Midnight's Daughter

Chapter Eighteen

Fresh blood at midnight isn’t red. It’s a purplish black that easily blends into the shadows. I plunged my foot ankle-deep into a frost-covered puddle of it and swore softly. The upper crust was only half-frozen, and the sticky sludge beneath oozed around my rag-covered foot sickeningly. I jumped to the side, scrambling for purchase on the icy rocks and slippery dead leaves, leaving a trail of dark gashes in the snow.

When I finally forced my eyes upward, I saw what I’d expected. The naked man impaled on a thick wooden stake above me had skin the color of the snow piled all around, and never moved except when the vicious wind tossed his limbs about. The eyes were frozen over with a thin layer of ice, making them glitter with a parody of life in the moonlight. I looked away, but all I saw was a line of similar corpses bordering the path down the mountain, disappearing into the dark. It looked like my quarry was home.

A flight of crows, startled by my presence, left their perch in the skeleton of a tree and wheeled out over the valley, a score of dark shapes dipping erratically in the wind. The full moon illuminated thick woods glittering with frost, cut through by a silver ribbon of river. It would have been breathtaking, if I’d had any to spare. I didn’t. I hadn’t dared take the main path up the mountain; even on a night like this, it was guarded. I’d had to crawl up a crumbling dirt path engineered by goats and practically impassable by anything not on four feet. The only sight that interested me now was the two cloaked guards standing in the shadow of a nearby stone overhang, the fog of their breath thick as smoke as they stomped their feet, trying to get some circulation going.

The massive slab over their heads had a beard of long icicles, like a mouth with sharp, jagged teeth. It almost looked as if the entryway were trying to eat them. The gray hulk of Castle Poenari rose menacingly behind them, sparkling with the same ice that crunched under their boots every time they moved. A bitter wind howled around the mountain, and I could hear one of them struggle to breathe, the air rattling wetly in his chest. But they hadn’t dared to light a fire. Their master frowned on any sign of weakness, and I guess they preferred pneumonia to ending their lives writhing on the end of a stake.

Since I shared that view, I decided that a frontal assault might not be the best plan. I was confident that I could take on a couple of half-frozen guards, but if one managed to raise the alarm, it would put an early end to my evening’s plans. I looked for other options, but there weren’t many. Despite being located at the peak of the mountain, the castle was surrounded by high, deep walls of natural stone and featured three tall watchtowers designed to keep people like me outside.

I became well acquainted with those walls, since I spent the next half hour scaling them, clinging to the few narrow ridges where the outer stones didn’t fit together perfectly. Every time I stayed in one place more than a few seconds, my hands froze to the rock, ensuring that when I moved on, I left a little more flesh behind. My movements caused chunks of ice to cascade from the edge down the fifty feet of dirt slope that surrounded the castle, to the steep drop-off below. I looked down once, and immediately regretted it. I didn’t look again.

The wind almost knocked me off twice, bringing with it stinging bits of ice that scoured my skin and threatened to blind me. It howled around my ears like an angry demon, seeming to take it personally that I continued to hold on by my fingertips. More than once, I was bashed against the stone hard enough to have me worrying about the state of my rib cage. And when I finally made it to the top, I had to wait, hanging on the almost featureless outer surface of the walls, until the guards on patrol moved away.

As soon as they did, I hauled my half-frozen body over the parapet and dropped to the ground. It was less of an improvement than I’d hoped. The biting wind was gone, only to be replaced by the bone-chilling cold of winter air trapped inside thick stone walls. Even worse, I had no idea where I was supposed to go and the castle was crammed with soldiers. Everywhere I looked, bodies flowed through the shadows before coming out into the moonlight.

I’d hoped that an assault in the middle of the night would find most people asleep, but I should have known better. Considering whom I was dealing with, night around here was probably busier than day. I finally lost patience and crossed the open courtyard at a run. For a wonder, no one saw me. It helped that most of the guards were huddled into their cloaks, more worried about not freezing to death than about possible intruders.

