by Karen Chance
I jerked open a cabinet door and crawled inside.
It wasn’t as crazy as it sounds. I had to find something made of iron and I had to do it quick. It was either that or use the only weapon I had on me, and while I’d killed when I had no other choice, it had never been some poor schmuck who nobody had bothered to tell that dating me was a hazardous occupation.
I really didn’t want to send him back to Jonas in a body bag. I really, really didn’t. Even when knives started slamming through the cabinets and ricocheting back and forth in the small space like BBs in a jar. They also let in slivers of light that glinted off pots and pans and colanders and bowls, all nice, modern, worthless stainless without an iron skillet in the bunch.
And then a knife bisected a water line under the sink, spewing me in the face.
I was only blinded for a second, but it was long enough for a hand to reach in and jerk me out—by the hair. It hurt bad enough to bring tears to my eyes, but it also left me with an opportunity. Fucking Sahara, I thought viciously, and then I grabbed a knife out of a block and slashed—my own curls.
The sudden loss of his handhold caused the mage to stumble. And then my foot in his ass caused him to sprawl on the floor. And then I stepped on his shoulders and heard his face smack against the tile as I ran full out for the hall, screaming for Billy and my useless, useless bodyguards—
I didn’t make it.
Halfway there, a blast picked me up and sent me hurtling toward the far wall of the lounge. My feet left the floor, my head hit the wall and pain lanced through my skull. But that wasn’t the main problem. That would be the film of what felt like hard plastic flattening me against the dark red wallpaper like a bug under cellophane.
Make that shrink-wrapped cellophane, because in another second it had molded to every inch of my body, including my nose and mouth and eyes. I struggled furiously, feeling the possessed mage approach, even though I couldn’t turn my head to see him. I also couldn’t twitch a finger or contract my throat to swallow or blink my drying eyes or—
Or anything.
Suddenly, it was like being in the bathtub all over again, unable to move or breathe or even to cry out for help. And isn’t that just the wrong analogy? I thought, as stark terror hit me like a fist. My heart sped out of control, my palms started sweating, and my stomach twisted violently, until I was sure I was going to be sick right here.
In desperation, I tried to shift, because I needed to go only a foot or so. But this time, nothing happened. I could close my eyes and see the bright, familiar energy, like an ocean of power sparkling in the sunlight. But I couldn’t reach it. It was trapped by the weird, cottony feeling in my head, just like the bracelet that formed my only weapon lay locked tight and useless between me and the wall.
And then the mage came up alongside.
The pleasant-looking face didn’t look so pleasant anymore, distorted by the thick, wavy barrier like an image in a fun house mirror. But I could see him pretty well anyway, because he bent close, close, so very close. Like he wanted to see my expression at the end.
Only the end didn’t come.
Of course not, I thought blankly. Why waste the energy to kill me when all he had to do was stand by and watch me suffocate? I was trapped like an animal, splayed out like a trophy already mounted on the wall. Any minute now I was going to go from living human being to useless piece of meat, those pitch-black eyes watching as my spirit finally gave up the fight and left my lifeless—
My spirit.
Some idea skittered across my brain, just out of reach. I couldn’t grasp it, could barely think at all, because I was panicking—oh yes, I was—even though someone had warned me about that, had said it was the very best way to die in a situation where you didn’t have to. And he’d said something else, something he’d pounded into my head so many times I’d gotten sick of the very word—
An image of a pair of furious green eyes floated across my vision. Assess. The problem. Now.
Okay, okay. For some reason, help couldn’t get to me, so I needed to get to help.
Address.
But I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. Not an inch, so how could I—
But that wasn’t right. My body couldn’t move. My spirit was a totally different thing. Because I was Pythia. And Pythias could leave their bodies, could shift into other people’s, could—
But I couldn’t shift, at least not now. And that meant I couldn’t reach the safety of another body, couldn’t do anything except...
Step out.
Yes, I could do that. I could just leave my body behind as if I’d already died. But since I hadn’t yet, it should serve as an anchor holding me to this world. But I didn’t really see the point, as it would leave me merely an unhoused spirit, no better than a ghost. Worse, in fact, since a ghost had a renewable source of energy, and mine would be left behind as soon as I—
As soon as—
As soon—
I couldn’t think, couldn’t finish the thought, because I was losing consciousness. And that meant end and that meant fail and that meant death, and whatever I was going to do, I had to do it, I had to—
Act.
And then I was stumbling backward, dizzy and disoriented and sick, but not as sick as when I caught sight of my body. Tiny and pale and helpless, it lay huddled against the wall, hair smushed around distorted features, face bleached bone white out of fear. The same fear that had one hand locked, white-knuckled, on the edge of a door, a door it couldn’t go through.
But I could, and I didn’t waste any time, diving past the mage and my own almost corpse and into the blessed darkness of the hall.
I called for Billy, desperately, because if anyone knew about these kinds of things, it was him. But either he was out for the count or he’d gone off somewhere, because I didn’t even get a blip in response. This time, it looked like I was on my own.
