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I hesitated, trying to think up a good lie, and Pritkin snorted. I sighed. “Mircea happened.”
“Where is he?” Pritkin was halfway
to his feet before I shook my head.
“Relax. I went to him, not vice versa.”
“You went to him? Why?!”
My fingers made patterns in the dust on a nearby book’s cover. The skin below was old and flaking, and looked vaguely reptilian. I pulled my hand away and resisted an impulse to wipe it on my skirts. “I accidentally shifted.”
“How do you accidentally—”
“Because it’s getting worse!” I tried to read his scribbled notes, but they were in some language I didn’t know. “Any luck?”
“No.” He saw my expression. “I told you this could take some time.”
“And what am I supposed to do in the meantime? I’m sick of waiting tables and doing fill-in work for Casanova. Some days I feel like I’m going out of my mind!”
“Going?” the pixie muttered.
Pritkin was staring at the stacks of books as if they’d just insulted his mother. He finally pulled out a huge blue one from the bottom of a pile. “You aren’t in any immediate danger, as long as you don’t have any more ‘accidents’ involving Mircea.”
“And what about him?” I demanded. “It’s getting worse.”
“He’s a master vampire. He can take it.”
Instead of replying, I reached across the table to remove the top from the small white pot by Pritkin’s elbow and looked pointedly inside. The inch of liquid it held was faintly green, with a pleasing floral scent. Chrysanthemum, as a guess. I glanced up to see him giving me the evil eye.
“Don’t think I don’t know it was you.”
I’d had Miranda start replacing the black syrup he called coffee with something more organic two days ago, after the last time he got tanked on caffeine and bit my head off. I was pretty sure he was cheating, but I didn’t call him on it. I honestly didn’t think he could survive without his daily fix—or, to be more accurate, that nobody could survive him without it.
“You’re the best argument for decaf I’ve ever seen,” I said. “And, honestly, you don’t find anything weird about eating bean sprouts and tofu and drinking twelve pots of coffee a day—?”
“My record is six.”
“And I thought you Brits liked tea. But maybe water would be—”
He snatched the pot away. “I need that!”
I got a better look at him and decided he might be right. He might have had a chat with a shower recently, but not a long one. His eyes were red, and when he moved his head just right, the light showed a fine coating of reddish-blond stubble on his cheeks and chin. Add that to a T-shirt and jeans that he appeared to have slept in, and he was looking rough, even for him.
“You need to get some sleep,” I heard myself say. “You look like crap.”
“And who will handle things then?”
“Nick and me.” Pritkin shot me a look and I bristled. “I’m not a trained researcher, but there has to be something I can do.”
“Yes, you can get me some damn coffee!”
I told myself that throwing something at his head, however richly deserved, wouldn’t help matters. He’d probably dodge anyway. “The vampires heard a rumor that the dark mages might have the Codex.”
“How helpful. Did Mircea tell you that before or after he almost drained you?”
“Rafe told me.”
“Good to know you’re keeping up with the family.”
