Bloodbound Page 7

  I was still blinking against the light when the accuser paused with me at the bottom of the asylum’s steps. She was looking at me, even as she squinted and angled her black hat against the morning light. Her headwear reminded me of that worn by the inquisitors of my order. The High Exorcist’s face sprung to mind along with the thought. I wondered if Havenguard might have need of a resident priestess.

  I offered a noncommittal nod.

  “You’re headed back to Maiden’s Choir?” she asked.

  “Yes.” I tried to sound more confident than I was.

  “Good. Then I’ll ride there with you.”

  “Certainly,” I chuckled, “if I had ridden here.”

  Her lips thinned. “Priests usually travel by coach. You didn’t?”

  “Oh, I did. But …” I let the reason trail off, not eager to share my humiliation with a stranger.

  Larsa nodded and didn’t press the topic.

  “You didn’t ride?” I knew what a walk it was back to the city. I hadn’t been relishing it either.

  She looked about the institution’s empty drive, obviously taking stock of her options. “I don’t ride animals.”

  “Really? I’d have thought the court would give you any training you needed, especially with as much traveling as you must do.”

  “No. Animals don’t agree with me—it’s mutual. And I don’t travel.”

  Now that was interesting. I didn’t know much about the accusers, just that they were royal agents entrusted with matters regarding the nation’s nobility. They were the ones that made the highest nobles’ problems go away, and if a noble had too many problems, they might make him go away. Supposedly there weren’t many accusers. So why would her business keep her so close to the throne?

  “Hey!” Larsa snapped, though fortunately not at me. Doctor Linas was still standing in the asylum’s entry, probably assuring we didn’t slip back in to snoop around anymore. “Your boss said to see us off. We’re having some trouble with that. Have anything to help us out?”

  “Doctor Trice said nothing about additional allowances.” Linas had a right to be annoyed with us, but if she was, it didn’t reflect in her tone. She was perfectly professional. Larsa cursed under her breath anyway.

  I tried a more delicate route. “I know Doctor Trice didn’t request the accuser’s return by any specific time, but I’m sure he expects some haste.” I nodded toward a gravel path leading from the drive around the side of the asylum. “If the asylum has anything, even a cart for deliveries, Miss Larsa could probably return before dark. If not … well, I can’t speak for the accuser, but an errand like this might take me some time.”

  Linas looked at me blankly, calculating.

  “Wait here.” She shut the fortress-like door behind her.

  “Do you think she’s going to ask permission?” I gave a little chuckle. Larsa shrugged, her attention clearly elsewhere.

  I followed her eyes. A mossy birch tree stood outside the men’s wing of the asylum. It was thin and far enough away from the building that, even if a patient were to get past his barred window, it wouldn’t help an escape. But she seemed fixated.

  “What?” I asked, only to be ignored. She started walking toward it.

  It really wasn’t any of my business to follow her, so I didn’t. But then my curiosity got the better of me. I had just bargained a ride into the city for her, so she couldn’t get too upset.

  I had only just come up behind her when she whipped the small crossbow from her hip, loaded it expertly, and fired. My heart jumped, and for half an instant I was sure I’d somehow surprised her and she’d shot me dead. But she hadn’t turned, loosing the quarrel into the tree’s pale branches. Something launched off, a thin chunk of white wood.

  “Shit!” She reloaded and brought the crossbow up again, swinging toward me.

  I cursed and half-ducked, giving her and the loaded weapon room. She was aiming, but not at the tree, following something in the air—the ribbon of bark she’d shot free. Then it flapped.

  “A bird?” I asked, as if that might explain her behavior.

  She lowered her weapon. “A bat.”

  It was already disappearing into the distance, flitting toward the city. A moment more and it was gone.

  “A white bat?” I asked.

  She nodded, starting back toward the drive.

  “Are those …” I tried not to sound totally ignorant, but was at a loss, “somehow dangerous?”

  “Dangerous?” she scoffed. “Someone would like to think so.”

