him hard, with a hot, needy stare that destroyed the last of Mircea’s composure. He began to pump furiously even as his eyes slid shut, allowing him to savor the tight, slick friction of their joining. He knew he was going to finish fast, but he couldn’t seem to hold back anymore, driving his need and wonder and pain and joy into the
body beneath him.