Hunt the Moon

Chapter Seven

“That’s more like it,” Marco said approvingly, as I staggered through the door of the suite half an hour later.

“I thought they were supposed to help,” I gasped, nodding my head at my shadows. It was the only thing I could move, since every other appendage was laden with bags, boxes and packages.

“Need our hands free for weapons,” one of them said blandly.

“Both of you?”

“You have a lot of enemies.”

“I have a lot of pulled muscles now, too!” I snapped, lurching into the living room.

“That mage is here,” Marco warned me.

“Pritkin?” I asked, my head coming up.

“Naw. That old one. And some slick-haired guy.”

I didn’t know who Slick Hair was, but That Old One was Jonas Marsden, acting head of the Silver Circle. Of course, Marco knew that perfectly well, but the vamps were never happy whenever a mage showed up. And that went double for their leader.

Jonas rose to help me after I stumbled into the lounge, and I shot Marco a look. That got a kiss blown in my general direction and a promise to be right outside aimed at the mages. In case they intended to use some nefarious wizard trickery to make off with me or something.

“Sorry I wasn’t here, but I thought we weren’t meeting until three,” I panted.

“No matter. I should have called,” Jonas said genially. “But I did want to talk to you, if you have a moment.”

“About last night?”

“Oh, I do truly hope not,” he said, which would have sounded odd coming from anyone else. But Jonas was always odd.

For one, he was the only person I knew with hair worse than Pritkin’s. It was extra poufy today, a magnificent silver-white ball of static electricity that appeared to have a life of its own. Like some alien creature had happened to light on his head and decided to stay a while. In contrast, his face was surprisingly normal, with pleasant features, rosy cheeks and fewer lines than one would expect for his age, whatever that was. Jonas usually just described it as “damned old.”

“And Niall did so want to meet you,” he added, as I stumbled toward the bedroom.

“Niall?”

“Niall Edwards.” A sharp-faced brunet with slickedback hair came forward, and I managed to get a hand out. But either he didn’t see or he ignored it. “Have you thought about losing five to ten?” he asked, circling me.

I turned, trying to keep him in my field of vision, and dropped a heavy shoe box on my foot. “Five to ten what?” I asked, wincing.

“Pounds. The camera adds at least that much and, frankly, you could use some more definition in your face.”

“I—what?”

He pulled out a computerized notepad. “What do you weigh?”

“That’s none of your business!”

“It is if I have to sell the idea of you as Pythia to the masses,” he said sourly, his fingers flying over the keys.

“Niall is our leading public relations expert,” Jonas explained, as I limped into the bedroom and tossed the packages on the bed.

“I don’t need a PR person,” I said, sitting down to examine my toe.

“Oh, of course not,” Slick said, following me in. “You were brought up by a vampire mob boss, you go around looking like a cross between Paris Hilton and a homeless person—”

“I do not look like Paris Hilton!”

“You’re wearing sparkly pink nail polish,” he pointed out. “On your toes.”

I looked down at the offending digits, which were sticking out of a pair of sandals. “I don’t see anything wrong with—”

“Exactly. And if that weren’t bad enough, you’re suspected of being a dark mage. But you don’t need PR.”

“I’m only suspected of being a dark mage because you people told everyone I was!” I said furiously.

Until recently, the Circle had been headed by a mage named Saunders, who had been cooking the books in favor of himself and his buddies. And he hadn’t wanted a Pythia in place who wasn’t firmly under his thumb, in case she outed his little moneymaking scheme. So while his operatives were busy trying to hunt me down, he was planting nasty stories in the press about my family background.

It didn’t help that most of them were true.

“And we did our usual good job,” Slick said proudly. “Everyone now knows that your mother was a ruined Initiate, your father was a dangerous dark mage and that you yourself have received absolutely no training for the position you hold.”

“I wouldn’t say no training,” Jonas demurred.

“It will be the triumph of my career to bring you back from that. But I will. Make no mistake.”

He disappeared into the walk-in closet, leaving me staring at Jonas. “You have got to be kidding.”

“Niall is a bit abrupt, I grant you—”

“A bit?”

“But he does have a point, Cassie. Your public image”—Jonas shook his head, causing the alien hair to waft about luxuriously—“it would be difficult to imagine how it could be worse, you know.”

“Then why haven’t you guys worried about it before?”

“Because we were waiting for things to cool down,” Niall told me, emerging with a heap of my clothes. “The public has a very short attention span and they forget details easily. Trying to eradicate or even amend their impression of you right after the story broke would have been impossible. Now it’s merely impractical.” He threw my clothes out the door.

