Embrace the Night

Chapter 14

I slipped inside Pritkin's room the next morning, on a mission to find that rune I'd promised Radella, and stopped dead. I'd expected it to be a quick search; for some reason, I'd assumed he would keep his belongings in military precision. Only this wasn't it.

The bed was still unmade from whenever he'd slept in it last, and clothes were strewn on the floor like a hurricane had just blown through. And he'd been right—it did, indeed, have an odor. But I was less inclined to blame its onetime residents for that than the vile-smelling potions that lined a shelf on one wall.

The rickety-looking contraption was directly above the bed, something that would have worried me, since most of the substances he carried around were lethal. Still, I supposed he hadn't had a lot of choice. The opposite wall was taken up with a closet, the one facing into the club by a door and the one looking out over one side of the casino by a huge stained-glass window.

The windows were Dante's trademark, and I guess the designers had situated this one behind the dressing rooms because its Gothic splendor didn't go too well with the bar's tiki theme. But the result of such a huge window in such a small space was a room completely bathed in jewel tones: ruby, sapphire, emerald and pearl. They stained the comforter in watery, diffuse shades and splashed the floor with pools of light. I'd have found it pretty hard to get any sleep myself, but at least the subject suited him: a group of soldiers waving antique weaponry.

I reluctantly went to work, and was soon wondering more about what I didn't find than what I did. Along with some wadded-up T-shirts and enough firepower to conquer a small country, I found several pairs of jeans, a new pair of tennis shoes, a few basic toiletries and some socks still in their packages. All of said purchases bought in haste by a guy who wasn't dressing to impress. He was just replacing necessities that, presumably, couldn't be reached because he didn't dare to return to his apartment. With the Circle after him for a couple dozen reasons, most having to do with helping me, I didn't blame him there. But it still didn't explain where the wardrobe for his alter ego was stashed.

I finally picked up a small wooden case on the nightstand. I'd deliberately left it for last, hoping that I'd find the rune tucked into a sock and not need to pry into something that practically screamed personal. If I hadn't needed the damn thing so badly, I'd have been out of there like a shot. As it was, I reluctantly opened the lid.

There was no rune in sight, just a few yellowing letters and a badly faded photograph. The woman it depicted was wearing a dark hat and a high-necked dress that made her face stand out like a pale thumbprint. It was pretty indistinct, but she looked young, with regular features and light-colored eyes. She was pretty, I decided—or would have been if she'd been smiling.

I turned the box over, but if there were any hidden compartments, I couldn't find them. It was just a plain pine rectangle, without even a lining that anything could have been hidden under. I flipped the photo over. It had a studio's name on the back: J. Johnstone, Birmingham.

Pritkin had mentioned once that he'd lived in Victorian England, which made him a hell of a lot older than his thirtysomething appearance, but what with the fighting and the running and the almost dying, I'd never gotten around to asking him about it. And he'd never mentioned any family. I didn't know if the picture might be his mother, his sister or even a daughter. I realized with surprise that although I could have written a book about the mage, I didn't know much about the man at all.

Billy drifted through the door, interrupting my thoughts. "Did you get it?" I asked eagerly. He spread empty hands and I sighed. I put the letters back unread—a quick feel had been enough to show that the rune hadn't been tucked into one—and centered the box carefully back on its square of dust-free wood. "What now?"

Billy gave me a look. "You know what now. You searched this room; I ransacked the den downstairs. And he wouldn't stash something that valuable just anywhere. He's got it on him."

It was worst-case scenario, so of course that had to be it. "How are your pickpocket skills?"

"Depends on whether he's paying attention. I lifted a rune for you once before, but only because you two were so busy yelling at each other that he didn't notice. You'll need to cause a distraction."

Great. Normally, picking a fight with the ever prickly mage wouldn't have been a problem, but now…“I don't think so," I said fervently.

"Then you may want to get gone, 'cause I passed him on my way here."

I stared at Billy blankly for a second, then what he'd said registered and I lunged for the door. It was exactly the wrong thing to do, especially when I could have shifted, but I panicked. The knob turned under my hand and, before I could breathe, I was back on the bed, a hard chest pinning me down and a knife at my throat.

I blinked nervously up at the mage, his face splashed with color from the rainbow spilling over the bed. Blue light limned his pale hair and caught on his cheekbones, making him look oddly alien for a moment. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

The cold edge of the blade had dented my skin, disturbingly close to the jugular. I swallowed. "Trying not to move?"

