by Karen Chance
“Then I go get him,” I said fiercely.
“Uh-huh.” Billy looked at me, and he was solid enough that I could see the compassion in those hazel eyes. “Only you know that’s not happening, right? Cass, don’t take this the wrong way, but you couldn’t even burglarize Tony’s without help. And now you think you’re just gonna waltz into hell—”
“Shut up.”
“—and break Pritkin out? When Rosier is probably expecting something exactly like that from you? When he’s prepared?”
“Billy! Shut up!”
“Not this time,” he said flatly. “You need to hear this, and since nobody else knows what you’ve been up to, I’m the only one who can try to snap you out of it. Cass, it’s suicide. Pritkin gave up everything to save you; think he would want you to throw your life away trying to get him back?”
I got up abruptly, because I couldn’t stay still anymore. But it didn’t shut Billy up. Of course it didn’t. I’d never found anything that did.
“And even if, by some million-to-one chance, you were to get him out of there, what do you think would happen then?” he demanded. “It’s not like anything would change. He broke his parole, or whatever you want to call it. Rosier would just drag him back—”
“We don’t know that!”
“Yes, we do. Pritkin told you—”
“What he knew! But maybe he didn’t know everything,” I said, trying to pace and not being able to because of the damned glass. I kicked an arc of it out of the way and the shards flashed in the glow from outside for a moment, like licking flames.
“Oh. So you know more about hell than a guy who lived there.”
“No, but maybe my mother does!” I rounded on him. “She lived there, too, if the old legends were right. And for centuries! If there’s a loophole, she’ll know it!”
“And if there isn’t?”
“Then there isn’t,” I said, crossing my arms and glaring at him. “But until I hear that—from her—I’m not going to just give up. I can’t, Billy—don’t you get it?”
“Oh, I get it,” he muttered. “I’m just not sure that you do.”
“What does that mean?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. Just . . . nothing. But the fact remains, you can’t get to her to ask.”
I sat down on the bed, suddenly exhausted. It had been a long day at the end of a long week, and my chest hurt. I wanted to scream, to cry, to throw things, but I didn’t have the energy. I wanted to black out and find Pritkin there when I woke up. I wanted . .
God. Sometimes I didn’t even know.
“Not tonight,” I admitted, rubbing the back of my neck. If I hadn’t felt up to dealing with a few nosy witches, I sure couldn’t take whatever was guarding dear old Mom.
“Come back to the suite,” Billy told me softly. “Before you give Marco a heart attack. Get some rest. Tomorrow . . . maybe things will look different.”
In other words, tomorrow maybe I’d come to my senses.
“Yeah, maybe,” I said, because I didn’t want to argue anymore.
Billy nodded, and winked out, looking relieved. Which did exactly nothing to make me feel better. Despite the way he’d been sounding lately, Billy Joe wasn’t the timid type. Billy Joe had been a high-stakes gambler in life, until he ended up in a sack at the bottom of the Mississippi for cheating the wrong guys. When Billy thought something was too risky . .
Well, let’s just say the odds weren’t great.
And it wasn’t like everything he’d said wasn’t true. But so was something he hadn’t bothered to mention. That if our positions were reversed, Pritkin would have come after me. Whether I’d liked it or not, whether I’d wanted him to risk it or not, he wouldn’t have just left me there. It probably wouldn’t even have crossed his mind. I knew that, with more certainty than I knew which direction the sun would rise tomorrow.
So how could I just leave him?
I curled up on his messy bed, and even after a week, the sheets still smelled good. Like soap and gunpowder and magic. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, and didn’t cry. Because it was weak, and I couldn’t afford to be weak.
And because you only cried for people who weren’t coming back.
And that wasn’t the case here, no matter how it looked. I had to get to him, had to get him away from his loathsome father, had to find a way to keep him. And for that, I had to get to my mother.
Somehow.
