straight back home. People in actual prison probably have more human contact than I did.”
“But you had a roommate,” Pritkin said.
“That was later. After I started going places again, meeting people . . . after I figured it out.”
“Figured what out?”
“That this was my life now. And that I could let some bastard decide how I was going to live it, let fear decide or I could decide. And I decided; I wasn’t going to give Tony that kind of power. I wasn’t going to give him any more of my life.”
“You just woke up one day and stopped being afraid.” Pritkin’s expression hadn’t changed, but for some reason, he sounded almost angry.
I flashed on my performance a day ago, slumped in a sniveling heap on the bathroom floor, and grimaced. “No. I mean, you don’t, do you? At least, I never have. And I kind of think it would have happened by now if it was going to.”
“Then what do you do?” He’d leaned over the table, close enough for me to map the ring of jade around each iris, and the pale amber-green layer that darkened to golden brown around the pupils. There were striations, spokes of gold, and specks of brown and emerald, all of which blended to just green at any distance at all.
“You go on, anyway,” I said, after a pause. “And, yes, you’re scared sometimes. But it’s better than being scared all the time. Better than letting your life be about fear and nothing else. So, no, I’m not going to let them shut me away ‘for my own good.’ I’ll take precautions, as many as I can. But I’m going to live.”
Pritkin ran a hand through his hair. “Yes,” he said brusquely. “You are.”
Chapter Twenty-three
We walked out a few minutes later to find a trio of vamps loitering in the parking lot, next to a shiny black SUV. Pritkin swore, but I wasn’t exactly surprised. I had at least three trace spells on me that I knew about, and two of them were the Senate’s. The point of leaving hadn’t been to get away; it had been . . . well, to make a point.
Which I obviously hadn’t done, or they wouldn’t be here.
It was late or, to be more accurate, really early, and the lot was dark. A lone streetlamp leaked a watery yellow puddle in one corner, illuminating cracked pavement and a sagging chain-link fence. But alongside the building, most of the light came from the flickering sign outside the diner. It cast a ruddy tint across the vamps’ faces, enough for me to see that they weren’t looking too happy.
That was especially true when Pritkin strode over and grabbed one of them by the collar. It was the good- looking blond who had complained about the phone. I guess babysitting me was his penance.
Or maybe that was being slammed against the side of their SUV.
“Are you trying to get her killed?” Pritkin snarled, about the time a brunet got him in a choke hold.
“Break his and I break yours,” the brunet said matterof-factly. “And I know who’s gonna recover first.”
Instead of answering, Pritkin pulsed out a small section of his shield. It was only a vague blue iridescence against the night, as filmy and insubstantial-looking as a soap bubble. But the brunet’s arm flew off his neck like he was giving a salute.
The blond didn’t struggle; his expression clearly said it was beneath him. He looked at me, past Pritkin’s shoulder. “Would you call off your pit bull? Please? I just bought this suit.”
“And they’ll bury you in it if you don’t answer me!” Pritkin told him harshly.
“Too late,” the vamp said, baring glistening white fangs.
“Stop it!” I said. “Pritkin, they’re just standing there.”
“And putting a neon sign over your head in the process!”
I didn’t understand that, but apparently the blond did. “What do you take us for?” he sneered. “Amateurs?”
“Well, technically, I am,” a mousy little vamp said. He was perched on the hood of the SUV, feet drawn up, watching the scene with big eyes.
Everybody ignored him. He kind of looked like he’d expected it.
“Bite me!”
Pritkin didn’t seem to like that answer, judging by the way the blond’s eyes suddenly bulged. He rotated them at his buddy. “Are you just going to stand there?”
“What do you want me to do?” the brunet asked in Italian.
“Shoot him!”
A muscular shoulder rose in a shrug. “Won’t get through the shield.”
“Then help me drain him!”
“Girl might object.”
“Yes, the girl might!” I said in the same language.
The dark-haired vamp looked mildly surprised. “Your Italian is not so bad.”
“I grew up at Tony’s court,” I reminded him.
He grinned, a sudden flash of white in a handsome olive face. “That would explain the accent.”
Pritkin was starting to look apoplectic, which experience had taught me usually precipitated pain for someone. “Would you please answer him?” I asked.
The vamp stole a cigarette from the blond, who was in no position to object, and took his time lighting up. He was tall, with black hair cut short to minimize a tendency to curl, judging by a few at his neck. That wasn’t so odd —a lot of the younger vamps wore their hair short, including plenty of those who belonged to Mircea. But they didn’t also have five o’clock shadow or a tribal tat decorating one bicep, or dress in jeans and tight black muscle shirts.
“We’re new—we flew in last night,” he finally said, taking a drag. He blew out a breath and regarded Pritkin through the smoke. “Mage, why would anyone follow us when they don’t know who we are?”
Pritkin thought about that for a beat and then finally released the blond. The vamp took his time straightening up, brushing out the wrinkles in his silver-gray suit. Then he looked at me. “You need him on a leash,” he said viciously.
“Would somebody please explain what is going on?” I asked.
“What is going on is that your safety depends on no one knowing where you are,” Pritkin told me, still glaring at the vamps. “And considering how we departed, no one should. We exited directly into a ley line, under cover of the hotel’s wards, and didn’t leave it until halfway across the city. No one saw us—a fact that does little good if someone leads your enemies straight to you!”
“Well, we didn’t,” the blond snapped, rubbing his neck under the pretense of adjusting a rumpled burgundy tie.
“That’s why Marco couldn’t come after you himself,” the brunet informed me, leaning back against the SUV.
“What is?” I asked.
The cigarette glowed against the night as he waved a negligent hand. “The paparazzi have marked him. He was waylaid outside the hotel a couple of days ago by a mob shouting questions, wanting photos. . . .”
“Of him?”
“Of you. You’re front-page news. Haven’t you seen the papers?”
“Not recently.” And considering what they’d been printing the last time I did look, that was probably for the best. “But I haven’t seen any reporters—”
“They’re not allowed in the hotel.”
“And you don’t exactly use the front door,” the blond added. “I’m Jules, by the way.” He extended a slim hand, which I took after a brief hesitation. If they intended to stuff me into the SUV, they could do it whether I cooperated or not. “And this is Rico and Fred.”
