An eyebrow rose. And damn it! Everybody could do that but me.
“No,” Pritkin told me. “They’re in deliberations. They didn’t seem to feel they needed me for that.”
“Oh.” I sat back, waking the rest of the way up. And checking him over.
He looked okay. Well, actually that was a lie. “Okay” was a relative term considering where we were, and encompassed a lot of things. But he didn’t look any more beat up.
Unfortunately, that was about the only plus.
He hadn’t found any extra clothes to go with the dirty jeans, which were now also cut in several places, and scorched down one side, probably the result of the near miss on the rooftop. His hair, always terrible, was now extra Pritkin-y, meaning it would have put any self-respecting stylist on suicide watch. Although it matched his face, which was a stubbly mess, and his left eye, which was black and swollen, and his right arm, which was in a sling, and his ribs—
“You wouldn’t even get in the door at Rosier’s looking like that,” I told him, after a minute.
His lips pursed. “Should I worry that you sound pleased?”
“I do not!” That was ridiculous. “And I meant you look terrible.”
“Would you like a mirror?” he asked sweetly.
“No.”
I glanced around. We were still on the sofa, only someone had added a rattan privacy screen on one side, shielding us from the view of the rest of the lobby. That seemed to happen to me a lot.
I guess even hell has some standards.
Although Caleb, at least, was doing earth proud. He was standing by a pillar, arms crossed, eyes watchful, face back to its usual fuck-with-me-and-die expression, maybe kicked up an extra notch or two because of where we were. His knee-length leather duster was likewise looking sharp. Of course, it was war mage issue, meaning that it was less a coat than self-healing armor, knitting up any little boo-boos almost as soon as they happened. I suspected it might be self-cleaning, too, because he was suspiciously lacking in dirt.
Casanova, on the other, other hand, was bringing our average back down again, although less because of looks than attitude. He was still sprawled on the couch on my other side, and he must have finished off the bottle he was still clutching. Because his handsome face was pasty and crumpled, like his once-nice suit. And his eyes kept darting around the lobby blearily, as if trying to see through the bland beige glamourie.
Altogether, we were a sorry lot, and then my stomach growled plaintively. “Have I been out long?” I asked, tucking a limp strand of hair behind my ear. And wincing, because even that hurt.
“A few hours,” Pritkin told me. “You weren’t unconscious, just exhausted. We thought it best to let you sleep. It’ll likely be hours yet before we hear anything.”
I digested that. And, unfortunately, nothing else. My stomach spoke up again, more forcefully.
“Does this place have a coffee shop?”
“No,” he said, getting up, and grimacing. I guess I wasn’t the only stiff one. “But there’s a food cart next door. If I remember right, it’s one of the safe ones.”
“Safe?” Caleb frowned, like that word didn’t compute around here. “Am I misremembering the bunch of guys who just tried to kill us?”
“That was before we reached the council,” Pritkin said, and stretched, cracking his back. I tried that, too, because it sounded like it would feel awesome, but I was too bendy. I just flopped over. So I pretended to be touching my toes since I was already down there.
And, God, my toes. And the rest of my poor feet. Filthy, pedicure gone, cut and bruised and traces of hell gunk between the toes.
And after everything, the running and the fighting and the almost dying . . . that was what did it.
That was what finally had me tearing up.
Until a pair of honest-to-God flip-flops were dangled in front of my face.
I looked up. “How—”
“Shop around the corner,” Pritkin told me, about the time that I noticed his nice, clean, flip-flop-clad feet.
“You got a bath!” I accused, staring at them.
“Sponge.” He nodded at a discreet sign on a nearby wall. Which had an arrow pointing down a hall and a curly script that read Bathrooms.
And I realized that I had something else to take care of. “Be right back,” I told him, grabbing the shoes.
“Wait.” That was Caleb, staring at the sign suspiciously. “How do we know what’s in there?”
“What?”
“There’s a toilet in there,” Pritkin told him, looking vaguely amused. “Many of the demon races have bodies, you know.”
“And what if one of those bodies attacks her?” Caleb demanded. “Or some spirit does?” He glanced around unhappily. “This place is crawling with threats.”
“Not for us. Once the trial started, we came under the council’s protection. And I believe you remember their security staff?”
