by Karen Chance
And so, perversely, I didn’t want to.
“I feel the same way,” he told me. “I’ve known John over fifteen years. He’s saved my ass half a dozen times, and I’ve returned the favor maybe half that many—”
“I think you might have evened the score today,” I said, a little unevenly.
“Maybe.” If this works out remained unsaid. “But there’s nothing I can do for him now. Except wait. They’ll have a decision when they have a decision, and John’s going to need us then. And we need to be here for him. All right?”
I nodded, because I suddenly couldn’t say anything. And let Caleb pull me back down on the sofa, or whatever it really was. I didn’t know, but it was comfortable, and then he pulled me onto his shoulder, which wasn’t. But I didn’t mind right then.
“Sorry,” Casanova said, which might not have meant anything. But then he handed me the bottle again.
“It’s okay,” I told him, looking at it blearily. “I think I’ve had enough.”
“No such thing,” he muttered, glancing around. And upended it.
* * *
I woke up on something hard. I tried punching it, because this pillow had seen better days. But it didn’t seem to help.
So I punched it again.
“Ow,” someone said mildly.
My eyes opened, and I found myself looking at something that might have been a knee. I blinked, and it came more into focus. Yes, it was a knee. A very dirty, denim-covered knee that also appeared to have been drooled on.
I raised myself up slightly. And realized why my pillow had been so damned hard. My head had been resting on someone’s thigh, and whoever it was hadn’t skipped leg day.
I turned my head the other way and saw a stomach. I frowned at it, which wasn’t fair, because it was a nice stomach. Flat and hard, and with the beginnings of the deep V of muscles sometimes called an Adonis belt above the loose top of the jeans.
But there was something wrong with it anyway. And that included the sculpted, lightly furred chest above. And the rocklike shoulders above that. And the face—
My body came upright abruptly. Maybe a little too abruptly, since the room did a lazy spin around me. But I didn’t care, because I’d finally realized the problem: the body was right, but the skin was wrong. Instead of Caleb’s rich mocha, it was pale and sun kissed and—
I grabbed one of those oversized shoulders and shook it as hard as I could, which meant I maybe jiggled it a little. “They released you?”
An eyebrow rose. And damn it! Everybody could do that but me.
“No,” Pritkin told me. “They’re in deliberations. They didn’t seem to feel they needed me for that.”
“Oh.” I sat back, waking the rest of the way up. And checking him over.
He looked okay. Well, actually that was a lie. “Okay” was a relative term considering where we were, and encompassed a lot of things. But he didn’t look any more beat up.
Unfortunately, that was about the only plus.
He hadn’t found any extra clothes to go with the dirty jeans, which were now also cut in several places, and scorched down one side, probably the result of the near miss on the rooftop. His hair, always terrible, was now extra Pritkin-y, meaning it would have put any self-respecting stylist on suicide watch. Although it matched his face, which was a stubbly mess, and his left eye, which was black and swollen, and his right arm, which was in a sling, and his ribs—
“You wouldn’t even get in the door at Rosier’s looking like that,” I told him, after a minute.
His lips pursed. “Should I worry that you sound pleased?”
“I do not!” That was ridiculous. “And I meant you look terrible.”
“Would you like a mirror?” he asked sweetly.
“No.”
I glanced around. We were still on the sofa, only someone had added a rattan privacy screen on one side, shielding us from the view of the rest of the lobby. That seemed to happen to me a lot.
I guess even hell has some standards.
Although Caleb, at least, was doing earth proud. He was standing by a pillar, arms crossed, eyes watchful, face back to its usual fuck-with-me-and-die expression, maybe kicked up an extra notch or two because of where we were. His knee-length leather duster was likewise looking sharp. Of course, it was war mage issue, meaning that it was less a coat than self-healing armor, knitting up any little boo-boos almost as soon as they happened. I suspected it might be self-cleaning, too, because he was suspiciously lacking in dirt.
