Reap the Wind (18 page)

That would have been bad enough, even with a glamourie. But the one Pritkin had used to hide us had vanished. And then the fey caught sight of us, because of course they did—we were just standing there out in the open like a couple of crazy people!

A second later, those glowing spears were flashing into hands all around and my hand was tightening on Pritkin’s, because screw this, I’d rather deal with Cherries!

Only I wasn’t going to be.

Because my power didn’t work.

I tried again, and then again. But the result was the same, because I was still too tapped out from the massive shift it had taken to get here. And it didn’t look like Pritkin had another glamourie in him based on his expression, which was a little frantic and a little desperate and a lot scared.

And then amorous and passionate and naughty, in turns, as three more Pritkins suddenly ran past us, chasing three more Cassies. Followed quickly by maybe a dozen more. And then a second dozen, and maybe a third for all I could tell—I didn’t have time to count them. But there were a lot.

Because Pritkin might not be able to make more glamouries right now, but he didn’t need to, did he?

He had a whole crowd of them already.

A crowd we were now in the middle of.

Suddenly, instead of standing alone and exposed on the riverbank, we were surrounded by a large group of carnal clones. Half of whom were still trying to have sex with the other half, and the rest who were looking with lascivious intent at the fey. It was like Woodstock had come to Wales.

Until they broke, scattering in all directions, and we broke along with them. And I guess even fey eyesight had a problem telling one of those jiggling, bouncing, shrieking duos apart. Because they scattered, too, running after us, only that was the collective “us,” leaving only a couple on the right trail.

But a couple was more than enough, so we ran, too, straight down the bank and into the carnage. On all sides, fey were systematically slaughtering every happy humper they came across, including the ones wearing my face. I had the surreal sight of my own severed head bouncing back down the incline before it popped like a balloon filled with steam.

And then we were into the trees and under cover.

Running through a forest naked is not fun. Running through it naked with homicidal crazies after you, throwing energy blasts that turn trees into stinging rain, is terrifying. Although it really helps you to ignore the whipping branches lashing your skin and the stones bruising your feet and the fact that bark hurts like a bitch when you run into it.

But we pelted full speed ahead anyway, trying to get as far as possible while the fey were preoccupied. And it looked like we just might make it, because the fakes didn’t have adrenaline on their side, which slowed them down and made them easier targets. But that also meant they weren’t going to last long.

Which was why I pulled back hard when Pritkin suddenly broke to the left.

“No, no—this way!” I told him, because I didn’t know Wales, but I knew enough to run
away
from the fire.

But Pritkin wasn’t listening to me, which would probably be true even if he could have understood, because “stubborn” wasn’t the guy’s middle name, it was his whole philosophy of
life
, and that was usually really irritating but was now about to get us
killed.

Like when a tree burst apart nearby, sending fiery limbs and pieces of trunk everywhere. And would have sent them into us if we hadn’t thrown ourselves behind an even bigger one. And then I stopped arguing and just ran, because anything was better than here!

We pelted behind the mill and then kept on going, splashing through the river, back toward where Pritkin had been when I first saw him. We were too close to the general mayhem for comfort, and the wind was blowing smoke the other way, making us a lot more visible suddenly. But at least most of the fey were on the other bank, since the ones on this side had waded across in an attempt to catch us.

And right now, if I never saw another fey, it would be too soon.

I finally figured out where we were going when we reached the ghillie suit and Pritkin’s abandoned clothes. I was surprised that an incubus would be shy, but maybe finding a place to hide would be easier if we weren’t flashing the natives. Only Pritkin wasn’t getting dressed. Pritkin was searching around under the clothes and then throwing them aside, looking increasingly frantic. And then spotting something off to the side, something that was half buried by weeds, something that looked a lot like—

“A stick?” I stared at the ugly thing, which was a homelier version of Rosier’s walking stick. Except it must have fallen into a fire at some point, because it was not only cracked and missing part of one end, but also charred almost black. Only Pritkin was gripping it like it was made of pure gold. “We came back for
that
?”

Pritkin saw my expression and shook his head. And said a bunch of rapid-fire stuff that I couldn’t understand. And then thrust the thing at me, along with its coating of mud, which he was wiping away as his finger ran along its length, tracing a line of—

Well, I guess it was writing, only it wasn’t anything I could read. It wasn’t even in an alphabet I recognized, more rune-y, all hard, sharp angles and deep, angry lines. At least they looked angry to me, but maybe I was projecting.

“We could have been half a mile away by now!” I whispered furiously.

But Pritkin was shaking his head again. And gesturing at the opposite side of the river. And then back at the stick. And then back at the river.

