Reap the Wind (Cassandra Palmer 7)

Marco snorted. “No, he was terrible. Terrible form, terrible reflexes, terrible everything. He was just as bad as he looked and then some. But he never gave up. Didn’t seem to understand that he was supposed to. Some other guy, you get him on the sand, he figures it’s over. You can see it in his eyes. He just starts to let go, you know?”

No. I didn’t, actually, and was glad of it. But I nodded anyway.

“But not this crazy bastard,” Marco said, shaking his head. “He’d throw sand in your face, he’d claw at your eyes, he’d bite your nose—bit one guy’s clean off. He’d scratch and gouge and spit. He’d scream in your face to try to throw you off. He’d knee you in the nuts. He’d do all of them at the same time if he got half a chance, to the point that it was like pinning a mad wolverine. None of the guys wanted to fight him ’cause they all thought he was crazy. Me . . . I just thought he wanted to live.”

“Did he?”

“Far as I know. He was still at it when my master got out of the game, anyway. You know, it’s funny. You don’t think of someone for a thousand years, and then suddenly you see him, clear as day. I saw him today, in you.”

I let my head drop onto my knees. In Marco’s mind, I’d somehow gone from weak woman who needed protecting to a bantamweight gladiator with possible brain damage. I wanted to laugh, because it was funny. I wanted to cry, because it was true.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I finally settled for. The tone was noncommittal, but there was a catch in my voice I hadn’t intended.

Marco grabbed my arm. “I was talking about his determination. His refusal to let others win, despite the odds being against him. I don’t know where they picked him up, but he wasn’t a fighter in his old life, I can tell you that. The rest of us were ex-soldiers, bodyguards, thugs. We grew up knowing our way around a sword—he barely knew how to hold one. But he won.”

“Then he was nothing like me,” I said, and this time there was something in my voice, something bitter. Because I hadn’t won this time. Mircea had been right and I’d been wrong. I’d been lucky, or maybe I’d just had really good people around helping me, so I’d beaten the odds. But my luck had just run out, and so had Pritkin’s, and I didn’t—I couldn’t— I needed to think, to figure something out, but all I could see was his face—

I started to get up, but the hand-on-my-arm thing didn’t change. Except to give me a gentle shake, which had my head wobbling around almost enough for whiplash. Marco’s gentle and everyone else’s gentle were two different things.

“Listen to me,” he said, and there was something in his voice that stopped me, even better than his grip. “I look at you and I see this . . . squashy little thing. This scrap of flesh with a mop of curls and big blue eyes and a stubborn tilt to her chin that scares the fucking life out of me, because anybody, anybody at all, could just snap her like a twig. When Mircea gave me this assignment, I didn’t give two shits for my chances. Thought, “I’m gonna have to sit on her to have any hope that she’ll survive the week.” Figured this was the master’s way of getting rid of me—give me an impossible job, and watch me fail.”

I blinked at him in confusion, not understanding his point. ‘Why would he want to get rid of you?”

He shrugged. “We butt heads. I have with every master I’ve ever had. Never had the power to go it on my own, but always resented the hell out of anybody giving me orders. My last master was ready to throw in the towel and stake my ass, until Mircea came along. You’d think I’d be grateful.”

“I’m sure he respects you,” I said, still confused. “He wouldn’t have given you this job if he didn’t.”

“Yeah, maybe. I never know what he’s thinking. Guess that’s why he’s the diplomat.” Marco looked at me frankly. “I’m not. They did their best, dressed me up in all those fine suits, cut my hair—even got me a damned manicure!” He laughed suddenly. “First one in my life. It didn’t help. I was what I was, not what I looked like. Just like Jules today. And just like you.” He pressed something into my hand.

I looked down at it, and for some crazy reason, expected a cigar. It wouldn’t have been the weirdest thing that had happened to me today, and nothing was making sense anyway. But it wasn’t a cigar.

Instead I was clutching something cool and hard and oddly heavy. Something vaguely triangular, with an uneven, pitted surface. Something—

“Where did you get this?” I whispered, staring at the little bottle in my hand. And then up at Marco, in utter disbelief. “I checked everything—”

“Not everything.” He picked up something from the darkness beside him and handed it to me. A large, round, hairy something in a fine gold filigree setting that looked even worse in the low light. Like a balding severed head.

Fred’s horrible souvenir.

“But . . . why would she put it there?”

“Way we figure it, this was the cup she used to take it in. Probably mixed it with something to cut the taste. And after, she just . . . forgot.”

“Forgot.”

“Or you can be romantic about it. She was Pythia. Maybe she knew you’d need it.”

My hand closed over it, and I looked up, half blind. “Why are you giving this to me?”

“Couple reasons. The way I see it, you may not know what you’re doing, but at least you know you don’t. Everybody else thinks they got things all figured out. Jonas and his prophecies, the master and his army . . .” Marco shook his head. “They’re not gonna find a way to fight Ares if they’re not looking for one. You might.”

“And the second reason?”

He finally unwrapped the cigar he’d been mangling. “That old Pythia—Agnes?”

I nodded.

“Seems to me that she was fighting this war, too, only nobody knew it. So she was fighting alone. And look how that turned out.” He grimaced. “Thought it was time someone helped you.” Dark eyes met mine. “Just don’t make me regret this, all right?”