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“Maybe not now. But I think she’s saying that you wouldn’t have, er, overshot the mark with Jules if she hadn’t been here. And given you a lift you didn’t expect.”
I took a second to absorb that. “And she didn’t bother to mention this before?”
“She said she thought you knew. And I think she was waiting for the witches to leave before talking to you. I got the impression they didn’t get along that great.”
“Why was she with them, then?”
Fred didn’t say anything.
“Fred?”
“Maybe you want to wait and ask her—”
“I asked you.”
He sighed again. “She said she fled to the covens for protection. Seems there’s some kind of problem with your court. She wouldn’t say what, won’t talk to anybody but you, but she found out and went to the witches.”
“And they decided to drop her on my doorstep.”
“Pretty much. I got the idea they think she’s a nut, but they wanted to get a look at you anyway, and she was a good excuse. And she’s . . . well, maybe you’ll have more luck with her.”
Great. “Luck” in my life now meant finding out about some new problem I was going to have to deal with. When it already felt like I had plenty on my plate, thanks. But one thing the whole situation with Mircea had taught me: putting stuff off rarely made it easier.
“Come on,” I said, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, because at least the room had finally calmed down. “Let’s go find out—”
Somebody started screaming.
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
It turned out to be Jules, standing in front of the balcony, a double shot of whiskey in hand, exercising his newly human vocal cords. But I didn’t think the transformation was to blame. At least, not entirely.
“Get back in the bedroom until we deal with this!” Marco ordered, as soon as I came out of the hall.
I didn’t answer, being too busy staring at the huge, gaping hole that had opened up in the far wall. The one with the fiery red edges and the disturbing sounds and the swirly black heart and the wind strong enough to flutter my hair. It looked like Casanova had been right, I thought blankly.
You knew it when you saw it.
“Cassie!” Marco snapped. “Get out of here!
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” he demanded.
“Because . . . I think that’s for me.”
He looked at me incredulously. “What?”
“I kind of have an appointment.”
“With who? Lucifer?”
“Hope not,” I muttered, and took a single step forward.
And stopped. Because, for the first time ever, I saw Marco do the unthinkable. And throw one of his highly illegal and ridiculously expensive Cohiba cigars in the trash.
“Get back. In the bedroom. Now.”