Casanova, on the other, other hand, was bringing our average back down again, although less because of looks than attitude. He was still sprawled on the couch on my other side, and he must have finished off the bottle he was still clutching. Because his handsome face was pasty and crumpled, like his once-nice suit. And his eyes kept darting around the lobby blearily, as if trying to see through the bland beige glamourie.
Altogether, we were a sorry lot, and then my stomach growled plaintively. “Have I been out long?” I asked, tucking a limp strand of hair behind my ear. And wincing, because even that hurt.
“A few hours,” Pritkin told me. “You weren’t unconscious, just exhausted. We thought it best to let you sleep. It’ll likely be hours yet before we hear anything.”
I digested that. And, unfortunately, nothing else. My stomach spoke up again, more forcefully.
“Does this place have a coffee shop?”
“No,” he said, getting up, and grimacing. I guess I wasn’t the only stiff one. “But there’s a food cart next door. If I remember right, it’s one of the safe ones.”
“Safe?” Caleb frowned, like that word didn’t compute around here. “Am I misremembering the bunch of guys who just tried to kill us?”
“That was before we reached the council,” Pritkin said, and stretched, cracking his back. I tried that, too, because it sounded like it would feel awesome, but I was too bendy. I just flopped over. So I pretended to be touching my toes since I was already down there.
And, God, my toes. And the rest of my poor feet. Filthy, pedicure gone, cut and bruised and traces of hell gunk between the toes.
And after everything, the running and the fighting and the almost dying . . . that was what did it.
That was what finally had me tearing up.
Until a pair of honest-to-God flip-flops were dangled in front of my face.
I looked up. “How—”
“Shop around the corner,” Pritkin told me, about the time that I noticed his nice, clean, flip-flop-clad feet.
“You got a bath!” I accused, staring at them.
“Sponge.” He nodded at a discreet sign on a nearby wall. Which had an arrow pointing down a hall and a curly script that read Bathrooms.
And I realized that I had something else to take care of. “Be right back,” I told him, grabbing the shoes.
“Wait.” That was Caleb, staring at the sign suspiciously. “How do we know what’s in there?”
“What?”
“There’s a toilet in there,” Pritkin told him, looking vaguely amused. “Many of the demon races have bodies, you know.”
“And what if one of those bodies attacks her?” Caleb demanded. “Or some spirit does?” He glanced around unhappily. “This place is crawling with threats.”
“Not for us. Once the trial started, we came under the council’s protection. And I believe you remember their security staff?”
Caleb scowled, but he didn’t seem satisfied. “I’m going with her,” he announced forcefully.
“You are not,” I told him, equally forcefully.
His eyes narrowed. “Then John goes. I don’t care which of us it is, but you go nowhere by yourself. Not here.”
“I just told you we’re under protection,” Pritkin said, looking at his friend impatiently.
“Yeah, the council’s protection. Why doesn’t that make me feel better?”
“It should. Nobody is going to test them, particularly not in their own building. Cassie
will be perfectly safe.”
Caleb hiked up one of the straps holding some of the eighty pounds or so of weapons he was carrying. “I know she will. Because she’ll be with me.”
“This is ridiculous,” I told him.
“I’ll stay outside the stall—”
“You’ll stay here!”
“This is not up for discussion.”
“I agree.”
Caleb crossed his arms and glared at me. I glared back. Something squelched between my toes, which grossed me out and pissed me off in about equal measures, because I should be washing it away by now.
“This place isn’t as dangerous as you seem to think,” Pritkin told Caleb, trying again.
Caleb transferred the glare to him. “Did you get hit over the head?”
“Yes, several times—”
“Thought so.”
“—but that doesn’t change the facts. The Shadowland exists for trade. The proprietors have a vested interest in keeping some kind of order—”
“Yeah. I’ve felt really secure so far!”
