And yeah. That’s probably how I’d feel in his place. Like I wanted to rip my hands apart, or tear them off my body like the alien things they’d become. The only difference was Jules had vampire strength. He could do it. And sure, they’d eventually grow back, but not all scars heal. Like the memory of clawing off your own flesh, for instance.

“Okay,” I told him, trapping his hands in mine. “Okay. Just . . . give me a second.”

I closed my eyes again, not so much to think, because there was nothing to think about. But to avoid having to meet his. But it didn’t help much since I could still see the afterimages of the hands I’d been staring at so intently.

And in the afterimage, they looked normal, handsome even, with fine bones and elegant lines. They were an artist’s hands, an actor’s hands. Not surprisingly, I guess, since that’s what Jules had been once.

He’d been an aspiring Hollywood up-and-comer sometime in the early days of movies, when Mircea had met him and offered him a different kind of deal. Only it hadn’t turned out as well as Jules had hoped. Maybe because, while he had talent, intellect, and drive, he was also hotheaded, blunt, and had a bad tendency to leap before he looked.

Like Rico had said, he was a terrible diplomat.

Which wouldn’t have been so bad, but Mircea’s family was all about diplomacy. So yeah, for a guy who didn’t have much but his looks left, something like this would hurt. Which probably explained why his hands were suddenly trembling in mine.

Damn it! Pritkin could have handled this in a heartbeat, probably without even breaking a sweat. But thanks to Rosier, he wasn’t here. And I couldn’t very well call Jonas, who would find a bunch of coven witches in my living room and probably burst a gasket. Which would equally probably spark a retaliation, since the coven’s leadership hadn’t exactly impressed me with their restraint so far. And then both sides would call for help and then—

And then we’d all end the night clucking.

“Cassie?” Jules’ voice came again, more timid this time. Like maybe the amount of time my examination was taking had started to worry him.

It had started to worry me, too, because I wasn’t coming up with anything. Well, other than Roger’s old mantra of fake it till you make it. Which might not help matters, but might keep Jules from running amok until I could find something that would.

“Yeah,” I said thoughtfully, stroking the backs of his hands, and trying to channel every doctor I’d ever heard. “Yeah. I thought so.”

“You thought what?”

“You shouldn’t worry,” I told him, opening my eyes and meeting his head-on. “This is no big deal.”

“No big deal?” Jules sounded incredulous.

“Well, sure, it probably doesn’t seem that way to you. But it’s an easy spell. More a prank than anything else. The mages’ kids sometime use it on each other for fun.”

“For—” He broke off with a choked sound. “Mages are crazy.”

“Tell me about it. Look, just take a load off and stay out of sight. I’ll get rid of our guests as soon as I can, and we’ll get you all fixed up. All right?”

He blinked at me through water-beaded lashes, sort of dazed, as if he’d been bracing for a death sentence. But then he nodded, looking a little calmer. And let Rico lead his sopping-wet form out of the shower.

Fred didn’t follow. “Who you want me to call?”

I scowled at him. “How do you know I want you to call anybody?”

He just looked at me.

I sighed. “Central, the Corps’ HQ. Ask for Caleb Carter.”

“Who?”

“One of Pritkin’s friends. You met him that night at the pizza place. Tell him what happened and ask him to get over here.”

Fred sent me a look. “So I guess it’s bad, huh?”

“I don’t know. But Caleb will. And he knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

“So does Pritkin,” Fred pointed out. “Why not just call him?”

“He’s . . . busy.”

“Busy where? We haven’t seen him all week. Some of the guys have been wondering—”

“I didn’t think they’d miss a war mage.”

“Miss might be a little much,” he admitted. “But he’s less of a pain than most, and he brings beer. So where’d he go again?”

“I sent him on an errand.”

“Oh, jeez. Not back to Faerie? Didn’t he almost get killed the last time?”

“He isn’t—” I stopped myself. I wasn’t getting caught up in this. The fewer lies I told, the better.

Unlike Roger, I wasn’t that great with them.

“Look, just get Caleb, okay? Before Jules has a nervous breakdown.” Or I did.

“Too late. He’s Jules. He was born that way.”

“Fred!”

“All right, all right. Relax. Have a bath.” He looked me up and down, and then he smiled slightly. “Or, you know. Another one.”

