Reap the Wind (Cassandra Palmer 7)

And seen a new form of light shining out of a pair of brilliant green eyes.

My throat closed up for a moment in sheer, unadulterated relief. And then opened so I could scream, “Hex him! Hex him!”

That won me a glare but nothing else, because Rosier was in a stranglehold and couldn’t speak the damned words. And I could barely hold on, much less help him out. And then the little boat got even more crowded when the triple-damned Pythia shifted in next to me with a snarl.

That would have been bad—really bad—if our craft hadn’t suddenly sped into darkness again. And not because we’d passed under another bridge. It fell all around us, like night arriving in a moment, all but blinding after the glare. And then just as abruptly we hit something.

Hard.

We were thrown into the high front of the boat, all of us landing in a wad of thrashing limbs and screaming faces. And then we bounced off the prow and fell out the nonexistent back, because our craft was suddenly not budging. I realized why a second later, when my butt hit something hard and ice-cold.

Which was a good description since it was, in fact, ice.

More was spread out all around us, and had frozen the boat in place, which explained why we weren’t moving.

I stared around at dim moonlight reflecting off a long ribbon of solid canal and felt dizzy and confused. First we’d been in a sleet storm, then in a sunny spring day, and now where were we? If we’d somehow escaped the other Pythia’s time portal, or whatever the heck that had been, shouldn’t we be back where we started? But there was no driving rain, no sleet, no boiling dark clouds to be seen. Just a quiet midnight scene, an icy canal, and a stooped figure on a bridge overhead, silhouetted against a harvest moon.

It was a tiny woman with a black cloak billowing in the breeze. And a wispy bun of white hair. And a pissed-off expression.

Rosier and Pritkin were wrestling over to the side, thrashing around in a way that threatened to break through the ice. I desperately wanted to go and help, but I didn’t. Because the patch of sunlight had stopped just behind us, as if it was afraid to come any closer.

Like my counterpart of the dripping cherries, who wasn’t looking so confident, suddenly.

“Lydia,” Cherries said nervously. “I—I can explain.”

“What?” The old woman scowled at her.

“It’s me, Gertie.” It was louder this time.

“What?”

“Ger—oh, for goodness’ sake. Your horn.”

“Speak up, why can’t you?”

“Your horn! Put in your horn!”

“Give me a moment,” the old woman said querulously. “I’ve got to put in me horn.”

She pulled an old black ear horn out from under her cloak and held it to the side of her head. “What?” she demanded again.

“It’s me,” the other Pythia repeated, loud and slow. “Gertie. And I know we’re out of place—”

“Demmed right, ye’re out of place!”

“Yes, I know. But—”

“Always breaking the rules, you were. And now ye’re consorting with the likes of him!”

“Consort . . .” Gertie puffed up. “I am doing no such thing—”

“Knew I should have trained your sister,” the old woman muttered.

“I’m trying to get him back where he belongs!”

“Oh, I’ll get ye back,” the old woman said ominously.

“No! No, Lydia, you must listen—”