But it had been a week, and so far, I hadn’t even managed that first step. I’d exhausted myself flipping around through time like a crazy woman. I’d been chased by guards through the old Pythian Court, almost gotten myself run over in London, been shot at by Tony’s thugs. And for what? I was no closer to finding Pritkin than I’d been a week ago.
When he left me.
Chapter Five
“The Star . . ”
A soft chime woke me.
“The Star . . . The Star . . . The Star . . ”
A soft, annoying chime.
I groaned and rolled over, because it was too damned early, and the chime suddenly became more muffled. “The Star . . . The Star . . . The Star . . ”
I groaned again and sat up.
“The Star is universally considered to be the most beautiful card in the tarot,” a smug voice informed me, from somewhere underneath my butt. “It is also one of the most fortunate, although not, perhaps, in the way that many people would prefer. The Star—”
I fumbled around, groggy and still half-asleep, and didn’t find anything.
“—indicates that success is possible, but only in time and through great effort. The Star shines in the night sky, a beacon of light in a dark world, pulling the querent forward onto a heroic quest—”
I felt something stuck to the back of my leg. I peeled it off and brought it up to my bleary eyes. And saw a small rectangle with a night scene, a garden, and a naked chick with a jug.
“—worthy of an equally great reward,” the little tarot card burbled at me. “Should the querent survive—”
“Survive?”
“—the undoubted dangers, snares, and, at times, mortal perils that lie in the way, the reward will be as sweet as the clear, cold water the lovely maiden pours into the pool reflecting the starlight. And if not—”
“What?” I croaked. “What if not?”
“—then one will have the knowledge that one fell in pursuit of an admirable goal,” the card said, its small voice rising passionately. “The heavens shall sing praises of your bravery, as they do for the heroes for which the constellations are named, and your renown shall echo down the ages to—”
“Oh, shut up,” I said viciously, fumbling around on the nightstand for the card pack. And not finding it. Great, I thought, and rolled off the bed.
But not mine.
I hit the floor, blinking at the god-awful coverlet that had half fallen off with me. Instead of tufted satin, it was one of the scratchy, cheapo kind the hotel reserved for rooms priced at less than a trip to Tahiti. And instead of a tasteful pale blue, it had a full-on Halloween theme in yellow, black, and gray, with a ghostly moon caged by the branches of a gaunt and lifeless tree.
Shit.
I must have accidentally fallen asleep in Pritkin’s room, instead of dragging my weary butt back to my own bed. And wasn’t that just going to get me blessed out by Marco? Of course, I was kind of surprised that it hadn’t already, since I knew damned well the vamps kept a tracking spell on me. I’d had Pritkin take it off a few times, but it always ended up right back in place, usually within an hour or two. And since he’d been gone for a week, it was safe to assume that they knew exactly where—
I’d hauled myself to my feet, in preparation for getting my shit together, but tripped over something and went right back down again. Only this time I hit the carpet beside a pair of dirty boots. They were old, with massive soles and scratched leather uppers, at least what I could see through a coating of mud. It was so thick that the steel cap over the toes w
as barely visible.
Huh. That’s weird, some tiny, more awake part of my brain commented. But it didn’t explain why.
I sat up and frowned at them some more.
There was nothing particularly odd about them, except for the mud, which wasn’t exactly common in Vegas. But they were the kind Pritkin wore, useful for caving in doors or bad guy’s faces, and had been thrown in his usual haphazard fashion under the bed. Or beside it, but the dust ruffle had obscured most of them. Which maybe explained why I hadn’t—
Okay, that was it. They weren’t weird, but the fact that I hadn’t noticed them last night was. Especially since I should have been able to smell them a couple of yards off. I wrinkled my nose at the locker room funk and pushed them to the side. And peered into the gloom beyond for the damned card pack, while a cheerful voice began to regale me with fun facts about the Star card.