Pritkin pulled away, scowling, the knife disappearing almost magically. "You should have given me some warning if you planned to come 'round. What if I had rigged a snare?"

I didn't answer, being too busy trying to figure out why, yet again, he looked so different. He shrugged out of the old brown leather coat, revealing a sun-faded green T-shirt and a pair of jeans. The jeans were pale blue, worn thin and smooth as silk, and loose enough to barely cling to the muscular swell of his hips. They were, in other words, the exact opposite of tight and black. His hair had also lost the spiky trendiness from the lobby. It appeared freshly washed, with bangs that needed a trim flopping into his eyes. The rest of him should have followed it into the shower: there were dark smudges all over his arms, popping the veins into relief, and one along his cheekbone.

"What have you been doing?" I asked, sitting up.

"Researching."

"In a coal mine?"

"Obscure magical texts are seldom found on hygienic computer files. Now, would you like to explain why you're here?"

I looked away before answering, having a hard time separating the regular, everyday Pritkin with the ill-fitting coat and the stupid haircut from the man who had kissed me. "I thought you'd be pleased to see me, after that scene in the lobby."

"What are you talking about?"

I didn't reply, having just registered a fact that felt important. As usual, Pritkin's T-shirt was crisscrossed with belts, sheaths and holsters. The guy was a walking arsenal, with almost every kind of portable weapon known to man. Except for one.

"You don't carry a sword," I said, something clicking in my brain.

Pritkin turned from hanging his coat in the closet, and Billy flowed over to begin ransacking it. I just hoped he did it quietly. "I don't need one, remember?"

I stared at him for a second, then leapt off the bed and grabbed him. I spun him around, trying to pull his shirt up at the same time. "What the—"

"Hold still," I said, struggling to get the buckles and straps undone, half of which seemed to have been designed simply to drive me nuts. Most of my adrenaline surges lately had resulted from life-or-death situations; it was a little disorienting to feel the same response to something that might actually be positive. But my heart had sped up until I could feel it in my throat and my hands were suddenly too clumsy to do the job. "Take your shirt off," I ordered, trying to keep my voice steady.

He turned, a half-quizzical, half-angry expression on his face. But to my surprise he didn't argue, stripping to the waist quickly and efficiently. I turned him back around and saw what I'd expected: a spill of bright color, gold and silver and rich blue-black, running from his shoulder down the length of one side.

My fingertips traced the slightly raised edges of the design, down warm skin and hard muscle, until stopped by the waistband of his jeans. I'd been a fool not to think of it before, especially as I'd watched part of it being carved into his skin. Pritkin didn't need to carry a sword anymore. He already had one, in the shape of a magical tattoo that manifested as a weapon whenever he chose.

"Thinking of getting another tat?" he asked, his voice oddly tight.

I didn't answer. His arm was braced against the wall, making the muscles stand out, and his back was tense. There was something mesmerizing about all that caged power so ruthlessly leashed, all that coiled strength so docile under my hands.

I watched two of my fingers dip below the loose, frayed waistband, still following the edge of the blade. The silky denim was warm from his body, and it gave way easily, baring a slight dimple just below the small of his back. I guess I knew why there hadn't been any underwear with his purchases, I thought hazily, as my fingers abandoned the sword to trace the tiny depression.

Pritkin suddenly spun and caught my wrist. "Careful," he said roughly. "Or have you forgotten what that geis of yours can do?"

And that was another mystery. There had been no warning rush of power in the lobby and there was none now, although there certainly should have been. Pritkin released me and I sat back down, feeling too warm and slightly disoriented. I couldn't seem to stop staring at his chest. The hair grew thick and dark gold over his biceps, but thinned to a dusky trail running down his stomach before disappearing below the jeans. It looked soft against all those hard muscles, and way too inviting.

I swallowed. "We have a problem."

Pritkin snorted. "Only one? That would be a change."

I flopped backwards, exhausted from the implications. Pritkin hadn't been Saleh's killer, hadn't been the man in the lobby, wasn't—probably—a traitor. I had my strongest ally back, but I also had a mysterious doppelgänger with murder and seduction in mind. And he seemed to have a definite knack for both.

I could see colors through my eyelids, vermilion, azure and jade, the window's hues filtered through flesh. They were suddenly blocked by a dark shape. I opened my eyes to find Pritkin glaring at me from far too close for comfort. "You are going to tell me exactly what is going on," he said grimly. "Right now."

