Hunt the Moon

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.

Now I understood why I hadn’t had too many repeat customers. Now I’d have liked a little reassurance myself, even if it was a lie. And I really, really didn’t want to see tomorrow.

Ironic that it was my job now.

“It’s a formality,” Pritkin said firmly, watching my face. “You’ve been Pythia since your predecessor’s passing.”

“Technically. But I haven’t really had to do anything yet, have I?”

He frowned. “You haven’t had to do anything?”

“Well, you know. Nothing important.”

“You killed a god!”

I rolled my eyes. “You make it sound like I dueled him or something. When you know damn well we flushed him down a metaphysical toilet.”

Pritkin shrugged. “Dead is dead.”

He tended to be practical about these things.

Of course, so did I when the creature in question planned a literal scorched-earth policy, starting with me. But that wasn’t the point. “I just meant that no one’s expected me to do anything as Pythia,” I explained. “But the coronation is coming up, and you know as soon as it’s over . . . and I can’t even age a damn apple!”

I started to get up, but that hand tightened on my foot. I wanted to pace, needed to let off some of the nervous energy that kept me from eating half the time, kept me from sleeping. And just when I told myself I was being paranoid and everything would be fine, something tried to drown me in the goddamned bathtub.

But I didn’t get up. Because then I’d lose that brief, human connection. A connection that shouldn’t have been there, because Pritkin wasn’t the touchy-feely type. He touched me in training, when he had to, and grabbed me in the middle of crises. But I actually couldn’t recall him ever touching me just . . . because.

I sat back again. The damn balcony wasn’t big enough for pacing, anyway.

“And yet, from what Jonas tells me, you shift with more alacrity than Lady Phemonoe ever did,” he said, using Agnes’s reign title. “And the power is the power. If you can use it for one application, it would seem logical—”

“Yeah, except it doesn’t work that way. At least not for me.”

“It’s only been a month, whereas most heirs—”

“Train for years. And that’s just it. I don’t feel like I’ll ever catch up. And even if I do, nobody is going to listen to me!”

“And why not? You’re Pythia.”

“No, I’m some kind of . . . of trophy to be fought over. At least that’s how I’m treated. So if I do get a flash of something, something useful, something important, who the hell is going to pay attention?”

“The opposition, apparently. They seem to insist on paying you a great deal of attention.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“And you don’t find that strange? If you’re so powerless?”

I shrugged. “I’m still Pythia. Killing me would—”

“Would what?” he demanded. “Say they had succeeded tonight. What would it have gained them? When the power leaves you at your death, it simply goes to another host, probably one of the Initiates. There’s no gain for the opposition there; in fact, they might have reason to view it as a loss. For the moment, the Initiates are probably better trained.”

“Thanks,” I said, even though it was true.

“Then the question remains: why you?” he asked, leaning forward with that sense of pleased urgency he always got when debating. I tried not to take it personally; Pritkin just liked to argue. “Why are they still concentrating on you?”

“Why have they been for the last two months?” I countered. “Apollo—”

“Was focused on you, yes. But only because he had to be. He wanted to use your pentagram ward as a direct line to your power. It was the one thing that would allow him to break through the barrier and exact revenge on those who had banished him.”

I unconsciously rolled my shoulders, stretching the skin between the blades, where my ward had sat ever since my mother put it on me as a child. The big, saucer-shaped thing had never been pretty, and had somehow ended up lopsided and droopy, like something a tattoo artist had done after a late-night bender. But it had felt like a part of me.

It didn’t now. Ever since Apollo’s attempt to find a way back into the world his kind had once misruled, everyone had been freaked out about it. They were afraid I might be captured with it on my body, allowing our enemies to use it to drain my power. So it remained in a velvet case on my dressing table, like a discarded piece of jewelry.

I’d thought I’d get used to its absence after a while, the way you get used to a tooth that’s been pulled. But so far, that hadn’t happened. It was funny; I’d never been able to feel the ward, which had no more weight than the tattoo it resembled. But I could feel its absence, could trace the path where the lines ought to have been, like a brand on my skin.

“But that also didn’t work,” I said, because Pritkin was waiting for a response.

“Which is my point. His allies have to know that we wouldn’t put the ward back on you. You’re safer without a direct conduit to your power plastered on your back. And yet they remain focused on you, despite having a thousand other targets.”

“A thousand other targets who didn’t just help to kill their buddy,” I pointed out. “This could be about revenge.”

“If they knew about the role you played, yes. But how would they? The Circle contained any mention of the aborted invasion in the press, to avoid a general panic. And no one was there at the end but us.”

“There was Sal,” I reminded him. She’d been a friend—or so I’d thought—who had chosen the wrong side. Or been ordered onto it by Tony, my old guardian, who also happened to be her master. It had cost her her life and given me one more reason to hate the son of a bitch.

Like I’d needed another one.

“Yes, but she was dead before Apollo was,” Pritkin reminded me. “She couldn’t have told anyone anything. Of course, by now, his associates must have realized that he was defeated, but there is no way for them to know that you were the cause.”

I shook my head. Pritkin knew a lot about a lot of things, but his understanding of vampires was . . . pretty bad, actually. He’d picked up a few things from hanging out with me, but the gaps in his knowledge still showed once in a while. Like now.

“Sal was a master vamp,” I told him. “Not a very strong one, but still. It carries certain privileges—like mental communication. I don’t know if she could contact Tony all the way in Faerie, but she might have told someone else—”

“Say she did. Or that they otherwise learned or guessed. If we presume revenge as a motive, why now? They’ve had all month.”

