She walked into the room. The humid, climate-controlled air closed around her like a possessive, suffocating embrace.
Victor put away the sixteenth-century stiletto, placing it in its case with the others. He took a wooden case from a high shelf, laid it on the table and opened it. “I was told that this rapier delivered the death blow in a famous duel in seventeenth-century France,” he said. “Over an unfaithful wife, if the documentation is to be believed. The outraged husband is said to have murdered both the lover and his wife with this blade. Often these stories are fabricated to inflate the value of such items, but I have reason to believe that it's true. The papers are in antiquated French, but that's no barrier to you, of course.”
Victor watched her reaction as she inspected the rapier, the delicate tremor in her hand, the faraway look in her eyes. She really was his offspring, he exulted silently. Her dreams were solid proof.
She hefted the rapier, sliced it through the air, and turned to him. “Yes” she said decisively. “I think it's true, too.”
She felt it too, just like him. It shouldn't matter, but it did What a pleasure it was, to show his beauties to someone with the capacity to understand why he valued them.
“You feel it, don't you?” He reached for the rapier. Raine relinquished the thing with obvious relief.
“Feel what?” Her eyes were wary.
“The stain. I would say 'vibration’, but the term has been so overused in New Age parlance as to become practically meaningless.”
“I'm not sure I know what you mean.”
He patted her shoulder. “You will, my dear. If you have the dreams, you probably have other sensitivities as well. That is the price you pay for being born a Lazar.”
“I've already paid enough,” she said.
He laughed at her, pitiless. “Don't whine. Power carries its price. And you must learn to use power in order to appreciate its gifts.”
She looked dubious. “Bad dreams can be useful?”
He hesitated for a moment, and pulled a set of keys out of his pocket. He unlocked a drawer and pulled out a black plastic case.
“Knowledge is always power, if you are strong enough to face the truth,” he said. He laid the case on the table. “Take a look at this, my most recent acquisition. I'm curious to see the effect that it has upon you. It isn't ancient, or beautiful, or rare, like the other items.”
“Then why do you have it?” she asked.
“I did not acquire this for myself. It's for a client of mine.”
Raine stuck her hands in her pockets. “What's its story?”
He popped the lid open and beckoned her closer. “You tell me. Let your mind empty. Tell me what rises in it.”
She stepped closer to the thing, looking pinched and frightened. “Please don't watch me so closely,” she said. “It makes me nervous.”
“Excuse me.” He stepped back.
Raine reached out and placed her hands on either side of the gun. “It feels different than the rapier. The ... the stain is very fresh.”
“Yes,” he corroborated.
Her eyes were blind and wide, as if she saw far beyond the gun. As, indeed, she did. He felt a pang of sympathy. So much crashing down on her young head all at once. But she had to face it.
“A woman, murdered,” she whispered. “By a person ... no. A thing. A thing so dead inside, it isn't even human anymore. God.”
She doubled over, choking as if she were about to retch. Her hair coiled and draped across the plastic case. She shuddered violently.
He led her to a chair and pushed her into it, alarmed. She hid her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking so hard it seemed that she was weeping, but she made no sound. He poured her a glass of the cognac he kept on the shelf. “Katya. I'm sorry. Are you all right?”
She unfolded. He pressed the glass into her hand, and she held it, as stiff as a doll. “What is that thing, Victor?”
He was taken aback by her flat, hard tone, by the blunt-ness of the question. “It's a piece in a game I'm playing,” he said, feeling defensive. “It's a stolen murder weapon. I am sorry, my dear. I didn't mean to upset you. I showed it to you to see if you could feel—” He stopped.
“Feel what?” She set down the glass of cognac.
“The stain,” he said.
Her eyes looked old beyond her years. “I felt it,” she said in a low voice. “I hope to God I never feel anything like it again.”
He felt a twinge of guilt. “I had no idea you were so sensitive. I assure you, I—”
“Your game is not worth it. Whatever it is.”
“Whatever do you mean?” he demanded.
“That thing is poisonous.” Her voice rang with authority, even in the muffled, soundproof room.
Victor was surprised at how uncomfortable he felt. “Aristocrats throughout the ages dosed themselves with tiny bits of poison over a period of years, becoming immune to anything their enemies might throw at them. That's what has happened to me, my dear. Immunity.”
She shook her head “You're not as immune as you think you are. And if you're so hung up on facing the truth, then face that one, Victor. You shouldn't have this thing. Whatever you did to get it was wrong. Whatever you're planning to do with it is wrong, too.”
He was so amazed at her gall that it took a moment to find his voice. Her self-righteous tone infuriated him. “And where does this talent for tedious moralizing come from?” he mocked. “Not from me. Certainly not from Alix.”
“Maybe it's all mine “ she said. “Maybe I found it all on my own, with no help from any of you.”
“Ah. The angel of judgment rises above the cesspit of her past. Transcending the sins of her lying, thieving, fornicating ancestors.”
“Stop it, Victor.”
He snapped the case shut and placed it in the drawer. His hands shook with anger. He hadn't been so furious in years, not since Peter—
No. He did not want to think about Peter.
He slammed the drawer shut. 'That's enough shocking revelations for us this morning. It's time to deliver you back into the care of your new guard dog. God knows what might happen to him if he comes sniffing after you in a place so steeped in sin.”
“Enough, please, Victor.”
The misery on her face prodded at something inside him that was rusty and stiff, better left untouched. The feeling made him even angrier. He swung the door open. “After you,” he said coldly.
She preceded him out of the room, holding herself very straight.
He armed the alarms, wondering if he should change his divine override computer access code. But then again, why bother? With the opinion she had of him, the girl would never guess the code, anyway.
Not in a million years.
Chapter 21
There would be plenty of time to grill her later. No reason to bother her if she was feeling silent and solitary, Seth told himself again.
He'd tried to persuade her to sit in the sheltered cabin for the boat ride back to the city, and a mute shake of the head was all he'd gotten for a reply. She'd stared out at the water, heedless of the wind and the cold, whipping
