“Some guy saunters in here, hacks me to pieces and I don’t even know him?”

“Calm down,” I said, feeling light-headed and faintly ill. “Keep your head.”

“I don’t have a head!” he snapped, and started for the door.

“We had a deal,” I reminded him.

“Your book’s in Paris,” Saleh threw over what would have been his shoulder if he’d still had one. “Try 1793.”

I stared at him. “What?” Damn it—I should have known that wasn’t coincidence.

“Yeah. A couple dumb-ass dark mages stole it from Merlin that year and—”

“Wait.” I glared at the djinn, wondering if I was being had. “Merlin lived in…well, I don’t know exactly, but he couldn’t have still been alive in the eighteenth century!”

“He was part incubus—everyone knows that,” I was informed testily. “And demons are immortal. Now hush up if you want this, ’cause otherwise I’m gone.”

I hushed up.

“So, yeah, he was alive in 1793, when he lost the Codex to the mages, who put it up for auction at a little get-together on October third. Right before they bugged the hell out of the city to get away from the public executions and the fires and the mobs and the pissed-off half demon who was after their butts. Anyway, dress to impress and maybe you can get a look at it before they sell it off.”

“But, if they’re planning to sell it, it’ll be guarded! There has to be a better time—”

“Merlin was guarding the Codex until the mages got their greedy paws on it and, trust me, Pythia or no, you don’t want to go through him.”

“Then what about later? Who bought it?”

“Even if I had all day, I couldn’t cover all the rumors of where it went after that night. You don’t care anyway, since if you want it before the spells unravel, you have to get at it early. And that’s Paris, 1793,” he said flatly. “Try not to get beheaded. Trust me, it sucks.” He started for the corridor again.

“Wait a minute! Where are you going?”

“Where you think? I got a job to do.”

“Saleh!”

He paused beside the door. “This is none of your business, babe. Thanks to mystery man, I’m incorporeal again. Ten centuries of accumulated power down the drain, like that.” He tried to snap his fingers, but the lack of actual hands frustrated him. He grimaced. “Whatever revenge I can come up with is well within the rules. And believe me, I can be real inventive.”

He streamed out, leaving me staring witlessly after him. Well, at least that explained how he’d managed to leave a ghost: he hadn’t. The spirit was Saleh’s natural state. He’d just saved up enough power to form himself a body, the better to wheel and deal with mortals, I assumed. The question was, did I go after him?

I doubted if, in his current condition, he could do Pritkin any real harm. Ghosts, even new ones, have a limited power supply, one that is eroded very quickly by attacks on the living. Saleh wasn’t a ghost, but since he’d just lost most of his power along with his head, I doubted he was likely to do any better. Add to that Pritkin’s formidable shields, and he was probably pretty safe. Too bad the same couldn’t be said for me.

If Saleh found a way to communicate with the mage, to accuse him or berate him for the crime, he might let slip how he’d acquired his information. And that would be very bad. If Saleh didn’t even know him, it seemed unlikely that Pritkin had a personal grievance against the djinn. Which meant that his reason for killing him was probably to keep him from telling me about the Codex. And if Pritkin hadn’t balked at killing Saleh to keep it safe, why would I be any different?

In the end, I decided that the whole Saleh debate was stupid since I didn’t know how to round up a djinn that didn’t want to go. I finally shifted back alone, only to have Billy scream inside my head, “Get in the tub!”

When I just stood there, trying to catch up, he stepped out of my skin and gave me a shove, right in the center of my chest. Billy usually has trouble moving even small things, but he’d found some extra energy somewhere, because I almost flew off my feet. I staggered backwards against the old-fashioned claw-footed tub, lost my balance and fell in. At the same moment the corridor wall blew inward in a burst of plaster, wood and expensive wallpaper.

I lay among the debris, head spinning, eyesight going dark, for several confused seconds. The tub had been a restored antique, with the original solid cast-iron body. It had saved my life, but with a pounding head and dust-caked lungs, I was having trouble feeling grateful.

“Miss Palmer!” Pritkin’s voice came from the hole where the door used to be. “Are you all right?”

I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t look at him. “Sure.” I spit out blood—I’d bitten my tongue—and plaster dust. “Never better.”

