“I was just thinking about that thing that possessed you. It wasn’t demon or Were or human or Fey, right?”
“Jury’s still out on Fey.”
“But not any Fey we ever heard of.”
“No.”
“So what about a god?” Billy gestured, throwing leaping patterns like blue candlelight on the walls. “They were said to be able to possess people, weren’t they? In some of the old legends?”
I frowned. So much for sleeping. “Apollo’s dead,” I said irritably. “He couldn’t possess anybody.”
“I’m dead. And I possess people all the time.”
“You’re a ghost.”
“So? Maybe he’s a ghost now, too. You killed him—”
“And now he’s come back to haunt me?” I asked incredulously.
He shrugged. “I know it’s far-fetched, but compared to some of the other shit that’s happened to you—”
I pulled the pillow over my head. This was so not what I needed to hear tonight. Or any other night.
“I know you don’t wanna think about it,” he said impatiently. “But we gotta figure this out—”
“It wasn’t Apollo,” I said, my voice muffled by the pillow.
“How do you know?”
“Because he wouldn’t have waited this long to attack me.”
“Maybe he learned something last time. He underestimated you, and look where that got him. Straight down the metaphysical crapper.”
“And I haven’t had any more visions—”
“Maybe he figured out you were spying on him and blocked you somehow. He was the source of your power, wasn’t he? So he should be able to—”
“And he wasn’t human,” I said, throwing off the pillow. Because obviously Billy wasn’t going to let me sleep until we had this out. “And nonhumans don’t leave ghosts!”
“That we know of.”
“In a century and a half, how many nonhuman ghosts have you seen?” I demanded.
“None. But we’re talking about gods here. Who knows what they can do?”
“Well, they can’t do this. Whatever went after me was driven off by cold iron. That wouldn’t have bothered a god at all.”
“That could have been a coincidence,” Billy said stubbornly. “Pritkin even said so—”
“Stop eavesdropping on my conversations! And the spirit also didn’t know English. We could barely communicate.”
Billy thought for a moment. “Maybe he forgot?”
I snorted. “Yeah. And then he grew feathers.”
“Damn.”
I stared at him. “Did you just say ‘damn’?”
He grinned, unrepentant. “It was a beautiful theory, you gotta admit.”
I didn’t have to admit anything of the kind. “Look, the gods are gone. Finished, kaput, out of the picture. Okay?”
He held up his hands. “Hey. Preaching to the choir here.”
“Beautiful theory,” I muttered, and swung the pillow at him.
It was a wasted effort, because he disappeared before it landed, fading away until only his laughter remained. It was the last thing I heard as I finally drifted off.
Chapter Seventeen
I walked into the living room sometime that afternoon, yawning and bleary-eyed from too much sleep, to see Marco coming out of the lounge. At least, I assumed it was Marco. It was a little hard to be sure, because while the height and girth were the same, the face was completely covered—in flowers.
“Hey,” I said, as a perfect red rose dropped off the towering stack he was carrying and plopped at my feet.
“Hey, yourself,” Marco’s voice told me, heading out of the apartment. “Get the door, will ya?”
I got the door. “What are you doing?”
“Taking out the trash.”
He strode over to the elevator and punched the button, shedding blossoms all the way. One had a little card attached. I bent and picked it up. Cassandra Palmer.
I frowned. “Marco?”
“Mmm-hmm?”
“Are you throwing out my flowers?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“Go look in the lounge.”
The elevator arrived before he could say any more, assuming he’d planned on it, and a man got off. He was dressed in a crisp blue suit and shiny black shoes and was carrying more roses. “Thank you,” Marco said, plucking them out of his hand and stepping into the elevator.
“Hey!”
The elevator doors shut before the man could retrieve his bouquet. “Goddamned vampires,” he muttered, and then he turned around—to see three of the guards loitering in the open doorway of the suite.
He lost what color had been in his face, which wasn’t much, since he was a pleasant-looking white blond. The vamps came forward and started circling him like sharks in water. “I liked the last one better,” a brunet said. “This one’s a little weedy.”
“And please tell me that’s not your best suit,” another commented, eyeing the man’s pinstripe with a moue of distaste. “I’m thinking what? One ninety-nine ninety five?”
“And they throw in an extra shirt,” the third vamp added.
They all laughed.
The man flushed but stood his ground. “See here, I have an appointment with—” he caught sight of me and his expression lightened. “Ah, you must be—”
“Too busy to talk to you,” the first vamp said, putting an arm around him and turning him back toward the elevator.
“Get your hands off me, vampire,” the man snarled, pushing the vamp’s hand away. “And I think I’ll let her tell me that!”
“Ooh. This one’s spunky.”
“What’s going on?” I demanded.
The man—or, I guess, the mage—came forward, holding out a hand. The hand had a box in it. The box was full of candy, judging by the glossy photo on the front.
“For you,” he said, obviously proud to have rescued part of his offering.
“Uh, thank you?”
He brushed it away. “I’m not sure what to call you,” he said frankly. “Lady Cassandra isn’t technically correct until after the ceremony, and it sounds too formal in any case. And Miss Palmer is little better. Would you like for me to call you Cassie?”
“I’d like for you to tell me who you are.”
The man blinked. “David Dryden.”
I just looked at him.
“Your one o’clock?”
“My one o’clock what?”
“Date,” the third vamp said, grinning.
“For what?” I asked, confused.
“Well, you know.” The mage looked a little awkward suddenly. “The usual.”
“I think we’ve got a contender here, boys,” the brunet said.
“Smooth operator,” the second vamp agreed.
“Can you do something about them?” the mage asked me angrily, as the elevator dinged.
“They’re supposed to be here,” I pointed out.
“As am I! The Lord Protector sent me.”
The Lord Protector and his hair got off the elevator. “Ah, Dryden, my boy. There you are.” Jonas beamed at him, and then leaned over to dust a minute speck off his coat. “Have you met our new Pythia yet?”
“I’m trying!” the mage said, exasperated.
“Jonas, can I see you a minute?” I asked mildly.
“Of course, my dear, of course. It’s why I’m here.”
“Can you repeat that pickup line for me?” I heard one of the vamps ask. “I want to write it down. Something about the usual?”
“Go to hell,” the mage told him.
I preceded Jonas into the apartment, but stopped in the doorway to the lounge. Or what had been the lounge. It looked more like a greenhouse now, with what had to be four dozen vases of flowers, loose bouquets and potted plants sitting around.
“Jonas.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “What is this?”
“Options, my dear,” he said, surveying the sea of flora approvingly. “It’s always nice to have options.”
“It’s nice to have a place to sit, too. And we discussed this.”
“Did we?” he asked vaguely.
“Yes. We did. And you promised—”
“I didn’t, in fact.”
“Jonas!”
He held up placating hands. “But truly, very little of this is my doing.”
“Then what—”
“It was Niall. I believe he was . . . perturbed . . . about the desert incident. He returned in time to insert a piece in this morning’s Oracle about our eligible new Pythia and, well . . .”