Reap the Wind (40 page)

“I can relate.”

“Yeah, and then, after hours and hours and
hours
, like I’m surprised they didn’t have his
manicurist
on there or some—”

“Fred.”

“So, anyway, I got bored and went out to eat with the guys. Then I stopped off at a place and had a couple drinks. And later decided to shoot some pool. And when I came back, they were
still working on the safe
. I mean—”

“Fred!”

“Okay, okay. So, anyway—”

“No! No ‘anyways’! No ‘and thens.’ No nothing!
What was in the safe?
”

“Nothing.”

“What?”

He nodded. “That was the real kicker. Bastard had pranked us all. There wasn’t anything in there.”

I stared at him. “And you’re telling me this why?”

He blinked. “It’s the only story I know about a safe?”

I shut my eyes.

And then opened them again a second later, when Teddy said, “Got it.”

“Got what?” I asked, leaning forward, terribly afraid I was going to see a big old lot of nothing.

But there was definitely something in there.

A lot of something.

“Looks like this was where she kept all her personal stuff,” he told me, pulling out jewel case after jewel case, along with envelopes of what looked like official documents, a passport, a bunch of different kinds of currency from a wide span of time—which, yeah, would be a smart thing to have around, wouldn’t it? And photo albums. Lots and lots of photo albums.

Some looked relatively new; others had to be fifty or more years old, worn and scratched and crumbly around the edges. The photos, the ones leaking out the sides because clusters of them had just been stacked in there, were similar. Some were old enough to have the little crinkly edges they used to put on them; others had that weird, seventies-era color. A few were even Polaroids. But as interesting as they were, I didn’t look at them. Because what I wanted . . .

Wasn’t there.

“No,” I said, searching through the papers on the floor. And then through the envelopes. And then through the thick spines on the albums, in case the little bottle had somehow gotten wedged down in there.

But it hadn’t.

It wasn’t there.

“You’re going to eat something,” Tami told me. It was not a question.

She put a tray on the bedside table and left, shutting the door. But somebody slipped in before she did. Somebody huge, but so quick and so quiet, I doubt she even noticed him. Vamps move like shadows when they want to, and Marco was no exception. Of course, he usually didn’t bother, preferring to bellow and bluster and make the puny masses tremble in fear.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t.

I’d grown up with vamps, learned to sense them in all their moods, even the quiet ones. Especially the quiet ones. That was when you were supposed to watch them the closest, because you never knew what they were up to. But I didn’t watch him now. I stayed where I was, sitting beside the bed.

The curtains were closed, like they usually were in daytime. Masters could handle daylight, but why suffer the power drain when you didn’t have to? But someone had been careless, or maybe one of the girls had been peeking out at the Strip, far below, and left a blackout curtain slightly ajar. Only it wasn’t sunlight that was spilling in.

A spear of bloody light rippled over the bed and onto the floor like a crimson stream, the overflow from the big neon Dante’s sign not far away. It normally added a barely discernable tinge to the day, a sultry haze on Vegas’ already dust-reddened landscape. But the darkness of the room and the peculiar angle of the slant left only neon penetrating the gloom.

It glinted off the jewels spread out on the carpet in front of me, making them look like they’d been dipped in blood. I’d had a vague idea about mementos for the girls, some slightly less creepy than the ones from Agnes’ apartment. I hadn’t made much progress, though.

I couldn’t seem to concentrate.

I picked up a necklace made of gold, with tiny seed pearls forming interlocking daisies. A lot of the sets were kind of heavy for young girls, but this one might work. It looked a little antiquated, like something out of the Victorian period, with little emerald-chip leaves and tiny diamond dew drops. Something Gertie might have worn as a girl. It was pretty. . . .

But I didn’t want it. It was nice, but I didn’t need it. I liked it, but I could give it away, because I didn’t get attached to things.

It was one reason I’d never minded living in a hotel room in Vegas, where few of the things surrounding me were actually mine. I suppose it would have bothered most people. It didn’t bother me.

I’d found out early on that if I liked something, Tony would find out and take it away if I displeased him. And I displeased him a lot. After a while, it was easier just to stay detached. That way, he didn’t know what was important and what wasn’t. And eventually, nothing was. I hadn’t had a problem running away and leaving everything behind because I didn’t get attached to things.

I didn’t get attached to people, either. Because they left, too. My parents, who died when I was four, my governess, who Tony had killed—my fault; I’d gotten too fond of her—virtually everyone I’d ever known before the last four months.

Pritkin . . .

Pritkin.

Pritkin.

No.

I was stuck. My head was stuck and it just . . . wouldn’t go there. I should be able to deal with this. I should be able to accept it. I should be able to add him to that list, the same list everybody went on, the same list I’d always known he’d end up on, too, because everybody did, everybody left. The reasons might vary, but that never did.
Everybody
left. . . .

