Chapter 1
Any day that starts
off in a demon-filled bar in a casino designed to look like Hell
isn’t likely to turn out well. But all I thought at the time was
that a brothel should be more fun—especially one for ladies only
that was staffed by handsome incubi. But the demon lovers slumped
miserably at their tables, holding their heads as if in pain, and
completely ignoring their companions. Even Casanova, lounging
across from me, looked unhappy. His pose was unconsciously
seductive—a matter of habit, I guess—but his expression wasn’t so
nice.
“All right, Cassie!”
he snapped, when one of his boys suddenly began weeping
uncontrollably. “Tell me what you want, then get them the hell out
of here! I have a business to run!”
He was referring to
the three old women who were perched on stools at the bar. They
were giving the satyr serving drinks a wilt in a place rarely seen
at anything but full attention on one of his kind. That wasn’t
surprising: none of them looked under a hundred, and their most
obvious attribute was matted, greasy locks—gray since birth— that
streamed in a web of tangles to the floor. I’d tried to wash
Enyo’s, whose name appropriately means “horror,” last night, but
the hotel’s shampoo hadn’t made much of an improvement. I’d given
up after finding what looked like half a decayed rat in a snarl
under her left ear.
The hair did have the
benefit of distracting attention from their faces, though, so you
didn’t immediately notice that they had only one eye and one tooth
among them. Enyo was currently trying to take back the eye from her
sister Deino (“dread”) because she wanted to check out the
horrified-looking bartender. Meanwhile, Pemphredo (“alarm”) was
using the tooth to rip open a bag of peanuts. She finally gave up
and stuffed the whole cellophane-wrapped package in her mouth,
gumming it happily.
I had once assumed
that the Graeae were merely myths thought up by bored (and fairly
peculiar) Greeks a few thousand years before the invention of TV.
But apparently not. I’d recently acquired—okay, stolen—a bunch of
items from the Vampire Senate, the body that controls the actions
of all North American vampires, and had been trying to figure out
what they were. The first one I’d examined, a small iridescent
sphere in a black wooden case, had started to glow as soon as I
picked it up. A brief flash of light later and I had
houseguests.
I couldn’t figure out
why the trio had been imprisoned, especially in so grand a place as
the inner sanctum of a vampire stronghold. They were as annoying as
hell but didn’t seem particularly dangerous, other than to my room
service bill. I’d brought the gals along because it was either that
or leave them unsupervised in my hotel room. They had a lot of
energy for old women, and I’d had a hell of a time keeping them
amused so far.
I’d sat them in front
of three nickel slots while I went on my errand, but of course they
hadn’t stayed there. Like three ancient toddlers, they had very
short attention spans. They’d wandered into the bar shortly after I
did, carrying a load of no-doubt ill-gotten souvenirs. Deino,
clutching a little red devil plush under her arm, had dropped a
snow globe off with me before heading for the bar. It contained a
plastic image of the casino that, instead of being surrounded by
fake snow, had tiny flames that danced about whenever you shook it.
I thought it would be just my luck to get arrested for shoplifting
something that tacky.
Despite the annoyance
of babysitting the weird sisters, the expression on Casanova’s face
as he regarded them told me it might work to my advantage. I smiled
and watched the flames of Hell consume the tiny casino again. “If
you don’t help me, I may just leave them here. They could use a
makeover.” I didn’t bother to point out how bad that would be for
business.
Casanova winced and
tossed back the rest of his drink, giving me a glimpse of a strong,
tanned throat under the loose collar of his dress shirt.
Technically, of course, he wasn’t the historical Casanova.
Possession by an incubus demon tends to increase mortal life span,
but not that much. The Italian cleric who was remembered for having
unmatched success with the ladies died centuries ago, but the
reason for his reputation lived on. And there was nothing to
complain about in his newest incarnation. I had to regularly remind
myself that I was here on business and he wasn’t even
trying.
“I don’t care about
your problems,” he told me fiercely. “How much to take them
away?”
“This isn’t a money
matter. You know what I want.” I tried to discreetly pull the tight
satin shorts I was wearing into a more comfortable position, but I
think he noticed. It’s hard to look intimidating in a sequined
devil costume complete with pointed tail. Sinful Scarlett did not
go well with my strawberry blond curls and whitest of white girl’s
complexion. I looked like a kewpie doll trying to play tough guy—no
wonder he wasn’t impressed. But I’d had to think of some way to
reach him without being recognized, and borrowing a costume from
the employee locker room had seemed like a good idea at the
time.
