Billy thought for a moment. “Maybe he forgot?”

I snorted. “Yeah. And then he grew feathers.”

“Damn.”

I stared at him. “Did you just say ‘damn’?”

He grinned, unrepentant. “It was a beautiful theory, you gotta admit.”

I didn’t have to admit anything of the kind. “Look, the gods are gone. Finished, kaput, out of the picture. Okay?”

He held up his hands. “Hey. Preaching to the choir here.”

“Beautiful theory,” I muttered, and swung the pillow at him.

It was a wasted effort, because he disappeared before it landed, fading away until only his laughter remained. It was the last thing I heard as I finally drifted off.

Chapter Seventeen

I walked into the living room sometime that afternoon, yawning and bleary-eyed from too much sleep, to see Marco coming out of the lounge. At least, I assumed it was Marco. It was a little hard to be sure, because while the height and girth were the same, the face was completely covered—in flowers.

“Hey,” I said, as a perfect red rose dropped off the towering stack he was carrying and plopped at my feet.

“Hey, yourself,” Marco’s voice told me, heading out of the apartment. “Get the door, will ya?”

I got the door. “What are you doing?”

“Taking out the trash.”

He strode over to the elevator and punched the button, shedding blossoms all the way. One had a little card attached. I bent and picked it up. Cassandra Palmer.

I frowned. “Marco?”

“Mmm-hmm?”

“Are you throwing out my flowers?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“Go look in the lounge.”

The elevator arrived before he could say any more, assuming he’d planned on it, and a man got off. He was dressed in a crisp blue suit and shiny black shoes and was carrying more roses. “Thank you,” Marco said, plucking them out of his hand and stepping into the elevator.

“Hey!”

The elevator doors shut before the man could retrieve his bouquet. “Goddamned vampires,” he muttered, and then he turned around—to see three of the guards loitering in the open doorway of the suite.

He lost what color had been in his face, which wasn’t much, since he was a pleasant-looking white blond. The vamps came forward and started circling him like sharks in water. “I liked the last one better,” a brunet said. “This one’s a little weedy.”

“And please tell me that’s not your best suit,” another commented, eyeing the man’s pinstripe with a moue of distaste. “I’m thinking what? One ninety-nine ninety five?”

“And they throw in an extra shirt,” the third vamp added.

They all laughed.

The man flushed but stood his ground. “See here, I have an appointment with—” he caught sight of me and his expression lightened. “Ah, you must be—”

“Too busy to talk to you,” the first vamp said, putting an arm around him and turning him back toward the elevator.

“Get your hands off me, vampire,” the man snarled, pushing the vamp’s hand away. “And I think I’ll let her tell me that!”

“Ooh. This one’s spunky.”

“What’s going on?” I demanded.

The man—or, I guess, the mage—came forward, holding out a hand. The hand had a box in it. The box was full of candy, judging by the glossy photo on the front.

“For you,” he said, obviously proud to have rescued part of his offering.

“Uh, thank you?”

He brushed it away. “I’m not sure what to call you,” he said frankly. “Lady Cassandra isn’t technically correct until after the ceremony, and it sounds too formal in any case. And Miss Palmer is little better. Would you like for me to call you Cassie?”

“I’d like for you to tell me who you are.”

The man blinked. “David Dryden.”

I just looked at him.

“Your one o’clock?”

“My one o’clock what?”

“Date,” the third vamp said, grinning.

“For what?” I asked, confused.

“Well, you know.” The mage looked a little awkward suddenly. “The usual.”

“I think we’ve got a contender here, boys,” the brunet said.

“Smooth operator,” the second vamp agreed.

“Can you do something about them?” the mage asked me angrily, as the elevator dinged.

“They’re supposed to be here,” I pointed out.

“As am I! The Lord Protector sent me.”

The Lord Protector and his hair got off the elevator. “Ah, Dryden, my boy. There you are.” Jonas beamed at him, and then leaned over to dust a minute speck off his coat. “Have you met our new Pythia yet?”

“I’m trying!” the mage said, exasperated.

