Reap the Wind

by Karen Chance

  “Well, good-bye,” I gasped, and kicked her into the canal.

  Our tiny boat shuddered and shook as Pritkin got control of it again. And then abruptly detached itself from the Pythia’s stately barge. And skittered off down the canal, through the early-morning sunlight of that other day that had now engulfed us, with Rosier clinging to the bow, Pritkin holding on to him, and me drowning along behind, my body half in the water as I gripped an oar I’d snared at the last second and hung on for dear life.

  I tried to pull myself up, which would have been easier without all the kicking and scuffling feet in my face. And without being slung back and forth wildly, because no one seemed to be driving this thing. But then I forgot about all that; I forgot about everything.

  Because I’d just looked up.

  And seen a new form of light shining out of a pair of brilliant green eyes.

  My throat closed up for a moment in sheer, unadulterated relief. And then opened so I could scream, “Hex him! Hex him!”

  That won me a glare but nothing else, because Rosier was in a stranglehold and couldn’t speak the damned words. And I could barely hold on, much less help him out. And then the little boat got even more crowded when the triple-damned Pythia shifted in next to me with a snarl.

  That would have been bad—really bad—if our craft hadn’t suddenly sped into darkness again. And not because we’d passed under another bridge. It fell all around us, like night arriving in a moment, all but blinding after the glare. And then just as abruptly we hit something.

  Hard.

  We were thrown into the high front of the boat, all of us landing in a wad of thrashing limbs and screaming faces. And then we bounced off the prow and fell out the nonexistent back, because our craft was suddenly not budging. I realized why a second later, when my butt hit something hard and ice-cold.

  Which was a good description since it was, in fact, ice.

  More was spread out all around us, and had frozen the boat in place, which explained why we weren’t moving.

  I stared around at dim moonlight reflecting off a long ribbon of solid canal and felt dizzy and confused. First we’d been in a sleet storm, then in a sunny spring day, and now where were we? If we’d somehow escaped the other Pythia’s time portal, or whatever the heck that had been, shouldn’t we be back where we started? But there was no driving rain, no sleet, no boiling dark clouds to be seen. Just a quiet midnight scene, an icy canal, and a stooped figure on a bridge overhead, silhouetted against a harvest moon.

  It was a tiny woman with a black cloak billowing in the breeze. And a wispy bun of white hair. And a pissed-off expression.

  Rosier and Pritkin were wrestling over to the side, thrashing around in a way that threatened to break through the ice. I desperately wanted to go and help, but I didn’t. Because the patch of sunlight had stopped just behind us, as if it was afraid to come any closer.

  Like my counterpart of the dripping cherries, who wasn’t looking so confident, suddenly.

  “Lydia,” Cherries said nervously. “I—I can explain.”

  “What?” The old woman scowled at her.

  “It’s me, Gertie.” It was louder this time.

  “What?”

  “Ger—oh, for goodness’ sake. Your horn.”

  “Speak up, why can’t you?”

  “Your horn! Put in your horn!”

  “Give me a moment,” the old woman said querulously. “I’ve got to put in me horn.”

  She pulled an old black ear horn out from under her cloak and held it to the side of her head. “What?” she demanded again.

  “It’s me,” the other Pythia repeated, loud and slow. “Gertie. And I know we’re out of place—”

  “Demmed right, ye’re out of place!”

  “Yes, I know. But—”

  “Always breaking the rules, you were. And now ye’re consorting with the likes of him!”

  “Consort . . .” Gertie puffed up. “I am doing no such thing—”

  “Knew I should have trained your sister,” the old woman muttered.

  “I’m trying to get him back where he belongs!”

  “Oh, I’ll get ye back,” the old woman said ominously.

  “No! No, Lydia, you must listen—”

  But listening didn’t appear to be Lydia’s strong suit. And a second later, there was no more Gertie. Who, I assumed, had just been sent packing to the 1880s.

  By her 1794 counterpart.

  It was getting crowded with Pythias around here, I thought blankly, as the old woman turned her attention on me. I smiled weakly. And then I shifted to the boys, not even waiting to get a good grip on them before shifting us all through the rapidly closing time portal behind us.

  To my surprise, it worked. We landed in daylight, which was good. And in the middle of a canal that was no longer solid, which was bad. But that was still okay.

  Until my damned useless partner sank like a stone.

  I dove after him, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him back to the surface, where he flailed and spluttered and tried to drown me.

  “I thought your kind were supposed to float!” I said, smacking him upside the head.

  “That’s . . . witches,” he gasped, but calmed down slightly.

  Until we looked around for Pritkin. And almost got run over by a canal boat full of tourists, instead. A Japanese guy in an “I got high in Amsterdam” T-shirt hung over the open side of the boat, snapping pictures of the waterlogged crazies, while Rosier cussed and flailed and swore and sank. And I stared around in confusion at a few hundred bicycles, a bunch of tiny cars, and no Pritkin, cursed or otherwise.

  And all right, then, I thought, letting the water close over my own head.

  Maybe this wasn’t going to be as easy as I’d thought.

