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She broke off abruptly, her jaw clenching. And, suddenly, I wasn’t seeing the beautiful woman with the gorgeous husband and the ring of the gods. I was seeing someone suffering from the same uncertainty I felt most of the time, desperately wanting to help but not knowing how. And not knowing if anything she did would be enough.
I really doubted that ripping Jonathan to shreds was going to solve Louis-Cesare’s problem, but what did I know? He was a vampire, after all. Maybe it was their version of therapy. Or maybe just knowing that the son of a bitch was dead would be enough.
“I’ll do what I can,” I told her. “But if it’s him or me—”
“Then do your worst,” she agreed. “But try to get a picture.”
And then she was gone, leaving me sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching my water glass and wondering if I’d imagined the feel of a soft kiss on my cheek.
Chapter Thirty-three
I got a shower in Mircea’s bathroom, although it didn’t seem to warm me up any. But something else did. I’d been rummaging through the stuff Hilde had left, which included clothes, shoes, toiletries, even a new toothbrush—
And my makeup bag.
I grabbed it, my hands actually shaking in relief. And sure enough, there it was, hiding under a powder puff: a partly empty bottle of a potion called the Tears of Apollo. Which was completely empty a few seconds later.
My hand caught the edge of the sink, my body shuddering through the feeling of that substance coursing through me, like liquid power. It wasn’t, but it was liquid stamina, designed to allow a Pythia to access more of the Pythian energy. I’d discovered just how much more on the search for Pritkin, and ever since, it had been my best friend.
It wasn’t enough these days; nothing was enough.
But it was close.
And it didn’t take long. In seconds, everything beca
me easier. The shaking I’d started doing stopped. My temperature normalized. Even the hunger I’d been feeling went down to I-missed-dinner levels, instead of a burning, gnawing ache. Damn, this stuff was good!
After a few moments, I brushed my teeth, because the Tears was definitely not a taste sensation, and ran a brush through my hair. It was finally long enough to put up in a ponytail, so I did. And then pulled on a pair of jeans and a simple tee.
It was plain, without any cutesy sayings, and technically meant to be worn under another shirt, which I didn’t have. There was also no jewelry in what Hilde had provided, or smart pantsuits, or casual little dresses, or anything that might work for further meetings. The implication was clear: get your ass home. Which I planned to do, just as soon as I got a debrief. And some of whatever delicious scent was wafting through the louvers on the door.
I stuck my head out. Mircea was there, tie and jacket off and shoes somewhere other than on his feet. He was putting the contents of a tray on a little table under the Chagall, and there were two place settings. Since I didn’t see anybody else around, I wandered over to take a look.
Damn.
Lasagna.
Well, I had to stay now.
“Where are you finding cooks?” I asked. “I thought you took them all for soldiers.”
“Practice soldiers,” he corrected, adding a basket of breadsticks. “Although some turned out to be quite apt. Some of those decided to stay and chance their luck. I believe the consul pulled the rest of her staff out of Dante’s to make up the deficiency.”
He gestured at the table, and I sat down. And discovered that there was also salad, wine, and sadly thin slices of cheesecake to go along with the meal. I dug in.
Mircea joined me, to my surprise. Vamps don’t have to eat, although some seemed to enjoy it anyway. He was off and on. Tonight—and it was night; it felt like I’d slept for hours—I guess he wanted to be sociable.
Although, for the next ten minutes, that mostly involved watching me shovel it in. And, seriously, it would have been a shame for whoever made this to end up as a soldier. He—or she—had a gift, one that stretched to homemade noodles, fresh San Marzano tomato sauce, real ricotta, plump creminis—
Damn, I was hungry!
I finally looked up, at the mopping-up-the-plate-with-bread phase, to find Mircea watching me. “What?” I asked, around a mouthful of garlicky goodness that rivaled even Tami’s.
“Nothing,” he said, smiling, and refilled my glass. “I enjoy watching you eat.”
I didn’t know how to take that, so I concentrated on the wine. It was red, of course, and dark as blood, but tasted of Tuscany: soft, mellow, and meltingly sweet, almost a dessert wine, but with a bit of a bite to it. It reminded me of the man pouring it, although Mircea was only soft and sweet when he wanted something.
But I was too mellow to even bother narrowing my eyes. I just waited for it. And pulled over the cheesecake.
