She did turn around, however. “Elizabeth.”
Someone came out from behind her, from among the white-robed acolytes. For a moment, I just stared upward, at a very young version of my mother, her dark copper hair in a loose chignon, her white gown pristine. And looking down demurely.
“You’ve heard them,” Agnes said. “What would you do?”
“Me, Lady?” The voice was soft.
“What would you do with the girl? Lock her up, or set her free?”
Mother looked up, and for the first time, our eyes met. Her expression didn’t change, not wavering from polite interest. But she never so much as glanced at anyone else.
“She possesses the Pythian power,” she said, after a moment. “Therefore either she is telling the truth or she’s a rogue. If the former, we should send her back to her own time, for she is too weak to continue her mission. If the latter, the same is true, so that her Pythia can deal with her.”
“Very good,” Agnes said, looking at her with pride. “So be it.”
And the next thing I knew, I was bouncing on my bed in Vegas.
Chapter Thirty-one
I woke up to a soft bed, a spill of light from an open door, and a familiar, velvety darkness. But not a familiar room. I sat up abruptly.
And immediately regretted it.
Pain ripped through my body, radiating outward from a hundred points. Old pain, from strains and sprains and bruises weeks old. Newer pain, from my side, from my feet, from the battle on the drag. Brand-spanking-new pain, clear and bright and soul deep, from ghost bites, from channeling too much power, from everything, all at once, forcing a sound out of me.
It was surprise.
I guess nothing else fit, I thought, and put out a hand to steady myself.
And found warm flesh, not cool sheets.
“Easy,” someone said, and fingers closed gently around mine.
I looked up, struggling to see anything with the light from the next room blazing in my eyes. Until a dark head blotted out most of it. A very familiar dark head.
Mircea.
For a minute, I wasn’t sure if my brain had conjured him up or not, and the view didn’t help. Because he looked just like always: fall of smooth mahogany hair just brushing his shoulders; dark blue suit, the rich wool glimmering slightly in the low light; lashes too long and thick for a man, like the lips that appeared wine reddened without any wine. He should have looked feminine, except the strong features and broad shoulders never could.
“If I conjured you up, I did a good job,” I told him blearily.
“I’m real enough,” he said, and held a glass to my lips.
I finished the whole thing. It was only water, but it seemed to help. I lay back against the pillows again, feeling stronger.
“You sure?” I asked, glancing around. I’d been right: I didn’t recognize this room. Not that I could see much of it, but the furniture wasn’t in the right place, and there was no broad sweep of windows. Or any at all.
“I’m sure.” Mircea leaned over and smoothed back my hair. “I tried to contact you through Seidr earlier, but it didn’t work.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lord Mircea,” someone said, from the doorway. Mircea didn’t even turn around, but I looked past his shoulder to see a tall, thin shadow blocking out some of the light. A shadow with a shock of unruly dark hair and glasses he shouldn’t need, because he was a vampire.
“In a moment,” Mircea said, his eyes still on mine. “It hasn’t worked since that incident at Dante’s this morning.”
I frowned, trying to jump-start my brain. “You think Ares did something?”