by Karen Chance
And the massive katana headed for my neck.
I dropped like a stone and looked up, just in time to see the wall gouged by the force of the blow that had almost taken my head off. I scrambled back and the sword followed me. I had the impression that it was held in the hand of a large samurai looking guy, but didn’t get a clear view, because it was all I could do to avoid the slashing blows.
One hit the floor, taking a wedge of my hem off. One slashed the air right over my head as I abruptly leaned backwards, causing it to miss my face by inches. And when I rolled under a display case, it all but detonated over top of me, collapsing under a mass of tempered steel and the mountain of muscle wielding it.
I didn’t have enough air in my lungs left to scream, not and crawl at the same time, and I opted to crawl. Or something like it—more of a mad, flailing scramble while blood trickled down my face, broken glass stabbed my palms and shins, and a meaty hand grabbed for my hair. But it didn’t catch enough of it and I tore away, stumbled to my feet, and ran—
Straight into Rhea.
“Is it all right this time?” she asked, as what felt like a hammer blow caught me full in the back.
I felt my spine cleave, my blood spurt, and one of my lungs, now shredded by the deadly blade, collapse. I used the other to finally scream—in her face. She screamed back, a startled yelp of a sound, and for a second there, we just stood there and screamed at each other. Until I grabbed her and shifted—
Back to the upper hallway again.
We landed on a slippery carpet, which slid out from under our feet and dumped us onto the floor. We ended up in a pile of white lace skirts and thrashing limbs, still screaming. And me pawing at my chest, which should have had a massive sword sticking out of it.
But instead, my fingers just met scratchy lace, a little dusty from my crawl around the floor, but otherwise fine. I pushed tumbled hair out of my eyes and rolled off of Rhea, all while staring in disbelief at my unshredded tits. And then up at a group of acolytes, larger than before, who were lining the stairs. Not going up or down this time, but just loitering about as if they didn’t have anything better to do.
Rhea groaned and sat up, pushing her own weight of hair, a lot darker and heavier than mine, out of her eyes. And then narrowed them at Agnes. Who, I realized, was one of the audience members on the staircase.
“What are you doing here?” Rhea demanded.
Agnes gave her an insolent grin. “Watching the show.”
Rhea scowled.
I laughed, a sudden burst of sound, and lay back against the floor, panting and giggling and feeling the particular euphoria that only comes from unexpectedly not dying.
“We’re thinking of charging admission,” Agnes added.
Rhea helped me up, still glaring daggers at her mother. “Option three,” she told me curtly.
I blinked at her, still giggling. “Option three?”
“Option three.”
~~~
Option three turned out to be the Pythia’s nuclear weapon, at least where dangerous places were concerned.
“I can’t do this for long,” I told Rhea nervously, on the stairwell a floor down, because I didn’t need an audience. “Billy isn’t here to babysit my body.”
Billy Joe and I had figured out pretty early that a Pythia could slip her body and travel through time as a spirit. Some of my predecessors had preferred that method, because it meant that you weren’t as likely to drag home bubonic plague or something. I found inhabiting another person’s body to be skeevy as hell, and avoided it whenever possible, but sometimes it wasn’t.
Which is where Billy came in.
Because a body without a spirit is what we call dying, which I wasn’t a fan of. Most Pythias weren’t either, and got around that little problem by shifting back to their shed skin at almost the moment they left it. But I didn’t have that kind of split-second timing, so I had to make do with Billy. He got to booze it up in my body while I was gone, in exchange for babysitting.
Because nobody ever said that the spirit in question had to be yours.
But Billy was busy guarding Pritkin, meaning that I was on my own. Which didn’t give me a lot of time to work with here. Being gone more than a minute or two in cases like these wasn’t considered optimal.
Well, not if you wanted any more minutes in the future.
“It will only take a moment to see if it works,” Rhea said firmly. I was glad to see that the lip chewing had been left behind, but it was starting to feel like we’d switched places. I was the one nervously switching from ghostly foot to ghostly foot, while she modestly arranged my skirts and then took up watch over my fallen form, her face serene.
And then expectant, when she looked at me.
I swallowed and turned back toward the dark stairwell, which was kind of looking like a tunnel straight into hell right now. How did I get myself into these things? Why hadn’t I just left Rhea a research list and headed home?
Never mind; I knew why. Because trying to explain the bath incident to my virginal acolyte with her sweet face and big, innocent brown eyes, had left me tongue tied and low key appalled. Kind of like this, I thought grimly.
But I didn’t have the time for cowardice, so I started creeping down the damned steps again. The hope here was that Mircea’s abilities were tied to my body, and wouldn’t cause me the same problems as a spirit. So, as long as I kept my ghostly fingers to myself, I should be okay.
In theory.
But it seemed to be working in practice, too. I glided down the steps unmolested, and out into the big main room. No torches lit up at my arrival this time, my ghostly feet apparently not enough to trigger anything. And no lights fluttered or samurai attacked. Nothing happened at all, in what was now just a big, dark, slightly dusty room.
Score one for Rhea, I thought, a grin breaking over my face. Score a big one! I should have thought of this be . . . uh . . . before . . .