Casanova lit a tiny
cigarette with a brushed gold lighter. “If you have a death wish,
that is your affair, but I won’t put my head in a noose by crossing
Antonio. The man is psychotic about revenge. You should
know.”
Considering that
Tony, a master vampire and my old guardian, was at the head of the
list of people who wanted me in an urn on their mantel, I couldn’t
argue the point. But I had to find him, and the person I strongly
suspected was with him, or the urn wouldn’t be necessary. There
wouldn’t be anything left of me to require a funeral. And since
Casanova had once been Tony’s second in command, it was a good bet
that he knew where the crafty old bastard was hiding.
“I think Myra’s with
him,” I said shortly.
Casanova didn’t ask
for details. It wasn’t exactly a secret that Myra was the most
recent person to try and help me shuffle off the mortal coil. It
hadn’t been personal—more of a career move, you might say—until I’d
put a couple of holes in her torso. It was safe to assume it was
personal now.
“My sympathies,”
Casanova murmured. “But I am afraid that is all I can offer. You
understand that my position is somewhat . . .
tenuous.”
That was one way of
putting it. That Casanova had occupied such an important place in
Tony’s criminal organization was unusual, to say the least. Demons
are normally considered unwanted competition by vampires, but
incubi aren’t exactly tops on the demonic power scale. In fact,
most other demons view them as something of an embarrassment.
Casanova was an unusual incubus, though.
He’d taken up
residence in an attractive Spanish don centuries ago, thinking he
was simply trading an aging host body for a newer version. He
hadn’t realized until the possession was in progress that he’d
actually invaded a baby vampire, one too young to know how to evict
him. Before the vamp figured it out, they’d reached an
understanding. The centuries of practice Casanova had in seduction
helped the vamp feed easily, and having a body that wouldn’t age
and die on him suited Casanova. So when Tony decided to organize
the incubi of the States into a moneymaking deal for him, Casanova
was the perfect choice to run it.
His Decadent Dreams
spa is located in a monstrosity of a building adjacent to Tony’s
Vegas casino, Dante’s. While vacationing husbands throw away the
family fortune at the roulette wheel, their neglected wives take
consolation in the extravagant spa treatments, among other things,
on offer next door. Tony gets rich from the proceeds, the incubi
get more lust to feed from than even they can use, and the ladies
come out with a glow that lasts for days. It’s actually one of
Tony’s less reprehensible businesses, except for being highly
illegal—unlike some people seem to believe, prostitution is not
okay with the Vegas PD. But then, vamps have never paid much
attention to human law.
“What’s the penalty
for slaving these days?” I asked idly. “Bet it makes that noose
look pretty good.”
For the first time,
Casanova lost his superior look. He dropped his cigarette, and hot
ashes splattered his suit, leaving tiny burn marks on the silk
before he could brush them away. “I never had anything to do with
that!”
I wasn’t surprised at
his reaction. Tony had been breaking both human and vampire laws by
engaging in the very profitable but extremely dangerous trade of
selling magic users. The Silver Circle, the council of mages who
act for the magical community the way the Senate does for vamps,
are violently opposed to the idea, and their treaty with the vamps
specifically outlaws it. Ignoring the treaty risked war, and the
Senate would have staked Tony for that alone, if they didn’t
already have plenty of reasons to want him dead.
“You’ll have a hard
time convincing the Senate of that if your boss tries to pin the
whole thing on you.” Judging by his expression, Casanova felt that
was a good possibility. He knew his employer as well as I did. “But
if I find him first, Tony will be out of the picture and you’ll be
in the clear. It’s to your advantage to help me.” I expected that
line to work—self-interest was usually the best way to get a vamp’s
cooperation—but Casanova recovered quickly.
He lit another
cigarette with steady fingers. “Why are you so sure that I know
where he is? He doesn’t tell me everything. He has that Alphonse
character to help him now.”
Alphonse was Tony’s
current second in command and personal bodyguard. He was easily the
ugliest vamp I’ve ever seen, and his personality was no more
attractive than his face. But I much preferred him to his boss.
Alphonse didn’t actually like me, but I doubted he’d hunt me down
if Tony wasn’t around to give the order.
“Tony had to leave
somebody in charge when he disappeared. I’m betting it was you, and
that you know where he is.”
