Chapter Thirty-four
Jack had set up a
stool at the end of a walnut-paneled hallway just outside the
kitchen. There was a mirror on the wall, probably for the servers
to use to check themselves out, so I did—and got a shock. My
strawberry blond curls were still hidden by the wig, but it was my
own tip-tilted nose and wide blue eyes staring back at
me.
“Antiglamourie
charms,” Jack murmured, watching me with amusement.
Great. And the green
velvet did not, as I’d hoped, look black in the low lights. I tried
pulling up the too-low top, but that merely raised the skirt to
indecent levels, so I stopped. “Anything else I should know about?”
I demanded.
“Almost certainly,”
he said cheerfully.
I shot him a look,
which did no good at all, and headed down a corridor. It let out
onto a vast foyer with a sweeping staircase, heavy with aged wood
and hushed elegance. And another half dozen guards.
That was a problem,
because a couple of these guards I knew. Tall, blond and impassive,
they were like perfectly matched bookends, right down to the sleek
black tuxes and eerie golden eyes. I ducked behind a porphyry vase
taller than I was and silently cursed.
No wonder Jack had
let me in so easily; he knew I wouldn’t get ten yards. And he was
right, damn it. There was no way they weren’t going to recognize
me. Those two had been assigned to my bodyguard detail until this
little shindig took precedence, and ancient eyes didn’t miss much.
Even worse, the staircase ended not two yards away from them,
meaning I couldn’t even try to find another entrance without being
nabbed.
I was about to double
back and see if there was another exit through the kitchen when the
front door burst open, letting in a swirl of rain and a couple of
glittering corpses. They must have been important, because half the
guards jumped to greet them and the rest were staring like
starstruck teenagers.
No one was looking at
me, so I went forward with the rest, hoping to edge around to the
ballroom while the Amazon who had just come in provided a
distraction. Easily seven feet tall, the voluptuous redhead was
gleaming in a silver sheath and enough mink to send PETA into
paroxysms.
Or at least she was
before she shrugged it off and tossed it over my head.
“Meercha! I vant
Meercha. Vere is dat beautiful scoundrel?” she
demanded.
“In the ballroom, my
lady,” someone murmured. Or maybe they said it normally; I couldn’t
tell. The damn coat was heavy enough that I almost went down, and
left me as little more than a mink-covered lump.
“Lyubov Oksinia
Donskoi is a grand duchess; her correct title is Illustrious
Highness,” the small, bald man said diffidently, as I fought my way
free.
“My apologies,” the
guard said, only to be bopped on the head with a jeweled
fan.
“Vell? Vat are you
vaiting for?”
“My lady? I mean,
Your Illustrious . . . ness?” he guessed.
The bald man nodded
slightly, but his companion didn’t look like she gave a damn. She
raised long, white-gloveclad arms, like an opera star about to sing
an aria, showing off breasts like the prow of a ship and enough
diamonds to make a person wince. “Tell heem to come greet his
Lyubochka!”
The guard just stared
for a moment, looking suitably dazzled. Then he swallowed and
manned up. “I would, but . . . but he is with the Pythia at the
moment, madam.”
“Ze Pythia?” Carmine
lips pursed. “Vat is dees?”
“The new seer,” the
bald man said. “You remember, Lyly—the coronation?” She looked
blank. “The reason we’re here?”
“I am heer to see
Meercha.” Slanted hazel eyes looked down at the guard, which
appeared to make him nervous. He was over six feet tall, so I
suppose he wasn’t used to it. “Do you not know vere your master
ees?”
“The ballroom, Your
Illustriousness,” he repeated, starting to look
worried.
“Zen eef you know
vere he is, vhy are you standing here?” She gave him a playful
smack on the arm that sent him staggering.
“Yes, my—your . . .
Right away.”
The vamp scurried off
and I scurried after him, trailing about a hundred pounds of mink.
And neither of the guards gave me so much as a first glance, much
less a second. Then I entered the ballroom and stopped worrying
about the vampires behind me. I was more concerned by the one who
lay ahead.