My thoughts petered out as I caught sight of something that looked like a silver smear against the darkness. It was moving this way, but this time, it wasn’t something weird. Well, not to me, anyway, because Billy wasn’t the only ghost I’d dealt with in my life. Clairvoyants seem to attract them, maybe because we’re the only ones who can hear them, and I’d always been a ghost magnet.
Only this one . . . wasn’t looking impressed.
Not that I could see much of her, because she hadn’t bothered to fully materialize. I did get the impression that it was a she, however, or had been during life. I thought that her hair might be dark and looped up in braids beside her head, and that her eyes might be blue. Or maybe they were reflecting the color of the high-necked gown she wore.
But either way, she had a youthful looking face not much older than mine, and a sweet expression—until she got a good look at me.
Uh oh, I thought, retreating a step as the pretty young features melted, the eyes turned to crimson fire, and the jaw unhinged, showing a mass of razor-sharp teeth she didn’t need, because there were two swords now, one in each of her hands—
And that was as far as I got before they were carving up my spirit form like a Christmas turkey. My right hand detached and floated off, the fingers still splayed in a defensive move that had done no good at all. I stared at it for split second, my brain unable to accept what had just happened.
And then that sword was flashing again and I was running back up the stairwell, my mouth screaming bloody murder as more slices of my ghostly form were carved away—including my head, which was taken off and nailed to the wall by a thrown blade.
It took me a second to realize what had happened, and another to turn my still fleeing body around. I somehow managed, giving me the very disorienting sight of my headless spirit trying to yank my screaming head off the blade. Which wasn’t helped by the fact that the damned ghost had just caught up with me.
But I know a few things about ghosts, and as powerful as she was, so was I. And I was motivated! I elbowed her straight in tha
t horror of a face, saw her fall back into the darkness of the staircase, grabbed my head and ran—quite literally for my life.
“Lady?” Rhea said, as I blew past her. “Lady!”
I didn’t wait. I burst through the door and into the back hallway, my head under my arm, a savage horror right on my heels. And while not all clairvoyants can actually see ghosts, plenty of them can. Including a good number of the audience on the stairs, judging by their screams and attempts to flee. Even Agnes’s eyes got big and she said something distinctly unladylike as I ran past her, headed for the front door.
Because ghosts have a set territory that they defend, and I needed to get past this one’s, right freaking now.
I didn’t make it. Something cold and bony, like a skeletal hand, grabbed my ankle, jerking me off my ghostly feet. I hit down face first, hard enough to halfway disappear into the flooring. That included my severed head, I guessed, because for a second, all the lights went out.
And then came back on when the hand abruptly let me go, and I somehow flailed back to the surface, only to flip over and see Rhea battling with the ghost. Her face was as grim as I’d ever seen it, spell fire laced her hands, and for a moment, she actually looked like she was winning, battering it back with blow after blow. But that was mainly because it had still been focused on me.
Until those red eyes moved to her, and narrowed menacingly.
“No!” I screamed. “Here! Right here, you bitch!”
I somehow got back to my feet, my head still under my arm, but my body moving. Because a savage blow from the ghost had just blown Rhea—body and all—something like half a dozen feet backward. I saw her hit down and slide on marble, saw the ghost start after her, saw my remaining hand reach out and grab it—
And then it was full on battle, with no time to think or even to really register what was going on.
I’d been right—this thing was strong. Stronger than any ghost I’d ever seen, and on its home turf to boot. But I wasn’t just a clairvoyant; I was a necromancer who specialized in ghosts, just like my father. And if this thing wanted a fucking fight, I’d give it one!
It roared in my face; I screamed back. And plowed my remaining fist through its ugly face. It chomped down with those razor-like teeth; I held on, and slammed it against the wall again and again and again. It slammed back, of course, throwing me around like a ragdoll yet not being smart enough to release my arm, so it went along, too.
Of course, there was probably a reason for that, I thought, feeling power start to flow out of me. It was trying to drain me, of strength, of life, of whatever it could find. Plundering my vulnerable spirit as I grimly held on. But I could play that game, too, at least with a disembodied spirit, and drained it right back, our power streams churning and flowing, fighting with each other even as our fists and feet did, especially the latter as we rose off the floor and no longer needed them for standing on.
We hit a chandelier, the crystals chiming all around us, because ghosts can move things when they want. And, right then, I wanted. I dragged the bastard thing through all those sparkly little crystals, over and over, trying to shred the spirit as it had me when it hacked half my damned arm off!
And, for a moment, it seemed to be working. It couldn’t dematerialize enough to avoid damage and hold onto me at the same time, and it was a determined monster. Resulting in what looked like filaments of gray smoke sheering off its body with each pass, and scattering around the room as if fog had come indoors. A little while longer and I’d have it!
Or it would have me, I realized. Because it was allowing me to shred it, to buy time—time I didn’t have. I’d been away from my body too long, and my light was already fading, along with my strength.
If I didn’t get back soon, there might be two ghosts haunting the Pythian Court. But the damned thing wouldn’t let go, so I did the only thing I could think of. And ripped the chandelier out of the ceiling, throwing it down on the ragged spirit, who shrieked like all the demons in hell—
And let go.
