Hunt the Moon

Acting like there was nothing to discuss, of course.

  Only there was. There so very definitely was, like five hundred years of history I knew next to nothing about. Like the fact that almost all I did know was that he was fiercely loyal to his family, had a horrible sense of humor, and when he walked into a room, he made my breath catch.

  And, yeah, that was definitely something, but was it enough to base a lifetime on? I didn’t know yet. All I did know was that if I kept giving in, kept doing what he wanted, kept acting like we were already together and the decision had been made . . . then pretty soon, it would be.

  And I didn’t know yet if it was one I could live with.

  “Cassie?”

  I looked up to find him regarding me with exasperated eyes. “Do you really have to think so hard about this?”

  “It’s . . . complicated,” I said fretfully.

  “No, it really isn’t.”

  “Yes, it is! It really, really is, and you know it is and—”

  He stopped me with a hand on either side of my face. “When are we?”

  “What?”

  “The year.”

  I frowned. And my power sluggishly called up the date: “Nineteen sixty-nine.”

  “And that means you haven’t been born yet, doesn’t it?”

  I nodded.

  “We haven’t met yet—am I right?”

  “Well, not unless you count that time in—”

  “Cassie.”

  “No. Not . . . technically. But I don’t get what you’re—”

  “I’m saying that nothing that happens, or doesn’t happen, tonight will have any bearing on our relationship once we return. No implications. No consequences. Think of this as . . . a night out of time.”

  “A night out of time?” I repeated doubtfully, because I didn’t get those. Time caused me problems; it didn’t solve them. Not even for one night.

  His forehead came to rest against mine. “A night out of time.”

  I licked my lips and thought it over. “The servers will see.”

  “And if I arrange it so they won’t?”

  I looked up at him, and it was a mistake, because he was grinning that little-boy grin, the one he never showed in public because it would completely trash his image as big, bad Vampire Senate member. But I got to see it every once in a while. And it never failed to be devastating.

  “Just dinner,” I heard myself say, before I could bite my tongue.

  “Just dinner,” he agreed softly, stroking the lines of my cheekbones with his thumbs.

  And then he let me go.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The bathroom of the suite turned out to be as impressive as the rest. Golden marble with thin veins of burnt umber running through it covered everything from the floors to the ceiling to the double sinks to the spa-like tub, all polished to a high gloss. There was a plush dark orange rug, matching towels, and a basket of expensive toiletries all done up in cellophane like the Easter bunny had just delivered it.

  And there were mirrors, lots and lots of mirrors.

  Almost every surface that wasn’t covered in marble had one, and all of them informed me that I looked like hell. My makeup was long gone, my hair was a freaking disaster, and my body was smeared with mud and various other substances I didn’t want to think too hard about. I sighed and peeled the laddered foot of what had been an expensive pair of stockings off my filthy feet. My polish was chipped and my toes . . . well, they looked like you’d expect after being dragged across cobblestones.

  I contemplated my shredded toes and sighed. One day, one fine, fine day, I was going to be in peril in a damn pair of sneakers. Of course, I’d settle for not being in peril at all.

  Not being in peril at all would be good.

  I grabbed a couple of sinfully plush towels and got my beat-up, grimy self into the nice, clean shower. I didn’t even try for a bath, because I’d immediately turn the water black. Kind of like the evening’s entertainment had done to me.

  After I got clean enough to be fairly sure that whatever was left wasn’t dirt, I took stock. I had a swelling bruise on my ankle, another on my hip and a third, long and horizontal and rapidly darkening, on my lower stomach, probably where I’d hit down on the damn carriage ride from hell. Add that to the bruises I was still carrying from the bathtub incident and, oh yeah, I looked sexy.

  Not that I wasn’t happy to be alive in any shape. I just didn’t understand why I was. Particularly not if Mircea’s theory was correct about what we’d been fighting.