Or no, I finally realized as light belatedly dawned.

Not at the river.

At the creatures on the other side of it.

“You . . . you stole their . . . you stole their
stick
?” I asked, incredulous.

But of course, Pritkin didn’t understand.

So I gestured at them. And then at the stick. And then at him, and—

And he was nodding and smiling.
Smiling.

“Are you
crazy?”

Okay, less smiling now. And more of hand clenching on said useless piece of—

“Give it back!”

But Pritkin wasn’t going to give it back. I didn’t need to be fluent in whatever they spoke in sixth-century Wales to know that. It was in the line of his jaw, the glint in his eye . . . the way he suddenly took off running.

Goddamnit!

I ran after him, and actually managed to tackle him because he’d suddenly hit the dirt—why, I didn’t know. Until I looked up. And saw a couple fey sauntering by the bank above, not rushing, almost casual. Like they were taking an afternoon stroll, enjoying the forest fire.

And coming within a couple yards of us.

God, I thought wildly, I’d never been so grateful for weeds in my
life.

We waited, motionless, until they’d passed by, a minute lasting what felt like an hour. And then another minute, Pritkin tense and alert, fingers digging into my arm where he gripped me, breathing fast but quiet. Because yeah, this side wasn’t so deserted, after all.

And then we ran up the bank and across the patchy undergrowth at the top, across a terrifying open space and then into another tree line on the far side. Where we stopped, breathing hard and listening. But there was nothing—nothing except the distant crackle of fire, the chirrup of a pissed-off bird, and the sigh of the wind through the treetops.

And the almost silent footfalls of another fey we hadn’t seen, not until we ended up practically right on top of him.

Pritkin slammed us back against a tree, but it was too late. The fey had seen us, and the next moment, the canteen in his hand hit the dirt, and a glowing spear replaced it. And I tried to shift, tried hard, because it was now or never. But it wasn’t happening. I was too exhausted or too freaked out, or probably a combination of both, and did it matter when we were about to be roasted alive?

But then something changed in the air around us, something powerful. It felt like a rush of wind, but not like the kind that was tossing the treetops around. But hot, hot, almost searing, like something straight off a desert. Yet it managed to send a wash of goose bumps shivering up my body anyway, furling my nipples and wrenching a cry from my throat.

And I suddenly noticed something else weird.

The fact that the fey was just standing there.

It wasn’t because he didn’t see us. He was looking right at us, lit spear in hand, only he wasn’t throwing it. He wasn’t doing anything, in fact, except blinking. And then casting a quick glance over his shoulder.

But there was no one there. And when he turned his attention back on us, the spear abruptly faded out of sight. Because he thought we were a couple of happy, naked hippies, I realized, one of the fakes he’d been destroying for the last fifteen minutes along with his buddies.

Only his buddies weren’t here now. And he was hot and probably tired. And suddenly seemed a lot less interested in continuing the wild-goose chase than in . . .

Than in watching the show, I realized, my heart beginning to pound.

Pritkin’s hand abruptly clenched on my thigh.

His back was to the tree trunk; mine was to him. So I couldn’t see his face. But I didn’t need it.

I didn’t need it to know that he was giving me the choice.

The body behind me was tense, the arms flexed, prepared for a contest if it came to it. And for all I knew, Pritkin could take a single fey. My Pritkin could have.

But this wasn’t my Pritkin. And this one didn’t have hundreds of years of fighting experience. Or weapons. And after everything, his magic had to be redlining if it wasn’t already there.

And even if he managed it, even if he won, he might well lose, because this place was crawling with fey. If this one got off a single cry, we’d have another dozen down on us in a moment, and we couldn’t handle that. We couldn’t handle half of that.

I slowly reached up and put a hand behind Pritkin’s neck.

The fey picked up his canteen and leaned against a tree.

And another rush of sensation flooded over my body like a warm tidal wave.

A callused hand found my breast, and the breeze blowing across the water became a warm, dragging caress. It smoothed down my stomach, and the dappled light sifting through the treetops hit my skin like golden coins, holding warmth and weight. It dipped between my thighs, and the light burst apart into a thousand individual suns.

My hair was all in my face; the fey couldn’t have seen much of my expression. Which was just as well. Because I doubt stunned disbelief was the expected response when Pritkin began to explore, gently at first, questing, searching. And then becoming more assertive as he learned what made me shiver. And shudder. And arch back, a flood of goose bumps cascading up and down my body.