He regarded me
through a haze of smoke for a long minute. “I’m in temporary
control,” he finally admitted, “but only of Vegas. You want to
contact Philly.”
I shook my head
emphatically. That was what I definitely didn’t want. There were
too many people in Philadelphia, Tony’s main base of operations,
who remembered me less than fondly. Way less. “Uh-huh. They might
give me something, all right, but it wouldn’t be
information.”
Casanova’s lips
twitched, and the amusement in those whiskey-colored eyes was even
more attractive than his usual smoldering seduction. I swallowed
and pretended indifference, which won me an actual grin. But no
information.
“You know as well as
I do that the family does not take disloyalty well,” he murmured.
“That is especially true from a demon/vampire hybrid that most
regard as a freak. And the fact that I have recently taken over
temporary control on this coast hasn’t won me any more admirers.
There are many waiting for me to put a foot wrong, and betraying
the boss would definitely qualify.”
I hadn’t been
prepared for candor, and it threw me. I stared at him as a surge of
fear fluttered through my stomach and up to my throat. I tamped it
down; I couldn’t afford to show uncertainty now. If I didn’t find
some way to get Casanova to open up, pretty soon Myra would be
doing the same to me—with a knife.
I leaned across the
table and played my best card. “I understand all about the family’s
idea of revenge. But think about it. “If Tony gets staked by me or
the Senate, you’ll be in a perfect position to grab some property.
Wouldn’t you like to own this place yourself?”
Casanova ran a hand
through his shoulder-length chestnut hair, which fell in perfect
waves without any obvious artifice. He was dressed in a raw silk
suit in a rich brown that almost matched his eyes. I wasn’t an
expert on men’s clothes, but his saffron-colored tie looked
expensive, as did his gold watch and matching cufflinks. Casanova
had caviar tastes, and I doubted Tony overpaid him—generosity
wasn’t one of his character traits.
He looked around
longingly. “What I wouldn’t give to redecorate, ” he said. “Do you
have any idea how difficult it is, getting patrons past the
ambiance?” I could see his point. The gloomy opium-den interior and
dragon’s-head bar, complete with an occasional wisp of steam
emanating from its carved nostrils, didn’t exactly scream romance.
“My boys have to work twice as hard as they should. I engineered a
water leak last month to give me an excuse to gut the lobby, but
there’s so much left to do, and don’t even get me started on the
entrance! It scares off half the would-be customers before they
make it in the door.”
“So, help me out
here.”
He shook his head
regretfully, expelling a thin stream of smoke with his sigh. “Not
possible, chica. If Tony found out,
he’d ruin me. I’d have to find a new body after he staked this one,
and I’ve become somewhat attached to it.”
It figured Casanova
didn’t want to risk it. Hanging out on the sidelines, waiting to
see who won, was the practical move—and practicality is pretty much
the defining vamp characteristic. Unfortunately, that option wasn’t
open to me.
A legacy from an
eccentric seer had recently left me Pythia, the title for the
world’s chief clairvoyant. Agnes’ gift came with a whopping amount
of power that everyone wanted to either monopolize or eradicate,
but I was stuck with it for the moment since she’d thoughtlessly
died before I could figure out how to give it back. I hoped to pass
it on to someone else, assuming I lived so long, but in the
meantime, Tony wanted to kill me, the Senate wanted to make me
their stooge and, oh, yeah, I’d also managed to piss off the mages.
What can I say? I’m an overachiever.
“Tony isn’t going to
win against the six senates,” I said flatly. “They have reciprocal
agreements—if one is hunting him, they all are. Sooner or later,
they’ll catch up with him and he’ll start blaming everyone else for
what happened. They’ll stake him anyway, but ten to one he’ll
incriminate you and a lot of others before then. Help me out and
maybe I can get to him before they do.”
Casanova studied me
while he stubbed out his cigarette in a black lacquered ashtray.
Dark eyes swept over my outfit, and a faint smile came to his lips.
“Rumor has it that you’re Pythia now,” he finally said, stroking
the back of one long-fingered hand lightly over mine. “Can’t you
use your power to deal with this? It would be worth a lot to me.”
My skin felt warmer than usual where he touched me, a feeling that
spread outward along my arm. His voice dropped an octave, going
husky. “I could be a very good friend, Cassandra.”
