I heard heels clicking down the hallway, and I stepped away from the door. It opened, and Theresa stood on the landing. She stared down at me and the empty room, hands on hips, mouth squeezed tight. “Where are they?”
I held up my wounded hand. “They did their part, then they left.”
“They weren't supposed to leave,” she said. Theresa made an exasperated sound low in her throat. “It was that rat king of theirs, wasn't it?”
I shrugged. “They left; I don't know why.”
“So calm, so unafraid. Didn't the rats frighten you?”
I shrugged again. When something works, stay with it.
“They were not supposed to draw blood.” She stared at me. “Are you going to shape shift next full moon?” Her voice held a hint of curiosity. Curiosity killed the vampire. One could always hope.
“No,” I said, and I left it at that. No explanation. If she really wanted one, she could just beat me against the wall until I told her what she wanted to hear. She wouldn't even break a sweat. Of course, Aubrey was being punished for hurting me.
Her eyes narrowed as she studied me. “The rats were supposed to frighten you, animator. They don't seem to have done their duty.”
“Maybe I don't frighten that easily.” I met her eyes without any effort. They were just eyes.
Theresa grinned at me suddenly, flashing fang. “Nikolaos will find something that frightens you, animator. For fear is power.” She whispered the last as if afraid to say it too loud.
What did vampires fear? Did visions of sharpened stakes and garlic haunt them, or were there worse things? How do you frighten the dead?
“Walk in front of me, animator. Go meet your master.”
“Isn't Nikolaos your master as well, Theresa?”
She stared at me, face blank, as if the laughter had been an illusion. Her eyes were cold and dark. The rats' eyes had held more personality. “Before the night is out, animator, Nikolaos will be everyone's master.”
I shook my head. “I don't think so.”
“Jean-Claude's power has made you foolish.”
“No,” I said, “it isn't that.”
“Then what, mortal?”
“I would rather die than be a vampire's flunky.”
Theresa never blinked, only nodded, very slowly. “You may get your wish.”
The hair at the back of my neck crawled. I could meet her gaze, but evil has a certain feel to it. A neck-ruffling, throattightening feeling that tightens your gut. I have felt it around humans as well. You don't have to be undead to be evil. But it helps.
I walked in front of her. Theresa's boots clicked sharp echoes from the hallway. Maybe it was only my fear talking, but I felt her staring at me, like an ice cube sliding down my spine.
11
The room was huge, like a warehouse, but the walls were solid, massive stone. I kept waiting for Bela Lugosi to sweep around the comer in his cape. What was sitting against one wall was almost as good.
She had been about twelve or thirteen when she died. Small, half-formed breasts showed under a long flimsy dress. It was pale blue and looked warm against the total whiteness of her skin. She had been pale when alive; as a vampire she was ghostly. Her hair was that shining white-blonde that some children have before their hair darkens to brown. This hair would never grow dark.
Nikolaos sat in a carved wooden chair. Her feet did not quite touch the floor.
A male vampire moved to lean on the chair arm. His skin was a strange shade of brownish ivory. He leaned over and whispered in Nikolaos's ear.
She laughed, and it was the sound of chimes or bells. A lovely, calculated sound. Theresa went to the girl in the chair, and stood behind it, hands trailing in the long white-blonde hair.
A human male came to stand to the right of her chair. Back against the wall, hands clasped at his side. He stared straight ahead, face blank, spine rigid. He was nearly perfectly bald, face narrow, eyes dark. Most men don't look good without hair. This one did. He was handsome but had the air of a man who didn't care much about that. I wanted to call him a soldier, though I didn't know why.
Another man came to lean against Theresa. His hair was a sandy blond, cut short. His face was strange, not good looking, but not ugly, a face you would remember. A face that might become lovely if you looked at it long enough. His eyes were a pale greenish color.
He wasn't a vampire, but I might have been hasty calling him human.
Jean-Claude came last to stand to the left of the chair. He touched no one, and even standing with them, he was apart from them.
“Well,” I said, “all we need is the theme from Dracula, Prince of Darkness, and we'll be all set.”
Her voice was like her laugh, high and harmless. Planned innocence. “You think you are funny, don't you?”
I shrugged. “It comes and goes.”
She smiled at me. No fang showed. She looked so human, eyes sparkling with humor, face rounded and pleasant. See how harmless I am, just a pretty child. Right.
The black vampire whispered in her ear again. She laughed, so high and clear you could have bottled it.
“Do you practice the laugh, or is it natural talent? Naw, I'm betting you practice.”
Jean-Claude's face twisted. I wasn't sure if he was trying not to laugh, or not to frown. Maybe both. I affected some people that way.
The laughter seeped out of her face, very human, until only her eyes sparkled. There was nothing funny about the look in those twinkling eyes. It was the sort of look that cats give small birds.
Her voice lilted at the end of each word, a Shirley Temple affectation. “You are either very brave, or very stupid.”
“You really need at least one dimple to go with the voice.”
Jean-Claude said softly, “I'm betting on stupid.”
I glanced at him and then back at the ghoulie pack. “What I am is tired, hurt, angry, and scared. I would very much like to get the show over with, and get down to business.”
“I am beginning to see why Aubrey lost his temper.” Her voice was dry, humorless. The lilting sing-song was dripping away like melting ice.
“Do you know how old I am?”
I stared at her and shook my head.
“I thought you said she was good, Jean-Claude.” She said his name like she was angry with him.
“She is good.”
“Tell me how old I am.” Her voice was cold, an angry grownup's voice.
“I can't. I don't know why, but I can't.”
“How old is Theresa?”
I stared at the dark-haired vampire, remembering the weight of her in my mind. She was laughing at me. “A hundred, maybe hundred and fifty, no more.”
Her face was unreadable, carved marble, as she asked, “Why, no more?”
“That's how old she feels.”
“Feels?”
“In my head, she feels a certain … degree of power.” I always hated to explain this part aloud. It always sounded mystical. It wasn't. I knew vampires the way some people knew horses, or cars. It was a knack. It was practice. I didn't think Nikolaos would enjoy being compared to a horse, or car, so I kept my mouth shut. See, not stupid after all.