This one was smarter. This one didn’t come in. This one just looked at me, all crossed arms and big-brotherly disapproval, although whether at my appearance, at my eating in bed, or at my scaring poor Fred, I didn’t know.
“Is it safe to come in?” he asked, after a minute.
“Are you going to eat my food?”
Marco lifted a bushy black eyebrow. “Is that from the heartburn shack downstairs?”
“Yeah.”
“Then it’s sacred, I assure you.”
“Then you can come in,” I said, as if I had a choice. Marco went wherever he damned well pleased.
At the moment, he was pleased to occupy one of the delicate little princess chairs the designer had chosen to grace my bedroom. They always looked like they were going to crack under the strain, but somehow they never did.
“You were gone a long time,” he finally said.
“I fell asleep.”
“In a pine grove?” He picked something out of my hair.
Damn it, I thought I’d got them all.
“That was after I woke up.”
He looked at me. I looked back. And then I ate another nacho.
He sighed. “You’ve been acting weird all week.”
“I thought I always act weird, according to you.”
“Weirder, then.” He contemplated my scratched, dirty, and habanero-splattered self. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
And suddenly, there was. There really, really was. I didn’t know if he was doing the vampire thing and manipulating my emotions, but I doubted it. Marco didn’t usually go in for that kind of stuff. It’s why we’d developed a sort of bond over the weeks we’d both been trapped here.
I knew that Marco didn’t like babysitting any more than I liked being babysat. But it was his job to guard me and my job to be guarded, at least in the current everybody-wants-to-kill-me era. And we both did our jobs. It was to Marco’s credit that he did his with a little bit of grace, and made this place as welcoming for me as any gilded cage stuffed full of vampires could be.
Maybe that’s why I had a sudden, insane urge to spill my guts. I wanted to tell him exactly what I’d been doing. I’d wanted to tell somebody all week. The pressure, the fear, the gnawing, gut-churning anxiety, had all been building until I’d started to feel like I wanted to scream.
And look how that had turned out, I thought grimly.
“No,” I said, and chewed chocolate-covered chicken.
“You sure?” he asked, and looked pointedly at my T-shirt.
And crap. I didn’t know what other weird smells the filthy thing held after mopping up half the forest, but it didn’t matter. Vamps aren’t herbivores. They aren’t designed to differentiate between types of florae, even whacked out, god-induced florae. They’re designed to find prey. Like the guy I’d just been rolling around a forest with.
I loaded up a nacho, and didn’t answer.
Marco had never asked me where Pritkin was. But some of the other guys had hinted around, and some smart aleck had left a copy of one of the more scandalous rags on the kitchen counter. The one with a grainy pic of Pritkin and me making out on the boss’ front lawn.
It had been taken at what was supposed to be my coronation, after the Spartoi attacked me. We’d fought, and I’d won, a fact that continued to amaze me. But winning didn’t ensure survival, and I almost hadn’t. The picture had been of Pritkin donating the energy to me that I needed to live, basically giving me the incubus version of mouth to mouth. Only it hadn’t looked that way.
And the fact that I’d been butt-naked at the time hadn’t helped.
Maybe Marco thought the same as some of the others, that Pritkin was lying low to stay out of Mircea’s way. I didn’t know because we’d never talked about it. And we’d never talked about it because he’d never asked.
He didn’t this time, either.
He just reached over and appropriated the massive nacho I’d been absentmindedly building, swallowing the guac and meat and cheese and refried beans and sour cream and salsa-laden pile all in one bite. And then said mildly, “’Cause you know who’ll be asking next.”
“The senate?”
Marco gave me an odd look. “In a way.”
Crap, crap, crap.
“I thought Mircea was in New York.” He was always in New York these days. Well, except for when he was in Vegas, or at his court in Washington State, or at one of half a dozen spots in between. I understood the need to avoid putting all your eggs in one basket in war time, so it made sense that the senate would spread out their power base. But this was getting ridiculous. I was surprised he didn’t have whiplash.
“He don’t need to be here to be here,” Marco said. “If you get my drift.”
“Yeah.” That was one of the perks of being a master vamp: what his family saw, Mircea saw. But, unlike everybody else around here, I didn’t have the ability to mind-speak, and I wasn’t planning on picking up my phone. In fact, I might just jerk it out of the wall. Mircea my friend/ lover/protector/occasional-partner-in-crime would have been welcome. Mircea the senator . . . not so much. Not until I finished my current errand, anyway.
He might own a casino themed like hell, but I had a pretty good idea what his view on my visiting the real thing would be.
Marco sighed again and looked over my spread. “When did they get mole?”
“Last week,” I told him, and handed it over. I had plenty left.
We ate in companionable silence for a while. Marco was one of those guys who didn’t feel the need to talk all the time. I’d asked him about it once, and he’d said he spent years learning to block out the incessant chitchat from other family members that went on in his head. You’d think that vampire mental skills would be used only for important stuff, but apparently not. According to him, they gossiped all the time, and it almost drove him crazy before he learned how to filter. And now he didn’t appreciate the verbal kind taking its place.
That was okay. I liked the quiet, too. Especially when the alternative was a lot of questions I couldn’t answer.
Not that I wouldn’t have liked to try. Marco had big shoulders, and it would have been a relief to dump some of this on them. But it wouldn’t be fair, and anyway there was nothing he could do. Except tell Mircea what was going on, not because he was a fink, but because that was what vampire servants did. He’d basically just reminded me of that fact, since he was a decent guy. But I hadn’t needed the hint.
I knew I couldn’t tell anyone anything.
It was one of the hardest things about this job. And, I suspected, why a lot of Pythias developed reputations for being a little . . . odd. How could you not be when you knew things nobody else knew, things that nobody else could be allowed to know, and when you didn’t even have anybody you could vent to once in a while about the absurdity of visiting dead parents or stopping time or going to hell . . . ?
It was driving me crazy, and I’d only had the job a few months. How had Agnes done it? And for decades?
Of course, she hadn’t exactly been the poster child for normal. And that was despite having Jonas to help her. And while I doubted she’d told him everything, or even most things, I knew they’d talked. He wouldn’t have been able to train me otherwise.
And suddenly, stupidly, I felt a sharp stab of jealousy for a dead woman.
And okaaaay. That was enough for one day.
I scraped the last of the guac out of the little plastic cup. “I’m think I’m gonna turn in,” I told Marco. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”
The dark head tilted inquiringly.
“Fred said there was something?” I prompted.
He grinned. “Oh yeah. I wanted to know what you did to those witches.”