He raised my hand,
turning it over to run a finger lightly down the middle of the
palm. I was about to make a sarcastic comment about my so-called
power when he bent his head. His lips brushed along the line he’d
drawn, silken soft yet feeling like they left a brand, and I forgot
what I’d been about to say. He looked up at me through dark lashes,
and it was like staring into the face of a stranger, one with a
darkly beautiful visage and a hypnotic gaze. I remembered the old
saying that the only difference between Don Juan and Casanova, the
world’s two greatest lovers, was that when Don Juan ended
relationships, the women hated him, and when Casanova left, they
still adored him. I was beginning to understand why.
I snatched my hand
back before I was tempted to use it to drag him over the table.
“Cut it out!”
He blinked in
surprise and reached for me again. This time, the warm feeling was
stronger when we touched, sending a frisson of heat dancing across
my skin. I had a sudden image of sultry Spanish nights, the scent
of jasmine, and warm, golden skin sliding against mine. I closed my
eyes, swallowing hard, trying to reject the sensations, but that
only seemed to help them become more real. Someone pushed me back
against a thick feather mattress, practically burying me in its
plump folds, and I could actually feel the soft weave of the sheets
under my hands. A fall of silken hair spilled all around me and
strong hands skimmed down my sides, a teasing touch that barely
registered but flooded my veins with heat.
Then, with no
warning, the sensation changed, going from seductive warmth to
scorching heat. For a moment, I thought Casanova’s touch would
actually burn me, but he released my hand before it edged over into
real pain. I opened my eyes to find us still sitting in the bar;
the only signs that anything had happened were my flushed face and
pounding pulse.
Casanova sighed and
sat back in his seat. “Whoever did the geis knew what he was doing,” he told me, signaling
for a refill. “Out of curiosity, who was it? I would have said
there were none I couldn’t break.”
“I have no idea what
you’re talking about.” I rubbed my hand where it felt like he’d
left an imprint of his fingers behind, and glared at him. I didn’t
appreciate the attempted distraction—I was not his afternoon
snack—nor whatever had ended it so painfully.
“The geis. I didn’t know anyone had a prior claim or I
wouldn’t—”
“What’s a gesh?” He
spelled it for me, which didn’t help. A waiter brought us both new
drinks and I gulped some of mine, my mood blackening by the
second.
“Don’t play games,
Cassie; you know what I am. Did you think I wouldn’t see it?” he
asked impatiently; then something in my expression made his eyes
widen. “You really don’t know, do you?”
I stared at him
resentfully. More complications; just what I needed right now.
“Either make some sense or—”
“Someone, a powerful
magic user or a master vampire, has put a claim on you,” he said
patiently, then corrected himself. “No, not a claim. More like an
immense KEEP OFF sign a mile high.”
I sat there, feeling
a new wave of heat creep up my neck. I remembered a cultured,
amused voice telling me that I belonged to him, always had and
always would. I was going to kill him.
“What does that mean,
exactly?”
“A geis is a magical bond, usually involving a taboo
or prohibition over personal behavior.” He saw my confusion. “Do
you remember the story of Melusine?”
A childhood memory
surfaced, but it was vague. “A fairy tale; French, I think. She was
some half fairy who turned into a dragon, right?”
Casanova sighed,
shaking his head at my ignorance. “Melusine was a beautiful woman
six days of the week, but was cursed to appear as a half serpent on
the seventh. She married Raymond of Lusignan after he agreed to a
geis prohibiting him from ever seeing
her on Saturday, even though she refused to say why. They had many
happy years together until one of his cousins convinced Raymond
that Saturday was the day she spent with her lover, and he spied on
her to find out the truth. That broke the geis, causing Melusine to become a dragon
permanently and losing Raymond the love of his life.”
“You’re telling me
that story was real?”
“I have no idea. The
point is, that’s how a geis operates.”
His hand hovered over mine, but he didn’t attempt to touch me
again. “This one is the strongest I’ve ever felt, and it’s been in
place for some time now. It has a good grip.”
"Define ’some time.’
”
“Years,” he said,
concentrating. “At least a decade, maybe more. And a decade isn’t a
simple matter of ten years. For purposes of the spell, it’s
measured as a percentage of your life span. You’re what, early
twenties?”
“I’ll be twenty-four
tomorrow.”
He shrugged. “Well,
there you have it. For roughly half your life, someone has owned
you.”
A new rush of blood
flooded my face. I remembered a cultured, amused voice telling me
that I belonged to him, always had and always would. I was going to
kill him. “No one owns me,” I said shortly, but Casanova didn’t
look impressed. “What does this geis
do, other than to warn people off?”
