Hunt the Moon
Page 9

“Maybe I have a little Fey blood.” I didn’t really know enough about my family to know what I might have.
“You don’t.”
“How do you know? Can you see that, too?”
“I don’t have to. If you had so much as a drop, the Fey family you belonged to could claim you. And then you wouldn’t have just the Circle and the Senate fighting over you; you’d have them, as well.”
He was talking about the Silver Circle, the world’s leading magical association, which ruled over the human part of the supernatural community the way the Senate did the vamps. It was used to having the line of Pythias firmly under its protective thumb. That had been fairly easy, as the power of the office usually went to whomever the previous Pythia had trained, and that was always a proper little Circle-raised initiate. Or it was until me. The last heir to the Pythian throne, a sibyl named Myra, had also turned out to be a homicidal bitch, and the power had decided on another option.
The Circle had been less than thrilled by its choice, but we’d finally come to terms. As in, they were no longer trying to play Whac-A-Mole with my head. Only now they seemed to think they had the right to make sure that nobody else did, either. That was a problem, because the vampires felt the same way and the Senate didn’t share well.
The last thing I needed was another group in the mix.
“I have absolutely no Fey blood,” I said fervently.
“Trust me, they have checked,” Pritkin told me. “And you don’t. But that means you should have seen nothing.”
“Okay, I get that. I saw it, so it can’t be Fey. But it also wasn’t demon or ghost or human or Were. So what’s left?”
“That’s the question.” He leaned one hand on the table. “But the fact remains that it was driven off by cold iron. And only one species, to my knowledge, is so affected. Of course, it could have been a coincidence that it chose that precise moment to leave, but—”
“But that’s a hell of a coincidence.”
“Yes.” He looked at the bubble, which was shivering as if someone were blowing on it. “What are you doing?”
The fragile shell burst, dissipating without so much as a pop. I sighed. “Nothing.” Obviously.
“What were you trying to do?”
I repressed a sudden urge to pound the fruit into pulp. “Age it,” I said tersely. “Jonas said Agnes could take an apple from a seed to a shriveled mass and back again, running through its whole lifetime in a few seconds.”
Pritkin took in the apple, which was plump and round and perfect and had a healthy red blush. Just like all the others in the little bowl. Just like I’d never done anything at all. “You’re tired.”
“And I’m never going to be attacked when I’m tired.”
He frowned. “Taking yourself to the brink of exhaustion is not a good idea.”
“So says the man who ran me halfway around a mountain today.”
“That was before we knew you have a threat that can walk through wards. You should have been safe to recuperate here.”
Safe. Yeah, like I’d ever been safe anywhere. I turned around and abruptly left the kitchen.
Chapter Five
The balcony was still hot and still creepy, the latter mostly due to the sign flickering on and off overhead, not in any pattern, but like it was about to go out. It wasn’t broken; the hotel had a hell theme, and the sign was supposed to do that. Sort of a Bates Motel pastiche, which was usually a little disturbing. But tonight, it fit my mood perfectly.
Pritkin followed me out. He didn’t say anything, just handed me a cold Coke he’d dug up from somewhere. I guess the tea wasn’t ready.
I took it without comment, feeling absurdly grateful. I didn’t really want to talk. I’d wanted him here, but I wasn’t sure why. Maybe just to have someone to drink with. Actually, that sounded pretty good at the moment. I sat on the seat of the chaise and he sat on the foot, and we just drank at each other for a while.
After a few minutes, he leaned back against the railing, like maybe he wanted a backrest, and I shifted my feet over to make room. But I guess I didn’t shift far enough, because a large, warm hand covered my right foot, adjusting it slightly. And then it just stayed there, like he’d forgotten to remove it.
I looked at it. Pritkin’s hands were oddly refined compared to the rest of him: strong but long fingered, with elegant bones and short-clipped nails. They always looked like they’d wandered off from some fine gentleman, one they’d probably like to get back to, because God knew they weren’t getting a manicure while attached to him.
There were potion stains on them tonight, green and brown, probably from the earlier encounter. I wondered if they’d wash off skin faster than hair. Probably.
I laid my head back against the plastic slats and looked up at the horror-movie sign. A breeze blew over the balcony, setting the wind chimes tinkling faintly. It was still hot, but I found I didn’t mind so much.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” he finally asked.