I didn’t waste any time, all but flying back to my body, where one hand was twitching against the floor as if my severed hand had made its own way back. And then the rest of me did, too, sinking inside my fallen form, feeling my body inflate like a human shaped balloon, as my senses came back to life all at once. And making me wish they hadn’t!
I lay there gasping as a seriously slowed heart suddenly sped up again. I coughed and gagged as air reached deflated lungs. I felt horribly dizzy as blood began flowing through a half-starved body, including a brain that, for a moment, didn’t know where I was or who I was.
And then I remembered.
I surged to my feet, staggered into the wall, and just stayed there for a minute, panting. Then I tore off, furious at my weakness. Because no way could those girls out there handle that thing! Get a fucking grip, I swore at myself, wiping a dusty sleeve across my drooling lips.
And then materialized twin ghostly scimitars, one in each hand, without even thinking about it. Okay, that was new—and badass, I thought, feeling myself start to grin. Only to ruin the effect by smashing face first into the still closed door, because I forgot—a body couldn’t pass right on through!
I stumbled back, cursing, and then jerked it open, standing there with glowing ghostly weapons, a bloody face, and a battle cry trembling on my lips—
Where it remained, unuttered, because I’d just caught sight of a gaggle of girls on the floor, surrounding a weeping figure—the ghost, I realized. She was trying to reassemble herself from a few dozen pieces, and having trouble with it. Until she saw me, and screamed bloody murder, scrambling back and causing every acolyte to turn on me, identical scowls on their pretty faces.
Especially on Agnes’s, who got up and came toward me, her fists clenched, her face thunderous.
“Is there a reason you just beat the hell out of our librarian?”
Well. Shit.
Chapter Thirty-One
Okay, plan Take Initiative had had a little set back. But overall, things were looking up. I’d finally talked to Rhea, and the ball was now in her court. I couldn’t do much more there. She was currently training with two of the biggest bad asses I knew, and she would decide what she would decide.
Mircea was also holding steady—so far—and was hard at work on the invasion, which seemed to be on track. We had an army who could operate in Faerie as well as on Earth, ready to go. We had a conduit into Aeslinn’s lands that he didn’t know about, bypassing the massive stone sentries that he’d place around his borders and seemed to be putting most of his faith in. We had the element of surprise and the upper hand, and if we knocked him out, we might just end this war right here.
So why wasn’t I taking a vacation?
Three words: time traveling assassin.
No, wait, hear me out.
I’d been attacked by an unknown assailant at HQ and also at Gertie’s. The two assaults had been a century apart and seemed completely separate, one done by a fey and one by some incubus-like creature with a completely different MO. And maybe they were. I didn’t even know that I was the target for the first one, and maybe there was something about my borrowed powers that had triggered the second, the same way that the Were attack had been provoked.
But they bugged me. They bugged me a lot. There were two things that I couldn’t explain: Pritkin’s face being used by the incubus, when we wouldn’t be an item for a century, and what he’d told me about the wards at HQ. Namely that nobody could figure out how the fey got in. But there was one obvious way, wasn’t there?
The same way that I did.
There was also a possible third issue, namely the time ward that I’d done back at my own court, the one that had blown out so spectacularly. Sure, maybe I was just a shitty wardsmith, but when it had collapsed on Billy Joe, it hadn’t gone ballistic. It had done what it was supposed to do and trapped him like he’d wallowed around in taffy. But while I was bathing, it had gone completely loco.
&nb
sp; As if it had trapped a time traveler, one who had managed to throw it off, but who threw it a bit too hard in his panic?
Okay, that one was a stretch, but still. It bugged. And with the Pythian library possibly permanently out of bounds, there was only one way to find out if I was right.
Only my one way was in a mood.
“You want to do what?”
Augustine, dress designer to the stars, or at least to the well-heeled members of the supernatural community, cocked an eyebrow at me. I wanted to frown, since everybody seemed to be able to do that but me. But this was the time for some diplomacy, so I smiled instead.
“Just for a little while.”
“It isn’t a toy, Cassie,” the gorgeous creature told me severely. “It’s among the items I’m designing for the war effort.”
The latter was said with a good deal of pride, since Augustine had been recruited by the Circle to help devise some magical items that might work in Faerie. The typical human variety didn’t, at least not very well, but Augustine’s stuff wasn’t typically human. In fact, it was more fey than not, as he was part fey himself and used that advantage to edge out the competition.
We were in his workroom, which was in the Pythian Court at the moment, as his beloved shop had been a casualty of the Battle for Dante’s. While it was being rebuilt, he was occupying one of my spare bedrooms, since I only had about a million of them. And since he’d helped us in the battle in question.
That was why I was currently surrounded by gorgeous creations that probably cost the earth. Including Augustine’s own, a skin tight jumpsuit that changed color and texture to match whatever it was near. It was currently imitating the iridescent feathers on the trailing hem of a mostly see through dress of netting dotted with jewels.
And giving me a glimpse of a long, hairy shank in what looked like a glimmering fishnet, because the copycat effect had made his leggings see-through, too.