Shatter the Earth (Cassandra Palmer 10)

“If you breathe so much as one word to her—” I began, and Mircea’s eyes lit up.

Damn it, my life would be easier if he was dumber!

“I won’t.” It was earnest.

“Or be seen,” I added, “by anyone.” Because that outfit would be hard to explain away.

“I won’t be seen. Or do anything else to hurt the timeline. I just want to know what’s going on!”

I closed my eyes, and wondered if I was going crazy, too, because I was seriously considering this. But what was the alternative? Endlessly chasing him through time? And, at the rate he was going, in a week he’d know more about the Pythian power than I did!

“Betray me, and I’ll lash you to your bed for the next century,” I told him fiercely.

“You know I would never betray you, dulcea?a.” He genuinely looked hurt.

I rolled my eyes so hard that I thought I saw the inside of my skull. And, not for the first time, seriously wondered about my taste in

men. Then I let him go.

And, immediately, he went sprinting for the house again!

“Goddamnit!”

I shifted in front of him, back beside the shuttered window. But to my surprise, I didn’t have to do anything else. Because Mircea stopped there, and peered through the gap in the wood, just as he’d been doing when I arrived.

After a bemused moment, so did I.

The interior of the house was simple but neat, just a square of rough wooden boards, with no ceiling to interfere with the herbs hanging from the rafters. A bed, a spinning wheel, a chest, and a table comprised the furniture. And a few shelves stacked with wooden bowls and a pretty ceramic pitcher made up the housewares.

Along with what looked like a brand-new wooden cradle, which was currently empty because the child wasn’t in it. She was in a woman’s arms, Elena’s arms. For a second, I just stared.

I don’t know why. I knew why we were here, knew who lived in the house, knew approximately what she looked like. I’d even seen her briefly, if only as a blur. But this was different.

She was beautiful, I thought. Really beautiful. Like a Renaissance Madonna or a painting of a dark-haired angel. She had huge, liquid black eyes, pale, almost luminescent skin, dark brown hair that rippled down her back practically to her knees, and a small, lithe body that looked completely incapable of what I’d seen her do.

Of course, she hadn’t done it yet, being months away from her date with destiny.

She didn’t look too happy, though, with dried tears on her cheeks and more in her eyes. I could see them only with the help of my borrowed eyesight, because she’d lit no candles. There was also no fire in the grate and no lantern in the hand of her visitor, who was pushing aside the baby blanket with a gnarled old hand that looked like it ought to belong to a monster.

But the touch was gentle, and the voice gruff but kindly when he said something. I couldn’t understand it, but not because of the distance. They were on the opposite side of the room, not that it mattered with vamp senses. But I didn’t know their language.

But despite what he’d said earlier, Mircea obviously did, judging by the way his hand clenched on the wall, hard enough to leave fingermarks in the plaster. After a second, I noticed an odd little thing sticking out of his ear, like a metal hearing aide, and did a quick check on his other side. Yeah, he had two.

I grabbed one and he sent me a look, but didn’t try to snatch it back. I put it in my ear, and then quickly jerked it out again because of the volume, which was head splittingly loud. I must have messed something up when I—oh.

A little ball on one end moved around, and seemed to control the sound. I fiddled with it until I was no longer in danger of bursting an eardrum. Then put the contraption back in place and waited for something to make sense.

I waited a long time.

“—for a price. You know how they are.” It was a metallic sort of voice, unpleasant and artificial, and with a vague British accent. But it was understandable. And judging from the fact that the hooded figure had just stopped talking, I assumed the device had been translating for him.

“They’ll tarry until I come? You were clear on that?” That was the translation for Elena’s voice, although it was nothing like her dulcet tones.

“I was clear,” the small creature said. And then the gnarled old hand was back, hairy and claw tipped, this time on her arm. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I don’t have a choice. Here, you must—” she broke off, looking up and clutching her child, as the sound of horse’s hooves came thundering up the road. A lot of them.

“Take her and go!” she said, thrusting the child into the creature’s arms.