Verse of the Vampyre (23 page)

Peter said quietly, “Then you haven’t been paying attention.” He touched her hair lightly. “You may not hear from me for a bit.”

“Please be careful. That woman is insane.”

“I can handle Cat.” He bent forward to kiss her.

Catriona stepped around the corner of the boathouse.

“Do tell,” she said.

The gun she aimed at them was the size of a blunderbuss.

“S
cratch a lover, find a foe,” quoted Grace.

“Eenie meenie, miney mo.” Peter’s voice was muffled as he worked to pry the grate off the floor of their cell.

Grace studied the lightly muscled line of his back. “I think I’ve figured it out.”

“Marvelous. Explain it to me one of these days.” He wiped his arm across his face.

“It’s Grand Guignol,” she told him. “Someone staged a big dramatic production full of violent, frightening themes for our benefit. Or maybe for your benefit.”

Peter did not respond, shifting position on the stone floor for better leverage.

“All the mysterious events of the past few weeks have been so many stage trappings. Vampires, sinister occurrences, jealous lovers and a stolen treasure—they were just red herrings, MacGuffins.”

Grace believed, though she did not say so aloud, that the true purpose behind all the melodramatic machinations was a dark one and possibly as Gothic as anything Polidori or Byron could have conceived: revenge.

Revenge against Peter.

But surely something had gone wrong. Surely Lord Ruthven’s death had not been part of the original plan. Unless it was a really bad plan.

Peter made an impatient sound and straightened, flexing his back. “Your logic is impeccable, Professor. You seem to have missed only one detail. A minor one, but you’ll find it of interest.”

But the rest of what he would have said was cut off by the grate of the key in the lock of their cell door.

“Let’s go.” Both Donnies were present and armed with a mediaeval but quite effective-looking assortment of weapons. They narrowly eyed Peter as he stepped out of the cell followed by Grace.

“Move your arse,” Red Donnie snarled at Grace. With his bristling red beard and hair he reminded her of those Hagar the Horrible cartoons. She bit back a hysterical giggle.

They marched up the stairs in uneasy formation.

As they passed through the doorway Grace caught Derek’s words, and her heart forgot how to beat for a moment.

“We’re going to have to kill them,” he was saying. “We’ve gone too far to turn back.”

“Let me think.” Catriona massaged her temples. She sat in a yellow brocade Queen Anne chair that looked like a small throne; the old pistol lay on the table beside her. Derek paced up and down before the fireplace.

“There’s nothing to think about. He’s been playing you. And she knows too much.”

“Actually, I don’t know that much,” said Grace.

This was a smaller room and empty of the grotesque hunting trophies of the lair of Catriona’s great-grandfather. There was a gorgeous brown-and-
navy Persian carpet on the floor. Isfahan by any chance?

Grace tried to imagine growing up in a mausoleum like this castle, and decided it was no wonder Catriona was more than a tad odd.

“Do sit down,” Catriona invited.

Grace took the chair opposite Catriona, who studied her sardonically.

“What a transparent face you have. Would you like to hear the story of my life? Or no, I imagine it’s the story of Peter’s life you’d most enjoy.”

Her golden eyes shifted to Peter’s. Grace was reminded of a quote from Byron.
“These two hated with a hate found only on the stage.”
But in truth that better applied to Derek and Catriona—their dislike had been feigned. Whatever lay between Catriona and Peter was not feigned, and it was somehow the crux of this “case.”

“She’s heard it all before,” Peter said.

“I doubt that, lover.”

Grace said to Derek, “If you’re going to knock me off anyway, you may as well fill in the blanks. What did happen at the theater?”

“Not much,” drawled Catriona.

“I mean to Lord Ruthven. If you didn’t kill Lady Ives, and Lord Ruthven’s death was an accident, and the security guard’s death was—” She couldn’t help but swallow on that. “An accident—I guess—I don’t see why you’re so set on killing us.”

“Possibly because I would enjoy it,” Catriona said.

