Reap the Wind (25 page)

I’d thought my biggest challenge would be getting to Wales. Once I had that potion, and we actually got all the way back to the
sixth freaking century
, I’d thought my job was done. And the damned thing is, it should have been. Pritkin should be back, this should be over, and I should be able to concentrate on other things.

So why wasn’t I?

“Maybe,” I said slowly. “But . . . I wouldn’t give any odds. You said Agnes asked it questions?”

She nodded again. “I’ve heard her say so many times.”

Hello, I thought, feeling slightly ridiculous.

Nothing.

“Hello?” I said, out loud, because what the hell.

More nothing.

I sighed again.

“I should know this. I should be able to help you!” Rhea said, looking about as frustrated and upset as I felt. Which wasn’t fair.

“You have helped me,” I told her. “You got the power’s warning to me when I was too tired to see it for myself. And you told me something tonight that I didn’t know, something important.” I smiled. “And it’s kind of hard to get answers when you don’t even know the questions. So thank you.”

She nodded, biting her lip. But she still looked miserable. “Here. Have a cookie,” I told her, passing over the plate. There was exactly one left. She looked at it and then at me. And then she ate it.

And finally smiled back, because there was nothing Tami’s cooking couldn’t fix.

The riverbank was fuzzy, indistinct, like daylight seen through fog. It matched the sky above me and the river beneath me, but not the man in front of me. He was all too real as he squatted down or went to his knees or did something that caused most of his body to disappear underwater.

Except for the golden head, which ended up on a level with my gently floating body.

And the warm hands that slid, water slick, between my thighs.

I could feel his twin at my back, slipping an identical pair of hands beneath my hips, lifting and supporting them at the same time. Although the river was already doing that, so I didn’t see why he needed—

A pink tongue flickered out, tasting the beads of water on my inner thigh.

Oh.

That was why.

A question I didn’t need a translation for appeared in a pair of green eyes. And stayed there as more water was slowly licked away with each drag of his tongue. Lower calf became upper, became knee, became behind the knee, and I should stop him, I thought; I should stop him now.

But I didn’t want to stop him now. He’d started to feel like a mirage, there one minute and gone the next, or like a ghost, only less real because ghosts came back. But he was here now, warm and alive and catching my gaze again, his own burning hot even with his lips curved in a grin, like he was laughing and asking and daring me, all at the same time.

This was what Rosier took away from him, I thought. The chance to be this carefree—he never would be again. The chance to explore who he was, what he was, instead of being told. The chance to develop free of the creature who was never around when he was younger and needed him, but was the first to show up when he started giving evidence that he might be useful.

Twenty-four years. He’d had twenty-four years. And then fighting and running and . . . God, I knew exactly what that felt like!

Only no, I didn’t. Because I’d never even had that. I’d been brought up in a place where walking on eggshells was everyday life; where a madman ruled over a personal fiefdom and could have people killed at any moment; where there was no choice about anything, from what I wore to what I ate to how I used my gift, and no freedom, no freedom at all.

Until I took it, or thought I did, and ran away. But to what? Years of paranoia, of living with the idea that that madman would find me again, any minute. Of watching everything I said and everything I did and still jumping at shadows, because he might be in them.

I hadn’t even been able to dance at the club where I worked part-time, because I had to keep an eye on the door. Tons of people my age came every night to laugh and talk and enjoy themselves. And to let loose, just for a little while . . . but not me. Never me. What if I let loose and it was the night one of Tony’s boys showed up? What if I got too carried away and didn’t see him? What if he saw me first? What if, what if, what if?

I’d been young, but I couldn’t act like it; I’d been free but only in name.

God, I really had been the perfect Pythian candidate, hadn’t I?

Warm breath ghosted over me, heating me in ways breath had no right to. Stop him, some still slightly rational part of my brain was demanding. Stop him now!

But then Agnes’ apartment flashed across my mind, so perfect, so pristine. Of course it was. There’d been no husband there to come home and kick off his shoes, had there? To throw his jacket and whatever all over the sofa. No children to scatter mess around, and leave toys in the middle of the floor for everybody to trip over. Not even a dog. Just a perfectly kept apartment full of exactly no one, not even quiet-voiced initiates half the time.

Where were the others? Where was her
life
?

But then, Pythias didn’t get a life, did they? Pythias got responsibilities and protocol and politics and the job. And I suddenly didn’t know if I could live like that, not again, not forever.