Chapter Twenty-three

I had the bath. And toweled my hair dry. And put on a T-shirt and jeans, because I was tired and fed up and had done all the pretending I was going to do for one night. Then I went on a witch hunt.

And found them in the lounge playing pool.

Well, two of them. The third was visible through the sliding doors to the living room, which were open again. Maybe because Marco had decided to turn on the charm. Or possibly to get himself a date; the jury was still out.

But he was talking to one of the witches, anyway, who I immediately christened Jasmine, because she looked like the Disney character. You know, if Jasmine had worn Armani and had her hair cut in a short, swingy style that framed her beautiful face. She was as lovely as a vamp, which might explain why Marco was chatting her up over by the bar. I couldn’t tell if he was getting anywhere, because her sultry eyes were half-lidded, and the faint smile on her dark red lips could have been amusement or scorn.

But the other two witches were definitely veering toward amusement.

One was standing on a stool beside the pool table, cue in heavily beringed hands, lining up a shot. The stool was needed because she was maybe four foot eight or nine, if you didn’t count a truly magnificent Afro, which must have added an extra five inches. She was wearing a green silk muumuu, had long nails painted a glittery gold, and had on a bunch of matching gold chains that clinked together as she took the shot. And sank the eight ball, causing her companion to say a bad word.

The tiny witch cackled and got off her stool, reclaiming a beer she’d left on a side table. Her opponent racked up another game, since she’d just lost that one. It didn’t appear to faze her. I had the impression that there wasn’t a lot that did.

She was the one who had attempted to talk to me in the lobby. I was kind of amazed that I’d just blown her off now, since she was maybe six foot two in her hose and easily six-four in the short-heeled black pumps she was wearing. The pumps complemented the rest of the look: hair short and gray, eyes piercing and steel-colored, suit pin-striped and more serviceable than stylish. She didn’t look like a witch. She looked like an aging Valkyrie. And more than a bit like Eugenie, my old governess, which probably explained why my stomach had started to hurt.

Since they weren’t paying me any attention anyway, I went to the kitchen to find something to settle it down. And instead found another witch. At least, I guessed so, although it sort of messed up the Macbeth thing the trio had going on. But I guess you couldn’t stick to that stuff all the time, especially if you thought you might need backup.

Not that she looked likely to provide very much.

She was young, for one thing, maybe five or six years younger than me. Or maybe even that was optimistic, because while the body was that of an adult, she was wearing a long white, high-necked gown that Eugenie would have called “genteel” and I called a nineteenth-century nightgown. It was one of the reasons I’d gone to miniskirts and thigh-high boots as soon as I got away from Tony’s and acquired a paycheck: I’d spent my youth dressed like Wendy Darling.

Eugenie would have liked the girl’s hairstyle, too, which was long and light brown and rippled down her back in a strangely familiar way. I could see it because she partly had her back to me, struggling with something on the counter. I recognized it about the same time I recognized her, or rather, who she reminded me of.

“Agnes?”

The brown head whipped around, but of course it wasn’t her. I hadn’t really thought so, since this chick was an inch or two taller than me, and Agnes had been a tiny little thing. But the overall look was similar, and her face was familiar, although I couldn’t place it. She was also looking a little stressed, which had been Agnes’ default, although it usually took more to get that expression on her face than a misbehaving coffeepot.

“It’s one of those pod things,” I told the girl helpfully.

She didn’t say anything.

“You know, with the little cups?”

She obviously didn’t know. Or maybe she didn’t care. She had turned around, and was plastered against the sink, staring at me blankly out of a pale face and huge brown eyes. I decided there was a chance she didn’t speak English.

“You need a pod,” I repeated, slower, and sketched a pod shape with my fingers.

Nothing.

“Here,” I told her, getting a box of coffee pods out of a cabinet and handing them to her. Or trying to. But she just stayed where she was, flat against the sink, hands gripping the counter and eyes big and freaked-out.

Only no, I realized, she didn’t look freaked-out.

She looked terrified.

I whirled around, box of pods in hand, because you never knew around here. But no one was there. Not even one of the vamps, who tended to have an effect on sensitive-minded guests. But they were obviously traumatizing people elsewhere, because the doorway was empty.

I turned back around, but the horror-movie-victim pose hadn’t changed, and it was starting to freak me out. I slid the pods onto the counter. I grabbed a beer out of the fridge. I backed slowly out of the door.