That was bad, but if I didn’t shut it up, it was going to segue into the possible meanings of the card in combination with others. And then into how it should be read in the different spreads. And if I remembered right, that would be followed by the whole history of the tarot, which could go on for literally hours before it finally wound down. And the way I felt, a migraine was going to explode my left eye long before then.
After a fruitless search, I surfaced, gasping from a combo of boot funk and dust bunnies, and started sorting through the jumbled bedclothes for the pack that simply had to be there somewhere. But I didn’t see it. Maybe because it was hard to see anything in the wash of sunshine pouring in through the curtains.
I stopped and blinked at them.
The suddenly wide-open curtains.
The suddenly wide-open curtains that were being reflected in the mirror over the dresser.
And okay, no. That mirror had been in about a thousand pieces all over the floor last night. I mean, I couldn’t be wrong about that, right? I’d stepped in the remains, and even kicked some when—
My brain came to a screeching halt as three things happened simultaneously. My eyes wandered over the view beyond the bed, which was noticeably lacking in broken glass, destroyed furniture, or ominous stains. My nose registered a complete dearth of potion residue. And my ears pricked up at a small, new sound.
A sound like the beep of a key card tripping an automatic lock.
My head jerked around to see the doorknob start to turn, and I tried to shift. But my fuzzy brain wasn’t having it. Instead, it had gone into flight mode all right, but for some reason it had decided that the path to safety involved me trying to squash myself into the few inches of space under the bed. Only I couldn’t because the damned boots were in the way. And by the time I shoved them aside, thrust the still-talking tarot card down my shirt, realized there was already something wedged in between my breasts, crammed the card into the top of a small, greasy package I found there, and started stuffing myself past the dust ruffle . .
It was too late.
The door opened and someone came in, sneaker-clad feet quiet on the tiled floor of the entryway. They stopped abruptly, and there was no sound for a beat, then two. And then they crossed silently onto the carpet before pausing again, beside the bed.
Where they were currently being treated to the sight of my ass wriggling around in the air like Pooh Bear sticking out of Rabbit’s house, because it hadn’t made it under here with the rest of me.
For a moment, nothing was said.
Then a single finger pushed up the dust ruffle. And a clear green eye peered underneath at me. I stared back at it, and what little coherent thought I’d managed to form went out the window.
“Is there . . . a problem?” a mild voice asked me.
I licked my lips, because, as usual for me, “problem” didn’t cover it. I opened my mouth to reply, and God knows what I’d have said. Only, luckily, speech was one of many things that didn’t seem to be working right now.
Like motor control. Because the next moment, when I was hauled out from under the bed and up to a pair of so-familiar green eyes, I just hung there limply. And stared.
At a face that was hard to look at.
Not that it was unattractive. There had been a time when I’d thought so—the overlarge nose, the hard-as-glass eyes, the I-couldn’t-be-bothered-to-shave-todayand-possibly-not-yesterday-either stubble didn’t exactly spell out movie-star good looks. But there was a lot more to John Pritkin than looks, although even there I’d started to come around recently. The strong, stubborn jawline, the rock-hard body, and the flashes of humor behind the taciturn expression—hell, even the rigid blond spikes he called hair might not add up to handsome, but they added up to something.
Something that might have been disturbing if I hadn’t had plenty of other things to disturb me right now.
“What is it?” Pritkin demanded, fingers tightening on my arms as his face suddenly swam in front of me.
I told myself to get a grip, but it wasn’t working. To suddenly have him just show up like that was . . . well, it was what I guess most people felt when they saw a ghost. It was startling and exhilarating and strangely terrifying . .
And impossible, I realized, as the explanation slammed into me.
This wasn’t about Rosier growing a heart and sending his son back where he belonged. Pritkin’s expression told me that much. I didn’t know what look I might find on his face if I ever caught up with him again, but I didn’t think it would be mild concern mixed with a healthy dose of exasperation.
