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I didn’t know who Slick Hair was, but That Old One was Jonas Ma
rsden, acting head of the Silver Circle. Of course, Marco knew that perfectly well, but the vamps were never happy whenever a mage showed up. And that went double for their leader.
Jonas rose to help me after I stumbled into the lounge, and I shot Marco a look. That got a kiss blown in my general direction and a promise to be right outside aimed at the mages. In case they intended to use some nefarious wizard trickery to make off with me or something.
“Sorry I wasn’t here, but I thought we weren’t meeting until three,” I panted.
“No matter. I should have called,” Jonas said genially. “But I did want to talk to you, if you have a moment.”
“About last night?”
“Oh, I do truly hope not,” he said, which would have sounded odd coming from anyone else. But Jonas was always odd.
For one, he was the only person I knew with hair worse than Pritkin’s. It was extra poufy today, a magnificent silver-white ball of static electricity that appeared to have a life of its own. Like some alien creature had happened to light on his head and decided to stay a while. In contrast, his face was surprisingly normal, with pleasant features, rosy cheeks and fewer lines than one would expect for his age, whatever that was. Jonas usually just described it as “damned old.”
“And Niall did so want to meet you,” he added, as I stumbled toward the bedroom.
“Niall?”
“Niall Edwards.” A sharp-faced brunet with slickedback hair came forward, and I managed to get a hand out. But either he didn’t see or he ignored it. “Have you thought about losing five to ten?” he asked, circling me.
I turned, trying to keep him in my field of vision, and dropped a heavy shoe box on my foot. “Five to ten what?” I asked, wincing.
“Pounds. The camera adds at least that much and, frankly, you could use some more definition in your face.”
“I—what?”
He pulled out a computerized notepad. “What do you weigh?”
“That’s none of your business!”
“It is if I have to sell the idea of you as Pythia to the masses,” he said sourly, his fingers flying over the keys.
“Niall is our leading public relations expert,” Jonas explained, as I limped into the bedroom and tossed the packages on the bed.
“I don’t need a PR person,” I said, sitting down to examine my toe.
“Oh, of course not,” Slick said, following me in. “You were brought up by a vampire mob boss, you go around looking like a cross between Paris Hilton and a homeless person—”
“I do not look like Paris Hilton!”
“You’re wearing sparkly pink nail polish,” he pointed out. “On your toes.”
I looked down at the offending digits, which were sticking out of a pair of sandals. “I don’t see anything wrong with—”
“Exactly. And if that weren’t bad enough, you’re suspected of being a dark mage. But you don’t need PR.”
“I’m only suspected of being a dark mage because you people told everyone I was!” I said furiously.
Until recently, the Circle had been headed by a mage named Saunders, who had been cooking the books in favor of himself and his buddies. And he hadn’t wanted a Pythia in place who wasn’t firmly under his thumb, in case she outed his little moneymaking scheme. So while his operatives were busy trying to hunt me down, he was planting nasty stories in the press about my family background.
It didn’t help that most of them were true.
“And we did our usual good job,” Slick said proudly. “Everyone now knows that your mother was a ruined Initiate, your father was a dangerous dark mage and that you yourself have received absolutely no training for the position you hold.”
“I wouldn’t say no training,” Jonas demurred.
“It will be the triumph of my career to bring you back from that. But I will. Make no mistake.”