That was true even when I finally found my bodyguards hanging out in a spare bedroom, playing poker. And weren’t they just looking relaxed. Ties were loosened, collars were popped and a bucket of ice sat on the floor with a dozen frosty longnecks poking out of the top. I guess so they wouldn’t have to make the huge trek all the way to the kitchen.
Where, you know, they might have seen someone trying to kill me.
“Comfy?” I asked harshly, but of course nobody heard.
I watched them play cards for a second, happy and carefree and unconcerned about the knife-wielding mage prowling the apartment or my trip to la-la land or anything but their stupid, stupid game, which I sent flying with a sudden swipe of my hand. Bills fluttered, chips flew, and cards reshuffled themselves all over the floor. And that was before I tipped over their damn card table.
Of course, I knew this wasn’t how it was supposed to work. The name of the game for ghosts was to preserve energy. To guard every tiny scrap carefully, jealously, spending it in little dribs and drabs and only when absolutely necessary. Because to run out was to die.
But I was about to die anyway, and I didn’t give a crap about the rules. I wasn’t trying to conserve energy; I was spending it all in one last, crazy spree. At least I’ll go out with a bang, I thought, laughing hysterically. And then I grabbed a beer and threw it at the nearest vamp’s head.
I missed, but it made a satisfying thump when it hit the wall, so I did it again. And again and again as the vamps stumbled back, knocking over chairs and staring around wildly. Several pulled guns, but they had nothing to shoot.
“Why do I have bodyguards, huh?” I yelled, throwing a bottle against the dresser, which exploded with a satisfying crash.
“What is the freaking point?” Another hit the mirror, leaving a big web of cracks radiating out from the center.
“We have to watch you sleep, Cassie!” Thud.
“And eat, Cassie!” Bang.
“And paint your freaking toenails, Cassie!” Smash.
“And dog your every step, Cassie!” Splinter.
“But when someone is actual
ly trying to kill me, what the hell are you doing?” A bottle took out the overhead fixture, shattering the decorative shell and raining sparks down onto the already freaked-out vampires.
And then I stopped, not because I’d run out of things to say, but because one of the vamps had caught sight of the mysteriously floating beer bottle. And it seemed to piss him off. “I have had enough of this shit,” he announced viciously, lining up a shot.
I didn’t bother moving; I just waggled the bottle provocatively. “Want it, motherfucker? Want it? Then come get it!” And then I ran like hell.
A bullet smashed into the wall beside me, another shattered a hallway light and a third tore through a pretty little painting, drilling the girl on the swing straight between the eyes. I didn’t care; I was more concerned about the girl on the wall, who was looking pretty damn blue and pretty damn dead. I stopped for a split second, staring in horror at my slack features and my lifeless face, and then I was merging with my poor abused body and—
Nothing.
Blackness.
Cold.
So cold.
Silence.
Until someone started screaming. “Don’t you die, don’t you die, don’t you fucking die on me—”
And someone was pounding my chest and someone else was forcing smoke-flavored breath down my throat, and he really needed to gargle because that was just gross, and then I was choking and gasping and flailing weakly and Marco was dragging me against his huge, rapidly moving chest. “Are you all right? Are you fucking all right?” he yelled right in my face.
“Urp,” I said brilliantly. And then I threw up on him.
Chapter Twenty
I thought there was a good chance the fridge was possessed.
It was subtle about it, but I had its number. I knew its ways. Oh yes.
“How the hell did nobody hear him?” someone demanded harshly. I couldn’t see who it was because he was outside the kitchen. But it sounded sort of like Marco. Or like Marco might sound if he wanted to bite someone’s head off their body.
One of the vamps must have thought so, too, because he was awfully tentative when he answered. “He . . . apparently, the mage threw a silence spell over the lounge. We couldn’t hear any—”
“I’m more interested in why you couldn’t see. All of you congregated in one place, with not a single fucking one watching your fucking charge—”
“The apartment was supposed to be empty!” Another, slightly less cowed voice said. “And she hates it when we hover—”
“Then you play pool, you play cards, you watch without making it obvious. But you fucking well watch!” Something crashed into a wall.
Nobody said anything that time. Or maybe I just wasn’t listening. After all, someone had to keep an eye on the fridge.
There were slash marks in the front, spaced evenly like evil eyes, glowing with yellow light from the inside. And that couldn’t be the usual fridge light, could it? Wasn’t that supposed to go out when the door was closed? I thought I saw something move behind one of the slashes, but then I blinked and it was gone.
Oh yes. I knew.
Pritkin came in and knelt by my chair. “You can’t go to sleep yet, Cassie,” he told me, handing me a heart murmur in a mug. It smelled good, but not good enough to wake up for. I mumbled something and turned over, burying my face in the nice, warm shoulder someone had thoughtfully provided.
Only to be hauled up again.
So I sighed and snuggled into a nice, warm chest instead.
“Drink.” My hands were wrapped around the mug.
I pushed it away. “Don’ wanna. Wanna sleep.”
“Not yet.”
“Then why am I in bed?”
He sighed and pulled me to a sitting position, putting the mug firmly in my hands. “A healer is coming and he wants you to stay awake until he arrives, all right?”
