Hunt the Moon

Chapter Nineteen

“That what you call lunch?”

I looked up to see Marco loitering in the doorway of the kitchen, massive arms crossed over an even bigger chest. When Marco fills a doorway, I thought vaguely, he does it right. I wiped chocolate off my mouth and swilled some now-tepid tea. “Only thing here.”

“Gonna make you sick.”

I shrugged.

He sighed and swung a massive thigh over a kitchen chair. It groaned. “Wanna tell Papa Marco about it?”

“You’re not my papa.”

“Coulda been. I had a little girl once.”

I looked up from sorting through the mage’s abandoned candy box, trying to find another cream. “I didn’t know that.”

He nodded. “Kinda looked like you. ’Cept she smiled more.”

I thought briefly about asking what had happened to her, but that sort of thing was risky with vamps. The answer usually didn’t make anybody happy. “I smile,” I said instead.

“Just not today.”

“The damn mage ate all the creams.”

One bushy eyebrow rose. “And here I thought it was that old coot pissing you off.”

“That, too.”

He sat back and the chair shrieked for mercy. “What is it this time?”

I crunched a toffee. “Well, Marco, apparently we’re in the middle of the Norse version of Armageddon and just didn’t know it. Ares, god of war, is out to get us, and the only way to defeat him is to find Hel—the goddess, not the place—who may or may not also be known as Artemis, and may or may not actually be a person instead of a spell or a weapon or a jelly doughnut. But we have to find her, because, despite the fact that the old legends say she defeats Ares, they said the same thing about the ouroboros spell and Apollo, so, clearly, the old legends are whacked.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So Jonas needs to know who or what or where, and expects me to tell him.” I threw my chocolate-stained hands up. “Somehow. See how that works?”

“No.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

“So you’re sittin’ here, eating candy.”

“Chocolate.”

“And that’s different?”

“Candy is candy. Chocolate is therapy.”

“Got plans for this afternoon?”

“Eating more chocolate.”

Marco just shook his head. “You shouldn’t let that old guy get to you. He’s nuts.”

“Yeah.” I was kind of coming around to Marco’s way of thinking.

“Where’d he go off to, anyway?”

“Home.” Or wherever he went when he wasn’t blowing my mind.

“And the mage?”

“Same.” At least, Pritkin had said he was going to his room. I chose to believe him, because if I shifted down there and didn’t find him resting, I was going to lose it. And I was close enough anyway.

“Well, I’m going to bed,” Marco announced, placing massive hands on the table and levering himself to his feet. He didn’t need the help, even in the middle of the day, but vamps like to play martyr when they have to be up past sunrise.

“I thought you went an hour ago.”

“Wanted to wait till everyone cleared out.”

I rolled my eyes. Yeah. Because Jonas or Pritkin might suddenly decide to take a cleaver to my head.

He ruffled my hair and left. I found a coconut cream hiding in the second layer and sucked out the ooey-gooey innards. Things were looking up.

And Marco was probably right about not paying too much attention to Jonas. The guy told me one minute that he knew visions couldn’t be made to order, and then the next he asked for exactly that. I was supposed to hand him Artemis on a silver platter with nothing, absolutely nothing, to go on except a name that might not even be hers.

I’d tried to explain how unlikely that was. Like really, really unlikely. Like not-going-to-happen unlikely. But all he’d done was tell me that he was sure I’d come up with something.

Yeah, right.

To find someone, I’d need at least a photo, preferably something she’d owned and touched, or, even better, a trip to her last known place of residence. And even then, I wasn’t a damn hound dog. I might get a flash of something; I might not. But under the circumstances—

No. Just no. Even assuming Artemis actually existed, even assuming she was a person and not a metaphor, even assuming Jonas hadn’t made up this whole crazy thing in that brilliant but cracked head of his, the answer would still be no. There were no photos, nothing she’d personally owned, and she hadn’t been at her last known place of residence for something like three thousand years.

Not that I wasn’t going to try, because what the hell. But my track record for made-to-order visions wasn’t great. Actually, my track record for made-to-order visions was zero, but Jonas had looked so hopeful, I hadn’t wanted to tell him that.

He’d find out soon enough.

I sighed and sat back, hearing my own chair creak. Probably not a good sign. Probably should lay off the creams, not that there were any left.

I scrubbed my face with my palms, feeling a little light-headed from all the sugar. Maybe ordering some real food might be smart, after all. The phone was on the counter, all of five feet away, but it seemed really far for some reason. I sighed again and followed Marco’s example, putting my hands on the table to lever myself up—

And went in the other direction instead.

The room spun wildly, my legs collapsed underneath me and I dropped like a stone. Something shot overhead as I hit the tile, and a loud crack reverberated around the kitchen. I looked up, dizzy and confused and wondering why there was a knife bisecting the back of my chair.

I stared for a split second at the shiny, shiny blade, which was still quivering, slinging little shards of light around the room. And then I shifted.

