FINALLY, THE day of the trip arrived.
We solved part of the problem of the long flight by stopping for a night-long layover in Washington, D.C. I wanted to visit with Alette, the vampire Mistress of the city.
The living room—parlor, rather—in her Georgetown town house was filled with Victorian elegance. Lush carpets, perfectly kept antique furniture, curio cabinets, shelves full of books, polished silver tea service on display on the mantel. Heavy velvet drapes were drawn over the windows overlooking the street.
Alette herself waited in a wingback chair by the fireplace. She wore a tailored suit jacket with a calf-length skirt, a cream-colored blouse, and ankle boots, an outfit that recalled a bygone style without seeming old fashioned. An ebony clasp held back her chestnut hair, and a single pearl on a chain around her neck was her only decoration.
When we arrived, she rose and reached for my hand, clasping it. Her skin was cool. She spoke in a crisp British accent. “Kitty, it’s very good to see you.”
“How are you, Alette?”
“Enduring,” she said with more than a little pride. I wondered if that was a vampire inside joke. Her apparent age was around thirty—no longer girlish, her beauty came from her dignity, her haughtiness. She stood with her chin up, gazing at us appraisingly.
“I know you met them briefly before. But, well—this is my husband, Ben O’Farrell, and our friend Cormac Bennett.” Ben came forward to shake her offered hand; Cormac did not, moving instead to the back of the room, away from us. In fact, he was wearing his sunglasses, at night and indoors. Not like that was real obvious. But Cormac was Cormac. Alette only glanced at him, her smile wry.
She had tea brought for us, and gestured for us to sit on the sofa across from her. Tom, who’d driven us from the airport, stood at attention at the doorway. Smartly turned out in a tailored suit and tie, he might have served the role of butler, waiting for a command from Alette. But he was more than that—he kept most of his attention turned toward Cormac rather than Alette. Tom was as much bodyguard as butler.
Alette kept above it all and said conversationally, “You weren’t a lycanthrope the last time you visited my city, Mr. O’Farrell. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that, Kitty—”
“God, no!” I said.
“It was an attack,” Ben added, more sedately. “By someone else.”
“Ah, I see. So much for my romantic notions, then. If you don’t mind my asking, how are you managing?”
“I have a lot of help,” he said.
“I have no doubt on that score,” she said, giving us both a sly, knowing look. She glanced to the back of the room. “Mr. Bennett, are you all right?”
Cormac was pacing along the front of the room, like a wolf looking for an exit from a cage. On each pass, he twitched the curtains back an inch and peered out.
He paused. “Fine,” he said flatly. He eyed Tom, whose gaze remained blank, disinterested.
“I remember you’re not particularly comfortable around vampires,” she said.
“It’s fine,” he muttered again. Cormac was a bounty hunter specializing in supernatural targets—including vampires. At least he had been before serving a prison sentence for manslaughter. He was still adjusting to his changed circumstances—but vampires would always make him nervous.
I wondered what Tom would do if Cormac drew one of the stakes he no doubt had stashed in a jacket pocket.
“He’s quite the friend, to follow you into this,” Alette said.
“Yes, he is.”
“Now, what did you want to discuss?”
“I’m hoping for your opinion. How much do you know about Dux Bellorum? Roman?”
Her gaze narrowed. “You’ve been turning over all kinds of stones, haven’t you? I can’t say I know very much at all. He’s a vampire, quite old by most accounts. He’s also a shadow. A myth, even. The Master of masters, all knowing, all seeing, all powerful. I’ve heard enough about him to believe that he’s real. He’s manipulative, driven, obsessed with some arcane plan of his own. But I know little else. I’ve never met him myself. Tell me, Kitty—what do you know of Dux Bellorum?”
“He’s the chief player in the Long Game,” I said, as if I knew what I was talking about, as if the very concept didn’t terrify me. “He’s collecting allies, and I—I have a grudge against him.” From my pocket I drew a pendant on a leather cord. It had once been a bronze Roman coin, but the image on it had been smashed, so that the blackened layer of verdigris was flattened and mangled beyond definition. “Have you ever seen one of these?”
I lay the coin across her hand and she studied it, rubbing a thumb across it. “I haven’t. What is it?”
“Roman gives these to his followers,” I said. “Maybe you haven’t met him, but I’m betting you know a few vampires who have one of these.”
“They have some kind of magic attached to them,” Cormac said from his place by the window. “Binding, identification.”
She frowned at the coin before giving it back to me. “Extraordinary. I had no idea. Roman—Dux Bellorum—has always kept his cards so close, revealing so little. But now he’s letting spells get away from him.”