  It had seemed crazy when he said it, because demigods weren’t exactly thick on the ground. The gods, or the creatures calling themselves that, had been banished a long time from Earth, and most of their by-blows had either gone with them or been rounded up by the Circle. And because I couldn’t imagine what a bunch of half gods could want with my mother.

  But now that I had a chance to think, it did explain a lot. Like how resilient the mages had been, not bothering with shields but bouncing back from blows that should have left them a smear on the concrete without them. And why they’d seemed so damn strong.

  Pritkin had once told me that war mages never used a hundred percent of their power for attack. In battle, the standard ratio was seventy-thirty, meaning that seventy percent of a mage’s power went to defense—to the shields and wards needed to keep him or her alive—with maybe thirty percent leftover for offensive stuff. Particularly powerful magic users could hedge on that a bit, maybe taking the total needed for defense down to sixty-five or even sixty percent, because their excess power made up for it. But nobody went completely unprotected. If they did, the first spell to so much as nick them might take them out of the fight—permanently.

  Pritkin himself regularly used only about a quarter of his power for defense, although he didn’t admit as much to the Circle. But what if someone could shrug off being trampled under horses or slung against buildings or dragged half the length of a street, despite not using shields? Being able to put everything toward attack would make even a low-level mage look pretty damn impressive. And if he or she was already extra-strong to begin with . . .

  Well, that mage might look something like what I’d just seen. But as reasonable as that sounded, it couldn’t be right. Because my mother couldn’t have fought off four demigods and a crazy-ass kidnapper all by herself.

  Could she?

  It seemed ridiculous. But, then, if the answer was no, why was I still here? If the mages had killed her or the kidnapper had carted her off, or anything had happened to keep her from meeting my infamous father, then I should have vanished. And other than for the rather large amount of skin I’d left in the road, I hadn’t.

  And that was . . . well, that was kind of an epiphany. The whole damn night had been, really. Because I’d never seen the Pythian power used like that. In fact, I’d rarely seen it used at all, which was one of the reasons I’d been having so much trouble mastering it.

  Jonas did his best to help me, but he wasn’t a Pythia. He’d overheard some of the stuff Agnes had said when training her heirs, and he’d seen a lot of what she could do. But trying to harness time with his help had been like building a car from a set of oral instructions when you’ve never seen one and the guy giving them has only a vague idea of what one is supposed look like.

  It had been the blind leading the blind all month.

  It had gotten frustrating enough that I’d actually thought of going to the Pythian Court for help. But I hadn’t, and not just because one of their number had already tried to kill me. They probably weren’t all homicidal maniacs, but I doubted I was real popular with a group who had zero chance of advancement as long as I lived.

  Which might explain why I hadn’t heard from them all month. Not a “congrats,” however insincere; not a “fuck you”; not a peep of any kind. I didn’t know what that meant, but it was more than a little ominous. And Jonas sure as hell hadn’t suggested stopping by for a chat.

  So I’d been on my own.

>   And being on my own sucked ass.

  But then had come tonight. And . . . damn.

  Somehow, I’d gotten into the habit of thinking about my power as defensive—shifting to get out of a tight spot, throwing time bubbles to ward off attackers, stopping time to give me a chance to run like hell. Maybe because that was mostly how I’d been using it. But my mother . . . she hadn’t been real big on defense. She’d been real big on kicking some demigod butt.

  The war mages might have been running a full-on offensive, but she’d been right there with them. She’d sent them screaming in terror. She’d imprisoned one like a bug under glass. She’d run one the hell down.

  Mom, I realized in shock, had been kind of a badass.

  And so was the Pythian power in the hands of somebody who actually knew how to use it. And while I didn’t realistically think I’d ever be anywhere near that good . . . still. It gave me a lot to think about.

  Only this wasn’t the place, because I was going all pruney. I hadn’t known a shower could do that, but this one was hard and hot and enthusiastic, to the point that my fingers and what was left of my toes were wrinkling up. I got out of the shower, dried my hair, and swiped a hand over the nearest mirror.

