Chapter Four
I don’t remember
falling asleep, but I must have. Because the next thing I knew, I
woke up to a dark, quiet room and hot, tangled sheets. My head was
throbbing, my mouth was bone dry and for one brief, panic-stricken
moment, I thought I was possessed again. Because nothing seemed to
work.
I finally realized
that I was just really, really sore. It looked like Marco’s little
pills had worn off, except for a thickheaded feeling that made me
have to try three times to turn on the light. It didn’t help that
the room was like an oven. The suite was supposed to be temperature
controlled, but there was obviously something seriously
wrong.
After a minute
sweating in already damp sheets, I gave up on sleep and rolled out
of bed. I threw on a worn-out tank top that had been purple but was
now a soft mauve and a pair of loose, old track shorts. Then I
staggered out the door in search of aspirin and cold
water.
I didn’t find
them.
Light from the
hallway cast long shadows across the bathroom, sparkling off broken
glass like so much spilled ice. The floor was still wet, and the
bunched-up rug was crouched in the middle like a wounded animal.
The mirrors were the worst. The right one was cracked, but the left
one was obliterated, the cheap wood backing showing through in
chunks, making a mockery of the expensive fixtures. Like scars on a
pretty woman’s face.
I suddenly realized
that my hands were shaking and stuffed them under my armpits. My
nice, safe bathroom didn’t seem so safe anymore. Not that it ever
had been, really, but it had felt that
way.
And now it
didn’t.
I turned around and
went down the hall.
When I flicked on the
chandelier in the suite’s second bathroom, the black-and-white tile
reflected the light with a cool, mirror shine. Soft, luxurious
towels were stacked here and there, all blindingly white. The black
marble counters gleamed, and the complimentary toiletries were
still in their cellophane wrappers. It was as pristine as if
housekeeping had just left.
Or as if nothing had
ever happened.
I relaxed slightly,
washed my face and hands and then used one of the casino’s
toothbrushes to scrub my teeth. My reflection showed bags under my
eyes, no color in my skin and a truly epic case of bed head. I
poked at one of the larger clumps and found it stiff and vaguely
green.
I briefly wondered
what the hell Pritkin had dumped on me. And then I wondered what it
would take to get it out. A bath, obviously, at least for
starters.
The thought had
barely crossed my mind when the first shiver hit, hard enough to
make me tighten my grip on the sink. I stared at the gleaming white
tub behind me, reflected in the gilt-edged mirror, and told myself
I was being stupid. It was a bathtub;
it couldn’t hurt me.
But my body wasn’t
listening.
The shivers turned
into shudders and I sat down before I fell down. I put the cabinet
at my back, wrapped my arms around my knees and prepared to wait it
out. At least it wasn’t as hot in here. Nobody ever used this
bathroom—the vamps had their own rooms and showered there, and
visitors used the half bath off the living area. So nobody had
bothered to put a rug down over the cool checkerboard
tile.
But it wasn’t
helping. The door on the cabinet was moving with me, in little
click-clicks as the magnet on the catch caught and released, caught
and released. I finally scooted an inch or so away and it stopped,
even if the shaking didn’t.
I knew what this was,
of course. I’d spent most of my teen years on the run from my
homicidal guardian, Antonio Gallina, who had brought me up from the
age of four. Clairvoyants—real ones, not the sideshow
variety—didn’t grow on trees, and when Tony found out that one of
the humans who worked for him had a budding seer for a daughter, he
just took me. After removing my parents from the picture in the
most final way possible.
He thought he’d
covered his tracks, but he forgot: clairvoyant. My parents died in
a big orange and black fireball, courtesy of an assassin’s bomb.
And ten years later, I felt the wash of heat across my face,
smelled the smoke, tasted the dust in my mouth.
I ran away an hour
after the vision, with few preparations and no destination in mind,
and it hadn’t taken long before the stress had caught up with me in
the form of panic attacks.
The worst one had
been in a bus terminal, when I’d been sure I saw one of Tony’s
thugs in the crowd. I’d had a ticket, already purchased and in
hand, but suddenly I couldn’t remember where I was supposed to go.
It gave the bus number on the ticket; I knew that. But my hands had
been shaking and my eyes hadn’t wanted to focus, and when I finally
did manage to read it, it didn’t make sense. Like the words were
written in a foreign language I didn’t understand.
I’d gotten lucky that
time. I’d missed the bus, but I’d also missed Tony’s goon—if it had
been him. I never found out, but I kind of thought not. Even the
not-so-bright types Tony employed could hardly have missed me,
standing in the middle of the terminal, shaking like a
leaf.
