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“But why are we here?”
“If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll get to that,” Ray said. “So he runs in, right? And this is where the crazy part starts, ’cause he begins helping you—”
“Helping me do what?”
“Attack the Senate guards.” Ray saw my expression and nodded. “Yeah. Like I said—crazy. And then people really started freaking out, like they were more worried about you two than the damned burning zombies that were still wandering around. And more were spurting out of the portal every minute until finally somebody wised up and shut it down, and then your father showed up—”
“Great.” So much for showing him how in control I was these days.
Or for getting rehired.
“And then he did something, I don’t know what, but you passed out. That was about the time the consul came in and ordered you to be taken to Lord Mircea’s rooms—I guess he’s got a suite there or something—’cause of course they’re gonna want to question you about what happened at Central—”
“So why am I here and not there?” I asked, cutting him off. Because I really didn’t want any more details.
“’Cause Louis-Cesare told her no.”
I’d been halfway through a swallow, and almost choked. And then Verrell was back, clapping me heavily between the shoulder blades. Which would have been great, except the only thing I had stuck in my throat was surprise.
“What?” I finally managed to gasp.
“Yeah.” Ray nodded. “That was kind of everyone’s take on it.”
“Is he crazy?” I hissed. “He’s in enough trouble—”
Verrell made some kind of French sound, and went to get me some water. “He is Louis-Cesare de Bourbon,” he said, with a Gallic shrug.
“He is an idiot! He should have left me there!”
“He should have done no such thing. You were hurt, no?”
“He’s going to be hurt more!” The consul was a vindictive bitch, and that was on a good day. And if she’d just had her place trashed courtesy of us and the zombie brigade, it was fair to say that this wasn’t a good day. And even if she overlooked that, getting contradicted in her own house—
Goddamn it. Sometimes I thought the damned vamp had some kind of death wish.
Verrell made another of those sounds, the kind that defy translation. But this one sounded amused. “Zey need him.”
“They won’t always! And if he keeps this up—”
“And he was right. Zee atmosphere, it was driving you mad. Had you woken up zere, you might ’ave gone the crazy again. And ’ow could you rest and sleep and heal in zat place?”
“I’d have managed,” I said grimly.
“But why must you? He ’as beeg shoulders,” Verrell said, clasping mine, his hands gentle. “And you are so small, so delicate. I cannot believe what zey say—”
“Oh, believe it,” Ray said drily.
“I don’t need him fighting my battles for me,” I said, and shrugged him off.
The small chef looked sad. “But perhaps he needs.”
“What?”
He sighed and licked rosy lips. “I nevair say this, but…you know about zee salope, non?”
“What?”
“Zat witch, zat—Christine.” His expression looked like he’d just gotten in a side of beef crawling with maggots.