And just like that, all the feelings from the lobby came back with a rush. Don't even think about it, I told myself sternly as my hand reached up to cup his face. My fingers ignored me, dragging across soft skin and crisp stubble, turning his head to the perfect angle for a kiss. Maybe this was what schizophrenia was like, I thought, my body screaming «forward» while my brain ordered it to stay still. My brain lost.

Before I made the conscious decision, I felt my lips brush his. Although I suspected he was cursing mentally, his body didn't seem to be listening to his brain any better than mine. The muscles under my hand were hard as iron, but he didn't pull away. And after a startled second, he gripped the nape of my neck and kissed me back.

I let my hands settle into his hair, which wasn't just gravity-defying but thick and sleek and soft, and wonderful to stroke through. Only I didn't get much of a chance, because Pritkin kissed like he did everything else, straightforward, accepting no prisoners and with an intensity that left me breathless. It was hot and hard and desperate, like he was starving for it, and I opened my mouth and took it, because, God.

"You bastard," I gasped, when we finally broke apart. "I knew you were cheating!" The taste of coffee had been rich and bitter in his mouth.

"Miss Palmer—"

"I'm lying in your bed. You just kissed me senseless. I think you can risk using my first name."

"I'm risking enough as it is," he muttered.

I let my fingers dig into the hard muscles of his shoulders. His skin was warm and slightly damp from the heat of the coat, and completely hypnotic. I traced the gentle ridges of scar tissue on his shoulder, the skin slick and too smooth, where something with claws had gotten a few into him. He was an enigma, John Pritkin: a mad scientist with gun calluses and old scars and even more secrets than me.

My hands followed the swell of muscle down his arms, stroking across hard biceps, gliding lower to caress the silken skin at the inner bend of his elbow. I couldn't count the number of times I'd felt a crackle of energy when we got close, but apparently touching with intent made it just that much more—

"Cassie."

"Well, you went and did it now," I said dreamily. "Guess I'll have to start calling you John."

"This isn't a good idea." His voice was strained, but he didn't pull away. I took that for permission and slipped my arms between his, running my hands down the powerful back, feeling the flesh give and spring back, warm and resilient. Stop it, I told my hands sternly. They ignored me in favor of exploring the sleek, fascinating curve of his spine. They found the loose waistband, the warm skin, the taut muscle and the same dimple that had fascinated me earlier. I had to stroke, just a little, and Pritkin's eyes suddenly went dark jade.

"I never asked if you have an evil twin," I said vaguely. "Do you?"

He blinked. "Why?"

I tried to tell him, but I seemed to be having trouble getting enough oxygen. It was as if part of him rode the air around us, like I took him inside me with every breath. I buried my face in the curls on his chest, feeling them against my cheek, thick and warm, like his arousal pressed against my thigh.

His hands hit the bed forcefully and his face filled my vision, its expression desperate rather than angry. "Listen to me! There's something wrong. What did you mean about the lobby?" His voice poured over me, the words indistinct and meaningless. I raked my nails down his chest to the tender skin of his stomach, and a shivery below-the-skin rush of power followed every movement.

It was with a feeling of distant shock that I felt him wrench away, the colder air of the room swirling between us where there had been only moist warmth before. At the same moment, the light from the window suddenly intensified, like a floodlight had gone on behind it. It drowned the room in a color so rich, so loud, that it was almost sound.

The crimsons in the stained glass glowed until they seemed to break off, floating away from the rest of the design in a firework display of red and gold. They coalesced over the bed in a sparkling cloud of light that had a strangely familiar shape. I'd seen something like it once before, but that one had been a pale reflection of this shimmering golden haze.

"All that power, and in such a pretty package. It really is irresistible." The voice seemed to come from the air itself, whispering along my skin like a breeze.

Pritkin's head snapped up, pure rage distorting his features. "I knew it!"

"What is it?" Pritkin and the voice both ignored me. Or maybe I didn't say it aloud; I wasn't sure anymore. Everything looked the way it does after a faint: all odd angles and meaningless patterns, and blood was rushing in my ears like an incoming tide.

"You will not have her!" Pritkin snarled.

Soft laughter echoed through the room. "Who said anything about me?"

