Karen Chance - Tempt the Stars

“I wish.”

I sighed and crossed my filthy arms. “Okay. Out with it.”

But he didn’t come out with it. “Where’s Jonas? You’re supposed to be with him.”

I shrugged. “Home?” I’d dropped him off in the lobby before going for coffee. And it had been a while, since despite the fact that I looked like a war refugee, I’d still had to wait in line.

Vegas.

“Damn it!” Marco looked genuinely put out. No, that wasn’t right. Marco looked almost—

The sliding doors opened and a small vamp sidled out, before slamming them dramatically shut behind him. “Refreshments!” he said shrilly.

“What?” Marco glowered at him.

“You heard me,” the vamp said, wild-eyed. “They say if they have to wait any longer, that they deserve—”

“I’ll tell you what they deserve,” Marco said menacingly.

“—something to eat, but you know we don’t have any food in the place and I don’t know what—” The vamp stopped abruptly, staring at me.

Or, to be more precise, at my small white bakery bag.

“No,” I said, trying to hide it behind me. But a second later, it was in his hand anyway.

The guy who had just crossed a room in an eyeblink was named Fred. He looked like an accountant when he stood still long enough—with wispy brown hair and a somewhat portly figure—which was fair, since that’s what he had been before getting tapped for guard duty. I still hadn’t found out who he’d had to piss off to get stuck with that.

I knew who he was managing to annoy tonight, though.

He saw my expression. “No, no, no!” he said, backing up, his big gray eyes going huge. And then the little weasel ran for it.

“Come back here!” I demanded, but Fred wasn’t. Fred was a blur, clutching the bag I’d just stood in line twenty freaking minutes for, and heading for the kitchen.

Only to find me waiting on him when he arrived.

“What—how—shit!” He stared at me, hand over the heart that wasn’t going to attack him, since it hadn’t beaten in a few hundred years now. “You know I hate it when you do that!”

“Then give me back my stuff!”

“I . . . can’t,” he said, looking around desperately.

Marco had come in behind him, but he wasn’t doing anything, just standing in front of the door with his massive arms crossed, waiting it out.

“Please,” Fred said tragically when I grabbed for my property. And then, “Please! Please! Gaaah! Gaaah!”

I let go of the bag, because I honestly didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him. “What the hell’s wrong with him?” I asked Marco.

“He’s afraid.”

Fred didn’t deny it.

“Of what?”

“Of them in there.” The thumb hike was backward this time, over his shoulder. But it didn’t help, since the shutters partitioning the kitchen from the lounge had been closed, like they were for the formal parties we never had.

“ Who in there?”

Marco opened his mouth, but it was Fred who spoke. He was looking in the bag, and he didn’t seem happy. Maybe because he’d squashed it in all the agitation, and a smear of red had bloomed like blood on one side.

He grabbed a plate and turned it upside down, dumping out the contents. And then he just stood there, staring at three sadly mushed pastries. “What are those ?” he demanded.

“What do they look like?” I snapped. Damn it, most of the powdered sugar had come off, and that was the best part.

Big gray eyes lifted to meet mine, with the look of a man seeing his doom. “What did you buy ?” he squeaked.

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know! They have all kinds of things down there—dainty tea cakes and tiny tarts and pain au chocolate and finger sandwiches and those cute little baby macaroons! Why didn’t you get the baby macaroons? ”

“I don’t like macaroons.”

He stared at me. “What do you mean you don’t like macaroons? Everybody likes macaroons!”

“Well, I’m somebody and I don’t,” I said, reaching for the plate. And getting my hand slapped for my trouble.

“But . . . but I can’t serve them these ,” he said, a little madly. “And room service takes forever and there’s always a line downstairs and what am I supposed to do ?”

“You’re supposed to tell me what’s going on before I strangle you,” I said ominously.

But Fred was past that. Fred looked like he thought strangling would be a step up. He was hunched over the plate, his eyes darting around the kitchen’s gleaming surfaces as if he thought a tea service and accompanying canapés were sure to appear somewhere.

“Oh God . . ” he said miserably when this did not happen.

I looked at Marco, expecting a little sanity. Only to find him regarding the plate, too. “Maybe you could . . . fluff ’em up,” he said, apparently serious.

“Fluff ’em up? Fluff ’em up? ” Fred hissed. “They’re jelly doughnuts! There’s nothing to fluff!”

“They’re my doughnuts,” I said, reaching for the plate again. And had it snatched away.

“Have an apple,” Fred snarled, tossing me one from a bowl.

“If I’d wanted an apple, I wouldn’t have bought doughnuts!”

“Well, that’s too bad,” he hissed, hunched over my dinner like Gollum with the ring. “Because I’m not going out there and telling a bunch of mumble—”

“What?”

“—that we don’t have anything for them. I’m not, do you hear?”

Not really. “A bunch of what?” I asked, for clarification.

The darting eyes made a return, and his tone was barely audible. “Wumble,” he said reverently.

“What?”

He looked up, a faintly annoyed frown creasing his forehead. “Wichel!”

“What’s a wichel?”

Marco sighed. “Witches,” he translated.

“Witches?” I frowned.

“Yes!” Fred said vehemently. “Witches! Witches! Wi—” He suddenly realized he’d been yelling, and bit off the word. And crouched down behind the kitchen table so, I suppose, Marco and I would be the better targets. “Witches,” he whispered.

I put a hand to my head. I just wanted a doughnut. A sweet, squashy, jelly-filled reminder that there were good things in life, however much fate seemed determined to deprive me of them.

“What witches?” I finally asked.

“The coven kind,” Marco said dourly. “They showed up almost an hour ago, demanding to see you.”

“Did they have an appointment?”

Marco looked faintly uncomfortable. “No.”

“Then why did you let them in?”

“’Cause they appeared on the balcony and let themselves in through the wards?” Fred asked, peeking over the table and prompting Marco to shoot him a look.

“Because one doesn’t just tell a bunch of coven leaders to get lost!” Marco bit out.

“If they don’t have an appointment, you do,” I said grimly.

I wasn’t trying to be inhospitable, but seriously, this shit had to stop. Morning, noon, and night, ever since my not-exactly-a-coronation, it had been the same thing: senate leaders, Circle leaders, Pack leaders, press-tryingto-pretend-to-be-leaders of something, anything, that would get them in, all showing up. To gawk at me. And in the case of the latter, to get the story of the century.

And the worst thing was, it wasn’t even mine.

Yeah, I was the Pythia the vamps had pulled out of the woodwork a few months ago, who nobody knew anything about. And yes, that would have been front-page news in any situation. In any other situation.

But, suddenly, nobody cared that I had been brought up by Tony the Louse instead of being carefully nurtured at the Pythian Court. Nobody was bothered by the fact that I’d therefore received practically no training for the job I was supposed to be doing. They didn’t even seem to care that an untutored vampire’s protégée was occupying one of the most important positions in the magical world while said world was being consumed by a major war.