I spotted him almost
at once. He stood in the middle of a cluster of people, near the
patent leather shine of a piano, looking like something out of a
’40s movie. Tall, dark and handsome, he was the perfect foil for
the blond perfection on his arm. Every hair in his companion’s
upswept chignon was in place, except for the ones artfully arranged
to curl around her ears. The low-cut, midnight blue evening gown
she wore was likewise flawless, somehow managing to hug every curve
without being vulgar.
She looked too good,
I decided.
No way was anyone
going to believe that was me.
“Zat?” I jumped at
the sound of a booming voice right behind me. I turned to find the
principessa or serinissima or whatever the hell her title was
standing less than a yard away, checking out my doppelgänger
through a pair of specs on a stick. “Zat ees ze new Pythia?” she demanded, of no one or
everyone; it was hard to tell.
The little man at her
side said something I couldn’t hear over the conversation and music
and sounds of people stuffing themselves. But it didn’t seem to sit
well with Lyly. “Common,” she announced in a tone that said it
ended the matter.
And was about as loud
as the announcer at a football game.
Not surprisingly,
everyone in the vicinity stopped to stare at us—including Mircea,
whose eyes slid off Lyly and latched onto me before I could bolt.
They narrowed and his lips tightened, which for him was the
equivalent of a hissy fit. Then just as quickly the expression
blanked and he turned back to his date, laughing with her about
something.
And then I didn’t see
any more because I was being propelled out of the room by another
vamp wearing a tux and a scowl.
Kit Marlowe was the
Senate’s chief spy. He was known for laughing dark eyes, messy
brown curls and an easy smile—and a reputation at odds with all of
them. Most of the time, I found it difficult to see the dangerous
vamp everyone swore was under the handsome exterior.
I wasn’t having that
problem tonight.
“I want to talk to
Mircea,” I told him, as I was hustled toward the back.
“You are talking to
him,” he said, his voice clipped. “And it might look a little odd,
don’t you think, if he suddenly left the side of the Pythia-elect
to chat with a servant girl?”
“She isn’t the
Pythia. She’s a sitting goose who’s about to be cooked. There’s
going to be an attack, Marlowe!”
“Very
probably.”
I dug in my heels,
trying to slow him down, which didn’t help a lot on the highly
polished floor. I don’t even think he noticed. “If you’re so
certain, why the hell are you doing this?”
“Because it’s
tradition. Because the damn mages insisted. Because no one is going
to sign the infernal alliance without at least meeting the new
Pythia.”
“And if she gets
killed, are they going to sign then?” I demanded, as Jack
thoughtfully opened the back door.
“No one is going to
be killed tonight, I assure you. We’ve taken precautions. It’s
perfectly safe.”
“If it’s so safe, why
can’t I stay?”
“Because you’re tired
and you want to go back to the hotel,” he said with enough power
behind the suggestion to leave me light-headed.
“That doesn’t work on
me!” I told him furiously.
“Then how about
this?” he asked. And for the second time that night, the door was
slammed in my face.
“Marlowe!”
After a moment, when
it became obvious that he wasn’t joking, I sat down on the steps.
They were cold and clammy, like the mist that surrounded the house.
It was August, but this high in the mountains, summer was just a
concept.
I glared at the thin
veil of stars overhead and a spattering of rain hit me square in
the face. I didn’t bother to wipe it off. It fit my
mood.
Was this what it was
going to be like? Locked out or locked up? My whole life spent
spewing out predictions, with no say in how they were used or even
if they were?
It sounded like
Tony’s all over again. It was Tony’s
all over again, just with the Senate in his place. Don’t expect to
influence anything; don’t expect to control anything; don’t expect
to make any decisions.
Just stay in your
corner and do what we tell you.
Just wear the pretty
dresses and smile.
Just behave yourself,
little girl.
And I had. I’d done
what I was told until I found out what Tony was doing with the
information. The people he was hurting. The lives he was ruining.
And then I’d gotten out, because I wouldn’t be responsible for
hurting or maybe killing other people, even by proxy. Because I
wouldn’t be a part of a system I knew nothing about. Because I had
had enough.
When had I forgotten
that?
The door cracked
open, but I didn’t turn around. Somebody came down the steps and a
jacket was placed around my shoulders. It smelled like rich spices
and dark forests and Mircea. I hugged it around me
automatically.
“You said it wouldn’t
make a difference,” I said without looking up.