The glowing veil drifted down onto the mage, making him look as if his skin had been drenched in glitter. He screamed, there was no other word for it, and it was like a dam had burst. What had been a musky fog was now a torrential rain, and I bathed in it, in him. The room suddenly felt like the tropics in July, with a steamy, heavy heat that seemed to soak into my very pores.

His lips were on mine, his hands cradling my head so he could kiss all the breath out of my body, and he was pushing me down against the bed. And then his lips were everywhere—my collarbone, the side of my neck, the crease between my breasts, my jaw—and it hit me that he wasn't just choosing spots at random. These were places he'd thought about, and that was almost enough to send me over the edge.

But then he paused, a fine shudder rippling through him, vibrating down his body into mine. It caused me to arch upward and he gave a stifled scream, flinching as if my touch was actually painful. "Don't," he forced out through clenched teeth. "Don't move."

I realized with a sort of horror that he was trying to stop, that he was going to be noble. A crashing tide of angry despair overwhelmed me as soon as my body understood that it was going to be denied yet again, with every emotion I'd ever felt toward Pritkin surging violently through me. "No!"

I grabbed his shoulders and rolled him over, head swimming, heart racing. An alarm was blaring somewhere in my mind, but I ignored it. I buried my face against the hard muscles of his stomach. He smelled so good—salt and sweat and the sweet musk of skin, and I had to know if he tasted as good as he smelled. There was suddenly nothing real to me but need and the hands on my body, the body under my hands.

My tongue dragged a slow arc across him, just below his navel. His pulse was quick and frantic against my lips, the echo of it under my fingers as they moved to the fastening of his jeans. "Cassie—" Pritkin's voice sounded oddly scraped and rough, but I ignored it, except to note with approval that he'd said my name again. Twice in one day—that was a record.

I was discovering that I really liked old jeans. Once the first button came undone, the others obligingly slid out of their holes with a single tug. "Oh, God," Pritkin whispered, sounding almost panicked for some reason. He stared at me, breath heavy, and the wild need on his face warred with something close to terror. His irises were half black, with just a tiny band of green. And he was literally clinging to the bed by his fingernails, as if it was the only thing that kept the ragged torrent of emotions coursing between us from jerking him to me like a yo-yo.

I hardly noticed when the air began to move around us, drawing in toward an unseen center, catching up the clothes scattered on the floor and swirling them about. A ragged-edged cry that sounded like an incantation tore from Pritkin's throat. And a glimmer of red appeared in the shadows, like the wet flicker of the northern lights, lapping at the outlines of a man. I blinked, and the figure behind the glow stepped through, the red mirage parting like fog. I blinked again, harder this time, sure I was hallucinating, staring in disbelief from Pritkin's face to its mirror image.

"She has to die," the man said, almost conversationally. He noted Pritkin's expression and his answering smile was somehow both sweet and viciously cruel. "I promise it won't hurt."

"What is your interest in her?" Pritkin's tone was filled with loathing.

"She talked to Saleh." His double's eyes came to rest on me, and there was no life, no heat, nothing human in them, only cold appraisal. I couldn't believe I had ever confused the two men. "She knows."

Before I could clear my mind enough even to frame a question, Pritkin had launched himself off the bed onto the new arrival. He hit him straight in the chest, the momentum taking them both to the floor. They rolled around the limited space, their magic crackling together in spits and sputters, while I looked around for something, anything, to use as a weapon.

I had a bracelet, which had once been the property of a dark mage, that was always up for a rumble. Unfortunately, it had a mind of its own and didn't always follow my instructions. I didn't dare use it now, as it was not fond of Pritkin and there was a better-than-average chance that it would attack the wrong guy.

There was enough firepower in the closet to outfit a small army, but I couldn't reach it, and the only thing on this side of the room was the bedside lamp. It didn't look too sturdy, but I yanked it out of the wall anyway, just in time to see Pritkin immersed in a slow-curving maelstrom of blinding white. There was a loud crackle and power rent the air, as if lightning had struck inside the room. The flash turned me momentarily blind, and then something was on me.

He—it—was touching me, holding me down, but I could feel no heat from his body, and there was no scent, not the faintest whiff of aftershave or the leather of his coat. Even though I was used to such things from ghosts, there was a kind of horror to it, being held down by such a blank. Unthinkingly, I reached out with my senses, desperate to find something human to ground me. What I saw was alive and squirming, but not human—God, not human at all.