I climbed out of the debris and started for the sink, only it didn’t appear to be there anymore. There was a sink-sized hole in the window, though, so I picked a shaky path across the destroyed bathroom and looked out. The fresh breeze was so distracting that it took me a few seconds to spy the remains of the plumbing eight stories below, in the middle of Flamingo Road. A taxi driver was standing outside his cab, staring at the big dent in his hood and looking puzzled. He looked up and our eyes met. I quickly ducked back inside. This place was about to be way more popular than I liked.

I peered into the hall and saw three unfamiliar war mages sitting with their backs to the wall. They looked pissed, maybe because they were trussed up like chickens about to be put on a spit. Since there were only three, I assumed they hadn’t been expecting us. They seemed to recognize me, though, or maybe they were glaring at everybody on principle.

“We can try a memory charm,” Nick said, regarding them doubtfully.

“It won’t hold,” Pritkin argued. “Not with their training.” He looked at Nick, his eyes shadowed with concern. “It seems you just joined the resistance openly.”

I blinked, but it didn’t help. The mask was absolutely perfect. I’d grown up around creatures whose emotions were often shown in the barest flicker of an eyelash, in an infinitesimal pause in conversation. I’d thought I knew how to read people, but even concentrating with everything I had, I couldn’t find a flaw.

The sleek, deadly predator I’d just seen was simply gone. In his place was a pale, tired-looking man with plaster powdering his skin and clothes. Pritkin ran fingers through his hair, which, already wet with sweat thanks to the ovenlike temperature in the apartment, gummed into punk-rock spikes. At least he’ll have to wash it now, I thought blankly.

Pritkin noticed me, and the touch of his eyes was enough to make my skin prickle. “Did you find him?”

I stumbled over to lean heavily against the wall. My heart was pumping against my rib cage, hard and fast enough that I could feel the pulse in my neck. “No.” I closed my eyes as if in weariness, because Pritkin had proven able to read them all too easily in the past. But I was proud of my voice. It was the one I’d cultivated at court, the one designed to tell even vampires exactly nothing. I forced my heart rate to slow down, my breathing to even out. “It seems that djinn are like vamps; they don’t leave ghosts.”

“You said you found something.” I opened my eyes to see Pritkin coming toward me. Okay, maybe there was a flaw, I decided. The walk was the same. He had the deadly fluidity of a fighter, all leashed strength and readiness. He stopped a little too close for comfort, those clever green eyes searching my face.

He’s Tony in a mood, I told myself sternly, looking for someone to bleed because he’s having a bad day. You feel nothing, no fear, because that attracts his attention better than anything else. You are calm, dreamy, serene. You feel nothing. “There was a ghost trail in the bathroom, but it wasn’t from the djinn,” I said casually. “Someone else died here, a while ago.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Nick came up alongside me. His eyes were on my dress, which had retreated from hopeful dawn into foggy night, with little tendrils of white creeping cautiously across a murky background.

“Fine,” I said steadily. “The sink missed me on its way to destroy a cab.”

Pritkin stared past my shoulder at the ruined bathroom and his scowl deepened. “We need to go. There’s nothing for us here, and the human authorities will arrive soon.”

I couldn’t make myself touch his hand, so I twisted a fist in his coat, which was back to the old battered brown. I wondered where he kept the cool clothes. I held out my free hand to Nick and prepared to shift us all back to Dante’s. “Yeah,” I agreed, my eyes on Pritkin. “We’re all done here.”

Chapter 9

Casanova had pointed out that it would be unwise for me to occupy a suite, in case the Circle had spies on the lookout for long-term guests. Instead, he’d stuck me in what had once been a small storeroom in back of the tiki bar. I still had several cases of cocktail umbrellas in boxes under my bed, and barely enough room to turn around. Pritkin had it worse, being stuffed into the dressing room once reserved for the club’s famous dead performers. It was larger, since it had once held their coffins, but he swore it still had a certain…odor. At the moment, that thought cheered me up considerably.

I finished pulling the oversized T-shirt I was using for a nightgown over my head as Billy drifted through the wall. I brought him up to speed on my conversation with Saleh while he sat on the edge of the bed and rolled a ghostly cigarette. “We need a team,” I concluded.

“We are a team.”

I was tired and I ached, in more ways than one. I hugged my pillow, which had all the comfort of one issued by an unusually stingy airline.

“The Cassie and Billy show might have worked for staying a step ahead of Tony,” I said. “It isn’t going to be enough to let us burgle a Black Circle stronghold.”