She was my acolyte, Rhea.
She stared at me and I stared back. Her long white gown was pristine and freshly pressed, and her waist-length dark hair was just a little mussed. She looked like she should have been attending a Victorian-era lawn party, not standing stiff and careful and slightly off balance because she was having to pull back from the knife to keep it from eating into her throat.
I’d been in that position myself recently. Only, unlike Rhea, I’d been pretty sure the guy in question wasn’t going to kill me. Yet it had still been terrifying.
Rhea looked like she was about to throw up.
The war mage smiled.
The smile should have been attractive. He was, with blue eyes bright enough that I could see them from here, and dark brown hair worn stylishly long, just enough to touch the collar of a modern dress shirt. It looked a little odd under all the hardware.
Like the smile, which would have looked creepy on a corpse.
“Can I say,” he said, looking me over as well, “you’re not exactly what I expected?”
“I get that a lot.”
“I apologize for the rudeness of our introduction, but some of my associates are a little . . . keyed up. We thought we’d have a fight to reach you, but instead—” He waved his free hand in the air, to indicate the now missing announcement.
“Must be your lucky day.”
He smiled some more.
I turned my gaze back to Rhea, who was looking green, but also like she was starting to get it together. And she might, because she frequently surprised me. A member of Agnes’ old court, Rhea had been the only one, other than the kids, not to take the bait the gods were offering and go power-mad.
In fact, she’d risked her life to come here and warn me about the imminent return of Ares, and the pleasure that seemed to give five of her colleagues. Then, in quick succession, she’d gotten scared by a coffee machine, yelled at a senior-level vamp, intimidated another into taking her shopping for the young girls who formed the rest of my court, and fed, comforted, and defended them fiercely until I got back. And then panicked and teared up when she thought I was going to kick her out for being useless.
And all that had been in the first couple days. Since then, she’d continued to show flashes of both timidity and excessive bravery, and I never knew which I was going to get. I thought the former might be the false front, acquired over a lifetime of being ignored and discounted at the court her mother had presided over, because a Pythian love child doesn’t exactly have it easy in the world.
But frankly, a little timidity would stand her in good stead right now. Despite being a pretty formidable witch, she wasn’t going to beat these odds. Excess bravery right now was going to get her killed.
“Don’t look so concerned,” the dark mage said, watching me. “I assure you, I don’t mean any harm to Ms. Silvanus here. In fact, I fully intend to return her to you.”
“In exchange for?”
“You have a piece of our property,” he said gently. “We would like her back.”
“Lizzie.”
He inclined his head.
We were talking about Elizabeth Warrender, one of Agnes’ old acolytes and my current rogues. Out of the original five, three were now dead, one—Jo Zirimis—was missing, and then there was Lizzie. Who had turned dark and started playing for the other team apparently without realizing that her team considered her expendable.
The other rogues had sent her here yesterday to take me out of commission while they raided a vamp stronghold in New York. One that contained a potion capable of boosting an acolyte’s power enough to rival mine. And possibly enough to shift Ares past the barrier of my mother’s spell.
Lizzie had succeeded—sort of. I still didn’t understand how she’d known when I’d be back, stepping out of thin air at almost the second I returned, beat up and bleeding, from Wales. But she had, and, like Gertie today, she’d jammed a needle in my leg before I could stop her.
If it had contained poison, I wouldn’t be here now. But it hadn’t, because Lizzie was a little slow, and a lot fixated on becoming Pythia, while her savvier rivals had known the truth: once Ares returned, there wouldn’t be a Pythia. There wouldn’t be any magic workers, since he planned to kill us all.
I supposed that was one way to make sure no one ever challenged him again.
But they hadn’t let Lizzie in on their insight, and she hadn’t figured it out herself. Which meant she’d been under the impression that she couldn’t kill me, since no one who kills a Pythia can ever be one herself. So she’d drugged me instead, and been captured in the process. And I had woken up in time to prevent the acolytes’ plan in New York, mainly because they’d turned on each other while I was out, each wanting to end up as Ares’ champion.
And to become the goddess he’d promised to make the victor.
I almost felt sorry for Lizzie. Everyone else had been going after godhood, and she’d just wanted to be Pythia. And still did, I assumed, since I’d left her alive and drugged upstairs, intending to deal with her later.
Only it looked like somebody else had decided to do the same thing.
“And if I refuse?” I asked.
The dark mage made a small moue of disappointment.
“Killing Rhea won’t do you any good. You’ll still have to battle your way through the wards on the upper floors to get to Lizzie, and they were created by some of the best wardsmiths the Silver Circle has,” I told him, talking about the world’s leading magical organization and the parent body of the War Mage Corps. “I doubt you’ll find them as easy to fool as these.”
“Oh no,” he mused. “I shouldn’t think so.”
“And even if you survive—all two or three of you—you’ll have my bodyguards to deal with—”
“Who I hear are not feeling well today.”
“—and who are still master vampires of Mircea’s family line! They’ll drain you before you get in the door.”
“Hmm.” The mage nodded slowly. “You may have a point.”
“And the Circle’s men will be here soon, in force, and this whole thing is about to explode in your face. But if you give me Rhea now—”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “If I won’t trade for her, she’s of no use to you. But if you give her to me now, unharmed, I promise—”
“No use?” the mage broke in, those blue eyes opening wide. “A Pythian acolyte is no use?”
Annnnnd the record scratched.
Time seemed to slow down as I stared at Rhea, who stared back, tearful, apologetic, terrified. Because she must have said something that let them know or guess her new status. I had elevated her rank as a reward for her warning, and because there never seemed to be enough of me to go around. I could really use an acolyte.