I could feel its need building like a thousand thunderstorms, an overpowering hunger that wanted nothing more than to melt into me and feed and feed and feed. A smothering cloud descended on my skin, and now I could feel it, sliding cold hands over my body, could taste the miasma of corruption lingering at the back of its throat when it kissed me. The cloud began to sink into my skin, rushing into my body as I breathed in its clammy breath, pushing past my defenses until it ran through my bloodstream sickeningly.

It touched me everywhere, consuming me from the inside out. And it had lied. It did hurt, with a horrible, draining sensation far worse than a vampire's bite. It felt like razored teeth were slicing into me everywhere, running like a blade between muscle and bone, turning even the air in my lungs to broken glass.

I was supposed to be protected from this kind of thing. My mother's only legacy was the pentagram-shaped tattoo on my back that was one of the Circle's strongest enchantments. She had once been heir to the Pythia position, before she ran away with my father and was disowned, and the star had been given to her as security. It packed quite a punch, but the geis interfered with it. Meaning that if I was going to get out of this, it would have to be on my own.

I tried to fight, but my arms and legs wouldn't move, all my strength pouring into the thing holding me so gently in its grasp. My body felt as heavy and lifeless as if the creature had already finished feeding. Only I knew it hadn't, because I could feel it gnawing through bone and into marrow, the lethargy ensuring that I couldn't even scream as it sucked my life away. My consciousness turned slippery and unresponsive, my body trying to shield me from what was happening, from what was coming—

And then it was gone, pulled off by Pritkin's arm around its throat. I stared at it, Pritkin's mirror image except that it glowed as brightly as flame, energized with stolen power. And just like that, the pieces fell into place.

"You're an incubus!" I was addressing the spirit, but it was Pritkin who answered.

"Only half," he snarled, wrenching the creature's neck savagely enough to have shattered a human's spine.

In a move too fast for me to see, the creature broke the mage's hold, spun and sent Pritkin sailing into the window. He struck it hard, knocking the colored glass panes out of place, sending them exploding outward. The creature whirled on me again, and his eyes were a flat, solid black, as if the pupils had bled out.

I threw out a hand, a scream rising in my throat, but I never uttered it. Because suddenly the attack just stopped. There was no sound, no movement. Nothing.

After a stunned second, I realized that the red spots in front of my eyes were a few shards of ruby glass, slung in my direction by the fight. They remained halfway through their arc, hovering in midair as if waiting for permission to fall. Everything else was also frozen in place, from the dark-eyed demon to Pritkin, caught halfway through the broken surface of the window, its sharp edges digging into his skin. In the entire room, I was the only thing moving.

Agnes, the former Pythia, had been able to do this, to literally stop time for short periods, but I'd never learned how. With an abrupt, white-hot spike of fear, I also realized that I didn't know how to undo it, either. I decided to worry about that later and deal with the problem I did know how to solve. I grabbed a bottle off Pritkin's shelf, uncorked the stopper and threw the entire thing in the demon's face.

Other than turning his hair slightly pink, nothing happened. I panicked a little after that, and started throwing everything I could lay my hands on. Vials of liquid, clear and odorless as water, were followed by others containing syrupy, viscous substances with odors that made my head swim. But despite the fact that Pritkin's arsenal was especially designed for battling demons, nothing seemed to have the slightest effect.

I emptied the entire shelf, all the while unable to look away from the potion-streaked face in front of me. The sensation of being watched from behind those glittering black eyes was more than creepy. The hairs on the back of my neck rose as my own stare began to waver, and suddenly everything started up again.

Pritkin crashed the rest of the way through the window, and the demon screamed. The sound mixed with the silvery ring of broken glass and seemed truly agonized. I guess the potions had failed to take effect because of the timeout I'd taken, but they were sure doing something now. Some set his clothes and hair alight, searing the air with the smell of burning leather. He tried to put the flames out with his hands, but that only blistered his skin. And the last potion I'd thrown, dark red with a thick, peppery smell, made his face begin to run like melting wax.

After a moment, he gave up trying to save himself and instead grasped at me. I reached for my power, but it was sluggish, the cost of that momentary hiccup in time tremendous. I threw the lamp at him, but he batted it away with a roar, half rage and half pain. His hair was almost gone now, burnt down to the roots by the fire consuming him with inhuman glee. But it wouldn't be soon enough.

I raised my right arm, where two glowing, gaseous knives emerged from the bracelet I wore. There was only one Pritkin in the room now, and I didn't much care what they did to this one. That was lucky since they tore into the demon with their usual abandon.