Until then Grace had been thinking Catriona held a grudge against her because Grace had stumbled into the middle of her revenge on Peter. It was sinking in that the “minor detail” Peter had referred to was Cat’s jealousy of Grace. Jealousy and possibly hatred.

“Oh.”

Catriona’s eyes glinted. “Anyway, we’ve already explained it for you once. Rabbie wanted out. After the fiasco at the Hunt Ball, he hit on the idea of confiding in you. Derek went to the theater to dissuade him. They fought. Rabbie got the worst of it.”

“It was an accident,” Derek insisted. “He tried to hit me with a chair, and I jabbed him with the broken handle of a broom.”

You impaled him, Grace thought, but she said only, “If that’s true, why can’t you go to the police? It’s clear that you did try to save him.” Sort of.

Catriona shrugged an elegant shoulder. “We don’t enjoy the camaraderie you do with the coppers. And I don’t imagine our innocent intent will go far with the authorities; not given our other activities.”

Probably not, Grace silently agreed, thinking of the dead security guard.

“Who was driving the van that hit the security guard?”

“Donnie Hood,” Derek was quick to say. Grace understood what people meant by “looking daggers.” Catriona looked daggers at Derek.

But with one possible murder charge hanging over him, Grace could see why Derek wasn’t covering for anyone else’s fatal mistakes.

“And what was the scheme Lord Ruthven wanted out of?”

“The usual.” Catriona gazed at Peter. He gazed back.

“Quite,” he said.

“You did have a choice. One always has choice, as you used to say.”

Grace said, “You wanted Peter back in the gang?”

Catriona sighed in mock sorrow. “It just wasn’t the same without him.”

“We made him an offer he couldn’t refuse,” Derek said. He laughed, and looked to Catriona for confirmation.

“Who said I wanted to refuse?” Peter said reasonably. “We simply need to negotiate the details.” He nodded at Grace. “Like her.”

Grace said, confirming her own theory, “And all the vampire stuff was just…stage trappings?”

“Very good.”

“
Was
there anyone on the catwalk the night the pigeon was trapped?”

Catriona’s grin widened. “Nope.”

The power of suggestion, Grace thought ruefully. Catriona had manipulated them all beautifully. “Who followed me from the pub that night?” She had been guessing Derek, but now she wondered.

“Who do you imagine?”

She purred the words, and Grace had a picture of herself as the mouse Cat had been toying with, batting between her sharp little claws as she savored the thought of…this moment? A moment made possible by Grace’s own stubbornness.

“And Lord Ruthven killed Lady Ives?”

“That’s right.” But Catriona hesitated just a fraction too long.

“Who killed Lady Ives?” Grace pressed.

Derek’s gaze slanted toward Catriona. Catriona’s eyes slid toward Derek.

They don’t know, Grace realized.
Or
the one who did it was pretending to believe the other was guilty.

“Now I have a question for you,” Catriona said. “Where is the Peeler?”

But she was not asking Grace, she was talking to Peter. She cocked the old pistol she held and pointed it at Grace.

“I hid it,” Peter said.

“I’m going to shoot her in the kneecap.”

“I’ll be happy to show you where it is.”

Catriona looked suddenly very weary. “I’ve got a better idea. Bring it here. Derek, go with him.”

“I’d rather not be left alone with her,” Grace remarked.

Derek laughed. Peter’s eyes held Grace’s for a long moment. If he was trying to signal her, Grace couldn’t read the message.

They left.

Catriona turned to her two henchmen, who had been watching the proceedings with beady-eyed interest. She spoke to them in Gaelic. Their eyes went to Grace, then they exchanged a look.

Grace felt cold in the pit of her stomach.

“Put the dog on the boat,” Catriona added.

The two Donnies left the room, the deerhound trotting after.

Catriona studied Grace. “Nothing personal.”

“No?”

Her smile was scornful. “No.”

