Page 8 of Redeemed
“About the Princess?”
“Who?” His brows draw together in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“The conversation I just had with Princess Tatiana.”
“I didn’t see the Princess. Wait. You didn’t see my pack or whatever?”
“Your pack? Nope. Not at all.”
We’re staring at each other, perplexed, when the lights come on and there’s a round of applause from above us. I spin around, gun drawn.
“Well done. Both of you. Very well done.”
A man comes down the stairs, clapping enthusiastically. He’s about halfway between me and David in height, but thicker, stocky. He’s wearing a white button-down, the weight of the fabric showing its quality, with a burgundy silk cravat at his throat. He should look precious as hell, but from the gold ring on his pinky to his black velvet slippers he looks polished, refined.
“In case you hadn’t guessed, I’m your host, Roland FitzEustace, Viscount Baltinglass.” He’s got an accent, but I can’t pin it down to time or place. “And you’re acquainted with my dear friend Trajan Gall.”
David twitches as if he’s fighting a giggle and I incline my head, letting a show of respect hide my smile. “We are.”
“Please do come up and join the others. I apologize for the oddness of your welcome. I needed you both to look into the Mirror of Derised.”
“Something you borrowed from Hogwarts?” David’s tone is just polite enough.
“Exactly.” The Viscount gives David another burst of applause. “I had a witch make me a copy so I could see what my guests really want. You two passed.”
He turns toward the stairs and we follow. They’re marble and when I make the mistake of looking over my shoulder, I see they’re dissolving into nothing.
Great. This guy has power to waste. We need to be very, very careful.
We follow him to a large room with white plaster walls and exposed wooden beams. A variety of upholstered furnishings fill the space. I count two couches, a loveseat, and four or five chairs, each from a different time period and covered with a different fabric. Somehow the cacophony of color makes a coherent whole, although I’ll have a headache if we stay here too long.
The viscount takes a seat in the center of the largest couch, a blue and orange floral number straight out of 1950. His entourage, made up of half a dozen or so vampires along with the same number of other supernatural creatures, array themselves around the room, leaving David and me standing in the middle of the floor. No one reads human. Their auras add to the kaleidoscope of color, and it feels like we’re on display.
I don’t like it. The vibe here is jangling my nerves and my gun weighs heavy in my shoulder holster. David’s not armed — well, except for his wolf he isn’t — but he’ll bitch like hell if he ruins his jeans by shifting. I mean, shifting will heal any wounds he suffers, but it won’t fix the clothing he shreds when it happens.
The young person who met us at the door takes a seat on the floor at the viscount’s feet. They’re the picture of androgyny, even more so than David, and I default to plural pronouns until someone tells me otherwise. David’s giving them a covetous look, though most likely he’s jealous of that crocheted outfit.
“So, you’re acquainted with Trajan and you’re not here to cause me and mine any trouble.” The viscount rests his hand on the androgynous person’s head, the way you would a pet. “What are you here for?”
Posing the question of how to break with your vampire maker in front of the viscount’s whole crew would be an epically stupid move. “Lord Baltinglass—”
“Call me Rollie. Everyone else does.”
His entourage responds with a mix of laughter and murmured approval that does little to reassure me.
“Of course. Rollie, then. We’re—”
“Is it possible for a vampire to break up with their maker?” David’s clarity cuts through the miasma of bonhomie.
Rollie’s expression hardens. “Why would you want to know that?”
“Asking for a friend.”
I want to kick David in the balls. This is not the right approach, although I can’t really say what I’d do different.
“You two are fucking. Each other, I mean. Am I right?” Rollie’s gaze is calculating, as if he’s weighing our relative value. “We’re always up for a floor show.”
David and I share a glance. His expression is somewhere betweenIs this for real?andNo fucking way. With that question answered, I turn to our host. “Are you saying we can trade a performance for the information we need?”
