Reap the Wind (Cassandra Palmer 7)

But they weren’t screaming. They weren’t saying anything, after those first, startled cries. Just like they hadn’t last night, even with a house coming down around their ears. But they were pale, and some of the littlest had their faces buried in the nightgowns of the older girls. And I felt my skin prickle with something I didn’t try to define as I whirled around, meeting Marco coming out of the hall.

“Are they . . .” He stopped short at the sight of them, looking relieved.

“Barely!” My voice was shaking. “Who the hell—”

“A half-wit. But he said he saw something—”

“Saw something where?”

“In the mirror.”

Anywhere else that would sound really strange. But this was Dante’s, which redefined normal on a regular basis. And while I hadn’t seen anything, I had sure as hell heard.

“Cassie!” That was Fred’s voice, raised to carry. I grabbed the robe and slippers a vamp was holding out and shrugged into them on my way to the kitchen.

And found Fred just standing there, staring

at the side of our brand-new fridge. The last one had had an accident, and been replaced with a shiny new stainless steel model. It was usually pretty boring, since none of the kitschy Dante’s magnets they sold downstairs would stick to it. It was a lot more interesting now.

Because there was a man peering out of it.

A man with watery blue eyes, cheeks pinker than mine, and fluffy white eyebrows. Really fluffy, like tiny sea anemones had somehow managed to attach themselves to his face. And a mass of white hair that wafted about like a merman’s in the air currents of the room behind him—a room that didn’t form any part of my suite.

And despite the fact that I’d expected it, despite the fact that there weren’t a handful of people in the world who could bypass the wards on this place and pull something like this, I still stared at him in disbelief.

“Jonas?”

“Cassie. I do apologize for the inconvenience—”

“Inconvenience?”

“I did try calling the usual way,” he said, and actually sounded annoyed. Like this was all my fault somehow. “But your . . . associates . . . continued to insist that you were away—”

“I was away!”

“Yes, and we need to talk about that—”

“We need to talk about this!” I told him, throwing out an arm. “You almost got my court killed!”

Vague blue eyes suddenly sharpened. Jonas liked to play the doddering old man when he thought it would get him anywhere, but I knew him a little too well for that now. And it seemed that he wasn’t in the mood anyway.

“I did nothing of the kind. Your vampires overreacted—”

“Something war mages never do,” Marco said heavily, coming up behind me.

“—which should not be surprising considering that they were trained as a vampire’s bodyguards—”

“Like Lord Mircea needs the help.”

“—and to guard his home, not the Pythian Court. They have no experience—”

Marco snorted. “’Cause the mages guarding the court in London did such a great job.”

“Will you please tell your servant to stay out of this?” Jonas asked me sharply.

“Marco isn’t my servant. And he belongs here!”

“Yes. But you do not. Members of the Corps are on their way to move you and your court to—”