Hunt the Moon
Page 15

“Well, cut it out. It isn’t funny!”
“On what planet?”
I glared at him, which did no good, because he simply went back to tinkering with the phone. So I looked at Marco. “Can’t you do anything with them?”
Marco flopped a hand at me, tears streaming down his reddened cheeks, and tried to say something. But all that came out for several moments were asthmatic wheezes. I bent over his prone form, starting to worry about him, and he put a hand on my neck and pulled me down.
“It . . . is . . . funny,” he gasped.
I stood back up and smacked him on his rocklike shoulder. “Bastard.”
Jonas was coming out of the lounge when I turned around, dragging Niall by the arm. “Now, now,” he told the younger mage. “Don’t fuss.”
“We have ten days, Jonas,” he said. “When I frankly doubt that ten months would be enough! She looks about twelve, except for the, uh . . .” he gestured up and down at my offensive curves. “Her clothes are wrong, her makeup is wrong—”
“Those are bruises!” I told him indignantly.
“And her hair is . . .” He bent closer, squinting at it in the lights. “Why is your hair green?”
“It’s a fashion statement.”
“It’s hideous. And even if it weren’t . . . tinted . . . or whatever you did to it, it still wouldn’t do. We haven’t had a blond Pythia before; it’s simply not what people expect to see. And, frankly, it doesn’t suit you.”
“It’s my natural color!”
“Then it’s naturally hideous. And this”—he tugged at my curls—“will have to go.”
“If you touch me one more time—” I said softly.
“I’ll make you an appointment with a hairdresser who understands that we need suave. We need sophisticated. We need—well, someone else, obviously, but—”
“Niall. I really think that will do for today,” Jonas said, watching my face.
“And what is this?” He took the fine, starched handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to fish Pritkin’s amulet from my shirt. “And if all that weren’t enough, she smells!”
“Let it go,” I told him, my voice low and even.
“I’ll let it go,” he told me grimly, ripping it off my neck. “Straight into the nearest trash bin, along with whatever other hippie-dippie nonsense you—”
“Oh, dear,” Jonas said.
I blinked, staring at the spot where the officious mage had just been. Because he wasn’t there any longer. “Damn,” one of the vamps said.
“What happened?” I asked, feeling myself start to panic. Because the mage wasn’t anywhere in sight.
“Well, on the bright side, we weren’t scheduled to cover that for another month,” Jonas said. “We’re making fine progress, it would seem.”
“Jonas! What happened?”
“Hm? Oh, well, as you know, you can move through space as well as time. What you haven’t yet learned is that you can move other things, too. And people.”
“But . . . but where did I move him to?”
He blinked at me owlishly from behind his thick glasses. “I haven’t the faintest. Can you see him?”
“Can I—” I broke off, because suddenly I could. A furious little mage in the middle of a great, big desert, a black snake of a highway a few hundred yards off. And nothing else but dirt and scrub for what looked like miles.
“I think he’s in a desert.”
“Would you happen to know which one?”
“I . . . no. There’s a road, but—”
“Oh, well. That’s all right, then.” He patted my arm.
“Jonas! How do I get him back?”
“Yes, well, we’ll get to that, of course. But for right now”—his glasses gleamed—“it might be as well to leave him be. Agnes had to do that a time or two, as I recall, to his predecessor. It’s no end of use in teaching them manners, you know.”
He tucked my arm in his and we walked to the door, my head still spinning. “By the way, you haven’t had any visions about a wolf, have you? Or a large dog?”
“You mean a Were?”
“No, no. I don’t think so. Of course, it could be, but that would be a little too easy, wouldn’t it?”
“I’m . . . I’m not really sure what you—”
He took my hand and bent over it with old-fashioned courtesy. “If you do see anything like that, anything at all, you will let me know, won’t you?”
“I—Yes. Of course.”
He looked up and those vague blue eyes were suddenly anything but, and the expression on that usually jovial face was almost scary. “Right away, Cassie.”
I nodded, a little freaked-out, and suddenly he was all smiles again. “Enjoy your date,” he told me, and left.
Marco closed the door and we stood there, staring at each other. “Mages,” he said in disgust. “They get weirder every year.”
And I couldn’t really argue with that one.