  “Who?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Clattering interrupted before I could press further. The noise echoed off the asylum’s brick facade as a wagon pulled by a dappled gray mare rocked into view.

  This time, I shared in Larsa’s exasperated sigh.

  Sturdy and windowless, this wasn’t some delivery wagon—or at least, it wasn’t for the deliveries I’d imagined. It was a repurposed constable’s wagon painted in white. If I’d had to, I would have guessed it was padded on the inside like the asylum’s cells. It slowed in the drive and Doctor Linas descended from the passenger’s seat while an orderly held the reins. The doctor recited a litany of restrictions and expectations on how we were to treat asylum property.

  “Think I could steal a ride?” I said, already climbing onto the bench. When the accuser frowned, I added, “I can show you the cathedral’s library. A few thousand years of birth and death records aren’t something you’ll want to navigate alone.”

  I didn’t add that I much preferred the idea of returning to Maiden’s Choir with a purpose rather than slinking back in shame.

  “Fine.” Larsa took the driver’s place. “But I’ve got a stop to make along the way.”

  She cracked the reins before Linas finished.

  9

  BLOODLINE

  LARSA

  Welcome home, madam,” trumpeted one of the legion of nearly identical porters stationed outside the Majesty Hotel. He smiled like he knew me and tugged open a door of glass panes and brass ivy leaves. I tamped down my first urge and ignored him, being painfully aware of the results of throttling members of the hotel staff.

  One of the tallest buildings in Caliphas, the Majesty rivaled the size and luxury of even the royal palace. A prince’s ransom in gilded tiles, crystal chandeliers, conclaves of wide-seated furniture, and imported flowers—freshened hourly—ringed the concierge’s desk at the lobby’s heart. Polished to a dazzling sheen, every bit of the place, from the mosaic tiles to the heights of a forest of pillars, tempted visitors to stay just a moment more, a day extra, a week longer.

  The staff, used to fulfilling the impossible demands of the highest nobility, proved endlessly attentive. Beyond the vanguard of doormen bustled a battalion of hosts, hostesses, housekeepers, valets, unobtrusive musicians, and courtesans—the latter discrete in every sense and changed more regularly than the flowers.

  “Home?” The Pharasmin Jadain gawked. “You live here?”

  I cringed, not having noticed the priestess following me into the lobby.

  “Wait with the—” I started, but it was too late. Behind her two valets were unenthusiastically leading the ominous wagon away. I grabbed Jadain by the arm, pulling her alongside a garlanded pillar.

  “No, I don’t, I just …” I whispered swiftly, heat rising to my cheeks. “I just sleep here.”

  “You keep your coffin here,” she said matter-of-factly, eyes tracing the lobby’s faux woodland decor to the gilded boughs above.

  I nearly choked. “I don’t have—I don’t need a coffin!”

  Her attention jerked back to me. “You actually have a coffin?”

  “I’m not discussing this.”

  “I thought I was joking. So are all the stories true? We crossed running water on the way—can you even drink water?”

  I stared down a stranger who looked our way, then pulled the priestess into closer confidence with the column. “Careful.”

  She sh
ut her mouth, but her questions still practically hummed on her tongue.

  “I didn’t choose this. It’s part of my work.”

  “For the court?” she dared, dubious. “They put accusers up like this?”

  “No. They don’t.”

  “So you’re rich, then?”

  “So it’s none of your business.” I pressed my fingers into her upper arm and twisted her toward a circle of throne-like seats. “Now be quiet, sit, and wait here.” I ignored her tiny yelp of surprise. “And if anyone offers you anything, you can’t afford it.”

  She scowled, but I left before she could protest.

  I approached the lobby’s central desk, an altarlike ring of marble polished to a glassy sheen. I knew the concierge’s name. The well-pressed Mr. Still was, as always, at his post.

  “The Jalmeray Room. Is it empty?”

  “Never, madam.” He answered almost before I’d finished the question, confident and in his usual peculiar accent.

  We exchanged nods and I headed up the grand stairway.

