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“We’ll get you one of them little doughnut things,” he told me, as Pritkin walked over. And, shit, his eyes were narrowed.
“So if it wasn’t a ghost and it wasn’t a demon, what was it?” I asked, to forestall any inconvenient questions.
To my surprise, it worked. “I have a theory, but I would prefer some confirmation.”
“What theory?”
“Do you remember how we defeated it?” he asked, as I tucked the sheet around me and slid to the floor.
“I remember you threw something at me.”
“It was half of a nunchuck. I’ve been intending to get the chain re-soldered, but haven’t had time.”
“Half a nunchuck?” I frowned. “Why would you give me that?” It wasn’t like I could bash a spirit over the head with it.
Green eyes met mine, and they were serious enough to stop me. “Because it was the only thing I had within reach that was made of cold iron.”
Chapter Four
I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have. Because the next thing I knew, I woke up to a dark, quiet room and hot, tangled sheets. My head was throbbing, my mouth was bone dry and for one brief, panic-stricken moment, I thought I was possessed again. Because nothing seemed to work.
I finally realized that I was just really, really sore. It looked like Marco’s little pills had worn off, except for a thickheaded feeling that made me have to try three times to turn on the light. It didn’t help that the room was like an oven. The suite was supposed to be temperature controlled, but there was obviously something seriously wrong.
After a minute sweating in already damp sheets, I gave up on sleep and rolled out of bed. I threw on a worn-out tank top that had been purple but was now a soft mauve and a pair of loose, old track shorts. Then I staggered out the door in search of aspirin and cold water.
I didn’t find them.
Light from the hallway cast long shadows across the bathroom, sparkling off broken glass like so much spilled ice. The floor was still wet, and the bunched-up rug was crouched in the middle like a wounded animal. The mirrors were the worst. The right one was cracked, but the left one was obliterated, the cheap wood backing showing through in chunks, making a mockery of the expensive fixtures. Like scars on a pretty woman’s face.
I suddenly realized that my hands were shaking and stuffed them under my armpits. My nice, safe bathroom didn’t seem so safe anymore. Not that it ever had been, really, but it had felt that way.
And now it didn’t.
I turned around and went down the hall.
When I flicked on the chandelier in the suite’s second bathroom, the black-and-white tile reflected the light with a cool, mirror shine. Soft, luxurious towels were stacked here and there, all blindingly white. The black marble counters gleamed, and the complimentary toiletries were still in their cellophane wrappers. It was as pristine as if housekeeping had just left.
Or as if nothing had ever happened.
I relaxed slightly, washed my face and hands and then used one of the casino’s toothbrushes to scrub my teeth. My reflection showed bags under my eyes, no color in my skin and a truly epic case of bed head. I poked at one of the larger clumps and found it stiff and vaguely green.
I briefly wondered what the hell Pritkin had dumped on me. And then I wondered what it would take to get it out. A bath, obviously, at least for starters.
The thought had barely crossed my mind when the first shiver hit, hard enough to make me tighten my grip on the sink. I stared at the gleaming white tub behind me, reflected in the gilt-edged mirror, and told myself I was being stupid. It was a bathtub; it couldn’t hurt me.
But my body wasn’t listening.
The shivers turned into shudders and I sat down before I fell down. I put the cabinet at my back, wrapped my arms around my knees and prepared to wait it out. At least it wasn’t as hot in here. Nobody ever used this bathroom—the vamps had their own rooms and showered there, and visitors used the half bath off the living area. So nobody had bothered to put a rug down over the cool checkerboard tile.
But it wasn’t helping. The door on the cabinet was moving with me, in little click-clicks as the magnet on the catch caught and released, caught and released. I finally scooted an inch or so away and it stopped, even if the shaking didn’t.
I knew what this was, of course. I’d spent most of my teen years on the run from my homicidal guardian, Antonio Gallina, who had brought me up from the age of four. Clairvoyants—real ones, not the sideshow variety—didn’t grow on trees, and when Tony found out that one of the humans who worked for him had a budding seer for a daughter, he just took me. After removing my parents from the picture in the most final way possible.
He thought he’d covered his tracks, but he forgot: clairvoyant. My parents died in a big orange and black fireball, courtesy of an assassin’s bomb. And ten years later, I felt the wash of heat across my face, smelled the smoke, tasted the dust in my mouth.
I ran away an hour after the vision, with few preparations and no destination in mind, and it hadn’t taken long before the stress had caught up with me in the form of panic attacks.
The worst one had been in a bus terminal, when I’d been sure I saw one of Tony’s thugs in the crowd. I’d had a ticket, already purchased and in hand, but suddenly I couldn’t remember where I was supposed to go. It gave the bus number on the ticket; I knew that. But my hands had been shaking and my eyes hadn’t wanted to focus, and when I finally did manage to read it, it didn’t make sense. Like the words were written in a foreign language I didn’t understand.
