The gods, it seemed, weren’t so immortal, after all.
Chapter Fifteen
Dory, Cairo
Vampire monks, or so I’d been told, knew how to party, but I wasn’t sure if I was going to this one. I’d had all day to rest, while being attended by an absolute throng of servants, to the point that I’d finally had to lock the door to keep them out of the room so I could nap. It was night again now, and I was feeling surprisingly well, all things considered; that wasn’t the problem.
That was the problem, I thought, staring into the mirror.
“You look lovely,” the woman behind me said.
It was That Bitch, whose real name was Maha. I’d been told that it meant “Beautiful Cow” which . . . okay. Different strokes. She and I had made up, and as a peace offering, she was in my bathroom, attempting to get me ready for the party to end all parties, celebrating the death of the bastard downstairs.
There was just one problem.
“I don’t think it fits,” I said, tugging on the latest fake hairdo.
Glamouries didn’t work at this court, so she’d come up with a selection of wigs to cover my no longer burnt, but terribly bald head. There was everything from short and blonde to vibrant red and flowy, along with a brunette that almost matched my real hair in cut and style. Because it turned out that, while vamp healers could repair a damaged brain and heal baldly burned flesh, they could not regrow hair.
Not that I was totally bald. It was more like a third of my hair that was missing in action, all along the left side of my head, from above the ear to the nape. But it was not festive.
“You just have to get used to it,” she told me, with her own long, lustrous, beautiful hair rippling down to her butt. She’d had it up before, in a no-nonsense bun, but tonight it was down and it was glorious.
I sighed.
“Can I see the brunette one again?”
She obliged and I tugged it on, but the same problem persisted. It’s hard to fit a wig, any wig, when your own hair is so lopsided. After a few frustrating moments, I pulled the dark, shiny mass off again and stared at my terrible reflection.
Maybe I’d just get room service.
“There is another option,” Maha said, holding out her hand. On the palm was a familiar sight, although not a familiar shape. I picked up the little golden item she was offering and frowned at it. It was beautiful, like a delicate brooch made in the form of a spray of flowers, with the gold work so fine that the tiny stems quivered whenever it moved.
But it wasn’t a brooch. The tell-tale thrum of a magical tat vibrated against my palm, although softer than I was used to. Not weaker but . . . different. There was magic here, but not a kind I knew.
“It’s a weapon?” I asked, looking up at her.
Maha laughed. And then the laughter faded, and her face became somber. “What kind of life have you lived?” she asked softly. “That that is the only magic you know?”
“It isn’t the only kind,” I said, feeling defensive. An emotion that melted away into wonder when she turned me around to face the mirror again, and placed the tiny object—not in my hair, as I’d expected, since I didn’t see what else she could do with it. But on my bald skin.
No, make that in my skin, I realized, as it melted into the surface the same way that my little bird had done. But while the birdie had had an immediate effect on my senses, this charm didn’t seem to make any difference at all. And then the most amazing thing happened.
“Do you like it?” Maha asked, watching my face.
Well, obviously, I didn’t say, but not because I was practicing my diplomacy. But because I was honestly speechless for a moment. The delicate spray of stems, flowers and leaves had expanded, twining along my bare patch of scalp until they covered it in an exuberance of beauty. And unlike most tats, even magical ones, this wasn’t a mere blue outline. This looked like the tattoo had been made with liquid gold.
It glimmered against my skin and set off my dark hair like a diadem. I laughed in wonder, and felt it gingerly when it finally stopped. It was solid and cool under my fingertips. It was amazing.
“I look like that chick from Hunger Games,” I said. “You know, the one with the camera crew?”
“You look beautiful,” Maha said, and it sounded genuine.
I met her eyes in the mirror. “Thank you.”
She ducked her head. “There is a command for when you wish to remove it. I will write it down for you.”
“I’ll return it in good condition,” I promised.