“CASSIE PALMER IS IN AUGUSTINE’S.”
The locator spell blared like a foghorn, screaming my name and confusing my brain. Which was already confused enough watching what looked like a couple dozen bats swoop in and start circling the room. I stared up at them, feeling like I’d been caught in a rogue game of Jumanji, while Augustine cursed and Françoise grabbed the crazy woman who was still trying to destroy the gift-wrap station.
Only to have her pull something out of her purse.
“Where is your shield?” the brunette screeched, brandishing what looked suspiciously like a wand.
“Get zat out of my face!” Françoise warned her.
“Where is it? You have to have one!”
“Get eet out right now, or I swear to you—”
“No, I swear to you—”
Françoise took the wand away from her and snapped it in two.
“What the . . . how did . . . you bitch!”
“Witch, actually.”
“So am I!”
“But not a very good one,” Françoise said smugly.
And then the circling cloud dove, in a black, shrieking, speeding mass.
I ducked, hands over my head, but it didn’t help. The next second I was surrounded by a crowd of fluttering things that weren’t bats, weren’t birds, weren’t anything I’d ever seen before, but were suddenly everywhere, including right in my face. And screeching something I couldn’t understand because they were all talking at once.
“Don’t answer them!” the woman—the witch—was yelling. “I was here first. I was here first!”
“CASSIE PALMER.”
“CASSIE PALMER.”
“CASSIE PALMER IS IN AUGUST—”
“Cassie! Zees way!” Françoise called, and I threw myself behind the counter. The not-bats followed in a streaming mass, only to go up in flames when Françoise, who is a very, very good witch, threw a fireball at them.
Of course, a mass of flapping, yelling, on-fire things is not exactly an improvement. But they didn’t appear to be much more substantial than Augustine’s origami. Because they disintegrated as I scurried out the other side of the counter, in puffs of ash that exploded in the air all around me.
At least the outfit couldn’t get much worse, I thought, staring about.
And then jerking back when I found myself facing one that had been smart enough to head round the other way.
Up close, it looked less like a bat than an overlarge butterfly, since it had no body to speak of. Or even a head. Just a vertical slit of a mouth wedged in between two rapidly beating wings and yelling something.
Until it was plucked out of the air and eaten by Deino, the sweetest of the Graeae, who wasn’t picky about her choice of snack.
But this one didn’t go down so easily. In fact, this one didn’t go down at all. It stayed in her mouth, thrashing about and making her look like she was chewing on a wad of black bubble gum. Or talking in a really exaggerated way, because her jaw kept going up and down, up and down, with words spilling out, only Deino didn’t speak English.
But somebody did.
And now that there were only a few of the black things left, I could understand what they were saying.
“Crystal Gazing here,” a woman’s voice said, from somewhere over my head. “Lady Cassandra, can you comment on the state of your relationship with the vampire senator Lord Mircea? You’re rumored to be lovers—”
“The Oracle here,” a booming British voice interrupted, out of Deino’s mouth. “Our readers would like to know what, exactly, was the nature of the creature you fought and killed at your coronation two weeks ago—”
“And why were you naked?” Crystal Gazing added eagerly. “Was it a ritual?”
“—they would also appreciate confirmation on the identity of the creatures you fought in the lobby of this hotel last week,” the Oracle continued, speaking a little louder. “It has been speculated—”
“Or maybe some kind of sex magic? Our readers did a poll—”
“—that they were the personal guards of the demon high council—”
“—and you were voted sexiest Pythia by a margin of almost three to one!”
“But . . . but I’m the only Pythia,” I said as the brunette witch dragged me back.
“Witch’s Companion here,” a tiny voice piped up, from somewhere behind me. “We were wondering if you could share a favorite recipe? Maybe a nice fall soup?”
“It has been noted,” the Oracle thundered, “that they match the description of similar creatures glimpsed occasionally through time, and described by some of our most illustrious scholars—”
“Hang your illustrious scholars!” the brunette witch growled, getting in between me and what, at a guess, were a bunch of magical microphones. “I’m telling you, I was here first!”
“First to find her isn’t first to press,” Crystal Gazing’s avatar said condescendingly.
“The Pythia’s first interview cannot be given to a rag like Graphology,” the Oracle agreed, despite the fact that Deino was trying to root it out with her tongue.
“What?” The brunette bristled. “What did you just call—”
“Rag,” Crystal Gazing repeated helpfully. “He called your paper a rag, dear.”
“Or . . . or some decorating tips?” Witch’s Companion said, fluttering around hopefully. “We’re doing the fall cover on quilts—”
“No more than it can to Crystal Gazing,” the Oracle continued pompously. “Which has no better quality of journalistic integrity than—”
“I beg your pardon?” His companion no longer sounded so amused.
“—the majority of American so-called newspapers—”
“Just what are you implying?”
“He’s calling your paper a rag, dear,” the brunette said acidly.
Crystal Gazing bristled. “May I remind you that my paper has been in press longer than either of—”
“Trash always sells. That does not make it any less trash.”
“Bitch said what?” Crystal Gazing demanded. And then went up in flames when the brunette held a lighter under it.
“More than one way to start a fire,” she told Françoise.
“CASSIE PALMER.”
“CASSIE PALMER.”
“CASSIE PALMER IS IN—”
“You’re a reporter?” I asked the brunette, pretty unnecessarily at this point.
“What?” Augustine’s profile appeared over Enyo’s shoulder. The tallest and scariest of the sisters had slapped him on her back facing the other way so he couldn’t look directly at us. But that didn’t stop him from trying. “Are you here to cover the fall line?”
Everybody ignored him.
“Not a reporter,” the brunette told me quickly. “Carla Torres—call me Carla—”
“I have a few other suggestions,” Crystal Gazing muttered, from a burnt-up wad on the floor.
“—senior editor for Graphology,” Carla said, smiling at me determinedly. And grinding the remains of the competition to powder underneath a stylish black heel. “A considerably better choice for you than that ridiculous tabloid Crystal Gazing, or that pompous British toady to the Circle—”
“If you mean the Oracle,” Deino’s captive commented, “you could at least have the courage to say so.”
“I thought I just did!”
“And the girl?” I asked.
“My daughter.” She shoved more frizzy hair out of her face. “You’re rumored to like children. I thought you might find a kid charming—”
“That keed?” Françoise said, only to have the mother glare at her.
“You couldn’t have just come up and introduced yourself?” I asked.
“Oh yes!” Carla threw out her hands. “Yes! Why didn’t I think of that?”
“With respect, what do you think we have been attempting to do for weeks now?” the Oracle asked, a little indistinctly, since Deino had managed to push it over into one cheek.