Caleb scowled, but he didn’t seem satisfied. “I’m going with her,” he announced forcefully.
“You are not,” I told him, equally forcefully.
His eyes narrowed. “Then John goes. I don’t care which of us it is, but you go nowhere by yourself. Not here.”
“I just told you we’re under protection,” Pritkin said, looking at his friend impatiently.
“Yeah, the council’s protection. Why doesn’t that make me feel better?”
“It should. Nobody is going to test them, particularly not in their own building. Cassie will be perfectly safe.”
Caleb hiked up one of the straps holding some of the eighty pounds or so of weapons he was carrying. “I know she will. Because she’ll be with me.”
“This is ridiculous,” I told him.
“I’ll stay outside the stall—”
“You’ll stay here!”
“This is not up for discussion.”
“I agree.”
Caleb crossed his arms and glared at me. I glared back. Something squelched between my toes, which grossed me out and pissed me off in about equal measures, because I should be washing it away by now.
“This place isn’t as dangerous as you seem to think,” Pritkin told Caleb, trying again.
Caleb transferred the glare to him. “Did you get hit over the head?”
“Yes, several times—”
“Thought so.”
“—but that doesn’t change the facts. The Shadowland exists for trade. The proprietors have a vested interest in keeping some kind of order—”
“Yeah. I’ve felt really secure so far!”
“Most people are not being chased by an irate demon lord when they come here,” Pritkin said dryly. “The council finds it a useful meeting place because of its being neutral ground. But they’re a very small part of local life. I am not saying the place is without its dangers, but they can be navigated, even by humans. Mages come here fairly often to buy potion supplies, for example—”
“No sane ones!”
“Jonas gets most of his here—”
“You’re not helping your case,” Caleb muttered.
“—and Cassie is easily more powerful than him. If Jonas can navigate these streets on a semiregular basis, bargain for supplies, and get back out again safely, I think she can manage to go to the bathroom by herself!”
For some reason, Caleb was looking at him as if he’d lost his mind. His voice sounded like it, too. “Cassie is more powerful than Jonas,” he repeated.
Pritkin frowned. “Of course. She’s Pythia.”
“She’s—” Caleb seemed momentarily at a loss for words, so I seized the opportunity.
“I couldn’t shift before, because Mother was rerouting most of my power for . . . well, whatever she did in there. But I feel better now—”
“Yeah, you look it!”
“I didn’t say I’m a hundred percent,” I told him impatiently. “But I can defend myself—”
“Good. But it’s my job to see that you don’t have to.”
“If Agnes had told you to stay here, you’d stay here,” I said angrily.
“Lady Phemonoe wouldn’t be here! She’d be at court, surrounded by a crack security team! Meeting with dignitaries and mediating disputes and—and doing anything but running around almost getting herself blown up!”
“Did you ever meet Agnes?” I asked, but Caleb wasn’t listening.
“Did you see her today?” he asked John. “Those witches were right; she doesn’t even have shields, and I couldn’t reach her and all she had for protection was a damned vampire—”
“Hey, fuc’ you, too, buddy,” Casanova slurred, from behind us.
“—and she almost got killed! I almost let her get—” Caleb broke off, fuming.
“You didn’t let me do anything,” I told him. “We got in trouble, but it wasn’t your fault—”
“I can see me explaining that to the old man,” Caleb snapped. “See, sir, she ended up incinerated, but it wasn’t my fault!”
“It wasn’t! I wanted to come here—”
“Yeah, and I should have had the sense to say no. Just like I should have the other day!”
“You should have said no?” I repeated. “I thought war mages did what the Pythia wanted.”
“Pythias don’t want this!” Caleb said, suddenly furious. “Pythias don’t do this! They don’t invade hell and fight demons and battle gods—”
“They also didn’t live in these times,” Pritkin said, cutting in. “They didn’t have to face anything remotely like this. Do you think Lady Phemonoe could have done what Cassie did today? What she did yesterday? Do you think she would have dared?”
“I think she’d have found another way!” Caleb said, like a man who had been standing by that pillar for the last two hours, thinking. And coming to the conclusion that maybe Casanova’s drunken ramblings hadn’t been so far off the mark. And panicking, after all, because he’d had all this dumped in his lap at one time, literally overnight. And he didn’t know what to do with it.