Curse the Dawn (Cassandra Palmer 4)

“Would someone please tell me what is going on here?” The farmer’s voice came from over my shoulder.

“Some assholes jumped us; what does it look like?” I snapped, holding on to Pritkin with trembling hands. Damn it, now we had a norm to deal with, on top of everything else. My head was pounding and my eyes were still full of the carnage I had unwillingly witnessed. I didn’t need this, too. I looked down at Pritkin, who appeared a little woozy. “Can you put him under a memory charm or something?”

“No,” he said, struggling to stand up.

“They are a bit tricky with mages,” the farmer added helpfully.

I rounded on the man—the mage—furious. “Would it have hurt you to sling a spell or two? Or have you forgotten how?”

“I think I remember a few,” he said, looking amused. “But you seemed to be doing well enough on your own.” I stared at him, shocked and amazed at his careless tone, until I realized that he hadn’t seen that last part with the ghosts. His human eyes had been mercifully blind.

He switched that owl-eyed gaze from me to Pritkin. “Well, well. You do manage to get yourself into some interesting situations. Don’t you, John?”

I looked back and forth between the two of them. “You know each other?”

Pritkin sighed, running a hand through my filthy curls. “Cassie, meet Jonas Marsden.”

“Marsden? That sounds familiar.”

“It should. Until about a year ago, he led the Silver Circle.”

On closer inspection, the former head of the Silver Circle didn’t look much like a farmer. Of course, he didn’t look much like a renowned war mage, either. His clothes were normal, if boring—an old oatmeal sweater with suede patches at the elbows, a blue plaid shirt and brown slacks. But he’d have stood out in any crowd because of the hair.

It was even worse than Pritkin’s, although in a totally new way. It would have been almost shoulder length if it hadn’t insisted on floating away from his face as though trying to escape his head. He had static electricity hair when there was no static. But at least it was a nice shade—silver white instead of salt and pepper. And his eyes were very blue behind the thick glasses.

We followed him to a two-story farmhouse. It had walls of jumbled gray stone in all shapes and sizes and no discernable pattern all held together by a weathered slate roof. It sat on a hill overlooking the forest on one side and a river on the other. It looked pretty normal except that it listed faintly to the left, like it was trying to escape the garden that had gone wild and appeared to be trying to eat it. A third of it had already disappeared under massive old vines. It was charming, in a run-down, overgrown, slightly quirky way—except for the pentacle smoking on the front door, its thick lines bubbling dark and angry against the fresh green paint.

“You had visitors,” Pritkin said, dripping onto the Cave Canem doormat.

“Will they be back?” I looked around nerv

ously, unable to tell if anyone was sneaking up on us due to the aggressive flora.

“If they do, they won’t get in,” Marsden said cheerfully. “Renewed the wards myself last week. That’s my blood under the last coat of paint.”

I didn’t find that statement as soothing as he apparently intended but was too tired and wet and freaked out to make an issue of it. I bumped the door frame walking in, adding another bruise to Pritkin’s already impressive collection. His shoulders were broad and I hadn’t yet adjusted to the way this body moved or took up space.

Even more annoying were the sensations caused by his body starting to mend itself. He usually healed almost as fast as a vamp, but he’d lost a lot of blood in the fight and it seemed to be slowing the process down. All along my left arm were weird crawling sensations—pins, needles, knives, hot—like something was moving under there. I’d loosened the makeshift tourniquet on the way back, but it hadn’t seemed to help. I had my arms crossed to keep from clawing at his skin.

Marsden led us to the kitchen, which was huge, but its exposed wooden beams, bright saffron paint and log fireplace made it seem cozy. It also had a dog. It didn’t help so much with the cozy.

It was large and shaggy and gray and it drooled a lot—a fact that was much less disturbing than its coal-red eyes. “What’s wrong with it?” I asked Pritkin quietly while Marsden puttered around, brewing things.

Pritkin paused to regard the dog-shaped creature under the window for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed and he looked at Marsden accusingly. “Jonas! What did you do?”

Marsden turned, coffeepot in hand, and followed Pritkin’s gaze. He looked a little guilty. “Well, I didn’t have much choice, did I? They forced me to destroy his other form.”

“You were supposed to release him!”

“After all the trouble I had trapping him in the first place?” Marsden snorted. “Not likely.”

“Trapping what?” I eyed the dog warily.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Marsden said, placing a mug in front of me. “Have some coffee.” I took a sip and had to work not to choke. Marsden’s concoction could beat up espresso and take its lunch money. He noticed my reaction. “Is something wrong?”

I scrubbed at my chin, and beard stubble rasped under my fingers. I yanked my hand away. “I’d really prefer tea,” I managed to say.

“Now I know you aren’t John,” he commented, but he bustled off to plug in a WWII-era kettle.