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Mircea experienced the unique sensation of almost being decapitated as he dangled off a third-story window ledge by a couple of fingers, while the remains of the too-close lightning crawled around his body like manic worms. He did not scream, something he would have been proud of if his throat hadn’t been too indented to allow it. But he did curse inventively for a moment, in his head.
Good thing he didn’t need to breathe, he thought savagely, and hauled the witch back up.
Below them, the little alley by the praetor’s palazzo roared like a living thing, sweeping anything unlucky enough to land in it straight into the Grand Canal. Mircea knew that because they’d just waded across, the witch clinging to his back, while debris battered them and winds shook them and lightning threatened to roast them. And, damn it all, he wasn’t doing that again!
He pushed the window the rest of the way open with his chin, dragged the witch up, and shoved her through, and then scrambled after her.
And promptly slipped on a dish of slimy little fish that had been left to rot on the floor.
“You’re right—I don’t like it!” the witch hissed at him—why, Mircea didn’t know. He was the one whose private parts had just become intimately acquainted with the hard edge of a table.
Very hard.
God, so hard!
He bit back an unmanly sob and stared into the darkness for a moment, before glancing around the small study belonging to the praetor’s secretary, hoping for a light. But of course not. The only one at the moment was the moon, flirting with the storm clouds outside, and she was a coy bitch. They’d never find anything like this!
“Here.” The witch thrust a candle in his face that she’d seemingly pulled out of nowhere.
“How . . . did you find . . . that?”
“Stepped on it.” She paused, and then cocked her head at him. “Are you out of breath?”
“No.”
“I thought vampires didn’t have to breathe—”
“We don’t!”
“Then what’s wrong with—”
“Nothing! Just light the damned thing!” Mircea snapped, and straightened up.
And, yes, that hurt about as much as he’d thought it would.
She waved the bent candle at him impatiently. “I’m out of magic, remember?”
“You can’t even light a damned candle?”
“I could hold it out the window and hope the lightning hits it, if you think that would help!” Her eyes narrowed on him. “Or you could.”
Their brief rapport under the bridge appeared to have faded. Probably due to almost getting caught a dozen times since then. He’d foolishly thought the streets would be clearer near the praetor’s mansion, because what kind of idiots would dare to come here?
Our kind, Mircea thought, and limped next door with the candle. He discovered that the secretary’s bedroom was even more of a disaster than the cubbyhole, with stinking piles everywhere. But it did have a low-banked fire burning across from the bed, which managed to light the wick.
All right, then.
He reentered the small study and placed the thing on top of a cabinet, where it did little more than gild the darkness. But it would have to do. The witch started searching through the heaps on the floor, including one that contained a pair of unwashed hosen that she had some low-voiced curses for. While Mircea broke open an elaborate ivory box, rifled through the papers on the table, pawed through a little slanted writing desk, checked out a bookcase, and even shook out some fine green draperies, in case something had fallen into the creases.
But found only dust.
The praetor’s shield was missing.
“You’re sure it’s kept here?” the witch whispered, looking as frustrated as he felt.
“Of course I’m sure! I’ve used it before!”
“Well, didn’t you ever see where it was kept?”