Mircea didn’t pretend
not to know what I was talking about. “It did not. This has nothing
to do with our personal relationship.”
“Doesn’t it?” I
looked up, feeling angry and betrayed and hurt and
powerless.
He came around in
front, and since I was sitting on one of the higher steps and he
was standing on the ground, when he bent over and took my hand, we
were almost eye to eye. I remembered something I’d read once, about
executives making sure their seats were higher than their
subordinates’, so they would have some kind of psychological
advantage. Mircea didn’t use tricks like that. Mircea didn’t need
them.
“No, it isn’t. We
have two relationships, Cassie. You know this. It can’t be
otherwise. And this was a professional decision—as was last
night’s.”
“Professional,” I
said bitterly, staring into beautiful dark eyes. They reflected the
gaslight, just like Jack’s. And yet managed to look so very
different.
“Yes.”
“Then let’s talk
professional,” I said quietly. “A month ago, you promised me you
wouldn’t interfere with me doing my job.”
“A month ago, Apollo
was dead and I thought the worst was past us.”
“So you
lied.”
“No. I said I would
try. And I have. But this is not about your job.”
“It’s my
coronation!”
“It’s a formality. One that has made me nervous from the
beginning.”
To my surprise, he
sat down on the wet step beside me, getting his Armani-covered tush
wet. I guess he could just go change; this was his home, after all.
Not that I’d ever had a chance to see it.
“I would have had you
here long before this,” he said, with that uncanny ability of
guessing my thoughts. “But we were attempting to make it secure. We
knew the coronation would be an obvious target, but it was
impossible to forgo it. The people need to see you—”
“Only, apparently,
they’re not going to.”
“We had planned for
you to be here; all along, that was the intent.”
“Then what
changed?”
He looked at me in
amazement. “The past week changed. Three attempts on your life in
as many days changed! The chance of an attack went from a
possibility to a probability to a certainty, and the risk was
deemed too high. It was determined—”
“Yes, it was,” I cut
him off. “It was determined. Without consulting me, without even
telling me—”
“And if we had told
you? If we had said, ‘We have decided to hold the ceremony with a
doppelgänger in your place for security reasons.’ What would have
been your reaction?”
“What the hell do you
think?” I said angrily. “I’ve told you a hundred times—it is not
okay for someone to die for me!”
“And I have told you
that sometimes it is necessary. She is a professional; she takes
risks such as this all the time. It is her job—”
“And this is
mine!”
We stared at each
other, and Mircea’s face reflected the frustration, even some of
the anger, that I was feeling. I was surprised he’d let me see it;
his facade was flawless when he wanted it to be. I searched his
face, wondering if this was a trick, if this was some way to
manipulate me into feeling guilty for causing him more problems,
for taking him away from his duties, for being a pain in the ass
once again.
If so, it was doing a
pretty good job. I did feel all those things, along with a nagging
suspicion that he had a point. The problem was, so did I. And he
couldn’t see that, couldn’t see anything but that little
eleven-year-old girl cowering in her room. I wasn’t that person
anymore; I hadn’t been for a while now, but I didn’t know if he’d
ever be able to see that, to see me—
My thoughts scattered
as something knocked me broadside. It wasn’t an attack, or if it
was, my own power was doing it. Something like a fist knotted in my
being, jerking me, tugging me, trying to drag me somewhere,
somewhen else.
Mircea was talking,
saying something that probably sounded logical and reasonable and
charming all at the same time, and it might have been really
persuasive, except that I was a little too busy to listen right
then. And then the tug became a heave and the pull became a wrench,
and it was like before I became Pythia, when the power had just
tossed me around here and there, wherever it needed me to go. And
it must be needing something pretty damn bad, because fight as I
would, I was losing.
Mircea must have
finally noticed something wrong, because he grasped my shoulders.
“Cassie! Cassie, what—”
“Fair warning,” I
told him through clenched teeth. Because his hands were gripping my
arms, and if I went before he let go, he was coming along, like it
or not.
“What?”
“Fair warning!” I
yelled, trying to pull away. Because I didn’t know where my power
was taking me, but judging by the intensity of the pull, it wasn’t
going to be anywhere fun. “Let go!” I told him, but his hold merely
tightened, fingers digging into my flesh.
And the next moment,
we were gone.