  Chapter Three

  For a number of strange-but-they-make-sense-in-context-I-swear reasons, home base for me is a penthouse in a Las Vegas hotel. It’s usually pretty crowded, which is why I don’t just shift inside anymore. I have enough problems without appearing in the middle of one of the vampire bodyguards who live with me and who already have a tendency to scream at odd moments. So I’ve learned to show up in the marble-floored foyer, which is usually pretty deserted, instead.

  Usually, but not today.

  I hit the ground from a good five feet up, because I’d forgotten I was swimming, in a rain of dirty canal water and a hail of tiny silver fish. And a soggy demon lord who almost fell on my head. And then a vampire screamed and pointed a gun at me.

  A second later, he screamed again and pointed it at the floor. I thought that was a bit excessive until I blinked brackish water out of my eyes and realized that it wasn’t the vamp who was screaming. It was the wards.

  The spells that protect the suite must have been recalibrated to hate-demon mode while I’d been gone, which, considering some of the stuff that had happened lately, wasn’t real surprising. But it was annoying. Like earsplittingly annoying.

  The caterwaul went on and on as I coughed up half the contents of the canal and tried to remember how to breathe. Which left me a little too busy to understand what the vamp was saying, much less try to answer back. I settled for sprawling there and gasping at him instead.

  Rosier was less reticent, but luckily, the wards drowned him out, too. Even when he was pounced on by five large guards who tore out of the suite and proceeded to pummel the problem. I watched them for a moment, and then I scooped something I really hoped was seaweed out of my cleavage and started trying to get up.

  It didn’t go so great.

  I felt like one of the tiny fish: beaten up, exhausted, and gasping for breath I still wasn’t getting because of the damned corset that came with my outfit. I was also wearing about fifty pounds of waterlogged wool, half of which had managed to wrap itself around my legs, leaving me about as mobile as a
beached seal. But I managed to get to my hands and knees anyway, and did an inchworm impression in the general direction of the front door.

  Which opened the same moment I reached it, to show me a pair of overlarge Cerutti loafers.

  They were black and had a nice gloss to the leather. That was good. Because suede wouldn’t have handled the miniature tide that rolled over them nearly as well.

  I looked up to see their owner mouthing some not-so-gentlemanly words and glaring at me. And then at the ruckus over my head. And then back at me again as I pointed and gesticulated and tried to convey over the din that I didn’t actually want Rosier beaten up.

  You know, that badly.

  And then I found myself being lifted by two ham-sized hands, which brought me face-to-face with my chief bodyguard, a swarthy giant named Marco.

  It also left my feet dangling off the floor, because I am five foot four and Marco is not. But I didn’t worry about giving him back strain. He could hold me there all day if he wanted, soggy wool and all. The ferocious package nature had provided had been upgraded centuries ago with a pair of fangs he didn’t need, because who was going to jump Lou Ferrigno’s big brother?

  Unfortunately, I managed to strain him in other ways, like at the moment, judging by the frown that creased his forehead. And by the way he tucked me under one massive arm after a final glance at the chaos. And by how he carted me inside like a soggy sack of potatoes.

  “I can walk,” I protested breathlessly as the wards abruptly cut out. The combo of corset and Marco’s idea of a gentle grip had left me with maybe half an inch of inflatable lung room.

  Marco didn’t answer. That was bad, since informing me of my various failings is Marco’s favorite way of releasing tension. It was when he got quiet that you had to worry, so I was.

  And that was before I was lugged through a living room filled to the brim with strangers.

  Female strangers. All of whom looked like they were attending a Victorian-era tea party. Some appeared to be as young as two or three, others maybe ten years older, although it was hard to tell with the bows in their hair and the old-fashioned, infantilizing outfits they had on and—

  And crap.

  No wonder Marco wasn’t happy.

  “What are you doing?” One of the girls demanded, jumping off the sofa and hurrying up. “What is happening?”

  She was a cute brunette, probably the oldest of the lot, and her name was Rhea. She was a member of my court, like the rest of them, although not one of the ones who wanted me dead. At least I didn’t think so, although her expression was pretty fierce.

  But then, she wasn’t looking at me.

  “Your mistress is back,” Marco told her grimly.

  “What are you doing with her?” she demanded. “Is she injured?”

  “Not yet.”

  Judging by Rhea’s expression, she didn’t like that answer. It was almost funny, since people did not scowl at six-foot-five vampires with vicious tempers. Sane people, anyway. But Rhea had proven to have weird ideas about who was scary, and she actually seemed more intimidated by me than by my suite full of fanged monsters.

  “Put her down!” she demanded, not that it did any good.

  Marco just continued wading through the sea of girls, all of whom were now staring at me, some with their mouths hanging open.

  So much for making a good first impression.

  Not that it mattered. Next to my predecessor, the perfect and all-knowing Agnes, I already looked . . . well, I mostly tried not to think about how I looked. I sighed and let my head droop onto Marco’s brawny forearm.

  Might as well get the lack-of-dignity thing out of the way early.

  But Rhea didn’t seem to think so. She followed us across the living room, through the lounge, and into the hall that led to the bedrooms. Which was harder to navigate than usual because it was piled high with folded cots. And then she kept on following us into my room, which had pallets all over the floor and pillows and blankets slopped around because, yeah.