I soon wished I
hadn’t asked. “The dúthracht geis is a
strong magical connection—one of the strongest. During the Middle
Ages, paranoid mages with nonmagical wives employed it as a
variation on a chastity belt. I’ve also heard of it being used in
arranged marriages, to smooth out initial
awkwardness.”
He concentrated for a
moment before continuing. “As far as I can determine, it allows
whoever put it in place to know your emotions—your true ones, not
whatever you’re trying to project—so you can’t lie to him. It also
gives him a rough idea of where you are at any given time. He may
not know your exact location, but he’ll certainly be able to narrow
it down to a city, and possibly further.”
I remembered the
arrogant jerk who I strongly suspected was behind this telling me
that he had been able to find me once because he’d had help from
the Senate’s intelligence network. Maybe he had, but it seemed
there had been more to it. I wondered how many other times he’d
told me only part of the truth.
“And, last but not
least, it heightens the attraction between you, with each meeting
becoming more intense. Eventually, you won’t want to
run.”
I felt myself go
cold. “Then nothing I feel is real.” I couldn’t believe he’d
stooped that low. He knew damned well how I felt about having my
thoughts or feelings altered.
The jerk in question
was Mircea, a five-hundred-year-old vampire whose biggest claim to
fame was being Dracula’s older brother. He’d also been my first
crush. I hadn’t cared about his family name, or that he was a
first-level master and a Senate member. I’d been far more
interested in the way his rich brown eyes crinkled at the corners
when he laughed, in the mahogany hair that spilled over his broad
shoulders and in that wickedly perfect mouth, still the most
sensual I’ve ever seen. Among his other titles, Mircea was also the
vamp Tony called Master. It was something that should have made me
question the sincerity in that handsome face a lot
sooner.
“The dúthracht doesn’t create emotions,” Casanova
corrected me. “It isn’t a love spell. It can only enhance what is
already there. Which is why it’s odd that anyone would have used it
on you at what, age eleven, twelve?”
I nodded numbly, but
the truth was that I didn’t find it odd at all. My mother had been
heir to the Pythia’s throne before she eloped with my father. The
fact that she’d been disinherited meant nothing as far as my
chances for succeeding were concerned, however, because it isn’t
the old Pythia who chooses the new one. The final selection is made
by the power of the office itself. In all but a handful of
instances over thousands of years, it has selected the designated
heir, the one groomed as a successor by the old Pythia. But Mircea
had gambled that I would be one of the exceptions and had spared no
effort to ensure that I’d still be eligible when the moment
arrived.
For reasons I didn’t
fully understand, the heir has to remain chaste until the
changeover ritual begins, and Mircea hadn’t wanted to risk a
teenage infatuation removing me from contention. So he’d marked me
as off-limits by putting a claim on me himself.
Bastard.
“You said it boosts
emotion,” I said, thinking about the first time I encountered
Mircea as an adult. “Are you only talking about mine?” Mircea
hadn’t appeared exactly uninterested when I saw him last, but it
was difficult to be certain. Most vamps are excellent liars, but he
is the undisputed, number one champ, possibly because it’s his job.
He’s the Senate’s chief diplomat, the guy sent into tricky
situations to get whatever they want through persuasion, seduction
or deceit. He’s very good at what he does.
“No, it’s a two-way
street, one of the spell’s big drawbacks in most people’s opinion.”
Casanova leaned forward, apparently enjoying lecturing me. “Think
of it as an amplifier on a stereo: every meeting edges it up a
notch. You have to give it something to start with, but once it’s
up and running, you’re on the path to obsession with each other
whether either of you likes it or not.”
I turned away so he
wouldn’t see my expression, and tried to ignore the hard knot in my
chest and the tight ache in my throat. I didn’t know why I felt so
betrayed. It wasn’t as if I had ever completely trusted Mircea. I
knew that no master vampire, especially a Senate member, fell into
the category of nice guy. He couldn’t have achieved his current
position by being anything less than ruthless. But I would have
given odds that he wouldn’t do something like this. Tony, yes; that
I could see, but I’d foolishly believed that his boss was
different. Stupid. Who did I think had trained him?
I looked back to find
Casanova carefully expressionless. “You’re saying this is
dangerous.”
“All magic is
dangerous, chica,” he told me gently,
“under the right circumstances.”
“Don’t hedge!” I
didn’t need my feelings spared, I needed answers. Something that
would help me figure a way out of this.
