Embrace the Night by Karen Chance
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
“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 ling
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.