No.

It was the problem I’d been having for more than a week, the problem I’d avoided even looking at, because I couldn’t deal with it. So I’d handled it the way I did everything I couldn’t deal with, and just ignored it. I’d find him; I’d get him back. It wouldn’t come to this.

And now that it had, I didn’t know what to do.

“She had some nice stuff.”

The massive shadow crouched on its haunches in front of me, each thigh bigger around than my body. He blocked out most of the light. I was oddly grateful for that.

“Yeah. I thought the girls might like . . . something.”

“What about you?” The big head tilted. “You don’t like jewelry?”

“For a long time, I couldn’t afford it, and then . . .” I touched Billy’s necklace. “Not much matches this.”

“No. Don’t suppose so.” A massive finger sorted through the expensive rubble. “Well, you’ve got plenty to choose from now.”

I laid my head on the side of the bed.

Marco observed me for a moment, and then joined me on the floor, settling back against the mattress and taking out one of his awful cigars. For a while, there was just the crinkle of cellophane as he rolled it between his hands, loosening the leaves. Marco liked to savor the whole experience, from the rolling to the unwrapping to the trimming to, finally, the drawing of deep, sweet-smelling smoke into a body that would never have to pay for it.

But he wasn’t smoking this one yet.

He was talking.

“Back when I was in the ring,” he said, talking about his time as a gladiator, “I knew this guy. Short. Scrawny. Even kind of clumsy. You’d look at him and think, yeah, hope I get matched with that one. That one’s a gimme. I’ll beat him in two minutes, then go drink wine and watch somebody else bleed.”

I adjusted my position to mirror his, and stared at the ceiling. “And did you?”

“No. Never got paired with him. Went out of my way to make sure I didn’t, after a couple of times watching him fight.”

I rolled my head over to look at him. “So he was good, after all?”

Marco snorted. “No, he was terrible. Terrible form, terrible reflexes, terrible everything. He was just as bad as he looked and then some. But he never gave up. Didn’t seem to understand that he was supposed to. Some other guy, you get him on the sand, he figures it’s over. You can see it in his eyes. He just starts to let go, you know?”

No. I didn’t, actually, and was glad of it. But I nodded anyway.

“But not this crazy bastard,” Marco said, shaking his head. “He’d throw sand in your face, he’d claw at your eyes, he’d bite your nose—bit one guy’s clean off. He’d scratch and gouge and spit. He’d scream in your face to try to throw you off. He’d knee you in the
nuts
. He’d do all of them at the same time if he got half a chance, to the point that it was like pinning a mad wolverine. None of the guys wanted to fight him ’cause they all thought he was crazy. Me . . . I just thought he wanted to live.”

“Did he?”

“Far as I know. He was still at it when my master got out of the game, anyway. You know, it’s funny. You don’t think of someone for a thousand years, and then suddenly you see him, clear as day. I saw him today, in you.”

I let my head drop onto my knees. In Marco’s mind, I’d somehow gone from weak woman who needed protecting to a bantamweight gladiator with possible brain damage. I wanted to laugh, because it was funny. I wanted to cry, because it was true.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I finally settled for. The tone was noncommittal, but there was a catch in my voice I hadn’t intended.

Marco grabbed my arm. “I was talking about his determination. His refusal to let others win, despite the odds being against him. I don’t know where they picked him up, but he wasn’t a fighter in his old life, I can tell you that. The rest of us were ex-soldiers, bodyguards, thugs. We grew up knowing our way around a sword—he barely knew how to hold one. But he
won
.”

“Then he was nothing like me,” I said, and this time there was something in my voice, something bitter. Because I hadn’t won this time. Mircea had been right and I’d been wrong. I’d been lucky, or maybe I’d just had really good people around helping me, so I’d beaten the odds. But my luck had just run out, and so had Pritkin’s, and I didn’t—I couldn’t— I needed to think, to figure something out, but all I could see was his face—

I started to get up, but the hand-on-my-arm thing didn’t change. Except to give me a gentle shake, which had my head wobbling around almost enough for whiplash. Marco’s gentle and everyone else’s gentle were two different things.

“Listen to me,” he said, and there was something in his voice that stopped me, even better than his grip. “I look at you and I see this . . . squashy little thing. This scrap of flesh with a mop of curls and big blue eyes and a stubborn tilt to her chin that scares the fucking life out of me, because anybody, anybody at all, could just snap her like a twig. When Mircea gave me this assignment, I didn’t give two shits for my chances. Thought, “I’m gonna have to sit on her to have any hope that she’ll survive the week.” Figured this was the master’s way of getting rid of me—give me an impossible job, and watch me fail.”

