It didn’t make me want to go up and say hi.

And I didn’t know what they could do for him if I did. Vampires healed themselves, for the most part. There were potions that could counteract the effects of curses, and low-level necromancers that could speed up healing in the case of particularly nasty wounds. But neither of those was likely to be available here, and anyway, they didn’t apply. Louis-Cesare hadn’t been cursed or wounded. Louis-Cesare was just out cold.

Which left me in a mess.

I couldn’t transition us out of here, because I didn’t know how. And with my guide unconscious, I had no way to contact Mircea and find out. Besides, I’d been a good girl and avoided snooping, so I didn’t know Louis-Cesare’s memories any better than my other half did. Even assuming I figured things out on my own, the only place I could take us was back into my memories.

Where she’d be onto us in about a second.

I closed my eyes for a moment, and just breathed.

I’d had a plan, at the beginning of this crazy ride. It wasn’t much of one, admittedly, but it was the best I’d been able to come up with under the circumstances. And it still was.

Get him out. All the rest of the hundred or so things clamoring for attention could wait. Just get him out.

Get him out before she found him.

Get him out before she killed him.

Just fucking Get. Him. Out.

I opened my eyes.

We needed to get moving, to put some space between us and where we’d come in. It didn’t matter where—just so the bitch would have to look for us, instead of stumbling over us. Somewhere I might get a few seconds’ warning when she showed up. And somewhere under cover, so I could stash Louis-Cesare out of sight.

I knew where he was; if she came, I’d leave him here and run, because it was me she wanted. If I got away, I could tell Mircea where to go to retrieve him. And if I didn’t…

Well, I’d have a really good incentive to make sure that I did, wouldn’t I? Or to hope that Mircea could find him anyway. Or that he’d wake up on his own and figure a way out.

None of which was going to happen if she found him first.

I got my hands under his arms and started dragging him backward, toward the shack.

It wasn’t far off, and it was downhill, thank God, over a path made of trampled grass that was slick enough to minimize the friction. It should have been a pretty easy trip, despite the six feet four inches of pure muscle I was dragging. But it wasn’t.

Either this mental stuff was exhausting or the week I’d had was finally catching up with me, but I was panting like a steam train and sweating like a pig. And that was before we’d made it halfway there. I stopped for a rest, crouching in the dirt, wishing to God I had something to use as a—

I stopped, cursing myself for being an idiot. The damned place looked so real, it was easy to forget that it was in my head. I could dream up a stretcher—hell, I could dream up a freaking wheelchair, if I wanted—and save my back and legs and thighs, all of which had started seriously to protest.

Only I couldn’t.

I tried again, and again got nothing. I couldn’t remember what I’d done before, but staring at the ground and hoping really hard obviously wasn’t it. Of course not, I snarled, and grabbed Louis-Cesare again, preparing to continue with my old buddy the Hard Way.

So much for dreaming up a bazooka if anybody threatened us.

Like the monster in the tall grass, for instance.

I froze, hoping it was a trick of the light. Because I was pretty close to crazed right now, and didn’t need yet another problem. Especially not one with two huge, narrowed eyes peering at me from the side of the path. But there they were anyway—evil, dark and soulless—reflecting the bonfire light like the flames of hell.

And then slowly crossing.

Okaaaay.

I carefully lowered Louis-Cesare to the ground again. No reaction. I edged around him and slowly moved to the side of the path. No reaction. I gradually put out a hand. No reaction.

I jumped forward and parted the grasses—

And had no freaking idea what I was looking at.

It was lying on its side, big and brown and lumpish, and vaguely donkey-like, if donkeys were the size of Clydesdales. And covered in dreads. And simpleminded, because it was not only crossing its eyes but grinning, the massive lips pulling back from equally massive teeth and a lolling tongue.

And then it noticed me looking and it farted.

I just stared for a moment, bewildered.

“Baudet de Poitou,” Louis-Cesare said hoarsely from behind me.

I whirled around. “What?”

“An ancient breed of donkey. We called him Jehan after his bellow—and the local drunk.”

I licked my lips, swallowing my heart back down. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Rien. He did this every year.” Louis-Cesare got an arm underneath himself. “Someone would clean out the vat and dump the residue under the tree.”

