Page 16

Finding Hassani, I realized, might be harder than I’d thought. The party that we joined after a quick trip upstairs had spilled out onto multiple rooftops, with vamps casually jumping from one to the other on a whim. That wasn’t such a big deal in some cases, where the buildings were basically sitting cheek by jowl, but with others there was a significant gap. Giving me the visual of men in tuxes and women in sparkly, high fashion gowns leaping through the air like gazelles.

Not that everybody was all dressed up. I’d worried about my outfit being too touristy or too spangly or too something, but it would have been hard to pick something that wouldn’t have fit in here somewhere. Because each rooftop seemed to be doing its own thing.

One had sleekly dressed people in mostly Western clothing holding champagne flutes, although they were probably filled with the same nasty, non-alcoholic stuff we’d been served since we got here. Hassani did not approve of the devil’s brew, despite the fact that vamps can’t get drunk, at least not off Earth hooch. But the partiers made it look good, quietly talking or slow dancing together as if they were at a high-end supper club or a refined house party.

Another gathering, right next door, had the vibe of a bunch of old friends, casually attired and sitting on plastic chairs, playing cards, smoking hookahs, and relaxing. Well, except for the three guys in the back. They were trying to hide the keg they’d smuggled in by nonchalantly throwing a tablecloth over it and planting a candlestick in the middle.

Damn, I thought enviously.

Should have brought the cognac.

Their group, in turn, were bordered by some pretty raucous, nightclub type celebrations, one playing jazz, one with a thumping disco beat, and a third blasting Top 40 karaoke, while a vamp who ought to know better tried to hold a tune.

Our roof was somewhere in the middle, with a bunch of musicians with colorful tablah drums and a dozen female belly dancers in bright yellow and gold spangled outfits. And, okay, what the heck was the rule, I wondered, sizing up the low-cut bras and bare bellies of the dancers. I thought we were being restrained!

But all bets were off tonight, it seemed, because there was some serious shimmying going on.

“It is an interesting art form, is it not?” Louis-Cesare asked, watching one girl’s impressive undulations.

She had smooth golden skin, washboard abs, and a belly button piercing. She also had hair, not as much as Maha, but enough to hit the small of her back. And, like a lot of Egyptian women’s hair, it was thick, dark, curly and beautiful.

“Yeah, interesting,” I said, and pulled him off to what passed for a bar.

The rooftops were open to the stars, although there were numerous wooden pergolas with diaphanous draperies scattered around, as well as some big, square boards that looked like massive T.V.s or small movie screens. They were neither; there were no wires or cables around the bottoms and I didn’t see any projectors. But something was being shown on them nonetheless.

“What the—” I stopped to stare at one on the next roof over, which was big enough to be perfectly visible from here.

“Oh, yes. I forgot to mention,” Louis-Cesare said, handing me a glass of non-alcoholic punch.

“You forgot to mention what?”

He shrugged. “This is a celebration. They wanted to show people what they had to celebrate.”

He drank his own punch, and then frowned at the glass.

“Yes, but—” I stared at the big board some more. It was currently showing me in all of my crispy-fried glory: clothes blackened and half missing, skin burnt, hair—what was left of it—a complete disaster, and mouth open as I thundered across the room on a bright red motorcycle, yelling obscenities at an ancient god.

It was as embarrassing as all hell, and it wasn’t the only one. Similar boards were scattered around the rooftops as far as I could see, playing the greatest hits from the day’s event. We were all there: Louis-Cesare, climbing up a massive cobra’s body with a sword on his back; Hassani, doing his Gandalf routine at the top of the stairs; the vamp squad, carving their way through zombies like they did it every day; and me, trying to shoot a god.

I put my weak-ass punch down and started to look around for a way out of here, but Louis-Cesare knew me. “Not a chance,” he said.

And the next second, he’d pulled me into his arms, taken a running leap, and—

“Hey! Some notice next time!” I said breathlessly, as we landed on another roof maybe twenty feet away, but so lightly that Louis-Cesare didn’t even spill his drink.

