Karen Chance: Hunt the Moon

“He said—”

“I heard.” Pritkin rang off without saying good-bye, or anything else at all. So I didn’t know why I was smiling as I went to the kitchen to make sure we had enough clean glasses.

“Damn it,” Marco said. “You didn’t tell him what kind. He’ll probably bring one of those weird English beers.”

“Ale,” one of the other vamps said darkly.

“Shit.”

They went back to their game while I washed up. Because, apparently, master vampires would carry out garbage, but they drew the line at dishpan hands. Not that there were a lot, since most of my meals came on room service carts these days.

I finished up and went to try again to get a comb through my potion-stained curls. I was still working on it when the doorbell rang. I gave up, pulled my hair back into a limp ponytail and went into the kitchen. Pritkin was already there, unpacking a couple of brown paper grocery bags.

“Foster’s,” he told Marco, who was peering into one suspiciously.

The vamp looked relieved. “It’s even cold.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I thought you Brits liked it hot.”

“Hot beer?” Pritkin looked revolted.

“That’s the rumor.”

“Because we don’t drink it iced over, thereby leaching right out whatever flavor you Yanks accidentally left in?”

“Ooh, touchy,” Marco said, and swiped the beer.

I looked in the other bag, but saw only a bunch of little boxes. I pulled one out, and it was tea. After a moment, I realized that they all were: peppermint, chamomile, green, black . . . It was like he’d bought out the store.

“You need something to calm your nerves that isn’t going to knock you out,” he told me.

“I don’t think tea is going to cut it,” I said drily. “Not with my life.”

A blond eyebrow rose. “You’d be surprised.”

He came up with a kettle I hadn’t known we possessed and proceeded to do tea-type things with it. I took an apple out of a bowl and set it on the table. “So you think it was Fey?” I asked, because I hadn’t gotten many details before I passed out.

“I don’t know what it was,” Pritkin said, looking like the confession pained him. “The Fey do not have a spirit form, yet your attacker was incorporeal. And you were able to give me a description—a fairly good one for so short a glimpse.”

“Why does that matter?”

“It matters because if it was Fey, you should have seen nothing.”

“You saw something,” I said, concentrating. A fragile bubble closed over the fruit, no more substantial than the ones the dish soap had left in the sink. And by the look of things, no more effective.

“I have a small amount of Fey blood,” Pritkin said, glancing at it. “It sometimes allows me to detect when they are near, although it isn’t a reliable skill. In some instances, however, a Fey under a glamourie might look like what I saw—a dark cloud. That’s why I threw the nunchucks to you.” His lips twisted. “That and the fact that I was out of other ideas.”

“Maybe I have a little Fey blood.” I didn’t really know enough about my family to know what I might have.

“You don’t.”

“How do you know? Can you see that, too?”

“I don’t have to. If you had so much as a drop, the Fey family you belonged to could claim you. And then you wouldn’t have just the Circle and the Senate fighting over you; you’d have them, as well.”

He was talking about the Silver Circle, the world’s leading magical association, which ruled over the human part of the supernatural community the way the Senate did the vamps. It was used to having the line of Pythias firmly under its protective thumb. That had been fairly easy, as the power of the office usually went to whomever the previous Pythia had trained, and that was always a proper little Circle-raised initiate. Or it was until me. The last heir to the Pythian throne, a sibyl named Myra, had also turned out to be a homicidal bitch, and the power had decided on another option.

The Circle had been less than thrilled by its choice, but we’d finally come to terms. As in, they were no longer trying to play Whac-A-Mole with my head. Only now they seemed to think they had the right to make sure that nobody else did, either. That was a problem, because the vampires felt the same way and the Senate didn’t share well.

The last thing I needed was another group in the mix.

“I have absolutely no Fey blood,” I said fervently.

“Trust me, they have checked,” Pritkin told me. “And you don’t. But that means you should have seen nothing.”

“Okay, I get that. I saw it, so it can’t be Fey. But it also wasn’t demon or ghost or human or Were. So what’s left?”

“That’s the question.” He leaned one hand on the table. “But the fact remains that it was driven off by cold iron. And only one species, to my knowledge, is so affected. Of course, it could have been a coincidence that it chose that precise moment to leave, but—”

“But that’s a hell of a coincidence.”

“Yes.” He looked at the bubble, which was shivering as if someone were blowing on it. “What are you doing?”

The fragile shell burst, dissipating without so much as a pop. I sighed. “Nothing.” Obviously.

“What were you trying to do?”

I repressed a sudden urge to pound the fruit into pulp. “Age it,” I said tersely. “Jonas said Agnes could take an apple from a seed to a shriveled mass and back again, running through its whole lifetime in a few seconds.”

Pritkin took in the apple, which was plump and round and perfect and had a healthy red blush. Just like all the others in the little bowl. Just like I’d never done anything at all. “You’re tired.”

“And I’m never going to be attacked when I’m tired.”

He frowned. “Taking yourself to the brink of exhaustion is not a good idea.”

“So says the man who ran me halfway around a mountain today.”

“That was before we knew you have a threat that can walk through wards. You should have been safe to recuperate here.”

Safe. Yeah, like I’d ever been safe anywhere. I turned around and abruptly left the kitchen.

The balcony was still hot and still creepy, the latter mostly due to the sign flickering on and off overhead, not in any pattern, but like it was about to go out. It wasn’t broken; the hotel had a hell theme, and the sign was supposed to do that. Sort of a Bates Motel pastiche, which was usually a little disturbing. But tonight, it fit my mood perfectly.

Pritkin followed me out. He didn’t say anything, just handed me a cold Coke he’d dug up from somewhere. I guess the tea wasn’t ready.

I took it without comment, feeling absurdly grateful. I didn’t really want to talk. I’d wanted him here, but I wasn’t sure why. Maybe just to have someone to drink with. Actually, that sounded pretty good at the moment. I sat on the seat of the chaise and he sat on the foot, and we just drank at each other for a while.

After a few minutes, he leaned back against the railing, like maybe he wanted a backrest, and I shifted my feet over to make room. But I guess I didn’t shift far enough, because a large, warm hand covered my right foot, adjusting it slightly. And then it just stayed there, like he’d forgotten to remove it.

I looked at it. Pritkin’s hands were oddly refined compared to the rest of him: strong but long fingered, with elegant bones and short-clipped nails. They always looked like they’d wandered off from some fine gentleman, one they’d probably like to get back to, because God knew they weren’t getting a manicure while attached to him.

There were potion stains on them tonight, green and brown, probably from the earlier encounter. I wondered if they’d wash off skin faster than hair. Probably.