by Karen Chance
“What should I wear?” I asked, hoping that was safe.
“Classic formal attire.”
“Okay. I look forward to it,” I told him, and rang off.
Marco finished his little torture session a moment later and bandaged me up. I cautiously moved into a sitting position, and it still wasn’t fun. But I was too distracted to really notice.
“We’ll get you one of them little doughnut things,” he told me, as Pritkin walked over. And, shit, his eyes were narrowed.
“So if it wasn’t a ghost and it wasn’t a demon, what was it?” I asked, to forestall any inconvenient questions.
To my surprise, it worked. “I have a theory, but I would prefer some confirmation.”
“What theory?”
“Do you remember how we defeated it?” he asked, as I tucked the sheet around me and slid to the floor.
“I remember you threw something at me.”
“It was half of a nunchuck. I’ve been intending to get the chain re-soldered, but haven’t had time.”
“Half a nunchuck?” I frowned. “Why would you give me that?” It wasn’t like I could bash a spirit over the head with it.
Green eyes met mine, and they were serious enough to stop me. “Because it was the only thing I had within reach that was made of cold iron.”
Chapter Four
I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have. Because the next thing I knew, I woke up to a dark, quiet room and hot, tangled sheets. My head was throbbing, my mouth was bone dry and for one brief, panic-stricken moment, I thought I was possessed again. Because nothing seemed to work.
I finally realized that I was just really, really sore. It looked like Marco’s little pills had worn off, except for a thickheaded feeling that made me have to try three times to turn on the light. It didn’t help that the room was like an oven. The suite was supposed to be temperature controlled, but there was obviously something seriously wrong.
After a minute sweating in already damp sheets, I gave up on sleep and rolled out of bed. I threw on a worn-out tank top that had been purple but was now a soft mauve and a pair of loose, old track shorts. Then I staggered out the door in search of aspirin and cold water.
I didn’t find them.
Light from the hallway cast long shadows across the bathroom, sparkling off broken glass like so much spilled ice. The floor was still wet, and the bunched-up rug was crouched in the middle like a wounded animal. The mirrors were the worst. The right one was cracked, but the left one was obliterated, the cheap wood backing showing through in chunks, making a mockery of the expensive fixtures. Like scars on a pretty woman’s face.
I suddenly realized that my hands were shaking and stuffed them under my armpits. My nice, safe bathroom didn’t seem so safe anymore. Not that it ever had been, really, but it had felt that way.
And now it didn’t.
I turned around and went down the hall.
When I flicked on the chandelier in the suite’s second bathroom, the black-and-white tile reflected the light with a cool, mirror shine. Soft, luxurious towels were stacked here and there, all blindingly white. The black marble counters gleamed, and the complimentary toiletries were still in their cellophane wrappers. It was as pristine as if housekeeping had just left.
Or as if nothing had ever happened.
I relaxed slightly, washed my face and hands and then used one of the casino’s toothbrushes to scrub my teeth. My reflection showed bags under my eyes, no color in my skin and a truly epic case of bed head. I poked at one of the larger clumps and found it stiff and vaguely green.
I briefly wondered what the hell Pritkin had dumped on me. And then I wondered what it would take to get it out. A bath, obviously, at least for starters.
The thought had barely crossed my mind when the first shiver hit, hard enough to make me tighten my grip on the sink. I stared at the gleaming white tub behind me, reflected in the gilt-edged mirror, and told myself I was being stupid. It was a bathtub; it couldn’t hurt me.
But my body wasn’t listening.
The shivers turned into shudders and I sat down before I fell down. I put the cabinet at my back, wrapped my arms around my knees and prepared to wait it out. At least it wasn’t as hot in here. Nobody ever used this bathroom—the vamps had their own rooms and showered there, and visitors used the half bath off the living area. So nobody had bothered to put a rug down over the cool checkerboard tile.
But it wasn’t helping. The door on the cabinet was moving with me, in little click-clicks as the magnet on the catch caught and released, caught and released. I finally scooted an inch or so away and it stopped, even if the shaking didn’t.
I knew what this was, of course. I’d spent most of my teen years on the run from my homicidal guardian, Antonio Gallina, who had brought me up from the age of four. Clairvoyants—real ones, not the sideshow variety—didn’t grow on trees, and when Tony found out that one of the humans who worked for him had a budding seer for a daughter, he just took me. After removing my parents from the picture in the most final way possible.
He thought he’d covered his tracks, but he forgot: clairvoyant. My parents died in a big orange and black fireball, courtesy of an assassin’s bomb. And ten years later, I felt the wash of heat across my face, smelled the smoke, tasted the dust in my mouth.
I ran away an hour after the vision, with few preparations and no destination in mind, and it hadn’t taken long before the stress had caught up with me in the form of panic attacks.
The worst one had been in a bus terminal, when I’d been sure I saw one of Tony’s thugs in the crowd. I’d had a ticket, already purchased and in hand, but suddenly I couldn’t remember where I was supposed to go. It gave the bus number on the ticket; I knew that. But my hands had been shaking and my eyes hadn’t wanted to focus, and when I finally did manage to read it, it didn’t make sense. Like the words were written in a foreign language I didn’t understand.
