Alphonse scowled at a couple of orderlies who had been loitering around like starstruck teenagers ever since Mircea showed up. They quickly found somewhere else to be. "The master's gonna be hemorrhaging power whether this works or not," he rumbled. "I'm here to see that he doesn't pay for it."

There didn't seem to be much else to say, after that. The three of us sat there silent, unmoving and, in the case of the vampires, not even breathing. I couldn't tell how Casanova and Alphonse were feeling, because they'd lapsed into the non-expression vamps use when there's no reason to impress the humans. But I felt anxious, miserable and utterly useless.

For some reason, my brain kept going to the presents Rafe used to bring me whenever he went on a trip. They were always thoughtful, fitting whatever I needed at the time. As a rambunctious tomboy, I'd received a plastic gladiator helmet from Rome and a matching sword that I'd used to chase him through the halls of Tony's farmhouse. As an adolescent girl who wanted to appear more grown-up than she was, I'd been given small bottles of perfume from Paris, perfectly child-sized but filled with adult fragrances. And right before my escape from Tony's, Rafe had slipped me my very first fake ID.

He had never asked for anything in return, had never seemed to expect or want anything. He was probably the only person in my life I could say that about. And now he was dying.

I usually wasn't a violent person. I'd seen so much of it growing up that it had lost its glamour for me, even before everybody and their dog started attacking me. So it took me a few minutes to put a name to the feeling flushing my cheeks and curdling my stomach. I didn't know who was behind the attack today, or even for certain that anyone was. But I knew one thing.

If I ever found out, I'd kill them.

Chapter Thirteen

I don't know when I fell asleep, but I woke up with my head against Marco's shoulder, which somebody appeared to have drooled on. My eyes were gummy and I felt like I'd been hit by a large truck. My shoulders and back were in knots and my head was pounding. But Mircea was outside the screen, leaning heavily on Alphonse's arm, and Rafe was—

"Rafe!" I bolted up the aisle, grabbed him and held on tight, whispering things that hurt against my throat. He still looked like death, but he was on his feet, and the skin that showed under the pale blue hospital gown he'd acquired was crisscrossed by scars but whole. The cracks were gone, the redness was gone, and he was standing. I was seeing it, and I could barely believe it.

"He broke your bond," Sal said, and the look she sent Rafe was half relief, half jealousy. She'd been after Mircea to do the same for her and Alphonse ever since they came to Vegas, but so far, he hadn't had the time or the energy to spare.

Rafe didn't notice the undercurrent. He just nodded, looking dazed and amazed and utterly exhausted. He glanced at me, but I wasn't sure he even knew who I was.

"My son requires a room," Mircea told Casanova.

"I have something ready. Your rooms are waiting as well, of course. And the Consul requests an audience at your earliest convenience."

"Tell her I will see her in an hour," Mircea said. Casanova blinked and started to say something but swallowed the words. Instead, he mutely led the way out of the infirmary.

Dante's had two penthouses, one in each of its twin towers, with the second reserved for the hotel's owner. The best thing about them from my standpoint was their sheer inaccessibility. Each suite took up a whole floor and the only way in was through a private elevator with key-code access. And just in case Spidey scaled the building or a bunch of ninjas rappelled out of a helicopter, we were joined by a dozen guards as we crossed the lobby.

Six took the elevator up ahead of us, and the rest waited to follow. Marco, Mircea's two guards, Casanova, Sal and Alphonse came up with us. And even in the plush elevator, which boasted its own padded bench seat and twinkly chandelier, that was a squeeze. I was all for security, but I didn't see how anyone was supposed to draw a weapon if we couldn't even move.

"Do we need a whole platoon?" I asked when we finally got the doors closed.

"The order went out after MAGIC fell: no one of senatorial rank is to go anywhere without an escort," Mircea informed me.

"But you're a master vampire."

"And you are Pythia," he said pointedly. "At the moment, our power merely makes us better targets."

"Not for long," Casanova said, his voice muffled because he'd ended up squashed behind two huge vampires. "The Senate has a staff working to strengthen the wards."

"Wards don't have eyes and ears," Marco argued."They'll never replace a well-trained bodyguard."

Maybe not, I thought, but they were a lot less creepy. I didn't know the new guards, but I assumed they were part of Mircea's personal stable. Because they gave off enough energy in the confined space to send a current prickling over my skin. And it wasn't the usual light frisson, either. The energy in the air felt like an electrical storm, with power crawling over my arms, itching my scalp, making me want to scream.

Both masters, then.

I managed not to scrub at my arms, but when the nearest turned flat gold eyes on me, I forgot my training and shrank back slightly. He smiled, a slow baring of fangs, while the other looked at me like I was something funky he'd found growing at the back of the refrigerator. Then the doors opened and we spilled out into a private hallway.

It contained a potted palm, a small strip of carpet and the six guards who had preceded us framing the only door. One of them hurried to open it and we passed into a large foyer. For a moment, I just stared. Unlike my old quarters, which could have belonged in any hotel on the strip, this one was themed. The motif being flogged to death appeared to be the Old West, or some designer's idea of it. The two-tiered chandelier was made of antlers, there were oil paintings of cowboys on the red flocked wallpaper, a cow skin rug made a black and white puddle on the floor, and a rough wood entry table supported a cowboy-and-rearing-horse sculpture in bronze.

Casanova noticed my expression. "The Consul preferred the blue suite," he said stiffly.

"Imagine that."

A wizened old vamp hobbled toward us, looking unhappy. "What's all this?" he demanded in a quavery voice.

Most humans would have taken one look at the liver-spotted hands and wild clumps of white hair and guessed him to be about a hundred. And they'd have been off by four centuries. He wore pince-nez on his long nose, despite the fact that they didn't help his blind-as-a-bat status, and he was almost deaf to boot. But Horatiu had been Mircea's childhood tutor and was the only person I'd ever heard tell off the boss.

"The master needs to rest!" Horatiu said, surveying the army of guards attempting to crowd in through the door. "Out, all of you!"

When the guards uniformly ignored him, he shuffled over to one of the larger vamps and began attempting to push him out the door. That had about as much effect as a fly trying to move a boulder, but Horatiu didn't appear to notice. The guard didn't fight back, just stood there with a long-suffering look on his face and let himself be pummeled.

"I'm sorry," Casanova told Mircea in a low tone. "I assigned a staff to these rooms, but Horatiu arrived with the refugees from MAGIC and—"

"Threw them out."

Casanova nodded. "He said they weren't trustworthy. I tried to reassure him, but—"

"It's all right," Mircea murmured.

"I said out. Are you deaf?" Horatiu demanded, now resorting to kicking. "How do they grow them so big?" I heard him mutter.

Sal sighed and lit another cigarette. "The guards are needed for the master's protection."