Hunt the Moon

by Karen Chance

  “You can make me a list.”

  “Fuckin’ A I’ll make you a list,” Caleb muttered, and stripped off his coat. “You know, legend or not, you’re still a royal pain in my ass.”

  Pritkin nodded approvingly. “Now you’re getting the idea.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Five minutes later, Pritkin and I were haring across a dark parking lot that was rapidly becoming less so as sunrise toyed with the horizon. But nobody was around, and we had enough darkness left to get away clean and things seemed to be looking up. Until I put a hand on the door of his beat-up jalopy—and froze.

  Draped over the passenger seat and trailing halfway onto the floor was Pritkin’s battered old potion belt. It was just a strip of worn leather, darkened in places from handling, with the nicks and scratches you’d expect from long use. A few enchanted vials filled with sludgy substances were still in place, like oversized bullets on a bandolier. Others had been used in the fight, leaving lighter places on the leather, like a toddler with missing teeth.

  There was nothing remotely sexy about it. But I had a sudden, visceral image of the last time I’d seen it, arcing against the night as it was thrown over the front seat of the car. And I shivered, hard.

  Pritkin glanced at me sharply, and his face tensed. “It will pass,” he said roughly, and threw the belt in back.

  I bit my lip and nodded, which was pretty much all I could do with a sensory memory of pleasure ripping through me. It tightened my body, blurred my vision and sent goose bumps washing over my skin in waves. It was . . . shockingly realistic. He was on the opposite side of the car, not touching me, not even close. But suddenly, I could smell his scent, taste his sweat, feel his lips on my skin. They were warm and soft, unlike the hard fingers digging into my hips as he held me in place, as he—

  I made a small sound and shuddered again, my breathing picking up, my hand tightening on the side of the car hard enough to hurt. I prized my fingers off and wrapped my arms around myself and rode it out. I was suddenly really grateful for the trench, which was too thick and too loose to show any inconvenient signs of my little flashback.

  After a minute, I got in, not because it had stopped, but because cars were starting to come back in larger numbers, popping out of the ley line in strobes of blue-white light, sending cracks like thunder echoing against the building. Pritkin put the car into gear and we pulled out the normal way, I guess to avoid the metaphysical traffic jam. We eased through a fence, a ward rippling around us like water, and slid into the empty streets of predawn Vegas.

  This far out, it was mostly asphalt and industrial buildings, in between empty lots of hard-packed red soil, a few desert plants and blacktop. It didn’t look much like the glitzy, glittery city of the tourist brochures, but it had a stark kind of beauty nonetheless. Distant scarlet veils of dust turned the sunrise spectacular and painted the buildings in black and gold. I watched the landscape pass by blearily, so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open, and so aroused I wanted to scream.

  Yeah, this was fun.

  “This didn’t happen last time,” I finally said, mostly as a distraction.

  “I didn’t feed as completely last time,” Pritkin told me, as I tried to control my breathing and failed utterly.

  I swallowed. “How . . . how long?”

  “Usually five or ten minutes. Do you want to stop?”

  “No!” The only thing keeping me from grabbing him was the fact that he was driving.

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, and I concentrated on not writhing against the seat. It didn’t go so well. I wiped my hands on the skirt of the trench and left sweaty palm prints on the beige fabric. I stared at them, teary-eyed and hurting and desperate. God, if this didn’t stop soon, I was going to go completely—

  “After Ruth died, I went somewhat mad for a time,” Pritkin said suddenly.

  I blinked, because that had come completely out of the blue. And almost read my mind. “Y-you did?”

  He nodded. “My memories of those days are hazy at best, but apparently I attempted to kill my father. I suppose I blamed him for her death, although I can’t say I recall the exact thought process. I do remember a strong desire to feel the bones of his neck breaking under my hands, however, which may give some indication.”

  I licked my lips. “But you didn’t succeed.”

  “No, but I came damned close. So close, in fact, that, along with several past . . . indiscretions . . . it convinced the demon council that I was an intolerable threat. They sentenced me to death.”

  “Death?” I turned to look at him, shocked for a moment out of everything else. “But . . . but you didn’t succeed. And you said yourself you weren’t sane—”

  “None of which matters under demon law.”

  “But you’re still alive.”

  “Yes, due to my father’s interference.”

  “Your father?”