I entered the castle unseen. The cavernous arches of the corridors were immense above me, and even my softest footfall seemed to ring into infinity. I ghosted along the walls and somehow made it to the large main hall without being seen. The air was filled with the clatter of plates and goblets, and lanterns pushed at the darkness, spilling large puddles of light on the floor and dispelling the concealing shadows. It was obvious that I would have to wait for the group of soldiers gathered along one of the room’s long tables to finish a late meal before I continued. The smell of their food made my stomach growl; how long had it been since I’d eaten? I couldn’t remember, but the scent of beer and cold lamb caused my abdominal muscles to clench uncomfortably.

I turned my attention to the sight of a new-looking tapestry on the back wall. It showed an armor-clad figure at the head of an army, who I assumed was either the father or the son because he was riding a dragon. Both belonged to the Order of the Dragon, a group created to fight the Turks, which had given them their famous nickname. “Dracul” means dragon, so “Dracula” was literally “son of the dragon.” It seemed a good bet that the painting was of the son—he was spearing an enemy on the point of a pike.

The soldiers finally left and I moved into the echoing space, trying to keep to places that did not have dried rushes on the floor to crackle underfoot. The ceiling above was so high that it disappeared into darkness, and seemed to pick up every stray echo of sound. At last, I reached a high, arched door, leading to a short, dimly lit corridor. Nearby, a set of stairs wound up into blackness, the lack of torches an encouraging sign, as only my prey was likely to be able to see his way without them.

I reached the top to find myself facing a heavy oak door. It was cracked slightly, pouring a line of orange fire-light over the stones. I edged forward cautiously and nudged the door open with my foot. The room inside was large, but more cozy than the vast dimensions of the rest of the castle, and was perfectly circular. I peered around and realized two things: I was alone and I wasn’t likely to stay that way for long. The lit candles told me that much; no one bothered to light an unoccupied room, especially if the means to do so, like most other supplies, had to be dragged sixteen miles up a mountain. Someone was expected. I just hoped it was the right someone, since I really didn’t feel like wading through half the guards to get to him.

The room was full of booty. Several dozen plush prayer rugs brightened the walls, helping to insulate the cold stone. Many of the silver and gold vessels scattered about had Arabic words enameled onto them, the carpet was a Persian in blues and burgundies and the shiny brass lamp that hung from the ceiling didn’t look local. A sudden wave of exhaustion made the exotic colors run together, and I swayed slightly as the last of my adrenaline was used up. I hurt everywhere, but that was nothing new. What undid me was the sight of a real bed dressed with a pile of lovely furs and blankets, so high that they made a mound. I walked toward it unconsciously, my head spinning from pain and wonder.

I must have made it, because I fell onto something soft and squashy that my dazed senses identified as a feather mattress. The impact hurt my bruised ribs, to the point that I think I passed out for a minute. When I came around, I discovered that my first impression had been wrong: I wasn’t alone.

I was slumped over a body that was seeping a crimson stain onto what had been clean white sheets. It didn’t have a pulse, but that didn’t worry me. His kind never did unless trying to pass for human.

My heart was beating so hard in my chest that I thought it might shatter a rib. I noticed irrelevantly that the blood was ruining his clothes. His dazzlingly white tunic had been embroidered at the sleeves and around the slit collar in bright red and gold, but darker patches now marred the pattern in several places. I couldn’t tell how bad the wounds were, because although he was in bed, he hadn’t bothered to divest himself of his fur cloak. It was so silky that my hands completely disappeared in it. I stroked it softly, unable to believe my luck.

I stared down at my victim, and slowly undid the rag holding a sharpened wooden sliver around my waist. He didn’t move, not even to open his eyes. I told myself to get it done, but I hesitated. I’d never killed a sleeping vampire. Their daytime resting places were too hard to find to make it worth the effort; I caught them animated and bent on mayhem, not lying around wounded and helpless. This was so different from the fight to the death I’d envisioned that I simply sat there a moment, staring at him. He wasn’t at all what I’d expected.

