“The building was blown up. The court was rescued by you,” Hildegarde corrected, with equanimity.
Unlike her younger counterpart, she seemed completely unfazed by all this. The bullet-ridden wall, which I’d caught Abigail staring at, had passed without so much as a raised eyebrow. The motley crew of punked-out witches and pissed-off vamps had been managed with a cheery “Well, hello there.” And now a distrustful, beyond-annoyed Pythia was being regarded kindly, but with no discernible worry.
Maybe because she’d just seen me have trouble walking up a flight of stairs.
If they wanted to hurt me, they could have done it already. So that left the question of what they did want. “What do you want?” I asked.
“To help you,” Abigail said, her thin face distressed. “When I read the paper—I knew I should have come sooner—”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I did— Well, I tried. When Lady Phemonoe died and Myra was named a rogue by the Circle, I sent a letter to the Lord Protector—”
“To Saunders?” I asked, naming Jonas’ predecessor. The one who had been corrupt as hell, and had wanted my head on a platter before I found out what he’d been up to.
He’d almost succeeded.
And damn, I could have used a couple of acolytes then!
“Yes,” she confirmed. “He was . . . He made me uneasy. I felt his answer was just an attempt to gain information about me. I’d written anonymously, and he didn’t like that. But we’re not supposed to reveal ourselves unless absolutely necessary, and I didn’t know him. I set up a meeting, but he had people there, and ambushed me. I got away, but it was a close thing, and before I could decide what to do next, Jonas had removed him and assumed his role. And you had been named Pythia.”
Hildegarde nodded. “I had considered coming forward as well, but everything resolved itself quickly, and the court did not appear to be in danger. As far as I could tell, this was merely a disputed succession, with the Circle trying to retrieve both of you to see where the power would go—”
“They were trying to kill us and put their own candidate on the throne!” I said heatedly.
“But that wasn’t the story the papers put out, was it?” she asked mildly. “And I have been away from court for some time. My old avenues for gossip have long since dried up”—her lips twisted—“and died off, in most cases.”
“We’re not supposed to reveal ourselves unless absolutely necessary,” Abigail repeated. “If everyone knew who we were, and there was an assault on the court, they might target us, too.”
“And then where would we be?” Hildegarde agreed.
“Where I’ve been for the last four months?” I snarled, and then leaned on the wall and put a hand on my head, because that wasn’t helping. “Why are you here?”
“You know why. The paper made it clear that things were not as we’d assumed. And after my talk with Jonas, it appears they are even graver than I feared. You have not managed to retrieve your last rogue.”
“No.”
“Then forgive me, but why are you here?” she demanded. “A rogue is a priority. Your power should be pulling you wherever she is—”
“My power.” I laughed suddenly, I didn’t know why. Probably because, lately, it didn’t feel like I had any. “I don’t think it knows,” I finally said. “It’s been ignoring her.”
“That’s impossible,” Hildegarde said severely. “A rogue is a priority—the priority, until she’s dealt with. A determined rogue could destroy everything!”
“And I had five,” I said, suddenly savage. I had a headache, I had too many problems to keep track of, and I didn’t have time for a critique from someone who hadn’t even been here. “I only found out about them a couple days ago. Three are now dead and one is in custody—”
“That is admirable, lady,” Abigail murmured.
“And useless without the last,” Hildegarde said, echoing something I’d thought back in the corridor.
“What do you want me to do?” I demanded. “My power doesn’t seem to know or care where she is, and I can’t find her without it! I’ve been working on something else, and it hasn’t so much as—”
“On what?”
“None of your business!”
For the first time, Hildegarde looked less than grandmotherly. “I am not asking for details,” she said curtly. “My point was that if you have been going to the same place and time as your rogue, your power wouldn’t have had to pull you anywhere.”
I shook my head. “I haven’t.”
“You must have!”
“I haven’t! An acolyte couldn’t—” I cut off, suddenly remembering the attack in the fey version of a Winnebago. But that had been Wales, the place I’d almost wrenched my guts out to reach—and that was with a potion Johanna didn’t have. No way had she managed it.
“You’ve remembered something,” Hildegarde said.
“One of the other rogues told me that Johanna Zirimis—that’s the one who’s still out there—is after the same thing I am. A . . . sort of relic. One she thinks might be powerful enough to bring back a god—”
“Then how can you say she’s not a threat?” Hildegarde demanded.
“Because she couldn’t have managed it. She’s an acolyte—”
“A determined acolyte can manage a good deal, I assure you,” she snapped.
“Fifteen hundred years?” I snapped right back.
“Fifteen . . . hundred?” Abigail looked appalled.
I nodded. “That’s why I’m exhausted. And if it almost killed me to shift back that far, do you honestly think an acolyte could manage it? Any acolyte?”
“No,” Abigail said, glancing at her friend. “It isn’t even a question.”
Hildegarde pursed her lips, looking puzzled and vaguely annoyed.
“So like I said,” I told them, “I don’t know if Johanna died on her quest, or hasn’t started it yet, or what, but—”
I broke off, because the door had just opened, and somebody was backing into the room: Jiao, carrying a tray for Rhea. It contained some sort of soup, and smelled good. He shot me a smile.
I smiled back.
And then I frowned.
“What is it?” Hildegarde asked sharply.
“Jonas,” I called, because Rhea was awake now, so there was no more reason for silence.
He looked up.
“Do you have a photo of Johanna?”
He didn’t answer, being busy putting another couple of pillows behind Rhea. But he made a gesture at the stretch of windows beside me, which abruptly changed, from night in Vegas to a photo of a girl. One with dark hair and beautiful green eyes, almost startlingly so against an olive complexion.
I took in the face, but it didn’t help much. The damn Winnebago had been too dark, and too clogged with dust for me to be sure. It might have been her; it might have been anyone.
“Can I talk to Lizzie?” I asked, and that request seemed to be a bit more complicated. But by the time Rhea had polished off a third of the soup, a new face was in the window, one with dark circles under her eyes and matted blond hair, because it looked like Lizzie had gotten even less sleep than me.