Hunt the Moon

by Karen Chance

  But Francoise didn’t change the subject. “I only saw a leetle of ze Light Fey lands before I escaped,” she told me. “But I ’ave ’eard about zem. And I know ze Dark Fey court well. And nevair do I hear of any Fey who does ze possession.”

  “Neither have I,” I admitted. “I always thought they were flesh and blood, like us. Well, more or less.”

  “Zey are. And zere are no spirits in zeir world, and no ghosts. So ’ow could zey possess?”

  “I don’t know. But Pritkin seemed pretty adamant.”

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est ‘adamant’?”

  “Sure. He was pretty sure.”

  “Adamant,” she rolled it over her tongue thoughtfully. “I like zees word. Eet ees fun to say, no?”

  “I suppose.” I paused to take a look at a crimson silk evening dress that was doing something strange—just hanging on the rack. I poked it, but nothing flew up or off or morphed into anything else. Either Augustine hadn’t gotten around to fiddling with it yet, or it was designed for his nonmagic customers.

  It was pretty and fairly classic, with a low-cut top that ended in a little jeweled belt and a flouncy hem. I put it to the side. “So you never heard any stories, legends, anything like that, about the Fey being able to possess anyone?” I asked.

  “Non. I am adamant.” She looked pleased with herself. “What did Pritkin say?”

  “Not a lot. Just that he thought it might be Fey.”

  “I do not sink so,” she said, and frowned. We’d come to the end of the rack and hadn’t found a little white tag with my name on it.

  “Maybe he hasn’t started mine yet?” I wondered.

  “Non. ’E ’as been working on ze enchantment for weeks. Eet is all he talks about.”

  Her bright red nails drummed on a tabletop for a moment, and then she looked up and smiled. “Of course. ’E must still ’ave it in back.”

  “I thought this was the back.”

  She shook her head. “ ’Is private workroom is through zere.” She nodded at a small door I hadn’t noticed, over by the hovering pincushions.

  “Well, let’s go.” I started forward, only to have her put a hand on my arm.

  “You can’t. No one ees allowed in zere, ozzair than ze employees.”

  “But he won’t know.”

  “Eet ees warded. ’E will know. And zose things, zey launch pins,” she said, nodding at the Tomatoes of Doom.

  “Then how—”

  “I weel go and bring it out.”

  I nodded and folded my hands behind my back to keep them from shaking. I didn’t know why I was so nervous. Okay, I did. Because this whole thing had gotten entirely out of hand.

  Normally, the ceremony installing a new Pythia was no big deal. The guests typically included a handful of dignitaries from the major groups in the supernatural community: vamps, Weres and the Silver Circle. It generally took the form of a short meet and greet, sometimes followed by dinner. Last time, there’d been a brief photo op. And that was it.

  Fast forward to today.

  Last time I’d seen the guest list, it had almost two thousand names on it. That included the elite of the vampire world, who suddenly had a renewed interest in the Pythia, since I was the first in anyone’s memory who was not a Circle-raised Initiate. It also helped that I was dating—or married to, in their eyes—one of the senior members of the North American Vampire Senate.

  Add that to the war, which had everyone more than usually worried about politics, and the fact that I was currently the darling of the magical tabloids, and suddenly the simple little ceremony was the hottest ticket in town. To make matters even more fun, someone had decided that it might help morale to broadcast the damn thing live. So in addition to however many people they finally managed to squeeze onto Mircea’s estate, at least half the magical community was expected to tune in via a simple spell.

  I really, really wanted to call in sick. But since that wasn’t possible, I at least needed to look the part. For once in my life, I really needed to look good.

  It suddenly occurred to me that Francoise had been gone a long time. A long, long time. I was actually starting to get worried when she finally reappeared, looking a little pale.

  “What is it?”

  “I . . . I don’t sink Augustine ’as started eet yet,” she told me.

  I frowned. “But you just said—”

  “I know what I said! But . . . but ’e must be behind.” She started to close the door, but I got a foot in it. The tomatoes dipped menacingly lower.

  “Let me see.”

  She shook her head. “Non, Cassie. Vraiment—”

  “Let me see.”

  “You don’t want to see.”

  “How bad can it be?”

  She just looked at me, her dark eyes huge. “I was wrong.’E ’ates you.”

  “Francoise, move!” I pushed past her, ignoring the kamikaze pincushions and the static tingle of a ward. And there it was, in solitary splendor on a dressmaker’s form in the center of the room.

  For a moment, I just stared, not sure what I was seeing. Because it didn’t look like a dress. It looked like a bunch of wire hangers that had had a drunken binge with a load of paper bags. Cheap paper bags. The brown kind they give you at the grocery store that have been recycled a couple dozen times. It wasn’t just hideous; it was sad. A sad, brownpaper-bag dress with what looked like—

  “Uh,” Francoise said faintly.

  I didn’t say anything. I narrowed my eyes and moved closer. And saw a banana peel masquerading as a shoulder pad, a line of bottle caps on a string for a necklace and a hollowed-out tin can as a belt buckle. There were coffee grounds on the shoulder and red wine on the hip and what looked like a desiccated mouse pinned to the bodice. The whole thing looked like it had taken a roll through a Dumpster before—

  And then I got it, and speechless became furious.

