Vampire's Kiss (28 page)

I adjusted my tray, quickly wiping the sweat from my palms. Was I supposed to walk in and serve food or just watch this horror show unfold?

I chose the latter—better not to call attention to myself at this very moment. More important, it provided a great opportunity. Studying every detail, memorizing each face, noting every reaction, were the sorts of things that could save a girl’s life later on.

There were seven vampires—the Synod of Seven, I
presumed—with three on each side of a thickly hewn wooden table and one at the head. This guy, obviously the leader, got my most intensive scrutiny. Besides, not only was he in charge; he was also the one currently tearing a new one in the serving girl.

“Are you clumsy,” he demanded of her, “or merely a fool?”

Candles littered the place, and long, eerie shadows danced up the craggy stone walls and along the uneven timber plank ceiling. Even the air was different, reminding me of an evening storm in my Florida hometown—I sensed the same sudden cool, the altered light, the air charged with electricity…and danger.

“See what you have done. You have spilled Brother Marcus’s wine.”

She scuttled around on her knees, using her skirts to swab up the spilled liquid, and I cringed for her. Her body quaked too violently, and her efforts were worthless. Her bun had loosened, and wisps of black hair spilled around her face.

Another vampire chimed in—Brother Marcus, I assumed—speaking with an impatient sneer in a thick German dialect. “Yes, and I find myself thirsty.”

This was once someone’s daughter, now reduced to a pathetic creature who’d likely not survive the night. “Please forgive me,” she begged in German. “I’m sorry. I will get you more.”

I winced, my blood chilling for her. In her nerves, she’d accidentally spoken the casual
Euch
instead of the more formal
Ihnen
.

The room became utterly silent—silent, but for her whimpering.

“Rise,” the man at the head said. As she did, he raked her with a disdainful look. “You overstep.”

The girl trembled, wavering on legs too weak to hold her.

“Stand, I told you.” The head man grabbed her arm, and she cried out as he pulled her up and shoved her toward Marcus. “Give him aught to drink.”

Marcus’s mouth attached to the girl’s neck in an instant. I’d never seen a vampire feed, and I watched in horrified fascination as he wrenched her backward, his throat gulping convulsively. Crimson pooled in the corners of his mouth and spilled down her skin, shimmering in the candlelight. I couldn’t see it in the shadows, but I heard the hideous
plip-plip
of her blood dribbling onto the floor.

Her eyes rolled back in her head, eyelids fluttering. She swayed, her expression either pain or ecstasy—I couldn’t tell which.

Two male attendants appeared behind me, and I gave a start. The man at the head of the table gave them a sharp nod, and they grabbed the girl by the elbows, then dragged her from the room.

The leader’s eyes found me then, pinning me. I stood there, uncertain. My tray, heavy with plates of meats and breads, felt as if it weighed five thousand pounds. But I couldn’t spill; I couldn’t tremble—there wasn’t room to make a single mistake.

“Sie bringt die nächste Portion,”
he said, announcing the next course. I just hoped the next
portion
didn’t involve me.

I remembered my role—I was a dim, timid, English-speaking attendant. I didn’t move, and he beckoned impatiently.

Only then did I step forward, imagining graceful things—ballerinas, cats, flowers in the breeze—delicate things I’d never been but needed to act like now if I wanted to survive. I made my body move in long, elegant movements.

“You may stay,” he told me in German, “and see that our cups overflow.”

I pretended not to understand. I dared raise my chin just a little bit and widened my eyes.
Pretty…I was a pretty, graceful, innocent ballerina,
I reminded myself. I curtsied, whispering, “I beg your pardon, sir?”

He gave me a long, lingering look. I estimated he’d been in his fifties when he was turned, and with a few lines etched on his face, and a head of longish, white hair, he was neither ugly nor handsome. He didn’t look cruel, either, but when it came to vampires, I knew better than to judge a book by its cover.
“Solch ein schönes Stück. Und sie spricht nicht deutsch.”

I schooled my features. I was dumb and invisible. I definitely was
not
a genius undercover superspy who hated being called a pretty piece who was unable to speak German.

The other men chuckled, but instead of a jovial thing, the sound was menacing. Candlelight cast them in dramatic light and shadow, and some of their faces were clearly visible, while others were merely shadowy silhouettes, with black holes where mouths and eyes should have been.

One asked with a laugh, “Better that way, is it not?”

“You may stay,” he told me in English. “See to it that our glasses remain full and our food plentiful.”

“It would be my honor, sir.” More deferential whispering from me, another curtsy.

“To the fine wine of Brother Jacob,” one of the vampires
announced, and they forgot my existence. They raised their glasses in a toast, repeating their leader’s name, sounding like a baritone chorus…
Yaa-cub
.

Jacob touched his glass to his forehead.
“Danke. Und herzlich Willkommen, meine Brüder.”

The meeting commenced, and so much for the myth that vampires couldn’t eat. These guys
chowed
. And drank. And drank some more.

I supposed eating wasn’t just a physical thing—sometimes we ate because we
enjoyed
eating—and if I could spend eternity not worrying about my waistline, you can bet I’d consume my share of Nutter Butters.

I scampered to and fro, ensuring their every need was met and all the while struggling to follow the conversation. Their dialect was old and coarse, and I discovered that reading Old High German was one thing, but hearing it was something else entirely. With no context to work from, I had a hard time parsing discussions filled with disjointed references to conflicts and people I knew nothing about.

