Claimed by Shadow

  Billy gave me a panicked look and I sighed. “Of course not.”

  “Then refrain from giving advice about matters you don’t understand,” I was told curtly before the trio disappeared into the foliage.

  Over the next few hours, a number of things conspired to rub my remaining nerves raw. One of the most annoying was the roving roots that followed me around like nearsighted puppies. I was bone weary but could I sit down for five minutes? Hell, no. I had to play keep-away with the local flora while being stared at by the fauna.

  A short time after Pritkin left, it seemed like every bird in the forest—ospreys, eagles, owls and even a few vultures— had congregated in the trees around us, along with some small mammals. They made no noise except for a fluttering of wings as the early arrivals shuffled around to make room for newcomers. After a few minutes their collective weight began to bow some of the smaller limbs they were using as perches, but none collapsed. They looked eerily like spectators assembling for some type of entertainment. Since we weren’t doing anything interesting, I assumed the show started later, a thought that didn’t improve my mood.

  Neither did the tension of being able to do nothing for Tomas, who lay unmoving on his blanket. Not only could I not help him heal—if, in fact, that’s what he was doing—I couldn’t get near him for fear of bringing my bark-covered fans along. They absorbed sweat—who knew what else they ate?

  The most irritating factor of all, though, had to be Marlowe’s suddenly renewed interest in conversation. He waited until Pritkin was out of hearing range, then turned to me smiling cheerfully. “Let’s chat, Cassie. I am certain I can put your fears to rest.”

  I hopped over a root trying to curl around my ankle. “Why do I doubt that?”

  “Because you’ve never had a chance to hear our side of things,” he said, giving me a warm, understanding smile that immediately raised my hackles. “We would have had this conversation before, but when you came back from your mission with Mircea you failed to give us the opportunity.”

  “I tend not to open dialogues with people who threaten to kill me.”

  Marlowe looked surprised. “I can’t imagine what you mean. I certainly don’t want you dead, and neither does anyone else on the Senate. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

  “Did you tell Agnes the same thing?”

  Marlowe’s brows knitted together into a small frown. “I’m not certain I understand you.”

  I brought out the small charm Pritkin had given me. He’d never asked for it back, so I’d stuffed it into a pocket. Now I let it swing in front of Marlowe’s eyes like a pendulum. “Recognize this?”

  He took it and gave it a once-over. “Of course.”

  I stared at him. It wouldn’t be a shock if Marlowe had been the one to mastermind the assassination—it fit his reputation—but I hadn’t expected him to just admit it. Did he think I’d be pleased that he removed Agnes and cleared my way to succeed?

  “It’s a Saint Sebastian medallion.” He took it from my limp fingers. Mac had closed in, but he wasn’t saying anything. Maybe he also thought we were about to hear a confession. If so, he was disappointed. “I haven’t seen one of these in years. Of course, there’s been no need for them.”

  “What need?” Mac had a look on his face that reminded me of Pritkin at his most suspicious.

  “The plague, mage,” Marlowe said impatiently. “Sebastian was the saint believed to be able to ward off disease. These were still popular on the Continent in my day, although most were made in the fourteenth century, during the Black Death.”

  I leaned in for a closer look. “So this is what, a good-luck charm?”

  Marlowe smiled. “Something like that. People wanted to believe they were doing something to protect themselves and their families.”

  “Kind of ironic,” I said. Mac nodded, but Marlowe looked confused. “This was used to kill someone recently,” I explained.

  Marlowe’s brows rose. It was the first expression I’d seen him wear that didn’t appear contrived. “The Pythia was murdered?”

  Mac said one of Pritkin’s bad words. “And how would you know that if you didn’t do it?” he demanded heatedly.

  Marlowe shrugged. “Who else were we talking about?” He turned the thing over in his hands, frowning. “Someone’s cut it open.”

  “We did that,” Mac said, snatching it out of his hands. “It had arsenic in it!” He said the latter as if he expected it to stagger the vamp, but Marlowe didn’t appear fazed.

  “Well, of course it did.” At my expression, he explained. “Powdered toad, arsenic—a whole host of substances were often put inside these things before they were soldered together. They were thought to ward off sickness, and added to the medallion’s value—and its price, of course.”