  “Okay,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “So I trashed one of his dresses—all right, a couple—in the line of duty and through no fault of my own. So he makes me a trash heap of a dress? Is that what this is?”

  Francoise just looked at me, a terrible kind of pity on her face. “Zere is a card.”

  And there was, attached to the dress form above the desiccated rat. I yanked it off and stared at it.

  I thought I would save you some time on this one. You’ll get the real dress when it’s finished, and not a second before. And get out of my workroom.—A

  I said some creative things about the creative genius, until I ran out. “Eet is not nice,” Francoise agreed. “But what can you do?”

  For a moment I just stood there, contemplating Augustine’s face if I showed up wearing another designer’s creation. But I didn’t know any other designers, any magical ones, at least, and it wasn’t like I could just go out looking for them. And, frankly, I doubted anyone else would stand up to the competition I would be facing.

  I needed a dress, and I needed a good one. Fortunately, I was surrounded by them. “How long until he gets back?” I asked quickly.

  Francoise’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “Because I feel like doing some shopping.”

  Chapter Seven

  “That’s more like it,” Marco said approvingly, as I staggered through the door of the suite half an hour later.

  “I thought they were supposed to help,” I gasped, nodding my head at my shadows. It was the only thing I could move, since every other appendage was laden with bags, boxes and packages.

  “Need our hands free for weapons,” one of them said blandly.

  “Both of you?”

  “You have a lot of enemies.”

  “I have a lot of pulled muscles now, too!” I snapped, lurching into the living room.

  “That mage is here,” Marco warned me.

  “Pritkin?” I asked, my head coming up.

  “Naw. That old one. And some slick-haired guy.”

  I didn’t know who Slick Hair was, but That Old One was Jonas Ma
rsden, acting head of the Silver Circle. Of course, Marco knew that perfectly well, but the vamps were never happy whenever a mage showed up. And that went double for their leader.

  Jonas rose to help me after I stumbled into the lounge, and I shot Marco a look. That got a kiss blown in my general direction and a promise to be right outside aimed at the mages. In case they intended to use some nefarious wizard trickery to make off with me or something.

  “Sorry I wasn’t here, but I thought we weren’t meeting until three,” I panted.

  “No matter. I should have called,” Jonas said genially. “But I did want to talk to you, if you have a moment.”

  “About last night?”

  “Oh, I do truly hope not,” he said, which would have sounded odd coming from anyone else. But Jonas was always odd.

  For one, he was the only person I knew with hair worse than Pritkin’s. It was extra poufy today, a magnificent silver-white ball of static electricity that appeared to have a life of its own. Like some alien creature had happened to light on his head and decided to stay a while. In contrast, his face was surprisingly normal, with pleasant features, rosy cheeks and fewer lines than one would expect for his age, whatever that was. Jonas usually just described it as “damned old.”

  “And Niall did so want to meet you,” he added, as I stumbled toward the bedroom.

  “Niall?”

  “Niall Edwards.” A sharp-faced brunet with slickedback hair came forward, and I managed to get a hand out. But either he didn’t see or he ignored it. “Have you thought about losing five to ten?” he asked, circling me.

  I turned, trying to keep him in my field of vision, and dropped a heavy shoe box on my foot. “Five to ten what?” I asked, wincing.

  “Pounds. The camera adds at least that much and, frankly, you could use some more definition in your face.”

  “I—what?”

  He pulled out a computerized notepad. “What do you weigh?”

  “That’s none of your business!”

  “It is if I have to sell the idea of you as Pythia to the masses,” he said sourly, his fingers flying over the keys.

  “Niall is our leading public relations expert,” Jonas explained, as I limped into the bedroom and tossed the packages on the bed.

  “I don’t need a PR person,” I said, sitting down to examine my toe.

  “Oh, of course not,” Slick said, following me in. “You were brought up by a vampire mob boss, you go around looking like a cross between Paris Hilton and a homeless person—”

  “I do not look like Paris Hilton!”

  “You’re wearing sparkly pink nail polish,” he pointed out. “On your toes.”

  I looked down at the offending digits, which were sticking out of a pair of sandals. “I don’t see anything wrong with—”

  “Exactly. And if that weren’t bad enough, you’re suspected of being a dark mage. But you don’t need PR.”

  “I’m only suspected of being a dark mage because you people told everyone I was!” I said furiously.

  Until recently, the Circle had been headed by a mage named Saunders, who had been cooking the books in favor of himself and his buddies. And he hadn’t wanted a Pythia in place who wasn’t firmly under his thumb, in case she outed his little moneymaking scheme. So while his operatives were busy trying to hunt me down, he was planting nasty stories in the press about my family background.

  It didn’t help that most of them were true.

  “And we did our usual good job,” Slick said proudly. “Everyone now knows that your mother was a ruined Initiate, your father was a dangerous dark mage and that you yourself have received absolutely no training for the position you hold.”

  “I wouldn’t say no training,” Jonas demurred.