I hadn’t had a panic
attack in years; had thought I’d outgrown them.
But I guess you don’t
really grow out of fear.
The shaking finally
lessened, my eyes slipped closed and my head tilted back against
the slick wood. I was bone tired, but I knew I wouldn’t sleep. Not
like this. But I didn’t really feel like doing anything else,
either—except taking a bath, and that was obviously
out.
But I really needed
one. My body ached, my hair reeked and my skin felt itchy, probably
from the dried soap I hadn’t had a chance to wash off. Only it
didn’t feel like soap. It felt like somebody was touching me, here
and there, brief brushes of sandpapery fingertips as they tested my
shields, as they tried to find a way in—
A hand touched my arm
and I screamed, jumping up and hitting my head on the bottom of the
counter. I tried to scramble away, but someone had me by the upper
arms and I couldn’t break free. I felt another scream building, a
keening, desperate cry in the back of my throat, before I finally
heard someone calling my name—
And looked up into
Marco’s startled black eyes.
I stopped struggling
and just breathed for a minute. I wasn’t sure who was more
freaked-out—me or him. Finally, he pulled me in, tucking me under a
huge arm and rubbing my head in what he probably thought was a
gentle way. It felt more like it was going to take off another
layer of skin, but I didn’t mind.
“You okay?” he asked
cautiously.
I didn’t know how to
answer that, because clearly not.
“Sorry about the
other bathroom. We were gonna clean up, but we thought you’d sleep
till morning.”
I nodded but didn’t
look up, because I didn’t have my face under control.
“You’re gonna have to
say something,” he said after a moment. “ ’Cause otherwise there’s
gonna be phone calls and doctors and all kinds of drama, and I
think we’ve had about enough of that for one—”
“My butt hurts,” I
blurted out. It was completely inane, but it was true. It also got
a chuckle out of Marco.
He’d been squatting
beside me, but now he sat down, somehow wedging that huge body
between the sink and the tub. He was big and hot, but felt
reassuringly solid, too. It was suddenly impossible to believe that
anything bad could happen with Marco around.
“You and me both,” he
said conversationally. “I think the master chewed most of mine
off.”
It took a moment for
that to sink in. “He did what?”
Marco laughed, a deep
rumbling in that barrel chest. “That’s better. You’ve got some
color in your face now.”
“You were lying?” I
demanded.
“No, but I like
seeing you pissed off. It’s cute.”
I just sat there for
a moment because, as usual, I felt like I needed to catch up. “You
weren’t lying?”
He shook his
head.
“Then Mircea
did tell you off?”
A nod.
“What on earth
for?”
“For giving you
drugs.”
It took me a moment
to realize what he meant. “Marco, you gave me Tylenol.”
“Yeah, but it was the
kind with codeine. And it seems Pythias aren’t allowed to take that
shit. Or anything that leaves them too groggy to use their power.
He said I left you defenseless.”
“That’s ridiculous! I
couldn’t have shifted any more tonight, anyway.”
“Yeah, but that ain’t
the point.”
“Then what is the
point?”
He shrugged. “It’s
like I told you: vamps don’t like feeling helpless. And that goes
double for masters—and maybe triple for Senate
members.”
“That doesn’t make it
okay to take it out on you!”
“Maybe not, but I
know where he’s coming from.” Marco settled back against the sink,
as if prepared to stay there all night. Like he regularly counseled
hysterical women in bathrooms. “He’s got you in the most secure
place he knows, right? I mean, the Senate’s just upstairs, and they
got guards and wards out the butt, plus all the extra ones on the
suite here. And he’s got some of his best people protecting you.
Hell, he’s got me.”
I smiled a little at
that, as I was supposed to. “So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that
it don’t work. Every time he turns around, somebody or something is
able to get to you. And it has him scared. And he’s not used to
feeling scared. It’s been so long, I’m not even sure he knows what
it is.”
“Must be nice,” I
muttered.
“I don’t think he’s
finding it so nice,” Marco said drily.
I didn’t say
anything, because there was nothing to
say. I didn’t know how to reassure Mircea; I didn’t even know how
to reassure myself. I was supposed to be this great clairvoyant,
but I never saw anything good, just death and
destruction.
I really hoped that
wasn’t because that was all there was to see.
“I’m teaching the new
guys how to lose at poker,” Marco said. “Want me to deal you
in?”
I shook my head. “I
suck at it.”
“Even better. They
could use a chance to win some back.”
“So you can take
that, too?”
He stood up with the
liquid grace all vampires have, which was always surprising on a
man of his size. “That’s the plan.”
“I’ll take a rain
check,” I told him as he helped me up. But I followed him into the
lounge.