I belatedly noticed that the path diverged, with one branch going to the shack and the other to a large, round wooden tub with suspicious stains around it. Reddish purple ones. Like those ringing the donkey’s mouth like badly applied lipstick.

“It made him useless for days,” Louis-Cesare added, looking disapprovingly at the great creature.

“Because it made him sick?”

Louis-Cesare looked surprised. “Non. Because it would ferment.” His lips pursed. “I suppose you could say he is now…drunk off his ass.”

Jehan bellowed agreement and let out another fart. I squatted down on the path and put my arms over my head. And just stayed there for a minute.

“What happened?” Louis-Cesare finally asked me.

“You passed out.”

“I did not.” It was said with such conviction that I almost believed it.

I turned my head and looked at him through the gap by my elbow. I debated arguing it, but decided I wasn’t up to it right now. “Okay. Then what do you remember?”

“Only that it was becoming…difficult.”

“It?”

“The transitions between memories.”

I raised my head. “But that’s not hard. We do it all the time. Normally, I mean.”

“This is not normal.”

And on that, at least, we could agree.

He’d struggled back to his feet while he spoke. I hadn’t helped because something told me it wouldn’t be appreciated, and because I was feeling a little unsteady myself. But he let me put an arm around his waist as we finished hiking to the shack, supporting me as I supported him. And when we got inside, he quickly made the acquaintance of a blanket-covered pile of straw on the floor.

I looked around, not that there was much to see. A table but no chairs. A dirt floor. Three stone walls, old and rough and more or less supporting a thatched roof. Which was kind of irrelevant since it was letting in starlight through no fewer than five different holes.

But at least I could see. Between the stars and the light from the bonfire flickering across the stones, I could pretty much make out everything. And for a tumbledown shack in the middle of nowhere, it was stocked pretty well.

“Did you do that?” I asked Louis-Cesare, eyeing the spread laid out on an old table.

It wasn’t anything fancy—coarse brown bread, wine, cheese, butter. And it looked like a lot of it had already disappeared, judging by the greasy wooden platters littered with crumbs and the empty wine barrel lying on its side. But still.

Louis-Cesare shook his head, and then stopped, wincing. “No. It is too difficult. I do not think I can imagine anything into existence at the moment.”

“You don’t think you can?” I repeated, my heart sinking.

“No, why?”

Because I’d kind of been counting on that bazooka. “Because I can’t, either.”

He frowned. “But this is your mind.”

“But it’s your memory.”

He peeled off his now-filthy shirt, which had gotten the worst of the path outside. It left him in rough brown trousers that laced up the front, a greasy bandanna around his neck and a pair of scuffed boots. “But you are gifted. Like your father.”

“No,” I reminded him sourly. “Dorina is gifted. And thankfully, she’s not here.” I glanced around again. “Wherever here is.”

“France,” he told me, reclining against the hay. “About ten miles from Saumur. Near the village where I grew up.”

“And the bacchanalia going on outside?”

“Vendanges.”

“The grape harvest?”

He nodded. “When I was young, before…” He licked his lips. “Before it was decided to send me away, I lived on a farm in the country. Every year, the local vineyard would hire young people to help pick the grapes, and to stomp them into wine. And once harvest was over, they threw a party.”

“That’s one word for it.” I turned back to the table and started loading up a tray, because it might be only imaginary food, but I was hungry.

“It became customary for young couples to leave early,” Louis-Cesare agreed. “And find one of these. The farmer had four or five scattered about the vineyard to make processing easier. The grapes did not have so far to go.”

“Just as well,” I said, eyeing Jehan through the missing wall. Who stared the stare of the completely blitzed back at me. But at least he didn’t cut wind again.

I guessed that was something.

I joined Louis-Cesare, and put the tray between us. Surprisingly, the blanket didn’t smell. Except of hay, which must not have been harvested too long before this. Because it gave off only the scent of earth and flowers, which blended well with the vinegary reek of the wine.

“How long until Mircea pulls us out?” I asked, slathering some butter on bread.

“He…was not sure.”

“Can’t you just ask him?”

His face answered that for me.

I sighed. “Why can’t you just ask him?”

“As soon as I entered my memories, I lost contact with your father,” he admitted. “Of course, the opposite may not be true, considering his skill. He may be able to take us out from here, once he fixes the problem.”