Chapter Thirty-Nine
You were gonna tell me this when?” I asked the girls, looking between them.
We were having tea. The Pythia’s heir—the girl in white—had visited the very nice sitting room we’d been dumped in, and made sure we were supplied with dainty cups that I would have been afraid to touch if I wasn’t so exhausted that I could barely lift one.
My fingers had left bloody prints on the porcelain that I tried to wipe away, but just managed to smear.
I sighed and would have liked to postpone this, but some things needed to be addressed.
And preferably before the Pythia returned from blessing out Carales, who had tried to kill me again on the way here.
“We weren’t going to tell anyone,” Jen said, looking almost as tired as I felt.
“You didn’t think the fact that you’re suddenly a lot stronger was something I needed to know?”
“No.”
“Damn it, Jen—”
“It’s not you,” Sophie said, shooting her friend a look.
“It’s the damned Corps. The war won’t last forever, and one day, the Circle won’t need us anymore.
We’ll go from being assets to major liabilities overnight.
And that was before. How much worse do you think it’s going to be if they find out we’re even more powerful than they thought? ”
“Especially me,” Jen said bitterly. “They hate necros, and I was already strong enough to worry them. But now—”
She broke off, her jaw tight.
“Now you can sense a vamp fight from twenty floors down and come running to my rescue?” I guessed.
“We knew it was you,” Sophie said crossly, as Jen just nodded. “I mean, who the hell else could it be? I told her—”
“What are you going to do?” Jen asked me dully.
“About?”
“You have reports to make, right?” Sophie said. “I mean, I assume you or Caleb told the Corps about my Cat. That she’s stronger now. There was no way to hide that; you already saw it.”
“And felt it,” I said, remembering how sharp those insubstantial claws had been.
And then I realized she was looking at me and biting her lip, and that Jen was trying not to cry. For once, the powerful, overly self-assured girls looked like the teens they were. Very worried ones.
“I don’t know what Caleb did or didn’t include,” I told them. “But I suck at writing reports.”
“Meaning?” Sophie asked.
“That mine are late—and likely to remain so.”
“But if they press you,” Jen said, sitting forward.
“I don’t think they feel much like pressing me these days,” I said. “And you’re clan, so you’re none of their business any—”
Jen burst into tears.
I sat there, wondering what the hell, as Sophie comforted her. “Am I... missing something?” I asked after a pause.
“It’s why she didn’t want to join the clan,” Sophie said.
“You know, officially. Being an aux is one thing—if an auxiliary gets in trouble, it doesn’t reflect on the whole clan like a full member would.
And she knew—we both knew, once she reminded me—that we could destroy Fireborn if the Circle found out about us. ..”
I took a moment to process that.
It didn’t help.
“The fuck?” I finally asked.
“W-what?” Jen stared at me.
“That’s what Kimmie said,” Sophie told me in a small voice. “She said we were being stupid, but she doesn’t get it. Her ability isn’t usually considered harmful—”
I got a vision of her multiplying potion bombs in Tartarus and almost choked on my tea.
“—so the Circle won’t fight as much for her. But if they find out about Jen and me being turbocharged, they’re going to want us for the war, and then afterward they’re going to—” she broke off, swallowing.
“You think I’d let them hurt you?” I demanded.
“No, and that’s the point!” Jen hissed, getting in my face. “You would fight for us, like you always do, and they might—they could—”
She collapsed into my arms, sobbing, and I just held her, looking at Sophie over her head. Who had a mulish tilt to her baby face. God, they were so young; they should be laughing over stupid fashions downstairs, not dealing with this!
And if I was a better Lupa, I’d know what to say. But I wasn’t, and all I had was the truth. “As far as the end of the war is concerned, you aren’t the only ones likely to have a problem,” I pointed out.
“Oh, shit,” Sophie said, her eyes going wide, as if she hadn’t thought of that. “You’re in this, too, aren’t you? And now that the Pythia knows—”
“The Pythia knows what?” Someone asked.
We looked up to see the lady in question standing in the doorway, carrying a tray. I didn’t know why; she had plenty of people for that. But she deftly manhandled the laden thing herself and shut the door behind her with a foot.
She had traded the impressive white robes she’d been wearing for khaki shorts, a pale lavender eyelet top, and a pair of leather sandals. She didn’t look much older than the girls, early twenties at a guess, which seemed wrong. The old matriarch fit the memo better.
“You’d have made a good waitress,” I said before I thought.
“Barback.”
“What?”