Before I moved in,
the suite had been used for whales, people with more money than
sense who were comped expensive rooms because they lost a hundred
times the price at the tables every night. This particular one had
been popular because it included a small lounge area off the dining
room with a pool table, which the guards had all but confiscated
for themselves. They were usually there when they weren’t watching
me paint my toenails or something, playing pool or, like now,
clustered around a card table.
Marco rejoined the
poker game and I passed through into the kitchen. There was no
aspirin to be had, because vamps don’t get headaches. There was
beer, but the way my head felt, I was already in for it tomorrow,
so I left Marco’s Dos Equis alone.
I wandered around a
bit, because it was too hot to sleep, and found a sofa-shaped hole
in the living room window that was trying to air-condition Nevada.
No wonder it was hot. A couple of the guards must have heard me
swearing, because they stuck their heads in the door and stared at
me for a moment, their fire-lit eyes glowing against the
dark.
I went out onto the
balcony.
It wasn’t nearly as
large as the one on the penthouse upstairs, which had room for a
pool, a wet bar and a dozen or so partyers. But I’d managed to
squeeze in a lounge chair and a small side table, and had hung a
set of wind chimes from the railing. They were tinkling now in the
breeze blowing off the desert. It was hot, but marginally better
than the slow roast I’d been doing inside.
We were too far up to
hear traffic, so it was still eerily quiet. But, then, it always
was here. The vamps didn’t need to talk aloud and often no one did
for hours, unless I asked them a direct question. I didn’t watch TV
much, unless it was in my room, and the one time I’d turned on the
radio, several of them put on such pained faces that I’d quickly
turned it off.
On a good day, it
felt like living in a museum, but not as a visitor. It was more
like being one of the exhibits a bunch of silent guards watched in
case some bandit makes off with it. Tonight it was slowly driving
me crazy.
After a few minutes,
I went back inside, glancing at the clock on the way. It had
somehow survived the carnage, and it said nine thirty. I hadn’t
slept long at all, then. Technically, it was still too late to be
calling anyone, but maybe—
The phone
rang.
I jumped back, barely
stifling a yelp, because my nerves were just that bad. And then I
stared at it, hoping someone would pick up in the next room so I
wouldn’t have to be all cheerful. But no one did pick up. And then
Marco appeared in the doorway, a longneck in one hand and five
cards in the other.
“You gonna get that
or what?” he asked, his tone more curious than
annoyed.
I got it.
“Hello?”
“What are you doing
up?”
Pritkin’s irritated
voice made me smile and I turned away so Marco wouldn’t see it.
“Answering the phone.”
“Very funny. Why
aren’t you asleep? It’s after one.”
I glanced at the
clock again. I guess it hadn’t survived, after all. “It’s
hot.”
“It’s always bloody
hot here,” he agreed, to my surprise. I’d never heard him complain
about it, but I guessed for someone used to England’s climate,
Vegas in August would kind of suck. And thanks to me, his bedroom
had a big hole in it, too.
“Don’t you have
anything cold to drink?” he demanded.
“Beer.”
He snorted. “You’re
going to have a murderous hangover as it is. Call room
service.”
“I could do that,” I
agreed.
He waited. I didn’t
say anything, because I wasn’t that pathetic. There was no
emergency, and what was I going to tell him? I’m hot and bored and
freaked-out, and I want to talk to someone with a
pulse?
Yeah, that sounded
mature. That sounded like a Pythia. I didn’t—
“That the mage?”
Marco asked impatiently, like he couldn’t hear every word we
uttered.
“Yeah.”
“He coming
over?”
“Yes,” Pritkin said,
surprising me again.
“Then tell him to
bring beer,” Marco said. “We’re almost out, and the damn room
service around this place sucks ass.”
“He
said—”
“I heard.” Pritkin
rang off without saying good-bye, or anything else at all. So I
didn’t know why I was smiling as I went to the kitchen to make sure
we had enough clean glasses.
“Damn it,” Marco
said. “You didn’t tell him what kind. He’ll probably bring one of
those weird English beers.”
“Ale,” one of the
other vamps said darkly.
“Shit.”
They went back to
their game while I washed up. Because, apparently, master vampires
would carry out garbage, but they drew the line at dishpan hands.
Not that there were a lot, since most of my meals came on room
service carts these days.
I finished up and
went to try again to get a comb through my potion-stained curls. I
was still working on it when the doorbell rang. I gave up, pulled
my hair back into a limp ponytail and went into the kitchen.
Pritkin was already there, unpacking a couple of brown paper
grocery bags.
“Foster’s,” he told
Marco, who was peering into one suspiciously.
