Reap the Wind (8 page)

It was one reason I’d been working so hard to get Pritkin back. I didn’t know how to fight gods, didn’t even know where to start. So rather than sitting around, wringing my hands over what I didn’t know how to do, I’d been concentrating on what I did. And not just for personal reasons.

Yes, I cared about him. Yes, I owed him my life many times over. But it was also a fact that he’d forgotten more magic than Jonas ever knew. He’d been hiding out under the name of John Pritkin for centuries, but it wasn’t the one he’d been born with, the one history knew him by, the one he’d desperately kept hidden because of the myth, the magic, the aura that still encircled the name of the greatest mage of them all.

Merlin.

That’s who I was after, that’s who I’d been desperately chasing through time, that’s who I’d gone to hell and back for—literally. But if Pritkin was to have any chance at a normal life after this was all said and done, I couldn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t tell Jonas that I
was
working on a way to deliver us from Ares, the only one likely to work: by bringing back the most dangerous mage of them all.

If anybody could come up with a way to defeat a god, it was Pritkin.

I didn’t just want him back; I
needed
him back.

And I didn’t have time for this.

“I’ve never refused to help you,” I reminded Jonas. “I’ve done everything you asked. I’ll help you in the future, too, however I can. But this . . .” I gestured at the mages. “This is not helping! It’s the opposite, in fact: it’s endangering the alliance between the Circle and the Senate—”

“We don’t need the Senate,” Jonas said, dismissing one of the most powerful supernatural groups on the planet with a wave of his hand. “We need you. That is what the prophecy foretold. If we are to successfully resist Ares, we need you and your mother—”

“My mother is dead.”

“But she helped you to defeat Ares’ children, did she not? Perhaps that was her part of the journey. The rest, you must walk, but not alone. The Circle will—”

“Be leaving now,” Marco said flatly. Because his eyes had never left the mages, and he must have noticed something I hadn’t. Some escalation in power that had put up a red flag to vampire senses.

“Yes, we will be,” Jonas said curtly. “With Cassie.”

I swallowed, trying to think. I had a little power saved up, thanks to some food and a couple hours’ sleep, but not enough. Not that I knew what I’d have done even at full strength. Freeze time so Marco and company could kill everyone more efficiently? Because we were supposed to be on the same side!

Something nobody else seemed to remember.

And then Rhea grabbed my hand.

And, suddenly, it felt like it had when Pritkin gave me energy. Okay, not
exactly
like, but there was a definite power boost. She met my eyes.

“You’re risking a lot for an old prophecy,” I told Jonas, taking the fussy child from her.

And feeling another, smaller hit of power flow through me.

“We’ve seen its worth,” he argued, because he didn’t want this to end in bloodshed, either.

“We’ve seen what could be coincidence,” I told him, pushing through the vampires toward the other girls, as if taking the fussy child back to her bed. “You said it yourself: myths have to be interpreted.”

“And how else would you interpret this one?” he demanded. “There were to be three gods, according to legend, and three champions to help you fight them. Apollo was the first, and as foretold, he was injured by contact with the ouroboros spell that hedges our world, before you finished him off.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” I argued, handing the girl to a plump initiate with chocolate skin and ringlets. And then sitting down beside them on a cot, in the midst of several others. “Anyone coming into our world would have to get by that spell.”

“It nonetheless followed the pattern that was foretold. As did your defeat of Ares’ sons. Your mother was to be your champion there, and I think disposing of four out of the five qualifies!”

“But the Spartoi weren’t Ares, and my mother is now gone,” I pointed out. “If Ares does come through, I won’t have her help.”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re stronger than you know.”

“You think I can defeat the god of war, yet you send a squad of mages to kidnap me?” I looked over at them, and saw that several were now openly watching me, instead of the mass of master vampires. It would have been funny, under other circumstances. Them with their ton of weapons and me with my fuzzy slippers. Only I wasn’t feeling like laughing.

“I think you can defeat him
with guidance
,” Jonas said. “Which you are not getting here—”

“That’s not your call.”

“I am making it mine, until you are old enough—”

“I’m twenty-four.”

“And I am one hundred and seventy-nine!” he said angrily. “When you are my age—”

“I’m not likely to get to your age.” At this point, I’d settle for seeing my next birthday. “But even if I do, I won’t agree to put the Pythian power under the control of the Circle.”

“As opposed to leaving it in the hands of the vampires? They do nothing that is not self-serving!”

“And this isn’t?” I asked as more and more of the girls gathered around, as if for comfort. “Breaking with the vampires, just when we need them most, pressing your rights beyond anything tradition allows, destroying any chance of Pythian neutrality—”

“There is no neutrality in war!”