He just laughed and kept going, jumping from rooftop to rooftop all along the block that Hassani owned. In the process, we dodged a trio of dwarves with musical instruments, a line of well-dressed conga dancers, and then almost collided with some more dancers in orange and red fluttery outfits, who streamed across our path without warning. I looked back to see their bodies painting a glittery rainbow across the darkness for a moment before we landed—

In an all-out bash. This one had party horns and confetti cannons, and dancing boys as well as girls. One of the latter came up and tried to dance with us, despite the fact that Louis-Cesare hadn’t put me down yet. He was pretty impressive, with a bare chest glistening with sweaty muscles, dark brown eyes with long, thick lashes, and a blindingly white smile.

His dance moves weren’t bad, either.

“You know, I’m starting to see what you mean about art,” I told Louis-Cesare, who grimaced and jumped to another roof.

And almost landed in the middle of a troop of six male dancers, who were doing an amazing tanoura. The Egyptian folk dance had also been performed at the reception given on our arrival, but that one had been staid and solemn by comparison. These guys were really going for it, with multicolored skirts flinging out like whirling dervishes’, and including a huge top skirt that they brought up their bodies and over their heads, manipulating it like a great umbrella to mirror the movements of the skirts below.

And because they were vampires, they were spinning so fast that the sound of their clothes snapping and their feet scraping across the concrete rooftop made almost as much noise as the musicians. They streamed around us, the throbbing beat and flowing colors sweeping us up into the madness for a heady second, and confusing my already spinning head. Then they were gone, whirling off to another part of the roof, leaving Louis-Cesare and I looking at each other, breathless and laughing.

Until I spied the food.

Vampires don’t technically need to eat, and the younger ones don’t even have working taste buds, meaning that their parties often times don’t include food. At best, I’d been hoping for a lackluster buffet with some wilted lettuce and maybe a few pasta salads that hadn’t gone off yet. But that . . . was not what I got.

Hassani’s people had devised a street vendor type of set up, the kind sometimes seen at big Indian weddings where there are a ton of people to feed with different preferences. Here that meant happy little booths scattered about everywhere, draped with bunting or shiny fringe or topped by balloons, and each with a different specialty. I guessed the idea was to promote circulation, with people who wanted to eat being encouraged to make the rounds.

I was encouraged.

Especially when the spicy scents from the closest booth drifted over, and my stomach woke up to complain that I’d eaten practically nothing for twenty-four hours. That was a rare event in the life of a dhampir. We have revved up metabolisms that help promote healing and give us added power in fights, but they come with a price: we’re hungry all the time, with our stomachs making regular, strident demands. Whatever Maha had done to calm down my system while she healed it had also banished hunger—until right now.

“Put me down,” I told Louis-Cesare, my mouth watering. As soon as he complied, I ran to the nearest booth and—yes! I’d thought so.

The vendor was passing out plates of ta’meya, an Egyptian version of falafel made with fava beans instead of chickpeas. But that didn’t tell the whole story, not by half. Onion, garlic, leek and parsley were added to the mix, giving it a vibrant green color, while coriander, cayenne, cumin and paprika spiced it up before it was made into little balls and fried.

It was always delicious, but after a day with no nourishment, the pillowy soft on the inside, crunchy on the outside, hot and spicy bundles were almost literally heaven.

“Don’t fill up,” Louis-Cesare warned me. “Look what’s next.”

He nodded at something further down the roof and, sure enough, another little booth smelled even better. I hurried over, still stuffing my face with ta’meya, and then just stood there in something approaching awe. Because this one had shawarma, with a huge tower of lamb and another of chicken, their fat caps sizzling and dripping mouth-watering flavor all down the already highly spiced meat.

I had one of each kind, in two huge stuffed pita breads with tahini and roasted vegetables. And while I was working on those, we passed a fatteh vendor giving out plates of an ancient Egyptian feast food. The fried crispy flatbread was piled high with rice, meat, and veggies, and all doused in a sensational buttery, garlicy, vinegary tomato sauce.

“Oh,” I said, pointing with a pita.

“I’ll get a tray,” Louis-Cesare said dryly.

And damned if he didn’t find one somewhere. I was too busy jumping to the next roof to see where, because there was a vendor with bamia over there, a delicious okra stew with chunks of beef, tomatoes, onions, garlic, and spices. There was also a guy with kofta—spicy meatballs with a yogurt dip—and another with mahshi—peppers, zucchini, eggplants and cabbage leaves stuffed with lamb and rice and tomato sauce, and spiced with cinnamon and herbs, which sounds nasty but tastes divine.

