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“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.