  “You mean there was supposed to be poison in there?” I looked at Mac. “You’re sure she was murdered?”

  “Cassie—” he said warningly. He obviously didn’t want to discuss this in front of Marlowe, but I couldn’t see the harm. If Marlowe had arranged the Pythia’s death, he already knew about it; if not, maybe he could provide a few clues.

  “A medallion like this was found next to her body,” I told Marlowe. “Is there any way it could have been used to kill her?”

  He looked thoughtful. “Anything that comes in contact with the skin can be a danger. Queen Elizabeth was almost assassinated by poison rubbed into the pommel of her saddle. And I once killed a Catholic by soaking his prayer beads in an arsenic solution,” he added nonchalantly.

  He was creeping me out, but at least it looked like I’d come to the right guy. “Would that sort of method take a long time to kill someone?”

  “An hour or so.”

  “No, like six months.”

  Marlowe shook his head. “Even assuming someone soaked her necklace in a weak solution, and she was in the habit of fingering the medallion, it wouldn’t have worked. Arsenic causes redness and swelling of the skin over time— she would have noticed. That’s why gradual poisoning is usually done in food. It’s tasteless and odorless, and in small doses, its symptoms are similar to food poisoning.”

  “Her food was specially prepared and carefully tested,” Mac said. “And Lady Phemonoe was extremely . . . careful about poisons. You might almost say she was, well, not paranoid exactly, but—”

  “That’s not what I heard,” Marlowe broke in cheerfully. He seemed to like talking shop. “They say she’d become extremely superstitious with age, and had been buying all sorts of questionable remedies. A knife believed to turn green when passed over unsafe food, an antique Venetian glass supposed to explode if filled with a poisoned liquid, a goblet with a bezoar set into the bottom—”

  “Maybe she Saw something.” Agnes had been a seer, too, a powerful one. I shivered. How horrible would it be to see your own death, yet be able to do nothing about it?

  “Perhaps.” Marlowe was smiling at me again, and I didn’t like it. “But if so, it appears to have done her little good. Which rather proves the point I am trying to make. The mages cannot keep you safe any more than they did your predecessor. We will be much more efficient, I assure you.”

  Mac shot the vamp an unfriendly look. “Don’t listen to him, Cassie. If you don’t want to talk, don’t. He can’t force you with me here.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that, mage. I know your reputation, but much of your magic is useless at present, and my strength is unchanged. Not that I would dream of forcing Cassandra to do anything against her will. I merely think she ought to know who her newfound ally is and what he wants.”

  “You stay out of our business,” Mac said, his tone ominous.

  “Ah, but it isn’t yours alone, is it?” Marlowe asked. “She has a right to know with whom she’s become involved.” He turned to me, looking innocent. “Or do you already know that Pritkin is the Circle’s chief assassin?”

  Chapter 11

  Mac choked on the contents of the flask he’d been sip-ping from, and then all
but confirmed it. “That’s neither here nor there!” he gasped as soon as he got his breath back. Marlowe didn’t even look at him; his eyes were fixed squarely on me.

  “I take it this is news?” he asked.

  “Tell me.”

  “Cassie, you can’t believe anything one of them says. It’s all rubbish—” Mac began, but I cut him off.

  “I’m too tired to debate this, Mac,” I said, and the weariness in my voice was genuine. All I wanted was to find a soft patch of moss, one that wasn’t too damp and was free of moving tree parts, and sleep for about twelve hours. I was mentally and physically near exhaustion, and my emotional state wasn’t all that great, either. But Marlowe was right—I needed to hear this. I could decide whether to believe it later.

  Marlowe didn’t need a second prompt. “We wondered why a demon hunter had been assigned as the Circle’s liaison to us. There are plenty of vampire experts available and many of them are far more . . . diplomatic . . . than John Pritkin. The timing was also suspicious, with the Circle removing their old liaison and substituting Pritkin only hours before you were brought in. It was as if they knew you were coming and wanted him to be there.”