  The crowd thinned away from the lobby, as did the assault of light and decadent decor. A small maze of halls wound between deserted salons and quiet clubrooms, finally turning into a blind alley of somber wood paneling and discreet lighting. Dignified brass placards shone upon each of the otherwise identical double doors, every one naming off some distant land: Taldor, Sargava, Thuvia, and second from the end, Jalmeray.

  During the walk, I hadn’t been wholly aware of my rising annoyance, but it all boiled up as soon as I hit the door. It crashed inward.

  The Majesty’s lounges were not themed, but the Jalmeray Room had been redecorated to match the humor of its exclusive resident. The gaudiest slice of some cut-rate bazaar had been emptied here, hiding stately paneling behind a gallery of snarling masks, garish weavings, stunted tropical trees, and a haze of licorice-infused smoke. Around a low central table, two men and a young woman sprawled across battered wicker chairs. All were stylishly dressed, but utterly ignorant of how to wear their clothes, creasing and stretching their costumes as they slouched, limp and distant. All were forever away, but the thin tails of the table’s vermillion hookah tethered them here.

  “Pathetic,” I said, booting a discarded tea service. No one noticed the clatter. I navigated heaps of beaded pillows and more dishware. The girl was closest. I knocked the hookah’s hose from her hand and yanked her to her feet. She squirmed in her underfilled emerald gown.

  “Isn’t she a bit unripe?” I didn’t have to fake my disgust, looking into eyes darkened by more than mascara. “Even for you?”

  The girl choked, her surprise stuttering in her throat even though I wasn’t talking to her. I dropped her back into the chair, where she exploded in raspy laughter—a boy’s wild laughter. At second glance, she was more clearly a pretty boy enjoying the novelty of a corset. Around me, his fellows followed his lead, tittering through lazy breaths.

  I considered hurting these pets—that would surely get some attention. Rather, a quick kick to the table upended the waterpipe, spilling burnt flayleaf and filthy water. The laughing stuttered out as each of the addicts noticed in their own blunt time. I ignored their sleepy curses.

  More than just the mood of the room fell. A tendril of the smoke clinging to the ceiling began to settle. Crossing to the fireplace, I snatched for what was inside vapor.

  Amid the smoke condensed a thin form, revealed as if fog had rolled back from a sculpture that’d been standing there the whole time. Pale skin and rich clothes constituted themselves, a cardinal vest with gold brocade hanging open over a wine-stained ivory shirt. His feet were bare, but at least he was wearing pants this time. A tousled mess of short auburn hair covered his forehead and hid the tips of slightly pointed ears. Algae-green eyes and perpetually bemused brows were among the last things to materialize. As soon as the cool, strangely loose flesh of his neck settled into my grip, I dug my nails in.

  I kept my message simple, stating it slowly: “Stop following me.”

  Considine opened his mouth, making a show of gasping. Red stained his fangs—unusually slender, even for a full-blood. No words escaped. He needed air more than most vampires—not to breathe, but to blow away the endless stream of unrequested opinions that crowed his tongue.

  “No.” I shook him. “We agreed. That means your pets, too.” I shot disdainful looks to his clique of guests, then to a covered birdcage in the corner. “All of them.”

  He pursed his lips in something between a scowl and a pout.

  “We’re still agreed then?” I squeezed my nails deeper.

  An assortment of frowns complained on his lips, but eventually stilled. Closing his eyes, he nodded once.

  “Good.” I released him and backed away a step.

  He rubbed his neck—entirely for show—firing me a practiced half-smile. “I sense I’ve somehow offended.”

  “I saw your chimney rat at Havenguard.”

  “Oh? Is that all? What a coincidence.” He crossed to the sequestered birdcage and lifted a corner of the cover. An albino bat dozed inside. He cooed to the disgusting thing incomprehensibly.

  “I’d never purposefully break my word to you,” Considine said over his shoulder. “You can’t really consider Vris a pet, though. He’s practically family. That puts him outside our agreement.”

  “The hell it does. I don’t care what you call the thing, I don’t need checking in on.”