His face had the same expressive eyebrows and long, dark lashes he’d passed on to me, but with strong, masculine features underneath that made them look quite different. He was very good-looking, but except for shadowy depressions in his cheeks, he was as white as bone. He looked ill, which was absurd, since vampires don’t get sick. Of course, the blood might explain it; the coverlet beneath him was virtually soaked with it. I had an awful idea: had someone beaten me to it? Had someone else stolen my revenge, while I struggled not to fall off that damned wall?

My hands started shaking and I couldn’t seem to stop them, and my breathing was shallow and uneven. I sat back down on the bed until the room stopped swimming, then started to pull off the remains of his ruined shirt. The wounds underneath were deep, with a few showing bone, but none looked to be in the right area for a heart blow. So why didn’t he wake up?

I told myself that a dead vampire was a dead vampire, no matter how he got that way. I got a better grip on my stake and decided to stop worrying about who had attacked him in such a half-assed way and just get it done. I positioned my makeshift weapon over the heart, but again I hesitated. I wanted him awake for this, aware enough to know who was about to end his miserable life and why. It shouldn’t happen like this, without him even waking up. Somehow, it seemed almost obscene.

“Are you going to kill me or wait for me to die of old age?” I jumped at the sudden question, and the hand that had been lying so utterly still and limp a second ago caught my wrist. I struggled, but found that I couldn’t move. I stared at my arm as it hung there in the air, the strength that had never before failed me suddenly useless. “It will be a long wait, I assure you.”

Bright amber eyes looked me over as he easily rose to a sitting position, his other arm grabbing me by the neck like an errant puppy. He smiled, showing fully extended fangs. “You had your chance. Now it is my turn.”

I fought and thrashed against the iron hold, but it was no use—I couldn’t move. I screamed, as much in rage as in fear, and the hold tightened, tearing more cries from my throat. A hand clamped over my mouth and I bit it. Someone swore, and it was in French, not a language I’d have expected under the circumstances. It brought me back to myself slightly. I opened my eyes to find Louis-Cesare bending over me, worry clearly visible in his blue eyes. Déjà vu.

“Dorina!” Louis-Cesare’s face blurred in and out. He looked like he was struggling to stay calm. He wasn’t struggling half as much as I was.

I’d met Mircea for the first time in a bar in Italy, around the turn of the seventeenth century, not in a castle in Romania. Especially that one. Cetatea Lui Negru Voda, the Citadel of the Black Ruler, was the real castle Dracula. It had originally been built in the fourteenth century, but Drac rebuilt and expanded it after he returned from his Turkish adventure. The Turks had let him go after learning of his father’s assassination and Mircea’s burial alive at the hands of the nobles of the town of Tirgoviste, who supported a rival family on the throne. They knew he’d stir up trouble as soon as he got home, giving the Wallachians something else to think about besides fighting them. And in that regard, Drac hadn’t disappointed.

He had decided that the only thing that would protect Romania from outside invaders and inner rebels was a show of strength. On Easter Sunday 1459, he started as he meant to go on. Drac invited the nobles of Tirgoviste to a lavish dinner party. Once there, they were arrested and forced to march fifty miles to the town of Poenari, located where the Carpathian foothills turn into real mountains. Those who survived the trek were put to work building him a fortress on a steep precipice overlooking the Arges River. The job continued for months, until their elaborate banquet attire rotted and fell off their bodies—then Drac ordered them to keep working naked. It was the harshest kind of physical labor, mixing mortar and lugging huge stones and timber up the steep mountainside. Many died of fatigue and illness, but some survived. Drac examined his new fortress, decided there was nothing major left to do and ordered the remaining workers impaled.