  “It will be the triumph of my career to bring you back from that. But I will. Make no mistake.”

  He disappeared into the walk-in closet, leaving me staring at Jonas. “You have got to be kidding.”

  “Niall is a bit abrupt, I grant you—”

  “A bit?”

  “But he does have a point, Cassie. Your public image”—Jonas shook his head, causing the alien hair to waft about luxuriously—“it would be difficult to imagine how it could be worse, you know.”

  “Then why haven’t you guys worried about it before?”

  “Because we were waiting for things to cool down,” Niall told me, emerging with a heap of my clothes. “The public has a very short attention span and they forget details easily. Trying to eradicate or even amend their impression of you right after the story broke would have been impossible. Now it’s merely impractical.” He threw my clothes out the door.

  “Hey!”

  “Considering the damage, I would prefer another fortnight to pass, at the very least, before the ceremony,” he said, going back for another load of my belongings. “But I was told that we were at war and it couldn’t wait.”

  “I just bought that!” I said, snatching an off-white slip dress out of his hand.

  “For what?” he demanded.

  “If you must know, I have a date tonight!”

  “Really?” Jonas looked delighted. “May I ask with whom?”

  “Mircea,” I said, only to see his face fall.

  “Ah.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing, nothing. None of my business, after all.”

  “Well, it is my business!” Slick said. “We can’t afford any more bad press. Such as you being seen with a vampire, particularly dressed like that!”

  I looked down at the dress. It had a draped front and little spaghetti straps, but no sparkles, sequins or any decoration at all. Unless you counted what looked like the vague outline of tree branches that swayed across the silk, like shadows on a wall. It was beautiful and tasteful and one of my favorite purchases.

  “And just what is wrong with this?” I demanded.

  “On the hanger? Nothing. On you?” Slick looked me up and down and shook his head.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Two words: ‘foundation garment,’ ” he said, and snatched it back.

  “There are such things as strapless bras, you know!” I told him furiously.

  “And do you own one?”

  “That’s also none of your—”

  “That would be a no, then,” he said, and swept out.

  I was about to chase him down and possibly beat him to death with a shoe—assuming he’d left me one—when Jonas piped up. “Of course, there are those who will agree with Niall,” he said diffidently.

  I narrowed my eyes. “What is this?”

  He took off his thick glasses and polished them on an already rumpled sleeve. Maybe they really were dirty, but it looked like a stalling tactic. Like he knew I wasn’t going to like whatever he’d come to say.

  “This is my pointing out, however clumsily, that when one is Pythia, personal relationships are often . . . tricky.”

  “Like yours was with Agnes?” I asked archly. Because Jonas and the former Pythia had apparently been an item back in the day.

  “Yes, in fact. That was why we kept it a secret, from all but a few very close associates. Had we openly been a couple, people might have thought that she was under the influence of the Circle.”

  “People already thought that,” I pointed out. “They think that about every Pythia.”

  “No, they suspect. Which is a very different thing.”

  “So you’re saying what? That I can’t date Mircea?” I asked, and heard someone outside smother a laugh. I suspected Marco.

  Jonas apparently heard it, too, because he shot an irritated glance in the direction of the living room. “No, dating can be spun as savvy intelligence gathering on your part. Or as an attempt to bring the vampires into a closer alliance with the Circle. Or as a way of showing your impartiality toward the species.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “There isn’t one. As long as your liaison doesn’t become more . . .
permanent.”

  My hand went unconsciously to the marks on my neck, the two little scars that were the physical manifestation of Mircea’s claim. Because we were already about as permanent as it got. Wedding rings could be taken off, just as marriages could end in divorce, annulment or separation. But the marks I wore, I would wear for life.

  Diamonds might not be, but a vampire’s claim? Now, that was forever.

  “A formal claim is about as permanent as it gets,” I admitted, not really wanting to get into it, but not seeing an alternative. I’d known this was bound to come up sooner or later.

  “A formal claim?” Jonas sounded as if he’d never heard the term.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose, wondering for something like the hundredth time how the different supernatural groups had survived this long when they knew almost nothing about each other. And, frequently, what they did know was wrong. It was no wonder they were at each other’s throats half the time.

  “It’s sometimes used to bind nonvampires to a vamp family,” I explained.

  “For what purpose?” Jonas asked narrowly.

  “For a lot of purposes. Say there’s a particularly strong magic user that the family has relied on for a while to do its wards. They want to make sure he stays around, that some other family doesn’t steal him away. But they can’t just absorb him, because mages lose their magic when Changed.”

  “It is also illegal!” Jonas said hotly.

  “Not if the person involved agrees to it. But—”

  “As if any mage in his right mind—”

  “—but if the mage can’t be Changed,” I said, talking over him, because I wasn’t in the mood for that particular conversation today. “Then the next-best option is a claim. It makes him a formal part of the family, and vampire laws don’t allow poaching from other people’s families.”

  It also had another use, being the method traditionally used for marriages between two highly ranked vampires. It united them and their families but left them as equals, with neither having to be blood bound to the other. But if Jonas wanted to know about that, he was going to have to do his own damn homework.