"Cassie!" Billy was waving at me frantically over the smoking skull of my attacker. "Over here!"

Like I didn't know where the weapons were. "What do you think I'm trying to do?!" My knives were flying about, sticking into and out of their prey so wildly that I could barely see them. I didn't dare move. "Get me something!"

Nothing happened for a moment, then a clanging avalanche of weapons hit the floor. Billy had managed to knock over the closet shelf. Most stayed where they fell, but a single knife slid across the floor and bumped my foot. I grabbed it, but the demon was thrashing around at my feet, not staying still long enough for me to use it.

"Finish him!" Billy was flickering in his agitation. "Do it!"

"I'm trying!"

The demon couldn't see me, being blinded by the acid that had almost completely eaten away his face. But he could hear, and he rolled toward me, hands outstretched. His skin was a cracked mess of charred black and red, and the leather coat had melted against him in patches. I stared down at him, feeling suddenly queasy that I had done this to anything, even something as vile as him. What the hell was happening to me?

He turned what had been his face up to me, beseechingly, and I hesitated. In less time than it took to blink, he had me by the foot, the raw bones of his fingers sliding against my skin in a slick caress. Immediately, the horrible draining sensation was back, my power flooding into him from that one small touch.

Pain made the world go white for a heartbeat. Then I screamed and tried to jerk away, but it did nothing except to unbalance me. I fell on my butt and kicked out at the same time, hitting the blackened face hard enough that crumbled skin fell off in a withered cascade. Stark white bone showed through, but the demon only bared its teeth at me in a parody of a grin.

"You'll look worse in a moment," it whispered, and upped the speed of the drain.

For a second, the world went gray. "Don't even think about it!" Billy said frantically. "I got nothing left, Cass. Pass out and it's over!"

"I'm fine," I told him, biting the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood. My knives were continuing to stab and pull out, over and over, but it was as if the creature had stopped noticing them. "The neck," I told them, my voice barely audible even to me. "Sever it."

To my lasting shock, they not only heard but obeyed. They set to work with a will, sawing away at the tendons and flesh, until I heard them hit bone. Blood roared in my ears and my eyes were growing dark, but I wouldn't let them close. Little pinpricks of light had started exploding in front of my vision by the time the knives finally completed their task, severing the spine with an audible crack.

The room was immediately filled with a hurricane. Clothes, bedding and shards of glass went whizzing by in dangerous parabolas that had me clutching my head and trying to shrink into as small a space as possible. I could feel everything spin crazily around me while my gut clenched and tried to force itself up my throat and my whole body seized up like a giant cramp. I wanted to pass out. I wanted to know what was happening. I wanted to see Pritkin's face and I didn't want there to be blood on it.

Dimly I heard yelling from somewhere nearby, but I couldn't even work out the separate sounds. Scream after scream of tortured air passed over me, around me, but I huddled into myself and refused to look. Then, as quickly as it had started, it was gone. Utter silence descended, except for the sound of my faint, whistling breaths.

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling. It was all I could do to heave the air into and out of my lungs. My hand lay open on the floor, fingers still slightly curled around the knife I'd never used. Even with solid concrete under me I felt dizzy, like I was going to fall right off the edge of the world. At least the creature's body was gone, I thought dully, right before I was violently sick.

It seemed to go on for a while, although my time sense was so screwed up by then that I really had no idea. My vision kept trying to go dark again, and cleared only spottily, black fading away until I could see the scuffed toes of Pritkin's boots and the pale skin on the inner side of his bicep as he held me. My head was pounding and my body was shaking in a way I'd have been embarrassed about if I hadn't been so busy trying not to give a repeat performance.

I got a hand on the floor, trying to get enough leverage to push myself upright, but Pritkin merely pulled me in a little closer. "Give it a moment." His voice dripped fury, but his fingers were warm and gentle against my skin. That was good, because I felt really odd, cold and light, like a frozen bubble.

Blood speckled him from where the window had torn his flesh, tracing winding trails from his forearm to his elbow, and his eyes looked like they were having as much trouble focusing as mine. I had no idea why he wasn't a smear on the parking lot, but then, it seemed I'd been underestimating him all along. I stared at him, speechless, but Billy Joe knew just what to say.

"So the Circle's best-known demon hunter is half demon himself," he commented, floating over from beside the closet. "I have to tell you, I didn't see that one coming."

I had to admit, neither had I.