«It will be dawn soon.»
Louis-Cesar followed my gaze as he threw open a door. «Not for some time yet,» he replied easily. I narrowed my eyes at the offhand tone. Even Rafe, old as he was, became uptight as dawn approached, with a tendency to talk too much and to drop things. The younger the vamp, the earlier it started. It was sort of a built-in security net to make sure no one ended up getting fried, and I had never seen anyone left completely unaffected. Yet the Frenchman seemed perfectly at ease. He was either a lot more powerful than the vamps I knew or a great actor; either way, it didn't make me feel better.
I walked past him and found myself standing in the living area of a suite decorated to match what I imagined the daytime view out the windows would be. Pale turquoise walls were clothed in Native American blankets in burnt umber, turquoise and Navajo red, a matching rug had been flung over the rough wood floor and terracotta tile outlined the fireplace. The leather sofa, chair and ottoman were a complimentary shade of deep red, with enough wear on them to look comfortable. It was an oddly cheerful room; apparently, the Senate didn't share Tony's love of the Gothic.
«Please, mademoiselle, asseyez-vous.» Louis-Cesar moved to stand beside the overstuffed armchair near the fireplace. I glanced at Rafe, but he stood resolutely looking out over the view, what there was of it. His hands were clasped together tightly behind his back and his shoulders were tense. Yep, right on schedule: dawn was coming. What I wanted was to drag him off and get some straight answers, but even assuming he was in the mood for it, I wasn't given the chance.
Mircea put a light hand under my elbow, just enough of a touch to guide me into the chair. «Louis-Cesar will not sit when a lady is standing, dulceata.» My dear one: his pet term for me when I'd sat on his knee and listened to his stories. I hoped he meant it; if Rafe was my only friend in the room, I was in trouble.
I plopped down and the Frenchman knelt in front of me. He smiled reassuringly. I blinked. The man—no, the master vampire—had dimples. Big ones. «I wish to attend to your wound. If you permit?»
I nodded cautiously, not convinced that a vamp was the best person to clean off blood, especially one who had looked pretty hungry earlier. But the dried variety doesn't appeal to them and besides, it wasn't like I had a choice. He was being polite, asking my permission as if it mattered what I said, but I knew better. There were two Senate members in the room; they could play gentlemen as long as it amused them, but when it came down to it, I would do what they wanted. They knew it, and so did I.
Louis-Cesar smiled approvingly and I suddenly realized why he was making me jumpy. This close, I could tell that he was one of the most human-looking vamps I'd ever seen. Barring Tomas, who'd had a reason to look as human as possible, most vamps forget little things like breathing, making their hearts beat and turning their skin a more believable color than new-fallen snow. Even Rafe, who was fairly convincing, usually remembered to blink only a few times an hour. But I could have passed this one on the street and mistaken for him for human, assuming he got a wardrobe change. I found myself counting the seconds between breaths to see if he missed any. He didn't.
Growing up I'd seen thousands of vamps from all over the world, some as flamboyant and otherworldly as the Consul and some as normal-looking as Rafe. Before today I would have sworn that I'd know one anywhere, but Tomas had fooled me at close quarters for months, and Louis-Cesar could have done the same if he'd wanted. I didn't like that—it made me feel like a nonsensitive, like one of the millions with no protection from the supernatural world because they can't even sense that it's there. I'd grown up around vamps, but the power the Senate members radiated was like nothing I'd ever experienced. It had me wondering what else I was overlooking, and the thought made me cold.
Louis-Cesar was examining my face slowly, I think more to give me a chance to get used to him than out of any real need. It didn't work. When a glossy brown curl, which had come loose from the cluster at his neck, brushed against my shoulder, I jumped as if he'd slapped me. His hand, which had been reaching for my hair, immediately stilled. «Mille pardons, mademoiselle. But perhaps you will pull your hair back for me? It would help to see the extent of the injury.»
He handed me a golden clip that he'd pulled from his own hair. I took it, careful not to brush his fingers with mine. My hair was barely shoulder length, but I got most of it into a messy ponytail as he watched. I tried to talk myself out of the near panic attack I was having, but it didn't work. Some instinct older than reason, older than polite phrases spoken in well-lit rooms, wanted me to run and hide. Of course, that could have been a reaction to the night I was having, but part of me definitely didn't like him so close. I forced myself to sit still as he finished his examination, to pretend that my arms hadn't broken out in goose bumps and that my pulse wasn't racing through my veins like I was already fleeing for my life. I didn't understand my reaction, but harsh experience had taught me to trust my instincts, and every one I had was loudly begging me to get away. «Ah, bon. Ce n'est pas tres grave,» he murmured. Seeing my expression, he smiled, and it lit even his eyes. «It is not serious,» he translated. I fought not to scream.