“How do you know anything is?”
He shot me a look. “You’re up at one a.m. after a day that would have put most marines down for the count. You’re pale and restless. And something unknown tried to kill you a few hours ago and almost succeeded. Have I missed anything?”
Actually, yes, he had, but I didn’t want to talk about it.
I rolled the can around in my palms, trying to cool off, which might have worked if it hadn’t already gotten warm. I put it down, but then I didn’t have anything to do with my hands. And that wasn’t good, because any minute now, they were going to start shaking again.
I picked up a battered old tarot deck off a side table. “I’m fine,” I told him tersely.
“Of course you are. You’re one of the strongest people I know.”
It took me a second to process that, because he’d said it so casually. Like he was talking about the weather or what time it was. Only Pritkin didn’t say things like that. His idea of a compliment was a nod and to tell me to do whatever it was I’d just done over again. Like that was usually possible.
But that had sounded suspiciously like a compliment to me.
God, I must look bad.
I flipped the deck for a while. It was old and faintly greasy, but it felt good in my hand. It felt right.
Pritkin looked a question at me. “It’s . . . sort of a nervous habit,” I told him.
He held out a hand, and I passed the cards over. He turned the pack around a few times, concentrating. “It carries an enchantment.”
“A friend had it done for me as a birthday present, a long time ago. It’s . . . a little eccentric.”
“Eccentric?”
I took the deck back. I didn’t try to do a spread—that was just asking for trouble. I merely opened the top and a card popped out—thankfully, only one. Otherwise, they tried to talk over each other.
“The Moon reversed,” a sweet, soothing voice told me, before I shoved it back into the pack.
“Was that . . . it?” Pritkin asked, looking a bit nonplussed.
“It doesn’t do regular readings,” I explained. “It’s more like . . . like a magical weather vane. It gives the general climate for the coming days or weeks.”
“And what kind of weather can we be expecting?”
“The Moon reversed indicates a pattern or a cycle that is about to repeat itself.”
“A good cycle?”
“If it was, I sure as hell wouldn’t see it,” I muttered.
That got me a cocked eyebrow.
“I don’t see the good stuff,” I explained briefly. “Anyway, the cards can be read a number of different ways. But normally the Moon reversed points to a dark time, like the dark side of the moon, you know?”
“How dark?”
“That depends. From a personal standpoint, it often indicates a time of deep feelings, confusion, long-buried emotions coming to the surface—”
“And from a larger perspective? A national perspective?”
“People with dark purposes, order moving into chaos, wars, revolutions, riots.”
“Fairly dark, then,” he said drily.
“Usually,” I admitted, before adding the standard disclaimer. “But tarot is an indicator, not an absolute. Nothing about the future is decided until it happens. We create it every day by the choices we make, good or bad.”
Pritkin’s lips twisted cynically. “But so does everyone else. And not all of them are striving for the same things, are they?”
“No,” I said, thinking of the war. I picked up my Coke and took a sip before remembering that warm Coke tastes like battery acid. I set it down again.
“There’s a calendar on the fridge,” I commented, after a while.
Pritkin didn’t say anything.
“I don’t know how they got it to stay up there. I mean, it’s stainless. Nothing sticks to that stuff.”
He drank beer.
“But it’s there. And I see it every day. Right after I get up, I go get a Coke or whatever, and it’s—” I licked my lips.
“The coronation.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah.”
Sort of. In fact, it was a lot of things: problems learning about my power, the refusal of the Senate or the Circle to take me seriously, the lack of any useful visions about the war and now the fact that someone was trying to kill me. Again.
But the coronation would do. It had become a symbol for everything, the whole damn mess coming to a head, the fast-approaching day when I, Cassie Palmer, would be presented as the seer of seers to the supernatural world. Which would probably take one look and laugh their collective asses off.
Not that I blamed them. Two months ago—a little less, actually—I’d been a secretary in a travel agency. I’d answered phones. I’d filed stuff. I’d picked up the boss’s freaking dry cleaning.
On my days off, I worked as a tarot reader, because a couple of bucks an hour over minimum wage doesn’t pay the bills. Only that hadn’t paid them all that well, either, because people didn’t like my readings. Nobody really wanted to know the future; they wanted reassurance, hope, a reason to get up in the morning. At the time, I hadn’t understood that; I’d thought forewarned was forearmed.