Of course, I didn’t really have a choice, did I?

Only, suddenly, I did.

And I didn’t want him to stop.

And for some reason, that little revelation shocked me to my core. Or no—I guess that had been surprise. Shock was when a mouth suddenly closed over me.

Not a mouth, some small voice corrected.
His
mouth. Warm and wet and echoed by an identical one at my breast. And so very different from that other time, the one I’d tried really hard to forget. That desperate, life-or-death time when he’d been so careful, deliberately holding himself back.

He wasn’t being careful now.

He wasn’t being careful at all, I thought, arching up. And why would he be? None of the stuff that had messed him up had happened yet. Hell, maybe he didn’t even know what he was doing, didn’t know what he was. Probably just thought it felt good and gave his power a boost, and it wasn’t like I was screaming and running up the riverbank—

Okay, I wasn’t running up the riverbank, I corrected, and sank my teeth into my lower lip to stop the noises I’d been making.

But he didn’t seem to like that. Or maybe he took it as a challenge. He growled against my skin, against me, and a rush of sensation flooded over my body, another of those warm tidal waves. A tongue swept around me, hands clenched beneath me, and the prick of fangs scraped across—

Fangs?

I looked down the length of my body, blinking, and dark, dark eyes lifted to meet mine.

“You have an interesting fantasy life, dulceat¸a˘.”

I stared back for a heart-stopping second, and then a surge of panic hit me, like a bucket of ice water. The cocooning warmth receded into cold, stark terror, the languor became agitated thrashing,
and a moment later I almost drowned in the tub I guess I’d fallen asleep in. Because I surfaced gasping and panting and making weird squeaky noises at Roy and the group of vamps that burst in through the door a second later.

And who didn’t get an explanation before I threw the loofah at them and yelled, “Shut the door!”

•   •   •

Okay, it took me a little longer to calm down that time. I’d managed to rinse off, to wash the bubbles out of my hair, and to drain the tub before I was calm enough to think. And to tell myself that I was being ridiculous, that it was just a dream. A mish-mash of that scene in Wales, fear of ending up like Agnes, and incubus-induced horniness that, yeah, was about the last thing I needed right now.

It all made sense, as much as dreams ever did.

Wide, worried blue eyes stared back at me out of the brand-new bathroom mirror. They didn’t look like they believed me. They kind of looked spooked, which was ironic considering that I was a clairvoyant and dealt with ghosts all the time.

“It was a
dream
,” I told my reflection out loud, and started rubbing cold cream onto my face. Those hadn’t been Mircea’s eyes at the end, hadn’t been his voice, hadn’t been anything except my overactive imagination. Just my brain playing tricks on me. Although why that particular trick, I didn’t know.

Mircea wasn’t worried about Pritkin. Why should he be? When Pritkin wasn’t getting dragged off to hell or back through time, he was my bodyguard. And self-appointed drill sergeant. And official nag. He yelled at me about what I ate, how much I exercised, and anytime I ended up in danger, even if it wasn’t my fault. He frequently gave Marco a run for his money in the let’s-pile-on-Cassie department; he sure as hell wasn’t whispering sweet nothings into my ear.

I wasn’t even sure the man I knew remembered how. In fact, most of the incubi I’d met had badly needed a dose of charm school—why they didn’t all starve was beyond me. And, of course, Pritkin
did
; he didn’t have a choice, thanks to his father’s prohibition.

But that was before he was dragged off to hell, a sly inner voice corrected. His father was able to snatch him back
because
he broke their deal. And had demon sex with you.

It wasn’t sex, I thought irritably. It wasn’t anything like sex. It was nothing more than he’d done in Amsterdam—giving me energy when I was all but out. It was his bastard of a father who had decided to count it as something more.

Because it was something more, wasn’t it? In the demon world—

We weren’t in the demon world! And I counted it as what it was—an energy donation. Like I’d done for him a couple of—

You’re not helping your case.

Damn it! I set the cold cream jar down harder than necessary. There were only so many ways to save an incubus’ life, and I hadn’t been about to let Pritkin die on me! Not when most of the time he ended up half dead
because
of me. So I’d donated energy a few times to help him heal. It was no different from feeding a vampire, and I did that all the time!

