Midnight`s Daughter Page 0,83

been destroyed, too—that there was no need to search for me this time.”

“But… why haven’t you told the Senate? Why not let them take him out for you? As you said, we’re already at war with his Circle. What’s one more dead mage?” I’d be happy to do the honors myself.

“To pull resources away from the war for a personal vendetta would require my explaining the charges against him.”

“So?”

Louis-Cesare just looked at me. “How many people have you told about what happened to you that night, Dorina? How many know why it is you hate Dracula so intensely?”

I got the point. “No one. Mircea threatened Augusta with bodily injury if she ever so much as breathed a word. As far as I know, she never did.”

“And there was no one else?”

“No. Except for Jack. But as his master, Augusta’s word spoke for him, too. Why?”

“The spell we encountered in the caves… the only ones I know of are localized—linked to a specific place. We should have left it behind us when we came here. But those were your memories, were they not?”

I hesitated. Part of that scene had been familiar enough—the aftermath of Drac’s little torture session in London. But the last bit… that was new. I’d always assumed that Mircea wanted Drac kept alive because of some misguided sentiment. Now I wasn’t so sure. Maybe the old guy had more backbone than I thought. “Most of it. Maybe all of it. I don’t know—I wasn’t exactly at my best at the time.”

“Some legends say the Fey can induce visions. That they influence people in such ways.”

“Caedmon couldn’t have brought on that nightmare, even if he had a reason.” I slowly got to my feet, testing my body, relieved that it responded, if sluggishly. I was going to have to try to avoid getting beaten up for a few days. “There’s no way he could have known about it. No one could.”

I reached for Radu’s tunic, wanting to get on something a little warmer than a tattered T-shirt, but moved the wrong way. A bolt of pain shot through me—from the shoulder Drac’s boys had tried to wrench off. “Son of a bitch!”

“You aren’t healed.” Louis-Cesare stood up beside me, without his usual fluid grace. I bit back a wry grin—and we were Mircea’s invincible champions!

“I’m okay.” That Fey magic was something else, but it hadn’t replaced the considerable blood loss—only time would do that—not to mention that I’d had plenty of aches and pains even before the fight. But that was nothing new.

“Are you certain? I may have overlooked something.”

I didn’t answer. A hand had come to rest beside my left breast, and a warm finger was caressing the damp cloth, tracing the almost invisible indentation left by one of the bullets. I started to say something, but my throat felt oddly constricted. Then both his hands were moving over my body, searching for hidden injuries. One finger accidentally brushed across a nipple, shooting sparks all the way to my toes. Calluses, I decided vaguely, can feel very good.

“Your reaction in the caves was worrisome,” he informed me.

I was more worried about my reaction now. I found myself wanting to suck those fingers into my mouth, to see Louis-Cesare’s eyes grow dark with lust and want. “You can see I’m fine,” I told his shirt, fighting a strong urge to take the delicate material in my teeth and rip it off him. It was so intense for a moment that I had to close my eyes and concentrate on why that would be wrong on so many levels: he was Daddy’s little spy, there to insure that Drac didn’t get everything he had coming, a vampire and a Senate member. None of those spelled lover in my book.

So why did my hand reach out to push a stray curl behind his ear? To my surprise, Louis-Cesare leaned into the feel of my hand. There was a slightly pink line, warmer than the rest of his skin, on his cheek. The fast-healing injury ran from his jaw nearly to his eye, adding to the pirate effect of the clothes. I traced it lightly with a finger. We were close enough for me to count the shades of blue that blended in his eyes, to see the way the strands of gold and brown and red mingled in his hair. To note the network of lines near his eyes, the fine traces of bitterness at his mouth. It must be the