I cried out, and the forest shattered around us. Colors, already brilliant in the lead-up to sunset, exploded like strobes were behind them. They flooded into the air like mist; blues shimmered, greens were slick and wet, golds
hurt
. And they all sent spikes and waves of pleasure everywhere they touched, soaking into my skin, making the treetops whirl in a kaleidoscope of sensation and emotion and—

And it was too much. I cried out, writhing back against him, and would have fallen except for the hands on my body. Their grip tightened, holding me up when I would have drowned in sensation, drowned and not cared because God, and help, and please, and
God
.

And then a new hand gripped me, wrenching me away. Throwing me to the ground while my head was still spinning, my body was still shuddering, spell-induced euphoria making me laugh. Laugh even when I was kicked over onto my back, when my legs were pried apart, when a face I didn’t know hovered over mine—

And was suddenly jerked back.

By the staff in Pritkin’s hands, the one he’d slipped around the fey’s throat.

But the man—the fey—wasn’t trying to get away. He wasn’t attempting to throw Pritkin off. He wasn’t doing anything I’d have expected while his face reddened and his eyes popped and his tongue began to swell.

Because he was still coming for me.

And he continued to come, to reach, to claw, even as I sobered up, sobered up fast, and scrambled back out of reach, sweating and shivering and staring—

But not as much as when he suddenly blinked and stared around, disoriented, his hands coming up to grasp the stick. Which almost immediately began to move away from his neck because the fey were strong; they were so damned strong. And then I was back on my feet, breathing hard, unsure how to help, before scrambling for the fey’s discarded pack, hoping for a knife—

Which I didn’t get. Because another wave of incubus power hit, as Pritkin struggled to reestablish control. And this one was less like a fist than a freight train, sending me back to the ground, writhing under a wash of sensation too strong for pleasure, too euphoric for pain.

The next few seconds were a blur of contradictory images: The fey’s lust-filled face hovering over mine, once more focused and determined. The grass licking my skin, like a thousand tiny tongues. The sound of the carnage across the river, cries and screams and shouted commands. The smell of wood smoke, rich and pungent.

The crunch of neck bones, soft and subtle, but as loud as a gunshot in my ears.

I wasn’t sure—I was never sure—if Pritkin had done it. Or if the fey had done it himself by pushing against the restraint, still reaching out as he toppled over, the purple face still staring, the dead eyes still wide and fixed—

On me.

And even with the muffling effect of the spell, it was too much. I felt a scream building, felt it clawing its way up my throat, felt Pritkin pull me back against him, his hand over my mouth, his lips whispering something I couldn’t hear and wouldn’t have understood if I did, probably
don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream
in whatever language they spoke here.

But I was doing it anyway, almost soundlessly against the pressure of his palm, screaming and screaming and screaming, even as he dragged me away, deeper into the forest.

Only that didn’t work too well with the trees shaking all around me, like someone using a camcorder who doesn’t know how. But you can steady a camcorder, and I couldn’t seem to steady myself. Or to stop the sensory overload or whatever had me suddenly able to taste colors and smell sounds and touch light and shadow as if they were tangible things.

Pritkin pulled me through an Alice in Wonderland–type forest filled with familiar things that suddenly made no sense: trees recognizable only by their height, ground just a huge thing that tilted under my feet like a carnival ride, sky an expanse so immense I couldn’t look at it, couldn’t look, not without feeling like I might fall into it and go mad.

Only I was sort of feeling that way anyway.

And instead of better, the sensory distortion was getting worse, and getting worse fast, along with a gut-twisting craving I couldn’t identify, but that had my hands shaking and my skin chilling one second and flushing hotly the next. I looked at my hand and thought I could see actual steam rising from it, an orange-red haze so bright, so bright against the darkened forest that I could only stare.

The branches that we pushed through lashed my body like a hundred little whips. They painted my skin with lines of fire, hot and peppery. Until the sound, the taste, the scent of them swirled up around me with every new stroke, leaving me writhing under their pain-filled touch in a different sort of ecstasy.

Pritkin stopped abruptly, and I ran into him. And discovered that I hadn’t known ecstasy at all. My front connected with his back, and he felt so good, so good I couldn’t believe it. All the other impressions faded, leaving just this: just smooth, warm, rigid, flexing under my hands. Salt under my tongue. Musk in my nose from the sweat I was still trying to lick off when somebody pulled me away, when somebody else wrapped me in a coat, when they separated us.

Pritkin was cursing. I couldn’t understand the words, but the sounds spoke right to my brain, like the sounds of scuffling. He was fighting them; who was he fighting? I didn’t know, couldn’t tell. Just knew that I missed him, that I needed to get back to him, that I had to touch—

I found him again—I have no idea how. I was all but blind, my eyes working but not seeing, my senses so overwhelmed they had practically shorted out, my head reeling and steps faltering—