Shatter the Earth (Cassandra Palmer 10)

“You know the last one. The war.” We were literally about to invade another world, and while things had been quiet lately, I didn’t think there was any chance they’d stay that way.

“All right. So, you got your three—and only three. I and the gals got this place on lock down, all right? We’ll hold the fort with the little ones, and any petitioners who don’t understand what no means, and basically deal with letting people know that there’s a damned war on and the Pythia has better things to do than deal with their crap.”

“Um. You might want to rephrase that slightly,” I said and opened my eyes.

To see Tami smiling, and yet managing to look a little feral at the same time.

“Don’t worry. You know how diplomatic I can be.”

Oh, boy.

Chapter Eight

I decided to start with number one on my to-do list, and went looking for Rhea.

I was told that she was downstairs, in what used to be the main drag of the hotel and casino that we called home. I said ‘used to be’, because Dante’s had been the site of a major battle in the war, one which had scoured the drag down to the concrete and studs. But fairly rapid progress had been made on the rebuild, especially in the last few weeks. I was therefore greeted by the sight of an Old West ghost town, which at the moment was living up to its name since there was nothing inside the hastily erected facades but air.

But that was perfect for what the coven girls and older initiates had planned. Samhain, AKA Halloween, was coming up, which was a major holiday in the coven calendar. It was usually celebrated with feasts and bonfires somewhere out in nature, but the war made that a little problematic. So, this year, the local covens and the girls they’d sent to join my court had asked if it could be held at Dante’s.

Since the hotel manager had had a fit at the thought of a bonfire in his precious, damaged baby, that was being nixed for this year. Instead, the ghost town was being decorated for a big, indoor carnival. Samhain wasn’t until the end of the week, but there was a lot of work to do before then, and the place was working with activity.

I spotted a couple of the older initiates up on ladders, stretching strings of multicolored lights across the street. Other lights had already been wrapped around posts and more were being festooned about a wagon. Meanwhile, the replacement donkey statue and its attached taco cart had become the subject of the smaller girls’ attentions. They were seated in a semi-circle around it, with a couple of acolytes showing them how to make bright paper flowers out of colored tissue paper and pipe cleaners, which they were sticking in the donkey’s saddlebags, mane, tail and big straw hat.

Overhead, a fake starscape of tiny lights twinkled in the high ceiling, giving the whole thing a very village-festival-at-night feel. I half expected to see some banditos or cowboys ride up, looking for the saloon. Although they would have been very surprised if they had, and not just because there was no booze yet.

“What is that?” I asked one of the acolytes, a stern-faced woman named Milly. She was normally very starched and polished, with her thin frame tightly buttoned into old fashioned dresses, and her salt and pepper hair severely scraped back, to the point that I felt sorry for her temples. But today, she was looking a little less Spartan, with a bright red flower almost as big as her head stuck behind an ear.

“Lady.”

She curtsied, being one of the few acolytes who always turned deaf whenever I requested that they cut that out. These days, I usually only got the old-fashioned courtesy when we had company, or when they were caught out like last night. But Milly always did it, and I’d basically given up trying to stop her.

The little acolyte she’d been working with, all of maybe four, was valiantly trying to force a massive wad of tissue through a premade loop of fuzzy wire. It was not going well. Which quickly resulted in said flower getting beaten repeatedly against the floor.

“Now, now, Amelie,” Milly said. “Is that how you greet your Pythia?”

The little girl looked up, and her eyes widened. She scrambled to her feet; I didn’t know why. I saw the initiates all the time.

And then I realized why when she dropped into a perfectly credible curtsy.

Son of a bitch.

Milly smiled at her little protégé proudly, and I did the same, because what else was I gonna do? Yet again, I’d been outmaneuvered by an acolyte. One who was now looking at me like butter wouldn’t melt.

“Did you have a question, Lady?”

“Yes. What is that?” I pointed at the end of the street, where a bunch of old-fashioned, home-made looking brooms were flying in a circle about six feet off the ground. They weren’t going anywhere, and they weren’t going fast, just determinedly bobbing up and down like some kind of merry go round.

“It is a merry go round, Lady,” Milly replied politely.

Of course.

“For the younger children,” she added.

“How are they supposed to stay up there?” I asked, because contrary to popular belief, witches had never liked riding brooms. They’d used them as platforms for levitation spells, back in the bad old days, because sometimes you needed to outrun a mob. And brooms were usually handy.

But comfortable they were not, not to mention being hard as hell to stay on.

Although some people didn’t seem to have a problem, I thought, as one zoomed by just overhead, causing me to duck.