And not just from the press of bodies.
Power shimmered in the air, so thick that Mircea could almost feel it. He could taste it, dense and cloying on the back of his tongue, threatening to suffocate him. Had there been this much at the consul’s house, when he was there? If so, the sun must have addled his brains, because he didn’t remember it.
He didn’t remember it from the last time he was here, either. Of course, he’d been a little too overwhelmed by his personal battle to have been paying close attention, but he thought he’d recall the feeling of raw power like a haze in the air. Or a fog that he took in with every breath, and that seeped in through his pores like a caustic lotion, threatening to burn him just from the overflow.
It made him itchy, restless, and nervous as hell. Like a rabbit in a field of foxes. Hungry ones, he thought, noticing the bared-teeth smiles between several guests, two predators meeting and acknowledging one another, before moving on. And sending currents swirling through the room as they passed, like sharks scattering schools of fish.
It was less than reassuring when he was fairly sure he didn’t even qualify as a minnow. There was a distinct feel of another world coexisting with this one, but just out of reach. A world composed of brief touches, half heard whispers, and colors that seemed to stay in the air when people moved, blurring behind them in lines that didn’t go away, no matter how hard he blinked.
He was increasingly sure that what he could see was only half of what was happening, and not the more important part.
A trumpet sounded nearby, glaringly loud, and Mircea jumped. His hand went automatically to his hip where a sword should have rested, but found only the softness of his hosen. He swallowed, and looked around to find Paulo glaring at him.
“Not you, too,” the blond hissed.
Mircea straightened up, and noticed that the guests were now filing toward the banquet room. Including Jerome, until Paulo jerked him back. “Guests are seated according to precedence.”
“I knew that.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full!” Paulo whispered furiously.
“I was just—”
“And don’t fill it so full that your cheeks swell out! And don’t drool onto your shirt! And don’t—”
Paulo cut off abruptly, staring at something on the exquisitely set tables in the room just ahead. And looking stricken. “Oh, no.”
“What is it?”
He grabbed Mircea’s sleeve. “Oh, God.”
“What?”
“Forks.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
The forks were the least of Mircea’s problems.
“I thought we’d be at the lady’s table,” Jerome said, glancing enviously at the raised area at the front of the banquet hall, where the senator would soon take her seat.
Mircea didn’t say anything.
The itchy, nervous sensation from outside had increased tenfold once they entered the close confines of the hall. Waves of pure power shot by him, over him, and in some cases through him. He put a hand out to return his glass to the tray a passing servant was carrying, and received a jolt hard enough to make him snatch it back.
The servant gave him a strange look, but Mircea didn’t care. It was starting to feel like a lightning storm had been trapped in between the walls. Had been trapped, and was eager to get out.
But not half as much as Mircea was.
Jerome shot him a glance. “You all right?”
“Yes.”
“You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine,” Mircea said, and closed his eyes.
And still saw the crowd, glowing with power, in his mind.
A shining nimbus hovered about the guests, outlining their shapes far better than the dim lighting. It was so faint around some of them that he had trouble seeing it, but bright as a flame around others. Forming glowing ribbons that streamed out behind them whenever they moved, like the tail of one of the kites he’d flown as a boy. Together, the senator’s milling guests wove a lattice of light across the room, a glowing tapestry of power that—
“Are you sure?” Jerome asked, sounding less than certain himself. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine,” Mircea repeated, a little breathlessly.
Because the scene had just changed. In his mind’s eye, a rainbow swirled about a figure who had just entered from some door he hadn’t noticed and didn’t care about. Because the senator’s presence lit up the room like the sun rising through stained glass.
Or perhaps the Murano variety would be more accurate. The enhanced colors allowed him to see that the strokes of power weren’t just monochrome, as he’d first thought. But shaded, striped, and speckled in a hundred different ways, in colors that overlapped and tinted each other.
And formed a picture of family alliances more distinctive than any coat of arms, Mircea realized, as he finally understood what he was seeing.
These had to be the energy patterns she had talked about, the ones all vampires were supposed to have. He didn’t know how he was suddenly able to perceive them when he never had before. But they were beautiful, beautiful . . . almost mesmerizing. . . .
Until he caught sight of his own hand, which he had unconsciously raised as if to touch one of the passing bands.
And saw it as a dark silhouette against all that power, his own strength so negligible as to be almost invisible, even when he moved.
His hand fell back to his side, abruptly.
Of course. He didn’t have a master. He didn’t belong to anyone. And, he realized, every vampire of any strength had known that, immediately, upon first glance.
No wonder he’d been attacked so many times, on the way to Venice. No wonder he’d been hunted for sport, by those who knew there would be no reprisals for his death. No wonder the Watch had been able to identify him as a blackmail target so easily and so quickly.
He advertised his vulnerability just by walking into a room.
“Mircea?” Jerome was sounding genuinely worried now.
Mircea opened his eyes to see a face that matched the voice looking at him nervously. He put a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder, then realized it was shaking. “I need some air,” he said hoarsely.
“But—” Jerome glanced at Paulo, who was busy being charming to one of the senator’s ladies a little way off. “But the senator is here. They’re going to start seating any—”
“I’ll be back in a minute,” Mircea said. And then he was pushing through the crowd, half blind from two types of vision fighting with each other, and heedless of the fine guests except as obstacles in his way.
He somehow reached the courtyard, and then kept on going, the burn of power dissipating behind him. It was replaced by cool night breezes, the sound of a fountain in the distance, and the smell of growing things. And velvety darkness that enveloped him like an old friend.
He felt his muscles sag in relief, almost to the point of causing him to fall down. He was in a cleared area with a statue he didn’t bother to look at before closing his eyes. And thereby gaining even more relief from his too-sharp senses, which might be useful at times but could also be utterly overwhelming.
Like his whole world these days.
He had a sudden, almost physical ache at the thought of home. Of snow-covered hills and fir trees. Of crisp winter air and fresh baked bread. Of a language that he didn’t have to struggle to understand. Of soft arms and a sweet scent that enveloped him while he slept beneath a mountain of furs. Of a familiar voice, whispering in his ear—