“I’m kind of in the mood for a scene,” I admitted. Casanova said something in Italian that I won’t repeat. “And that’s not going to help you any.”

He gave me a speculative look. “Then how about this? I was planning to evict those deadbeat kids you foisted off on me—”

“They’re orphans!” I said, outraged.

“Not all of them.”

“They don’t have anywhere else to go!”

“I’m weeping on the inside.”

I sighed. “What do you want?”

“I told you. Move out of the penthouse nice and quiet, and I’ll find somewhere to put the kids.”

“I’ll move out of the penthouse nice and quiet, and you’ll leave them where they are,” I countered. I was too tired for this, but if I didn’t didn’t spell things out, Casanova would have them sleeping in the Dumpsters out back. And it wasn’t like I could get them rooms somewhere else.

The kids in question called themselves the Misfits because their magic had chosen to manifest abnormally, ensuring that they would never fit into the mainstream supernatural community. The ones with more dangerous powers had been confined to a series of “schools” the Circle had set up, where they were supposed to be taught to control their often dangerous powers. But most would never evidence enough control to suit the Circle’s standards, meaning that they would never graduate. Or leave.

Tamika Hodges, a friend of mine and one of the Misfits’ mothers, had tried to get her son released by legal means. When that failed, she’d taken a more direct approach and broken him out. She’d released some of his friends at the same time, thereby landing her at the top of the Circle’s most wanted list right alongside me. With the help of the Senate, I’d recently cut a deal that got her out of trouble for her various crimes. But the deal hadn’t included the kids, which was why they’d been hiding at Dante’s until I made nice with the Circle. At the rate things were going, they were going to be here awhile. Assuming Casanova didn’t throw them into the street.

“They’re occupying two very nice suites!” he protested.

“There are eight of them—nine if you count the baby! What were you planning to do, stuff them in a broom closet?” He looked shifty. “They stay where they are or no deal,” I said flatly.

“All right! But you owe me.”

Before I could give the reply that comment deserved, my eyes locked with those of a tall, exquisite creature across the lobby. And the poor, shredded, dirt-and-garbage-covered remains of my dress suddenly began screeching like an air horn. It was loud enough to draw every eye in the place.

“Shut it off!” Pritkin yelled.

“How?!”

He tried some kind of spell, but it had no noticeable effect. “The Corps is probably still here!” he informed me, as if I could do anything about that.

And then it got worse. “Murderer!” Augustine shrieked, raising an arm to point at me.And thereby drawing whatever eyes hadn’t already been turned my way. “Murderer!”

“Take it off!” Pritkin told me, grabbing the hem.

“Corps or no, I’m not streaking through the damn lobby!”

“Here.” Tremaine shucked the standard-issue war mage topcoat he was wearing and passed it over. It was midcalf length on him, which meant it dragged the floor on me, but I didn’t feel like complaining. I pulled it on, trying not to think about the audience I’d suddenly acquired.

“Two teams just came in the front door,” Tremaine warned.

“Give it to me,” Pritkin ordered. I unbuttoned the shrieking dress with shaking fingers and dropped it around my feet, feeling like a flasher. Pritkin grabbed it, and he and Tremaine took off, waving it above the heads of the crowd and drawing the war mages’ attention—for the moment.

I clutched the coat around me and ran in the other direction, toward the employee dressing room. Luckily, I’d worked at the casino for almost a month now, so I had a locker all of my own. Unluckily, its sole contents were a sequined bustier and a pair of three-inch heels.

I slammed it shut, one eye on the doorway, and chewed a nail. Several employees stopped to stare at me, taking in my sunburned face, tangled hair, and filthy, topcoat-clad body. I really needed a shower, but taking one here was out of the question. The only thing worse than getting caught by the Circle was getting caught by the Circle naked. I needed somewhere to recharge, somewhere I could get a change of clothes and a bath, somewhere safe. And only one place came to mind.

Sometimes, it really helps to have a witch for a friend.

Chapter Eleven

A string of furious French was the response to my knock. “I ’ave until four!” I was informed through the door. “Go away!”

I tapped on the door again—carefully—because a powerful witch in a mood is not someone to take lightly. Especially when she knows as many archaic spells as this one. “Francoise—it’s me.”