Chapter Eight
“You are sure you’re ready?” Mircea asked me.
It was seven hours later and several decades earlier, and I wasn’t sure of a damn thing. My hands were sweaty and my stomach hurt and I was starting to rethink my dress choice for the evening. I’d already rethought it once, going with the red silk, which had seemed chic and sophisticated in the shop. But now I thought the top might be a little low, and I hadn’t had time to have it altered, so it was too tight in some places and too loose in others, and I wasn’t sure that the color looked that great with my hair, especially since I hadn’t gotten all the green out yet, and—
“I’m fine,” I said tightly.
Mircea gave me a look that said I wasn’t fooling anyone. But he pressed the doorbell nonetheless. And at least he looked like he belonged here.
His dark hair was sleek and shining, confined in a discreet clip at his nape. His black tuxedo fit his broad shoulders like a glove, the material soft and sheened as only truly fine wool can be. He’d paired it with a crisp white Frenchcuff shirt with small gold links that glinted under the lights. They were carved with the emblem of a royal house, although he hardly needed them. Nobody was ever going to mistake him for anything but what he was.
Apparently the butler agreed, because despite not having an invitation, we were ushered straight into the party taking up most of the ground floor of a swanky London mansion. There were a lot of gleaming hardwood and glittering chandeliers and softly draped fabrics and fine carpets, and I barely noticed any of them. Because across the main salon was a small, dark-haired woman in red. And by her side was . . .
“She is beautiful,” Mircea said, snagging us champagne from a passing tray.
I didn’t say anything. I clutched the flute he handed me, feeling a strange sense of detachment. I could feel the cool crystal under my fingertips, taste the subtle bite of the alcohol, but it seemed distant, unreal, like the people crowding all around us. I heard the soft sounds of their laughter and the conversation that swelled and ebbed, like the notes someone was playing on a distant piano. But none of it mattered.
Not compared to the tall girl in the bad eighties ball gown, standing by the side of the former Pythia.
Her dress was electric blue satin with big, puffy sleeves and a peplum. There was a lace overlay on the top and little jeweled buttons down the front. Her shoes were dyed to match. It was absolutely awful, like something a bridezilla would stick on a too-pretty bridesmaid. Yet somehow she carried it off. The blue matched the color of her eyes and complemented her dark hair and pale skin. And when she laughed, you forgot all about the dress, didn’t even see it.
Because you couldn’t take your eyes off her face.
An arm slipped around my waist. “Dulceata, I do not think you want to get so close.”
I suddenly realized that I was halfway across the room, although I couldn’t remember moving. Mircea pulled me off to one side, near a row of floor-length windows that looked out into the night. The one in front of us was as good as a mirror, allowing me to stare at the girl’s reflection without being so obvious.
Mircea is right, I thought blankly. She was beautiful. And delicate and fragile and poised.
She looked nothing at all like me.
“I don’t agree,” he murmured. A warm finger trailed down my cheekbone, tracing the track of a tear I couldn’t remember shedding. “There’s a similarity in the bone structure, in the shape of the eyes, the contour of the lips. . . .”
“I don’t see it,” I said harshly, gulping champagne and wondering why I was suddenly, blindingly angry.
“You said you were prepared for this,” he said, pulling me against him.
His chest was hard at my back, but his arms were gentle. I felt myself relax into his embrace, even knowing what he was doing. All vampires could manipulate human emotions to a degree, but Mircea could practically play me like a violin. It was a combination of natural talent and more knowledge of what made me tick than I probably had. But for once, I didn’t care. I clutched the familiar feeling of warmth and comfort around me like a blanket and told myself to stop being an idiot.
I didn’t know why I was reacting this way. I’d known in advance what she looked like. I’d seen a photo of her once, a faded, grainy thing taken at a distance. But it had been clear enough to show me the truth.
I didn’t resemble my mother in the slightest.
“I’m fine,” I told him, my throat tight, only to feel him sigh against my back.
“You are not fine, dulceata. You are feeling anger, loss, betrayal—”
“I don’t have any reason to feel betrayed.”
“She abandoned you when you were a child—”
“She died, Mircea!”
“Yes, but the fact remains that she left. And hurt you in the process.”