Hunt the Moon
Page 8

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.”
I smiled a little at that, as I was supposed to. “So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is that it don’t work. Every time he turns around, somebody or something is able to get to you. And it has him scared. And he’s not used to feeling scared. It’s been so long, I’m not even sure he knows what it is.”
“Must be nice,” I muttered.
“I don’t think he’s finding it so nice,” Marco said drily.
I didn’t say anything, because there was nothing to say. I didn’t know how to reassure Mircea; I didn’t even know how to reassure myself. I was supposed to be this great clairvoyant, but I never saw anything good, just death and destruction.
I really hoped that wasn’t because that was all there was to see.
“I’m teaching the new guys how to lose at poker,” Marco said. “Want me to deal you in?”
I shook my head. “I suck at it.”
“Even better. They could use a chance to win some back.”
“So you can take that, too?”
He stood up with the liquid grace all vampires have, which was always surprising on a man of his size. “That’s the plan.”
“I’ll take a rain check,” I told him as he helped me up. But I followed him into the lounge.
Before I moved in, the suite had been used for whales, people with more money than sense who were comped expensive rooms because they lost a hundred times the price at the tables every night. This particular one had been popular because it included a small lounge area off the dining room with a pool table, which the guards had all but confiscated for themselves. They were usually there when they weren’t watching me paint my toenails or something, playing pool or, like now, clustered around a card table.
Marco rejoined the poker game and I passed through into the kitchen. There was no aspirin to be had, because vamps don’t get headaches. There was beer, but the way my head felt, I was already in for it tomorrow, so I left Marco’s Dos Equis alone.
I wandered around a bit, because it was too hot to sleep, and found a sofa-shaped hole in the living room window that was trying to air-condition Nevada. No wonder it was hot. A couple of the guards must have heard me swearing, because they stuck their heads in the door and stared at me for a moment, their fire-lit eyes glowing against the dark.
I went out onto the balcony.
It wasn’t nearly as large as the one on the penthouse upstairs, which had room for a pool, a wet bar and a dozen or so partyers. But I’d managed to squeeze in a lounge chair and a small side table, and had hung a set of wind chimes from the railing. They were tinkling now in the breeze blowing off the desert. It was hot, but marginally better than the slow roast I’d been doing inside.
We were too far up to hear traffic, so it was still eerily quiet. But, then, it always was here. The vamps didn’t need to talk aloud and often no one did for hours, unless I asked them a direct question. I didn’t watch TV much, unless it was in my room, and the one time I’d turned on the radio, several of them put on such pained faces that I’d quickly turned it off.
On a good day, it felt like living in a museum, but not as a visitor. It was more like being one of the exhibits a bunch of silent guards watched in case some bandit makes off with it. Tonight it was slowly driving me crazy.
After a few minutes, I went back inside, glancing at the clock on the way. It had somehow survived the carnage, and it said nine thirty. I hadn’t slept long at all, then. Technically, it was still too late to be calling anyone, but maybe—
The phone rang.
I jumped back, barely stifling a yelp, because my nerves were just that bad. And then I stared at it, hoping someone would pick up in the next room so I wouldn’t have to be all cheerful. But no one did pick up. And then Marco appeared in the doorway, a longneck in one hand and five cards in the other.
“You gonna get that or what?” he asked, his tone more curious than annoyed.
I got it. “Hello?”
“What are you doing up?”
Pritkin’s irritated voice made me smile and I turned away so Marco wouldn’t see it. “Answering the phone.”
“Very funny. Why aren’t you asleep? It’s after one.”
I glanced at the clock again. I guess it hadn’t survived, after all. “It’s hot.”
“It’s always bloody hot here,” he agreed, to my surprise. I’d never heard him complain about it, but I guessed for someone used to England’s climate, Vegas in August would kind of suck. And thanks to me, his bedroom had a big hole in it, too.
“Don’t you have anything cold to drink?” he demanded.
“Beer.”
He snorted. “You’re going to have a murderous hangover as it is. Call room service.”
“I could do that,” I agreed.
He waited. I didn’t say anything, because I wasn’t that pathetic. There was no emergency, and what was I going to tell him? I’m hot and bored and freaked-out, and I want to talk to someone with a pulse?
Yeah, that sounded mature. That sounded like a Pythia. I didn’t—
“That the mage?” Marco asked impatiently, like he couldn’t hear every word we uttered.
“Yeah.”
“He coming over?”
“Yes,” Pritkin said, surprising me again.
“Then tell him to bring beer,” Marco said. “We’re almost out, and the damn room service around this place sucks ass.”
“He said—”
“I heard.” Pritkin rang off without saying good-bye, or anything else at all. So I didn’t know why I was smiling as I went to the kitchen to make sure we had enough clean glasses.
“Damn it,” Marco said. “You didn’t tell him what kind. He’ll probably bring one of those weird English beers.”
“Ale,” one of the other vamps said darkly.
“Shit.”
They went back to their game while I washed up. Because, apparently, master vampires would carry out garbage, but they drew the line at dishpan hands. Not that there were a lot, since most of my meals came on room service carts these days.
I finished up and went to try again to get a comb through my potion-stained curls. I was still working on it when the doorbell rang. I gave up, pulled my hair back into a limp ponytail and went into the kitchen. Pritkin was already there, unpacking a couple of brown paper grocery bags.
“Foster’s,” he told Marco, who was peering into one suspiciously.
The vamp looked relieved. “It’s even cold.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I thought you Brits liked it hot.”
“Hot beer?” Pritkin looked revolted.
“That’s the rumor.”
“Because we don’t drink it iced over, thereby leaching right out whatever flavor you Yanks accidentally left in?”
“Ooh, touchy,” Marco said, and swiped the beer.
I looked in the other bag, but saw only a bunch of little boxes. I pulled one out, and it was tea. After a moment, I realized that they all were: peppermint, chamomile, green, black . . . It was like he’d bought out the store.
“You need something to calm your nerves that isn’t going to knock you out,” he told me.
“I don’t think tea is going to cut it,” I said drily. “Not with my life.”
A blond eyebrow rose. “You’d be surprised.”
He came up with a kettle I hadn’t known we possessed and proceeded to do tea-type things with it. I took an apple out of a bowl and set it on the table. “So you think it was Fey?” I asked, because I hadn’t gotten many details before I passed out.
“I don’t know what it was,” Pritkin said, looking like the confession pained him. “The Fey do not have a spirit form, yet your attacker was incorporeal. And you were able to give me a description—a fairly good one for so short a glimpse.”
“Why does that matter?”
“It matters because if it was Fey, you should have seen nothing.”
“You saw something,” I said, concentrating. A fragile bubble closed over the fruit, no more substantial than the ones the dish soap had left in the sink. And by the look of things, no more effective.
“I have a small amount of Fey blood,” Pritkin said, glancing at it. “It sometimes allows me to detect when they are near, although it isn’t a reliable skill. In some instances, however, a Fey under a glamourie might look like what I saw—a dark cloud. That’s why I threw the nunchucks to you.” His lips twisted. “That and the fact that I was out of other ideas.”