  It showed me what I’d expected: a thin, pale girl with scraggly blond hair, dark circles under her eyes and a bruise in her hairline. I leaned in, pulling my hair back, searching my own face. I had a lot more to go on now than a grainy photo taken at a distance. I’d stared her right in the face from barely a foot away. Yet try as I might, I couldn’t see even a distant echo in me.

  My eyes were blue, but they were just blue. My hair was reddish, sort of, in the right light, but nothing like that beautiful bronze color. And my face was . . . just a face.

  It looked back at me now, too-round cheekbones, a toostubborn chin and a scattering of unfashionable freckles over a tip-tilted nose. It wasn’t a bad face, as faces go, but it wasn’t going to be launching a thousand ships anytime soon. I stood there, searching it anyway, desperate to find some trace of that ethereal beauty.... And it suddenly hit me. If I hadn’t taken after my mother, then I must look like—

  Him.

  The dark mage who had wooed her away from the court, from her rightful place in the succession, from everything she’d ever known. Agnes had told me once that my mother had been a natural with the power, the best she’d ever seen, and I’d had plenty of proof of that tonight. And yet she’d left it all behind for an evil man, a onetime member of the notorious Black Circle, who looked like . . . me?

  I leaned closer. Was this the face that had commanded an army of ghosts to spy on the Silver Circle, who had almost seized control of the Black and who had somehow seduced the virgin heir to the powerful Pythian throne? My reflection didn’t answer; it just dripped at me, looking vaguely like a drowned Kewpie doll.

  I scrunched up my face and tried to look menacing.

  Now I looked like a Kewpie doll with gas.

  I sighed. Maybe I’d taken after some distant relative or something. I might never know, since I didn’t have even a grainy image of my father. Not that I wanted one, at least not as a keepsake, but it would have been nice to know what he’d looked like.

  It would also be nice to get dressed before the rest of the hot air leaked out of the bathroom. My clothes had been left in the limo, and, frankly, they’d been no big loss. But there were some plush terry cloth robes on a rack beside the door, and I had an arm in one before I remembered.

  Oh, dear God.

  Had I really just agreed to walk out there naked?

  I just stood there for a minute, clutching the robe and staring blankly at the mirror, which was mercifully fogging back up. I told myself that it didn’t matter, that I’d just been naked in the freaking limo, for God’s sake, flashing who knew how many people on the way here. But it had been dark and I’d been half-crazy with relief and Mircea . . . Well, Mircea could make a girl forget her own name when he put a little effort into it. But that was a lot different from walking out there cold and naked and bruised and pruney and—

  Shit. How did I get myself into these things?

  I bit my lip and stared at the door. I didn’t have to do it. Mircea might be disappointed, but he’d live, and I could say—

  What? That I was a freaking coward? That I knew I wouldn’t live up to the standards of his—very many—other women? That most of them had been among the world’s great beauties, and here I was, with cracked toenail polish and rat’s-nest hair and no makeup and a body that looked like it had been used as a punching bag?

  I ran a comb through my hair while I stood there debating it. Okay, okay. There was no denying that I didn’t look my best. But honestly, even polished to a high gloss, I wasn’t going to compete in the looks department with a porcelain doll like Ming-de. Or the Grace Kelly look-alike I’d seen with Mircea at the theater once. Or the sloe-eyed countess who had been willing to fight a duel over him. Or the athletic-looking brunette with the big boobs that he’d kept a freaking photo album of until it was destroyed in an accident, and wasn’t that just too goddamned bad?

  Yeah. So. I had what I had, and it might be a little beat-up, but it was pretty much the package. And it had been really dark in the limo, but that wouldn’t bother a vampire’s sight, and he hadn’t seemed exactly put off then.

  And, hey, at least I was clean now.

  I took off the robe and looked at the door again. I felt cold. And really, really naked. Like, super-ultranaked. Which was stupid, because naked was naked and goddamn it! Just do it already.

