Tempt the Stars

and a bunch of arm waving.”
    I hoped that arm waving wasn’t of the spell variety. “Is Marco with them?”
    “No, he’s trying to get some sense out of that girl.”
    “What girl?”
    “Rhea something; I didn’t get a last name. You know, the witches brought her.”
    “She’s not another witch?”
    “Yeah, but not a coven leader. Best I could gather, she’s one of your court.”
    “My—” It took me a second. “You mean the Pythian Court?”
    “You got two?”
    “I wasn’t sure I had one. It’s not like they’ve bothered to come by and say hi.”
    “Well, now they have.”
    Yeah, and I guess the outfit should have clued me in. “What does she want?”
    Fred sighed. “I don’t know. But she keeps babbling something about this being all her fault—”
    “What is?”
    “Jules. Oh, not the getting-cursed thing; that’s all on him. But the other. It seems like having one of your coven around increases your power or something—”
    “Wait.” This was going way too fast. “What coven?”
    “Your coven.”
    “Fred,” I said impatiently. “We’ve been through this. I’m not a witch. I don’t have—”
    “Well, according to her, you do. That’s what the Pythian Court is—the Pythia’s coven. And coven members give their leader a power boost. It’s sort of the reason they exist,” he added when I just looked at him. “For a bunch of magic workers to pool their power. You know?”
    Yeah, I just hadn’t known it applied to me. But that’s the sort of information that might have been useful, oh, a few hundred times. I frowned.
    “I don’t feel like I’ve had a boost.”
    “Maybe not now. But I think she’s saying that you wouldn’t have, er, overshot the mark with Jules if she hadn’t been here. And given you a lift you didn’t expect.”
    I took a second to absorb that. “And she didn’t bother to mention this before?”
    “She said she thought you knew. And I think she was waiting for the witches to leave before talking to you. I got the impression they didn’t get along that great.”
    “Why was she with them, then?”
    Fred didn’t say anything.
    “Fred?”
    “Maybe you want to wait and ask her—”
    “I asked you.”
    He sighed again. “She said she fled to the covens for protection. Seems there’s some kind of problem with your court. She wouldn’t say what, won’t talk to anybody but you, but she found out and went to the witches.”
    “And they decided to drop her on my doorstep.”
    “Pretty much. I got the idea they think she’s a nut, but they wanted to get a look at you anyway, and she was a good excuse. And she’s . . . well, maybe you’ll have more luck with her.”
    Great. “Luck” in my life now meant finding out about some new problem I was going to have to deal with. When it already felt like I had plenty on my plate, thanks.
    But one thing the whole situation with Mircea had taught me: putting stuff off rarely made it easier.
    “Come on,” I said, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, because at least the room had finally calmed down. “Let’s go find out—”
    Somebody started screaming.
    I closed my eyes.
    Of course.
    It turned out to be Jules, standing in front of the balcony, a double shot of whiskey in hand, exercising his newly human vocal cords. But I didn’t think the transformation was to blame. At least, not entirely.
    “Get back in the bedroom until we deal with this!” Marco ordered, as soon as I came out of the hall.
    I didn’t answer, being too busy staring at the huge, gaping hole that had opened up in the far wall. The one with the fiery red edges and the disturbing sounds and the swirly black heart and the wind strong enough to flutter my hair. It looked like Casanova had been right, I thought blankly.
    You knew it when you saw it.
    “Cassie!” Marco snapped. “Get out of here!
    “I can’t.”
    “Why not?” he demanded.
    “Because . . . I think that’s for me.”
    He looked at me incredulously. “What?”
    “I kind of have an appointment.”
    “With who? Lucifer?”
    “Hope not,” I muttered, and took a single step forward.
    And stopped. Because, for the first time ever, I saw Marco do the unthinkable. And throw one of his highly illegal and ridiculously expensive Cohiba cigars in the trash.
    “Get back. In the bedroom. Now.”
    I stood there for a second, debating. But not because I was intimidated. The worst Marco would do was to throw me over a burly shoulder and cart me off.