by Karen Chance
I didn’t bother with a weapon, despite there being a gun in my makeup bag. Because yes, I had the kind of life where I needed a gun in my makeup bag. But I did lace my hand with a bit of the Pythian power, to make rapid-fire spell casting even more so, and crept closer.
My bathroom was huge, to the point that it freaking echoed, but my dressing area was smaller and more intimate. It had room for a dressing table and chair, a tufted poof, a mural of quasi Greekness, and a large, walk-in closet. The sounds, I determined, were coming from the closet.
I scanned the rest of the room anyway, in case who or whatever was in here had back up. I didn’t trust my eyes after today, but my nose didn’t pick up much, either. And considering how fey glamouries reeked, I doubted I’d be able to miss one even with only human senses.
But all I smelled was face powder, nail polish remover, and—
The hell?
Every bottle of perfume I owned was scattered over my dressing table, half of them with the tops off and some of them leaking onto the wood. The drawer in front was also open and appeared to have been plundered. Since that was where I kept the makeup I rarely used, the super glittery stuff for evening, I felt my spine relax.
I doubted the fey had braved a brood of vampires, a bunch of witches, and some Pythian acolytes in order to raid my makeup drawer!
And then I knew they hadn’t, when I heard giggles.
The louvered door of my closet told the tale, of four little miscreants ready for Samhain, complete with a feathered boa, a flapper headdress, an old fashioned, cloche style hat, and more makeup than a bunch of drag queens.
I had to bite my lip—hard. Two of them had been in here a few days ago, following Augustine, my court designer, who had been carrying an armload of outfits and had left the door open. The dresses had spanned a number of eras, being part of a project to allow me to shift to other times without constantly bothering him for something to wear.
It hadn’t occurred to me at the time, but the spangles, laces, and unfamiliar fripperies must have looked like the costume box of the gods to a couple of awed little girls. Who had rounded up two more tiny burglars and somehow broken in here, when I had been assured that that was impossible. Wait until I told Pritkin that his so-powerful wards had been hacked—by four six-year-olds!
Or, more likely, the delinquents had simply followed Marco in here without him noticing, because they followed him everywhere. The younger initiates trailed him around like a bunch of goslings after a mother goose, finding the massive vamp—and the candy he kept in a pocket that he thought I didn’t know about—to be fascinating. He’d probably learned to tune them out by now.
A fact, it seemed, that they’d taken full advantage of.
I opened the door and just stood there for a moment, dissipating the Pythian power that I no longer needed, and crossing my arms. And waiting. It took a while.
They were very absorbed in their business, particularly with a pair of false eyelashes that they’d found with the makeup, but couldn’t seem to make work. One had glued her left eye shut with one of them, while another had a top lash affixed considerably below her right, like Alex from A Clockwork Orange. But she was kinder than her doppelganger; she was trying to help the other girl with her issue when she glanced up and saw me.
And froze.
The other two were experimenting with sparkly eyeshadow, and took a while longer to catch on, and the poor one-eyed one was the last to notice me, because she was getting increasingly frustrated with her new, pirate status. But she finally looked up, and suddenly it was all too much. She couldn’t see, her pretty new look had devolved into Captain Jack Sparrow, and now she was busted.
She burst into tears.
I went over, scooped her up, and looked down at the others, who hadn’t moved. I’d seen time spells that didn’t freeze people that thoroughly. But when I said “out”, they scrambled for the door like greyhounds after a rabbit, leaving the poor pirate behind.
No honor among thieves, it seemed.
“Come on,” I told her. “Let’s get you fixed up.”
Some warm water managed to pry the eyelash loose without taking too many of her own along with it. And some chewing gum from my dressing table stopped the crying. It was nasty old spearmint, so I didn’t get a smile, but you can’t have everything.
“There,” I told her. “That’s better, now isn’t . . . it . . .”
My thoughts trailed off at the sight of her chubby palm, which I’d initially assumed had just gotten into the blush. But I didn’t have any blush that shade. And then I noticed a smear across my pretty new outfit, which showed up a lot better under the bathroom fluorescents than it had in the dim splash from the bedroom lamp.
Enough that I could see a fine spray of reddish brown all over me, like a thousand tiny freckles—courtesy of the fey, I assumed.
It looked like Marco’s nose hadn’t needed to work that hard, after all.
I licked my lips, then ran some warm water into the basin, and took a washcloth to the little girl’s hand. I’d just finished cleaning her up, and dragging my now blood-stained couture off her, when one of the acolytes rapped on the door. And then came bustling in, breathing apologies.
“Not a problem,” I heard myself say. “I just, uh, I have to take a bath. I have to take a bath right now.”
The woman said something I didn’t hear, and took the little girl off to join her friends. I shut the door behind her and leaned my back against it, and then sprang away—too late. The blood had smeared the white paint where my back had rested, forcing me to do yet another clean-up.
I stripped off the horror movie clothes and stood there in my bra and panties, looking at the ruined outfits on the sink. And recalling what Pritkin had said. “You could have simply shifted back in time and warned us.”
And I could have. It was what I’d been doing all month, to buy myself more time. It was almost automatic anymore.