You
used to
do that all the time, my inner critic corrected. You don’t do it now. Because feeding had a sexual undertone in the vampire world, too, and Mircea prohibited anyone else from biting you. How would he react if he knew—

He didn’t know! There was nothing
to
know. Pritkin never so much as touched me if he could help it. It was like being trained by a freaking ninja monk—

Was until recently, my little voice said. But wasn’t he different when you found him in hell?

I picked up the comb and started attacking the bird’s nest on my head. No, I thought angrily. He hadn’t been. He hadn’t even been glad to see me. He’d been . . . Pritkin. Just like on that damned hillside that night.

I’d been dying, injured in a fight I’d expected to lose but had somehow won, if winning meant that I was going to die later than the other guy. But Pritkin had reached me just in time and basically did the same thing he’d done in Amsterdam. And gave me some of his energy, thereby saving my life—and losing his own in the process.

At least the meaningful parts of it. Because Rosier had a damned loose definition of what constituted sex, and by the impossible standards he’d imposed on Pritkin, a mutual feeding was close enough. Pritkin had broken the taboo, and been abruptly snatched away to hell, and I’d been left screaming on a hillside with only one thought in mind: go get him.

And I had. I’d had no idea how to get into hell, or what to do once I got there. And my power didn’t work well outside of earth, if at all. But I’d gone anyway. And then, when I finally found him, when I tracked him down across entire
worlds
, what had he done?

Yelled at me and threw me off a balcony!

And that was after reading me the riot act for daring to come after him in the first place. I’d ruined his selfless gesture, and he’d been
pissed
, although not half as much as I had been. Damned infernal mage. Didn’t know why I bothered sometimes—

But after that, my little voice reminded me. After you two escaped Rosier’s court and ended up in front of the demon council. After all the drama was over and you were awaiting the verdict that would either free him or condemn him, hadn’t he acted differently? Hadn’t he acted like he wanted
to
say something
?

I scowled. He’d been under a massive amount of stress. He knew the council better than I did, knew the odds. He’d tried to tell me, but I hadn’t listened. I’d been so sure they’d see reason. Didn’t they know we were fighting the same enemies? Didn’t they see that I
needed
him?

But no. They’d spent centuries with their heads so far up their own asses that they couldn’t see anything. They’d killed him. They’d killed him right there in front of me, and then acted like it was no big deal, like I should have expected it. But I hadn’t expected it, and if Adra hadn’t decided he might need me, and given me that counterspell—

Yes, yes, that’s very nice. Very scary, my inner voice mocked. I’m sure you’d have taken on the big, bad demon council all by your little self. But that isn’t the point, is it? Pritkin wanted to tell you something, and it had almost sounded like—

He hadn’t wanted to tell me shit! He’d known there was a better-than-average chance they were going to kill him. He hadn’t known what he was saying!

Or maybe he hadn’t cared, my little voice insisted slyly. Maybe he’d decided it didn’t matter anymore. That if he was going to be killed anyway, he might as well—

Goddamnit! There was nothing going on between us!

And yet you dreamed about him tonight.

I glared at my reflection, and it glared back. Defiantly. Even a little smug. Like it thought it had made some kind of irrefutable point, and honestly, sometimes I thought this job was driving me crazy.

I put down the comb before I ended up bald.

So what if I dreamed about him? I couldn’t be held responsible for what I dreamed. And anyway, Mircea didn’t know. And even if he did—

If he did? My inner voice prompted. Because my inner voice doesn’t know when to call it a freaking
night.

My fingers dropped to the two small bumps on my neck, vestiges of the evening that had started with a spell gone wrong and ended with a half-crazed master vampire. Who did what half-crazed vamps tend to do and bit me. Only it hadn’t been a normal bite.

I swallowed, and felt the tiny bumps move under my fingertips. They weren’t the blood-dripping gashes of the movies. They might easily have been mistaken for pimples by a human, if anybody noticed them at all. Which was unlikely since they weren’t even red anymore. Just two bits of raised skin, hardly anything . . .

Unless you were a vampire.

To a vampire, they were a flashing neon sign that said
hold up, back off, take a moment and rethink your life
. Because this one is taken, and by a senator, no less. Who will destroy you and everything you love if you so much as look at her too long.

Or, at least, that’s what I’d been told they meant. I had a hard time visualizing it, because I didn’t see that side of him. Yes, I knew Senate members didn’t get the job of supervising a society of “blood-sucking fiends,” as Rosier had called them, by being nice. But that wasn’t my Mircea. My Mircea was laughing eyes and silky hair and knowing hands and quick wits. . . .