  “They hoped he’d mistake me for a demon and kill me,” I said. This was old news, something Mircea had figured out early on. It had almost worked. Pritkin didn’t know much about vamps, but he was an expert on demons. And some of my powers, especially possession, had made him very suspicious.

  “I heard that theory, but it seemed strange that the Circle would simply assume you would do something to alarm Pritkin enough for him to attack you. Had things gone the way we planned—had you not escaped and Tomas not betrayed us—it would have been a quiet evening.” I fidgeted at this evaluation of my first meeting with the Senate, which had been anything but quiet from the start, but didn’t interrupt. “I thought there might be more to the story,” he continued, “and began a discreet inquiry.”

  “You don’t know anything,” Mac said vehemently.

  Marlowe raised an eyebrow, the look on his face one a king might have bestowed on a peasant who tracked mud across his castle floor. “On the contrary, I know a good deal. For instance, I know Pritkin has at least a thousand kills to his credit, and probably more. I know that he’s the man the Circle turns to when they want to make absolutely certain someone ends up dead. I know that he is famous for using unorthodox tactics to bring down his prey”—he gave me an arch look—“like having one mark help him to locate another—”

  Mac uttered an expletive. “Don’t listen to him, Cassie.” He paused to stomp on a root that had been trying to curl around my ankle. It slunk off into the forest, but I had no doubt it would be back. I felt a strong yearning for an axe. “You may not know us, but you do know vamps. They lie more than they breathe. John’s a good man.”

  Marlowe let out a contemptuous laugh. “Tell his victims that!” He glanced at me, as if trying to gauge my reaction to his news, but I’d hit that washed-out sensation that comes from too much exertion in too little time. I couldn’t manage to make myself care very much if Pritkin wanted me dead. It wasn’t exactly a novel idea; I’d been operating on that assumption all along.

  I started searching through Mac’s backpack for some dry socks. I’d had a pair in my duffle, but Mac must not have bothered to pack them. It’s a clue that you are hanging with the wrong crowd when you have beer, guns and about a ton of ammunition, but no clean clothes.

  Marlowe looked slightly put out that his bombshell wasn’t causing the uproar he’d expected, but he continued nonetheless. “You’ve entrusted yourself to Pritkin’s care, but you know virtually nothing about him! The Circle has obviously sent him to kill you.”

  “This is a perfect example of what vamps do, Cassie!” Mac thundered. “They cobble together some half-truths that leave them looking lily-white and the rest of us covered in shite!”

  “He needs your help to find the other rogue,” Marlowe told me earnestly, ignoring Mac. “But as soon as he has her, you’re dead. Unless you let us assist you. The Senate only wants—”

  “—to control your every move!” Mac broke in. “Cassie, I swear to you, John was appalled when he found out what the Circle intends. They’ve gone power-mad! Even if they get their way and both you and Myra die, they can’t be sure their chosen initiate will become Pythia. There are hundreds, possibly thousands, of unknown, untrained clairvoyants in the world. What if it went to one of them? And what if the Black Circle found her first?”

  I smiled slightly. “Better the devil you know, huh?” Mac looked somewhat appalled at what he’d let slip, but it was exactly because he hadn’t made a rousing speech in my favor that I tended to believe him.

  I glanced at Marlowe. “Mac has a point. Pritkin was declared a rogue himself today for protecting me, and was almost killed in the bargain. Seems kind of extreme for someone who is only setting me up.”

  “He is known for such tactics,” Marlowe said, waving it off. He gazed at me intently, his eyes practically radiating sincerity. “Cassie, we have no desire to manipulate you. Our aim is to offer you an alternative to domination by the mages. That has been the fate of Pythias for generations, but it doesn’t have to be yours. We can—”

  I held up a hand, both because I didn’t want to hear it and to keep Mac, who had grown dangerously red in the face, from going ballistic. “Save it, Marlowe. I know the truth. And I don’t intend to be dominated by anyone.”

  “You know what you’ve been told,” he replied urgently. “And you will need allies, Cassie. No great leader has ever ruled entirely alone. Elizabeth has gone down in history as a magnificent queen, which she was, but one of her chief talents was choosing able people to advise her. She was great partly because those around her were great. You cannot remain isolated. You will not be able to work that way. In the long term—”

  “I’m not real interested in the long term right now, Marlowe. ” I was just trying to live through the day.

