I whispered soft words in Italian, a spell to rid me of my pounding headache, then whipped the sheet off the bed. When that didn’t rouse him, I poked my guest in the arm. “Hey. You. Wake up.” What was his name again? He wasn’t one of the regulars who came to my little corner of the universe to drink and hang out with others of the magical persuasion. He was one of the surprisingly few magic-users who didn’t owe me a favor—although, after his performance last night, he just might. If he didn’t want the details spread around.
If only I could remember his name. I knew he was one of the Brothers of Power, one of the five charming and gorgeously handsome siblings whose magical abilities were so great they had earned a reputation among those in the magic circuit as being able to do whatever was needed—for a price. In a world where powered-up heroes and villains do battle in gaudy costumes in the street, gods and goddesses crawl out of their ancient hidey-holes to join in the fray or avenge childish grievances, and powerful magic-users can easily destroy city blocks, those with less power are always in need from those more powerful. That’s usually where I came in: helping weaker magic-users right wrongs, giving them protection, or whatever was needed . . . but also for a price. In a way, the Brothers of Power were my competitors, but where I used my great powers to gain favors from others or to get information for later use, the brothers did it for monetary wealth, which they immediately blew on lavish lifestyles.
Joseph was the one with whom I had the most dealings, and while I recognized his brother here, it wasn’t enough to sort the name with the face. That had been advantageous last night when I was drunk and depressed and out of my mind enough to seek some momentary physical comfort, hoping that if I didn’t know him very well, he wouldn’t expect anything else later. Now it just put me in a horrible mood to know I’d been stupid enough to go there with a stranger.
His name began with a D—I knew that much, though I hadn’t exactly been calling it out last night—and it was bland and ordinary-sounding, like Joseph. But it was too early in the morning to play guessing games.
This time, I shoved my visitor hard. “Hey!”
He opened one blue eye. “Oh. Good morning, luv.” His voice was heavy with sleep. Seeing my nakedness, his other eye opened and he smiled. “Ready for round two?”
I gave him a mean grin. “After round one? No thanks.”
He grunted and scratched himself. “It’s all the alcohol. I’m much better when I’m sober. Or so I’ve been told.”
“The magic groupies you and your brothers hang out with aren’t too hard to impress.”
He ran a hand through his shaggy, dirty blond hair and reached over to the bedside table to light a cigarette. “You’re the one who came on to me, luv. Remember?”
“Not so much.” I glared at him. “You need to leave. Now.”
“Don’t get all dodgy just because you can’t remember how I rocked your world last night.”
“Sweetheart, when you’ve lived as long as I have, you’ll find few men rock anything but themselves. And stop talking with that fake British accent. You and your brothers and those affected accents you put on as part of your mysterious mercenary routine . . . Everyone knows the closest you’ve come to the United Kingdom is watching the BBC.”
He smiled. “Ladies love it.”
“Good thing I’m not one. Now get lost before I toss you out without any clothes.”
He chuckled, standing up and tossing on his jeans. “You’re one to talk about fake speech patterns, Fantazia,” he drawled in a bland American accent that I knew was his own. Under my baleful glare he threw on his shirt and donned his long coat without bothering to button up. “Because I know someone who’s lived since the dawn of time and avoids technology like the plague wouldn’t really talk like a bimbo on a reality show.”
I shrugged. “Hey, I model my way of talking and acting like I see the rest of you do here in the bar. But don’t imagine you know the real me. None of you does.”
“Oh, but you’re wrong,” he laughed. “All of us magic-users do know: you’re a witch. A cold-blooded one. Cheers.”
The overemphasized British affectation was followed