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“Do you know anything that aren’t tricks?” Mircea said, more sharply than was wise, given that he still couldn’t control his movements. But he’d spent a small fortune on that damned bit of wool, and that was after searching through half the bars of Naples for the bastard. And all for nothing!
“Oh, perhaps a few things,” the mage said, pausing to sniff something in a pot. Mircea watched him hopefully, until the man shrugged. And spread whatever it was on some bread.
Mircea swallowed his anger, and tried again. “I’ve been to healers in Paris and Rome, Tripoli and Antioch. All for nothing! Nobody knows anything about dhampirs—”
“Dhampirs?” The old man turned around, holding his breakfast. “Ye didn’t say anything about dhampirs!”
“I’m sorry!” Mircea said quickly, because the man was already shaking his head. “Please! I’ll pay anything you say!”
The bread went in the beard, and crunching sounds were heard. “Don’t look like ye have anything to pay. No gold or jewels, clothes’re nothing special, cloak’s been mended—”
“I can get you whatever you want. I will get it—if you help her.”
Some more crunching ensued. It was all he’d done all night, Mircea thought. Sit by—or levitate by, in this case—and watch people eat. People who weren’t in a hurry at all, despite knowing what was at stake!
The man walked over to the tree, and stood musing awhile, before picking out a small bottle. He came over to Mircea. “You’re from Venice, y’say?”
Mircea nodded.
“Good, good. Give this to the little one, three drops at a time, in water. No more, no less. It will calm her fits—for a while.” He tucked it into Mircea’s sleeve, because flappy hand was still flappy.
“Thank you. I—”
The man tutted. “Don’t thank me yet. ’Tis not a cure. For that, I’ll need a little something.”
“What? Anything—”
Black eyes glittered at him through veils of hair. “Some associates of mine have been having trouble getting a certain ingredient. We use it in many of our potions, but it’s scarce as a virgin in a brothel these days—”
“I can get it for you. Just name it—”
“It’s not about a one-time shipment. We can arrange that for ourselves. It’s the trade we want resumed, and right quick. Problem is, this particular ingredient only comes in quantity from one place: Venice. But somebody’s been fiddling with the flow, likely trying to up the price. You get it moving again, and I’ll take care of your girlie—and not by hanging a frog round her neck! How’s that, vampire?”
“I—yes.” Mircea didn’t know much about trade, despite living in a city based on it, but he could find out. He would find out. “Yes, I can do that. What ingredient are you interested in?”
The old mage grinned, showing a mouthful of blackened and half-missing teeth.
And then he told him.
Chapter Twenty
F
or the second time in less than a day, I woke up to a man in my bed. Only this one was little and uncomfortably hot, and was wearing a pair of Star Wars Underoos, because putting him in something he liked was the only way to keep any clothes on him. And more than SpongeBob, more than Transformers, more than Lucille Ball—don’t ask—Stinky loved Star Wars.
Of course, he’d wanted to be Boba Fett, which had worried me, but lately he’d been leaning more toward Rey. Which opened up a whole different set of questions, but I decided I could figure them out later and started to get up. Only to find myself pinned to the mattress.
“C’mon,” I said sleepily. “Move.”
Nothing. I knew he’d heard me, because those long fingers and toes had just gripped the mattress even tighter, which wasn’t going to work. Because Stinky and I had wrestled before, and I always won. Except for today, apparently, when my best efforts left me right where I’d started.
Of course, I couldn’t do my best work, because something else was snuggled into my right armpit. Or make that someone else, I thought, recognizing Aiden’s silky head. And chubby little baby hand, which had just batted at me to stop moving around, because he’d had a hard night.
You and me both, kid, I thought, wondering what had happened after I zonked out. But all I got was a rush of memories, some crazy, some confusing, all overwhelming. So I shut that shit down, and waited for somebody to come and tell me.
Only no one did.
I glanced at the bedside table. Somebody had gifted me a small violet in a pot—one guess who—about a week ago, which had been a charming thing with three shy little blooms. But Caedmon must have had some more excess energy, because the table was no longer visible, being draped in a mass of purple flowers that spilled down from the surface and were spreading across the floor.
