“Antiglamourie charms,” Jack murmured, watching me with amusement.
Great. And the green velvet did not, as I’d hoped, look black in the low lights. I tried pulling up the too-low top, but that merely raised the skirt to indecent levels, so I stopped. “Anything else I should know about?” I demanded.
“Almost certainly,” he said cheerfully.
I shot him a look, which did no good at all, and headed down a corridor. It let out onto a vast foyer with a sweeping staircase, heavy with aged wood and hushed elegance. And another half dozen guards.
That was a problem, because a couple of these guards I knew. Tall, blond and impassive, they were like perfectly matched bookends, right down to the sleek black tuxes and eerie golden eyes. I ducked behind a porphyry vase taller than I was and silently cursed.
No wonder Jack had let me in so easily; he knew I wouldn’t get ten yards. And he was right, damn it. There was no way they weren’t going to recognize me. Those two had been assigned to my bodyguard detail until this little shindig took precedence, and ancient eyes didn’t miss much. Even worse, the staircase ended not two yards away from them, meaning I couldn’t even try to find another entrance without being nabbed.
I was about to double back and see if there was another exit through the kitchen when the front door burst open, letting in a swirl of rain and a couple of glittering corpses. They must have been important, because half the guards jumped to greet them and the rest were staring like starstruck teenagers.
No one was looking at me, so I went forward with the rest, hoping to edge around to the ballroom while the Amazon who had just come in provided a distraction. Easily seven feet tall, the voluptuous redhead was gleaming in a silver sheath and enough mink to send PETA into paroxysms.
Or at least she was before she shrugged it off and tossed it over my head.
“Meercha! I vant Meercha. Vere is dat beautiful scoundrel?” she demanded.
“In the ballroom, my lady,” someone murmured. Or maybe they said it normally; I couldn’t tell. The damn coat was heavy enough that I almost went down, and left me as little more than a mink-covered lump.
“Lyubov Oksinia Donskoi is a grand duchess; her correct title is Illustrious Highness,” the small, bald man said diffidently, as I fought my way free.
“My apologies,” the guard said, only to be bopped on the head with a jeweled fan.
“Vell? Vat are you vaiting for?”
“My lady? I mean, Your Illustrious . . . ness?” he guessed.
The bald man nodded slightly, but his companion didn’t look like she gave a damn. She raised long, white- gloveclad arms, like an opera star about to sing an aria, showing off breasts like the prow of a ship and enough diamonds to make a person wince. “Tell heem to come greet his Lyubochka!”
The guard just stared for a moment, looking suitably dazzled. Then he swallowed and manned up. “I would, but . . . but he is with the Pythia at the moment, madam.”
“Ze Pythia?” Carmine lips pursed. “Vat is dees?”
“The new seer,” the bald man said. “You remember, Lyly—the coronation?” She looked blank. “The reason we’re here?”
“I am heer to see Meercha.” Slanted hazel eyes looked down at the guard, which appeared to make him nervous. He was over six feet tall, so I suppose he wasn’t used to it. “Do you not know vere your master ees?”
“The ballroom, Your Illustriousness,” he repeated, starting to look worried.
“Zen eef you know vere he is, vhy are you standing here?” She gave him a playful smack on the arm that sent him staggering.
“Yes, my—your . . . Right away.”
The vamp scurried off and I scurried after him, trailing about a hundred pounds of mink. And neither of the guards gave me so much as a first glance, much less a second. Then I entered the ballroom and stopped worrying about the vampires behind me. I was more concerned by the one who lay ahead.
I spotted him almost at once. He stood in the middle of a cluster of people, near the patent leather shine of a piano, looking like something out of a ’40s movie. Tall, dark and handsome, he was the perfect foil for the blond perfection on his arm. Every hair in his companion’s upswept chignon was in place, except for the ones artfully arranged to curl around her ears. The low-cut, midnight blue evening gown she wore was likewise flawless, somehow managing to hug every curve without being vulgar.
She looked too good, I decided.
No way was anyone going to believe that was me.
“Zat?” I jumped at the sound of a booming voice right behind me. I turned to find the principessa or serinissima or whatever the hell her title was standing less than a yard away, checking out my doppelgänger through a pair of specs on a stick. “
The little man at her side said something I couldn’t hear over the conversation and music and sounds of people stuffing themselves. But it didn’t seem to sit well with Lyly. “Common,” she announced in a tone that said it ended the matter.
And was about as loud as the announcer at a football game.
Not surprisingly, everyone in the vicinity stopped to stare at us—including Mircea, whose eyes slid off Lyly and latched onto me before I could bolt. They narrowed and his lips tightened, which for him was the equivalent of a hissy fit. Then just as quickly the expression blanked and he turned back to his date, laughing with her about something.
And then I didn’t see any more because I was being propelled out of the room by another vamp wearing a tux and a scowl.
Kit Marlowe was the Senate’s chief spy. He was known for laughing dark eyes, messy brown curls and an easy smile—and a reputation at odds with all of them. Most of the time, I found it difficult to see the dangerous vamp everyone swore was under the handsome exterior.
I wasn’t having that problem tonight.
“I want to talk to Mircea,” I told him, as I was hustled toward the back.
“You are talking to him,” he said, his voice clipped. “And it might look a little odd, don’t you think, if he suddenly left the side of the Pythia-elect to chat with a servant girl?”
“She isn’t the Pythia. She’s a sitting goose who’s about to be cooked. There’s going to be an attack, Marlowe!”
“Very probably.”
I dug in my heels, trying to slow him down, which didn’t help a lot on the highly polished floor. I don’t even think he noticed. “If you’re so certain, why the hell are you doing this?”
“Because it’s tradition. Because the damn mages insisted. Because no one is going to sign the infernal alliance without at least meeting the new Pythia.”
“And if she gets killed, are they going to sign then?” I demanded, as Jack thoughtfully opened the back door.
“No one is going to be killed tonight, I assure you. We’ve taken precautions. It’s perfectly safe.”
“If it’s so safe, why can’t I stay?”
“Because you’re tired and you want to go back to the hotel,” he said with enough power behind the suggestion to leave me light-headed.
“That doesn’t work on me!” I told him furiously.
“Then how about this?” he asked. And for the second time that night, the door was slammed in my face.
“Marlowe!”
After a moment, when it became obvious that he wasn’t joking, I sat down on the steps. They were cold and clammy, like the mist that surrounded the house. It was August, but this high in the mountains, summer was just a concept.
I glared at the thin veil of stars overhead and a spattering of rain hit me square in the face. I didn’t bother to wipe it off. It fit my mood.
Was this what it was going to be like? Locked out or locked up? My whole life spent spewing out predictions, with no say in how they were used or even if they were?
It sounded like Tony’s all over again. It