So why hadn’t I done it?
I’d never given he and Jonas an explanation, except that I’d been too shocked to think straight. But that wasn’t really true, was it? I’d thought clearly enough to run back into Pritkin’s room and get the weapons. And to chase Lab Coat half a freaking mile to trigger the wards. And to realize that I could locate my attacker by smell, when I couldn’t see him.
There’d been no problem thinking about all of that, so what the hell?
I reached out and ran a finger over the pretty crinkled top. The blood had dried, turning from a liquid to a powder that smeared as I moved the finger downward, leaving an ugly slash over the delicate yellow fabric. Each droplet was so small that it was hard to see on its own, but combined together, there was a lot of it.
No wonder Pritkin had freaked out.
I should be doing the same, considering that I’d been walking around covered in gore. But what I mostly felt was awe. How much blood had the fey had in him to leave such a puddle, and yet also to spray it everywhere?
I watched my finger move around as if on its own, and wondered what was wrong with me. I’d felt surprise, even shock, when I saw the blood on the little girl’s hand. That made sense; I could understand that. Like I could understand feeling revulsion now.
But I didn’t.
Like I hadn’t felt fear after that first jolt in Pritkin’s room.
There had been a surge of adrenaline, followed by the thrill of the chase and growing excitement when I knew I was close. My heart had been hammering, my blood had been singing, and I had been completely caught up in pursuing my prey. Because that’s what he’d felt like: prey. Not someone to be feared, except that he might reach Pritkin before I did. Just . . . prey. A stupid, small thing that had dared to defy me, and must pay for his insolence.
I glanced at the mirror, and for a moment, I didn’t know the face looking back at me. It was leaner, with the cheekbones more prominent and the eyes seeming bigger because of my recent weight loss. Tami had been right: I’d been running around so much lately,
shifting back and forth in time, that meals had ended up getting skipped. Not on purpose; it was just hard to keep track.
But for a minute, I didn’t know me.
And not just because I was thinner. There was something else there, too, visible now with less childish padding to hide it. Something sharper, almost predatory, what Shakespeare would have called a lean and hungry look. Something that I’d previously only seen . . .
On vamps.
My hands clenched in the ruined fabric, and the next thing I knew, I was crumpling my blood smeared clothes into a ball and stuffing them into the trashcan. I threw some used tissues and makeup sponges on top of it because there was no reason to freak out the staff. And then fished it out and blasted it to powder anyway, aging it to nothing along with the rest of the contents of the can, along with the can itself. Because I lived with vampires, damn it, and blood told them stories!
I just stood there after I was done, my heart hammering once more, my pulse pounding, and my face flushing under whatever was left of the crappy glamourie.
Damn it, Mircea! I thought. There are some things I don’t want you to pass over!
I finally got into the shower and lathered up, scrubbing my body so hard that I defied even a vamp’s nose to smell a thing when I was done.
Chapter Thirteen
I took my time brushing, flossing, moisturizing, and doing the rest of my usual nighttime routine, until my hands no longer shook and I felt more or less back to normal. Except for a serious desire to get this damned spell off, once and for all! I slid into my favorite silky blue bathrobe and reentered the bedroom with a purpose.
And found Marco back in place, of course. He’d once told me that it was part of his job to be terminally nosy, and he was very good at his job. But now there were also two women sitting in front of him, at the conference table opposite my bed.
They didn’t get up when I entered, also of course. The liaison from the Silver Circle to my court, a young guy named Reggie, always scrambled to his feet every time I entered a room. I kind of got the impression that he had to hold himself back from saluting. But the covens . . .
Were a different breed.
They didn’t salute. And if they had, I always got the impression that it would be of the one finger variety. They prided themselves on their autonomy, telling the Silver Circle and its rules to get bent, and mostly kept themselves to themselves.
Except where the Pythian Court was concerned.
It seemed that the war had even the mighty covens spooked. Not enough to play nice with the Circle, who they viewed as ancient enemies, but enough to get them thinking that maybe they needed allies, too. So, they’d chosen me, and sent three more-than-competent witches to join my court.
At least, I hoped they were competent, or I was screwed.
The women rotated out on a regular basis, needing a break from the crazy, and one of them was on her weekend. That left Vi, a female version of Marco only with more tats, and Saffy, a pink-haired, punk type, to hold down the fort. Along with the pretty, long haired brunette who had just come into the room.
“Oh!” Rhea said, and put a hand to her mouth as soon as she saw me.
As usual, she looked like a refugee from another age. One where they still used porcelain teacups and calling cards, and thought that high-necked, lace blouses were a nifty idea. And had pretty manners, which was why she didn’t ask me why my eyes were glowing.
The coven girls had no such problem, however. I walked forward and Saffy did a double take. “Son of a bitch! What happened to you?”
Vi didn’t say anything, but she abruptly stood up. It wasn’t out of respect, however. Judging by her expression, it was out of fascination.
She had on a typical costume for her, consisting of a sleeveless tee that showed off guns a well-built man would have envied, black cargo pants that served the same basic function as a war mage’s coat—as a way to store all kinds of lethal items—and a brand-new septum ring. It looked good against her olive skin and short dark hair, although I didn’t mention it, because she was currently prowling around me with a look of intense concentration on her face.
