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Augusta snatched up the box, but hesitated when she saw the way the spirit’s face changed. She glanced from its demon visage to me, then again demonstrated utter practicality. She dropped it and ran.
I looked around, but no vamps were visible. Weirdly enough, other than for the chair arm and some blood smears on the stage, the theatre looked like nothing had ever happened. Still, something was missing. “Where are the wards?” I asked Billy.
He drifted out of me slowly, as if reluctant to leave the shelter of my body. He peered around, but there was no sign of the theatre ghosts. They were probably recovering from the energy drain of whatever they’d done to Myra. “Destroyed—the dislocator took them out.”
“They’re gone? All of them?”
“They wouldn’t have lasted anyway, Cass. They weren’t offensive wards. They were designed to operate defensively on a body, as protection, not like some kind of weapon. What you saw was them self-destructing.”
I thought of the eagle making one final dive and my throat got tight.
“Cassie!” Billy’s voice was like a slap. “Don’t do this— not now! We have no wards and the vamps will be back any minute. We need to get gone.”
I searched around for Myra, but without Augusta’s senses, it was futile. I didn’t believe for a second that the ghosts had killed her. For one thing, it would take a lot more than one ghost, or even one and a half, to drain a healthy human. For another, I’m just not that lucky. I briefly contemplated trying to go back in time, to be there to catch her before she made her grand exit, but the presence of that other bomb made me hesitate. I’d seen what a dislocator could do in my vision; I didn’t want to experience it firsthand.
I slid off the stage with considerably less than Augusta’s undead grace and picked up the black box. It weighed no more than it had before. I shook it doubtfully, but the spirit only smiled. It looked rather strange with bloody eyes and fangs. “He is in there, I assure you.”
“Now what?” I asked, as its features slipped back into benevolent vagueness.
“I wait,” it said, with a lot more serenity than I’d have felt in its position. Still, if you were immortal, I guess the prospect of a few decades’ delay didn’t faze you much.
Pritkin’s eyelashes were fluttering. “Myra’s gone,” I told him before he could ask. He nodded but didn’t say anything. I looked back up at my nebulous ally. “Have you seen Mircea?” I assumed he’d survived, since the sequence of events from the vision had been interrupted, but I had to be sure.
“I believe he will be along.” It started to fade, and I held out a hand to stop it.
“Thank you for your help. I know you didn’t do it for me, but—well, anyway.” I suddenly realized something. “I don’t even know your name. I’m Cassie Palmer.”
It fluctuated to a light pink. “So few people bother to ask,” it said in a pleased voice. “I have used many names through the centuries. It varies, depending on the sex and culture of the body I am inhabiting. I was Aisling once in Ireland, Sapna in India, Amets in France. Call me what you will, Cassie.”
It flushed a darker shade, almost a rose, which I guess was good because it started quoting Shakespeare again. “ ‘When shall we three meet again, in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won.’ ” It started fading out once more, and this time I let it.
Pritkin grasped the side of the orchestra pit and hauled himself up onstage. He peered back over the side, holding out a hand, but I ignored it. Something was tickling the back of my mind. It felt like I’d just been handed a puzzle piece; only I didn’t know what it was or where it fit.
“Are you hurt?” Pritkin’s voice floated down to me.
“No.” I finally took his hand and crawled back onto the stage. Almost the moment I did so, hysterical shrieks erupted from the pit behind me. Stoker had woken up, and with no incubus to deflect it, the full force of his wounds hit him all at once. Burns are painful, and ones as bad as his had to be excruciating. Pritkin jumped back in the hole, but the man’s pitiful cries didn’t stop.
I was about to follow him when a black box dangling in front of my face suddenly filled my vision. A low, rich voice purred in my ear. “Good evening, Trouble.”
Chapter 15
I didn’t answer, momentarily stunned at the immense wave of relief that swept through me at hearing that voice alive and well. I controlled my features, waiting for the geis to kick in, but nothing happened. There was a warm rush of pleasure, a happy frisson humming along my skin from just being near him, but nothing extreme. I’d forgotten—in this era, the horrid thing was still brand spanking new. It hadn’t had time to grow teeth yet.
But it would. Big ones.
I caught the box. It looked just like mine. “What is this?”
Dark eyes met mine, glittering wickedly. “I offer a trade.”
Stoker, crazed from pain, suddenly scrambled out of the pit and took off up the center aisle. Pritkin went after him, why I couldn’t imagine. Maybe so Mircea could wipe his memory, although that seemed unnecessary. When he’d written a confused version of everything years later, it had sold as fiction.
“Hurry up,” I called, and Pritkin waved an arm before disappearing through the doors to the lobby.
Mircea smiled, and it was one of his better efforts, despite the fact that he was covered in blood, most of it his. “Are you not interested in pursuing your quarrel with the young hoyden who was here earlier?”
“What?” I stared at the box for a moment, uncomprehending. Then what he’d said sunk in. No. No way. I’d been trying so hard to find Myra, and now she was being dumped in my lap? Or, to be more precise, waved under my nose? It was bizarre.
“I intended the trap for my brother,” Mircea said. “But when I saw that he had been captured already, I decided to employ it for other purposes. The young . . . woman . . . made the mistake of running to the balcony to watch the effects of her device. I found her there.”
