Ride the Storm Read online

  “Too long,” she said grimly, probably because it hadn’t been voluntary.

  “But you know them pretty well, right? Better than most?”

  I really hoped so, since my options were kind of limited. There weren’t a lot of experts on the fey, especially the light variety. Their world had a habit of consuming any unwanted visitors and spitting out the bones. Not that Françoise had been unwanted. She was the kind of immigrant the fey welcomed with open arms.

  Literally.

  “Zey kidnapped me,” she said bitterly. “I was a slave. What does a slave know?”

  “More than I do. And I need to.” And I guess something in my tone got through, because she looked at me from under a rack, where she was trying to reach a rogue hat.

  “What ees wrong?”

  I glanced around again, but the only people nearby were the mother and child, and they were busy watching the drama with open mouths. I squatted down beside her and lowered my voice. “I don’t have that much time,” I said quietly. “But I need to know everything you can tell me about their weapons.”

  “Zere weapons?”

  “Not the everyday stuff. The special ones.”

  She frowned. “What special ones?”

  I glanced around again. “It’s only a theory, but I saw a weapon, a staff, that . . . Look, the gods fought all kinds of wars when they were here, right? With each other, with demonic monsters, even with humans. The legends all say so.”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “Oui?”

  “Well, if you have a war, you have weapons. And if you read the old stories, they’re mentioned pretty regularly: Artemis’ bow, Thor’s hammer, Zeus’ thunderbolt—”

  “But zee gods, zey are gone now.” She looked over at the Graeae, who had just dealt with Augustine the same way they had with his clothing—by sticking him onto one of their backs. That left his long legs flailing around in the air, and his mouth yelling obscenities that, thankfully, were not in English. She sighed. “Most of zem.”

  “Yes, they’re gone. But their weapons might not be.”

  “I don’t undairstand.”

  I switched the ICEE to a new hand, so I could gesture around. “When the gods were kicked off earth, it happened fast. Like really fast. If it hadn’t, they would have been able to throw off the spell banishing them, or kill the one who had cast it. Right?”

  Françoise nodded. She knew as much about what my mother had done as I did, since she’d been there when I found out. “Oui, c’est ça, mais—”

  “Françoise, they were banished almost immediately.”

  “Oui?”

  “So maybe they didn’t have time to pack.”

  She blinked at me, the hats suddenly forgotten. “Zen zere weapons . . . you sink zey might ’ave left zem ’ere?”

  “I think they might have left them in Faerie,” I corrected. “It was a fey lord that I saw running around with one. And since we’re facing the return of a god . . .”

  “Eet would be nice to ’ave one of zere own weapons to fight heem with.”

  I nodded. “Look, I know it was a long time ago. But time runs differently there, and the fey live a lot longer than we do. And if something was left . . . well, they would keep it, wouldn’t they? Prize it, even? They always seem to be fighting—”

  “Zey are always fighting zee Dark Fey,” she corrected. “And zey do not need godly weapons for zat. Still . . .”

  “Still?”

  Her forehead wrinkled some more. “I did not know much of zere language when I first arrived, and I was just a slave. And zey do not tell stories to slaves. But zee man who bought me, he liked to claim zat he was descended from zee gods.”

  “Did you believe him?” Because it didn’t look like it.

  She scowled. “Non, I do not believe. I do not theenk he was descended from any god, unless eet was from Zeus’ cochon.”

  “Cochon?”

  “Ees peeg.”

  It took me a second.

  “His pig?”

  “Oui.” Françoise nodded decisively. “As I say, peeg.”

  I smiled. “And what did Zeus’ pig tell you?”

  “Eet ees not what he say, but what he ’ave. A banner that his father carried into battle. A great battle, when zee fey say, zee gods fought beside zem. But zee gods, they whair already gone by zen. . . .”

  “But maybe some of their power wasn’t.”

  She nodded.

  “Did you hear of any unusual weapons while you were there, even rumors? I need to know if any still exist, and if so where they are now. And who has them.”

  She shook her head. “I was not looking for a way to fight, but to flee. But I could ask zee Dark Fey.”

  “The ones here at the hotel?”

  “Oui. Zey do not like to talk about zee past, but eef I tell zem eet is for you . . .”

  “Would that help?”

  She looked surprised. “You treat zem with respect. And you helped zem—zey do not forget zat. Few ’ave ever bozered.”

  “Then ask them about the battle, and the staff. It was called the Staff of the Winds. For a while, it was the personal weapon of the Blarestri king.”

  “Zee Sky Lords,” Françoise said, her eyes widening slightly, the way everyone’s seemed to when they talked about the leading group of Light Fey.

  “That’s what I was told. I don’t know for certain that the staff was a leftover godly weapon, but if it wasn’t, it should have been. And where there’s one, there might be more. I need to know if they’ve heard—”

  “I want a picture,” a childish voice interrupted, and I looked up to see that the little ballerina had reappeared at my side.

  “Not right now, sweetie.”

  “No. Now!”

  I sighed. “I told you, I don’t work here.”

  “But you’re the corpse bride,” she insisted, “and I wanna—”

  “I’m not—”

  “You’re the corpse bride and I want a picture! Mommy, make her give me a picture!”

