“Here!” Mircea picked up the ivory case, and thrust it at her. “It’s supposed to be right here!”
“Well, it’s not.”
“I know that!”
“And without it, we’re not going anywhere.”
“I know that, too!”
“I hope so,” s
he said grimly, shoving sodden hair out of her face. “If you expect me to somehow shield us in the ley lines, you’re going to be very disappointed. I couldn’t manage that at my strongest; I definitely can’t do it now!”
Mircea bit back a sharp comment, because it wasn’t fair. Weak the witch might be, but he was no better. Damn it, they had to have that shield!
Without it, they would be dead by morning, if not sooner. But with it . . . his fist clenched. He’d visited Abramalin in far-off Egypt and come back the same night. The ley lines were terrifying but also unbelievably fast, and seemed to crisscross the entire world. Meaning they could go anywhere, anywhere at all!
Including Paris to tip off the consul about the damned praetor!
He started searching the desk again.
“You’ve done that already!” the witch whispered.
“Perhaps I missed something.”
“I was watching; you didn’t!”
Mircea whirled on her. “If you have a better idea, I’d love to—”
Damn it! He’d knocked a half-full glass of wine off the overcrowded table, which shattered against the hard tile of the floor. Both of them froze, waiting for startled cries and running feet.
But none came.
After a moment, the witch let out a breath, and Mircea felt his spine unclench. The praetor was having another of her endless parties, and the servants were overworked as it was. They weren’t going to go looking for . . . messes to . . . clean up. . . .
His thoughts stuttered to a halt as he watched the puddle of wine, gleaming like blood in the low light, drain away under the wall. Until there was nothing left. Just a vague pink stain on the floor.
“What is it?” the witch asked, as he knelt beside it.
“I’m not sure.”
He ran his fingers over the fine scrollwork on the paneling. It had an acanthus-leaf design interspersed with rosettes, none of which appeared to be movable. But when he tapped faintly on the wall above the stain, it sounded hollow.
He looked up at her. “Perhaps . . . another room?”
“What are you talking about?” The witch leaned over his shoulder. “What other room?”
A section of wall suddenly slid back behind another, leaving an opening just big enough for a person to fit through.
Mircea looked up at her. “That one.”
The hidden room was dark, even by vampire standards. It looked like it had a window, the twin to the one they’d crawled through, but it had been boarded up, letting in only a few thin flashes whenever a lightning bolt burst outside. But it wasn’t the darkness that bothered Mircea; he was used to that.
It was the smell.
The anchovy-and-dirty-clothes odor of the study was worse, mixed with months of accumulated grime, because Mircea didn’t think the maids were ever allowed in here. This wasn’t like that; it wasn’t a bad smell, although there was a good bit of dust involved. It was just . . . whatever the underlying scent was, he didn’t know it.
And he’d thought he knew them all.