The next second, Tomas' hands were around my upper arms, the grip just short of painful as he drew me back against him. «What do you know of abuse?» he demanded in a savage undertone. «Do you know how I became a vampire, Cassie? Would you like me better if I told you that they rounded me up with the rest of my village and took us to be hunted by Alejandro and his court? That the only reason I'm not dead is that one of his courtiers thought I was attractive enough to save for himself? That I had to watch people who had come through plague and conquest, who had fought at my side for years against overwhelming odds, be slaughtered by a madman for his sick amusement? Is that what you want to hear? If it isn't gruesome enough to win your forgiveness, believe me, I have many other stories. We could swap them, only I think you would run out before I do. You were on the streets for a handful of years; I was with Alejandro for three and a half centuries!»
«Tomas, please release Mademoiselle Palmer.»
To my surprise, the oddly dressed man had intervened. I'd thought he looked like something out of Restoration England, but now realized his origins were on the other side of the Channel. His accent was faint but noticeably French. I'd almost forgotten he was there. Even weirder was that Tomas immediately did as he asked, stepping away like contact with me burned him, but those black eyes stayed on mine as if waiting for an answer. What was I supposed to say? You've had a tough time, so it's okay that you turned me over to people who may do even worse to me? Your life was messed up, so it's fine that you ruined mine? If so, he'd be waiting a long time.
«Perhaps you can trust me to guard her for a while?» It was phrased as a question, but the tall Frenchman ushered me down the corridor without waiting for an answer.
I soon got to see my old nemesis, but not in the circumstances I'd expected. Tony's fat face looked the same as always, which wasn't surprising since he hadn't changed since 1513 except for the clothes. He was wearing what I liked to think of as his goodfella suit—a pinstriped number that looked like something he'd stolen off a bouncer at a speakeasy, and maybe he had. He liked the suit because someone had told him once that vertical stripes made him look slimmer. They lied. Tony died at more than three hundred pounds, which on a five-foot-five frame meant he was approximately the shape of a soccer ball with legs. And no amount of diet and exercise was gonna change that now.
Even with the weight and the fashion sense from hell, Tony looked better than his chief enforcer, Alphonse, who stood, as always, behind his master's left shoulder. Although they were only reflections in a large mirror at the moment, I could tell they were in the old stronghold in Philly. I was surprised that even Tony would have that much nerve, to move right back in, but I should have known; lack of balls wasn't one of his failings. I knew where they were because Tony was arrayed on his usual chair, a throne that had come from a bishop's palace back when lots of carving and gilt were the in thing. The back came to a point a good six feet off the ground, but Alphonse didn't have to stretch to see past it. His height didn't help his appearance, though. He was built like someone who knew how a thug was supposed to look had put him together, but he had one of the scariest faces I've ever seen. I don't mean that in a sexy, Hollywood villain kind of way—the guy was just plain ugly. I heard once that he'd been one of Baby Face Nelson's hit men before he was turned, but it looked to me like he was the one who'd been hit—repeatedly, with a baseball bat, in the face. As a kid, I'd been fascinated with the fact that he had almost no profile because his nose stood out no more than his Neanderthal brow line.
I always crack up when movies depict vamps as gorgeous, sexy and with an endless closet of expensive clothes. The fact is, when you're dead, you look pretty much the same way you did when you were alive. Hundreds of years can teach a person a few beauty tricks, I guess, but most vamps don't bother. Some of the younger ones make an effort because it makes hunting easier, but most of the older ones don't give a damn. When you can make someone believe you look like anything from Marilyn Monroe to Brad Pitt with merely a suggestion, makeup starts to look like a waste of money.
Despite both Tony's and his pet goon's presence via enchanted mirror, I was in a good mood. I looked a hell of a lot more disreputable than either of them, with my pink bra peeking out of my shredded shirt, my scraped face oozing blood, and melted bits of vampire goo dripping down my boots. But I was alive, still human, and Tony was looking unhappy. It didn't get much better than that. Of course, Tony wasn't the only problem in sight, but I figured I stood a fighting chance since I'd made it this far. If the Senate wanted me dead, their spy could have taken me out any time in the past six months.