“Hey!”

“Considering the damage, I would prefer another fortnight to pass, at the very least, before the ceremony,” he said, going back for another load of my belongings. “But I was told that we were at war and it couldn’t wait.”

“I just bought that!” I said, snatching an off-white slip dress out of his hand.

“For what?” he demanded.

“If you must know, I have a date tonight!”

“Really?” Jonas looked delighted. “May I ask with whom?”

“Mircea,” I said, only to see his face fall.

“Ah.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing, nothing. None of my business, after all.”

“Well, it is my business!” Slick said. “We can’t afford any more bad press. Such as you being seen with a vampire, particularly dressed like that!”

I looked down at the dress. It had a draped front and little spaghetti straps, but no sparkles, sequins or any decoration at all. Unless you counted what looked like the vague outline of tree branches that swayed across the silk, like shadows on a wall. It was beautiful and tasteful and one of my favorite purchases.

“And just what is wrong with this?” I demanded.

“On the hanger? Nothing. On you?” Slick looked me up and down and shook his head.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Two words: ‘foundation garment,’ ” he said, and snatched it back.

“There are such things as strapless bras, you know!” I told him furiously.

“And do you own one?”

“That’s also none of your—”

“That would be a no, then,” he said, and swept out.

I was about to chase him down and possibly beat him to death with a shoe—assuming he’d left me one—when Jonas piped up. “Of course, there are those who will agree with Niall,” he said diffidently.

I narrowed my eyes. “What is this?”

He took off his thick glasses and polished them on an already rumpled sleeve. Maybe they really were dirty, but it looked like a stalling tactic. Like he knew I wasn’t going to like whatever he’d come to say.

“This is my pointing out, however clumsily, that when one is Pythia, personal relationships are often . . . tricky.”

“Like yours was with Agnes?” I asked archly. Because Jonas and the former Pythia had apparently been an item back in the day.

“Yes, in fact. That was why we kept it a secret, from all but a few very close associates. Had we openly been a couple, people might have thought that she was under the influence of the Circle.”

“People already thought that,” I pointed out. “They think that about every Pythia.”

“No, they suspect. Which is a very different thing.”

“So you’re saying what? That I can’t date Mircea?” I asked, and heard someone outside smother a laugh. I suspected Marco.

Jonas apparently heard it, too, because he shot an irritated glance in the direction of the living room. “No, dating can be spun as savvy intelligence gathering on your part. Or as an attempt to bring the vampires into a closer alliance with the Circle. Or as a way of showing your impartiality toward the species.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“There isn’t one. As long as your liaison doesn’t become more . . . permanent.”

My hand went unconsciously to the marks on my neck, the two little scars that were the physical manifestation of Mircea’s claim. Because we were already about as permanent as it got. Wedding rings could be taken off, just as marriages could end in divorce, annulment or separation. But the marks I wore, I would wear for life.

Diamonds might not be, but a vampire’s claim? Now, that was forever.

“A formal claim is about as permanent as it gets,” I admitted, not really wanting to get into it, but not seeing an alternative. I’d known this was bound to come up sooner or later.

“A formal claim?” Jonas sounded as if he’d never heard the term.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, wondering for something like the hundredth time how the different supernatural groups had survived this long when they knew almost nothing about each other. And, frequently, what they did know was wrong. It was no wonder they were at each other’s throats half the time.

“It’s sometimes used to bind nonvampires to a vamp family,” I explained.

“For what purpose?” Jonas asked narrowly.

“For a lot of purposes. Say there’s a particularly strong magic user that the family has relied on for a while to do its wards. They want to make sure he stays around, that some other family doesn’t steal him away. But they can’t just absorb him, because mages lose their magic when Changed.”

“It is also illegal!” Jonas said hotly.

“Not if the person involved agrees to it. But—”

“As if any mage in his right mind—”

“—but if the mage can’t be Changed,” I said, talking over him, because I wasn’t in the mood for that particular conversation today. “Then the next-best option is a claim. It makes him a formal part of the family, and vampire laws don’t allow poaching from other people’s families.”

It also had another use, being the method traditionally used for marriages between two highly ranked vampires. It united them and their families but left them as equals, with neither having to be blood bound to the other. But if Jonas wanted to know about that, he was going to have to do his own damn homework.

Jonas frowned. “Then why haven’t I heard of this before, if it’s so common?”

