Page 68 of Time's Fool

The man was a husky specimen, middle aged, and sporting a huge, bushy brown beard. I didn’t know him, and if he’d been among those in the fight on the bridge, his face didn’t ring a bell. But something else did.

Because it wasn’t brown eyes that met mine, or the gray, hazel or watery blue that were so common in these streets. No, it was a vibrant, living shade that shone out at me, like blue lightning, bright enough to limn his face in color. I’d only seen eyes like that once before, and it wasn’t the sort of thing you forgot.

For a split second, our gazes met and held, and there was recognition in his, too. Or should I say in hers, because I had no doubt whatsoever that I was looking at the witch, despite the fact that we had left her seven years in the past. “I have others,” she’d said about the bodies she stole, and I guessed she’d spoken truly.

Then her lips formed a word, and a spell hit the building where I was perched, hard enough to blast a hole bigger than my body into the half-timbered frame. Plaster and wood pelted me despite the fact that I’d jumped—just in time—to avoid it, screaming for Mircea in my head as I did so. But I didn’t get an answer that time, either.

Or if I did, I didn’t have time to hear it. I also didn’t have time to look for a landing place that wasn’t in the middle of a group of mages. I didn’t have time for anything before another spell caught me, halfway to the ground.

And then there was nothing but darkness.

Chapter Twenty

“Dory. Dory!”

The voice calling my name was unfamiliar, as were the surroundings that met my eyes when I opened them again.

Not that I could focus very well. Everything was hazy and while I was without pain, I had the strangest floating sensation, as if I didn’t properly fit inside my limbs. They were as heavy as lead one minute, and light as air the next, and either way, they did not respond to my commands.

I felt like a marionette with half of my strings cut.

But my brain seemed to work well enough, at least to inform me that there was light, but not as if a torch had been thrust into my face. But rather as if day had come in an instant. And underneath me wasn’t the hard, wet cobblestones I’d expected, splattered with my blood, or even the grasping, heavy hands of a group of war mages, who didn’t like dhampirs any better than anyone else.

Instead, it felt like I’d landed in a featherbed, and something soft kept brushing against my face.

I finally managed to clear my vision enough to see a cheerful, sunny day, a partly opened window with real glass panes in it, and some curtains being tossed about by a breeze. They kept touching my face when the wind blew in enough, which explained the soft caress I’d been feeling. And they appeared to be made out of lace, which . . .

Well, clearly not.

I squinted at them for a moment longer, then sat up dizzily and tried to grab one. After several clumsy misses, I managed to clutch a piece of the material in my hand. And then just sat there, staring at it in disbelief.

It was lace, and of the finest, most uniform quality I had ever seen, the sort that was dearer than jewels, and was shown off in much the same way by those who could afford it. An inch of one of the more elaborate designs, such as this with roses and bows, could take an experienced lacemaker twelve hours to do. And enough of it to make even a small ruff would cost more than a workman made in a year.

Yet it was hanging as a curtain?

I stared around at an unfamiliar bedroom, with no idea how I got here, or even where here was. The rest of the place was strange looking, but nowhere near as much so as the curtains. Until I caught sight of the looking glass over an oddly shaped, upright chest, and audibly gasped.

It was huge, at least four feet wide and three tall, which was absurd. Such things were almost unheard of, as ones that large were incredibly difficult and time consuming to make and thus monumentally expensive. I had seen one in Venice, perhaps a foot smaller in all directions, with an asking price of 16,000 ducats, something like 8,000 pounds.

That was almost a month’s income . . . for the queen. Yet it was hanging on the wall of a room with scuffed wooden floors, a bed with no bolsters or hangings, and a hole in the blanket? I knew about the latter because my finger poked through it as I struggled to get back to my feet.

And then stopped when that voice came again: “Dory. Dory!”

I stared at the door, still feeling remarkably weak and off balance. I couldn’t fight right now; I wasn’t even sure that I could stand. But before I could find something to use for a weapon, an out of breath redhead came barreling into the room.

“Did you find it?” she demanded, and then, before I could answer, came up me, bent down exposing her neck, and reached under the bed. And brought out a strange looking pack that she threw onto the blanket and started unbuckling.

“I bought it at the auction house when I worked there,” she said chattily. “It isn’t nearly as large inside as that duffle of yours, of course, but if you don’t want food in your arsenal, it might do. Although I think you’re wrong not to put in a cabinet or even a refrigerator. You have a whole room in there! And what if you get separated from the rest of us? You know how you get when you’re hungry.”

I just looked at her and said nothing, as I had no idea what she was talking about. I needed to play for time, until my strength returned enough to escape. But she didn’t give it to me.

“It isn’t as lightweight as yours, either,” she said, examining the item with a small frown. “I mean, one of the vamps should be able to carry it, even fully loaded, as it does shrink everything. But your room isn’t a room at all, simply a doorway to a folded over piece of non-space. There’s no real limit to what you can carry, as long as it fits inside, since you aren’t actually carrying anything! You’re just lugging along access to it and—”

She finally seemed to notice that I wasn’t responding, and broke off. She was a pretty woman, slender and pale, albeit with an unfashionable scattering of freckles over her nose. Her hair was up but without covering of any kind, and she was wearing only a lightweight shift in a green that matched her eyes, but barely reached her knees.

She looked like a peasant who had been caught halfway through dressing for the day, but her hand was well manicured and soft when she cupped my cheek. “Are you feeling all right? You’re a little warm.”

I grasped her wrist unthinkingly, quick as a striking snake, but she didn’t seem to mind or make any attempt to withdraw it. A dhampir that close to the throat would have terrified most people, yet she just stood there, apparently unconcerned—except about me. The worry in her eyes as she bent closer calmed my racing pulse somewhat, and I released her slowly, trying for a smile.

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