“I’m not hedging,” he
insisted. A woman let out a high-pitched scream and his eyes
shifted to a spot behind me. “Damn!”
I looked over my
shoulder to see that my three roommates had decided to take up
darts, despite the fact that the bar was not actually equipped with
a board. While I’d been distracted, Deino had positioned herself at
one end of the bar and Pemphredo at the other, while Enyo stood in
front blowing toothpicks at the hapless bartender. Before we could
make a move, Enyo blew another mouthful of tiny projectiles,
leaving the poor satyr looking like a very unhappy pin-cushion. The
woman screamed again as a forest of little red dots sprouted on his
chest, and Casanova gestured for her companion to take her away. He
went to rescue his employee and I followed to rescue him. The girls
sometimes listen to me—when they feel like it—although I get the
impression that I’m considered a spoilsport.
Casanova sent the
trembling bartender on a much-deserved break, while I placated the
girls by fishing some cards out of my purse. It’s a standard tarot
deck I received for a birthday present years ago that is charmed to
act as a sort of metaphysical mood ring. It doesn’t do specifics,
but its forecasts of the overall climate surrounding a situation
tend to be eerily accurate. I was not happy to see the card that
poked up from the deck as soon as I touched it.
Despite the common
misconception, the Lovers rarely has anything to do with finding a
soul mate or even having a good time. The Two of Cups normally
indicates that romance is on the way, but the Lovers is more
complex. It points to a looming choice, one that will involve
temptation and pain. And, like the depiction of the card in my
deck—Adam and Eve being thrown out of Eden—the final decision will
have huge consequences for everything that follows. Needless to
say, it has never been one of my favorites.
While I confiscated
the remaining toothpicks and gave the girls their new toy, Casanova
arranged for another bartender. Finally, we rendezvoused back at
our table. “It all depends on your point of view,” he said, picking
up the conversation as if nothing had happened. I suppose he’d
dealt with worse over the centuries than a few bored grandmas. “Of
itself, the geis is harmless. But then,
so was Melusine’s—as long as it wasn’t broken. Your version merely
causes devotion to one person. If nothing interferes with that
relationship, both of you live happily ever after.”
The fact that I might
not want to live, happily or otherwise, in a magically induced
state of mind was obviously not important. “What if something does
interfere?”
Casanova looked
faintly uncomfortable. “Love is a many splendored thing, as I have
cause to know. But it has its ugly side, too. If anyone or anything
is perceived as posing a threat to the bond, it acts to remove that
threat.” He saw my impatience and elaborated. “Say a person,
nonmagical obviously, was to take an interest in you. A norm would
be unable to sense the geis, so the
warning would go unheeded.”
“What would
happen?”
“It would depend. If
the bond was new and the two of you had not spent much time
together—if the amplitude, in other words, was set on low—maybe
nothing. But the higher the volume, the more the interference would
be resented. Eventually, one or both of you would move to eliminate
the threat.”
“Eliminate? You mean,
as in kill?” My jaw dropped. Mircea must have been out of his
mind.
“It probably wouldn’t
come to that,” Casanova assured me, and I felt my stomach unclench
slightly. “Most suitors would exit quickly enough when you started
screaming abuse, or your lover began threatening
them.”
Great, I thought as
my stomach went back to its former knotted state. I could go
cuckoo’s nest at any moment, thanks to Mircea’s idea of insurance.
“But what if the originator of the geis
wanted someone to seduce me?”
It wasn’t an idle
question. Mircea had sent a vampire named Tomas to befriend me when
the Pythia’s health began to fail. Lady Phemonoe, the Pythia better
known to me as Agnes, had realized she was dying and had begun the
rites that would free the power to go to a successor. And that had
started a whole new ball game. Agnes could initiate the ancient
ritual, but only I could complete it—by losing the virginity Mircea
had guarded so carefully. He had designated Tomas to take care of
that little item for him to avoid getting caught in his own trap.
Mircea had been born before the notion of a woman choosing her
sexual partners was fashionable, and Tomas was the servant of
another master vampire and expected to follow orders. So, of
course, neither of us had been consulted about any of
this.
Tomas was one of
those rare vamps able to mimic the human condition so perfectly
that we lived as roommates for six months without me guessing what
he was. We became close, although not as close as Mircea would have
liked. I was reluctant to involve anyone in my crazy life and
thought I was protecting Tomas by keeping him at a distance. But
all it had done was force Mircea himself to have to stand in for
the ritual.