  Pritkin smiled slightly. “He was livid. I don’t recall much about those days, as I’ve said. But I do recall him storming into the council chamber and accusing them of attempted robbery—of his only physical child. He said that the damage had been done to him, and therefore he, as a member of council, should be allowed to set the sentence. They agreed.”

  “And what was the sentence?” I asked, almost afraid to find out.

  “I was to return to court and take up my proper duties as his heir. The ones I had flatly refused to carry out before. He assumed, I suppose, that I would prefer that over death. He assumed wrong.”

  “Wait. You chose to die?”

  “Better that, I thought, than to live for centuries as his slave. And at the time . . . at the time I can’t recall caring very much if I lived or died. I told them to carry out the sentence and be done with it. They were about to comply when he intervened again—with a compromise.”

  “What kind of compromise?” I asked warily. Because I knew it couldn’t be anything good.

  “That I would be banished from the demon realms, unable to return, under pain of death.”

  I frowned. “Banished where?”

  “Here. To Earth.”

  “But . . . but that doesn’t seem like much of a sentence. You’d been living here anyway.”

  “That is what the council said. They pointed out that many full demons would give a great deal to be ‘banished’ to this world, where they can feed like nowhere else in the demon realms.”

  I nodded. Pritkin had told me before that one of the main reasons the council existed was to regulate the numbers of demons allowed on Earth at any one time. Otherwise, there would have been a free-for-all.

  “So why did they allow you to come back?”

  “They were persuaded by my father’s argument that there can be few punishments more severe than sending a starving man into a banquet hall—and not allowing him to eat.”

  “Not allowing—” I stopped, unsure I’d understood. But I’d seen Pritkin eat plenty, so I knew we weren’t talking about regular food. “You mean . . . you can’t . . . at all?”

  “The agreement I made was simple: no sex, of the demon or human varieties. Else I would forfeit my ‘parole’ and be returned to my father’s court, forever to remain under his absolute authority.”

  “That’s . . . but . . .” I looked around in a panic, why I don’t know. Like Rosier would be chasing us in a car. “Is he coming for you now? After what we did?”

  Pritkin shook his head. “Feeding to save my life was specifically exempted. My father does not want me dead, as you saw. He wants me alive and in his service, and I think he was afraid that not allowing me to feed in emergencies would ruin his plan.”

  “He didn’t think you could do it,” I said slowly. “Stay here, I mean.”

  “No. He was certain I would break, that I would be back within the decade, two at the outside. And either is a trifling amount of time for the demon races. He had waited hundreds of years already. What were a few more?”

  “He underestimated you.”
<
br />   “I believe there were wagers made at court as to exactly how long I would last, all of which have now expired.”

  “But . . . did you know what it would be like when you—”

  “No.” Pritkin huffed out a humorless laugh. “No.”

  “But you must have thought—”

  “At the time, I don’t believe I was capable of much thought of any kind. But insofar as I was . . . I truly did not believe I would ever want intimacy again. The very idea was repulsive, on every possible level. I was horrified at what I had done, at what I had become—”

  “You didn’t become anything! It was your father’s fault, your wife’s decision. It had nothing to do with you.”

  “Other than the fact that I was the instrument of her death.”

  “Yes, which makes you the victim here, not the . . . the monster!”

  “Not in the eyes of my fellow monsters. Unlike most of the other races, the incubi have a reputation for showing . . . some consideration . . . for their partners. It is often selfish, of course; it is easier than constantly finding new prey. But nonetheless, there were those at my father’s court who shunned me after what happened. Creatures I had long held in disdain were ashamed—ashamed—to be associated with me. And I didn’t blame them. I felt like I would never want to feed again.”

  “And later?” I asked softly. It was none of my business, but I just couldn’t imagine what it must have been like. I didn’t know too many humans who could shun all intimacy like that, much less someone whose body was specifically designed to need it.

  “Later . . .” His lips twisted. “I began to understand why my father had been willing to make that deal. I had understood intellectually from the first, of course, but the reality was . . . somewhat different.”

  “You still feel like this, don’t you?” I asked, in shock. “What I’m feeling now—all the time?”