No. This was me, thinking, longing, dreaming . . . and shifting, while either asleep or as good as, back to a time where I knew I’d find him. Back to a time I was about to royally screw up if I didn’t get it together.
“Cassie—” Pritkin was starting to look seriously worried, maybe because I was still hanging there lifelessly, staring at him like an idiot. Except for one hand, which had come up to gently touch his face. I jerked it back down, because yeah. Losing it.
I licked my lips again. “Um,” I said, and stopped. I had nothing.
But something in my face must have reassured him anyway. Because he let go and sat on the edge of the bed, some of the concern draining out of his eyes. “We’ve discussed this,” he said dryly.
“We . . . We have?”
“Yes. You can’t merely shift down here because it’s faster than taking the elevator. I keep dangerous substances—”
“I didn’t touch the bookcase,” I said quickly. The memory of the one and only time I had wasn’t pleasant. Well, except for watching Rosier’s smug face melt into a puddle of goo after having a few dozen vials of demon-fighting potion dumped on it. And after everything that had happened since, that was actually quite—
“Cassie?”
“Huh?”
“There are more dangers here than just the bookcase.”
“Like what?”
“Like this,” Pritkin said, reaching under the bed and pulling out one of his smelly boots. And then jerking something out of the interior. Something that was—
A thumb came down on top of what looked a lot like a grenade, except it was smooth and bluish steel in color, and had a sort of lever thing on top instead of a pin. A lever that had been halfway down when Pritkin noticed it. Which might have had something to do with the high-pitched whine it had been sending off.
And still was, I realized, as his eyes widened. He grabbed the other boot and turned it upside down. And then he grabbed me. “Where is it?”
“Where is what?”
“The potion grenade!”
“You have it,” I said, looking in confusion at the object he’d just thrown onto the bed.
“No! The other one!”
“There’s another one?”
“There’s not supposed to be!”
“Well, I didn’t bring one!” I said feverishly.
“Then what is—” His eyes suddenly fixed on the front of my tee. “There!”
And the next thing I knew, he was snatching up my shirt. And yanking something out of my bra. And
flinging it away with a savage motion that I barely saw before he threw himself on top of me.
We hit the floor, and it hurt, because Pritkin is mostly muscle and he weighs a lot. And because my head clipped the edge of the nightstand on the way down. And because his shields snapped closed so hard and fast that they cut off an inch of my hair. Which promptly fell into my eyes.
But that didn’t seem to matter so much if we were about to be blown to pieces by . .
By a grenade that was taking its own sweet time, I thought, as seconds ticked by and nothing happened. Except for Pritkin’s heart beating loud in my ear, because I was squashed underneath him, with my head squeezed between his chest and the floor. To the point that I couldn’t . . . hardly . .
“Air,” I squawked, and Pritkin raised himself up slightly.
And as soon as he did, I realized what was making the objectionable whine.
“The Star is universally considered to be the most beautiful card in the tarot,” a small voice said reproachfully, from above my head. Where it was protruding out of the elusive tarot deck. Which was now sticking out of an impact point on the wall. And squealing as seventy-eight cards simultaneously registered their disapproval at their rough treatment.
Pritkin lifted his head to stare at them. And then he looked back down at me. And then he crawled off a few feet and sat on the carpet, and put his head in his hands.
“Sorry,” I said breathlessly, as the cards continued to mutter to themselves.
Pritkin didn’t say anything.
That was okay. That was good. I needed a moment.
And a bath, I realized, as I lifted an arm to brush the fringe of severed hair out of my eyes. It wasn’t only Pritkin’s boots that were smelling up the place. I sat there, mortified, unable to believe I’d fallen asleep like this. “Is anything going to kill me if I use your bathroom?” I finally asked.
“Knowing you?” Pritkin’s voice was muffled since he hadn’t raised his head.
I frowned. “Is that a yes?”
A couple of fingers came up to massage his temple. “That is a no. Assuming you didn’t bring anything deadly along with you.”
