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Maybe not, I thought, but they were a lot less creepy. I didn’t know the new guards, but I assumed they were part of Mircea’s personal stable. Because they gave off enough energy in the confined space to send a current prickling over my skin. And it wasn’t the usual light frisson, either. The energy in the air felt like an electrical storm, with power crawling over my arms, itching my scalp, making me want to scream.
Both masters, then.
I managed not to scrub at my arms, but when the nearest turned flat gold eyes on me, I forgot my training and shrank back slightly. He smiled, a slow baring of fangs, while the other looked at me like I was something funky he’d found growing at the back of the refrigerator. Then the doors opened and we spilled out into a private hallway.
It contained a potted palm, a small strip of carpet and the six guards who had preceded us framing the only door. One of them hurried to open it and we passed into a large foyer. For a moment, I just stared. Unlike my old quarters, which could have belonged in any hotel on the strip, this one was themed. The motif being flogged to death appeared to be the Old West, or some designer’s idea of it. The two-tiered chandelier was made of antlers, there were oil paintings of cowboys on the red flocked wallpaper, a cow skin rug made a black and white puddle on the floor, and a rough wood entry table supported a cowboy-and-rearing-horse sculpture in bronze.
Casanova noticed my expression. “The Consul preferred the blue suite,” he said stiffly.
“Imagine that.”
A wizened old vamp hobbled toward us, looking unhappy. “What’s all this?” he demanded in a quavery voice.
Most humans would have taken one look at the liver-spotted hands and wild clumps of white hair and guessed him to be about a hundred. And they’d have been off by four centuries. He wore pince-nez on his long nose, despite the fact that they didn’t help his blind-as-a-bat status, and he was almost deaf to boot. But Horatiu had been Mircea’s childhood tutor and was the only person I’d ever heard tell off the boss.
“The master needs to rest!” Horatiu said, surveying the army of guards attempting to crowd in through the door. “Out, all of you!”
When the guards uniformly ignored him, he shuffled over to one of the larger vamps and began attempting to push him out the door. That had about as much effect as a fly trying to move a boulder, but Horatiu didn’t appear to notice. The guard didn’t fight back, just stood there with a long-suffering look on his face and let himself be pummeled.
“I’m sorry,” Casanova told Mircea in a low tone. “I assigned a staff to these rooms, but Horatiu arrived with the refugees from MAGIC and—”
“Threw them out.”
Casanova nodded. “He said they weren’t trustworthy. I tried to reassure him, but—”
“It’s all right,” Mircea murmured.
“I said out. Are you deaf?” Horatiu demanded, now resorting to kicking. “How do they grow them so big?” I heard him mutter.
Sal sighed and lit another cigarette. “The guards are needed for the master’s protection.”
“And what do you think I’m here for, young lady?”
Alphonse opened his mouth and Mircea shot him a look. He shut up. “I’m sure Horatiu is perfectly capable of seeing to my well-being,” Mircea said mildly.
“I’ll sneak them in later,” Casanova murmured, and Mircea nodded.
The huge vamp that Horatiu had been thumping reluctantly gave ground, getting pushed all the way back to the elevator before the old man was satisfied. Then the brushed nickel doors opened, spilling four more guards into the already packed hallway. Horatiu broke into infuriated Romanian while the rest of us followed Casanova into a large living room. Marco and the two guards Mircea had brought with him moved quickly through the apartment, checking for intruders. I wondered how they’d be able to tell. The obviously mad designer had only been warming up in the foyer; by the time he made it in here, he was working on all cylinders.
There were mounted heads on every wall, everything from deer and longhorn cattle to buffalo and reindeer, including two bare skulls flanking the flat-screen TV mounted above the oversized fireplace. A grizzly bear rug took pride of place under two cowhide-covered sofas facing each other across a lacquered horn coffee table, the whole lit by another horn chandelier. A neon cactus brightened a rustic bar in the corner, which had stools shaped like saddles. The whole managed to look pricey and outrageously tacky at the same time.
Mircea hesitated for a moment on the top step leading down into the sunken morass of kitsch, as if slightly stunned. “It was like this when I took over,” Casanova said, sounding defensive. “I plan to remodel, of course.”
“I dunno.” Sal plopped down onto cow skin and stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray shaped like a spittoon. “It’s different.”
“It’s vulgar,” Casanova snapped.
“And the rest of this place isn’t?”
“It’s fine,” Mircea said, crossing the barn-wood floor to join her.
Casanova went to the wall and flicked a switch. There was the sound of a quiet motor, and what had seemed like a solid wall began to retract. It slowly opened to reveal a huge balcony with the long dark rectangle of a private infinity pool reflecting the glittering panorama of the Strip. Okay, maybe a person could forgive the decor for a view like that.
In addition to the master suite, the penthouse boasted three additional bedrooms, one of which had been ear-marked for Rafe. Marco and one of Mircea’s guards helped get him there, supporting him without making it obvious that that’s what they were doing. I didn’t think Rafe cared much about dignity at this point. When he raised his head to gaze numbly around, he looked wrecked, eyes heavy and mouth swollen.
“Do you need anything?” I asked, having followed them in. I didn’t get an answer. Rafe was out as soon as his head hit the pillow.
“A rebirth is hard enough on its own,” Marco said, noticing my expression. “And with the burns on top of it . . . he’s gonna be out a while.”