I’d gotten lucky that time. I’d missed the bus, but I’d also missed Tony’s goon—if it had been him. I never found out, but I kind of thought not. Even the not-so-bright types Tony employed could hardly have missed me, standing in the middle of the terminal, shaking like a leaf.
I hadn’t had a panic attack in years; had thought I’d outgrown them.
But I guess you don’t really grow out of fear.
The shaking finally lessened, my eyes slipped closed and my head tilted back against the slick wood. I was bone tired, but I knew I wouldn’t sleep. Not like this. But I didn’t really feel like doing anything else, either—except taking a bath, and that was obviously out.
But I really needed one. My body ached, my hair reeked and my skin felt itchy, probably from the dried soap I hadn’t had a chance to wash off. Only it didn’t feel like soap. It felt like somebody was touching me, here and there, brief brushes of sandpapery fingertips as they tested my shields, as they tried to find a way in—
A hand touched my arm and I screamed, jumping up and hitting my head on the bottom of the counter. I tried to scramble away, but someone had me by the upper arms and I couldn’t break free. I felt another scream building, a keening, desperate cry in the back of my throat, before I finally heard someone calling my name—
And looked up into Marco’s startled black eyes.
I stopped struggling and just breathed for a minute. I wasn’t sure who was more freaked-out—me or him. Finally, he pulled me in, tucking me under a huge arm and rubbing my head in what he probably thought was a gentle way. It felt more like it was going to take off another layer of skin, but I didn’t mind.
“You okay?” he asked cautiously.
I didn’t know how to answer that, because clearly not.
“Sorry about the other bathroom. We were gonna clean up, but we thought you’d sleep till morning.”
I nodded but didn’t look up, because I didn’t have my face under control.
“You’re gonna have to say something,” he said after a moment. “ ’Caus
e otherwise there’s gonna be phone calls and doctors and all kinds of drama, and I think we’ve had about enough of that for one—”
“My butt hurts,” I blurted out. It was completely inane, but it was true. It also got a chuckle out of Marco.
He’d been squatting beside me, but now he sat down, somehow wedging that huge body between the sink and the tub. He was big and hot, but felt reassuringly solid, too. It was suddenly impossible to believe that anything bad could happen with Marco around.
“You and me both,” he said conversationally. “I think the master chewed most of mine off.”
It took a moment for that to sink in. “He did what?”
Marco laughed, a deep rumbling in that barrel chest. “That’s better. You’ve got some color in your face now.”
“You were lying?” I demanded.
“No, but I like seeing you pissed off. It’s cute.”
I just sat there for a moment because, as usual, I felt like I needed to catch up. “You weren’t lying?”
He shook his head.
“Then Mircea did tell you off?”
A nod.
“What on earth for?”
“For giving you drugs.”
It took me a moment to realize what he meant. “Marco, you gave me Tylenol.”
“Yeah, but it was the kind with codeine. And it seems Pythias aren’t allowed to take that shit. Or anything that leaves them too groggy to use their power. He said I left you defenseless.”
“That’s ridiculous! I couldn’t have shifted any more tonight, anyway.”
“Yeah, but that ain’t the point.”
“Then what is the point?”
He shrugged. “It’s like I told you: vamps don’t like feeling helpless. And that goes double for masters—and maybe triple for Senate members.”
“That doesn’t make it okay to take it out on you!”
“Maybe not, but I know where he’s coming from.” Marco settled back against the sink, as if prepared to stay there all night. Like he regularly counseled hysterical women in bathrooms. “He’s got you in the most secure place he knows, right? I mean, the Senate’s just upstairs, and they got guards and wards out the butt, plus all the extra ones on the suite here. And he’s got some of his best people protecting you. Hell, he’s got me.”
I smiled a little at that, as I was supposed to. “So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that it don’t work. Every time he turns around, somebody or something is able to get to you. And it has him scared. And he’s not used to feeling scared. It’s been so long, I’m not even sure he knows what it is.”
“Must be nice,” I muttered.
“I don’t think he’s finding it so nice,” Marco said drily.
I didn’t say anything, because there was nothing to say. I didn’t know how to reassure Mircea; I didn’t even know how to reassure myself. I was supposed to be this great clairvoyant, but I never saw anything good, just death and destruction.
I really hoped that wasn’t because that was all there was to see.
“I’m teaching the new guys how to lose at poker,” Marco said. “Want me to deal you in?”
I shook my head. “I suck at it.”
“Even better. They could use a chance to win some back.”
“So you can take that, too?”
He stood up with the liquid grace all vampires have, which was always surprising on a man of his size. “That’s the plan.”
“I’ll take a rain check,” I told him as he helped me up. But I followed him into the lounge.
Before I moved in, the suite had been used for whales, people with more money than sense who were comped expensive rooms because they lost a hundred times the price at the tables every night. This particular one had been popular because it included a small lounge area off the dining room with a pool table, which the guards had all but confiscated for themselves. They were usually there when they weren’t watching me paint my toenails or something, playing pool or, like now, clustered around a card table.
