Granny May snapped, You still have Cole, Bergman—
and Kyphas—whether you want her or not.
We should’ve deep-fried that hellspawn permanently, I huffed. Not cut her a deal that keeps her in our back pockets like a Chicago politician.
Of course, Gran knew what I was real y worried about.
Cassandra’s soul is safe from Kyphas, you saw to that.
She’s an ocean away, secure behind her locks and wards in her colorful little apartment in Miami. You’re lucky to have a friend like her. A psychic who’s willing to dog-sit have a friend like her. A psychic who’s willing to dog-sit and research a cause for Vayl’s amnesia is practically a walking miracle. Just remember what she said last time you talked. You’re standing in the city where you believe the tool that you need to end Brude’s possession of you is located. So find it!
It sounds easy the way you put it. But I’m not convinced Kyphas is done with Cassandra. And until we know what caused Vayl’s amnesia—
You’re a girl. Multitask!
I sighed and scratched my head, wishing for the thousandth time that Lucifer’s gofer hadn’t infested my synapses. Then I could just concentrate on finding the bottom-feeder that had slapped Vayl into a virtual time machine and strapped a pair of 1777-tinted goggles over his eyes. Unless he was just plain sick. In which case I’d be on my own with Brude.
Who I couldn’t stop obsessing about. The Domytr who wanted to create a whole new hel was stil stomping around in my mind. And although I had him contained in a place where he couldn’t control me anymore, I’d begun to show physical strain from keeping him imprisoned. Mainly nosebleeds. But also headaches that started behind one of my eyes and spread across my skul like I’d cracked it on an iron post. Even without consulting experts, I knew those were bad signs. If Brude broke free of the room where I’d imprisoned him, he’d destroy more than virtual wal s. Which was why failed exorcisms often ended with a coroner writing the word “aneurism” on the victim’s death certificate.
We had to complete our original mission. The one Vayl had set us on before he’d lost his way. My life depended on finding the Rocenz, a demon-forged hammer and chisel that had been supernatural y welded together. Once we had the tool and figured out a way to separate the parts, we could engrave Brude’s name on the gates of hel . At which time the power of the Rocenz to reduce everything to its most basic elements would transform the Domytr in my head to dust.
Proving once again how utterly useless Vayl would be for this aspect of our operation, he asked, “Has your husband’s cough eased now that we have spent a few days in the dry air?”
“Who? I don’t—” Oh, he’s asking about Cole. “Yeah, yeah.”
His lips tightened and I thought I was about to get another lecture on my presumptuous behavior. Which would’ve been fine with me. Another chance to zone out, try to formulate some sort of plan. Plus, okay, I’l admit it.
Despite the fact that it had only been three days since I’d held him in my arms, I was already hunting excuses to stand and stare at my magnificent sverhamin, imagine my fingers brushing across his broad brow, sinking into his soft black curls. Pretend I was standing on the invited side of that come-love-me look in his emerald eyes.
I watched his lips part, wind around the words. My mouth went dry as he said, “I can tel you have something on your mind, Madame Berggia.”
If you only knew! “Uh, wel , sure I do. That is, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you since… we got here.”
“Yes?”
“I have a hard time believing Co—I mean my husband
—was the real reason you left England.” I waited. He liked it when I did that. Freaking elitist.
“You are a very astute woman.” Vayl turned so al I could see was his profile, the proud bridge of his nose, the hard planes of his cheeks and jaw reminding me of pictures I’d seen of Roman generals. Until I realized he was watching his breakfast drive away in the creaking old donkey cart with a look of hunger that made my stomach clench.
“So what’s the deal?” I demanded. “Why are we real y here?”
He turned his head, spoke sharply enough that I probably should’ve felt put in my place. But at least he explained. An entire story in a single word. “Helena.” CHAPTER TWO
While the cart driver urged his donkey to speeds it hadn’t attempted since it was a yearling, Vayl dug one of the evil-smel ing cigars he’d begun smoking after his “transition” out of the breast pocket of his black duster. His lighting routine was so elaborate I was surprised he didn’t have to sacrifice a goat too. Cole took advantage of the pause to needle Bergman through the Party Line.
“I don’t think Lord Brâncoveanu’s ward has the right kind of dresses for this climate, do you, dear?” he asked, turning his head so Vayl couldn’t see him crossing his eyes at me the way we did every time we had to use his title along with his tongue-tripping surname. “Maybe we should take Helena shopping tonight.”
Bergman growled so loud we both had to adjust our earpieces. He said, “I’m only pretending to be that girl because Cassandra said Vayl could be permanently damaged if I didn’t. But if you make me try on dresses I wil happily vegetize him.”
“You’re the one who got your hair al permed and dyed to match mine,” Cole whispered. “Can I help it if it makes you look like Uma Thurman?”
“Who is Uma Thurman?” asked Vayl.
While Cole tried to explain, I urged them both to get moving. The less time we spent dawdling in the medina’s mean streets, the better. Not that the criminals who hung out in Marrakech’s old city were any worse than the ones who preferred the modern section. Just that I’d have relaxed more back at the riad, where I wouldn’t have had to watch our backs while I recal ed the moment when Bergman realized Vayl thought he was an eighteen-year-old girl whose interests revolved around painting and playing the pianoforte. But let’s face it. Even if a whole gang of thugs jumps out of the shadows, a moment that priceless is going to loop in your head until your inner bimbo stops trading howls of hilarity with the bartender and resumes her drunken dance with the coatrack. So I let the memory reel rol .
We’d been gathered in the courtyard that fil ed the center of the riad, giving the building the shape of a grater that went straight at the top. The eye-catcher in the whole outdoor garden was the fountain rising out of the rectangular wading pool, a graceful y crafted urn that made it hard to look away. But then, there was so much more to see.
The pool was surrounded by wooden chairs and tables with such ornate arms and legs you’d almost believe fairies had done the crafting. These sat on sand-colored tiles, two-foot-square sections of which had been removed in choice spots around the courtyard to make room for plantings of banana trees. Copper planters ful of ferns, palms, and lemon trees took turns with hanging lanterns to line the courtyard’s pink wal s, providing some relief for the eye when the sun beat down during the brightest part of the day.