The castle had, not surprisingly, developed a bit of a reputation. It was said to be haunted by some of the thousands who had died there. Maybe that’s why, when tourists come all agog to see Dracula’s castle, they are taken to Bran Castle in Transylvania, even though the only connection with it Uncle ever had was to besiege it once. But it’s in good condition, while Poenari’s version is a hulking ruin, a great lump of stone and misery, with pieces regularly working loose from the grainy old mortar to drop onto careless-tourist heads.

And Bran doesn’t give people nightmares.

“Dorina! Are you all right?” Louis-Cesare shook me, and from his frantic tone, I had the impression that it wasn’t the first time he’d asked.

The problem was, I didn’t know the answer. I’d been under a lot of stress for a month, without Claire to help mitigate it, not to mention I’d almost died twice in one day. Even with my past experience, that could bring on a troubled night. It could be just a nightmare. But the images had seemed so real, much more detailed than my usual dreams. What if the spell had combined with the wine to dredge up something long buried?

But that didn’t make sense. I’d never been to Poenari, not in its heyday and not afterward. And if I’d never been there, it couldn’t be some residual effects of the spell. So why could I almost feel the rough texture of the stone under my fingertips? Was it a nightmare, or something more? And if it was more, how was I supposed to find out? I couldn’t very well use a flawed memory to search for gaps in the same memory.

Mircea, I thought blankly, what did you do?

“Dorina!”

“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully without thinking about it, and it wasn’t the right answer.

Louis-Cesare began fumbling around in the bedclothes. Hands slid over my body, looking for an injury. I quickly recalled that I wasn’t wearing anything but a pair of panties, having not had anything suitable for nightwear after Stinky ruined my tee. I realized when a drop of water hit my nose that Louis-Cesare wasn’t much better off. His hair was wet and the only article of clothing on that long body was a damp white bath towel draped loosely around his hips. I couldn’t understand why he’d been showering in the middle of the night, until I noticed a sliver of daylight peeking through a gap in the heavy curtains.

It was morning. Morning of the day I was going to get Claire back. I started to get up, only to have Louis-Cesare force me back down. “You will stay here until I have a physician called.”

“I’m okay—”

“Which explains why I have had to hold you down for the last five minutes to keep you from tearing at your own skin!”

“—and doctors can’t do anything more for me than you already did.”

“Dorina! You are ill!”

“Louis-Cesare! I’m a dhampir! I go crazy on a regular basis. Just one of the joys of being me.” I tried to rise again, only to find that I couldn’t. It was no longer sexy, I decided. “Let me the hell up!”

Louis-Cesare was suddenly attacked by a growling Stinky, who wrapped his stick arms and legs around the vamp’s head and held on for dear life, making a horrible screeching sound the whole time. “Don’t hurt him!” I yelled as Louis-Cesare reached for the little guy.

A pair of exasperated blue eyes stared at me out of a mask of matted gray fur. But the hands trying to prize Stinky off gentled. He pried the Duergar away and held him at arm’s length. Stinky gnashed useless fangs at him and spat. “It does have a curious charm,” he murmured.

“Will you please let him go? He thinks you’re trying to hurt me.”

Louis-Cesare’s face lost its amusement. “You do well enough at that yourself,” he said shortly. Stinky was bundled into the bathroom for the second time and Louis-Cesare turned to regard me with crossed arms. I suppose the gesture was an expression of impatience or exasperation, but all my brain could manage to focus on was that towel. It looked to be in immanent peril of falling off entirely, barely clinging to the muscular swell of his hips—smooth-skinned hips glistening with water and flecked with soap suds.

I tried to look away, but the man was perfection, beauty given a face and body. The line of his throat, the sleek muscular sweep of his torso, were pure masculine sensuality. And in the dim light filtering in through the curtains, he almost looked like he’d been oiled. My mouth went dry.