Still, I hung on to every word, and it wasn’t the urge to save a tortured vampire that drove me—I wanted to get out of there alive, to make my escape. And, if I was to be honest, a small part of me wanted to impress Alcántara, too—to have a moment of triumph before I disappeared into the sunset.

A single phrase popped from the rest, and my heart kicked up a notch. Had I heard correctly?

“Von der
Eyja næturinnar
?”
someone repeated.

Excitement zinged through me. I lingered at the table, pouring wine and listening.

Jacob was interrogating a younger-looking vampire who bore a circular bald monk’s tonsure on the crown of his head. He demanded, “What of our prisoner?”

“We have him still. We have been interrogating him.”

My blood ran cold. Were they talking about Carden McCloud? They’d mentioned a prisoner and the Isle of Night in a short span. I stepped closer, my movements slow, refilling glasses that didn’t require it and straining to understand.

A black-haired vampire asked, “Have you learned anything?” He’d spoken in a German so archaic, I wouldn’t have understood had I not heard the sentence before.

“No. He refuses to speak.”

The head vampire put down his knife and fork. “Then we destroy him.”

“As you wish it, Brother Jacob.”

“Tonight,” the leader added, and then he shot me a glare.

In my concentration, my movements had slowed to a halt, and I flinched back into action, going to put the wine on a sideboard and thinking hard all the while. This was my first—and hopefully last—mission. Failure might destroy my chances for escape. I would not,
could not
fail Alcántara, and Alcántara wanted the prisoner alive.

Carden McCloud was here, and these vampires wanted to destroy him, tonight.

Except I would find him first.

“Have the young female clear these,” one of the vampires said in German, clinking a fork against his glass. “I have a taste for your brandy.”

Jacob gave me the order, and I went from seat to seat,
gathering the glassware and making room for brandy snifters. As I was clearing, something caught my eye, and I did what was either the cleverest or the stupidest thing of my life.

A pretty, lone steak knife had drifted between place settings, forgotten amidst all the plates and cutlery. But
I
saw it—it was sharp, shining, and calling my name. Its handle was thin and elegant, and with a blade tapered to a fine point, it was balanced, looking eminently throwable.

I dropped a soiled linen napkin over it. I gathered glasses and arranged them on my tray. Then I plucked up the napkin, knife and all.

My ears buzzed, I was so panicked somebody had seen what I did. I was terrified that at any moment claws would grab me from behind and teeth rip into my flesh. But the conversation continued as before, a jovial wine-soaked hum.

I hustled down toward the kitchens, pausing on the spiral stairs, my heart pounding and sweat trickling down my back. The passageway was miniscule, each step just a tiny, triangular sliver, and I leaned against the wall for balance. The stone cooled my damp back, and the glasses clinked on my precariously balanced tray.

Using one hand, I hiked up my skirts and slid the knife inside my panties, along the hip. I flipped it over twice, twisting the fabric to hold it tightly in place.

I smoothed my dress and scurried all the way down, navigating the darkened corridors. Adrenaline coursed through me, and my senses were heightened, hyperaware of every sound and every movement around me.

And then I perceived a slight shift behind me. I was going to ignore it. Until I smelled it.

The unexpected stench of sulfur.

I turned. It was then I saw her. The hair gave her away—even pulled taut into a bun, even in the shadows, that maple hair gleamed, impossibly.

Lilac.

I
had to concentrate. That was just nerves getting to me, because there was
no freaking way
that could’ve been Lilac.

Lilac von Straubing. My enemy. The girl I’d beaten—supposedly killed.

It was as if the world tilted on its axis, and everything went all melty and surreal, the torches brighter, the hallway darker. I turned again, my heart in my throat.

But the Lilac look-alike was farther away now, trailing some long, lithe, mysteriously hooded vampire like a shadow. They disappeared around a corner.

Was I imagining that she’d shuffled away quickly? That she’d looked nervous? Was my mind playing tricks, or had she stolen one last glimpse of me? I’d know her anywhere—I saw that maple hair and heard the
flick-flick
of her lighter in my nightmares.

But surely it wasn’t Lilac. Not only had I killed her; this girl seemed way too subservient to be von Slutling. It was my
imagination going haywire under the stress, or maybe it was some bad vampire mojo in the air, making my greatest fears materialize before my eyes. Because Lilac’s survival was inconceivable, impossible.

Unthinkable.

Either way, I was shaken. There was no way I could’ve gone back upstairs to serve brandy with anything remotely resembling composure.

Upstairs.
The thought jolted me back into the moment.

McCloud was going to be destroyed…and soon.
That
was what needed my focus. I had to find McCloud and do my job before I experienced any other hallucinations.

I’d prove Ronan wrong—not only would I survive the mission; I’d make it a success. I’d discover McCloud’s whereabouts and report back to Alcántara, who now seemed to offer all the comforts of an old and trusted friend. And then I’d make my getaway, disappearing forever, and Ronan would rue the day he’d doubted me.

One of the head matrons bustled by, and I darted my eyes down, bursting into a brisk walk and trying to look busy. But I caught sight of my apron—it was white, while all the head maids’ aprons were black. It gave me an idea.