“There must be, Jonas. We need the others—all the others. I can’t defeat Ares on my own—neither can you. Rhea’s vision showed you that. If you try to do this alone, prophecy or not, you’ll fail. And then we
all
fail.”

“I do not intend to do this alone,” he told me. “That is rather the point.” I felt Rhea grab my hand again, felt the girls press close, felt a surge of power hit me, everything they had, even as his voice said: “Take her.”

I didn’t wait to see the group of mages move, didn’t even wait for the words to finish leaving his lips. I threw out a hand, and with it went everything I had left, and everything my court could give me. I held nothing back—and I still didn’t think it had been enough.

But I couldn’t tell. Because a second later, I was on my knees, retching and half blind from a power loss I couldn’t afford. And hands were grabbing at me, and the room was spinning and Rhea was yelling something I couldn’t hear over the roaring in my ears and the frantic beating of my heart. But through swimming eyes I saw half a dozen master vampires sprawled in the floor in front of the door, having jumped in that one split second—

For men who were no longer there.

I woke in a puddle of drool, facedown on a soggy bit of squishiness that I finally identified as one of the sofa pillows. It had little jewels in the embroidery that a fumbling hand told me had left pockmarks all over my left cheek. And a crease in my face from some decorative cording that was definitely not rated for sleeping.

I groaned and tried to sit up, but it didn’t work. And I couldn’t see why, since my hair was in my eyes and my lids were half stuck together. And something was slapping me softly in the face.

Finally, I managed to pry my eyes open enough to realize that it was the sheers that were usually hanging demurely beneath the drapes framing the balcony. And which were now all over the place because the doors were open and the wind was blowing them around. I knew this because it was blowing across me, too.

And the sofa I had apparently passed out on.

And the kid who was asleep on my butt.

And something with hard bits that was wedged up my—

I fumbled around underneath me until I found a stuffed werewolf that had been getting way too personal. And then I pried my body off the sofa and shoved the pillow under the little girl’s face, soft side up. And stepped off the couch.

And froze.

Because my foot had just crunched glass.

It was everywhere.

Everywhere.

I suddenly realized that the balcony doors weren’t open, they were
gone
, without even any shards left around the edges. Which probably explained why there was a guard out there, every two feet, smoking and drinking and testing the weight-bearing limits of Dante’s architecture.

Considering who had built this place, I’d have been worried if I were them. But if they were, or if they were freaking out about the events that were just beginning to edge back into my consciousness, they didn’t show it. Rico even winked at me, through a haze of smoke.

I tried winking back, but my eyelid was still gummy and it got stuck.

I sighed. And pried it up. And glanced around to see what else had changed.

Annnnnd it was a lot.

The coffee table was gone, too, with its glass top. And the pictures with their metal frames. And the sconces with their mirrored backs. Even the recessed lights were different, their shiny rims now covered in black duct tape.

I blinked at them for a minute, swaying a little because my butt was still asleep. The clock had been obliterated, so I couldn’t see the time, but it felt like the middle of the night. Looked like it, too, with nothing but darkness and the distant glow of neon visible beyond the balcony. But somebody was cooking, nonetheless, and it smelled . . . oh so good.

I retrieved my slippers from beside the couch and shuffled my way into the lounge.

And discovered that it had been visited by the mad redecorator, too.

The TV was gone, and so was the light over the card table. The nice glassware on the portable bar had been replaced by red Solo cups, upping the I-live-in-a-frat-house ambience to something approaching 100 percent. But the real showstopper was the pool table.

Each of the little balls had been stuffed into somebody’s socks, I guess because they were glass and kind of reflective.

“Don’t you think this is a bit much?” I asked, toting one into the kitchen.

Rhea, who was at the sink, gaped at me for some reason.

“No,” Marco said, not turning from the stove, where he was cooking something in a cast-iron skillet. It matched the black duct tape on everything from the stove knobs to the drawer pulls to the sink faucets. And coordinated with the heavy taupe and black zigzag blanket someone had affixed to the front of the fridge.

“Don’t worry; she always looks like that in the morning,” Fred told Rhea, looking up from chopping a slab of bacon on the cutting board.

“I do when I sleep on the sofa,” I said, vainly trying to pat down my wayward hair. “By the way, why was I on the sofa?”

“Because you wouldn’t let us move you,” Marco told me, finally turning around. And giving me the once-over before shaking his head.

“I wouldn’t
let
you?” I repeated. Marco didn’t usually bother to ask for permission.

“The girls wanted to keep you with them, and when I tried to cart you off to bed anyway, you flailed at me.”

“I did not.”

