But the kitchen was better, with its rough, open board ceiling, plain plaster walls, and plainer furniture. There was an old, scarred table, a few wooden stools, rows of shiny brass pots, and a couple pieces of cracked pottery that the cats ate out of when they weren’t feasting on Zaneta’s bird. And a big stone fireplace belching out enough heat to warm him, even now . . .
Mircea liked the kitchen.
He liked it better a few seconds later, when something appeared under his nose. Something that smelled better than . . . than . . . oh, God. His fangs broke through fresh young skin, sliding in cleanly, but still wrenching a gasp from whoever was providing such wonderful, such amazing, such—
His brain shut down, and for a few moments, he just fed.
At some point, the lovely arm went away, to be replaced by another, hairier version. It didn’t matter; it was wonderful, too. And slowly, he managed to identify the little things he was sitting on.
Of course.
They were peas, dried ones. Which had been in a bowl, being prepped for someone’s dinner. But which were now mostly squashed. He sat there and blinked at them for a minute. Until someone burst in through the doorway and jerked him up. Someone with angry blue eyes and a familiar face that he couldn’t quite—
Oh, yes.
Paulo.
“Damn it! I knew we should have sent someone to get you!” the blond said, shaking him.
“Why didn’t you?” a harsher voice asked. It was the one that had been swearing earlier.
Bezio, Mircea thought vaguely.
“Martina said he’d be fine!”
“Martina seems to take a lot of liberties with other people’s lives!”
“Master?” Paulo reminded him tightly.
“That doesn’t give her the right—”
“It gives her every right,” Paulo snapped. “Will you stop thinking like a human?”
“So she bought him just to kill him?”
“No. Something must have gone wrong, gotten out of hand—”
“Out of hand, he says!” Bezio made a disgusted sound. And then somebody stuffed Mircea into a spare chair.
He thought that was a bad idea, considering the magnetic quality of the floor. But surprisingly, he stayed put, although he didn’t feel any of the strength that usually came from feeding. He felt more like he might just float away at any moment.
He felt odd.
He must have looked it, too, because suddenly, there were two concerned faces peering into his own, looking strangely funny this close.
“Are you all right?” Bezio asked.
“Yes,” Mircea said, trying to swat him away. And failing, because his arm didn’t seem to work. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“And tonight?” Paulo added. “How did it go?”
“She said I should come again,” Mircea told him proudly. “And then . . . and then I asked . . . I asked her—” he broke off, gasping in memory.
“You asked her what?” Bezio looked concerned.
“I asked . . . do you mean now?” He broke into peals of laughter.
Bezio let out a grunt that might have been exasperation or relief. “I worry about you,” he said, shaking his head.
“I don’t,” Mircea said, and for the first time in a long time, it was true. He didn’t know what had happened tonight, but something had. Something important. Something that had left him feeling lighter, although he supposed that could be from the blood loss.
“They bit me,” he told them.
“We noticed,” Paulo said dryly.
“I think they might have taken too much.”
“Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Do we have anyone else?” Bezio demanded, while Mircea was still trying to come up with an answer to that.
“No. And he couldn’t usefully absorb anymore right now anyway. Not at his age.”
“You’d think they’d have damned well thought about that, before they all but drained him!”
“They’re nobles. Just be glad they didn’t kill him.”
“That’s yet to be determined,” Bezio said darkly.
And the next thing Mircea knew, he was being slung over a brawny shoulder and carted up the back stairs. Which were a good deal narrower and shorter than the ones in front, which probably explained why his head kept hitting the ceiling. Or maybe that was him.
“Stop trying to get up,” Bezio told him irritably. “We’re not there yet.”
“Where?” he asked, his tongue feeling thick and heavy in his mouth.
And then he had his answer, when he was flopped down on his own bed, so soft, so comfortable, so . . .
“What’re you doing?” Mircea asked, not wanting to open his eyes to find out why Bezio was tugging on him.
“Getting your boots off!”
“Damn,” Paulo added. “The color has run all over his shirt—”
“Would you stop worrying about his damned clothes?”
“I’m not worried about them! But that crook of a tailor assured me that the color was fixed—”
There was some more swearing, and some more conversation Mircea couldn’t manage to follow. They talked so fast. It all became a blur of sound, a ribbon spiraling off into . . . into . . .
Someone slapped him. Hard. Mircea’s eyes flew open to see Bezio kneeling over him, hand raised. “What—”
And then he hit him again.
Mircea tried to put an arm up to block the assault, but it didn’t work. “Stop it,” he slurred.
“Then stay awake,” Bezio said harshly.
“It’s almost dawn—”
“It won’t be dawn for another two hours.”
“Don’t care. Want to—”
“Go to sleep; I know. But you can’t.”
Mircea stared at him, the waves of exhaustion pulling at him, threatening to drag him under. “Why not?”
“Because you’re a vampire!”
“If a human falls asleep hungry, their body just uses some of their stored fat,” Paulo explained. “They wake up the next morning a bit thinner, that’s all. But if a vampire goes to sleep without enough reserves to make it through the day, he doesn’t wake up at all. Understand?”
Mircea blinked, both at the candle Paulo was holding, which seemed impossibly bright in the darkened room, and at the implication. “I’ve been hungry before—”
“Yes, which was your body trying to force you to feed. It’s too weak to do that now. But you have to—”
He stopped abruptly, Mircea didn’t know why. Until someone else bent over him, golden nails sliding down his cheek to cup his chin. Martina.
She looked like she’d just come from a client. Dark hair down and reaching almost to her feet, makeup slightly smeared, embroidered silk robe loosely tied, revealing a vee of smooth olive skin going all the way down to her naval. Dark eyes assessing as she looked him over.
Mircea stared up into them, wondering what they reminded him of. And then the shiny black eyes of the senator’s living armbands came to mind. It really was alarming how similar they were, he thought, more than a little disturbed.
And then his mistress smiled. “You did well tonight. I’ve already been informed, she wishes to see you again.”
“That might be hard,” Bezio rasped. “If he’s dead.”
“Bezio,” Paulo said warningly, but Martina didn’t look angry.
“He will live,” she said, dropping Mircea’s chin.
“He’s not even hungry,” Bezio protested. “He should be starved, crazed even—”
“He was fed, was he not?” Martina’s dark eyes slid to Paulo.
He nodded hastily. “Yes. As soon as he returned. As much as he could take, that is. But at
his age—”
“See that he feeds again before morning.”
“Yes, of course. That is, we’ll try. I’ve already sent for Roberto. He was off today, for his sister’s wedding, but we should be able to—”