  “I do wish you two could put this silly feud behind you.” I couldn’t be sure if he was talking to me or the damned bat.

  Considine’s guests were starting to squirm, having sucked the last wisps out of their pipes. “Do we always need an audience?”

  “Aw, these pretty things? They won’t be able to gossip.” He chuckled. A few slow looks passed between the vampire’s company—did they even know? Considine bent to right the hookah, then added something less suggestive of impending murder. “After all, I only buy the best.”

  With a word and a snap of his fingers, the burner relit—an unnecessary display of the eternally youthful vampire’s knack for magic. He smiled conspiratorially to the group who, had he been anything near the age he appeared, could have been his schoolmates. Recovering pipes, they smiled back, all three faking that they were in on a joke only the vampire knew.

  I shook my head. There would always be prey too dumb to even acknowledge that predators existed.

  His guests attended to, Considine turned back to me, straightening his vest.

  I looked only slightly down on him. “If I see it again, I won’t miss.”

  “Miss?” He caught my meaning an instant later. His look flashed to Vris’s cage then back, turning wounded. “Cruel.”

  He circled the lounge, then closed the door and crossed to a sideboard jumbled with dirtied salvers, champagne flutes, and a silver serving dome, idly straightening them.

  “And unnecessary. I’ve held to the letter and intention of our agreement. I haven’t been following you, and neither have any of my usual connections. You can’t expect me to be responsible for every coincidence—same circles and whatnot. Truthfully,” he cast a sidelong smirk, “the only way I can absolutely ensure that none of my associates cross your path is to track your whereabouts at all times. I can arrange that, if it would suit you?”

  I looked at him flatly.

  “I thought not.” He shrugged. “Then you might have to occasionally suffer spotting me and mine as we go about our business. I’ll be sure to tell my favorites to cover their faces if they see you coming.

  “You had business at Havenguard this morning, at exactly the same time I was there?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t miss a beat.

  “What?”

  “A social call on an acquaintance.” He flipped a hand.

  “Do you often send your familiar to pay visits to lunatics?”

  “I do when this turns up in one’s home.” He lifted the serving dome without flourish and immediately dropped it. His guests looked onl
y well after it clanged back to the platter beneath. In the second before, though, I’d seen all I needed. The woman’s severed head resting in a nest of her own tangled gold curls, thrusting her stately nose into the air.

  “Who—” I hardly began.

  “Yismilla Col. Surely you remember—or perhaps she was before your time.” He delighted in reminding us both of my relative youth, at least by the standards of beings who counted age starting from their moment of death. “Supposedly she’s a traitor, one Grandfather ordered executed, but who managed to flee to Ardis.”

  “Supposedly?”

  “That’s the story he tells the rabble. Actually, she’s his executor there. Grandfather fabricated her betrayal and flight to ferret out traitors some half a century ago. She’s served in the Old Capital ever since, an imaginary rebel who reports on full-bloods moving against him.”

  “Seems like someone thought they were doing Grandfather a favor.”

  He creaked out a dubious hum. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was delivered, and he had me meet the messengers. They arrived on the outskirts of the city last night and made quite a mess—”

  “Thorenly Glen. I know.” I spoke over the sigh he gave upon being interrupted. “Diauden sent me there just before dawn. Someone’s spawn had ripped the place apart and killed everyone. It seemed like they were looking for something.”

  “They were looking for her.” He nodded at the covered salver. “I prefer not to deal with slaves, especially poorly mannered ones—you saw the mess they’d made. They were too busy lapping stains off the floor to know I’d even arrived, much less that I’d received their message.”

  “They were in a panic when I showed up,” I said. “They’d obviously noticed their parcel had gone missing by then. I tried to get an explanation out of them but it didn’t go well.”

  “Oh good.” He pointed at my headwear. “I’d hate to think those were coming into fashion.”

  I ignored him. “If someone thinks they’ve done Grandfather a favor by killing a fake traitor then flagrantly violating the capital’s truce, they’ve penned a rather elaborate suicide note.”