“You did.” He rolled up the sleeve of his golf shirt to show me a massive bicep and a nonexistent bruise.

“You’ll be telling Mircea I abuse you next.”

“I already tell him that.”

I snorted. And opened my mouth to give him the reply he deserved. But then something was shoved into it.

Something wonderful.

“What—” I asked, after chewing and swallowing.

“Tochitura˘ moldoveneasca˘.”
Marco rolled the sounds over his tongue lovingly, even though that wasn’t Italian.

“And that’s what?”

“This,” Marco said, handing me a flimsy paper plate.

And a plastic spork.

“Oh, come on!”

“It’s only temporary, until I can get somebody in to upgrade the wards.”

“When will that be?”

“Couple hours. We had someone do a hatchet job last night, just in case Jonas managed to find—hup,” he said, and quickly put another few paper plates under the first one, which was quickly soaking through.

“Just in case he managed to find . . . what?”

“Not what. Who,” he corrected. “His boys. Who you shifted . . . where?”

I had a vague recollection of a bunch of angry, half-drowned war mages thrashing their way up a familiar, pebble-strewn beach. Bet it hadn’t been a fun swim with all that hardware, I thought evilly. And then looked up to see Marco cocking a thick black eyebrow at me.

“Lake Mead.”

“Ha!” Fred said.

“It isn’t funny,” I told him, trying not to grin. And it wasn’t, really. This thing with Jonas wasn’t likely to go away just because we changed the wards. Or sent his boys for a surprise midnight swim. I needed to talk to him, right after I figured out what the heck to say.

I sighed and put it on my list.

“You going to eat that, or admire it?” Marco asked me.

I looked down at my plate. There were thick, crispy bacon, lovely meaty sausage, eggs fried in what might be bacon grease if I was lucky, polenta, and some weird white crumbly stuff I couldn’t immediately identify. But overall, an easy nine out of ten.

“Eat it,” I said, and found a stool at the bar.

The crumbly white stuff turned out to be some kind of delicious cheese. Which went really well when mixed with everything else in a gooey mass of heart-attack-inducing awesomeness. I started shoveling it in.

“What did you say this was again?” I asked after a heady few minutes.

“Moldavian breakfast of champions.”

“And you know how to make it why?”

“Horatiu taught me,” Marco said, referring to Mircea’s oldest servant. “It’s from the old country.”

“Old country my ass,” a redheaded charmer named Roy said, coming in. “That’s Southern cooking.”

“Southern Romanian, maybe.”

“Moldavia’s actually to the north,” Fred piped up.

“I don’t care where it is,” Roy said, bending over my plate. “That’s bacon, eggs, and cheese grits. Half the South eats that for breakfast every morning.”

“Well, I learned it from an old Romanian, and I’m pretty sure they had it first,” Marco said, in his don’t-argue-with-me-I’m-the-boss voice. And then he looked down, and his face changed. From hard-ass master vamp to . . . well, I didn’t know exactly what that expression was. But it was soft and he was smiling.

At the barefoot cherub in a crumpled white nightgown who was tugging on his pants leg.

“Phoebe!” Rhea said, quickly coming around the table. “Don’t bother the . . . the man. He’s cooking.”

She reached for her, but the little girl had already been swept up into Marco’s arms, looking impossibly tiny next to my giant of a bodyguard. Whose bicep was bigger around than her whole body. He showed her the contents of the pan. “You want some bacon and eggs?”

She nodded enthusiastically.

“I—was going to make oatmeal,” Rhea said, looking between the two of them.

Marco and the girl wrinkled noses at exactly the same moment, causing me to burst out laughing. And to almost swallow my damn spork. Rhea looked back at me in alarm.

“I don’t think she wants oatmeal,” I told her.

“It . . . it’s just . . .”

“It’s just?”

“That isn’t very healthy,” she blurted, looking at my plate. And then stood there, apparently stricken. And confusing the heck out of me.

Rhea seemed to have some kind of split-personality thing going on that I didn’t understand. One minute, she was telling off dangerous master vampires and the head of the Silver Circle, and the next she was freezing up into Little Miss Meek Voice when she had to talk to me. It was disconcerting. It made me feel like Godzilla. It was also going to be a problem if she didn’t get over it.

I decided to push her a little.

“So you think I shouldn’t be eating this?”

“I . . . No.” She looked startled. “No, I wouldn’t presume to . . . I mean, what the Pythia eats is, of course, her own—”

“But it’s not healthy.”

“It’s . . .” She looked at my plate unhappily. “It’s just . . . well, there’s no vegetables . . .”

“No vegetables in oatmeal, either,” Fred pointed out.

“No, but it’s a whole grain,” she said, glancing at him. And looking relieved to have someone she could actually argue with.