“I used to barback,” she said, coming over. “Never did any waitressing. Too bad; it would have paid better.”
I blinked at her as she set down the tray, which she seemed to find amusing.
“What? Did you think I came from one of the great old families? Brought up in some mansion before swanning into the Pythian Court to claim my rightful place?”
“I... don’t know. There have been... rumors...” I didn’t go any further, because a lot of them were crazy. Like her father was a dark mage and her mother was a goddess-crazy.
Yet they somehow had a daughter who had to barback for a living?
“You know how the press is,” she said, and didn’t explain.
“So, are you going to tell them?” Sophie demanded, staying on topic. And sounding belligerent, because even a Pythia didn’t intimidate her.
“Tell who what?”
“You heard us just now. I know you did! And the Pythia is—well, everybody knows, you’re buddy-buddy with the Circle—”
“Not this Pythia,” she said mildly.
“Sure, but if you—” Sophie cut off abruptly, probably because Jen had just grabbed her arm, hard enough to dent the skin. “Ow! What are you—”
She cut off again as her eyes went to the still-laden platter, which Jen was also staring at with a fixed intensity I didn’t understand.
Until I did.
“What is that?” I asked, looking at the central offering of what appeared to be an entire dinner.
“I heard that, after a transformation, Weres like to eat,” the Pythia said. “That it helps them recover. So I ordered you a little something.”
Yeah, but what was the question.
“The kitchen is... out of order...,” she added wryly, “so I sent a guy down to room service. Their stuff isn’t exactly gourmet, but it’s usually edible. Usually.”
“What is that?” Jen screeched, loud enough to make me jump.
She had unfrozen and stood up abruptly. And then backed up a few steps, as if looking for room to maneuver, despite there being no threats in sight. Just a... dancing chicken?
Because that was what was in the middle of the platter, surrounded by some nice roasted vegetables and a puddle of brown sauce.
There was also a bread basket, a small tureen of soup, and a large salad, but it was the chicken shaking its roasted booty that really drew the eye.
It had sidled up to the tureen and appeared to be twerking, which was about the time my brain shut down.
But not Jen’s.
“You!” She pointed a shaking finger at the Pythia. “You—”
It seemed to be all she could say.
“Me,” the Pythia agreed calmly. “Breast or wing?”
“You’re a necro!”
“What?” Sophie asked, still staring at the chicken, which was now doing something that might have been vogueing, only it was hard to tell. But it kept striking dramatic poses all around the tureen, where the shiny side provided a mirror, and then moonwalking back toward—
“Stop it!” Jen said, her eyes flashing. “Are you mocking me?”
“Mocking you?” the Pythia picked up a carving fork and knife and summoned the bird, which had started twerking again.
“Stop that,” she told it, and then looked up at Jen.
“Did you think you were the only necromancer in town? You’re not even the only one at court.
Besides me, there’s Jesse, the young man I learned this trick from; Saffy, a coven witch with the ability but no training; and the bokors the hotel employs—”
“Bokors are low-level hacks!” Jen spat, staring at the bird, which had not, in fact, stopped that. “That isn’t low level! That takes control, skill, power—”
“Not as much as what you did in the kitchen.” The Pythia carved up the gyrating bird and handed me a plate with a thigh and leg, which were still jerking slightly. I regarded it sickly, even as my stomach growled.
“If you’re able to do this, how are you Pythia?” Jen yelled. “They—they lock us up for less, do you know that? They throw people like me—like you—in prison! They never let some of them out—”
“I know.”
“You know? You know? Then what are you doing about it?”
“Jen,” I said, because I needed a reading on the damned beads, and we’d already done enough to get tossed out on our collective asses. Several times over.
But Jen wasn’t hearing me.
“You’re supposed to be—I don’t know—like a check on the Circle.
You’re supposed to have all this power, all this influence.
You’re supposed to help us. But instead, we get—” She stopped and swallowed, trying to get herself under control, but it didn’t work.
Maybe because the remains of the chicken twerked on. “You aren’t doing anything!”
“Except getting you out?” The Pythia poured herself some tea. “Or did you think Jonas came up with the idea for the task force all on his own?”
Jen had been about to start another tirade, but at that, she stopped, her mouth still open. And then slowly closed it and sat back down, her eyes narrowing along with her lips. “You’re going to take credit for that?” she finally asked.
“I don’t know,” came the frank reply. “After today, I’m not sure I want to.”
“We’ve done good work,” Sophie said indignantly, and looked at me. “Since we got out. Ask Lia!”