“Jonas, can I see you a minute?” I asked mildly.

“Of course, my dear, of course. It’s why I’m here.”

“Can you repeat that pickup line for me?” I heard one of the vamps ask. “I want to write it down. Something about the usual?”

“Go to hell,” the mage told him.

I preceded Jonas into the apartment, but stopped in the doorway to the lounge. Or what had been the lounge. It looked more like a greenhouse now, with what had to be four dozen vases of flowers, loose bouquets and potted plants sitting around.

“Jonas.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “What is this?”

“Options, my dear,” he said, surveying the sea of flora approvingly. “It’s always nice to have options.”

“It’s nice to have a place to sit, too. And we discussed this.”

“Did we?” he asked vaguely.

“Yes. We did. And you promised—”

“I didn’t, in fact.”

“Jonas!”

He held up placating hands. “But truly, very little of this is my doing.”

“Then what—”

“It was Niall. I believe he was . . . perturbed . . . about the desert incident. He returned in time to insert a piece in this morning’s Oracle about our eligible new Pythia and, well . . .”

“Well what?”

“The power of the press,” he said, patting my hand. “But don’t worry. I’m sure it will blow over in a week or two—”

“A week?” I stared around. I’d be able to open my own florist shop by then.

I sneezed.

“Smells like a New Orleans cathouse in here,” Marco agreed, coming back in and handing me a handkerchief.

I took it gratefully. “How would you know?”

He just raised an eyebrow at me and gathered up another load. “I’m heading to bed after this,” he told me, glancing at Jonas. “It’s about to get surreal up in here.”

“About to?”

He just grinned and sashayed out. I sneezed.

“Can we do our lesson in the living room?” I asked Jonas, wiping my streaming eyes.

“Oh, I think we can postpone that for today,” he said genially.

“We don’t need to postpone. I’m not going out with—with that man,” I sniffed, trying and failing to recall the guy’s name.

Jonas regarded the mage, who was standing by the kitchen door, looking about the way you’d expect. “Why? What’s wrong with him?”

The man twitched.

I sighed. “Nothing.”

“Then perhaps a late luncheon—”

“No!”

“Tea?”

“Jonas!”

He sighed and gave up. “Handsome boy . . . very good family,” he muttered, reentering the living room.

I blew my nose and followed. And almost ran into an old-fashioned blackboard that was taking up most of the space beside the new sofa. I blinked at it, because it hadn’t been there a minute ago.

“Well, in that case, perhaps you could help me with a few small matters,” Jonas said, feeling around in his coat for something. “I used to do this with Agnes, you know. We had tea every Thursday, and I would go over any affairs of interest in the magical community, in case she saw something of significance.”

“I haven’t seen anything lately,” I said, eyeing the blackboard suspiciously. I poked it. It was solid.

“Which is rather the point,” Jonas said. “Agnes sometimes had dry spells, too, and other times she had visions about all sorts of things, but most were entirely unrelated to what we needed to know. But if we’d recently discussed something . . . well, it seemed to help focus her energies. I thought it might do the same for you.”

“Okay.” I edged around to the sofa.

“Good, good.” Jonas had been turning out his pockets as he spoke, one after another, leaving him looking like he had little gray tongues all over his suit. But I guess he hadn’t found what he wanted, because he made a gesture and plucked a small package out of thin air.

I stared at it, because I’d never seen anyone do that before, except on TV. But I didn’t think Jonas had used sleight of hand. Particularly not when he had trouble getting the cellophane off whatever it was.

“Now, I realize that visions can’t be made to order, as one might wish,” he said, fiddling with it.

“What is that?” I demanded.

He looked at me from behind heavy glasses. “What is what?”

“That.” I pointed at the package.

Jonas peered down at it. “This?”

“Yes, that! What is that?”

“Chalk.”

“Chalk?”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“For the chalkboard,” he said, looking a bit bewildered.

“But . . . where did you get it?”

“Where did I get what?”

“The chalk!”

His forehead wrinkled slightly. “Ryman’s. They had a sale.”