by Karen Chance
I didn’t want to have to figure out what was trying to kill me this week.
But while I didn’t know who or what had it in for me, at least I knew what didn’t. “All that stuff with the gods . . . it’s over,” I told him. “They can’t hurt us if they can’t get back to Earth, and they can’t.”
“You sure about that?” he asked skeptically.
I didn’t answer, because no, I wasn’t. Not entirely.
It had been a shock to find out recently that a lot of the myths I’d grown up with were all too real. But not nearly as much as discovering that some of them were still alive. And that they were plenty pissed.
Their bitch was that they’d been banished from Earth, aka the land of milk, honey and slavishly devoted worshippers, by one of their own, Artemis. She’d turned traitor, teaming up with some of the less-devoted types, because her fellow immortals viewed humans as disposable. And they had been disposing of a lot of them.
So Artemis gave humankind the ouroboros spell to solve the problem. It banished the gods back to their home world and sealed off Earth so that they couldn’t return to their favorite playground. The Silver Circle, named after the alchemical color sacred to Artemis and in the shape of her symbol, the moon, had been formed to furnish the power needed to fuel the barrier.
It was still doing so, all these millennia later. But no one believed that the Circle or the spell were foolproof any longer. Not since one of the self-styled gods had found a way past them barely a month ago.
Fortunately, it had been a short trip.
“Apollo got in,” Billy said, like he’d been reading my thoughts.
“And he’s dead,” I said harshly.
“Yeah.” Billy fell silent, and I rolled over, pushing the conversation away.
It was surprisingly easy. The bed was extra soft, just the way I like it, with a duck-down mattress pad and matching comforter. They were usually too hot, and the comforter often ended up on the floor. But tonight it was perfect. I felt myself start to relax, start to sink into the warm cocoon between all that squashy goodness, start to drift off—
“Where do you think they go when they die?”
Billy’s voice jolted me back to unwelcome consciousness. I turned my head to frown at him. He’d stretched out on his back, hands behind his head, and was staring at the reflection of his own ghost light on the ceiling.
“Where does who go?”
“The gods.” He turned his head to look at me. “They have to go somewhere, don’t they? Everybody goes somewhere.”
“I don’t know.” Somewhere nasty, hopefully. “Why?”
“I was just thinking about that thing that possessed you. It wasn’t demon or Were or human or Fey, right?”
“Jury’s still out on Fey.”
“But not any Fey we ever heard of.”
“No.”
“So what about a god?” Billy gestured, throwing leaping patterns like blue candlelight on the walls. “They were said to be able to possess people, weren’t they? In some of the old legends?”
I frowned. So much for sleeping. “Apollo’s dead,” I said irritably. “He couldn’t possess anybody.”
“I’m dead. And I possess people all the time.”
“You’re a ghost.”
“So? Maybe he’s a ghost now, too. You killed him—”
“And now he’s come back to haunt me?” I asked incredulously.
He shrugged. “I know it’s far-fetched, but compared to some of the other shit that’s happened to you—”
I pulled the pillow over my head. This was so not what I needed to hear tonight. Or any other night.
“I know you don’t wanna think about it,” he said impatiently. “But we gotta figure this out—”
“It wasn’t Apollo,” I said, my voice muffled by the pillow.
“How do you know?”
“Because he wouldn’t have waited this long to attack me.”
“Maybe he learned something last time. He underestimated you, and look where that got him. Straight down the metaphysical crapper.”
“And I haven’t had any more visions—”
“Maybe he figured out you were spying on him and blocked you somehow. He was the source of your power, wasn’t he? So he should be able to—”
“And he wasn’t human,” I said, throwing off the pillow. Because obviously Billy wasn’t going to let me sleep until we had this out. “And nonhumans don’t leave ghosts!”
“That we know of.”
“In a century and a half, how many nonhuman ghosts have you seen?” I demanded.
“None. But we’re talking about gods here. Who knows what they can do?”
“Well, they can’t do this. Whatever went after me was driven off by cold iron. That wouldn’t have bothered a god at all.”
“That could have been a coincidence,” Billy said stubbornly. “Pritkin even said so—”
“Stop eavesdropping on my conversations! And the spirit also didn’t know English. We could barely communicate.”
Billy thought for a moment. “Maybe he forgot?”
I snorted. “Yeah. And then he grew feathers.”
“Damn.”
I stared at him. “Did you just say ‘damn’?”
He grinned, unrepentant. “It was a beautiful theory, you gotta admit.”
I didn’t have to admit anything of the kind. “Look, the gods are gone. Finished, kaput, out of the picture. Okay?”
He held up his hands. “Hey. Preaching to the choir here.”
“Beautiful theory,” I muttered, and swung the pillow at him.
It was a wasted effort, because he disappeared before it landed, fading away until only his laughter remained. It was the last thing I heard as I finally drifted off.
Chapter Seventeen
I walked into the living room sometime that afternoon, yawning and bleary-eyed from too much sleep, to see Marco coming out of the lounge. At least, I assumed it was Marco. It was a little hard to be sure, because while the height and girth were the same, the face was completely covered—in flowers.