Or I tried. But the woozy feeling that had sent me to the floor made it hard to concentrate, and when I finally did feel the familiar swoop catching me, it stuttered and jerked and wobbled and fractured. And the next thing I knew, I was kneeling by the fridge, staring at a familiar pair of glossy black shoes.

The vamps should have told him, I thought vaguely; they were totally the wrong color for the season.

And then one of them kicked me in the head.

It hurt like a bitch, despite the fact that I’d dodged at the last second and it only clipped my ear. I grabbed the fridge door and swung it open, hard, just as three more enchanted knives ripped through the flimsy material. Stainless steel, my ass.

I’d have been dead, but I was on my knees and the knives burst through overhead, shattering plastic and breaking condiments, before slamming into something behind me. I couldn’t see—literally—because I’d just gotten a face full of pickle juice. I blinked it away to find that the knives had also exploded some hot sauce, forever ruining my blouse, which concerned me less than the eyes peering at me through the lacerated fridge door.

They had been my would-be date’s best feature, a soft, melting, cornflower blue that had looked a little girlie for a war mage. That wasn’t so much a problem now. I stared into something cold and black and boiling, and then I threw the rest of the hot sauce at them and scrambled away on all fours.

The mage screamed and it was nothing human, but a high-pitched, keening cry of pure rage. The eyes had been a big clue, but that sealed it. Whatever had possessed me before must have hitched a ride in a new body, obviously with the idea of finishing what it had started.

Awesome.

I scrambled for cover behind the table, eyes burning, head spinning and fingers fumbling for the little pouch Pritkin had made for me—only to remember that I didn’t have it anymore. Goddamned Niall! If I lived, I was going to send him back to the desert—this time the freaking Gobi.

I jerked open a cabinet door and crawled inside.

It wasn’t as crazy as it sounds. I had to find something made of iron and I had to do it quick. It was either that or use the only weapon I had on me, and while I’d killed when I had no other choice, it had never been some poor schmuck who nobody had bothered to tell that dating me was a hazardous occupation.

I really didn’t want to send him back to Jonas in a body bag. I really, really didn’t. Even when knives started slamming through the cabinets and ricocheting back and forth in the small space like BBs in a jar. They also let in slivers of light that glinted off pots and pans and colanders and bowls, all nice, modern, worthless stainless without an iron skillet in the bunch.

And then a knife bisected a water line under the sink, spewing me in the face.

I was only blinded for a second, but it was long enough for a hand to reach in and jerk me out—by the hair. It hurt bad enough to bring tears to my eyes, but it also left me with an opportunity. Fucking Sahara, I thought viciously, and then I grabbed a knife out of a block and slashed—my own curls.

The sudden loss of his handhold caused the mage to stumble. And then my foot in his ass caused him to sprawl on the floor. And then I stepped on his shoulders and heard his face smack against the tile as I ran full out for the hall, screaming for Billy and my useless, useless bodyguards—

I didn’t make it.

Halfway there, a blast picked me up and sent me hurtling toward the far wall of the lounge. My feet left the floor, my head hit the wall and pain lanced through my skull. But that wasn’t the main problem. That would be the film of what felt like hard plastic flattening me against the dark red wallpaper like a bug under cellophane.

Make that shrink-wrapped cellophane, because in another second it had molded to every inch of my body, including my nose and mouth and eyes. I struggled furiously, feeling the possessed mage approach, even though I couldn’t turn my head to see him. I also couldn’t twitch a finger or contract my throat to swallow or blink my drying eyes or—

Or anything.

Suddenly, it was like being in the bathtub all over again, unable to move or breathe or even to cry out for help. And isn’t that just the wrong analogy? I thought, as stark terror hit me like a fist. My heart sped out of control, my palms started sweating, and my stomach twisted violently, until I was sure I was going to be sick right here.

In desperation, I tried to shift, because I needed to go only a foot or so. But this time, nothing happened. I could close my eyes and see the bright, familiar energy, like an ocean of power sparkling in the sunlight. But I couldn’t reach it. It was trapped by the weird, cottony feeling in my head, just like the bracelet that formed my only weapon lay locked tight and useless between me and the wall.

And then the mage came up alongside.

The pleasant-looking face didn’t look so pleasant anymore, distorted by the thick, wavy barrier like an image in a fun house mirror. But I could see him pretty well anyway, because he bent close, close, so very close. Like he wanted to see my expression at the end.

Only the end didn’t come.

Of course not, I thought blankly. Why waste the energy to kill me when all he had to do was stand by and watch me suffocate? I was trapped like an animal, splayed out like a trophy already mounted on the wall. Any minute now I was going to go from living human being to useless piece of meat, those pitch-black eyes watching as my spirit finally gave up the fight and left my lifeless—

My spirit.

Some idea skittered across my brain, just out of reach. I couldn’t grasp it, could barely think at all, because I was panicking—oh yes, I was—even though someone had warned me about that, had said it was the very best way to die in a situation where you didn’t have to. And he’d said something else, something he’d pounded into my head so many times I’d gotten sick of the very word—

An image of a pair of furious green eyes floated across my vision. Assess. The problem. Now.

