by Karen Chance
Tami blinked. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“That’s not the sort of thing you around telling people—”
“You do if they’re a friend!”
“—and I didn’t want to worry you—”
“Didn’t want to worry me?” She sat forward. “Are you serious right now? Do you have any idea how much more worrying it is to see you zombie walking around and knowing something’s up, but not knowing what? You think that doesn’t worry me?”
“I was ashamed, all right?” I said, struggling to explain it to her, when I didn’t even like to think about it. Didn’t like what it said about me. “There never seemed to be enough of me to go around, and . . . and I felt like I needed it. Needed a crutch to get through the day, which other Pythias had only used in emergencies. It was embarrassing.”
“Other Pythias weren’t at war.”
“Some of them were.”
Tami scowled. “Different kind of war. They had baby wars. You got the granddaddy.”
“Still. I felt like a failure. And I couldn’t even handle it! I took it to make me stronger, but I got addicted almost immediately, and then I . . . I couldn’t give it up. It made everything just so much easier. I’d go from feeling like a limp dishrag to feeling like I could conquer the world—”
“When that stuff was only conquering you.”
I looked at my hands. “Yeah. And now . . .”
“What about now?”
I looked up, and all my resentment came crashing back. It wasn’t fair to Tami, I knew that, but she was the one doing this, making me face it. And right then, I almost hated her for it.
“I know what you’re thinking, all right?” I said bitterly. “I didn’t triumph over an addiction, I just substituted one for another. Because I’m weak, and I can’t handle it otherwise!”
“It?”
“My job, my schedule, my life! I need cheats and artificial help to get through the day because I’m not good enough. There, I said it! Are you happy? I can’t do this on my own!”
Tami didn’t say anything. She just looked at me for a long moment, to the point that it started to get uncomfortable. Not that any of this wasn’t.
Then she got up, and silently started stacking plates.
“Tami?” I said, after a minute.
No response.
“Tami, look, I didn’t mean to yell.”
Still nothing.
She hefted the massive tray and started to walk off with it, forcing me to shift in front of her, because she was walking fast. She stopped abruptly, and she didn’t look happy. In fact, she looked more pissed off than I’d seen her in a long time.
“Excuse me, madam. I have to go do some dishes.”
I didn’t move. “Why are you talking like that?” She sounded like that saleswoman in the spa.
“How else am I supposed to talk, madam?”
“Stop calling me that. Since when have you ever—”
“Since I was informed that I’m just the help. Not a friend, not a confidant, not a freaking life manager, whatever the hell that’s supposed to be. Just a glorified servant—”
“You are not!”
“Oh, but I must be. You just told me you suffered through a major addiction all on your own, and now you’re dealing with this . . . I don’t even know what to call it. But you’re doing it by yourself, too. I guess I’m not good enough to talk to, to lean on—”
“That’s not true. You know it’s—”
“Then why did you do it? Why shut me out?”
It was my turn not to say anything.
She moved the tray to one hip, because even empty it was heavy. I tried to take it from her, but got my hand smacked for my trouble. “I didn’t come here to be chief cook and bottle washer, all right?” she told me. “I don’t mind cooking, or supervising the staff, or balancing the books, or helping to make up the duty roster with Marco. But I do all that to help you, only you won’t let me. I guess you did just need a housekeeper, after all.”
She tried to go around me again, but I wouldn’t let her. “That’s not what you are. I told you, more than once, that you don’t have to do any of that. We can hire someone—”
“To muck it all up? Or to betray you ‘cause someone is always trying to kill you or take advantage of you and you can’t trust them? I agreed to take care of it, and I don’t mind taking care of it. But I do mind this! This stupid insistence on handling every damned thing yourself, whether you need to or not. There are other people at this damned court!”
I looked at her helplessly, because I’d just gotten up and wasn’t even all that alert yet, but I’d already managed to majorly screw up. “I know that. But . . . what I do . . . other people can’t help me with. And I’m supposed to look strong, even when I’m not. All those other Pythias, they were so commanding, and I’m . . .”
I trialed off, because there were tears in my eyes, because I’d hurt Tami, and because I was a screw up who’d somehow managed to convince herself that she was going to get better at this, but never did.
“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” I finished.
Tami’s expression had softened during my rambling admission; she had a heart bigger than anyone I knew. But her eyes were still resolute when she said: “Delegate. All of it. Except for three things.”
“What?”
She finally got tired of holding the tray, and sat it down on the floor, because there was nothing else in the vicinity. “My momma always said you gotta remember the Rule of Three.”
“The what?”
“She said a person can handle three things, and no more than three, at one time. You add any more and it’s like your brain fractures and you start to lose focus. You don’t know what to do next or what to concentrate on, ‘cause there’s so much you’re supposed to be doing, and so you end up wasting time on stupid stuff that don’t help anybody. Like all those audiences you’ve been giving.”
“I have to do those—”
“Why? I know you hate them, and anyway, I asked some of your acolytes, and they all said the same thing. Most Pythias only gave audiences one day a month, and people had to fight for a spot—”
“They weren’t in the middle of a war,” I pointed out. “And with a huge backlog—”
“You didn’t handle the backlog all summer, and I didn’t see anybody dying.”