“Hey,” I said, as a perfect red rose dropped off the towering stack he was carrying and plopped at my feet.
“Hey, yourself,” Marco’s voice told me, heading out of the apartment. “Get the door, will ya?”
I got the door. “What are you doing?”
“Taking out the trash.”
He strode over to the elevator and punched the button, shedding blossoms all the way. One had a little card attached. I bent and picked it up. Cassandra Palmer.
I frowned. “Marco?”
“Mmm-hmm?”
“Are you throwing out my flowers?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“Go look in the lounge.”
The elevator arrived before he could say any more, assuming he’d planned on it, and a man got off. He was dressed in a crisp blue suit and shiny black shoes and was carrying more roses. “Thank you,” Marco said, plucking them out of his hand and stepping into the elevator.
“Hey!”
The elevator doors shut before the man could retrieve his bouquet. “Goddamned vampires,” he muttered, and then he turned around—to see three of the guards loitering in the open doorway of the suite.
He lost what color had been in his face, which wasn’t much, since he was a pleasant-looking white blond. The vamps came forward and started circling him like sharks in water. “I liked the last one better,” a brunet said. “This one’s a little weedy.”
“And please tell me that’s not your best suit,” another commented, eyeing the man’s pinstripe with a moue of distaste. “I’m thinking what? One ninety-nine ninety five?”
“And they throw in an extra shirt,” the third vamp added.
They all laughed.
The man flushed but stood his ground. “See here, I have an appointment with—” he caught sight of me and his expression lightened. “Ah, you must be—”
“Too busy to talk to
you,” the first vamp said, putting an arm around him and turning him back toward the elevator.
“Get your hands off me, vampire,” the man snarled, pushing the vamp’s hand away. “And I think I’ll let her tell me that!”
“Ooh. This one’s spunky.”
“What’s going on?” I demanded.
The man—or, I guess, the mage—came forward, holding out a hand. The hand had a box in it. The box was full of candy, judging by the glossy photo on the front.
“For you,” he said, obviously proud to have rescued part of his offering.
“Uh, thank you?”
He brushed it away. “I’m not sure what to call you,” he said frankly. “Lady Cassandra isn’t technically correct until after the ceremony, and it sounds too formal in any case. And Miss Palmer is little better. Would you like for me to call you Cassie?”
“I’d like for you to tell me who you are.”
The man blinked. “David Dryden.”
I just looked at him.
“Your one o’clock?”
“My one o’clock what?”
“Date,” the third vamp said, grinning.
“For what?” I asked, confused.
“Well, you know.” The mage looked a little awkward suddenly. “The usual.”
“I think we’ve got a contender here, boys,” the brunet said.
“Smooth operator,” the second vamp agreed.
“Can you do something about them?” the mage asked me angrily, as the elevator dinged.
“They’re supposed to be here,” I pointed out.
“As am I! The Lord Protector sent me.”
The Lord Protector and his hair got off the elevator. “Ah, Dryden, my boy. There you are.” Jonas beamed at him, and then leaned over to dust a minute speck off his coat. “Have you met our new Pythia yet?”
“I’m trying!” the mage said, exasperated.
“Jonas, can I see you a minute?” I asked mildly.
“Of course, my dear, of course. It’s why I’m here.”
“Can you repeat that pickup line for me?” I heard one of the vamps ask. “I want to write it down. Something about the usual?”
“Go to hell,” the mage told him.
I preceded Jonas into the apartment, but stopped in the doorway to the lounge. Or what had been the lounge. It looked more like a greenhouse now, with what had to be four dozen vases of flowers, loose bouquets and potted plants sitting around.
“Jonas.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “What is this?”
“Options, my dear,” he said, surveying the sea of flora approvingly. “It’s always nice to have options.”
“It’s nice to have a place to sit, too. And we discussed this.”
“Did we?” he asked vaguely.
“Yes. We did. And you promised—”
“I didn’t, in fact.”
“Jonas!”
He held up placating hands. “But truly, very little of this is my doing.”
“Then what—”
“It was Niall. I believe he was . . . perturbed . . . about the desert incident. He returned in time to insert a piece in this morning’s Oracle about our eligible new Pythia and, well . . .”
“Well what?”
“The power of the press,” he said, patting my hand. “But don’t worry. I’m sure it will blow over in a week or two—”
“A week?” I stared around. I’d be able to open my own florist shop by then.
I sneezed.
“Smells like a New Orleans cathouse in here,” Marco agreed, coming back in and handing me a handkerchief.
I took it gratefully. “How would you know?”
He just raised an eyebrow at me and gathered up another load. “I’m heading to bed after this,” he told me, glancing at Jonas. “It’s about to get surreal up in here.”
“About to?”
He just grinned and sashayed out. I sneezed.
“Can we do our lesson in the living room?” I asked Jonas, wiping my streaming eyes.
“Oh, I think we can postpone that for today,” he said genially.