The vamp looked
relieved. “It’s even cold.”
“Why wouldn’t it
be?”
“I thought you Brits
liked it hot.”
“Hot beer?” Pritkin
looked revolted.
“That’s the
rumor.”
“Because we don’t
drink it iced over, thereby leaching right out whatever flavor you
Yanks accidentally left in?”
“Ooh, touchy,” Marco
said, and swiped the beer.
I looked in the other
bag, but saw only a bunch of little boxes. I pulled one out, and it
was tea. After a moment, I realized that they all were: peppermint,
chamomile, green, black . . . It was like he’d bought out the
store.
“You need something
to calm your nerves that isn’t going to knock you out,” he told
me.
“I don’t think tea is
going to cut it,” I said drily. “Not with my life.”
A blond eyebrow rose.
“You’d be surprised.”
He came up with a
kettle I hadn’t known we possessed and proceeded to do tea-type
things with it. I took an apple out of a bowl and set it on the
table. “So you think it was Fey?” I asked, because I hadn’t gotten
many details before I passed out.
“I don’t know what it
was,” Pritkin said, looking like the confession pained him. “The
Fey do not have a spirit form, yet your attacker was incorporeal.
And you were able to give me a description—a fairly good one for so
short a glimpse.”
“Why does that
matter?”
“It matters because
if it was Fey, you should have seen
nothing.”
“You saw something,”
I said, concentrating. A fragile bubble closed over the fruit, no
more substantial than the ones the dish soap had left in the sink.
And by the look of things, no more effective.
“I have a small
amount of Fey blood,” Pritkin said, glancing at it. “It sometimes
allows me to detect when they are near, although it isn’t a
reliable skill. In some instances, however, a Fey under a glamourie
might look like what I saw—a dark cloud. That’s why I threw the
nunchucks to you.” His lips twisted. “That and the fact that I was
out of other ideas.”
“Maybe I have a
little Fey blood.” I didn’t really know enough about my family to
know what I might have.
“You
don’t.”
“How do you know? Can
you see that, too?”
“I don’t have to. If
you had so much as a drop, the Fey family you belonged to could
claim you. And then you wouldn’t have just the Circle and the
Senate fighting over you; you’d have them, as well.”
He was talking about
the Silver Circle, the world’s leading magical association, which
ruled over the human part of the supernatural community the way the
Senate did the vamps. It was used to having the line of Pythias
firmly under its protective thumb. That had been fairly easy, as
the power of the office usually went to whomever the previous
Pythia had trained, and that was always a proper little
Circle-raised initiate. Or it was until me. The last heir to the
Pythian throne, a sibyl named Myra, had also turned out to be a
homicidal bitch, and the power had decided on another
option.
The Circle had been
less than thrilled by its choice, but we’d finally come to terms.
As in, they were no longer trying to play Whac-A-Mole with my head.
Only now they seemed to think they had the right to make sure that
nobody else did, either. That was a problem, because the vampires
felt the same way and the Senate didn’t share well.
The last thing I
needed was another group in the mix.
“I have absolutely no
Fey blood,” I said fervently.
“Trust me, they have
checked,” Pritkin told me. “And you don’t. But that means you
should have seen nothing.”
“Okay, I get that. I
saw it, so it can’t be Fey. But it also wasn’t demon or ghost or
human or Were. So what’s left?”
“That’s the
question.” He leaned one hand on the table. “But the fact remains
that it was driven off by cold iron. And only one species, to my
knowledge, is so affected. Of course, it could have been a
coincidence that it chose that precise moment to leave,
but—”
“But that’s a hell of
a coincidence.”
“Yes.” He looked at
the bubble, which was shivering as if someone were blowing on it.
“What are you doing?”
The fragile shell
burst, dissipating without so much as a pop. I sighed. “Nothing.”
Obviously.
“What were you trying
to do?”
I repressed a sudden
urge to pound the fruit into pulp. “Age it,” I said tersely. “Jonas
said Agnes could take an apple from a seed to a shriveled mass and
back again, running through its whole lifetime in a few
seconds.”
Pritkin took in the
apple, which was plump and round and perfect and had a healthy red
blush. Just like all the others in the little bowl. Just like I’d
never done anything at all. “You’re tired.”
“And I’m never going
to be attacked when I’m tired.”
He frowned. “Taking
yourself to the brink of exhaustion is not a good
idea.”
“So says the man who
ran me halfway around a mountain today.”
“That was before we
knew you have a threat that can walk through wards. You should have
been safe to recuperate here.”
Safe. Yeah, like I’d
ever been safe anywhere. I turned around and abruptly left the
kitchen.