“I was running for my life!”
“Yeah, and the world trucked on while you dealt with more important shit. Like you should be doing now. Let the bastards stew for a while; it’ll do ‘em good. I’ll tell Francoise to make up a short list—really short—of people with genuine reasons to need an audience, and you can take one—”
“Tami—”
“—or two days a month and deal with them, if you have time. They need to understand that seeing the Pythia is a privilege. They gotta earn that shit! And you gotta decide what your three are.”
“I’m . . .” I stopped because, honestly, I had no idea. Being Pythia meant always having something to do, and Tami’s mother had been right: after a while, it all blended together, like the thousand flashing signs along the Strip. It made it really hard to sort out the important stuff from the less- or non-important.
Tami seemed to realize this, because she pulled me over to the table and sat me down. “Close your eyes,” she instructed.
I closed my eyes.
“Okay, clear your mind as much as you can. Don’t go chasing any rabbits, just breath for a minute. Calm, slow, and easy.”
Sure, I thought. Because those things came so naturally to me! But it was Tami so I tried. And after a few minutes, her soothing voice did have me feeling calmer and vaguely sleepy.
“Priorities,” she said softly. “What’s the top three things you need to deal with right now? Not what other people want you to deal with—all those bastards wanting a piece of you—but you. What’s your top three?”
“Rhea,” it came out immediately, without me even having to thin
k about it. “I don’t know how to help her, but I have to figure it out.”
“And?”
“Mircea.” I didn’t elaborate on that one, and Tami didn’t ask. It was one reason I fucking loved her so much.
“And the last one?”
“You know the last one. The war.” We were literally about to invade another world, and while things had been quiet lately, I didn’t think there was any chance they’d stay that way.
“All right. So, you got your three—and only three. I and the gals got this place on lock down, all right? We’ll hold the fort with the little ones, and any petitioners who don’t understand what no means, and basically deal with letting people know that there’s a damned war on and the Pythia has better things to do than deal with their crap.”
“Um. You might want to rephrase that slightly,” I said and opened my eyes.
To see Tami smiling, and yet managing to look a little feral at the same time.
“Don’t worry. You know how diplomatic I can be.”
Oh, boy.
Chapter Eight
I decided to start with number one on my to-do list, and went looking for Rhea.
I was told that she was downstairs, in what used to be the main drag of the hotel and casino that we called home. I said ‘used to be’, because Dante’s had been the site of a major battle in the war, one which had scoured the drag down to the concrete and studs. But fairly rapid progress had been made on the rebuild, especially in the last few weeks. I was therefore greeted by the sight of an Old West ghost town, which at the moment was living up to its name since there was nothing inside the hastily erected facades but air.
But that was perfect for what the coven girls and older initiates had planned. Samhain, AKA Halloween, was coming up, which was a major holiday in the coven calendar. It was usually celebrated with feasts and bonfires somewhere out in nature, but the war made that a little problematic. So, this year, the local covens and the girls they’d sent to join my court had asked if it could be held at Dante’s.
Since the hotel manager had had a fit at the thought of a bonfire in his precious, damaged baby, that was being nixed for this year. Instead, the ghost town was being decorated for a big, indoor carnival. Samhain wasn’t until the end of the week, but there was a lot of work to do before then, and the place was working with activity.
I spotted a couple of the older initiates up on ladders, stretching strings of multicolored lights across the street. Other lights had already been wrapped around posts and more were being festooned about a wagon. Meanwhile, the replacement donkey statue and its attached taco cart had become the subject of the smaller girls’ attentions. They were seated in a semi-circle around it, with a couple of acolytes showing them how to make bright paper flowers out of colored tissue paper and pipe cleaners, which they were sticking in the donkey’s saddlebags, mane, tail and big straw hat.
Overhead, a fake starscape of tiny lights twinkled in the high ceiling, giving the whole thing a very village-festival-at-night feel. I half expected to see some banditos or cowboys ride up, looking for the saloon. Although they would have been very surprised if they had, and not just because there was no booze yet.
“What is that?” I asked one of the acolytes, a stern-faced woman named Milly. She was normally very starched and polished, with her thin frame tightly buttoned into old fashioned dresses, and her salt and pepper hair severely scraped back, to the point that I felt sorry for her temples. But today, she was looking a little less Spartan, with a bright red flower almost as big as her head stuck behind an ear.
“Lady.”
She curtsied, being one of the few acolytes who always turned deaf whenever I requested that they cut that out. These days, I usually only got the old-fashioned courtesy when we had company, or when they were caught out like last night. But Milly always did it, and I’d basically given up trying to stop her.
The little acolyte she’d been working with, all of maybe four, was valiantly trying to force a massive wad of tissue through a premade loop of fuzzy wire. It was not going well. Which quickly resulted in said flower getting beaten repeatedly against the floor.
“Now, now, Amelie,” Milly said. “Is that how you greet your Pythia?”
