“Literally?”
He laughed—actually laughed. “No, not literally—at least I don’t think so. But, for once, stay put!”
He deftly dodged another fire unit, then disappeared around a bend in the tunnel. And the people in the white hazmatlike suits ran straight out of the wall and through my middle, causing me to stumble back a step or two, because the illusion was a little too good. And then to move back even farther, because I didn’t want to experience that again.
Which was when I heard cursing coming from the kitchen.
After the day I’d had, I fully expected to see an army at the gates, or a fire run out of control, or something for the adrenaline flooding my system to expend itself on. I did not expect what I saw, when Fred and I burst through a door off the lounge. I did not expect—
A dancing chicken.
I just stood there.
It was a chicken, and it was dancing, on the kitchen countertop.
There were a bunch of people standing around looking at it, too: a scattering of initiates, including a Cindy Lou Who clone clutching a beat-up doll; some war mages, looking grim; the pink-haired girl from the drag; three tough-looking women, glaring at the mages; and a smattering of vamps. Including Roy, in a brown-and-tan-checked suit that set off his red hair. But suddenly, no one was making a sound.
The chicken wasn’t, either, but I guessed that was excusable, since it was dead. And raw, and wearing those little paper things on the end of its leg bones, like ruffled socks. It looked like it was ready to be put in the pan with the carrots, potatoes, and onions sitting nearby. But, instead, it was up on its legs, doing a jig.
“What is that?” one of the mages finally demanded, pointing at it.
“The cancan?” Fred guessed, causing the man’s weather-beaten skin to flush with anger.
“I’m sorry!” A skinny boy was huddled against the cabinets, looking freaked. Maybe because a war mage had just drawn a weapon on him. Jiao; my brain supplied a name in the split second before the mage was disarmed, the gun ending up in the pink-haired girl’s hand.
“Give it back!” the man warned her.
“Ask nicely.”
“Give it back or spend the rest of the year in lockup!”
“For what?” I interrupted. “You were the one threatening a child.”
The man started, like he hadn’t noticed I was there. But even when he did, it didn’t seem to matter. “The child is a necromancer—and a strong one!” he rasped. “Why is he here?”
“Why are you?”
The flush was back, darker this time. “We’ve been assigned here—”
“By who?”
“Who else? Who guards the Pythia?”
“The senate, at present.”
“The senate?” That was another mage, older and grizzled, with the war mage scowl firmly in place. His eyes took in the motley crew in the kitchen, half of whom I didn’t even know, with disdain. “This whole lot should be locked up.”
“Uh.” That was a third mage, a young blond with a severe military haircut that wasn’t making him look any older. Or any better, considering the jug ears that stood out almost perpendicular to his head. They looked vaguely familiar.
“Uh, what?” his older companion demanded.
“Uh, please don’t make her mad?”
And it clicked. The younger guy was one of the group of mages I’d sent for a bath in Lake Mead recently. And who was not looking like he wanted another trip.
“Do you know how to swim?” Roy asked him kindly. He and the other vamps were just standing around, observing but not interfering. If Pink Hair hadn’t grabbed the gun, one of them would have. But now that Jiao wasn’t being threatened, they had returned to the vague, slightly bored interest of people watching TV.
If the Circle and some witches wanted to kill each other, why should they care?