Read Hunt the Moon : Cassandra Palmer #5 Online

Authors: Karen Chance

Tags: #Fantasy, #General, #Fiction

Hunt the Moon : Cassandra Palmer #5 (10 page)

BOOK: Hunt the Moon : Cassandra Palmer #5

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“And if I order you to stay?” I asked, after a few moments.

Pritkin didn’t say anything. I looked up but I couldn’t see him very well. He’d leaned forward, out of the sign’s bloody light, and only a little filtered in from the lounge. But when he finally answered, his voice was calm.

“I would stay. And protect you as best I can.”

And possibly get killed in the process, because he didn’t know what he was fighting. It wasn’t said aloud, but it didn’t need to be. I’d felt that thing go after him. I might have been the chief target, but he’d been on the list somewhere, too.

And that wasn’t acceptable.

But neither was the alternative. I hugged my arms around myself and stared out at the night without seeing it. I was seeing another face instead, the cheerful, scruffy, laughing face of another war mage, one who hadn’t come back. One who would never come back.

I didn’t realize Pritkin had moved until he crouched in front of me. Green eyes, almost translucent in the darkness, met mine. “I wouldn’t be going if I didn’t think you would be all right,” he told me. “It is doubtful that this thing will try the same approach again, now that it knows—”

“I’m not worried about me,” I whispered viciously. And as soon as I said it, I knew it was the truth. Apparently, the surefire antidote for your own fear is concern for someone else.

Pritkin looked surprised, the way he always did at the idea that anyone might actually care about him. It made me want to hit him. Of course, right then I wanted to do that anyway.

“Nothing is going to happen,” he repeated. “But even if it did, you don’t need me. You don’t need—”

“That isn’t true!”

“Yes, it is.” He looked at me and his lips quirked. “You can’t fire a gun worth a damn. You hit like a girl. Your knowledge of magic is rudimentary at best. And you act like I’m torturing you if I make you run more than a mile.”

I blinked at him.

“But I’ve known war mages who aren’t as resilient, who aren’t as brave, who aren’t—” he looked away for a moment. And then he looked back at me, green eyes burning. “You’re the strongest person I know. And
you will be fine
.”

I nodded, because it sounded like an order. And because, all of a sudden, I believed it. And because right then I couldn’t have said anything anyway.

We stayed like that for a moment, until Pritkin stood up, as if something had been decided. And I guess it had.

I got up and walked him to the door.

“You never told me what you’re going to do,” he said, pausing on the threshold.

“About what?”

“The bloody heat.”

The question surprised me, because for a while, I’d forgotten all about it. Like the sweat trickling down my back, and the soap scale drying on my skin.

You’re the strongest person I know.

I looked up at him. “I thought maybe . . . I’d go take a bath.”

Chapter Six

“Ze Fey?” Francoise looked doubtful.

“That’s one theory,” I said, as yet another guy elbowed me in the ribs.

It was the next afternoon. Mircea was in New York, doing important stuff for the Senate. Pritkin was in Faerie, risking his life to find information. And where was I?

I was shopping.

But at least I wasn’t enjoying it.

I glared at the rude guy, but I don’t even think he noticed. I was in baggy jeans and a sweatshirt to cover the bruises, with my green curls in a ragged ponytail. I hadn’t bothered to put on makeup when I got up this morning, so the dark circles under my eyes and the bruise along my cheekbone were perfectly visible.

Of course, on my best day, I couldn’t compete with Francoise, who was tall, dark, lovely and very, very French. And at the moment, she was also almost naked, which explained why I was having a hard time getting close enough to ask her anything.

Francoise had recently taken a job as a sales clerk for the designer she occasionally modeled for. His posh shop was the crown jewel of the hotel’s main drag, mainly because he had refused to go along with the Wild West–meets-hell theme the rest of the place had going on. Augustine was better than that.

But he wasn’t too good to dress his models like strippers to lure in additional customers. Francoise and the three other sylphlike beauties currently on the clock were modeling his latest creation, which as far as I could tell wasn’t a dress at all. It was more like an eighteen-inch-wide satin ribbon—red, in her case—that wrapped around the body and ended in a flourish behind the head.

It was obviously magicked to cover strategic areas, because no matter how much she turned and twisted, getting down items from the shelves behind her for the salivating horde of customers, she never flashed anyone. But the guys were clearly living in hope. And while they did, they bought things from the tacky tourist line Augustine made fun of, but never actually got around to deleting.

I browsed through the T-shirts and found one that showed a frazzled-looking ’toon with bulging eyes. The caption read “There’s too much blood in my caffeine system.” I bought it for Pritkin, knowing he’d probably never wear it, just to see his face.

Assuming I saw his face again. Assuming—

I snatched the shirt off the rack and told myself to stop being an idiot. If ever there was a guy who could take care of himself, he was Pritkin. And he knew Faerie better than most. He’d be fine.

He’d be fine, or I’d kill him.

“When you get a chance, I could use some help,” I told Francoise, as she handed back my credit card.

“Some ’elp?”

“I need to talk to you. And I need a dress.”

She shot me a look. “You ’ave a dress. Or you would, if you evair came for a fitting. Each day you do not, you make him more of a . . .” She waved a hand to indicate an English word that wouldn’t come to her.
“Salaud.”

“Asshole?” I guessed.

“Zat, too.”

We were talking about Augustine, and the dress he was supposedly designing for my inauguration. I say “supposedly,” because I’d never seen it. Nor had I been given a sketch, a mock-up or even a description. The ceremony was a little over a week away, and all I’d seen of my outfit so far was a bunch of brown paper, the kind patterns are made of.