“We don’t need to postpone. I’m not going out with—with that man,” I sniffed, trying and failing to recall the guy’s name.
Jonas regarded the mage, who was standing by the kitchen door, looking about the way you’d expect. “Why? What’s wrong with him?”
The man twitched.
I sighed. “Nothing.”
“Then perhaps a late luncheon—”
“No!”
“Tea?”
“Jonas!”
He sighed and gave up. “Handsome boy . . . very good family,” he muttered, reentering the living room.
I blew my nose and followed. And almost ran into an old-fashioned blackboard that was taking up most of the space beside the new sofa. I blinked at it, because it hadn’t been there a minute ago.
“Well, in that case, perhaps you could help me with a few small matters,” Jonas said, feeling around in his coat for something. “I used to do this with Agnes, you know. We had tea every Thursday, and I would go over any affairs of interest in the magical community, in case she saw something of significance.”
“I haven’t seen anything lately,” I said, eyeing the blackboard suspiciously. I poked it. It was solid.
“Which is rather the point,” Jonas said. “Agnes sometimes had dry spells, too, and other times she had visions about all sorts of things, but most were entirely unrelated to what we needed to know. But if we’d recently discussed something . . . well, it seemed to help focus her energies. I thought it might do the same for you.”
“Okay.” I edged around to the sofa.
“Good, good.” Jonas had been turning out his pockets as he spoke, one after another, leaving him looking like he had little gray tongues all over his suit. But I guess he hadn’t found what he wanted, because he made a gesture and plucked a small package out of thin air.
I stared at it, because I’d never seen anyone do that before, except on TV. But I didn’t think Jonas had used sleight of hand. Particularly not when he had trouble getting the cellophane off whatever it was.
“Now, I realize that visions can’t be made to order, as one might wish,” he said, fiddling with it.
“What is that?” I demanded.
He looked at me from behind heavy glasses. “What is what?”
“That.” I pointed at the package.
Jonas peered down at it. “This?”
“Yes, that! What is that?”
“Chalk.”
“Chalk?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“For the chalkboard,” he said, looking a bit bewildered.
“But . . . where did you get it?”
“Where did I get what?”
“The chalk!”
His forehead wrinkled slightly. “Ryman’s. They had a sale.”
I opened my mouth to say something else and then closed it abruptly. I wasn’t doing this with him. Not again. Not today. I sat down on the sofa and crossed my legs. “All right.”
Jonas regarded me warily for a moment, as if I were the one acting strange. But in the end, he didn’t say anything, either. He just fished out a piece and started scribbling on the board, like a more than slightly batty professor.
“Now, as I was saying, visions can be a bit . . . dicey. Agnes often described them as less of a narrative than a kaleidoscope or puzzle, with pieces here and there that, without context, made little sense. Would you agree?”
I shrugged. “I’ve had both kinds. The jumbled ones are the most irritating.”
He nodded. “Yes, so she said. She also told me, however, that having a starting point, some clue as to what she was seeing, often went a long way in helping her sort them out. And once she knew to focus on a particular piece, the others that went with that puzzle often presented themselves.”
“So what puzzle piece do you want me to focus on today?”
“One I’ve been working on for some t
ime now. I’ve been doing some fascinating research into the—”
He stopped and looked at something over my shoulder. I turned my head to see the mage peering around the chalkboard. He looked back and forth between the two of us. “I, er, I was wondering—”
“No, no, we’re past all that,” Jonas said.
The man looked at him for a moment and then decided to focus on me. “Are we having lunch?”
“No.”
“Dinner?”
“No.”
“It’s just . . . I haven’t eaten.”
I just looked at him.
“Could I have my chocolates back?” he asked after a moment.
I silently passed them over. He disappeared back behind the blackboard. Jonas looked at me. “Where were we?”
“I have no idea.”
He thought for a moment. “Oh yes. I was telling you about my research into the old Norse sagas—the mythology of ancient Scandinavia. Have you read them?”
“Uh, no.”
“You’d like them, Cassie.” He waved the hand with the chalk in it. “All sex and violence.”
I frowned. “Why would you think that I’d—”
“And in a real sense, they’re very like visions, in that they give us pieces. Not necessarily the best pieces, you understand, nor in the right order, nor with the right emphasis, but pieces nonetheless. It’s up to us to decode what those pieces mean.”
“Pieces of what?” I asked, trying to figure out where he was going with this.
“Our current situation, I hope. As we recently had demonstrated somewhat . . . vividly, many of the world’s ancient myths have a basis in real events. Take the ouroboros legend, for instance.”
“The ouroboros?” I repeated faintly. Artemis’s protection spell wasn’t my favorite topic of conversation.
“Yes. As with most cultures around the world, the Norse have a legend about a giant snake who grasps its own tail, and in doing so somehow protects the planet. In their case, the snake was Jörmungandr, one of three children of the god Loki, who could shape-shift into a reptile.”
He stepped away from the board so that I could see what he’d been drawing. Only that didn’t help much, because what I saw looked a lot like a lopsided soccer ball with eyes. Or maybe some kind of deformed squid—