Traveling with the Dead
Barbara Hambly
Language: English
Pages: 343
ISBN: 0345381025
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Down through the deathless centuries, the vampires had drunk human blood for sustenance and for sport. They preyed where they willed, for no mortal humans could resist their unclean powers. But now came the ultimate perversion, the unthinkable: someone was conscripting the vampires into the secret services of a foreign power.
No government agency or bureaucrat could control the Undead. The idea was absurd, as Dr. James Asher knew all too well.
Years in His Majesty's service had taught Asher the finer points of espionage. And he knew the secrets of the vampires--a familiarity hard-won in unwilling service to Don Simon Ysidro, oldest and most subtle of the hunters of the London night. What Asher didn't know was why one of England's established vampires would risk everything to travel across the European continent at the behest of a ruthless spymaster.
But he could see the terrifying potential of such an unholy alliance...
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appalled. “I don’t know which is worse, that kind of old-fashioned absurdity or what he’s done...” “He is an antique gentleman,” Miss Potton said calmly. “He is a killer! Not to mention a bigoted Catholic and the most unconscionable snob in shoe leather, and you’re a fool if you believe—” “He isn’t bigoted!” The waiter came, bringing a cup of café au lait the size of a soup bowl. Miss Potton looked up at him anxiously, as if fearing he would demand payment of her on the spot. Only when he left
never get another job. Done with such things forever indeed! “I have no family,” Miss Potton went on, with that same oblique pride. “I have put myself, my fate, into Don Simon’s hands, as he has put himself into mine. And it feels... right. True. Good.” “Anything would,” Lydia argued, startled, “after spending—how many years were you with Mrs. Wendell?—looking after someone else’s children.” The young woman’s mouth flinched, and as she averted her eyes, Lydia caught the quick shine of tears.
wanting to know what they told him. All three had been from Françoise, sent on successive days. All three had asked for an immediate reply. But he’d seen her at the Café New York—his shoulder tightly strapped and a hefty dose of Fairport’s stimulants in his veins—earlier that day. She had mentioned the telegrams in passing, but said they were nothing much. It meant that she’d been checking on his movements in the period of time in which he was supposed to be ill rather than away. It meant that
pact with devil, lived forever. Bily Hora Village. Woman who bathed in blood, lived five hundred years. Brusa, Bily Hora, Salek. She looked up, puzzled. “It sounds like the sort of thing James does—talking to storytellers and grannies and old duffers at country inns.” “I expect Fairport observed the way James went about his questioning and turned it to his own usages.” He tilted his head, moved the pile of invoices so he could read the top sheet. His pale eyebrows flexed. “One can, in any case,
voice was barely louder than a cat’s tread in the dark behind her, but somehow it didn’t startle her. It was as if, for the second or two before he spoke, she knew he was there. Turning, she saw him on the walkway, dressed, as the men at the palace reception had been dressed, in black morning coat and gray-striped trousers, colorless hair framing a dead man’s face. Her breath escaped in a shaky sigh. “Coming to Constantinople was not a wise thing,” she said. “I wondered what you had in that