Considering my past history with Augustine, it was making me very nervous. I was going to have to stand up in front of the leaders of the magical world with no pedigree, little training and few skills. I couldn’t afford to look crappy, too.

“I’m boycotting until I get some details,” I told her.

“You ’aven’t seen eet?” Francoise looked puzzled.

“No.”

“ ’Ave you asked?”

“Of course. But he won’t show it to me. He says I wouldn’t understand the artistic process, or something. Anyway, I’m afraid if he gets a chance to fit the damn thing, they’ll make me wear it, no matter what it looks like—”

“Augustine is a good designer,” she protested.

“And he hates me. You know he does.”

Francoise didn’t argue. She just pursed her lips and rolled her eyes, and because she was French, actually made it sexy. A nearby guy groaned.

“If you saw eet, you might change your mind,” she told me.

“I might. Can you ask him for me?”

“I do not sink zat would do any good,” Francoise said, looking thoughtful. “ ’E is very strict wiz his designs.”

“But?” I said, because there’d clearly been one in her tone.

“But ’e is on lunch at ze moment. . . .”

“And?”

She pulled something out of a drawer and dangled it off one finger. “And I ’ave his keys.”

She waved one of the other girls over to cover for her, and in less than a minute, we were past the back counter and into the fitting area, where I had to stop to deal with my shadows. The two golden-eyed vamps had been loitering nearby all morning, pretending to be part of the scenery. They weren’t doing it particularly well. Everybody else was in shorts and T-shirts, in respect for the 120-plus-degree heat wave outside, while they were impersonating the Men in Black.

Still, we had a truce; I pretended I didn’t notice them, and they didn’t crowd me too closely. But enough was enough. “Out,” I told them abruptly.

“We have to do a check first.”

“Then do it and leave.”

“Why?” One of them demanded. He was one of the new guys and I didn’t know his name. “What are you planning to do in here?”

I blinked at him. “It’s a dressing room. What do you think I’m planning to do?”

“That doesn’t explain why we have to go.”

“Because I might be trying on some clothes.”

“And?”

“And I might have to get naked!”

He just looked at me for a moment. “You are aware that we’ve seen it, right?”

“OUT!”

As soon as they’d left, Francoise unlocked the door to Augustine’s workroom and we scurried inside. It was a lot like the man himself, a flamboyant sprawl of creative excess, which in this case involved bolts of expensive fabric, bins of precious trims, heaps of glossy furs, and assorted sparkly things. There were tables holding materials, whiteboards covered with sketches and some half-assembled mannequins looking like war victims in the corner.

But I didn’t see any sewing machines or other nonfabulous equipment. Only a couple of tomato-shaped pin cushions that buzzed around our heads as soon as we entered. Like they knew we weren’t supposed to be there.

Francoise waved them away and they floated over to the back wall, where they huddled together ominously. Then she pulled back a curtain, and I promptly forgot about them and the vamps and even my aching body. Because Augustine was a bastard, but he was a brilliant bastard.

“Ze spring line,” Francoise said with a flourish worthy of a TV spokesmodel.

I didn’t say anything, because my mouth was busy hanging open. Okay, I decided, maybe I’d misjudged the guy. Because obviously he’d been busy.

I recognized some of his staples: a nude sheath dress with black lace fans embroidered on it that opened and closed every few seconds; a bunch of kicky little origami dresses that constantly reworked themselves into new shapes; and a selection of jeweled columns of what looked like liquid ruby, sapphire and diamond, the last so bright it was hard to look at.

But the real story this season was obviously the seasons themselves.

A nearby pale blue gown was printed with a swirl of autumn leaves—russet, gold and rich, earthen brown. But the leaves didn’t just move; they also didn’t see any need to actually stay on the fabric. They tumbled down the garment and spilled out into the air, swirling around the dress in one last, brief, ecstatic dance before finally vanishing.

The same was true for a shimmering white gown that shed glistening snowflakes whenever I touched it, and a grass green one with sleeves formed of hundreds of fluttering butterflies. But the real showstopper was a pale pink kimono with a Japanese landscape hand painted onto the silk.

Francoise had been watching me with an amused tilt to her red lips. “ ’E is good, no?”

“He is good, yes,” I breathed, as the kimono shimmered seductively under the lights.

It would have been beautiful on its own, but the scene had been magicked to change as I watched. Snow melted from the bare branches of a tree, which sprouted leaves, and then delicate pink and white blossoms. They hung there, trembling, until blown off the surface of the dress by a summer’s breeze.

But unlike the images on the other dresses, these didn’t almost immediately disappear. They hung in the air for a long moment, creating a sort of train effect that gradually vanished maybe three feet behind the dress. And when I caught one on my hand, I swear it was petal soft, with weight and substance, before it melted away into nothingness.

“Zees is one of ze special orders for ze ceremony,” Francoise said, reaching up to flip over a little card affixed to the hanger.

“Is it . . . is it mine?” I asked, fervently promising every deity I could think of unswerving devotion if only it said my name. I could look like a Pythia in that dress. I could take on the world in that dress.

“Non,”
Francoise said, squinting at the card.

“Whose is it?” I asked, breathing a little harder. And wondering whether said individual might be open to bribery. There was still a week and a half to the big day. Maybe Augustine could make another dress for whomever—

“Ming-duh,” Francoise read, scrunching up her face. “Or’owevair you say eet.”

“What?” I snatched the little card and stared at it, hoping she’d just mangled the pronunciation. But no. The card bore the name of the leader of the East Asian Vampire Court.

Goddamnit.

“But . . . but she’s Chinese,” I protested. “Why would she want a kimono?”

BOOK: Hunt the Moon : Cassandra Palmer #5

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