“Your tray,” Louis-Cesare said, coming up behind me and proffering a shiny brass version, which was good because my hands were full. And we hadn’t even made it to the desserts yet.

But they were coming up. I could see a vendor on the next roof with zalabya, fried doughballs in sweet syrup, kind of like Egyptian doughnut holes. And another further on who I was pretty sure had Om Ali, the best damned dessert in a city of great desserts. It had layers of puff pastry soaked in milk and mixed with nuts, raisins, coconut and sugar. The whole thing was then baked and served with warm cream and garnished with more nuts, usually pistachios and almonds. It was basically Egyptian bread pudding, and was rivalled only by one I’d had in New Orleans once with a caramel whisky sauce.

“Oh,” I said, my eyes getting wide. I started that way, but was too late. Hassani wanted to speak to us as well, it seemed, and he’d sent a delegation to find us.

I only knew that because Louis-Cesare shouted it at me as we were swept up by a laughing, chattering, and carousing throng. I found myself grabbed under the arms and taken on a wild ride across a number of rooftops, so quickly that I barely had a chance to realize what was going on. And when we hit down, I suddenly had a bunch of people I didn’t know hugging me and laughing and taking selfies.

Whatever reservations Hassani’s court had had about us, they appeared to have disappeared. Somebody put a new drink into my hand, and somebody else plopped a flower crown onto my head, a popular accessory tonight as half the crowd seemed to be wearing them. I supposed it was a nod to the ancient Egyptian practice at festivals, or maybe it was just because.

There was a lot of just because going on.

And not only with the locals. I stared around, dizzy and wondering where my food was. But before I could ask, Louis-Cesare was borne away by a troop of guys dressed in harem pants and tasseled vests.

“Wait,” I said.

The crowd did not wait.

Instead, I was borne over to a bier with a table and a pergola, with some yellow draperies fluttering overhead which were so narrow that they basically just striped the stars. Hassani was reclining on a chaise, this time in a more comfortable looking outfit of a galabeya in unbleached cotton, with a pale blue caftan over the top. His only concession to the festivities was a flower crown, which had fallen to a jaunty angle over one ear, and a goblet of something in his hand.

He waved me up and up I went, mourning my lost tray, only to find it deposited on a low table in front of our chaises before I even sat down. My mood perked up. The consul saw and laughed.

“Eat, eat,” he said with the usual generous Egyptian hospitality.

I took him up on the offer. A young vamp who looked a lot like Lantern Boy but wasn’t kept my glass filled with the local version of lemonade. It was called limoon and didn’t have any alcohol, but went really well with the spicy food.

And some of the offerings needed something to cut the heat, although not the ones on my tray. But they were only half the story, because Hassani kept urging me to also try this hors d’oeuvre and that drink from a seemingly endless stream of passing waiters. Mezze is the Egyptian version of tapas, enjoyed at cafes and dining tables all across Egypt. And Hassani’s chefs had done him proud.

So, in addition to everything on my plate, I ended up consuming pieces of fennel-marinated-feta with olives on skewers; baba ghanoush—the spicy roasted eggplant dish—with flatbread; huge dates stuffed with nuts and honey; dukka—a roasted leek spread—on tiny potato pancakes; salata baladi, a salad made from chopped tomatoes, cucumber, onion, pepper and spicy rocket; lamb and chicken kebobs with the crunchy burnt bits perfectly paired with a lime yogurt sauce; and roast pigeon stuffed with onions, tomatoes and rice.

The result was a captive audience for whatever the hell Hassani wanted to talk about, because I honestly didn’t think I could move. Like ever again. Seriously, if anyone wanted to restrain a person without the needs for cuffs, this would do it.

He eyed up my massive pile of small, empty plates with apparent approval, but then summoned a boy with coffee, served Turkish style in tiny cups that were rich and dark and syrupy sweet. I drank one anyway, because it smelled divine, and made no apologies. I was basically in a food coma by that point, and not responsible for my actions. I reclined and watched the latest group of dancers through rheumy eyes full of spice-induced tears.

They’d been there a while, shimmying and shaking and managing some pretty impressive feats of acrobatics while I ate, but I hadn’t really given them my full attention. I still didn’t, being too busy feeling grateful that I’d worn what was essentially a muumuu, rather than one of Radu’s skin tight numbers, or I’d have split the seams by now sure as hell. And then I almost did anyway, although for a different reason.