“The coronation is coming up—”

“And if they wished to send a message, they would have waited to attack during the ceremony itself. Not now, not here, where there was no one to see. Where, even if they were successful, it could be passed off as a tragic accident, not a victory for the other side.”

I crossed my arms. “Okay. What’s your theory?”

“That this might not have to do with the war at all. That it could be personal.”

I didn’t have to ask what he meant. I’d had the same thought as soon as I heard the word “Fey.” Because in addition to all the people on the other side in the war—the Black Circle of dark mages, a bunch of rogue vampires and whomever the god had been buddies with—I’d also managed to make an enemy out of the Dark Fey king.

I’m just special like that.

“But there’s no way to know for certain,” he said, “not without more information. Which is why I need permission to go away for a day, perhaps two.”

There were several things wrong with that sentence, but I latched on to the most pressing one first. “You’re going away now?”

“I don’t have a choice,” he told me, searching in his coat for something. “I’ve already called my contacts here, but given the limited description we have, they wouldn’t even venture a guess as to what we’re dealing with.”

“If you’ve already contacted them, then why do you—” I stopped, a really nasty idea surfacing. “You’re not going back there!”

“That is exactly what I am doing. Cassie.” He caught my wrist as I started to rise. “It will be all right.”

“That’s—Do you remember last time?” I asked incredulously.

Mac, one of Pritkin’s friends, had died defending me on the one and only time I’d ventured into the land of the Fey. Pritkin, myself and Francoise, a human woman who had been stuck there for years, had barely escaped with our lives—and only after I’d promised the Fey more than I could deliver.

“We made a deal,” I whispered furiously. “If you go back, they’re going to expect you to honor it. And you know we can’t—”

“I’m not going to court. I’m merely slipping in to speak with some old contacts.”

“And if they catch you?”

“They won’t.”

“But if they do?”

“Listen to me. The ability to possess someone is a rare talent, even among the spirit world, and few manage it so easily. This thing, whatever it is, must be very powerful.”

“Yes, but—”

“If I don’t know what it is, I cannot fight it. Neither can you.” He pressed something into my hand. “But this may help.”

I looked down at a small, gathered bag made out of linen. It had a red thread wrapped around the top, with enough length to allow it to be used as a necklace. Only nobody would bother, because the thing reeked like old Limburger.

“A protective charm,” Pritkin said unnecessarily, because I’d worn something like it once before. Only I didn’t recall it being much help the only time I’d run up against the Fey.

I didn’t recall anything being much help.

“If this creature is so powerful, you think this will stop it?” I demanded.

“No. But it will buy you time. Seconds only, but that is all you need to shift away. Keep your servant on watch when you sleep; when you’re awake, keep your shields up at all times. You’ll know if an attack comes. If it does, shift immediately—spatially, temporally, I don’t care. Just get out. It cannot hurt you—”

“If it can’t find me,” I finished dully.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can manage it. And then we’ll formulate a plan for killing this thing.”

I stared at the little sachet, talisman, whatever it was in my hand. It felt heavy, like there might be something made of iron in there. And faintly greasy, as if some of the contents were sweating through the material. Or maybe that was my palm.

“And if I order you to stay?” I asked, after a few moments.

Pritkin didn’t say anything. I looked up but I couldn’t see him very well. He’d leaned forward, out of the sign’s bloody light, and only a little filtered in from the lounge. But when he finally answered, his voice was calm.

“I would stay. And protect you as best I can.”

And possibly get killed in the process, because he didn’t know what he was fighting. It wasn’t said aloud, but it didn’t need to be. I’d felt that thing go after him. I might have been the chief target, but he’d been on the list somewhere, too.

And that wasn’t acceptable.

But neither was the alternative. I hugged my arms around myself and stared out at the night without seeing it. I was seeing another face instead, the cheerful, scruffy, laughing face of another war mage, one who hadn’t come back. One who would never come back.

I didn’t realize Pritkin had moved until he crouched in front of me. Green eyes, almost translucent in the darkness, met mine. “I wouldn’t be going if I didn’t think you would be all right,” he told me. “It is doubtful that this thing will try the same approach again, now that it knows—”

“I’m not worried about me,” I whispered viciously. And as soon as I said it, I knew it was the truth. Apparently, the surefire antidote for your own fear is concern for someone else.

Pritkin looked surprised, the way he always did at the idea that anyone might actually care about him. It made me want to hit him. Of course, right then I wanted to do that anyway.

“Nothing is going to happen,” he repeated. “But even if it did, you don’t need me. You don’t need—”

“That isn’t true!”

“Yes, it is.” He looked at me and his lips quirked. “You can’t fire a gun worth a damn. You hit like a girl. Your knowledge of magic is rudimentary at best. And you act like I’m torturing you if I make you run more than a mile.”

I blinked at him.

“But I’ve known war mages who aren’t as resilient, who aren’t as brave, who aren’t—” he looked away for a moment. And then he looked back at me, green eyes burning. “You’re the strongest person I know. And you will be fine.”

I nodded, because it sounded like an order. And because, all of a sudden, I believed it. And because right then I couldn’t have said anything anyway.

We stayed like that for a moment, until Pritkin stood up, as if something had been decided. And I guess it had.

I got up and walked him to the door.

“You never told me what you’re going to do,” he said, pausing on the threshold.

“About what?”

“The bloody heat.”

The question surprised me, because for a while, I’d forgotten all about it. Like the sweat trickling down my back, and the soap scale drying on my skin.

You’re the strongest person I know.

I looked up at him. “I thought maybe . . . I’d go take a bath.”