“I didn’t say it was common,” I said, taking an armful of my clothes back where they belonged. “It isn’t.”

“And why not, if it’s so useful?”

“Because a master vampire is accountable for his family members, whether claimed or Changed. Their actions reflect on him, and he’s answerable for them to the Senate. But someone who has been claimed doesn’t have the blood tie to him that ensures obedience, giving him a lot less control over that person’s actions.”

“But senior-level masters within a family can also challenge their sire, can they not?” Jonas asked, surprising me.

I turned from hanging the stuff back up. It had been quick, since my old governess had always insisted that the hangers all go the same way, and I’d never gotten out of the habit. “Yes. Which is why a lot of senior vampires are emancipated by their masters. Most of them, in fact.”

“Except in Lord Mircea’s case,” Jonas said darkly. “There seem to be quite a few upper-level masters in his service. In fact, I have yet to meet a low-level one!”

“The low-level ones wouldn’t be much use here,” I pointed out. “And Mircea is a senator. He needs more senior vamps to help with his work. But he’s the exception, not the rule. Most masters cut loose anyone strong enough to challenge them, just like they think twice before putting a claim on someone.”

Jonas sat a while, absorbing that, while I tidied up the rest of Niall’s mess. “If I understand you correctly,” he finally said, “the vampires consider you Lord Mircea’s servant, almost his property.”

There was no “almost” about it, I didn’t say, because he looked ruffled enough. “In a sense,” I said, knowing where this was going.

“And property is expected to work for the good of its owner, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“Then they believe they’ll control the office of Pythia!” he said, as if he’d suspected this all along.

I shrugged. “Probably.”

“And this doesn’t concern you?” he demanded, as outraged as if he weren’t planning to do the same thing himself.

“Jonas, I’m expected to work for the good of the family. Not the Senate.”

“And you really think they’re going to make that distinction? You think that Lord Mircea will make it?”

“I’ll make it.”

“And you believe you can divide your loyalties so easily?”

“Why not?” I asked, suddenly angry. “Every Pythia has had a family, hasn’t she?”

Jonas looked taken aback for a moment. “Well, yes. But this is hardly the same—”

“It’s exactly the same!” I thought of the vamp who’d had half his leg taken off last night. It would eventually grow back, but others hadn’t been so fortunate. One of Mircea’s older masters, a vampire named Nicu, had died protecting me barely a month ago, and Marco nearly had, too.

If that wasn’t family, I didn’t know what was.

“They’re my family,” I repeated flatly. “And I’ll treat them as such. But it doesn’t mean that I’m going to be the Senate’s happy little puppet.” Or the Circle’s.

Jonas looked far from satisfied. “That’s easy to say, but I think you may have more of a struggle establishing your independence from the Senate than you seem to think. But, in any case, we’re talking about appearances, not esoteric facets of vampire law. And the fact is that you . . . belonging . . . to a vampire, however you define it, is not going to sit well with the supernatural community as a whole.”

“So what do you expect me to do about it?” I demanded.

“I’m not saying don’t date the man, Cassie—”

“Then what are you saying?”

“Merely that it would be helpful if you were seen to be dating others, as well. A Were, perhaps, or a mage. It would make it far easier to sell the idea that your private life has little to do with your decisions.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t really know any—”

“I could send you some.”

I blinked. “Some what?”

“Some . . . suitors . . . if you will.”

“You could send me some suitors,” I repeated slowly, while outside, it sounded like someone was choking to death.

“You wouldn’t have to date any that you didn’t like, of course,” Jonas said, without the faintest hint of irony. “I could send a selection, and you could choose one.”

I had a sudden, crazy image of recruitment posters plastered on the walls at war mage central: BOYFRIEND WANTED. HAZARDOUS-DUTY PAY. Only it really wasn’t funny. Because I could see Jonas deciding that that was a perfectly reasonable way to proceed.

“Or you could choose two,” he said, warming to the idea. “A mage and a Were. Covering all the bases, so to speak.”

“How about half a dozen?” I asked sarcastically, only to have him blink.

“Oh, no. That might get you a bit of a reputation, as it were.”

“And we wouldn’t want that.”

There was some sort of commotion going on outside, and I decided I’d had enough. I went to the door and stuck my head out. Marco was gasping for breath on the sofa, and two of the other guards were bent over a cell phone.

“What are you doing?” I demanded.

“Trying to record this,” the smart-ass from the shopping trip told me. “Nobody is going to believe us otherwise.”

“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.