Marco rejoined the poker game and I passed through into the kitchen. There was no aspirin to be had, because vamps don’t get headaches. There was beer, but the way my head felt, I was already in for it tomorrow, so I left Marco’s Dos Equis alone.
I wandered around a bit, because it was too hot to sleep, and found a sofa-shaped hole in the living room window that was trying to air-condition Nevada. No wonder it was hot. A couple of the guards must have heard me swearing, because they stuck their heads in the door and stared at me for a moment, their fire-lit eyes glowing against the dark.
I went out onto the balcony.
It wasn’t nearly as large as the one on the penthouse upstairs, which had room for a pool, a wet bar and a dozen or so partyers. But I’d managed to squeeze in a lounge chair and a small side table, and had hung a set of wind chimes from the railing. They were tinkling now in the breeze blowing off the desert. It was hot, but marginally better than the slow roast I’d been doing inside.
We were too far up to hear traffic, so it was still eerily quiet. But, then, it always was here. The vamps didn’t need to talk aloud and often no one did for hours, unless I asked them a direct question. I didn’t watch TV much, unless it was in my room, and the one time I’d turned on the radio, several of them put on such pained faces that I’d quickly turned it off.
On a good day, it felt like living in a museum, but not as a visitor. It was more like being one of the exhibits a bunch of silent guards watched in case some bandit makes off with it. Tonight it was slowly driving me crazy.
After a few minutes, I went back inside, glancing at the clock on the way. It had somehow survived the carnage, and it said nine thirty. I hadn’t slept long at all, then. Technically, it was still too late to be calling anyone, but maybe—
The phone rang.
I jumped back, barely stifling a yelp, because my nerves were just that bad. And then I stared at it, hoping someone would pick up in the next room so I wouldn’t have to be all cheerful. But no one did pick up. And then Marco appeared in the doorway, a longneck in one hand and five cards in the other.
“You gonna get that or what?” he asked, his tone more curious than annoyed.
I got it. “Hello?”
“What are you doing up?”
Pritkin’s irritated voice made me smile and I turned away so Marco wouldn’t see it. “Answering the phone.”
“Very funny. Why aren’t you asleep? It’s after one.”
I glanced at the clock again. I guess it hadn’t survived, after all. “It’s hot.”
“It’s always bloody hot here,” he agreed, to my surprise. I’d never heard him complain about it, but I guessed for someone used to England’s climate, Vegas in August would kind of suck. And thanks to me, his bedroom had a big hole in it, too.
“Don’t you have anything cold to drink?” he demanded.
“Beer.”
He snorted. “You’re going to have a murderous hangover as it is. Call room service.”
“I could do that,” I agreed.
He waited. I didn’t say anything, because I wasn’t that pathetic. There was no emergency, and what was I going to tell him? I’m hot and bored and freaked-out, and I want to talk to someone with a pulse?
Yeah, that sounded mature. That sounded like a Pythia. I didn’t—
“That the mage?” Marco asked impatiently, like he couldn’t hear every word we uttered.
“Yeah.”
“He coming over?”
“Yes,” Pritkin said, surprising me again.
“Then tell him to bring beer,” Marco said. “We’re almost out, and the damn room service around this place sucks ass.”
“He said—”
“I heard.” Pritkin rang off without saying good-bye, or anything else at all. So I didn’t know why I was smiling as I went to the kitchen to make sure we had enough clean glasses.
“Damn it,” Marco said. “You didn’t tell him what kind. He’ll probably
bring one of those weird English beers.”
“Ale,” one of the other vamps said darkly.
“Shit.”
They went back to their game while I washed up. Because, apparently, master vampires would carry out garbage, but they drew the line at dishpan hands. Not that there were a lot, since most of my meals came on room service carts these days.
I finished up and went to try again to get a comb through my potion-stained curls. I was still working on it when the doorbell rang. I gave up, pulled my hair back into a limp ponytail and went into the kitchen. Pritkin was already there, unpacking a couple of brown paper grocery bags.
“Foster’s,” he told Marco, who was peering into one suspiciously.
The vamp looked relieved. “It’s even cold.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I thought you Brits liked it hot.”
“Hot beer?” Pritkin looked revolted.
“That’s the rumor.”
“Because we don’t drink it iced over, thereby leaching right out whatever flavor you Yanks accidentally left in?”
“Ooh, touchy,” Marco said, and swiped the beer.
I looked in the other bag, but saw only a bunch of little boxes. I pulled one out, and it was tea. After a moment, I realized that they all were: peppermint, chamomile, green, black . . . It was like he’d bought out the store.
“You need something to calm your nerves that isn’t going to knock you out,” he told me.
“I don’t think tea is going to cut it,” I said drily. “Not with my life.”
A blond eyebrow rose. “You’d be surprised.”
He came up with a kettle I hadn’t known we possessed and proceeded to do tea-type things with it. I took an apple out of a bowl and set it on the table. “So you think it was Fey?” I asked, because I hadn’t gotten many details before I passed out.
“I don’t know what it was,” Pritkin said, looking like the confession pained him. “The Fey do not have a spirit form, yet your attacker was incorporeal. And you were able to give me a description—a fairly good one for so short a glimpse.”
“Why does that matter?”