Reap the Wind (Cassandra Palmer 7)

“They don’t have stuff,” I pointed out.

“—bobby pins and ChapStick tubes and those little things that hold ponytails—what’re they called?”

“Ponytail holders?” I asked.

He frowned at me.

Marco didn’t, but he leaned against the bedpost and crossed his massive arms. Which was code for I’m-not-leaving–until-we-get-this-sorted, although I was damned if I knew what to do about it. Except the obvious, of course.

“This is a hotel, isn’t it?” I asked peevishly. “Tell Casanova to find rooms for them.”

“I tried, but nobody’s seen him all day. And anyway, you know what he’ll say.”

Yes, I did.

If I hadn’t known that Casanova was a vampire, I would have suspected Ferengi. He loved money like no one I’d ever seen, which meant he hated me because I didn’t have any. But I assumed the Pythian Court was better off. It was a three-thousand-year-old institution that people regularly paid for a glimpse into the future, or at least, it had been once. I didn’t know what it did for money now, but it had to have some, right? And either way, we were going to have to work something out, because this was not doable long-term.

“I’ll talk to him,” I promised.

“That should be fun,” Marco said. But I guess it was good enough, because he left.

Fred didn’t.

He pushed the pea thing over at me again. “Eat it. That way I can tell Rhea you had a vegetable.”

“A deep-fried vegetable.”

“The best kind.”

I gave up and ate it. It was okay. Kind of bland.

“Well?” Fred asked curiously.

“I prefer my vegetables in salad form, preferably covered with Ranch dressing,” I told him. “Or Caesar.”

“Caesar’s good,” he agreed, bundling the remains of our feast into the damp bedspread and pulling it off like a bag. “By the way, when’s that Pritkin guy getting back?”

“Why?”

“’Cause having another mage around might help with the girls. They, uh, they don’t seem to like vamps too much.”

“Soon,” I said. Because it was soon or never.

“Good to know.” Fred hoisted his bag like a greasy-faced Kris Kringle. Then he reached over and impulsively messed up my hair. “Get some sleep, Cassie.”

Chapter Six

Get some sleep. Sure. It was what I needed, but the aches and pains in my body and the burn of a wasabi-seared tongue said sleep

wasn’t in my immediate future. So I dragged myself off to get a bath instead.

And dear God, it was worse than I’d thought.

My clothes were stiff with brine, my skin was caked with salt and dust, and then I pulled a dead fish out of my bra. And freaked out and flung the thing into the trash, where it lay, staring back at me out of one fishy eye. I stared back, having one of those moments. You know the ones—where you suddenly get confronted by something so bizarre that makes you reexamine what you’re doing with your life.

I’d had a dead fish in my bra.

I’d had a dead fish in my bra.