“Nothing. It’s just . . . I sort of know how you feel.”
She looked surprised. “Lord Mircea, ’e ’as a woman?”
“I don’t know.” I got up and started to pace, but the damn high heels hurt my feet. I sat back down again. “I don’t know anything. We never talk.”
“Pourqoui pas?”
“He’s been gone most of the time lately, on Senate business. And when I do see him, he has so much else on his mind that it’s hard to bring up relationship stuff.” Next to war, politics and the supernatural world threatening to implode, it seemed a little trivial. But the result was that I’d somehow ended up married—at least from the vamps’ perspective—to someone I knew next to nothing about.
“You should talk to ’im,” Francoise said, eyeing the overhead light fixture. Luckily for Dante’s, it was bolted into the ceiling.
“Yeah.” Only every time I tried, talking wasn’t what we ended up doing. Not to mention that I had absolutely no idea how to broach the subject of a possibly recently deceased ex-lover. Or whatever she was.
Francoise arched an eyebrow and started to say something, but a rap on the door saved me. She threw up her hands, turned around and snatched it open. Randy stood there looking sheepish, as much as is possible for a guy wearing skintight black jeans and a matching muscle shirt. At least I think it was a shirt. It might have been paint.
“What are you doing ’ere?”
He shrugged, setting a lot of muscles rippling. “I thought I could help you move. To wherever you’re going,” he added quickly as Francoise’s expression darkened.
“We ’aven’t decided zat yet,” she said with a good attempt at nonchalance.
“I think I might know a place,” I told her, prying my weary body off the bed.
A few minutes later, me, Randy, Francoise and her bags of loot arrived at what had once been a tiki bar on the hotel’s fourth floor. It had recently suffered an unfortunate fire and renovations were still ongoing. The rebuilt stage smelled of varnish and the bare drywall on the walls still awaited paint. It was probably the only quiet place in the whole hotel.
Unfortunately, quiet was about the only thing the bar’s back room had to recommend it. The place was tiny and had no bathroom, and we had to move boxes of plastic leis and condiment packets out to make room for a second bed. But it was livable. I should know; not so long ago, it had been my room.
“Okay. This is . . . cozy,” Randy said, looking around.
“It used to be a storage closet.”
“I’d have never guessed.” I shot him a look and he shrugged. “At least you won’t get evicted.” No, I didn’t suppose so. No self-respecting vampire would be caught dead in it.
“I like eet,” Francoise said, trying to navigate the maybe one-inch-wide aisle between her bed and the wall.
“It’s just temporary,” I promised.
“Yes. Lord Mircea will arrange something for you.” I could already see her mentally removing my bed.
I’d been thinking more of the room next door. It was smaller but a lot more colorful than this one, with a floor-to-ceiling stained glass window depicting a battle scene. The window had met an unfortunate accident—they seemed to be pretty common around here since I showed up—and hadn’t yet been replaced. A plastic sheet printed to look like it had been stapled over the gap but it let in the heat. I needed to ask Casanova when he thought a replacement might be expected.
But that could wait. There were more pressing issues at the moment. I left Francoise to arrange things to her liking and borrowed the key to her old room. If I was lucky, I’d have time for a shower before I was evicted again.
I woke hours later to a thump and a scream. The latter started in a falsetto and ended up in a baritone, which was enough to tell me that it wasn’t Francoise even before the profanity started. I tensed, my lids flew open and I saw a hulking eight-foot shadow looming over me. I screamed.
“Honey, I know it’s last year’s wig,” someone snapped. “But it’s Liza. It’s timeless.”
I reached up and flicked on the overhead light, and the shadow resolved itself into an eight-foot-tall woman rubbing her shin. Part of the height was due to the aforementioned towering black wig and part to seven-inch platforms. The rest of the package was swathed in a skintight sheath short enough to be considered a shirt and constructed entirely of black sequined bow ties. It strained over shoulders wider than most men’s and showed off heavily muscled legs. The total effect was linebacker in drag.
It took me a minute to realize that was because she was, in fact, a linebacker in drag.
“Who are you?” I demanded shrilly.
She looked insulted. “Darling, have you been living under a rock? I’m Dee Sire.”
I just looked at her.
“Of the Three D’s?”