Tempt the Stars

when one had no weapons, and the other . . . Well, at least he wasn’t reaching for any.
    Yet.
    “This is what you’ve been working on for the Circle, isn’t it?” Pritkin demanded, not helping matters.
    “I’m retired,” Roger said mildly, but failed to offer him any tea.
    I passed over my mug. It didn’t have milk, because I am a barbarian. But Pritkin took it anyway. He didn’t drink it, though, being too busy staring Roger down. Which would have worked better if the man hadn’t had his long nose stuck in the cookie tin.
    “And yet you have at least three of these things, perhaps more!” Pritkin rasped. “For what purpose?”
    “For whatever purpose I choose, war mage.”
    “For security,” I said quickly, because Pritkin’s pale face had just flushed purple. And because it was true.
    I didn’t need to be told that much. My parents had been hiding with Tony the bastard because, believe it or not, there were worse things out there. Like a bunch of leftover demigods from antiquity with long lives and longer grudges. The Spartoi had been the children of Ares, left behind when the gods were kicked off earth due to their mixed blood giving them a foothold here. They’d used it to do their father’s bidding, which was to hunt down and destroy the person responsible for his exile.
    My mother.
    They’d failed, but not before giving it the old Olympus try. And right now Mom and her strange protector didn’t realize that Tony the petty and rotund would one day be a lot more of a problem for them than any ancient half gods. All they knew was that her power had diminished considerably over the years, and that they needed a hideout no one would expect.
    Roger was looking at me, as if he knew what I was thinking. Not too hard, since we’d battled the Spartoi together once. Well, sort of.
    We’d mostly run away together.
    “What kind of security?” Pritkin demanded. “If you’re telling the truth, they’re nothing but ghosts—”
    “You think spirits are not powerful?” Roger asked archly. “You of all people should know better.”
    “And why would that be?” Pritkin asked silkily. There weren’t too many people who could guess what he was, especially after half an hour’s acquaintance. But Roger merely smirked at him.
    Okay, this was going well. “I still don’t get how you made them,” I said quickly.
    “The same way war mages make golems,” Roger told me.
    “They’re nothing alike!” Pritkin said. And he should know. He’d had a golem once.
    “Well, yes, there is the matter that your lot forces demons to power your constructs,” Roger agreed. “While my associates do it of their own free will. But other than—”
    “Golems are
controlled
—”
    “A nicer word than enslaved.”
    “—so they are not free to wreak havoc—”
    “Until they get loose and eat your face,” Roger said dryly.
    “—unlike that thing tonight! It might have killed us!”
    “With what? She wasn’t armed.”
    “It did a good enough job without—” Pritkin stopped. “She?”
    “Her name’s Daisy,” I informed him.
    Pritkin’s mouth had been open for another retort, but at that he shut it. His eyes slid over to Roger and then back to me, as if he was trying to see the resemblance. I could feel my face heating; I didn’t know why. I damned sure didn’t see any myself.
    Roger Palmer was a tall, lanky guy, a bit on the thin side, with a face, nose, and teeth that were all slightly too long. It gave him a horsey appearance, which wasn’t helped by a shock of dishwater blond hair that liked to flop in his pale blue eyes. He was dressed in an old brown suit and a tan cardigan that had started to pill. He had on threadbare purple velvet slippers, since I guess the Wellies he’d worn to tromp through the forest had needed cleaning. He didn’t look like a dangerous dark mage, despite that being the story I kept hearing. And he certainly didn’t look like somebody who ought to be married to a goddess.
    But then, I didn’t look much like a Pythia, either, so looks could be deceiving. I just didn’t know if they were in his case. I also didn’t know if he was provoking Pritkin when he was already in a mood because he thought he could handle him, or if he merely didn’t notice.
    Judging by his reaction, I don’t think Pritkin knew, either.
    “But ghosts can’t power anything,” I repeated, before they started up again. “Most of them barely manage to take care of