The door flung open to reveal a really unhappy brunette. Her long hair was everywhere, her chic green and white sundress was streaked with dust and she had a bulging garbage bag in one hand. From the look of things, it contained most of her clothes.

“Cassie!” Her eyes widened and a second later I found myself enveloped in a bone-crushing hug. “I was so worried! I was afraid the Circle ’ad taken you to MAGIC!”

“They did.”

“But . . . ’ow did you escape? Zey say it was destroyed!”

“It’s a long story.” I glanced at the garbage bag. “I take it you’ve been evicted?”

The scowl returned.“Casanova, ’e say zat ze Senate needs my room for one of zere servants. So I must go! Today!”

“There’s a lot of that going around.”

“I ’ad thought to ask if I might stay with you,” she admitted.

“What a coincidence.”

“Mais c’est impossible! You are ze Pythia!”

“And the Consul likes a view.”

Francoise said some uncharitable things about the Consul. Since they were in French—which I’m not supposed to speak—I didn’t contradict her. It was also a fact that they were all true.

I flopped onto the bed. I’d only meant to sit down, but I swear the mattress was spelled. It just pulled me in. I tried to kick my shoes off, but mud had welded them to my feet. I decided I didn’t care.

I lay there for a few minutes, listening to Francoise tear the room apart. “Any ideas?” I finally asked.

Francoise grimaced. “Randolph ’as an apartment.”

“Randy?” I opened an eye to watch her flush slightly. “Tall, corn-fed, crew-cut blond with biceps like boulders? That Randy?”

“When ’e ’eard that ze employees ’ave to move, ’e called me.”

I rolled over onto my stomach and propped my chin in my hand. “Did he?”

The flush became a blush. “’E ’as an extra room.”

“Uh-huh.” And I’m sure he meant for her to stay in it, too.

She sighed. “’E ees very ’andsome, non?”

“Yeah.” If you liked the laid-back surfer boy type, Randy was the man. He was also a genuinely nice guy, for someone possessed by an incubus. “So what’s the problem?”

Francoise shot me a look. “You know what ees ze problem!”

“He wouldn’t feed off you,” I assured her. For one thing, she’d curse him into next week.

“I know zat!” She filled another Hefty bag with the extra pillow and blanket from the closet, the bedside lamp and the hotel’s iron. When she picked up the last, the cord fell out the back.

“Then what is it? And you need that long skinny black thing.” She looked blank. “It makes it go,” I added, and she nodded and went hunting under the bed.

Francoise had issues with modern equipment. “Modern” meaning anything invented after the seventeenth century. That’s when she’d been born, and when she’d met a bunch of dark mages with an entrepreneurial streak.

The Fey would pay top dollar for attractive, fertile young witches who could help them with their population problem, but most of the likely candidates were either too well-guarded or too powerful to be taken easily. But the mages had caught Francoise at a vulnerable moment and quickly bundled her off to a slave auction in Faerie. She’d lived with the Fey for what had seemed like a few years, until seizing the chance to escape—only to discover on her return that four hundred years had passed in our world. The whole thing just left Rip van Winkle standing.

“Zees?” She held up the cord.

“That would be the one.”

It went into the bag, along with a painting that she climbed up onto the bed to rip off the wall. “It ees zese ozzair women,” she told me, tugging on the painting. “I tell him, I weel not be—what ees ze word? Many women with one man?”

“Harem.”

“Oui. I weel not be a harem!” she said, and tugged really hard. The painting came off the wall, flew across the room and put a dent in the door. Francoise hopped down and checked out the damage. The frame looked a little wonky, but apparently it passed muster because it went into the bag.

“I can see where that could pose a problem. He has an incubus to feed.”

“I tell heem, geet rid of it,” she said, making one of those wild French gestures that mean anything and nothing. “But non. ‘It changed my life,’” she mimicked.

“Maybe it did,” I said carefully. “Casanova recruits a lot of his boys from small towns who don’t think they have much of a future.”

“’E ees ’ere now,” she said fiercely. “’E does not need it anymore. I theenk it ees the ozzair women ’e does not wish to give up!”

I tried to find something to say, but everything was too jumbled, too out of control in my head. Thoughts and feelings I didn’t want to examine kept pushing their way to the front. I wondered if Mircea felt the same way now that a spell no longer bound us together. Would he want other women? Or did he already have one?