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“If you don’t get to the buffet early, the eggs get all dried up,” the woman agreed. “They should cook more eggs.”
“You heard the man,” I told Marco. “Move the sofa.”
Marco rolled his eyes. “It’s your fucking sofa. Why don’t you move it?”
“That’s no way to talk to a lady,” the old man told him. “And how’s a little thing like her going to move a big sofa like that anyway?”
“You look like strong boys,” the woman chimed in. “Why don’t you move it for me?” She batted her eyes at Marco’s buddy, who started looking slightly panicked.
“Take the stairs,” Marco told her. “It’s better for you.”
She frowned. “I had hip replacement surgery. I can’t do stairs.”
“Don’t tell my girlfriend what to do!” the old man said, looking pissed. “This is a public hallway. You can’t block the way like this! I’m going to report you to the management if you don’t move this thing right now!”
The old woman beamed at him. “Isn’t he something?” she asked me.
“Chivalry isn’t dead,” I agreed.
“You want this sofa moved?” Marco asked. “You got it.”
He picked me up, dumped me on the couch, and yanked up one end. His buddy got the other, and the two vamps started carrying it down the hall. Either of them could have managed it alone, probably with one hand, but we had an audience.
The man and woman followed us to the elevators and pressed the button, and then we all waited until an empty car arrived. The door pinged and the two lovebirds got on. The woman held the door, but I shook my head at her. “It won’t fit.”
Marco glanced from the couch to the elevator and reached the same conclusion. Scowling, he put down his end of the sofa, shifted me to one side, and stomped a size thirteen foot down through the middle. There was a loud crack and the sofa broke clean in two.
“Oh, my,” the woman said, her foot firmly planted in the elevator door. It looked like the eggs could wait.
“Oh, jeez.” Marco’s buddy was looking from him to the sofa, back and forth, like he couldn’t quite believe his eyes. “Oh, man, you shouldn’t have done that. That was a special couch. That was Lord Mircea’s favorite couch!”
“Lord Mircea doesn’t have a favorite couch!” Marco told him, trying to shove me onto the elevator. But the piece I was attached to was still too big, especially with two people already on board.
Marco grabbed the sofa arm that my cuffs were stuck through as if he meant to wrench it off, but his buddy stopped him. “I can’t let you do that,” he said seriously.
Marco stared at him for a moment. “Can’t let me do what?” he finally asked.
“I can’t let you do any more damage to Lord Mircea’s property. This is a special couch. See that leather? It was custom dyed. You can’t just go out and buy another one, not and have it match.” He surveyed the pieces with a worried frown. “The leather split along the seam. Maybe it can be repaired. Maybe we can—”
I never heard his suggestion, because Marco planted a fist to his jaw with enough force to send him sailing back against the wall. It shuddered when he hit, and a wall sconce tumbled to the carpet, shattering into pieces. The vampire didn’t look so good himself, sliding slowly down onto his haunches.
Marco glowered at him. “Don’t ever challenge my authority again. I’m in charge of this detail. You do what I tell you.” He turned back to the sofa and got a grip.
“Don’t do it,” his friend warned, slowly getting back to his feet.
“What did you say?” Marco asked softly, turning toward him again.
“I said. Put. It. Down.”
“Okay.” Marco let go of the sofa and carefully pushed the old woman’s foot out of the door. “Show’s over. Nothing to see here,” he told her, and hit the button for the lobby. As soon as the elevator car was away, he launched himself at the other vamp.
I’d known what was coming and was ready. Half a sofa weighed a lot less than the whole thing and was more maneuverable, too. I got to my feet as they staggered into a stairwell, cursing and clawing, and started dragging myself back down the hall.
Normally, I’d have shifted, but I’d already had a hard night—a trip of four centuries isn’t fun—and then had had to shift back from the airplane. Plus the small detour to the tarmac. I was pooped. And I didn’t think meeting the head of the Circle completely out of juice was a good idea.
I knocked sharply on Pritkin’s door. This time it opened to reveal a half-shaved war mage with a razor in his hand. He was wearing nicely pressed dress slacks and a sleeveless undershirt that fit him like a second skin. But for once it wasn’t the well-defined arms and muscular shoulders that caught my attention. It was the hair.
His short blond mane fell in waves over his forehead and just brushed his collar. It looked soft. It looked under control. It looked normal.