  “It—it’s just a picture,” the mother said, walking over while still staring at the commotion. It had gotten worse, with the Graeae piling their newly purloined clothes on top of Augustine. I wasn’t sure if that was because they were running out of room, or to shut him up, but if the latter, it wasn’t working.

  “Look, lady—”

  “Just pose for a picture, would you?”

  “No,” I said, suddenly pissed. “I will not.”

  “Why? It would only take a minute.”

  “So does telling your child no.”

  And, okay, I’d finally been irritating enough to get her full attention. She turned around. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that maybe giving your kid everything she wants—”

  “Don’t tell me how to raise my child.”

  “—isn’t the best tactic for bringing up a well-adjusted—”

  “Well-adjusted?” Her eyes took in my dusty, blue-lipped, shoeless form. “What would you know about well-adjusted?”

  “More than you!”

  “Just pose for the picture!”

  “No! I am not the freaking corpse bride! My name is Cassie Palmer and I don’t—”

  But I didn’t get a chance to say what I didn’t do. Because a booming voice suddenly broke out, loud enough to shake the walls. “CASSIE PALMER. CASSIE PALMER. CASSIE PALMER IS IN AUGUSTINE’S.”

  What the hell?

  Chapter Five

  “What?” Augustine’s perfectly coifed head poked up out of a pile of clothes. “What is that?”

  “No!” The irate mother stared around, and then abruptly became a lot more irate. “Goddamn it, no!”

  She bolted for the counter with the cash register, which also contained the gift-wrap station. And started throwing fanc
y cards, spools of ribbon, and luxurious wrapping paper around, looking for something that I guess she didn’t find, because she kept doing it. And while that wouldn’t have been a great idea anywhere, it was especially bad here, because Augustine didn’t use normal paper.

  Augustine didn’t use normal anything.

  As was demonstrated when a roll of shiny blue and silver foil rolled across the worktop and fell off the edge.

  “You put that back!” Augustine demanded. “You put that back right now!”

  But it was too late. The paper hit the floor, and immediately began folding itself into a long string of origami animals. Which tore off the roll and started sprinting through the maze of tasteful racks and tidy tables. Which suddenly weren’t so tidy anymore, with paper tigers leaping on them, and paper elephants ramming them, and paper monkeys climbing them.

  And gleefully throwing the perfectly folded wares at each other. And at us. And at the floor.

  It looked like they were still stuck on last season’s circus theme, which the formerly elegant shop was really starting to resemble.

  And then a swarm of something flew in the open front doors.

  “CASSIE PALMER.”

  “CASSIE PALMER.”

  “CASSIE PALMER IS IN AUGUSTINE’S.”

  The locator spell blared like a foghorn, screaming my name and confusing my brain. Which was already confused enough watching what looked like a couple dozen bats swoop in and start circling the room. I stared up at them, feeling like I’d been caught in a rogue game of Jumanji, while Augustine cursed and Françoise grabbed the crazy woman who was still trying to destroy the gift-wrap station.

  Only to have her pull something out of her purse.

  “Where is your shield?” the brunette screeched, brandishing what looked suspiciously like a wand.

  “Get zat out of my face!” Françoise warned her.

  “Where is it? You have to have one!”

  “Get eet out right now, or I swear to you—”

  “No, I swear to you—”

  Françoise took the wand away from her and snapped it in two.

  “What the . . . how did . . . you bitch!”

  “Witch, actually.”

  “So am I!”

  “But not a very good one,” Françoise said smugly.

  And then the circling cloud dove, in a black, shrieking, speeding mass.

  I ducked, hands over my head, but it didn’t help. The next second I was surrounded by a crowd of fluttering things that weren’t bats, weren’t birds, weren’t anything I’d ever seen before, but were suddenly everywhere, including right in my face. And screeching something I couldn’t understand because they were all talking at once.

  “Don’t answer them!” the woman—the witch—was yelling. “I was here first. I was here first!”

  “CASSIE PALMER.”

  “CASSIE PALMER.”

  “CASSIE PALMER IS IN AUGUST—”

  “Cassie! Zees way!” Françoise called, and I threw myself behind the counter. The not-bats followed in a streaming mass, only to go up in flames when Françoise, who is a very, very good witch, threw a fireball at them.

  Of course, a mass of flapping, yelling, on-fire things is not exactly an improvement. But they didn’t appear to be much more substantial than Augustine’s origami. Because they disintegrated as I scurried out the other side of the counter, in puffs of ash that exploded in the air all around me.

  At least the outfit couldn’t get much worse, I thought, staring about.

  And then jerking back when I found myself facing one that had been smart enough to head round the other way.

  Up close, it looked less like a bat than an overlarge butterfly, since it had no body to speak of. Or even a head. Just a vertical slit of a mouth wedged in between two rapidly beating wings and yelling something.

  Until it was plucked out of the air and eaten by Deino, the sweetest of the Graeae, who wasn’t picky about her choice of snack.

