Brave the Tempest (Cassie Palme) - Karen Chance Page 0,88

Pythian gown like angel’s wings around her, the brilliant crimson of her blood a spill of rubies. I could see their two spirits, rising up together, because Agnes had known that Myra would try the same trick she had. But she’d denied her that. She had fought her to the very end, grabbing hold and dragging her spirit away with her, to wherever we go after death.

No one had bled more for the Pythian Court than Agnes, no one at all.

I thought her daughter had a right to know that.

“Sit down,” I told her hoarsely. “It’s time I told you about your mother.”

Chapter Twenty

I schlepped back to my room some time later, leaving Rhea looking shocked and thoughtful behind me, but not teary eyed. Hell, I’d cried more than she had. Maybe I’d explained it wrong? I didn’t know how I could have explained it wrong. There were only so many ways to—to—to—

A huge yawn almost cracked my skull.

Damn, I was tired! And no longer remotely in the mood for . . . anything . . . even assuming Pritkin was up for that. He’d seemed pretty interested earlier, but maybe I’d read him wrong. I seemed to be doing that a lot lately.

But I needed to explain what had happened, not to mention that I just wanted to talk to him, damn it! I hadn’t seen him much at all these last few weeks, and while tonight had been fun, it was just like it had been all those days visiting his sickroom. Half the time he’d been sleeping, and the rest there’d been other people milling around, usually war mages, because he kept having these weird dreams.

And conjuring stuff out of them.

Like a bunch of little fire sprites that had poured out of a portal he’d called into being from some hell dimension. They hadn’t been as bad as you might expect, but there’d been about a thousand of them, and everything they touched went up in flames. And, of course, that meant the vamps couldn’t round them up, so the mages had had their hands full.

That had been fun.

The casino manager had loved that.

Although it hadn’t been as bad as the huge fireball Pritkin had thrown at somebody in a dream—and in real life, because his magic hadn’t seemed to know the difference. Magical types were supposed to have a mental lock on their gifts at night, like humans did on their movements, so they weren’t constantly throwing spells in their sleep. But like with sleepwalking people, something in Pritkin’s brain seemed to have been off, and it wasn’t applying the brakes hard enough.

Anyway, he’d needed babysitting while he recovered, and that had meant no alone time. Or, at least, very little alone time—and his brain had been foggy through most of that. And then he’d run off on some errand for Jonas, and I hadn’t seen him at all!

But things had seemed better tonight. Not normal, exactly; Pritkin didn’t flirt, so I didn’t know what the hell had gotten into him there, but at least he’d seemed healthy. So maybe his babysitters weren’t around anymore? I bit my lip. I should go say good night, at least. It was the polite thing to do. And find out what the heck he’d been doing in Britain for a week, or Hong Kong before that, or . . . or just talk a little. I’d missed him so damned much. Why was I even debating this? Just go say good night, Cassie, God!

I shifted, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure I was in the right room. It was a generic hotel suite, nicer than the tiny bolt-hole he’d had before, because these days, there were plenty to choose from. The hotel was closed for renovations following the recent attack, and while there were still members of the local supernatural community milling around, waiting for the new MAGIC—their version of the UN—to be completed out in the desert, there was plenty of extra space.

Which meant that Pritkin might have decided he preferred another room?

Because there was no messy potion’s bench stuck in a corner, strewn with horrible-smelling ingredients and little bottles. There was no clothing cheerfully flung about, as if hangers had never been invented. There was no trunk full o’ weapons overflowing onto the floor, or combat boots peeking out from under the bed.

Pritkin might be a war mage, but he’d somehow missed the whole military-precision thing.

Shit, I thought; I bet I had the wrong room!