Of course, that might have had something to do with the half dozen hungry ghosts still clinging to him, like leeches, as he shoved me off. And staggered to his feet, slinging spells and stumbling into things, because some of the ghosts didn’t seem interested in leaving. And with the energy they’d stolen from us, they could afford to press the point.
I blinked and Agnes was there, looking years older than when I’d seen her in Wales, with a few more pounds and some crow’s-feet around her sharp blue eyes. But younger than when she and I went adventuring in the sixteenth century, and caught a time-traveling weirdo mucking about in a cellar. Because that hadn’t happened yet.
Billy had pulled us out too soon.
Her eyes focused on me, but there was no spark of recognition in them. Maybe because she hadn’t gotten a good look at me while on that damn wagon. Or because that whole thing had been decades ago from her perspective. Or because my hair was plastered to my skull and covered in dirt, like my face and my still-damp slave wear.
For once, looking like hell came in handy, I thought.
And then someone screamed.
“You!”
I looked up to find Roger back on his feet, and pointing a shaking finger at me. “Every time,” he gasped. “Every time!”
“What?”
“Every time I meet you, you ruin my life. This is your fault. This is all your fault!”
“What exactly is going on here?” Agnes asked, voice cold. She looked at me.
“He’s . . . a madman,” I told her, swallowing, and feeling like I’d just been kicked in the gut. “A Guild member and a . . . a necromancer. He was in prison in the Badlands, but he escaped—”
“No thanks to you!” he yelled, and lunged for me.
Only to find himself suspended in midair, probably courtesy of the house wards. Which only seemed to make him madder. He thrashed around, cursing, as ghosts fled the scene and Billy disappeared into my necklace.
“She’s a necromancer, too,” Roger yelled as a bunch of Circle guards joined the party, rushing in from all directions. “And a sorceress! She’s got a demon with her now!”
Agnes’ eyes returned to me, but Rosier was nowhere to be seen. And that was despite the fact that something small and heavy was clinging to my leg, like a limpet. It looked like my chameleon could hide him, after all.
“He was just here!” Roger shouted, furious. “They were both locked up together!”
“It’s a lie,” I said quickly. “I’m a Pythian heir, training in the Badlands. I was leaving when this man attacked me, having somehow escaped his cell—”
“Liar!”
“—and threw my, uh, my spell off,” I said, hoping there wasn’t a specific name for the portal. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
“And the clothes?” Agnes asked, with a raised brow.
“I was sent on a mission immediately after returning from one,” I said, smiling weakly. “You know how that is.”
She didn’t smile back.
She did turn around, however. “Elizabeth.”
Someone came out from behind her, from among the white-robed acolytes. For a moment, I just stared upward, at a very young version of my mother, her dark copper hair in a loose chignon, her white gown pristine. And looking down demurely.
“You’ve heard them,” Agnes said. “What would you do?”
“Me, Lady?” The voice was soft.
“What would you do with the girl? Lock her up, or set her free?”
Mother looked up, and for the first time, our eyes met. Her expression didn’t change, not wavering from polite interest. But she never so much as glanced at anyone else.
“She possesses the Pythian power,” she said, after a moment. “Therefore either she is telling the truth or she’s a rogue. If the former, we should send her back to her own time, for she is too weak to continue her mission. If the latter, the same is true, so that her Pythia can deal with her.”
“Very good,” Agnes said, looking at her with pride. “So be it.”
And the next thing I knew, I was bouncing on my bed in Vegas.
Chapter Thirty-one
I woke up to a soft bed, a spill of light from an open door, and a familiar, velvety darkness. But not a familiar room. I sat up abruptly.
And immediately regretted it.
Pain ripped through my body, radiating outward from a hundred points. Old pain, from strains and sprains and bruises weeks old. Newer pain, from my side, from my feet, from the battle on the drag. Brand-spanking-new pain, clear and bright and soul deep, from ghost bites, from channeling too much power, from everything, all at once, forcing a sound out of me.
It was surprise.
I guess nothing else fit, I thought, and put out a hand to steady myself.
And found warm flesh, not cool sheets.
“Easy,” someone said, and fingers closed gently around mine.
I looked up, struggling to see anything with the light from the next room blazing in my eyes. Until a dark head blotted out most of it. A very familiar dark head.
Mircea.
For a minute, I wasn’t sure if my brain had conjured him up or not, and the view didn’t help. Because he looked just like always: fall of smooth mahogany hair just brushing his shoulders; dark blue suit, the rich wool glimmering slightly in the low light; lashes too long and thick for a man, like the lips that appeared wine reddened without any wine. He should have looked feminine, except the strong features and broad shoulders never could.
“If I conjured you up, I did a good job,” I told him blearily.
“I’m real enough,” he said, and held a glass to my lips.
I finished the whole thing. It was only water, but it seemed to help. I lay back against the pillows again, feeling stronger.
“You sure?” I asked, glancing around. I’d been right: I didn’t recognize this room. Not that I could see much of it, but the furniture wasn’t in the right place, and there was no broad sweep of windows. Or any at all.
“I’m sure.” Mircea leaned over and smoothed back my hair. “I tried to contact you through Seidr earlier, but it didn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lord Mircea,” someone said, from the doorway. Mircea didn’t even turn around, but I looked past his shoulder to see a tall, thin shadow blocking out some of the light. A shadow with a shock of unruly dark hair and glasses he shouldn’t need, because he was a vampire.
“In a moment,” Mircea said, his eyes still on mine. “It hasn’t worked since that incident at Dante’s this morning.”
I frowned, trying to jump-start my brain. “You think Ares did something?”
“I don’t know,” he said again, fingers combing through my hair, causing the pain in my head to recede slightly. Until I caught his wrist, because he couldn’t spare the energy right now. He just smiled and switched hands.
“I thought at first that you were simply asleep, something I verified with Marco,” he told me. “But it didn’t work later, either. Although, in fairness, the fault could be mine. After yesterday . . .”