  But this one didn’t go down so easily. In fact, this one didn’t go down at all. It stayed in her mouth, thrashing about and making her look like she was chewing on a wad of black bubble gum. Or talking in a really exaggerated way, because her jaw kept going up and down, up and down, with words spilling out, only Deino didn’t speak English.

  But somebody did.

  And now that there were only a few of the black things left, I could understand what they were saying.

  “Crystal Gazing here,” a woman’s voice said, from somewhere over my head. “Lady Cassandra, can you comment on the state of your relationship with the vampire senator Lord Mircea? You’re rumored to be lovers—”

  “The Oracle here,” a booming British voice interrupted, out of Deino’s mouth. “Our readers would like to know what, exactly, was the nature of the creature you fought and killed at your coronation two weeks ago—”

  “And why were you naked?” Crystal Gazing added eagerly. “Was it a ritual?”

  “—they would also appreciate confirmation on the identity of the creatures you fought in the lobby of this hotel last week,” the Oracle continued, speaking a little louder. “It has been speculated—”

  “Or maybe some kind of sex magic? Our readers did a poll—”

  “—that they were the personal guards of the demon high council—”

  “—and you were voted sexiest Pythia by a margin of almost three to one!”

  “But . . . but I’m the only Pythia,” I said as the brunette witch dragged me back.

  “Witch’s Companion here,” a tiny voice piped up, from somewhere behind me. “We were wondering if you could share a favorite recipe? Maybe a nice fall soup?”

  “It has been noted,” the Oracle thundered, “that they match the description of similar creatures glimpsed occasionally through time, and described by some of our most illustrious scholars—”

  “Hang your illustrious scholars!” the brunette witch growled, getting in between me and what, at a guess, were a bunch of magical microphones. “I’m telling you, I was here first!”

  “First to find her isn’t first to press,” Crystal Gazing’s avatar said condescendingly.

  “The Pythia’s first interview cannot be given to a rag like Graphology,” the Oracle agreed, despite the fact that Deino was trying to root it out with her tongue.

  “What?” The brunette bristled. “What did you just call—”

  “Rag,” Crystal Gazing repeated helpfully. “He called your paper a rag, dear.”

  “Or . . . or some decorating tips?” Witch’s Companion said, fluttering around hopefully. “We’re doing the fall cover on quilts—”

  “No more than it can to Crystal Gazing,” the Oracle continued pompously. “Which has no better quality of journalistic integrity than—”

  “I beg your pardon?” His companion no longer sounded so amused.

  “—the majority of American so-called newspapers—”

  “Just what are you implying?”

  “He’s calling your paper a rag, dear,” the brunette said acidly.

  Crystal Gazing bristled. “May I remind you that my paper has been in press longer than either of—”

  “Trash always sells. That does not make it any less trash.”

  “Bitch said what?” Crystal Gazing demanded. And then went up in flames when the brunette held a lighter under it.

  “More than one way to start a fire,” she told Françoise.

  “CASSIE PALMER.”

  “CASSIE PALMER.”

  “CASSIE PALMER IS IN—”

  “You’re a reporter?” I asked the brunette, pretty unnecessarily at this point.

  “What?” Augustine’s profile appeared over Enyo’s shoulder. The tallest and scariest of the sisters had slapped him on her back facing the other way so he couldn’t look directly at us.
But that didn’t stop him from trying. “Are you here to cover the fall line?”

  Everybody ignored him.

  “Not a reporter,” the brunette told me quickly. “Carla Torres—call me Carla—”

  “I have a few other suggestions,” Crystal Gazing muttered, from a burnt-up wad on the floor.

  “—senior editor for Graphology,” Carla said, smiling at me determinedly. And grinding the remains of the competition to powder underneath a stylish black heel. “A considerably better choice for you than that ridiculous tabloid Crystal Gazing, or that pompous British toady to the Circle—”

  “If you mean the Oracle,” Deino’s captive commented, “you could at least have the courage to say so.”

  “I thought I just did!”

  “And the girl?” I asked.

  “My daughter.” She shoved more frizzy hair out of her face. “You’re rumored to like children. I thought you might find a kid charming—”

  “That keed?” Françoise said, only to have the mother glare at her.

  “You couldn’t have just come up and introduced yourself?” I asked.

  “Oh yes!” Carla threw out her hands. “Yes! Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “With respect, what do you think we have been attempting to do for weeks now?” the Oracle asked, a little indistinctly, since Deino had managed to push it over into one cheek.

  “But you’re never in,” Carla said. “Or you’re never up! Or those damn vampires you live with find some other reason that ensures no access—”

  “And we were informed that you don’t have an appointment secretary yet,” the Oracle added, disapprovingly.

  “—so when I spotted you in that ridiculous disguise—”

  “It’s not a disguise,” I said.

  “—which might have fooled the others, I don’t know, but I’ve been doing little except staring at a picture of your face for weeks! I’d know you anywhere, and I’ve been camped out in this damn hotel for days. I barely sleep, I rarely see my family, and I strongly suspect I smell—”

  “I wasn’t going to mention eet,” Françoise murmured.

  “—but damn it! I will have that interview!”

  “Or perhaps a pie?” Witch’s Companion burbled. “We have our annual bake-off coming up, and we would love to feature an entry by—”