“Fred?” I looked at Mousy, because no way was the brunet a Fred. He smiled weakly.
“I get that a lot,” he said. “I’m thinking of changing it. What do you think about André?”
I thought I’d never seen anyone who looked less like an André.
“So Marco’s afraid of the paparazzi?” I asked skeptically.
“More the other way around.” Rico grinned.
“He threatened to do something anatomically impossible to one of their men,” Fred told me.
“Not impossible,” Rico blew out a thoughtful breath. “The camera could be made to fit, although the case —”
“What about the tripod?”
“I don’t think he was serious about the tripod.”
“The paparazzi aren’t the issue,” Jules interrupted, shooting them a look. “But if they’ve managed to figure out that Marco’s your bodyguard, more dangerous types could have done the same. He couldn’t risk leading anyone to you, so he sent us.”
“To do what?” I asked, pretty sure I already knew.
“You want it verbatim?”
“Minus the profanity.”
Sculpted lips pursed. “Well, that would shorten it a bit.”
“What. Did. He. Say?”
“To paraphrase? ‘Let her finish her pizza and then drag her back here. By the hair, if necessary.’”
“Doesn’t he get it?” I demanded. “That’s the kind of attitude that forced me to leave in the first place!”
“Oh, he gets it,” Rico said. “He just doesn’t want it.”
“I don’t give a damn what he wants! He has to understand—”
“He understands that you’re twenty-four,” Jules told me, swiping his cigarette case back from his friend.
“What’s wrong with being twenty-four?”
“Nothing. Unless you’re dealing with a guy who’s well over a thousand.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Marco,” he confirmed, tapping a cigarette on top of the case. “Saw the fall of Rome, or so they say.”
“The fall of—” I stopped and stared. “Gladiators, Colosseum, guys in leather miniskirts—
“That would be the one.”
“I wouldn’t mention the miniskirts,” Rico advised. “Marco used to be in the army.”
“Have to wonder how anyone took them seriously,” Jules said.
“I think if you laughed, they cut your balls off.”
Jules paused, halfway through lighting his cigarette, the flame dancing in wide blue eyes. “That would do it.”
“But . . . but why is he working for Mircea?” I asked. Vamps that old were Senate members or headed up powerful courts. They didn’t work for masters a third their age.
Jules shrugged. “You’d have to ask him; I was always afraid to. But you can see why he doesn’t react well when someone he considers a child—”
“A fetus,” Rico put in.
“—ignores an order.”
“An order he had no right to give!” I said heatedly.
“Technically, the master gave it—”
“Who also has no right to order me around!”
“I like this one,” Rico said. “Feisty.”
I shot him a glare, which had no effect, except to widen his smile.
“I guess Marco figures, if he still has to take orders after all this time, why not you?” Fred asked.
“Because I’m Pythia,” I said, striving for patience.
He blinked at me, obviously confused. “And?”
I threw my hands up.
Jules frowned at him, but not on my account. “Stop it.”
“It’s driving me nuts,” the little vamp said, tugging at the polyester monstrosity around his neck.
“You’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t want to get used to it. And why do I have to wear a tie, anyway? Rico doesn’t,” he looked pointedly at the brunet.
“Rico is a law unto himself,” Jules said drily.
“Well, I’m not used to this.”
“What are you used to?” I asked, wondering where a guy like Fred fit into Mircea’s somewhat more . . . glossy . . . family.
“I just wear clothes, you know?” he said, pushing wispy brown hair out of his eyes. “I mean, nobody cares what an accountant looks like, as long as the books balance. Not that we use books anymore, but you know what I—”
“You’re an accountant?” Pritkin asked sharply.
Fred jumped and then regarded Pritkin warily. “Why shouldn’t I be an accountant?”
“Because you’re supposed to be a bodyguard!”
“Well, I am.” Pale gray eyes shifted. “I mean, I am at the moment. I mean—”
“He means that it’s none of your business,” Jules interjected.
“Well, it is mine,” I pointed out. “What is he doing here?”
I didn’t get an answer because Rico’s head snapped up. He didn’t move otherwise or even tense, as far as I could tell, but there was suddenly something dangerous about him.
Pritkin must have thought so, too, because his expression tightened. “Accountant?”
“Never said I was,” Rico said, his eyes on the empty street.
“Then what are you?”
“You could say I’m on the troubleshooting squad.”
“Troubleshooting?”
He put a hand on the back of his waistband. “I see trouble, and I shoot it.”
“Well, don’t shoot them,” Jules said irritably. “We have enough problems.”
“Shoot who?” I asked.
“Circle,” Rico told me, to the accompaniment of a car screeching around the corner and into the lot.
It was actually a limo, the kind that carted high rollers, honeymooners and anybody with a wad of cash all over Vegas. They were almost as ubiquitous as taxis, and often used back streets like this one as a way of avoiding clogged thoroughfares. But the ten or more grim-faced people piling out were too muffled up and too bulging with concealed weapons to be anything but the Circle’s favorite sons.
“Aren’t we supposed to be past this?” I asked Pritkin, as a familiar six foot five inches of pissed-off war mage got out of the limo and strode across the lot. The imposing mountain of muscle in the long leather trench had coffee-colored skin, a military-style buzz cut and a handsome face—when he wasn’t looking like he’d like to rip someone else’s off.
This wasn’t one of those times.
“What the hell?” he demanded in his deep voice, before he’d even reached us.
“Hi, Caleb,” I said, resigned.
“I was asked to get her out; I got her out,” Pritkin said obscurely.
“You were told to bring her in!”
“Bring me in where?” I asked.
“HQ,” Pritkin said. “After Jonas found out about this latest attack, he insisted—”
“And instead, you bring her here!” Caleb gestured sharply. “Middle of goddamned Vegas in the middle of the goddamned night—”
“She’s perfectly safe—”
“—with one fucking bodyguard—”
“What do we look like?” Jules demanded.
