by Karen Chance
“Cassandra” was never good.
But this time, it wasn’t my fault.
“This time, it isn’t my fault,” I told him, wincing as Marco found another heretofore untortured cut.
“I am not calling to assign blame.”
“Then why the ‘Cassandra’?”
“You frightened me. For a few moments, I could not feel you.”
I frowned at the phone. “You’re in New York. How are you supposed to feel me?”
“Through the bond.”
“We have a bond?”
A sigh. “Of course we have a bond, dulceață. You are my wife.”
By vampire standards, I didn’t say, because that always got a Cassandra. The ceremony, if you could call it that, had been over before I fully knew what was happening. But that didn’t matter, because little things like the bride’s consent aren’t required in vampire marriages.
Except, that is, by me.
That was why Mircea and I were dating—or, at least, that’s why I was doing it, to figure out whether this whole relationship thing was something I could handle. He was doing it to humor me, when he remembered, although he clearly thought the whole thing was ridiculous. Mircea had been born in an era when men took what they wanted and kept it, as long as they were strong enough. And strength had never been one of his problems.
Listening, on the other hand . . .
“I listen,” a velvet voice murmured in my ear.
I bent my head and let my hair fall over the phone. It wasn’t much as privacy went, but around here, it was as good as it got. “Uh-huh.”
“And what does that mean?” he asked, sounding amused.
“It means ‘that’s bullshit,’ but I’m too high to think of a good comeback right now,” I said honestly.
“High?”
“Blitzed, baked, stoned . . .”
“I understood the term,” Mircea said, his voice sharpening. “My question was why?”
I hesitated. The truth was, I’d been pretty near hysterical when I woke up. I was getting better in crises, mainly because I’d had a lot of practice lately. But afterward . . .
I still had problems with afterward.
“Marco thought it best,” I finally said.
Mircea didn’t seem to like that answer. “I will speak with Marco,” he said grimly. “But for the present, I am more concerned about the attack this evening. I have heard my men’s report, such as it was. I would like to have yours.”
It was my turn to sigh. “I don’t know. It wasn’t a ghost; that much I’m sure of. And Pritkin swears it wasn’t a demon.”
“There are thousands of types of demons, Cassie. He cannot possibly be certain—”
“He’s pretty certain,” I said drily.
“—and you have recently had problems with several of them. A demon is the most likely culprit.”
“I think we should trust Pritkin’s judgment on this one,” I said, because I couldn’t say anything else. That Pritkin was half demon himself wasn’t exactly universally known, but what type he was wasn’t known to anyone but me.
I intended to keep it that way.
“I am not so certain,” Mircea said, sounding sour. “But I would speak with the man. Can you put him on?”
I really didn’t think that was a great idea, considering that Pritkin and Mircea mixed like oil and water, only not as well. But I passed the phone over, anyway. I didn’t get much of the resulting conversation, both because it was pretty terse on Pritkin’s end, and because Marco had started the extraction process again.
“There can’t possibly be that many pieces of glass in my ass,” I gritted out, after a couple of agonizing minutes.
“Babe, it’s like you rolled in it.”
“It was all over the floor!”
“And when that’s the case, it’s best to avoid the floor,” he said drily, digging what felt like an inch into my tender rear.
“I’ll keep it in mind the next time I get possessed by an evil entity!”
“Demon,” Marco said, sounding final.
“It wasn’t a demon,” Pritkin argued, but I couldn’t tell if he was talking to Marco or Mircea. “Yes, I’m bloody well sure!”
Mircea.
“Okay, this is going to sting a little,” Marco told me, right before he set my butt on fire.
“Shit, shit, shit!”
“Gotta disinfect it,” he said imperturbably. “You’re not a vamp. You could get an infection.”
“In what? You just burnt my ass off!”
“He wants to talk to you,” Pritkin said, looking grim.
I took the phone back. “What?”
“Cassie?”
Mircea wasn’t accustomed to getting that tone from women, but I was too sore—in several ways—to care. “If Pritkin says it wasn’t a demon, then it wasn’t a demon. Goddamnit, Mircea! He ought to know!”
“And why is that, dulceață?” Mircea asked smoothly. And, okay, maybe I was going to have to revise that list. Because sometimes Mircea also used my pet name when he was being sneaky.
“He’s a demon hunter,” I said, forcing myself to calm down before I said anything stupid. Well, anything stupider, anyway. “It’s his job to know.”
“I will have my people check into all possibilities,” Mircea said, and I really hoped he was talking about the entity. “In the meantime, I need your promise that you will not leave the hotel.”
“Mircea, I was attacked at the hotel. How is staying here going to—”
“The guards will be doubled.”
“You could have tripled them—you could have had a guard per square foot—and it wouldn’t have made a difference! No one could have predicted—”
“We should have predicted it,” he said harshly. “We knew there would be an attack. I simply did not expect it so early. The coronation isn’t for another ten days.”
“But why wait until the last second?”
Mircea didn’t say anything, but the very pregnant pause made it clear that he didn’t think that was funny.
Of course, he didn’t find too much funny these days. He was currently trying to negotiate the first worldwide alliance of vampire senates. It was what he’d been working on all month, what he was doing in New York, where a lot of the senators had gathered for some kind of meeting prior to the coronation. But as formidable as his diplomatic skills were, there was no doubt that he was up against it. The senates had had centuries to plot and scheme and piss one another off, and they’d apparently done a pretty good job of it.
And nobody holds a grudge like a master vamp.
Add to that the ongoing war and now the coronation that was scheduled to be held at his estate, and it would have been enough to give anyone a headache. I didn’t want to add to his problems. And what he asked was easy enough.
It wasn’t like I’d be safer anyplace else.
“I’ll stay put,” I promised.
“Good. Then I shall see you tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow? I thought you wouldn’t be back for a week.”
“That was my intention, but . . . I have obtained the information you requested.” For a moment, it didn’t register, because I couldn’t recall asking Mircea about anything. Except—
I suddenly sat up.
And just as suddenly regretted it. I gasped and Marco cursed. “Hold still!” he told me, pushing me back down. That was okay, because it gave me a chance to get my face under control.
“About our date,” Mircea’s voice clarified unnecessarily.
“Oh. Right.” My voice sounded normal enough, but I felt my palm start to sweat where I clutched the phone. Because what I’d asked him for wasn’t the usual dinner and a movie. I hadn’t really thought he’d be able to pull it off—or that he’d be willing, for that matter. But Mircea never ceased to surprise.
I wanted details, wanted specifics, but I couldn’t ask for them. Not with Pritkin’s eyes on me from across the room. If he knew what I planned, I had no dou
bt at all that he’d try to stop me. And while that would probably be the smart thing, it wasn’t the right thing. Not this time.
“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. “ ’Cause 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.”
