had the original spell cast on us, he ended up with two strands of it, not one. And, as I could attest, one was bad enough.
"But…there is no one else!" Rafe looked almost frantic at my refusal. He also looked surprised. I had a sudden rush of guilt, which was monumentally unfair. Mircea had started this, not me.
"If I knew the counterspell, I'd have cast it already," I repeated, with a little more bite to my tone than I usually used with Rafe. What did he think I'd been doing for the past week, anyway?
The book containing the only known counterspell was the Codex Merlini, a compilation of ancient magical lore that had been lost long ago—assuming it had ever existed. Most of the people Pritkin and I had contacted had been of the opinion that the Codex was nothing more than a myth. It was like the rest of the Arthurian legend, we'd been assured by one supercilious mage after another. There'd never been a Camelot, except in the imagination of a medieval French poet. And there was no Codex.
The only exception was Manassier, who'd had his own reasons for sending us on a wild-goose chase. So far, everyone else had refused to talk, didn't know anything, or was looking to get rich quick off a couple of desperate suckers. I'd been battling rising panic already, and Rafe's distress wasn't helping.
"Please, Cassie!" His voice cracked around the edges, and my stomach clenched at the almost heartbroken look on his face. If it had been anyone else—any vampire, anyway—that look would have had my paranoid instincts muttering furiously. But Rafe didn't have that kind of deception in him. At least, he never had before. And I suspected his basic character was pretty set after more than four hundred years.
"I told you, I don't have the spell," I said, more gently. "Maybe in a few weeks—"
"But I'll be dead in a few weeks!" he blurted out.
For a moment, the world tilted. There was a hollow roaring in my ears and the bar seemed to be closing in, with not enough air, not enough light. It felt like the heavy bass of Purgatory's continuous pulse was suddenly pounding inside my skull.
Rafe stared at me soberly. "I am sorry, Cassie. I didn't intend to tell you that way."
For a moment, I just stared back, understanding whipping through my mind with a white-hot sizzle. I'd known the spell was vicious—my own reactions had been more than enough for that—but that it could go so far I'd never even considered. Mircea was a first-level master. There were only a handful of them in the world, and they were almost impossible to kill. The idea of his dying because of a spell, any spell, was crazy, but especially one that hadn't even been designed as a weapon.
"There has to be some mistake," I finally said. "I know you're suffering, but—"
"Not suffering, mia stella," he whispered. "Dying."
"But if I go to him, it'll only make things worse!"
Rafe flinched when I dropped the wrong pronoun, but it didn't stop him. "The Consul has called in experts from around the world. And you know they would not lie to her." No, I didn't suppose so. The Consul headed up the Vampire Senate, and was easily its scariest member. "I heard one tell her that if you complete the spell, perhaps it will free…me. But he knew of nothing else that would."
"I'll find another way," I promised, feeling sick.
Rafe looked genuinely puzzled at my refusal. Like asking me to risk a lifetime of slavery was no big deal. "I do not see what is wrong with this one. Mircea would never hurt you—"
"That's not the point! How much have you enjoyed being Tony's eternal errand boy?"
"Mircea is nothing like that bastardo Antonio," Rafe said, appalled.
I shook my head in frustration. No, Mircea wasn't Tony; despite the geis, despite everything, I knew that. But he was a vampire. And the one thing no vamp could resist was power. If the geis gave Mircea control over mine, he would use it. And, just like with Tony, I'd have no say about what he did with it.
Tony wanted me dead mainly because I'd set him up for the Feds. I'd had a number of reasons for helping them out, but top of the list was that he'd used my visions to point him to wherever disaster was about to strike—and therefore where an opportunity for profit was to be found. Young and naive,