As it turned out, we
had been interrupted before the main event, something I’d been
grateful for once my head cleared a little. Completing the ritual
meant that I would be stuck as Pythia for life—a no-doubt extremely
abbreviated period of time considering how much of a target that
made me. Not that my life expectancy at the moment seemed all that
great, either.
“The originator of
the geis can lift it for a particular
person, ” Casanova confirmed. “I’ve heard of instances when the
spell was used on heiresses by their guardians, to ensure that they
remained chaste until appropriate suitors were selected. The
devotion aspect of the spell was supposed to guarantee that they
would happily accept whomever was chosen.”
I didn’t like
Casanova’s expression. “What happened?”
He fumbled getting
another cigarette out of a slim gold case. Considering how graceful
his movements usually were, I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like
the answer. “The geis fell out of favor
because it tends to backfire,” he explained, lighting up.
“Sometimes it worked, but there were cases when girls committed
suicide rather than marry someone other than their
guardians.”
At my appalled
expression, he hurried to explain. “It is a very difficult spell to
cast properly, Cassie. Devotion can mean so many things. The
geis is designed to ensure loyalty, but
how many human emotions do you know that have only one facet?
Loyalty easily transmutes to admiration—for why, do you think,
would I be loyal to someone who is not, in some way, admirable?
Admiration becomes attraction, attraction grows into love and love
usually leads to the desire to possess that which is loved. You
follow?”
“Yes.” Apparently, my
body was a few steps ahead of my brain, because my arms had broken
out in goose flesh.
“Possessiveness
commonly develops an aspect of exclusivity—this person should
belong to me and no other, we were meant to be together, that sort
of thing.” He waved a hand, causing his cigarette smoke to weave
drunkenly on its way towards the ceiling. I felt kind of like that,
too. My brain was stumbling about, trying to make sense of this
mess, and my emotions were all over the place.
“That leads to
covetousness,” Casanova was saying, “which can convert to despair
or hatred if thwarted. Even when cast properly, the spell often
causes problems, with how many and what kind depending on the
personalities of those bonded. And because it’s so complex, it can
easily be screwed up. Most mages won’t even attempt it anymore.
Your admirer is either a powerful magic worker or he knows someone
who is.”
“He can afford the
best,” I said absently. It must have seemed the perfect solution:
leave me with Tony, one of his supposedly loyal servants, and put
me under the geis so I would remain
untouched until he saw whether the power was going to come to me.
It was a great plan, if my feelings were discounted. And, of
course, they had been. Master vampires tend to treat their servants
like pieces on a chessboard, moving them about with no concern over
little things like what the piece itself might want.
“It can’t be
Antonio,” Casanova mused, regarding me speculatively. “You were at
his court for years before you ran away. The spell would never have
allowed you to leave him, nor would you have wanted to
try.”
I winced. Even the
thought of being infatuated with Tony was enough to make me
slightly sick. “Can it be removed?”
“By the person who
originated it, certainly.”
“No, without
him.”
Casanova shook his
head. “I couldn’t do it, and I’m very good, chica.” He gave me an arch look. “Of course, if I
knew more about who we’re discussing, it might help. Perhaps one of
my contacts . . .”
I didn’t want to tell
him. Tony was his immediate boss, but Mircea was Tony’s master. He
therefore had a claim to anything Tony had and to anyone who owed
him loyalty. There was normally a certain amount of maneuvering
that had to be done before a senior master could simply take one of
his underling’s possessions, at least if that subordinate had
reached third-level master status, as Tony had. But since Tony was
now in open defiance of both Mircea and the Senate, everything he
owned had reverted to his master’s control. Which was a roundabout
way of saying that Mircea was Casanova’s master. The incubus was
unlikely to defy him, but he obviously wasn’t going to give me any
help without more information.
I sighed. I didn’t
like being backed into a corner, but who else was I going to ask?
“Mircea,” I said, after checking to make sure we weren’t being
overheard.
Casanova looked blank
for a moment, then jumped up as if someone had given him a hotfoot.
“You might have mentioned that earlier, Cassie!” he hissed in an
alarmed whisper. “Getting this body skinned alive is not on my daily agenda!”
“Sit down,” I told
him in irritation. “Tell me how I get rid of this
thing.”
“You don’t. Take some
advice, chica,” he said seriously. “Go
home to the nice master vampire, beg forgiveness for causing him
any inconvenience and do whatever he tells you. You do not want
this one angry with you.”
