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.