“Most people are not being chased by an irate demon lord when they come here,” Pritkin said dryly. “The council finds it a useful meeting place because of its being neutral ground. But they’re a very small part of local life. I am not saying the place is without its dangers, but they can be navigated, even by humans. Mages come here fairly often to buy potion supplies, for example—”
“No sane ones!”
“Jonas gets most of his here—”
“You’re not helping your case,” Caleb muttered.
“—and Cassie is easily more powerful than him. If Jonas can navigate these streets on a semiregular basis, bargain for supplies, and get back out again safely, I think she can manage to go to the bathroom by herself!”
For some reason, Caleb was looking at him as if he’d lost his mind. His voice sounded like it, too. “Cassie is more powerful than Jonas,” he repeated.
Pritkin frowned. “Of course. She’s Pythia.”
“She’s—” Caleb seemed momentarily at a loss for words, so I seized the opportunity.
“I couldn’t shift before, because Mother was rerouting most of my power for . . . well, whatever she did in there. But I feel better now—”
“Yeah, you look it!”
“I didn’t say I’m a hundred percent,” I told him impatiently. “But I can defend myself—”
“Good. But it’s my job to see that you don’t have to.”
“If Agnes had told you to stay here, you’d stay here,” I said angrily.
“Lady Phemonoe wouldn’t be here! She’d be at court, surrounded by a crack security team! Meeting with dignitaries and mediating disputes and—and doing anything but running around almost getting herself blown up!”
“Did you ever meet Agnes?” I asked, but Caleb wasn’t listening.
“Did you see her today?” he asked John. “Those witches were right; she doesn’t even have shields, and I couldn’t reach her and all she had for protection was a damned vampire—”
“Hey, fuc’ you, too, buddy,” Casanova slurred, from behind us.
“—and she almost got killed! I almost let her get—” Caleb broke off, fuming.
“You didn’t let me do anything,” I told him. “We got in trouble, but it wasn’t your fault—”
“I can see me explaining that to the old man,” Caleb snapped. “See, sir, she ended up incinerated, but it wasn’t my fault!”
“It wasn’t! I wanted to come here—”
“Yeah, and I should have had the sense to say no. Just like I should have the other day!”
“You should have said no?” I repeated. “I thought war mages did what the Pythia wanted.”
“Pythias don’t want this!” Caleb said, suddenly furious. “Pythias don’t do this! They don’t invade hell and fight demons and battle gods—”
“They also didn’t live in these times,” Pritkin said, cutting in. “They didn’t have to face anything remotely like this. Do you think Lady Phemonoe could have done what Cassie did today? What she did yesterday? Do you think she would have dared?”
“I think she’d have found another way!” Caleb said, like a man who had been standing by that pillar for the last two hours, thinking. And coming to the conclusion that maybe Casanova’s drunken ramblings hadn’t been so far off the mark. And panicking, after all, because he’d had all this dumped in his lap at one time, literally overnight. And he didn’t know what to do with it.
And I didn’t think he’d felt like that too often in his life.
“I had no idea—” He looked at me accusingly. “You made it sound like we were just going to sneak into some palace. Just grab John and hightail it out—”
“Which is what we did.”
“That is not what we did! We—” Caleb stopped and stared around again, but the bland, beige lobby didn’t seem to give him anything back. “This place, the hells, the size—” He broke off, staring from me to Pritkin, half in anger, half in wonder. “There’s whole worlds down here.”
Pritkin gazed at his friend, and his face changed. From exasperation working on pissed, to . . . understanding. Because maybe he’d felt like that once, too. Overwhelmed and inadequate, faced with a suddenly huge universe that he didn’t understand at all.
“Yes,” he said simply.
Caleb stared at him for a minute longer and then turned away abruptly, leather coat swinging.
And I finally got it.
I’d been dealing with stuff like this for more than three months now. And it had been hard. And scary. To the point that, most days, I’d felt like hiding under the bed, or just running and never stopping. And the truth was, if there’d been anybody else to stick with this job, I probably would have.