So much made sense now, including Grace’s inclusion in the production of
The Vampyre
—perhaps even Peter’s careful distancing of himself from her. She watched Catriona saunter to the fireplace, leaning one elbow on the mantel and staring into the orange flames. She seemed lost in her thoughts.

“I’ve known him since I was nineteen,” Catriona said at last. “How long have you known him?”

Grace didn’t answer.

“Everything was fine until Istanbul. It all fell apart in Istanbul. The whole goddamned world fell apart in Istanbul.” Her profile looked like marble in the flickering firelight.

Birds of prey mate for life. The thought came unbidden to Grace. Not something one wanted to get in the middle of, really.

“They caught him,” Catriona said. Her voice was barely audible; her mouth twisted bitterly.

“We couldn’t get him out.” Her head turned briefly Grace’s way, and Grace saw the brilliant sheen of her eyes. Too brilliant, she realized with a jolt.

Long moments passed before Catriona spoke again, and Grace knew that the other woman had traveled miles and years in her thoughts.

“I thought he was in China,” she said quietly. “He used to joke about retiring to China. But he was in England all the time.”

“How did you find him?” Grace asked curiously.

Catriona laughed without humor. “By accident. Danny spotted him.” Her eyes met Grace’s. “Danny Delon.”

Danny Delon. The little man who had quite inadvertently brought Grace and Peter together. It was a small world after all.

Inexplicably she thought of the maps in Rogue’s Gallery, the pale and beautiful drawings of mysterious landscapes—and the ferocious monsters lurking at the edges of the uncertain world. She remembered Peter quoting a Chinese proverb.
Wherever you go, speak the language of that place.

Reaching down, she grabbed the edge of the Persian rug. She yanked with all her might.

Catriona’s feet shot out from under her and she crashed to the floor, dropping the gun.

Grace lunged for the gun. Catriona scrambled for it, too.

They wrestled on the floor. Grace’s fingertips brushed the gun. She pushed it farther away. Catriona rolled over and jerked a fistful of Grace’s hair. She tried to bang Grace’s head on the floor. Instinctively Grace’s hands locked in Catriona’s hair, and she used the other woman to leverage herself so that her head didn’t contact the stone.

Lips drawing back in a snarl, Catriona used her free hand to try to grab Grace by the throat. Grace let go of one hank of hair and tried to punch Catriona, remembering too late that she should keep her thumb on the outside of her fist. Her blow landed ineffectively on Catriona’s shoulder as Catriona whipped around.

It could only have been a few seconds, but it felt like they had been struggling for hours. The muscles in Grace’s arms ached. Her thumb felt sprained.

Footsteps down the hall indicated someone was returning—at a run.

Catriona kicked her hard, and Grace yipped. This was her first fight, and, unless she won it, probably her last. She let go of Catriona for a second, grabbed for the statue on the table, and brought it down hard on Catriona’s head.

Catriona’s arms slid out from under her, and she flattened on the carpet.

Peter skidded to a stop in the doorway. His eyebrows were raised in startled inquiry.

“Girl Scouts,” gasped Grace.

Their dash down the hallway was stopped short by the figure advancing on them. Moonlight outlined the newcomer, gleaming off fair hair and patrician features—and the blade of the sword he carried.

“Oh, hell,” Peter said.

He didn’t waste further breath on speech, but went to the nearest wall and ripped a basket-hilt broadsword down. He barely had it free when Derek ran at him swinging wildly.

Peter parried, although it was more like swinging a bat. The blades met with a ferocious clang. This was not fencing like in the movies; it was violent slashing and cutting at each other.

Blood trickled from Derek’s hairline down his face. Peter must have hit him—though not nearly hard enough. Grace was a little surprised at her own blood-thirsty impulse.

Derek was fearless; Grace had to give him that. He charged at Peter again and again, and was driven back—though each time with a bit less energy.

Their blades rang out once more. Peter narrowly missed being sliced. He grabbed a carved chair and threw it in Derek’s path. Derek avoided falling over it, and charged forward.

Peter backed up a few steps and slid over a table, keeping it between himself and Derek. Derek swore.