But to me they’d been brave and resourceful and innocent, and they’d deserved better. They’d deserved a lot better, and I should have been able to give it to them. But I couldn’t and I didn’t even know why, might never know why, and I hated this job, hated having so much responsibility—for people’s lives—and never enough power or strength to go with it.
“Show me! You can’t just say no and that’s it. I’m not your slave!”
The words echoed off the tile box of a bathroom, because I hadn’t bothered to whisper that time. But it didn’t matter. The answer was the same.
“Goddamn it!” I yelled, and threw a slipper at the door, because it was the only thing I could reach.
And had it caught by a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt.
I couldn’t see anything but the hand and part of an arm, because the rest of the body was still outside. But I didn’t need to. It looked like Lou Ferrigno and Arnold Schwarzenegger had had a baby—a baby that liked tacky golf shirts—so I was pretty sure I knew who it was.
I supposed I should have felt privileged that Marco had left me alone this long to wallow in stupid human angst. Because that was how the vamps tended to view stuff like this, as some weird human habit. They didn’t angst. If something bothered them, they ripped its limbs off until it stopped.
And they were right—okay, not about limb thing, but about the part where this was a stupid waste of time that wouldn’t help.
I just wished I knew what would.
“Is it safe to come in?” Marco asked, sounding muffled because he was still talking through the door.
“Are you really worried?” I asked dryly.
“Well, you have another slipper.” The big head poked into the room and eyed me. And the bone-dry tub. And the fact that I was still dressed in the rumpled T-shirt I’d slept in.
Then he came in and sat down by the tub, too. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
I didn’t look at him. I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want a heart-to-heart or cheering up or whatever this was supposed to be.
I didn’t need comforting; I needed answers. “I survived.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Marco, I’m fine. All right?”
“All right.”
We sat there awhile, the girl in the crumpled tee with naked toes peeking out from underneath, and the giant of a guy in Ferragamos, staring at our feet in silence.
Marco was the loafer kind. Today’s had tassels, to match the golf theme. I hadn’t known they made them in size eighty-nine or whatever, but I supposed so. Of course, if you were having them made to order, I guessed they made them any damn way you told them to.
“It’s just not every day that the Black Circle comes to call,” he said idly, looking at the ceiling.
I closed my eyes.
I debated getting up, but it wouldn’t do any good. He’d just follow me from room to room, like a puppy. A well-meaning, truck-sized, relentless puppy who was going to lick my face and make me feel better, whether I liked it or not.
“The Black Circle didn’t do this,” I said.
There was silence for another moment. “You sure you’re okay?”
I turned to look at him. “Do you know why they’re called the Black Circle, Marco?”
“A jab at the Silver, I always thought. Or maybe they’re not that creative.”
“Maybe. But it fits. They work in darkness, in shadows; nobody knows who they are; nobody sees their faces. Tony’s mages—the ones I grew up with?” He nodded. “They used to talk about them all the time. One joked that he’d like to join up, but didn’t know where to put in an application.”