I blinked at him in confusion, not understanding his point. ‘Why would he want to get rid of you?”

He shrugged. “We butt heads. I have with every master I’ve ever had. Never had the power to go it on my own, but always resented the hell out of anybody giving me orders. My last master was ready to throw in the towel and stake my ass, until Mircea came along. You’d think I’d be grateful.”

“I’m sure he respects you,” I said, still confused. “He wouldn’t have given you this job if he didn’t.”

“Yeah, maybe. I never know what he’s thinking. Guess that’s why he’s the diplomat.” Marco looked at me frankly. “I’m not. They did their best, dressed me up in all those fine suits, cut my hair—even got me a damned manicure!” He laughed suddenly. “First one in my life. It didn’t help. I was what I was, not what I looked like. Just like Jules today. And just like you.” He pressed something into my hand.

I looked down at it, and for some crazy reason, expected a cigar. It wouldn’t have been the weirdest thing that had happened to me today, and nothing was making sense anyway. But it wasn’t a cigar.

Instead I was clutching something cool and hard and oddly heavy. Something vaguely triangular, with an uneven, pitted surface. Something—

“Where did you get this?” I whispered, staring at the little bottle in my hand. And then up at Marco, in utter disbelief. “I checked
everything
—”

“Not everything.” He picked up something from the darkness beside him and handed it to me. A large, round, hairy something in a fine gold filigree setting that looked even worse in the low light. Like a balding severed head.

Fred’s horrible souvenir.

“But . . . why would she put it
there
?”

“Way we figure it, this was the cup she used to take it in. Probably mixed it with something to cut the taste. And after, she just . . . forgot.”

“Forgot.”

“Or you can be romantic about it. She
was
Pythia. Maybe she knew you’d need it.”

My hand closed over it, and I looked up, half blind. “Why are you giving this to me?”

“Couple reasons. The way I see it, you may not know what you’re doing, but at least you know you don’t. Everybody else thinks they got things all figured out. Jonas and his prophecies, the master and his army . . .” Marco shook his head. “They’re not gonna find a way to fight Ares if they’re not looking for one. You might.”

“And the second reason?”

He finally unwrapped the cigar he’d been mangling. “That old Pythia—Agnes?”

I nodded.

“Seems to me that she was fighting this war, too, only nobody knew it. So she was fighting alone. And look how that turned out.” He grimaced. “Thought it was time someone helped you.” Dark eyes met mine. “Just don’t make me regret this, all right?”

I nodded, biting my lip, and stared at the crimson glints in the almost full bottle in my hand. “You’ll be in trouble when Mircea finds out you gave this to me.”

“Probably.”

I looked up. “And?”

Marco stuck the cigar between his teeth and grinned at me. And then mussed my hair. “I’ve been in trouble before.”

•   •   •

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Rosier asked when I just stood there, looking at the bottle in my hand.

“I’m trying to figure out how much to take.” It was the one thing Rhea couldn’t answer for me. I assumed the acolytes could, but she’d never been around when Agnes was using the potion. And nobody had been nice enough to put a recommended daily dose on the label.

“Well, how much did you take last time?”

“Maybe an eighth of a bottle, because that’s all there was. But it wasn’t enough. I think that’s why I was out for so long—I had to supplement it with my own power, and almost blew a fuse. But if I’m unconscious this time—”

“Then double the dose.”

“I was out for almost a
day
,” I reminded him. “If I double it, and I’m out half a day, does that help us?”

“Then take all of it. Be certain.”

I stared at it, biting my lip.

I wasn’t certain.

I wasn’t certain at all.

“This is the last.”

“What?”

I looked up at him. “The last bottle. There isn’t any more.”

“What do you mean?” He looked annoyed. “It’s a potion, not a finite resource—”

“A potion that takes six months to make.”

“What?”

I nodded. “Jonas said Agnes had to put in a request for it six months in advance, because of the brewing time, and that the last batch was delivered a week before she died—”

“Then get it from her court. If she just received a shipment, she can’t have used it all!”

“I
did
. That’s what this is. And your people checked with all the potion makers, and if the Senate has any, they’re not giving it to me.”

Rosier looked at the bottle in my hand and scowled. “You’re telling me this is the last
anywhere
?”

“Yes. And I can’t go into the past and retrieve any, because the Pythias only used it in emergencies, and that would screw up time in a way I might not be able to fix. So . . . this is it.”

We both looked at the little bottle for a moment, the demon lord who ruled a world and the Pythia who controlled time, and neither of us had anything useful to say.

Until Rosier’s voice cut through the pub, a harsh, discordant note. “Take all of it.”

I looked at him, and my fist clenched around the glass.

“Damn it, girl! If those Pythias find us, they’ll take whatever’s left. Better it be in you, where it might do us some good!”