Shatter the Earth (Cassandra Palmer 10)

“I thought I did—”

“If you almost died, it was not the right call!”

“Well, maybe I’m not as good of a student as you think,” I said, feeling myself tearing up. Which only made me angrier, because this wasn’t the time, damn it!

“Now, now,” Jonas said again, and this time, he patted my hand.

He looked truly concerned, which meant exactly nothing since Jonas Marsden was the best actor I knew. He ought to be. He’d been perfecting the role of doddering old man for decades, which was a hard sell considering that he also happened to be the current leader of the Silver Circle.

The pantomime was helped by the fact that he didn’t look remotely dangerous. Especially wearing an item that I guessed was supposed to be a flight suit, but on his Santa Claus body looked more like an olive-green onesie. All he was missing was a bippy and blankie to be ready for bed.

But instead, he had a massive book in one hand and a pair of half-moon spectacles in the other, the latter of which he settled on his nose. They increased the Santa vibe, especially when paired with his wild mane of white hair. It was extra wavy today, wafting about his head as if he was standing under an air conditioner vent. But I’d been around magic users long enough to know that what it was wafting on wasn’t air.

The five mages crowding the doorway were also having an extra bad hair day. Their power was surging, but with no one to pummel, it was bleeding out into the air like static electricity. But none of them could hold a candle to Pritkin.

He looked like he’d stuck a finger in a light socket, or maybe in a lightning bolt, because his hair actually crackled when he moved. If I hadn’t been so freaked out, I’d have found it fascinating: crackle, stomp, crackle, stomp, as he paced around the room. But there wasn’t the space to move much, because war mages had a fetish for austerity, so even Jonas didn’t get a palatial office.

And that fact was seemingly feeding Pritkin’s rage—or fear, or, more likely, a combination of both—so instead of coming down off the adrenaline high, he kept ramping up.

“You’re going to give yourself a heart attack,” I told him, afraid that it was true.

“You’re going to give me a heart attack!” he snarled, before suddenly kneeling at my feet, only it was more like a lunge. He’d acquired a war mage coat from somewhere; I didn’t know where because we hadn’t been back to his room. But it was there, nonetheless, and even stranger, it looked like his.

It also swirled out impressively when he did the kneeling maneuver that wasn’t a kneel, because it was designed to get in my face.

Like, right in it. Pritkin was suddenly close enough that I could feel his breath on my lips, which was normally a good thing, but . . . not right now. “Why do you look like that?” he demanded.

“Like what?”

Green eyes searched my face, and they didn’t miss much, making me have to work not to squirm. “Like you’re perfectly calm and serene. You aren’t even flushed!”

“Maybe I’m . . . pale . . . with, uh—”

“You weren’t even flushed in there!” he threw out an arm, I assume in the direction of training bay one, although who could tell? We’d gone through so many twists and turns on the way here that I was totally lost. All I knew was that we were aboveground again, in a small office with a pretty, old-fashioned window fitted with diamond panes of glass, and some roses blooming outside.

Their heads were a little too heavy for their stems, causing them to bob drunkenly in a breeze. It made them disappear below the window whenever it blew too hard, and then suddenly pop up again, as if they were floral peeping toms. The wind was giving some fat bumblebees, who were trying to get a drink, a hard time, too. They were dipping and rising along with the flowers, and wiggling their little bee butts as they adjusted course, as if doing some weird sort of dance . . .

“Lady Cassandra,” Pritkin said, gritting his teeth but using my title, because we had company. “You’re wearing a glamourie.”

“So?”

“Why?” It was stark. It was also infuriating.

“Because I feel like it?”

“Take it off!”

“Stop doing that!”

“Doing what?”

“Treating me like a child. Eat your vegetables, wait in my room, show me your face—”

“Don’t rip fey assassins to pieces before we can question them?” Jonas added mildly, without looking up from his book.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “I didn’t have a lot of choice—”

Pritkin said a bad word. Then he looked at his fellow mages. “Get out.”