  My court needed somewhere to sleep, didn’t they?

  It was one of those things I probably should have thought about before running off with Rosier. But then, I hadn’t expected to be saddled with a troupe of young girls I’d never met and didn’t know what to do with. And time had been of the essence.

  And thanks to his utter, utter ineptitude, it still was.

  “About . . . the guy . . . I came in with?” I said breathlessly, catching myself at the last moment.

  I didn’t get an acknowledgement. I did get tossed onto the bed, though, instead of dropped on the floor, so I supposed that was something. I landed facedown on a nice brocade bedspread that was going to need changing after this, groaned, and flopped over. And watched as a pissed-off vampire tried to figure out how to remove my boots.

  Considering that it had taken me fifteen minutes to get the damned things on in the first place, and that was before the laces got waterlogged, I didn’t give much for his chances. But I should have known better. Marco had skills. And a sharp pocketknife, which I guessed was okay since it wasn’t like I was going back to the 1880s again anyway.

  “I need him. Alive,” I clarified, because around here, you never knew.

  Marco still didn’t say anything.

  I glanced at Rhea. She was standing at the ready, looking as if she was contemplating beaning an ancient vampire over the head with something, and wasn’t that all I needed? “Can you give us a minute?” I asked.

  She curtsied and bit her lip. But she didn’t go anywhere. One of my boots did, though, squelching off and releasing a small tide of filthy water onto the carpet.

  “It’s okay,” I told her as Marco tackled the other one. “He’s . . . We need to have a chat.”

  “No, we needed to have a chat yesterday,” Marco said, his voice low and venomous.

  “We need to have an argument,” I corrected. “Profanity may be used.”

  “I don’t care,” Rhea said staunchly, glaring at him. “I need . . . that is, I would like to request an audience.”

  “With who?”

  She looked at me.

  “Oh. Right.” I wasn’t used to being referred to like some kind of royalty. And didn’t plan to get used to it, either. But that could wait. “In a little while.”

  Rhea curtsied again, and then just continued to stand there.

  “He isn’t going to hurt me,” I assured her, and she finally left, still shooting Marco evil looks. And a second later the other boot came off.

  The rug promptly went from filthy to unsalvageable, but I didn’t care. I lay back against the bed with something between a sigh and a groan and wriggled my poor toes in relief. Along with his other failings, Rosier had gotten my boots two sizes too small.

  “Oh God, that feels good,” I said fervently.

  The door slammed shut.

  Uh-oh.

  I didn’t bother getting up. Experience had shown that I could be yelled at lying down just as easily. Of course, I didn’t need to get up, I thought sleepily. I needed to get back. But even assuming that Pritkin’s soul hadn’t already flitted off somewhere, that the various Pythias had dispersed, and that we could get close enough to lay the spell without getting hexed, it still wouldn’t do any good.

  Because I was pooped.

  And a jump of more than two centuries was tough enough even when I wasn’t.

  Marco’s handsome, if alarmingly large, face appeared in the space over mine. “If you fall asleep on me, I may trash the room,” he warned.

  “Too late.”

  And look, it seemed like I could sit up, after all, I thought, as I was jerked back to the perpendicular. I would have protested, but Marco was busy relieving me of some of the god-awful wool, so I didn’t. “I don’t suppose this could wait?” I asked as he stripped off the high-necked jacket.


  “You know, that’s funny,” he told me, slinging it across the room, where it squelched wetly against the wall. “That’s what I said to myself, just this morning. ‘She’s sleeping. Let the kid get some rest. There’s plenty of time to find out what the hell happened last night!’”

  “Last night?” I was fuzzy on last night. Maybe because, for me, it had been several nights ago. Or days. Or . . .

  Time travel was hard.

  “I can take my own skirt off,” I told him, although not for modesty’s sake. Being undressed by Marco was akin to being stripped by a rabid wolverine.

  Might as well have saved my breath. But at least I had on four layers of petticoats, or crinolines or whatever the right term was, under there. Hell, I could outfit a whole house.

  Which might be just as well, since I didn’t see any luggage.

  “Where’d you put the girls’ stuff?” I asked, after Marco rolled me out of the skirt and almost off the bed.

  “They didn’t have any.”

  “They didn’t have—”

  “They said,” he told me viciously, “that it was blown up!”

  Oh, right.

  That last night.

  “Um. Well, see—”

  “No,” he said, crouching down beside the bed, getting on my level.

  “No?”

  “No.” Dark brown eyes stared humorlessly into mine. “No lies. Not this time.”

  “I don’t lie.”

  “Or evasions. Or tricky answers. I swear you’re as bad as the master.”

  Considering who his master was, I decided to take that as a compliment. “Thank you?”

  “Damn it, Cassie! I want to know what the hell is going on.”

  “Yes, well—”

  “And when I want to know, is now!”

  I licked my lips.

  It wasn’t that I liked keeping things from Marco. He was actually a very good bodyguard. Or he would have been for anybody else. I sometimes felt pretty bad for him, since he was the type who liked to think he was on top of things, that he had everything under control, that the world was sane and all was in its proper place.