Because Louis-Cesare was one of the dancers.

I did a double take, but it was definitely him. He’d lost the top half of the tux, including the shirt, had acquired a tasseled vest, and was strutting with the locals. I looked down at my cup in concern, wondering what the hell they’d put in there. And then I was pulled up to join the festivities, which no, no, no, not right now!

Luckily, Hassani intervened, shooing off the boys and allowing me to retake my seat and just watch while they and my husband put on a show.

And a damned show it was. I don’t know if it was my appreciation of the other dancer that had prompted it, or if everyone’s joy was infectious, but Louis-Cesare was cutting a rug. He was watching the others, who had slowed down their gyrations to something approaching human speeds, and copied their steps pretty well.

Or their shimmy, I guess I should say. Because male belly dancers seemed to have many of the same moves as the women. Meaning that there was a lot of hip gyrating and undulating going on, along with something that looked a lot like twerking to my uneducated eyes.

They moved freely around the big open space, turning and twisting and shaking that ass, at least Louis-Cesare did. He wasn’t so great at some of the more complex movements, but he had this sinuous quiver down pat that was, uh, memorable. It was the fencing, I thought, staring at my husband’s shapely form more than was probably diplomatic.

But . . . dat ass.

He finally decided that I’d had enough time to digest, which was highly debatable in my opinion, but Hassani was talking to some courtier on his other side and wasn’t available to rescue me. So, I ended up dancing, too. Or something that vaguely passed for it, and I didn’t even have alcohol to blame it on.

It was probably going to end up on the local version of a jumbotron, I thought in horror, just any minute now.

Fortunately, I had a reprieve when a group of plate spinners showed up for the next act. I’d glimpsed them on one of the rooftops as we sped past, but hadn’t had a chance to stop and check them out. And now I didn’t have to. Hassani didn’t travel to the performances, they travelled to him, so we had a front row seat.

If it hadn’t come with more mezze, it would have been perfect.

I let Louis-Cesare take the hit this time, who worked his way through a dinner he didn’t technically need but seemed to enjoy, while the plate spinners did their thing. They were followed by some sword dancers, which was impressive until you considered that they were vamps; some fire jugglers that were impressive because they were vamps; and a woman oud player, with an instrument that looked like a lute and sounded like a Greek guitar, who sang some hauntingly beautiful songs whose words I didn’t understand.

Or maybe part of me did.

Louis-Cesare had reclined behind me and his body was a line of heat up my spine, countering the chill in the air. The night sky was beautiful, with Hassani’s amazing shields able to bring the Milky Way startlingly close and clear. And the torches surrounding our little bier were started to burn low, giving everything a dreamy, dim, golden glow that wrapped me in the same sense of warmth as Louis-Cesare’s arms.

I’d remember today, I thought. Not the pain; I rarely remembered that kind of thing, having had so much of it through the years that it was meaningless, just the background noise of my life. But days like this one . . . yeah. This was burned into my brain.

And then Hassani ensured it.

“Are you enjoying the party?” he asked, leaning over, and keeping his voice low so as not to interrupt the singer’s performance.

“Very much.” I hoped I didn’t sound as sleepy as I felt.

“That is good. I wanted to talk to you earlier, but were told that you were indisposed.”

“I don’t heal as fast as a vamp,” I said. “Not even with help.”

“Really?” A dark eyebrow went up. “That makes your actions over the last few days even more commendable.”

I didn’t know what to do with that, especially coming from him. “Thank you.”

“It is I who should be thanking you—both of you. My court owes you a debt we can never repay.”

I tried to summon up some brain power, in order to respond appropriately, but most of the available blood was being bogarted by my stomach. “That’s, uh, I mean, you don’t have to—”

“That is kind of you,” Louis-Cesare said smoothly, rescuing me. “Anything that strengthens our alliance is of mutual benefit, not only to us, but to the war effort.”

Hassani smiled at him politely for a moment, and then his eyes slid back to me. “But perhaps I can make at least a small down payment.”

“A down payment?” I echoed, confused.

“Yes, indeed.” He leaned closer, almost enough to whisper in my ear. “I think I know what the fey want with your sister.”