Like Caleb would probably love to run out of here. But he hadn’t. And he wouldn’t, because he was a decent guy. And because a lifetime of duty and discipline stood in the way. And because there was nowhere for him to go, either.
But right now he needed something to ground him. Something familiar. Something he knew how to do. Even if it was just something stupid.
Even if it was just escorting me to the bathroom.
“Come on,” I told him, sliding a hand on his shoulder. “If there’s nobody else in there, I’ll leave the door open.”
Chapter Thirty-two
“Are you really going to eat here?” Caleb demanded, fifteen minutes later.
“Damned straight,” I said, my mouth watering.
The restaurant wasn’t a cart, although it was about the size of one. It was a small rectangle wedged between the courthouse and a bunch of shops. The shops appeared to be closed, although there were some across the street that were open. Cars passed on the still-busy highway, zipping along with headlights that blurred slightly in my tired vision and doubled in the mirrorlike sheen of the street.
I looked up, and some rain hit me in the face. That might have been an illusion, too, for all I knew, but it felt real. Everything did. Just a dark blue, rainy street, closer to winter than summer, with people bundled up and hurrying along their way.
And a brightly lit slab of Formica in front of me, with a two-page menu taped to the top. And a bunch of smells emanating from a griddle in back that had me ready to crawl over the counter. Hot damn, I thought in wonder, I was actually going to get dinner.
Maybe.
I glanced around furtively, waiting for the hammer to drop. For someone or something to prevent me from getting any food. And it wasn’t like there weren’t plenty of candidates.
I couldn’t tell what time of day it was, since it always seemed to be dark here. But there were plenty of people on the streets. And I knew where I was; I knew what they were, or most of them, anyway. But none looked all that sinister to me.
A mostly human-looking woman came by, with a shock of pale purple hair that could have come as easily from a trendy boutique as genetics. She was carrying a bag of groceries and talking on a cell phone with th
e preoccupied, slightly annoyed look of someone running late who is also getting rained on. She passed within a few feet of me and never gave me a second glance. She also didn’t attack me.
I stared after her for a moment, faintly surprised. I knew from experience that the Shadowland had plenty of people who would try something, given half a chance. But then, that was true of most human cities, too, wasn’t it? Was this really so different?
Okay, yeah, it was different, but—
“Are you going to order?” Pritkin asked, dragging my attention back to the menu. Where freaking everything looked good.
And then the short, squat guy in a grease-splattered apron handed Pritkin something in a paper boat that made my eyes bug out of my head. “They have Phillies?” I said, in something approaching awe.
“This street belongs to the potion sellers, and this cart has a fair amount of human traffic,” he told me, taking the greasy bundle of awesomeness. “But elsewhere . . . you have to be careful. Not everything here is safe for human consumption.”
“Yeah, but what’s in it?” Caleb asked, peering suspiciously at the towering mound of meat and melty cheese and peppers and onions and mushrooms and—
“I’ll have one of those,” I told the cook quickly. Right now I didn’t care what was in it.
“The usual.” Pritkin shrugged. “You know how hard it is to glamourize food and get everything right: looks, smells, taste . . . It’s easier and cheaper just to cook the real thing.”
“You sure?” Caleb asked, looking longingly at his buddy’s meal. “What about that old rule, eat in hell and you never leave?”
Pritkin arched an eyebrow. “I lived here for years. And I left.”
“Yeah, but you keep coming back.”
“Not by choice.”
In the end, Caleb ordered a Philly, too. Casanova eyed up the demon cook, who shot him the bird, and then we all got beers. And leaned against the front of the diner to drink them, since there was nowhere to sit.
Pritkin snared a cheese-covered mushroom off the top of his sandwich, and my stomach gave off a roar that sounded like thunder.
His lips twitched, but he ate it anyway, the bastard. Watching me as I watched him in hopeless desperation. And then licked his fingers while I salivated.