“Dorina!” Louis-Cesare had moved, one of those lightning-fast transitions that vamps use when they can’t be bothered to appear human. He was by the bed staring down at me, and that was definitely exasperation on his face. “Have you heard anything I have said?”

“Not really.”

I suddenly felt the press of the intimate little room, with its lush carpets, gaudy gold-papered walls and rich, dark furniture. A breeze from the open window shifted around my legs, pushing into the sheet covering me. It was a tentative little thing, just a filmy tickle, but I was cold and he stood there still flushed from the heat of his bath. The soap smelled good on him, and the faint musk rising from all that warm skin smelled better. I shivered, hard.

Louis-Cesare’s breathing had roughened as my gaze lingered on his body. “You will not distract me!” His words were a surprise, because that hadn’t even occurred to me. Hadn’t, but should have. The last thing I wanted was to discuss my dreams, especially the last one.

A smile flirted with my lips. I stroked a hand up the interior of one strong thigh, shivering at the whiplash of sensation, the blaze of skin on skin. “You mean like this?”

I found myself on my back, with Louis-Cesare above me, his eyes flashing blue gray lightning. He looked powerful, hard, aroused. Stunning. “I do not believe that this was one of your fits, Dorina. There was no provocation—”

I took advantage of his nearness to run a hand down his chest and along the tight belly, until I hit the terry-cloth barrier just below the curve of his waist. He grabbed my hands before I could tug the towel off, and leaned over me, trapping them on either side of my head. “So what are you planning to do?” I grinned up at him. “Tie me to the bed?” As soon as I said it, I regretted it. Louis-Cesare looked like a man who has finally heard a good idea. “Don’t you dare!”

My arms were pushed over my head. I would have protested, but the action brought that perfect mouth close enough to kiss, so I did. He tasted right the way water tastes right—simple, necessary.

Louis-Cesare leaned into the kiss for a moment; then tore away, his eyes blazing with something wild and seductive. The look alone was enough to send a wash of desire through me. It didn’t help that he was close enough for me to reach out and tangle his hair in my fists and pull him close, close enough to kiss again, close enough to make him moan. Just thinking about it made me ache, a sharp knife of want twisting in my stomach. I curled my hands around slats in the headboard to keep from grabbing him.

“I have found nothing else that succeeds with you!” The voice was deep and rough, with only a faint echo of his usual smooth tones. “I make logical arguments, but you do not hear.”

“Don’t,” I warned him in a strangled voice. “I’ve had a hard month. I ache in more places than I can count. The last thing I need is a lecture.”

He hesitated for a moment; then his palms smoothed back down my arms to cup my face. The usually so-controlled features were strangely tender. Those blue eyes met mine, asking, seeking. “What do you need?”

I should have laughed, should have thrown it back in his face as he did once to me. But my gaze had fixed on his mouth, on those impossibly enticing full lips. “Guess.”

The softness of his mouth was a surprise. I leaned into the insistent sweetness of the kiss, loving the way his lips caressed mine, how he managed to infuse the lightest of touches with a longing that made me weak. I let go of the slats, wanting to touch him, but he curved one of his hands over both of mine, curling them tightly around the headboard. For some reason I didn’t protest, possibly because his other hand had found my hip and slowly moved down until it cupped my backside. His mouth had moved along my jaw to my neck as his hand caressed me, as gently as if I were made of glass.

He didn’t ask what was wrong; he must have known I wouldn’t tell him. He simply resumed kissing his way downward, until my heart beat rapidly beneath his lips. He met only sleep-warm skin because the sheet had at some point slipped to puddle around my waist. “Everything about you is provoking,” he breathed. “Your voice saying outrageous things, your body striding up and down, giving me orders, and your taste—”

The thought skittered across my mind that if this was foreplay, sex with Louis-Cesare would probably kill me. I felt the headboard crack under my hands and decided that there were worse ways to go. And then it happened again. Images flooded my brain, richly detailed and absolutely breathtaking.