Okay, okay. For some reason, help couldn’t get to me, so I needed to get to help.

Address.

But I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. Not an inch, so how could I—

But that wasn’t right. My body couldn’t move. My spirit was a totally different thing. Because I was Pythia. And Pythias could leave their bodies, could shift into other people’s, could—

But I couldn’t shift, at least not now. And that meant I couldn’t reach the safety of another body, couldn’t do anything except...

Step out.

Yes, I could do that. I could just leave my body behind as if I’d already died. But since I hadn’t yet, it should serve as an anchor holding me to this world. But I didn’t really see the point, as it would leave me merely an unhoused spirit, no better than a ghost. Worse, in fact, since a ghost had a renewable source of energy, and mine would be left behind as soon as I—

As soon as—

As soon—

I couldn’t think, couldn’t finish the thought, because I was losing consciousness. And that meant end and that meant fail and that meant death, and whatever I was going to do, I had to do it, I had to—

Act.

And then I was stumbling backward, dizzy and disoriented and sick, but not as sick as when I caught sight of my body. Tiny and pale and helpless, it lay huddled against the wall, hair smushed around distorted features, face bleached bone white out of fear. The same fear that had one hand locked, white-knuckled, on the edge of a door, a door it couldn’t go through.

But I could, and I didn’t waste any time, diving past the mage and my own almost corpse and into the blessed darkness of the hall.

I called for Billy, desperately, because if anyone knew about these kinds of things, it was him. But either he was out for the count or he’d gone off somewhere, because I didn’t even get a blip in response. This time, it looked like I was on my own.

That was true even when I finally found my bodyguards hanging out in a spare bedroom, playing poker. And weren’t they just looking relaxed. Ties were loosened, collars were popped and a bucket of ice sat on the floor with a dozen frosty longnecks poking out of the top. I guess so they wouldn’t have to make the huge trek all the way to the kitchen.

Where, you know, they might have seen someone trying to kill me.

“Comfy?” I asked harshly, but of course nobody heard.

I watched them play cards for a second, happy and carefree and unconcerned about the knife-wielding mage prowling the apartment or my trip to la-la land or anything but their stupid, stupid game, which I sent flying with a sudden swipe of my hand. Bills fluttered, chips flew, and cards reshuffled themselves all over the floor. And that was before I tipped over their damn card table.

Of course, I knew this wasn’t how it was supposed to work. The name of the game for ghosts was to preserve energy. To guard every tiny scrap carefully, jealously, spending it in little dribs and drabs and only when absolutely necessary. Because to run out was to die.

But I was about to die anyway, and I didn’t give a crap about the rules. I wasn’t trying to conserve energy; I was spending it all in one last, crazy spree. At least I’ll go out with a bang, I thought, laughing hysterically. And then I grabbed a beer and threw it at the nearest vamp’s head.

I missed, but it made a satisfying thump when it hit the wall, so I did it again. And again and again as the vamps stumbled back, knocking over chairs and staring around wildly. Several pulled guns, but they had nothing to shoot.

“Why do I have bodyguards, huh?” I yelled, throwing a bottle against the dresser, which exploded with a satisfying crash.

“What is the freaking point?” Another hit the mirror, leaving a big web of cracks radiating out from the center.

“We have to watch you sleep, Cassie!” Thud.

“And eat, Cassie!” Bang.

“And paint your freaking toenails, Cassie!” Smash.

“And dog your every step, Cassie!” Splinter.

“But when someone is actually trying to kill me, what the hell are you doing?” A bottle took out the overhead fixture, shattering the decorative shell and raining sparks down onto the already freaked-out vampires.

And then I stopped, not because I’d run out of things to say, but because one of the vamps had caught sight of the mysteriously floating beer bottle. And it seemed to piss him off. “I have had enough of this shit,” he announced viciously, lining up a shot.

I didn’t bother moving; I just waggled the bottle provocatively. “Want it, motherfucker? Want it? Then come get it!” And then I ran like hell.

A bullet smashed into the wall beside me, another shattered a hallway light and a third tore through a pretty little painting, drilling the girl on the swing straight between the eyes. I didn’t care; I was more concerned about the girl on the wall, who was looking pretty damn blue and pretty damn dead. I stopped for a split second, staring in horror at my slack features and my lifeless face, and then I was merging with my poor abused body and—

Nothing.

Blackness.

Cold.

So cold.

Silence.

Until someone started screaming. “Don’t you die, don’t you die, don’t you fucking die on me—”

And someone was pounding my chest and someone else was forcing smoke-flavored breath down my throat, and he really needed to gargle because that was just gross, and then I was choking and gasping and flailing weakly and Marco was dragging me against his huge, rapidly moving chest. “Are you all right? Are you fucking all right?” he yelled right in my face.

“Urp,” I said brilliantly. And then I threw up on him.