  I grasped the doorknob, feeling nervous and jittery and silly and kind of turned on and—

  I took my hand off again.

  How often do you get a free pass? the less cowardly part of my brain demanded. I didn’t answer, because talking to yourself is a little too close to the scary side of crazy, and I was teetering on the brink as it was. But I knew the answer anyway. If I didn’t do this, if I let myself chicken out, I knew damned well I’d regret it. Maybe not now, but soon, and I had enough regrets. Tonight I wanted to live.

  I put my hand back on the knob. It’s like pulling off a Band-Aid, I told myself sternly. Just do it fast and the hard part will be over. Before I could talk myself out of it again, I took a deep breath, grabbed the doorknob and flung it open.

  And burst out into a room full of vamps.

  The fat little manager was standing over by the fireplace, along with Mircea and a couple of young guys dressed like waiters. Another waiter type was by the door, wheeling out a room service cart, but of course he turned to see what the commotion was about. And I didn’t doubt that he got a good view. The room was dim, lit mainly by a couple of lowburning lamps in the corners and the bright white light flooding in behind me.

  Spotlighting me like freaking Gypsy Rose Lee.

  For a moment, I stared at them and they stared at me and it was like Agnes’s party all over again, after it had been frozen in time. Nothing moved except the flames somebody had stoked in the fireplace. And then I gave a shriek and the paralysis broke.

  One of the guys jumped and one of them grinned and Mircea held out a hand, and then I don’t know what happened because I ran back into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  Oh, God.

  Oh, God, oh, God, oh God.

  Tonight sucked. Tonight sucked so damn hard I just didn’t even know—

  Someone rapped on the door.

  I could feel it in my shoulder blades, because I had my back to the damn thing and I wasn’t moving. I might never move again. “Dulceață?”

  Shit.

  “Dulceață? Are you all right?”

  I didn’t say anything, because he knew damn well I was all right. He could hear me breathing through the door. This close, he could probably feel the heat from my flaming cheeks, which a glance in the mirror informed me were bright, lobster red. As was my neck and a good bit of my chest, all of which was perfectly visible, and oh, God.

  “Dulceață?
”

  “I’m fine,” I choked out, hoping he’d just go away. If there was some kind of disaster scale for dates, this one had just hit ten. Or maybe twenty. Or maybe some number heretofore unknown in the history of dating, and I really didn’t think I could take a conversation on top of—

  I heard a door close outside, with a discreet snick. “They’ve gone, dulceață,” Mircea said, his voice sounding a little funny.

  Somewhere in all that, I had slid down to my haunches, with my arms over my head, hoping the floor might be merciful and swallow me up. But that tone got me back on my feet. I grabbed one of the damn robes and jerked it on, and then stuck my head out the door.

  “Are you laughing at me?” I demanded incredulously.

  “No,” he said, and pulled me against his chest.

  It was vibrating.

  “You are laughing at me, you complete and total—”

  “I’m not,” he said, but he had a hand on the back of my head and he wouldn’t let me look at his face.

  “This was your fault!”

  “Dulceață—”

  “Don’t call me that!” I was feeling anything but sweet at the moment. In fact, if I could have gotten an arm free, I’d have probably hit him. But his had gone around me and they were holding me tight, although at least I could move my head now. I looked up.

  His face was absolutely and suspiciously sober, but his eyes were dancing.

  “You’re a bastard,” I said with feeling.

  “I assure you, my parents were properly wed. And I was merely going to say that you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right!” I blinked. “What?”

  “I should have warned you that they were here, but I did not expect you to be quite so . . . bold.”

  And no, he probably hadn’t, I realized. He’d probably expected me to come out in a robe or a towel, or at least to poke my head around the door first. Not to storm out like the bathroom was on fire. Or like a really, really inept stripper.

  I winced and let my head fall forward. “That’s me,” I told him miserably. “I’m bold.”

  “To a frightening degree at times,” he murmured, combing his fingers through my wet curls.