Dorina, naked on a bed, head dropped back to expose that lovely throat, luscious mouth open in soft moans, sweat trickling between those perfect breasts, glistening on a waist so tiny I could span it with my hands. There is no part of her I haven’t ached to touch: the soft roundness of her cheek, her beautiful throat, her breasts. I am possessed by an angel with ridiculous hair, flashing eyes and a devil’s mouth.

Seeing myself through Louis-Cesare’s eyes, feeling his emotions as well as my own, left me speechless—and extremely confused. He dropped his head farther, to where the sheet was covering my lower body. I was about to ask him what was happening, when he traced my lower stomach with his tongue, then, with no more warning than a gleam in his eyes, almost roughly plunged it into my navel.

It was a shock, delightful, delicious and unanticipated, sending liquid shivers to the pit of my stomach. No one had ever brought me so quickly and deeply into pleasure, but suddenly my whole body convulsed with it. His lips moved slightly downward, finding the flesh below my belly button, and his warm breath against me made me squirm. His eyes had bled to liquid silver. They held a question, but I couldn’t find my voice. I managed to nod, and was rewarded with a smile, heart-stoppingly sweet, as he slowly eased down the sheet.

He stroked the backs of my thighs with his fingertips and I lifted up, letting him ease off my panties. He paused to kiss my lower stomach before baring me completely. His thumbs found the sensitive skin at the backs of my knees, and big, warm hands smoothed up the insides of my thighs in a butterfly touch. They made a more purposeful caress down, in an unspoken appeal. I opened for him.

Louis-Cesare took his time, stroking, kissing and licking a trail upward from my knees. Then his head dipped between my legs and that hot tongue flicked higher. That rough liquid texture explored me, but only briefly, shallowly, teasingly.

The velvets under her are not as soft as her skin. Closing my mouth over the center of her. That racing pulse whispering how fragile she is, how delicate—careful, must be so careful, until she melts with sweetness, like honey on my tongue. He suddenly stopped altogether, and I wondered if he’d noticed that his thoughts were leaking all over the place. No, he couldn’t stop now! The heat of his breath over me was enough to rip a groan from my throat. Pleasure and frustration combined to drive me crazy, and he wasn’t even doing anything.

Louis-Cesare caught my eyes with his. “I want to part you and open you and go deep.” The words whispered their way across my skin as if they had a life of their own. I shivered from his voice alone, and his hands tightened on my thighs. He paused to wet his lips. “I want you to come with my tongue inside you.”

We stared at each other for a heartbeat. Whatever he saw on my face must have reassured him, because he made a sound, deep in his throat, then that shining head moved down again. One hand curved around my hip, lifting me up so he could taste me better. Tongue pressing just so, slipping into the hot slickness of her, drinking deep, hearing her cry out. Her back arching, hips bucking, pressing up against me in a quickening rhythm, her scent maddening me, her taste exploding on my tongue. My blood singing in my ears, racing through my veins faster and faster. Her body is so sweet—

I started feeling shaky. This was exactly what I’d wanted, just what I’d needed, except that I hadn’t dreamed it would feel like this. Too much—it was like looking into somebody’s unedited thoughts and it was just too damn much. Every sense was heightened, leaving me able to feel the tiny ridges on Louis-Cesare’s fingertips as they caressed me, hear the whisper of his hair over my skin, taste the soap on his body.

Dragging my tongue over her, plunging it into her. I can sense the pace she wants; I know the touch she craves. So beautiful, head flung back, body spasming under mine, sweat sheening her thighs, she is slick under my hands, moaning, straining, tousled hair dripping, hands clutching the headboard desperately. Beautiful, so beautiful.

I gasped, fists clenching with the unexpected strength of the sensations flying between us, no longer quite sure where my pleasure ended and Louis-Cesare’s began. Every touch of his hands was a double sensation—I felt it on his skin, in his emotions, as well as in my own. Double vision didn’t come close to describing it—it was double everything. And it was too intense, far too intense. God—I could drown in this, echo after echo, never stopping, until my heart gave out and I literally died of pleasure. But I also couldn’t stop, couldn’t ask him to stop—the very idea was insane. No one could pull back from pleasure like this.

