Armed with this new advantage, Sabra later returned to her room with a fresh handful of reconsecrated soil and added it to the scrying water. When she sent her thoughts forth—now and finally!—she encountered his solid presence, and the jolt she sent him struck like an electrical shock. The returning echo carried his reaction: reflexive rage… and vast puzzlement.
Good. It was about time he noticed her.
He delayed answering. In all likelihood he’d never encountered one such as herself. Another few days passed before prudence surrendered to curiosity, and she sensed his approach to Carfax not at night, but at noon. Perhaps he thought that like his own, her un-natural powers would be at their lowest ebb in the sun, and preferred to keep things on a physical level where he would have the advantage.
She went down to the abbey to greet him, perching primly on one of the boxes, not so much to make a point, but because it wasn’t layered with dust like the rest of the stinking sty.
The great door opened, and he paused on the threshold, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dimness within. It left him beautifully silhouetted. If Sabra had a crossbow in hand and been so minded, he’d have much regretted the error.
Tall and thin, with a cruel sensual face, and a fierce intellect alight in tiger green eyes… yes, that poor girl had stood no chance against him at all. Few would. There was a poisonous aura around him that boded ill to any who brushed against it, like a carrier of plague.
He came in slowly, his harsh, red-flecked gaze fixing on her like a fiery arrow. He took in the boxes, certainly aware that they’d all been interfered with, made useless to him.
“Did you do this, woman?” he demanded, his voice rumbling so deep with suppressed fury that it stirred a breeze around him. The place was in need of such; the air was unbreatheably thick with grave-stench.
“I’m not responsible,” she replied, holding to an even tone. “But we must speak—”
“Who are you, woman?”
Well, she did not care for that contemptuous address. As though being a woman was a weakness. And she would never give him her true name. Names held power; he had quite enough already. “You may call me Miss Smith. And you?”
His red lips twitched. Amusement or scorn? Probably both. “I am the Count de Ville. I own this place. Why are you here?”
He had a sense of humor to go with his arrogance. With but a small shifting of accent one could pronounce it as “Devil.”
“Very well, Count de Ville. In the name of Queen Victoria I command and require that you give an explanation for your activities since you’ve come to this land.”
His stare was priceless. “What?”
I’ve never been very good at presenting credentials, she thought. “I shall be brief, but you must listen and think most carefully. The evidence is that you committed murder on the high seas, the ship on which it occurred is still at Whitby Harbour, along with its logs. The evidence is that you did seduce and willfully murder a young woman, but not before transforming her against her will to become one of your own breed, the motive as yet unknown. These are most serious crimes, Count de Ville, and they must be answered for.”
Another long stare, then a roaring bark of laughter that filled the room. “You do not know with whom you are dealing.”
Hm. Romanian accent. Probably one of those minor princes so used to having his own way that he’d forgotten how things were done in the outside world.
“I may also make the same observation,” she responded. “I remind you that you are not in your homeland, but mine, and are answerable to her laws.”
“English law?” He spat.
Older than that. Much older.
De Ville looked carefully around, scenting the heavy air.
“There are no others here, sir,” she said. “You will find this to be a most singular court.”
“You have me on trial?” He seemed ready to laugh again.
“Indeed, yes. Use your common sense and respect what it tells you about me.”
He glared. She felt an icy hand caress her protective wards. His gaze turned inward as he concentrated, eyes rolling up in his head, palms out as he delved past surface appearance. “You have Knowledge. But it is not such as to help you here.”
“Count de Ville, you are a man of great intelligence, yet you are ignoring some very important danger signs. I strongly suggest you heed them. Would I be here alone with you if I could not take care of myself? Would I have even been able to call you here if I did not have considerable skills at my disposal?”
He was silent, thinking. Past time for it, too.
“Now, sir, let’s us get to the business at hand. Explain yourself.”
“I will not.”
There were ways around that. She fixed him with her own gaze, tearing past the protective hedges now that he was close enough. What she found was revolting.
He was old, but not ancient, and another name was in his mind… Vlad, Son of Dracul, yes, that was it. She’d heard of him, quite the vicious devil against the Turks in his day—and his own people. He was decidedly savage to any who challenged his authority. She swiftly closed off a random vision of a forest of writhing bodies impaled on stakes and moved on to his present-day concerns. He had plans to establish himself in England. The British Empire, right or wrong, was the seat of real political influence for the world. He’d once been in the center of such a maelstrom in his distant land between the forests. He wanted to resume that sort of absolute control again, but on a much larger field. He had some very specific plans on how to do it, too. Sweet Goddess, if he ever got to the Queen or the Prince of Wales…
Frozen with surprise, he gave a start and tried to throw her from his mind. She withdrew at her own speed, leaving him panting from the effort of trying to hurry her.
“What are you?” he asked, when he’d recovered.
“You already have the answer, but my apprenticeship was very much elsewhere than in the hell-depths of the Scholomance.”
“What know you of that?” His shock was such that he’d lapsed into Romanian. Still in tune with his mind, she was able to translate.
“I know much. I know that you are gifted with the Talent, but you do not see beyond the gratification of your own needs. You do not see forward to the consequences of your actions on yourself or others or the general balance of all things. That is blind and blatant irresponsibility. You’ve grown careless and foolish or you are simply mad. And your ambitions are such that I cannot allow you to continue unchecked.”
“You have not the strength to stop me.”
Damn. He possessed more arrogance than wisdom. She’d hoped to be spared the ordeal of her dream. “Sir, let it suffice to say that I am used to dealing with real monarchs, not some incognito lordling with delusions of his own importance. You are an invader here, I see that now, and, by the authority of the queen I serve, I command and require that you immediately leave and return to your homeland.”
She did not remotely imagine he would go quietly. From her touch on his mind she understood there was only one way to deal with him, only one thing he would respect. And she also understood the play of her initial dream, why it had ended in that manner.
He reared to his full height, like a cobra preparing to strike. “Ah, but I see it now. Talent and power you do indeed possess, but as for delusions of importance… you are nothing more than an escapee from that ridiculous madhouse across the way. Unfortunate for you, young woman. But you are comely, and for that I shall make it pleasant.”