But listening didn’t appear to be Lydia’s strong suit. And a second later, there was no more Gertie. Who, I assumed, had just been sent packing to the 1880s.
By her 1794 counterpart.
It was getting crowded with Pythias around here, I thought blankly, as the old woman turned her attention on me. I smiled weakly. And then I shifted to the boys, not even waiting to get a good grip on them before shifting us all through the rapidly closing time portal behind us.
To my surprise, it worked. We landed in daylight, which was good. And in the middle of a canal that was no longer solid, which was bad. But that was still okay.
Until my damned useless partner sank like a stone.
I dove after him, grabbed him by the collar, and dragged him back to the surface, where he flailed and spluttered and tried to drown me.
“I thought your kind were supposed to float!” I said, smacking him upside the head.
“That’s . . . witches,” he gasped, but calmed down slightly.
Until we looked around for Pritkin. And almost got run over by a canal boat full of tourists, instead. A Japanese guy in an “I got high in Amsterdam” T-shirt hung over the open side of the boat, snapping pictures of the waterlogged crazies, while Rosier cussed and flailed and swore and sank. And I stared around in confusion at a few hundred bicycles, a bunch of tiny cars, and no Pritkin, cursed or otherwise.
And all right, then, I thought, letting the water close over my own head.
Maybe this wasn’t going to be as easy as I’d thought.
Chapter Three
For a number of strange-but-they-make-sense-in-context-I-swear reasons, home base for me is a penthouse in a Las Vegas hotel. It’s usually pretty crowded, which is why I don’t just shift inside anymore. I have enough problems without appearing in the middle of one of the vampire bodyguards who live with me and who already have a tendency to scream at odd moments. So I’ve learned to show up in the marble-floored foyer, which is usually pretty deserted, instead.
Usually, but not today.
I hit the ground from a good five feet up, because I’d forgotten I was swimming, in a rain of dirty canal water and a hail of tiny silver fish. And a soggy demon lord who almost fell on my head. And then a vampire screamed and pointed a gun at me.
A second later, he screamed again and pointed it at the floor. I thought that was a bit excessive until I blinked brackish water out of my eyes and realized that it wasn’t the vamp who was screaming. It was the wards.
The spells that protect the suite must have been recalibrated to hate-demon mode while I’d been gone, which, considering some of the stuff that had happened lately, wasn’t real surprising. But it was annoying. Like earsplittingly annoying.
The caterwaul went on and on as I coughed up half the contents of the canal and tried to remember how to breathe. Which left me a little too busy to understand what the vamp was saying, much less try to answer back. I settled for sprawling there and gasping at him instead.
Rosier was less reticent, but luckily, the wards drowned him out, too. Even when he was pounced on by five large guards who tore out of the suite and proceeded to pummel the problem. I watched them for a moment, and then I scooped something I really hoped was seaweed out of my cleavage and started trying to get up.
It didn’t go so great.
I felt like one of the tiny fish: beaten up, exhausted, and gasping for breath I still wasn’t getting because of the damned corset that came with my outfit. I was also wearing about fifty pounds of waterlogged wool, half of which had managed to wrap itself around my legs, leaving me about as mobile as a
beached seal. But I managed to get to my hands and knees anyway, and did an inchworm impression in the general direction of the front door.
Which opened the same moment I reached it, to show me a pair of overlarge Cerutti loafers.
They were black and had a nice gloss to the leather. That was good. Because suede wouldn’t have handled the miniature tide that rolled over them nearly as well.
I looked up to see their owner mouthing some not-so-gentlemanly words and glaring at me. And then at the ruckus over my head. And then back at me again as I pointed and gesticulated and tried to convey over the din that I didn’t actually want Rosier beaten up.
You know, that badly.
And then I found myself being lifted by two ham-sized hands, which brought me face-to-face with my chief bodyguard, a swarthy giant named Marco.
It also left my feet dangling off the floor, because I am five foot four and Marco is not. But I didn’t worry about giving him back strain. He could hold me there all day if he wanted, soggy wool and all. The ferocious package nature had provided had been upgraded centuries ago with a pair of fangs he didn’t need, because who was going to jump Lou Ferrigno’s big brother?
Unfortunately, I managed to strain him in other ways, like at the moment, judging by the frown that creased his forehead. And by the way he tucked me under one massive arm after a final glance at the chaos. And by how he carted me inside like a soggy sack of potatoes.
“I can walk,” I protested breathlessly as the wards abruptly cut out. The combo of corset and Marco’s idea of a gentle grip had left me with maybe half an inch of inflatable lung room.