Just breathing was hard enough; actually going anywhere sounded absurd. The very air felt thick and heavy in my lungs, like a couple extra atmospheres were suddenly pressing down from above. My breathing was ragged and my feet felt like they weighed at least a ton each. Merely staying upright was a struggle.

Just get to the next room, I told myself sternly. It’s a couple of yards, that’s all. Then you can face-plant onto the nice marble floor.

I don’t know how I got there; I have no memory of moving at all. But suddenly, I was staggering into what looked like an armory, with long curtain-draped windows along one side and glass cases full of weapons lining the other. And face-planting was definitely out.

A couple of male servants were sitting at a table, polishing some of the implements. If those were for tonight’s challenge, it didn’t look like anyone was fooling around. There wasn’t a practice sword in the bunch. Since I didn’t want any of them used on me, I staggered on through without stopping.

I made it through the door on the other side, but had no idea where the hell I was going. And there hadn’t been too many clues in the projected image as to which room in the football- field-sized house might contain the dead man. All I could recall about his surroundings was the edge of a fireplace and a bit of rug, which could have come from anywhere.

But the half dozen scurrying servants I encountered in a narrow hallway were headed toward the left wing. They didn’t look panicked—good servants never looked panicked—but they weren’t wasting any time, either. Neither did I, dogging their heels the whole way into a largish sitting room at the end of the corridor.

It was a symphony in yellow: from the silk drapes to the brocaded upholstery to the shade of the dead man’s skin. Bingo. I slipped inside the door, barely getting a glance from most of the few dozen people present. But one curly head jerked up abruptly.

“How the hell did you get in here?” Marlowe demanded. He had the harassed look of a vampire up during the day who’d been up all night, too. He was also still wearing the same suit from the previous evening, which had started out rumpled and was now approaching embarrassing.

“Through the front door.” For once, I wasn’t trying to be flippant. I just didn’t have the energy left to explain.

Marlowe, of course, scowled. “Mircea needs to take his own advice, and practice some discretion. Bringing you here is not wise!”

“What happened to Lutkin?” I asked, forgetting to mention that Mircea hadn’t brought me anywhere.

“What does it look like?” He motioned for the servants who had blocked my path to step aside. He was probably hoping for some tasty tidbits like last time, only I was fresh out. Since my ass would be out the door a second after he realized that, I didn’t waste any time examining the dead man.

I’d certainly seen more gruesome deaths. There was no blood to contrast nicely with the bright yellow decor. In fact, the body was bone dry, with not only the blood but every other fluid sucked out of it. Even his eyes had shriveled up and were lolling on his cheekbones, barely held in place by the desiccated cords.

It still looked strangely like he was staring at me. I quickly searched for something else to look at, and found it in the fingertip bruises ringing his neck. Shit.

“No fey made those, no matter how powerful,” Marlowe said as I bent for a closer look. And damn it, he was right. Those were the telltale signs of a vampire pulling blood through the skin and not caring whether he left a mark.

“It looks like a revenant got to him,” I said. They were never satiated, and sometimes got carried away. But why go to all the trouble to break in here with an ocean of prey just outside?

“One of those mindless animals would never have gotten past the guards, or the man’s shields,” Marlowe said, echoing my thoughts.

“But at least this clears Louis-Cesare,” I pointed out.

“And how did you determine that?”

I frowned. “You said it yourself—no revenant did this. So Lutkin was obviously killed for the rune. He must have murdered Elyas for it, and now someone returned the favor and took it.”

Marlowe’s scowl didn’t budge. “If he had the rune, why didn’t he use it? He’s a powerful mage from a prominent family. Unlike Elyas, we cannot suppose he did not know how!”

“Maybe he didn’t get a chance,” I said slowly. “Look at him.”

Lutkin’s hands looked more like claws now, the knobby bones and ligaments standing out starkly against the shrunken skin. But that didn’t affect their position. One was dangling off the side of the chair, a glass of wine still wedged between the lifeless fingers. The other was curled harmlessly in his lap. Even more telling, his feet were still crossed at the ankles; he hadn’t even had time to stand up.

“That doesn’t help our case,” Marlowe said irritably. “The only creature who could drain someone this quickly is a first- or possibly a strong second- level master. Like Louis-Cesare.”

“And like half the people in the house right now! The collective energy almost knocked me down when I came in the door. Are all the challengers staying here?”

“About a third, give or take. The rest are scattered around the city.”

“And most if not all of them are on the premises, right?”

That was a good bet, considering that it was broad daylight out. A first-level master could withstand that easily enough, but the power drain would be immense. And no one was going to risk that kind of loss right before facing combat—not when the stakes were this high.

Marlowe stared at the corpse, looking angry and frustrated. “On the premises, but with no motive! They weren’t at the auction and had no way to know that the mage might be important.”

“Who else could have gotten in here?”

Marlowe made a disgusted sound. “You mean other than Lutkin and the dozen other mages who insisted on giving their interviews out of the boiling sun? That would merely leave the challengers and their servants, all of whom were on the guest list. And the press and their support staff, who are doubtless about to descend on us like the vultures they—”

“What about Geminus and Ming-de?” I interrupted. Because none of the people he named were supposed to know about the rune, either. “They could do something like this without breaking a sweat.”

“Geminus has an apartment in the city, but Ming-de brought half her court. We couldn’t accommodate them all and she elected to take a house for the duration.”

“Either of them could have snuck in here,” I pointed out. “Geminus probably knows the place like the back of his hand and Ming-de is strong enough to fog the mind of even a first-level master.”

“As is Louis-Cesare.”

“And he killed Lutkin for what? The hell of it? He had no motive, Marlowe!”

“I am sure that will be Mircea’s argument. Lutkin was at the auction. He was at Elyas’s cocktail party. Now he’s dead. Either he killed Elyas for the rune and has now been killed for it himself, or someone assumed he had it and he died for nothing. Either way, Louis-Cesare is innocent.”

“Sounds logical to me.”

“Really?” Marlowe asked sourly. “Then how about this? Louis-Cesare murdered Elyas over Christine. He was caught in the act and is currently in fear for his life. He panicked and ran before he could stand trial, and has now killed a scapegoat to bolster his case.”

“That’s ridiculous! He’s on the run and yet he comes here, of all places? Why not attack the man in his own home if he wanted him dead?”

“Lutkin is a powerful, wealthy mage. His home is doubtless riddled with protection spells that Louis-Cesare would have no way of knowing. But he is quite familiar with the consul’s home and could easily evade security.”

“Without being seen?” I demanded. “Coming or going?”

Marlowe arched an eyebrow. “It seems you do not know Louis-Cesare as well as I had thought.”