It didn’t seem to be the time for small talk.
“I have a problem,” I said.
“You have something,” she agreed.
I caught her arm as she came around again. It was solid as a rock, and displeased about being grabbed, judging from how she tensed up. But she didn’t grab me back or throw me across the room, and not only because Marco was glaring a warning. But because Vi was, if not a friend exactly, at least someone who no longer looked at me with suspicion and anger, as she had when she’d first come here.
The covens had learned the hard way not to trust anybody who wasn’t one of them, but they were making a little progress with me. Enough that, while she scowled down at my hand on her arm, when she looked up, her expression softened. “How do you get into these things?” she asked.
“No idea,” I told her. “But I need to make sure that nobody knows about this one, all right?”
I glanced at the table, where the others were still just staring, and then at Marco, who was propping up the wall with his arms crossed—a favorite pose for when the shit had hit the fan.
“I know you’re not looking at me,” he said.
“I’m looking at everybody. What I have to tell you cannot leave this room.”
There was a court full of vamps outside with super hearing, but my room was soundproofed, both magically and otherwise. Nothing we said would get out unless somebody carried it out. And that couldn’t happen, offended feelings or no.
“Why don’t you just tell us what’s going on?” Marco said.
“Why don’t you just swear to me first?”
“I already swore when I took this job, or don’t you recall how vampire courts work?”
And yes, I did. But this wasn’t a vampire court and Marco wasn’t bound to me by blood. But, in fairness, he’d been more loyal than if he was.
“I’m sorry,” I told him. “It’s just . . . this is kind of important.”
“I swear,” Vi said. “I wanna hear this.”
“We all swear,” Saffy said impatiently. “What the hell happened?”
I told them what happened. Well, the stuff between Mircea and me, anyway. If I told Marco I’d had to kill a fey assassin, I’d never be able to leave this room again.
“Mother . . . lover!” Vi said, her face shocked and faintly appalled when I finished, but her vocabulary clean. Tami had instituted a swear jar, and everybody was tired of contributing.
Except for Marco, apparently, who said something less genteel. “What the hell was Mircea thinking?”
“He wasn’t,” I said. “He was reacting.”
We’d moved to the sitting area in front of my fireplace, which was an absurd thing to have in Vegas, but which the little girls loved for the marshmallow roasting opportunities. I liked that it boasted a sofa, several chairs and a convenient coffee table for drinks, all in soothing shades of sand and blue, although nobody was drinking right now. Everybody was looking shell-shocked, and I couldn’t blame them.
It was a lot to take in.
“I’m open to suggestions,” I said, but Marco wasn’t yet ready to move on.
“Let me get this straight. He hijacks your power, shifts you into a tree, and then runs off to Faerie? The fuck?”
“It is kind of a what-the-fuck situation,” Saffy agreed, finally getting up to go to the bar cart. It had been left out on the balcony, and she had to open the curtains to access it, letting in a flood of orange-tinted, sunset light. I scrunched up my eyes, and when I opened them again, Rhea was sitting forward, staring at me.
“They’re still glowing,” she said, wonderingly.
“That’s not a problem,” Vi said. “We can cast a simple glamourie that’ll cover that up. The problem is the spell.”
“Nodo d’Amore,” I agreed. “I need it off, preferably yesterday. Can you do it?”
; She laughed.
I guessed that was a no.
“I don’t understand any of this!” Marco said, waving off Saffy, who was acting as bartender.
“What’s there to understand?” I asked. “Mircea was playing nice until he thought he was going to lose Elena, then he panicked. I don’t think he would have hijacked my abilities if there had been another way to get her back. But now that he has—”
“You’re afraid he’ll do it again.” That was Saffy, surprisingly. Rhea hadn’t said anything, although she looked frankly gob smacked.
But Marco was shaking his head in disbelief. “Mircea doesn’t panic!”
“The old Mircea doesn’t,” I said, and left it at that.
Or, at least, I tried.
“What do you mean, the old Mircea?”
I shot Marco a look. “You know what I mean.”
“No.” He appeared genuinely bewildered. “I don’t.”
Nobody else did, either, but I didn’t want to discuss this in front of the girls. Or at all. But Marco clearly wasn’t willing to let it go.
“He’s started to show some signs lately.”
“Of what?”
I met his eyes over Vi’s head. “Obsession.”
Marco didn’t say anything else.
“Can we get back to the point?” Saffy said, trying to hand me a glass which I declined. No lunch meant no alcohol, unless I wanted to be sick. “Lover’s Knot isn’t a spell I’m familiar with, but just from the aura . . .”
“Yes?” I said, because she didn’t look happy.
“It’s really strong,” Rhea told me softly.
Unlike the others, she had accepted a drink, what looked like straight whiskey. It was another sign of the inherent contrast in her nature: seemingly soft, sweet and gentle—all of which were true, especially when she was dealing with the younger initiates. But she could also be a fierce defender of the same—and of me.
But it was still odd to see an old-fashioned girl in a lacy top and below the knee skirt, belt back a shot without so much as flinching.
But then, she was British.