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After more than a decade as a vampire, Mircea had built up an impressive scent catalogue in his head, despite not being a Hound, what those of his kind were called who had particularly sensitive noses. He’d seen a blind one navigate a crowd once with perfect dexterity, even stopping to pick up an old woman’s dropped purse and offer it back to her. He’d talked to him later in a bar, and discovered that he could almost see, the scent clouds in his head resolving themselves into hazy images of people, canals, even buildings, that in some ways were more distinct than anything Mircea’s eyes could perceive.
That vampire would probably have known everything in the room in a moment, where it was and what it was, even in pitch-darkness. But Mircea wasn’t that vampire, and the skin of his neck was ruffling. He motioned to the witch to hand him the candle, then pushed it through the gap and held it up, the small flame illuminating . . .
Nothing, because a couple lanterns had just flickered to life, all by themselves.
He and the witch looked at each other.
“You first,” she said.
Mircea went in.
Chapter Fifty-five
Mircea, Venice, 1458
Mircea looked around, still not sure what he was seeing.
The room looked like a storehouse for weapons, only he didn’t know why anyone would bother keeping these. Baskets held sword and ax blades that were almost eaten away by rust, their pommels long since lost to time. Ragged quivers were full of arrows that looked like they’d disintegrate with a breath. An old piece of cloth—possibly a banner, judging by the shape—lay on a table, so tattered and burnt that it would have been impossible to display any other way.
Yet it had once been magnificent: a heavy weight of silk with glimmers of gold here and there, their brightness undimmed by time. And it had some sort of pastoral scene painted on it, although it was so faint now that he couldn’t quite make it out. He bent closer, putting out a hand—
And had it grasped by the witch, hard enough to hurt.
“Careful.” Her voice was rough. “It looks like the praetor collects more than just human art.”
Mircea frowned, not understanding. And still didn’t when he raised the candle, because the lanterns left deep shadows draping the walls in places. And sent light dancing over maps he didn’t recognize, books he couldn’t read, and strange-looking shields with designs he’d never seen. And clothing . . .
That was trying to crawl up his arm.
He dropped the candle, and the witch’s hand abruptly tightened, jerking him back. “Fey,” she told him, before he could ask. “And old—very old. I don’t even know how the spells are still active.”
Mircea stared at the mail shirt now gleaming on the floor. Unlike the weapons, it showed no ravages of time, shining as brightly as if just made. And it hadn’t felt like metal, but more like silk against his skin. He’d never seen anything so fine.
He looked at the witch, because something had just registered. “Fey?”
“Yes, fey. You know.”
Mircea didn’t know.
She put fingers beside her ears and wiggled them at him.
He just stared.
And then snapped out of it, because they didn’t have time for this! “The fey are a myth! A tale told to frighten children!”
“Like vampires?”
Mircea stared at her some more.
And then caught a pair of greaves trying to inch their way out of a basket. Which was less of a concern than the fact that they stopped as soon as he spotted them! He looked at them, slumped innocently over the weave, and felt a hard shiver crawl up his spine.
“Be careful what you touch,” the witch said, completely unnecessarily, and moved off to begin a search. Mircea retrieved his guttering candle and took it as far from the damned armor as he could get. Only to be distracted by something on the banner.
Or to be more precise, something in the banner, which moved between the rents, shivered over the threadbare patches, and thundered across once-verdant fields, now gray with age. Something that sent little puffs of dust up, here and there, as it traveled across the surface. Something . . . impossible.
Half in disbelief, half in wonder, Mircea edged closer, tracking the movements of tiny riders on tiny horses, silently braying hounds, beaters with their little sticks, driving prey before them, and deer that flickered in and out of sight as they fled across ghostly fields—
And then off the cloth entirely, golden light that hadn’t come from Mircea’s candle following them as they jumped to something covered by a sheet.