“Polenta’s whole-grain—”

“And oatmeal isn’t cooked in bacon grease!”

“We could add a vegetable,” I said, bringing her attention back to me. “Couldn’t we, Fred?”

He looked at my plate thoughtfully. Vegetables were not Fred’s strong suit. “Well, I guess I could chop up an onion—”

“An onion doesn’t count!” Rhea told him severely.

“Or put half a tomato on the side,” I said, thinking of all the breakfasts I’d seen Pritkin eat. He was supposed to be a health-food nut, and most of the time he lived up to it. But on Sundays he splurged on the most god-awful breakfasts on the face of the earth. I’d kind of gotten the idea that, lately, he’d been making them deliberately horrible just to mess with me.

“The court was in London,” I added. “That’s what the kids are probably used to.”

“Yeah, the Brits got great breakfasts,” Fred enthused. “With that nice thick back bacon—”

“And fried mushrooms—” I added.

“—and fried eggs—” Fred agreed happily.

“—and fried sausages—”

“—and fried bread—”

“You do realize that everything you’ve mentioned is
fried
?” Rhea asked him.

“—and scones swimming in butter,” I said, piling it on.

“Oh, don’t even go there,” Fred told me. “’Cause then you’re gonna need your strawberry jam and your orange marmalade and your clotted cream—”

“Clotted
cream
?” Rhea said, looking horrified.

“And cheesy Welsh rarebit,” he said dreamily. And grinned at me, as if he thought he’d won.

As if.

“Baked beans and toast,” I told him smartly.

“Toad in the hole,” Fred shot back, the light of challenge in his eye.

“Fresh kippers—”

“Scotch eggs—”

“—deviled kidneys—”

“—faggot—”

“—bubble and squeak—”

“—crumpets!” Fred said, starting to look a little worried.

I grinned, because Pritkin was Welsh, and the Welsh eat scary, scary things. “Laver bread,” I said smugly. Nothing like seaweed first thing in the morning.

“Marmite!”

“Kedgeree—”

“Pancakes!”

“Pancakes are American.”

“Shit, shit!”

“Give up?”

“No! No, I—”

“Ticktock, Fred.”

“Marag freaking Dubh!”
Fred said, looking desperate.

And then hopeful, when I hesitated.

And then laughed in his face. “—and fried potatoes!”

“Bullshit!” Fred pointed at me. “Bullshit!”

“What?”

“We already said that!”

“We did not.”

“Yes, we did! We must have! You don’t get to win on fried potatoes!”

“Mmm. Fried potatoes.” I rubbed it in.

“Bullshit!”

“Fried potatoes do not count as a vegetable!” Rhea snapped.

And then suddenly clapped her hand over her mouth, in the realization that she had just yelled at the Pythia. She stared at me for a split second, in something approaching horror, and then ran out of the room. I sighed.

That hadn’t exactly been the response I’d been hoping for.

“What?” Fred asked me. “She wasn’t even playing.”

“See that the kids get fed something,” I told him, and went after her.

I found her in my bedroom, making up the bed. Which seemed kind of a waste, considering the state it was in. “I was going to have the bedspread changed,” I began, only to have her rip it off. “Rhea, it’s okay.”

She shook her head, sending dark curls flying. “It’s not okay! It’s dirty. They should have changed this al—”

“Rhea—”

“—ready, in case you woke up and wanted to—”

“Rhea.”

“—change beds or have a nap or—”

“Rhea!”

She abruptly stopped, clutching the awful bedclothes to her chest and staring at me.

“I don’t need a maid,” I pointed out.

And saw her face crumple. “Then I’m no use to you!”

“No use? You had the vision about Ares.”

“And maybe I was wrong! I don’t know anymore!”

“You weren’t wrong.”

“I don’t—” She caught herself. “Yes, Pythia.”

“Don’t do that!”

She jerked, and flushed guiltily. “I-I’m sorry,” she told me, gray eyes huge, although I doubted she had any idea what she was apologizing for.

“Or that,” I said, moderating my voice. “I don’t need an apology when you haven’t done anything wrong.”

“But you said—”

“That I don’t want a
yes, Pythia
or a
no, Pythia
if that’s not what you really think. I need someone who tells me the truth. Especially now.” I glanced at the door, because no way everybody in the damned apartment couldn’t hear us.

This whole lack-of-privacy thing was really starting to be a bitch.

“The truth is, I don’t have visions,” Rhea blurted as I looked back at her. “I don’t have anything. I was supposed to be a seer—they tested me, and I passed. I passed, and you know they don’t let you stay at the Pythian Court unless you score very high. But then—”