And then she shot them in the butt.
I let one finger run over the faint scar she’d given me, which thanks to a certain vampire’s healing ability was far less prominent than it should have been. Just barely a dimple now, no big deal. But the thing was, I didn’t think she’d been aiming for my butt at the time.
At the time, she’d been after a Guild member, one of a secret sect of crazies that wanted to alter time to their own ends, and she hadn’t been playing around. She also hadn’t had a problem going after him alone, without the war mage escort she’d been entitled to. She’d told me they often caused more problems than they solved by shooting everything in sight, and given what I’d seen in my brief acquaintanceship with the Corps, I had no reason to doubt her. But I thought most people chasing a dangerous dark mage would still have wanted one or two along, just in case.
Agnes hadn’t even told them she was going.
So, yeah, if she’d started to lecture me about taking chances, I’d have had a few things to say right back. And then I’d have asked her what she’d have done in this situation. Only she probably wouldn’t have told me because she’d refused to talk to me, in case I gave her some hint of the future that might cause her to mess it up.
But if she had been willing to talk . . . I think I knew what she’d have said. What she’d have done. Now I just had to figure out—
The bathroom door blew open before I could finish the thought, in a swirl of comparatively cold air. And before I could yelp, I found myself jerked out and slammed against the wall of the entryway. That left me facing the bathroom door, where clouds of steam were billowing out, like the place was on fire.
It was kind of appropriate, considering that they were framing the face of a livid half demon.
A second later, my hands hit the wall beside my head, which might have left me indecent, since they were clutching the bath towel I’d been in the process of wrapping around myself. Only I didn’t let go. So the towel ended up being spread out as my hands were, forming a wet, clingy barrier in front of me.
Which, unless it was a lot more magical than it appeared, wasn’t going to be enough.
Because Pritkin was looking pretty damned homicidal.
“They were out of cheesy biscuits?” my mouth said, because my mouth is an idiot.
“Who are you?” he demanded, getting in my face. “What are you?”
“What?” I said, staring up into furious green eyes.
“I’m not playing games,” he warned, his voice low and flat and dead. “If the next words out of your mouth aren’t a confession, they will be your last.”
My brain froze up at that, because it had seen what Pritkin could do in a rage. But my mouth—my stupid, apparently unconnected-to-brain-matter mouth—began panicking. And running a mile a minute.
“Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me! It’s me! You know it’s me! It’s like—God! Why would some crazed assassin come in here and use your shower? Do people do that? Especially when it needs cleaning that bad? I mean, you need to let housekeeping in here occasionally or stop brewing potions in there or something, because the creeping crud is going to kill you a long time before the bad guys have the chance and don’t slam me against the wall like that! It hurts! I can explain, I promise, only I can’tifyoukillmeohGod!”
The last was in response to a couple of enchanted knives slipping out from inside Pritkin’s old gray hoodie, the one he used on jogs because his battered leather trench would look a little weird. But he needed something to cover the arsenal of illegal and would-be-illegal-if-humans-knew-about-them weapons that went everywhere he did. These two rose on either side of his face, underscoring the fact that he didn’t have to let me go in order to gut me, a thought that stopped even my mouth’s inane babble. Maybe because it was too busy shrieking.
“Stop that!” he said as the slamming recommenced, which of course only made me shriek harder. And try to shift away, only that didn’t work because Pritkin was holding on to me. Which meant he came, too.
We ended up over by the window, something that didn’t help my dignity, since my bare butt was now pressed firmly against the glass. Welcome to Vegas, I thought hysterically, wondering if I was flashing half the parking lot. And then wondering why I cared considering I was about to be killed by my own bodyguard.
Or maybe not.
Pritkin didn’t let go, but the knives stayed on the other side of the room. Considering how fast they could remedy that situation, it didn’t make me feel that much better. But potential death is better than imminent death, and I’d take it.
Only now it looked like I had some ’splaining to do.
“You just shifted us,” he accused.
“Of course I did!” I said feverishly. “What was I supposed to do? Stay put and get skewered?”
“You’re a Pythia.”
I stared at him. “Duh!”
“Or some Pythian initiate pretending to be one!”
“Oh, for—Myra’s dead,” I reminded him. My rival for the Pythian power had tried to kill me, but had ended up shredded in my place. I hadn’t done it, but I hadn’t wasted a lot of tears over her memory, either.
“There are other initiates,” Pritkin reminded me as he pressed closer, his eyes narrowed on my face.
I shivered. But not because of the words. But because my bare ass against the air-conditioned window had just caused me to break out in full-body goose bumps.
At least that’s what I told myself.
I tried to move back, but there was nowhere to go. I was already flat against the damned window. And the sensation of slick cold on one side and hard heat on the other was . . . distracting.
Like those eyes on me, with an intensity that prickled over my skin, making me itchy and jumpy. Or like the heat of his body radiating through the wet towel, or the strong fingers digging into my skin, or the hot breath on my face. At least, I assumed that was why my breathing had sped up and my head had gone swimmy and I was suddenly oddly grateful that my hands were trapped beside my head.
Because they really wanted to run themselves through his hair.
Pritkin was saying something, something I should probably be paying attention to since he was looking a little . . . stressed. I suppose it was due to suspicion or anger or the kind of frustrated rage I seemed to call up in him sometimes. But it didn’t look that way. Or, rather, it did to my brain, which was now wide awake. But to my body . .
My body cheerfully informed me that he felt really good pressed against me like that, all hard muscles and smooth contours and ominous bulges. My body liked the air of barely leashed strength and caged mayhem he was giving off. My body thought he smelled really good, like heat and coffee and electricity.
My body was going to get me killed.
And okay, this was an unexpected complication. In a situation that was already complicated enough. But it wasn’t exactly surprising.
Pritkin and I had been together a lot lately and he was half incubus. Hell, he was the son of their king, or whatever the creature’s title was. It would have been odd if I didn’t feel something occasionally. And that was without the memory of his last night on earth, when he’d given me energy the only way an incubus could.
I closed my eyes, but that only made it worse, shutting out distractions and allowing me to relive what I’d been trying really hard to forget. The familiar voice a sibilant whisper in my ear, the small of his back slick with sweat, the surprisingly soft hair brushing my body when he took control. And moved over me.