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They’d never known: he’d just been hysterical.
The same had been the case when, a year or so later, a party of senior vampires had come across him and Horatiu fleeing their homeland, in search of he knew not what. They’d knocked him off his horse, circled him round, and then just stayed there, staring at the days-old baby vampire laughing at them from his puddle of mud. And hadn’t killed him.
Well, some of them had started to, but the vampire in charge had stopped them with a raised hand. And had continued to regard Mircea with a slightly perplexed look on his face. Mircea had looked right back, and laughed and laughed and laughed.
In the week prior, he’d been cursed, tortured, and buried alive; he’d watched his parents be butchered and their lands overrun by the faithless cowards who had once pledged them fealty; he had been overwhelmed by the bloodlust of his new state, which had caused him to almost kill a young woman after it drove him mad; he had been chased—rightly—by an angry mob trying to avenge her, and been forced to abandon his wife, in case he end their union by killing her, too.
In a single week, he’d gone from prince to pauper, from hero to monster, from someone surrounded by family to someone utterly alone, except for a mangy horse and a half-blind servant.
What did this idiot think he was going to do to him?
What did anyone?
The vampire had finally raised an eyebrow, and looked back up at his men. “This one’s not worth it. Too young to provide any sport.”
“But, my lord. He invaded our lands!”
“My lands,” the older vamp had corrected dryly. “Back to the hunt with you.”
The others dispersed, leaving Mircea lying in the mud and giggling helplessly at his savior. Who had looked down at him again, and slowly shaken his head. “Get to Venice, son,” he said, gathering up his reins. “If you can.”
“W-what?”
“There’s safety for you there, if you can reach it. A place for those with no masters to guide them. Go there if this life still has any meaning for you.”
Then he’d disappeared, in a flurry of flying hooves and flowing mane. The beautiful horse he rode was so swift that it had vanished beyond a hill before Mircea could pull himself back to his feet. And reassure a frightened Horatiu, who had been clinging to the neck of their far less impressive nag, and staring at him with huge eyes.
“Why the devil are you laughing?”
Mircea hadn’t responded. Just buried his face in his horse’s neck, and laughed some more. And, finally, when he was able to get himself under control, he’d looked up. “Feel like a sea voyage?”
Now he was on another one, because Venice hadn’t been quite the haven he’d expected. Nothing was when you had no power in a world that valued nothing else. But he hadn’t died, no, not any of the times—and he’d lost count of how many there had been—when he damned well should have. And he wasn’t dying tonight, he thought, putting everything he had, every ounce of power, into moving, just an inch—
And failed.
Damn it!
He felt panic welling up again, and gave himself a mental slap. Not now! There had to be a way out of here! There had to!
He sent his eye rolling around, trying to see more of the room.
It looked like a battlefield, only tidier. Including the gore, because some of the bodies were bleeding, or had limbs lying at strange angles, perhaps broken or dislocated by the fall. He watched one sort itself out, the broken fragments slowly working back into shape, the blood that a moment ago had been dripping down the arm suddenly reabsorbed. But the vampire himself never moved, never so much as fluttered the eyelashes lying closed and motionless against his too-pale cheek.
So the body was working, but the mind . . .
Where was the mind?
Probably still inside whatever darkness was pulling at him, Mircea thought, feeling it slowing his brain and paralyzing his body. As it had done since he fell through . . . whatever he fell through. He glanced up, but the ceiling was unbroken. Just old, cobweb-covered boards, dusty and full of mouse droppings.
Until what looked like a dark puddle opened up out of nowhere, an inky blackness darker than the pits of hell, which spewed forth—
The redhead.
She hit the floor hard, but was able to catch herself, landing heavily on hands and knees. Whatever this paralysis was, it didn’t seem to affect her. Which was evidenced even more when she flipped over and started screaming.
It wasn’t in Venetian or Italian or any other language Mircea knew, so he couldn’t follow. Plus, he was distracted, staring at the pool of darkness still swirling about the ceiling above her. He’d only re
cently learned about portals—mage-made devices for traveling from one place to another almost instantaneously—and he wasn’t sure this was one. The only other he’d seen had been brilliant—a spill of yellow-white fire—and had sounded like every ocean crashing onto every beach, all over the world, all at once.