As its full force struck, I went wild thrashing and crying and coming harder than I could remember. I collapsed like a first-timer, boneless, my heart thundering in my ears. For a moment I thought I blacked out, but I could still feel my heart beating wildly in my chest. Then I opened my eyes, which felt a little odd, as I couldn’t remember closing them. Louis-Cesare’s face was flushed and wet, his hair stuck to his face in strands and the gray blue eyes glittered. His hand moved to languidly stroke my stomach, while the tip of that talented tongue ran along his full lower lip, as if licking up the remnants of some decadent dessert. It was the most erotic thing I’d ever seen.

I finally found my voice, although it wasn’t completely steady. “What… what was that?”

“Fey wine,” he said after a moment, his voice hoarse. “It has… lingering effects.”

I stared at him, speechless. That had been the remains of a diluted drought imbibed twelve hours ago? No wonder the stuff was regulated! In its pure form, it could drive a person mad.

Even if I hadn’t had the memory of his emotions, it would have been obvious that he’d enjoyed his work. My hand ran over him, and I almost came off the bed from the echo of that simple touch. Under that soft cotton he was hard as a rock. I would have thought I was incapable of feeling anything more, maybe for days, but I resonated with his need as if it were my own.

“You could use some attention.”

“Cela m’est égal,” he murmured, removing my hand and placing a light kiss on it. I frowned. He didn’t mind? Who did he think he was kidding? I wasn’t accustomed to leaving partners unsatisfied, and at the moment I was feeling extremely generous.

I used my free hand to trace the lean line of a thigh muscle with a fingertip, stopping just short of the hem of the towel, and his whole body quivered in response. That was more like it. Louis-Cesare covered both my hands with his own, raising them back over my head as his lips met mine in a long, sweet kiss. “If you wish to please me,” he murmured when we parted, his eyes amused for some reason, “obey me in this.”

I was about to ask what he meant when I tried to move my hands. And found that I couldn’t. “I will send for a healer,” he said, getting up.

It took me a few seconds to process the fact that he had actually tied me to the bed. “These won’t hold,” I told him furiously, tugging on the sheets he’d used for rope. The high thread count didn’t tear easily, though, and despite the fact that the headboard was already cracked, it didn’t seem to be giving, either. I finally realized that Louis-Cesare had wrapped the sheets around the sturdier frame, and it was metal. “Son of a bitch! Let me go this instant—I mean it!”

“Do not thrash about, Dorina, you will only injure yourself further. I will release you when the doctor arrives.”

I lay back, preparing to squelch the panic I should be experiencing at being confined. It hadn’t risen yet, but I had no doubts that it was only a matter of time. “There won’t be anything of this bedroom left by the time she gets here!” I warned him.

“Under normal circumstances, perhaps not. But your strength is considerably under par at the moment.”

“When I’m sane maybe,” I said, wrenching on the sheets. All that did was to tighten them further. “But this is sure to bring on a fit. And you’ve seen how much fun those can be.”

“Your control is not so poor, surely,” he said with a frown. “Mircea did not mention—”

I glared up at him. “Claire has been missing for more than a month.”

“What does that have to do—”

“She exerts a dampening effect on my fits. Without her, my control is slipping. Fast. Now let me up!”

He paused, but his eyes held what looked like genuine compassion, the earlier humor dissipating in the face of my distress. After a moment, he reached for the restraints. “I did not realize that the woman was so important—,” he began; then both of us swiveled toward the door. I’d been so distracted that I hadn’t heard it open, but the cooler wash of air from the hall had gotten my attention.

“I hate to interrupt,” Radu said, “but I was wondering if either of you did anything to cause the wards to fail just now?”