“I’ve seen Mircea
pissed off,” I said. That was true, although so far it had never
been at me. I nudged Casanova’s chair with my foot. “Sit down.
People are starting to stare.”
“Yes, they are,”
Casanova agreed, “which is why I’m going straight to my office,
picking up the phone and giving the big boss a call. If you don’t
want him to find you, I suggest you use the time between now and
then to run like hell. Not that it will do you any
good.”
“You’re afraid of
him!”
“Let me think,” he
said sarcastically. “Yes! As you should be.”
I stared up at him in
confusion. The vamp I knew wasn’t someone to be trifled with, but
I’d never seen him do anything that would explain why an ancient
demon would be shaking in his designer shoes. “We’re talking about
Mircea, right?”
Casanova glanced
around, then slid into the seat next to me, looking almost
comically grave. “Listen to me, little girl, and pay attention,
because I am never saying this again. Mircea is the greatest
manipulator I’ve ever known. There’s a reason he’s the Senate’s
chief negotiator—he always gets what he wants. My advice: make it
easy on him, and perhaps he’ll go easy on you.”
I grabbed his tie to
keep him from running for the phone and jerked his face close to
mine. I’m not normally the violent type—I saw too much of it
growing up to want any part of it—but at the moment I was too mad
to care. “You’ve had your speech, now listen to mine. I know all
about manipulation. I haven’t lived a day when someone wasn’t
pulling my strings. Even this whole Pythia gig wasn’t my idea. But
you know what? It does change things, doesn’t it? Mircea doesn’t
own me, no matter what he thinks. No one does. And anyone who tries
to jerk me around from now on is going to find that I make a very
bad enemy. Do you get it?”
Casanova pantomimed
choking and I released him. He fell back in his chair, looking more
amused than frightened. “If you’re so powerful, why do you need my
help?” he asked archly. “Why not remove the geis yourself, and rain down your wrath on Antonio
while you’re at it?”
“It doesn’t work
quite like that,” I said dryly. “And what is so damn
funny?”
The grin that
Casanova had been attempting, unsuccessfully, to restrain broke
over his face. “Inside joke,” he chortled. “You’d have to be an
incubus to understand.”
“Give me the
condensed version.”
He looked coy. The
expression should have appeared odd on his strong-featured face,
but he pulled it off. “Anticipation, you might say. Like looking
forward to the next heavyweight championship match. In this
corner,” he said, his voice taking on the cadence of a veteran
ringside announcer, “we have Lord Mircea, never defeated in five
hundred years of political and social maneuvering. And in this
corner, his opponent, the deceptively sweet-looking Cassandra,
newly elevated to the Pythia’s throne.” He grinned even wider. “You
have to understand, Cassie. For an incubus, it doesn’t get much
better than this. If I wasn’t so protective of this body, I’d be
wrangling for a ringside seat.”
“You’re babbling,” I
said in disgust. “Tell me something I can use!”
“Why don’t you tell
me something for a change?” he
countered. “What, precisely, do you think you’re going to do if you
find Tony? He’s been around for a long time. He isn’t going to be
easy to kill. Why not relax and let Mircea handle him? He’ll find
him sooner or later and then you and I are both—”
“Mircea can’t deal
with Myra!” I couldn’t believe Casanova still didn’t get it. “He
might be able to protect me in the here and now, but it isn’t the
present that worries me.” Myra had been Agnes’ heir until she fell
in with some very bad company and was disinherited. But her fall
hadn’t taken away her abilities, meaning that she could slip into
the past and attack me long before I even knew who she was. She
could even kill one of my parents, insuring I was never born. And
Mircea couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
“But if Antonio is
protecting her, how do you expect—”
“I have a few
surprises for Tony. What I need from you—”
“Is likely to cost me
greatly. You cannot believe—” He broke off at my expression. “What
is it?” I jumped to my feet, wobbling a little in the heels, and
stared over his head at the sight barreling in the bar’s
entrance.
My least favorite war
mage was heading across the lobby at a dead run. His short blond
hair looked like it had been hacked at by a machete, and his icy
green eyes were angry. Not that that was unusual: I’d never seen
him smile, and normally considered it a good day if he wasn’t
trying to kill me. Considering that he was wearing his usual
knee-length leather coat, the one that bulged with concealed
weapons, it didn’t look like today would be one of
those.