The little girl looked up, and her eyes widened. She scrambled to her feet; I didn’t know why. I saw the initiates all the time.
And then I realized why when she dropped into a perfectly credible curtsy.
Son of a bitch.
Milly smiled at her little protégé proudly, and I did the same, because what else was I gonna do? Yet again, I’d been outmaneuvered by an acolyte. One who was now looking at me like butter wouldn’t melt.
“Did you have a question, Lady?”
“Yes. What is that?” I pointed at the end of the street, where a bunch of old-fashioned, home-made looking brooms were flying in a circle about six feet off the ground. They weren’t going anywhere, and they weren’t going fast, just determinedly bobbing up and down like some kind of merry go round.
“It is a merry go round, Lady,” Milly replied politely.
Of course.
“For the younger children,” she added.
“How are they supposed to stay up there?” I asked, because contrary to popular belief, witches had never liked riding brooms. They’d used them as platforms for levitation spells, back in the bad old days, because sometimes you needed to outrun a mob. And brooms were usually handy.
But comfortable they were not, not to mention being hard as hell to stay on.
Although some people didn’t seem to have a problem, I thought, as one zoomed by just overhead, causing me to duck.
It wasn’t an escapee from the gently bobbing circle, and it wasn’t alone. Another broom flew past a second later, right on the first one’s tail. It caught up and the two looped and ducked and twined around each other in the big space overhead, while going about Mach 2.
“Who—is that Rhea?” I asked, and Milly’s mouth pursed slightly in disapproval.
“Yes, Lady. Should I summon her back?”
“No. I just—what is she doing?”
“Racing the vampire,” Milly said. “He challenged her and . . . well. She is not very good at ignoring challenges.”
I guessed not. Because whatever kind of race they were doing, it looked like Rhea might be winning. Although Rico was no slouch, especially for a vampire who had no business being on a broom in the first place! But he was managing it just fine, how I didn’t know, but I guessed that somebody had enchanted it for him.
They zoomed around the huge room another couple of times, neck and neck, and I swear, it was like seeing a whole other Rhea. Her dark hair was flying out behind her, her faced was flushed and determined and happy, and then she caught the back of Rico’s broom with a foot, causing it to spiral out into the room, and giving her the win. And even from this far, I could hear her laughing.
I was still staring upward when there was a weird noise behind me, and I turned to see a grinning vampire standing there with broom in hand.
“Lady,” Rico said, his face flushed and his hair everywhere, but his manners on point. He bowed over my hand.
“Don’t you start,” I warned.
The grin widened. “I wondered when we would see you down here. The young ladies have been working hard. Rhea included,” he added, as I glanced upward again. “I only stole her away for a minute.”
“Steal her away for more. I haven’t heard her laugh like that in a while.”
“And why should she?” he asked, taking my arm and pulling me away, probably to get out of the range of Milly’s disapproval. “You saw what they did last night.”
“Has that happened before?” I asked, as we headed toward the other end of the drag.
“No, although they have been riding her hard. I thought you had agreed to it—”
“What?”
“—before you stepped in to stop it.”
“Thanks!” I said, feeling hurt and a little angr
y that he’d even think that.
“I am sorry.” I looked up to see warm brown eyes looking back at me, the golden color of last night’s power surge long since faded. Rico’s eyes were ridiculously attractive, with thick, dark lashes longer than mine, which he was perfectly capable of batting if he thought it would help. But today, it really wouldn’t, and he seemed to get that, because he got serious again pretty fast.
“I’m not trying to force Rhea into anything,” I told him. “And I didn’t tell anyone else to. But the old Pythian Court had some pretty . . . intense . . . training methods.”
“Especially when trying to train an heir,” he said, shooting me a look.
I stopped walking, both to avoid something huge under a sheet that was being trundled down the street and because there was something strangely intense about his expression. “Shouldn’t they be?” I asked.
He frowned, looking partly confused and partly angry. “Why are you asking me? You know how I feel.”
“About Rhea being my heir? No, I don’t.”
He laughed suddenly, although there was something bitter in it. “Then you think me a better man than I am.”
We paused by a hitching post in a deserted part of the street, as far away from listening ears as possible. “If you have something to say, this would be a good time,” I pointed out.
“You already know it,” he repeated. “If Rhea stays your heir, she is off limits to pursuit.”
“Pursuit?”
“Courtship. L’amore. She must remain untouched, no?”
“Maybe. Or that may be an old wives’ tale. The jury is still out.”
Apollo, the original source of the Pythian power, was now dead, a casualty of the war that, as far as I could tell, absolutely no one had mourned on either side. But the giant prick had died without leaving an instruction manual on how the Pythian power worked without him, so ever since then, we’d been playing it by ear. Which is why I didn’t know whether my heir still had to remain a virgin, at least until she inherited the position, or not.
But now I had a question.
“Last time we talked about this, you told me she was out of your league,” I reminded him. “That the Lord Commander’s daughter and the poor boy from Napoli shouldn’t mix. What changed?”