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Pritkin’s irritated voice made me smile and I turned away so Marco wouldn’t see it. “Answering the phone.”
“Very funny. Why aren’t you asleep? It’s after one.”
I glanced at the clock again. I guess it hadn’t survived, after all. “It’s hot.”
“It’s always bloody hot here,” he agreed, to my surprise. I’d never heard him complain about it, but I guessed for someone used to England’s climate, Vegas in August would kind of suck. And thanks to me, his bedroom had a big hole in it, too.
“Don’t you have anything cold to drink?” he demanded.
“Beer.”
He snorted. “You’re going to have a murderous hangover as it is. Call room service.”
“I could do that,” I agreed.
He waited. I didn’t say anything, because I wasn’t that pathetic. There was no emergency, and what was I going to tell him? I’m hot and bored and freaked-out, and I want to talk to someone with a pulse?
Yeah, that sounded mature. That sounded like a Pythia. I didn’t—
“That the mage?” Marco asked impatiently, like he couldn’t hear every word we uttered.
“Yeah.”
“He coming over?”
“Yes,” Pritkin said, surprising me again.
“Then tell him to bring beer,” Marco said. “We’re almost out, and the damn room service around this place sucks ass.”
“He said—”
“I heard.” Pritkin rang off without saying good-bye, or anything else at all. So I didn’t know why I was smiling as I went to the kitchen to make sure we had enough clean glasses.
“Damn it,” Marco said. “You didn’t tell him what kind. He’ll probably bring one of those weird English beers.”
“Ale,” one
of the other vamps said darkly.
“Shit.”
They went back to their game while I washed up. Because, apparently, master vampires would carry out garbage, but they drew the line at dishpan hands. Not that there were a lot, since most of my meals came on room service carts these days.
I finished up and went to try again to get a comb through my potion-stained curls. I was still working on it when the doorbell rang. I gave up, pulled my hair back into a limp ponytail and went into the kitchen. Pritkin was already there, unpacking a couple of brown paper grocery bags.
“Foster’s,” he told Marco, who was peering into one suspiciously.
The vamp looked relieved. “It’s even cold.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I thought you Brits liked it hot.”
“Hot beer?” Pritkin looked revolted.
“That’s the rumor.”
“Because we don’t drink it iced over, thereby leaching right out whatever flavor you Yanks accidentally left in?”
