In the Company of Vampires

“Do we wait for David?” I asked in a whisper, feeling the Vikingahärta grow warm beneath my shirt.

Ben cocked his head for a second as if he was listening, then shook it. “I would prefer to get Miranda out of de Marco’s keeping before David arrives to deal with him.”

“Deal with him how?” I caught a sense of concern in Ben that had me opening my eyes in surprise. David is going to attack de Marco?

So he says. He hasn’t explained to me all his reasoning yet, but I believe he’s found a link between Luis’s death and de Marco. It will be safer for you and your mother to be out of the way before David rallies his pride members.

A vision of Luis’s mangled body rose before my unwilling eyes, and I shuddered at the thought of what the entire pride could do to a person, immortal or not. I agree with the sentiment, but are we going to be able to get to Mom without any help?

We won’t know unless we try, he said with what I had to admit was wisdom.

Before I could do so much as offer up a prayer to the god and goddess, Ben banged the huge hanged-man door knocker, the sound of it reverberating through the night, a deep, mournful sound that was counterpointed by the livelier noise of the parade as it progressed up the hill.

The door opened quickly. Ben tensed, then relaxed when he saw who answered the knock.

“Hello, Ulfur. This is Benedikt Czerny, my . . . er . . . Dark One. Ben, this is Ulfur, the lich who took the Vikingahärta. We’d like to see Alphonse de Marco.”

Ulfur’s lips formed a thin line, his eyes going flat. “He isn’t here.”

“That makes things easier,” I told Ben.

“Perhaps,” was all he said.

I trained a razor-edged gaze on Ulfur. “Since your boss isn’t present, I’d like my mother, if you don’t mind.”

Ulfur blinked at me in a way that expressed utter confusion. “Your mother?”

“Miranda Ghetti. She’s being kept here, isn’t she?”

His face went completely blank.

“Ulfur?”

He just stared at me with wide, unblinking eyes.

What just happened? I asked Ben.

I think that’s confirmation that your mother is here, and not somewhere else.

Oh, you mean he can’t lie the way you can’t lie to me?

Not quite the same thing, but probably it’s along the same line. Do you know his surname?

Um. I searched my memory. Hallursson, I think. Why?

“Ulfur Hallursson,” Ben said in a deep, intimidating voice, putting his hand on Ulfur’s head, as Ulfur’s eyes grew big. “You will tell us what we want to know. Where is the witch named Miranda?”

What on earth are you doing? Magicking him?

Kind of. I’m laying a compulsion on him.

You can do that?

Only with certain types of beings. Liches, luckily, are one of those who are susceptible.

Ulfur opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, then awkwardly pointed behind him, toward the staircase.

“That’s all I need to know,” I said, pulling out the Vikingahärta and holding it in my hand as I pushed past him into the hall. “There may be a demon around, Ben. There was earlier, but the Vikings sent him back to Abaddon.”

Ben didn’t wait to examine the hallway; he took the stairs three at a time. I ran after him, stopping at the top of the stairs to bellow, “Mom? Are you here?”

My voice echoing down the hallway was all the response we got.

“Miranda?” Ben yelled, even louder than me.

We both listened intently, but heard nothing.

I looked down the stairs to where Ulfur stood silently watching us. “Is she on this floor?”

He just looked at me.

Ben asked him the same question. Evidently the compulsion was still strong enough to cause Ulfur to shake his head.

“Up another flight.” We hurried up the flight to the third floor, repeating the process of calling for my mother. Again we were met with silence.

“There’s only the attic left,” I told Ben as we stood at the foot of a narrow flight of stairs.

“Up we go.”

The door to the attic was locked, but Ben resolved that situation by simply kicking down the door.

“Mom? Are you here?” I asked as I brushed past Ben, coughing slightly on the dusty air that met his assault.

The attic, too, was empty of life.

“I don’t get it,” I said, slapping my hands on my legs in irritation. “Ulfur pointed this way, didn’t he?”

Ben rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful, his eyes narrowed on nothing. “Use the Vikingahärta.”

“Huh?”

“You said it’s changed twice since you reclaimed it. Perhaps it has been doing that to reflect your needs.”

“Since when does it change itself to suit me?” I asked.

“It represents the Fates. No doubt it’s changing itself to be what you need it to be. Try using it to find your mother.”

I looked down at the three metal intertwined triangles that lay in my hand. “Find my mom,” I told it.

It did nothing, just lay inert on my palm.

“Use it, Francesca. Make it do what you want it to do.”

I focused my thoughts on my mother, then grabbed Ben’s hand as I willed the Vikingahärta to find my mother.

It glowed with an amber light for a moment, then suddenly I was running down three flights of stairs to the ground floor.

Where is she?

There, I said, stopping at the side of the stairs. A faint outline of a door built into the staircase was visible.

Ulfur did nothing as Ben broke it down. Before the last piece of shattered wood hit the ground, I stuck my head through the remains of the door and called out, “Mom? Are you there?”

“Franny?”

Relief swept over me like a warm blanket, tears pricking painfully behind my eyes as, heedless of the sharp bits of wood, I pushed into the recess. It turned out to be a landing of a flight of narrow stone stairs that led downward. “Are you decent? Is de Marco there? Are you hurt? Ben is here, so if you need healing, he’ll take care of you.”

“Am I hurt? Franny, what are you talking about?”

I skidded to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, Ben right behind me. I had half expected some sort of a honeymoon suite, with a heart-shaped bed and mirror on the ceiling, but what met my eyes was a beautifully tiled floor covered with expensive-looking cream and old rose rugs, matching cream furniture, a grand piano, a large- screen plasma TV, and floor-to-ceiling windows that gave a breathtaking view of the town below. My mother sat on the couch with a couple of books, a glass of wine dangling from one hand.

“You’re not brainwashed?” I asked without thinking.

“Brainwashed? Of course I’m not.” Her gaze slid past me to Ben, a frown pulling down her brows. “I would ask you what you are doing in Heidelberg, but I see the answer. Good evening, Benedikt.”