“Maybe. Or that may be an old wives’ tale. The jury is still out.”
Apollo, the original source of the Pythian power, was now dead, a casualty of the war that, as far as I could tell, absolutely no one had mourned on either side. But the giant prick had died without leaving an instruction manual on how the Pythian power worked without him, so ever since then, we’d been playing it by ear. Which is why I didn’t know whether my heir still had to remain a virgin, at least until she inherited the position, or not.
But now I had a question.
“Last time we talked about this, you told me she was out of your league,” I reminded him. “That the Lord Commander’s daughter and the poor boy from Napoli shouldn’t mix. What changed?”
“Nothing changed. I will always be the poor boy from Napoli, in here.” He touched his chest, which today was covered by a plain white tee that fit like a glove. Most of my other bodyguards wore suits, except for Marco, who resorted to golf shirts whenever he could get away with it, probably because they fit better over the bulging muscles. But Rico preferred T-shirts and jeans, maybe finding them more comfortable.
Or maybe he just liked the looks it got him, I thought, noticing a couple of the older initiates glancing this way.
“I do not deserve her,” he declared, like a proper romantic hero.
“But?” I said.
“But I am not poor now,” he told me proudly. “I am not as rich as the master—who is? But I have means. I can take care of her. She would want for nothing; I promise you that.”
Looking up into his suddenly passionate face, it occurred to me that I had somehow ended up in the position of guardian, who was hearing a plea from an ardent suitor. I was surprised he hadn’t asked me for my blessing yet, although maybe that was coming. It was disconcerting, to say the least.
“Rico—”
“I know what you will say,” he rushed on. “But you and the master were together for a time; such pairings are not unknown—”
“No,” I said, thinking about Jonas. And wondering what his reaction would be to a vampire boyfriend come calling.
I wanted to be a fly on the wall when that conversation took place.
“Then I have your permission?” Rico asked. “To pursue her?”
I rolled my eyes. I was twenty-freaking-four! He was something like four hundred years old. This was . . . insane.
It also wasn’t up to me.
“That’s Rhea’s call,” I pointed out. “Not mine. I’m not her mother—”
“No, you are her Pythia, and she idolizes you.” He paused for a moment. “That is the right word, no? Idolize?”
“I have no idea.”
“I think it is,” he said, the dark eyes shrewd. “And I do not think Rhea wants to be Pythia. I think that is why she cannot master those spells, when she is so good with many others.”
I leaned back against the hitching post, and watched my heir apparent fly about overhead. It was dark up there; she might not realize that Rico had landed. She seemed to be looking for him.
Or maybe she just liked being above it all for a while, away from the problems and responsibilities down here.
I could relate.
“Do you think that?” I asked him. “Or do you just want it to be true?”
“Can you think of another reason?” he demanded. “She is an excellent witch, no? Powerful.” He looked up, and there was pride on his face. “There is nothing that she wants to do that she cannot do. Except this.”
“If that were true, she could just quit,” I pointed out. I wasn’t running a prison here. The little girls had to remain at court until they were old enough to control their gift—and anyone who would try to exploit it. But the older ones could leave and usually did so, to get married, to get a career—a powerful Seer was a valuable asset to a number of businesses—or to just live life on their terms.
Rhea could leave any time she wanted.
But Rico was shaking his head.
“That is what I am telling you. She won’t quit, not for love of the job, but for love of you. She knows the burden you carry; she will not leave you to manage it alone.”