I drank some too-hot coffee and scowled at him, annoyed although I couldn’t remember why. The light from the lounge was leaking in, highlighting his spiky blond hair. I decided that must be it.
“You really hate my hair, don’t you?” he asked, a smile flickering over his lips so fast I might have imagined it.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
I reached out to touch it, and was surprised as always to find it mostly soft. Just a little stiff in places from whatever product he used on it. It felt weird, imagining Pritkin having anything in his hair but sweat. But he must have; nobody’s did that all on its own.
“It’s like . . . angry hair,” I said, trying to pat it down and failing miserably.
He caught my wrist. “Most people would say that suits me.”
“I’m not most people.”
“I know.”
I went back to watching the fridge. I could see the door over Pritkin’s shoulder, and it wasn’t closed after all. It was very slightly open, like a panting mouth. And some kind of multicolored mucus was dripping out the bottom.
Condiments, I told myself firmly.
Or so it wanted me to think.
“Dryden’s finished hugging the toilet,” one of the vamps said, walking into the kitchen. “Do we need to dose her, too?”
“She took care of that herself,” Marco said, joining the party. He’d pulled off the barfed-on shirt but hadn’t yet bothered to go to his room for another one. That left him in dark gray slacks, a pair of Ferragamo loafers and a lot of hair.
A lot of hair. It was even on his shoulders. It was like a pelt.
He crouched down on the other side of me. “You’re really hairy,” I told him, impressed.
“And you’re really stoned.”
I thought about that for a moment. It seemed like an outside possibility. “Why am I stoned?”
“It was the goddamned chocolates. I always taste everything before you eat it, yet I sat right there and watched you scarf half the damn—”
“You couldn’t know.”
“It’s my goddamned job to know!”
I sighed and pulled his curly head to me. He was warm and fuzzy, like a big teddy bear. A big teddy bear with fangs.
I patted him softly.
“Why didn’t the wards detect that shit?” one of the other guards demanded angrily. He was a redhead, his fiery hair worn in a slick style that went with his natty blue-plaid suit. He was one of the ones who had made fun of the mage when he first arrived, but who’d let him follow us in. I wondered if he’d caught flak for that.
Probably.
“They detect poison,” Pritkin told him. “This was a narcotic.”
“What the hell was the point in that?”
“Probably hoped she’d eat enough to kill her,” Marco said savagely. “Don’t have to be poison to do the job if you consume enough of it! But even one or two pieces would make sure she couldn’t shift away from that asshole.”
“That asshole ate half the box himself,” Pritkin said, “hoping he’d pass out before that creature could make use of him.”
“Then why the hell didn’t he?”
“He doubtless would have, given more time. Unfortunately, our meeting broke up too soon and Cassie found the box—”
A phone rang. Marco pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the readout. “I gotta get the rest of my ass chewed off by the master,” he told me. “Think you can maybe not die for five minutes?”
“I’ll try,” I told him seriously.
“You know, if anyone else said that, it would be funny.” He left.
“What I don’t get is how that thing knew that particular mage would get in,” another vamp said. He was a tall brunet in nice tan jacket that was now covered in beer. “We’d been tossing them out on their fortune-hunting asses all day. He’d have gone the same way if he hadn’t shown up with the Lord Protector.”
“Maybe that’s what it was waiting for,” a third vamp said, glancing around. He was another brunet, in shirtsleeves and dark brown slacks. A bright blue tie was askew under one ear, but he didn’t appear to ha
ve noticed. “It could have been there all morning, watching us, waiting for someone to get in. . . .”
“Someone who just happened to have poisoned chocolates?” the redhead asked sarcastically.
“They weren’t poisoned,” the brunet said, scowling. “And he could have gotten them—”
“Where? At the gift shop?” The redhead rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’ll take the drugged kind, please. Do you have any in mint?”
“Very funny!”
“Well, you sound like an idiot! Obviously, the bastard brought them with him, meaning this wasn’t random opportunity. It was planned.”
“I agree,” Pritkin said, causing their heads to swivel back his way. “But not by him.”
“You would say that,” the redhead sneered. “Then where did he get the damn things?”
“He brought the candy with him, but it wasn’t drugged. He said he did that later, under the influence of the entity.”
“With what?”
Pritkin reached into a pocket and tossed something to the vamp, who caught it easily. It was a little vial, the type war mages wore in bandoliers or on their belts. A lot of them were filled with dark, sludgy substances that sometimes moved on their own, but this one was just plain, colorless liquid.
“And this does what?” the vamp asked, wisely not opening it.
Pritkin didn’t reply. He just knelt beside me, green eyes assessing. He held up a finger. “Cassie, can you tell me how many—”
I grabbed it and laughed.
He looked over his shoulder at the vamp. “That,” he said drily.
“What the hell was he carrying this shit around for?” the second vamp demanded.
“It’s useful in making captures, subduing difficult prisoners.” Pritkin shrugged.
“Then . . . this is a weapon.”
“Yes.”
“But he was going on a date.”
Pritkin looked confused. “Yes?”
The redhead threw his hands up.
“How do we know the mage was really possessed?” a skinny blond asked, leaning over the counter. “Maybe somebody hired him—”