  “In time, you will come to understand that you need allies, and the Senate will be there. Unlike the mages, we want to work with you, not control your every decision.”

  “Uh-huh. Which is why Mircea put the dúthracht on me?” There were a lot of things I wasn’t clear on, but that one was crystal. The geis wasn’t used to advise; it was used to control. The look on Marlowe’s face said he knew that.

  “We will find a way to break it,” he promised. “And in the meantime, the Senate offers you its protection.” I rolled my eyes and Mac snorted.

  “Yeah,” he said contemptuously, “just substitute ‘prison’ for ‘protection’ and—”

  “You might wish to consider,” Marlowe said smoothly, “that despite Lord Mircea’s lapse of judgment, the Senate has protected you in the past. Whereas the facts make only one conclusion possible: the mages want their candidate on the Pythia’s throne and will stop at nothing to see her there—including your death.”

  “Another lie!” Mac surged to his feet.

  He looked angry enough to go for Marlowe’s throat, but he didn’t get the chance. I heard a rustling sound and, quicker than I could blink, the roots that had been bugging me all day wrapped themselves securely around Mac. He tried to say something, but I couldn’t make it out. Within seconds, only his outraged eyes showed over a coil of rope-like roots, some of them as big as my arm. Struggling seemed useless, although he appeared to be trying anyway.

  Marlowe was in much the same predicament, but he sat quietly, making no attempt to resist. I noticed that, despite Marlowe being the stronger of the two, he was bound less tightly than Mac, with roots coming up only to his chest. Maybe the less you fought them, the less tightly they held you. I followed his example, hoping that they’d continue to ignore me. Then I realized they weren’t the only problem.

  “We are not spies,” Marlowe said loudly, apparently to thin air.

  “You are in our land without permission,” came the answer; “therefore, you are whatever we say you are.”


  “Who are you?” an imperious voice demanded. A doll-like creature flew out from behind Marlowe to hover in front of my face. It was about two feet long, with a mass of fiery red hair and a huge span of bright green wings. It took me a moment to place it—her—as the pixie I’d seen a week before at Dante’s. Then she’d only been about eight inches high, but it wasn’t like I could be mistaken. She was the first member of the Fey I’d ever seen, and the image sort of sticks with you.

  “Don’t give her your name!” Marlowe said urgently. The pixie frowned at him and a large root with a knot on it shoved its way between his lips. It’s a good thing vampires don’t need to breathe, because more roots followed, twining around his face so thickly that only a shock of brown curls could be seen. He was gagged so effectively that it didn’t look like I’d be getting any more help.

  “I’m the Pythia,” I said, deciding that a title might be better than my name. As far as I knew, it couldn’t be used in enchantments. “We met before, at Dante’s, if you—”

  “I’ll be rewarded highly for this,” she said, ignoring my attempt to trade on our brief acquaintance. “Seize them.” A large party of shaggy things burst out of the trees, clubs and hide-wrapped shields at the ready. I don’t know why they bothered with weapons—the stench coming off them in waves was enough to incapacitate anybody.

  A couple of very odd-looking things converged on me. It looked like two gruesome trees had uprooted themselves and decided to go for a walk. The closest had a more or less human form, if humans were commonly four feet tall and at least as wide. But his hair was the color of the lichen on the roots, a bright flaming red despite the dirt that caked it, and his eyes were the same dung yellow as his teeth. He had skin as gnarled and pitted as old bark, and its color exactly matched the loamy forest floor. He was wearing only a small loin covering of oak leaves, which was almost hidden by the folds of his enormous belly.

  His partner had him by about a foot in height but wasn’t nearly as wide. Filthy gray hair trailed down to his knees, with the look and consistency of Spanish moss. Stringy muscles stood out on impossibly long arms covered in greenish gray skin. His body resembled a cragged tree trunk more than a living being, with knobby extensions all over like stunted branches. Instead of clothing he had long strings of dirty gray moss and a few ferns that appeared to sprout directly from his flesh.