Home > Ride the Storm (Cassandra Palmer #8)(11)

Ride the Storm (Cassandra Palmer #8)(11)
Author: Karen Chance

“But you’re never in,” Carla said. “Or you’re never up! Or those damn vampires you live with find some other reason that ensures no access—”

“And we were informed that you don’t have an appointment secretary yet,” the Oracle added, disapprovingly.

“—so when I spotted you in that ridiculous disguise—”

“It’s not a disguise,” I said.

“—which might have fooled the others, I don’t know, but I’ve been doing little except staring at a picture of your face for weeks! I’d know you anywhere, and I’ve been camped out in this damn hotel for days. I barely sleep, I rarely see my family, and I strongly suspect I smell—”

“I wasn’t going to mention eet,” Françoise murmured.

“—but damn it! I will have that interview!”

“Or perhaps a pie?” Witch’s Companion burbled. “We have our annual bake-off coming up, and we would love to feature an entry by—”

“Shut up!” everyone told her.

She shut up.

“Well, how about it?” Carla said, breathing a little hard. “You can’t avoid us forever. And, frankly, I know some of my colleagues. If you don’t tell your story, they’ll tell it for you. And after the merry chase you’ve led us, believe me, it won’t be a version you’ll like!”

“That sounds a lot like blackmail,” I pointed out.

“It isn’t,” the Oracle said. “It is—I am loath to admit—merely a cogent commentary on the state of our once great profession. Where will you find a Thomas Bowlby these days? Or a Sir Henry Stanley? ‘Dr. Livingstone, I presume’ has been replaced by celebrity gossip and sycophantic fawning, and I shudder to think what the future may hold for—”

“A ‘she’s right’ would have sufficed,” Carla said dryly.

“My dear woman, I was merely attempting to—”

“Prove that it’s impossible for you Brits to say anything in a single sentence? I’ve often wondered if it actually pains you.”

“Not nearly as much as working with the likes of—”

“Trust me, you would never be working with—”

“Who are all these people?” Witch’s Companion suddenly asked.

“What?” the Oracle said huffily. “What people? My girl, we are trying to discuss important—”

“These people on the concourse. They’re everywhere, and it’s not even ten o’clock yet.”

“The concourse? Where are— My God, she is!” he told someone, sounding outraged. “The little strumpet snuck down while we were distracted and is trying to steal a march on us!”

“I’m not a strumpet!” Witch’s Companion said, her voice coming through clearly, but also hiccupy, as if the owner was being battered around outside. “At least, I don’t think so; I don’t know what that is. And I’m not trying to steal anything. I just want to show the Pythia our latest issue, but these men won’t let me—”

“It’s the damn paparazzi,” Carla snarled, staring at the shop door. “We sit here for weeks and then someone tips them off—”

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you,” the Oracle said. “Everyone knows you obtain half your stories through bribery, chicanery, and deceit—”

“At least we get stories that aren’t a month old! When was the last time you had a scoop?”

“Hey!” Witch’s Companion said. “Hey! Let me go! I don’t want to—”

“We are not concerned with ‘scoops,’” the Oracle said proudly. “We are concerned with the proper reporting of factual, well-researched, well-supported—”

“Can I yawn now?” Carla asked.

“Oh. Oh no,” Witch’s Companion said softly. “You’re not paparazzi at all, are you? You’re—”

The voice abruptly cut off, and her little black fluttery thing suddenly stopped moving and floated gently to the floor, like it was made out of tissue paper.

I bent down and picked it up.

And my bracelet started slamming into my pulse point hard enough to bruise.

“CASSIE PALMER.”

“CASSIE PALMER.”

“CASSIE PALMER IS IN AUGUST—”

My head jerked up, but I didn’t see anything. The shop was designed to keep people’s attention on the expensive wares inside, not on whatever was happening on the concourse, and it worked pretty well. All I could see were glimpses of the usual morning crowd, passing along the drag in colorful tees and unfortunate spandex.

I stood up and started walking cautiously toward the front.

“This is so typical,” Augustine said bitterly, from behind me. “She’s been the official Pythia for weeks now, but has she held a press conference? Given an interview? Made a single statement to anyone? I spend all my time trying to get press, and she spends hers avoiding it! It’s no wonder we’re inundated on a daily basis with nosy types, prowling around, hoping for a—”

“Cassie?” Françoise said, coming up behind me.

“—story, which wouldn’t be so bad if they were planning to mention the shop or the brand—”

“Cassie?” Françoise said again, and then froze, her hand on my arm, as I pulled back a couple of the hanging floral strands in the window.

And no, I thought blankly, those weren’t paparazzi.

“—but no. Couturier to the Pythia and do I rate so much as a mention?” Augustine asked, while on the concourse across from the shop, an army was assembling. They looked like tourists, but they weren’t. And I didn’t need the bracelet almost vibrating off my wrist to tell me that.

“Mon Dieu,” Françoise whispered as a wave of power washed over us like a hot breeze, causing the hair on my arms to stand on end. And the tacky T-shirts, too-tight shorts, and beer bellies of the crowd to ripple and change. And melt into what would have looked like black commando gear, if not for the long coats that commandos don’t bother with, because they don’t carry weapons that they mind everyone seeing.

War mages do.

Only I didn’t think these were ours.

It looked like nobody else did, either, because Françoise suddenly turned and bolted for the counter, and the Graeae released Augustine, who hit the floor along with half his merchandise. Something slammed into place in front of the shop a second later, an almost transparent field wavering just beyond the pretty bow windows, which would have looked more at home on a Rue de Something in Paris than in the Wild, Wild West, because Augustine gave a crap about Dante’s theming.

He obviously felt the same way about its wards, because that was a shield flickering out there, not that it mattered.

It wouldn’t hold against that kind of firepower.

There wasn’t a lot that would.

“CASSIE PALMER.”

“CASSIE PALMER.”

“CASSIE PALMER IS IN—”

I grabbed for my phone, before remembering that I didn’t have it on me. And Françoise was already on the house one behind the counter, presumably calling security. But the casino’s guys were used to dealing with drunks and shoplifters and people who won a little too regularly for chance. They couldn’t handle this.

My guys could.

“Here.” I looked up to find Carla holding out a phone. I took it and punched in the number I knew best while kiddo did a twirl on the tile, her pink tutu swirling out around her. I stared at it and tried to get my thoughts in order.

It didn’t seem to be going so well.

My brain kept insisting that this wasn’t supposed to happen. This happened other places, and then I came back here to eat and sleep and banter with my bodyguards in safety. Unless I tripped over one of the cots that were currently strewn around my suite, that is, because the court I’d recently ended up with needed a place to sleep.

And oh God.

My court.

“CASSIE PALMER.”

“CASSIE PALMER.”

“CAS—”

Pick up, pick up, pick up, I thought as the phone rang and rang. It was midmorning, not a vampire’s favorite time of day, but normally my bodyguards worked around the clock. But yesterday hadn’t exactly been normal.

   
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