that you turned me over to people who may do even worse to me? Your life was messed up, so itâs fine that you ruined mine? If so, heâd be waiting a long time.
âPerhaps you can trust me to guard her for a while?â 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 Iâd expected. Tonyâs fat face looked the same as always, which wasnât surprising since he hadnât changed since 1513 except for the clothes. He was wearing what I liked to think of as his goodfella suit â a pinstriped number that looked like something heâd 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 masterâs 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 wasnât one of his failings. I knew where they were because Tony was arrayed on his usual chair, a throne that had come from a bishopâs 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 didnât have to stretch to see past it. His height didnât 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 Iâve ever seen. I donât mean that in a sexy, Hollywood villain kind of way â the guy was just plain ugly. I heard once that heâd been one of Baby Face Nelsonâs hit men before he was turned, but it looked to me like he was the one whoâd been hit â repeatedly, with a baseball bat, in the face. As a kid, Iâd 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 youâre 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 donât bother. Some of the younger ones make an effort because it makes hunting easier, but most of the older ones donât 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 Tonyâs and his pet goonâs 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 didnât get much better than that. Of course, Tony wasnât the only problem in sight, but I figured I stood a fighting chance since Iâd made it this far. If the Senate wanted me dead, their spy could have taken me out any time in the past six months.
I glanced across the huge room to where Tomas had entered. He stood near the door, technically obeying my request to keep away, but it wasnât nearly far enough to suit me. He was talking to one of the chamber guards, a matched set of four six-foot blonds who looked like theyâd walked out of a medieval
âPerhaps you can trust me to guard her for a while?â 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 Iâd expected. Tonyâs fat face looked the same as always, which wasnât surprising since he hadnât changed since 1513 except for the clothes. He was wearing what I liked to think of as his goodfella suit â a pinstriped number that looked like something heâd 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 masterâs 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 wasnât one of his failings. I knew where they were because Tony was arrayed on his usual chair, a throne that had come from a bishopâs 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 didnât have to stretch to see past it. His height didnât 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 Iâve ever seen. I donât mean that in a sexy, Hollywood villain kind of way â the guy was just plain ugly. I heard once that heâd been one of Baby Face Nelsonâs hit men before he was turned, but it looked to me like he was the one whoâd been hit â repeatedly, with a baseball bat, in the face. As a kid, Iâd 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 youâre 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 donât bother. Some of the younger ones make an effort because it makes hunting easier, but most of the older ones donât 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 Tonyâs and his pet goonâs 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 didnât get much better than that. Of course, Tony wasnât the only problem in sight, but I figured I stood a fighting chance since Iâd made it this far. If the Senate wanted me dead, their spy could have taken me out any time in the past six months.
I glanced across the huge room to where Tomas had entered. He stood near the door, technically obeying my request to keep away, but it wasnât nearly far enough to suit me. He was talking to one of the chamber guards, a matched set of four six-foot blonds who looked like theyâd walked out of a medieval
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