  “Not all the time, no. It was almost constant for more than a decade—”

  “A decade?” He shot me a glance, and for some reason, it was amused. Because clearly, the man was insane. “How—”

  “I am ashamed to say that I became rather addicted to a number of substances during that time, in an attempt to . . . to survive, I suppose you would say. It didn’t help much, nothing did, but the struggle became easier over time, as the demon part of me became weaker. And I obtained an outlet for my energies in hunting down those who had done as I had—only on purpose.”

  I didn’t say anything for a moment. I watched the sand turn mauve and crimson and honey as the night slowly retreated before the sun. And thought about what it would be like to have a part of yourself literally starving to death and yet unable to die. And to know that if you gave in, even once, to the constant, gnawing hunger, you would forever forfeit your freedom.

  “Your father is a son of a bitch,” I said, with feeling.

  “I wouldn’t argue the point,” he said drily. “However, from his perspective, he feels cheated. He spent a considerable amount of time over the centuries trying and failing to have a physical child. And when he finally managed it, against all the odds, the result was not . . . quite what he’d expected.”

  “Too damned bad! A lot of parents have children who aren’t exactly what they thought they would be. But they learn to love them anyway.”

  “Most parents aren’t demon lords. And love was never the issue.”

  “It should have been.”

  “For someone who deals in it, or its physical manifestation, as much as my father, he knows astonishingly little about it.”

  Pritkin was quiet for a few moments, and I knew I should probably drop it. But he opened up so rarely, I fully expected tomorrow to come and the lid to be clamped down again, tight. If I didn’t ask now, I might never have a chance. And it wasn’t like the guy was shy. If he didn’t want to talk, he’d tell me. Probably pretty bluntly.

  “Is that why you’re a health nut now?” I asked. “To make up for those early days?”

  “No, it was more an attempt to compensate slightly for the power loss I had sustained when I stopped feeding.”

  “What power loss?”

  “As I told you, I had never merged with other demons, never tried to enhance what I was born with, as it would have merely made me more useful to my father. And him that much less likely to let me go. But much of my strength had nonetheless always come from . . . my other half, if you like. And once it was incapacitated, I had to find other ways to compensate.”

  “Like the potions.”

  He nodded. “I was never greatly interested in them before. But they became a way of balancing the power loss. And I find making them to be . . . calming. Some of the more deadly require utter concentration, and I discovered that when I was focused on something so completely, it helped to curb the hunger. Do you not agree?”

  I didn’t know what he meant for a second, until I realized—the flashback was gone. My breathing was normal, my heart rate steady, my hands still sweaty, but only as a leftover. I relaxed back against the seat with a sigh.

  “Thank you.” It was heartfelt.

  “One learns coping mechanisms over time—”

  “Or one goes insane?”

  “Some would say I already am.”

  “They’d be wrong.”

  We slid to a stop at a crossroads, and Pritkin turned slightly in his seat to look at me. “And how would you know?”

  We were close enough that I could see his long, sandy eyelashes, almost close enough to count the whiskers of the end-of-day beard shading his jaw. He hadn’t had a chance to torture his hair yet, and it was looking soft and oddly flat, and was blowing slightly in the breeze coming across the windshield. It made him look younger somehow, gentler, sweeter....

  I mentally rolled my eyes at myself. Yeah, sure.

  Pritkin was annoying, stubborn, secretive, impatient and rude. He had the tact of a Parris Island drill sergeant and the charm of a barbed-wire fence. He regularly made me want to slap him and other people want to shoot him, and that was without even trying. I’d probably yelled at him more than anybody else in my entire life, and I’d known him less than two months.

  And yet he was also loyal and honest and brave and weirdly kind. Most of the time, I didn’t understand him at all. But I knew one thing.

  “I grew up with some genuinely crazy men,” I told him harshly. “You’re not one.”

  “Then what am I?”

  I pushed a strand of wildly waving hair out of his eyes. It just wouldn’t behave for shit, would it? Kind of reminded me of the man.

  “Pritkin,” I said simply. It sort of summed up the whole, crazy package.

  His lips twitched. “Do you know, no one else calls me that?”

  “What about the guys in the Corps?”

  “They usually call me by my given name if they know me, or by my rank if they do not.”

  I thought about that. For some reason, it made me happy. “Good.”

  He shook his head, refusing to let the smile out. I don’t know why. Like it might damage something.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  I sighed. “Back to the suite.”

  “Are you sure? We can make other arrangements, and there’s the fact that . . .”

  “That what?”

  “That Jonas won’t like it.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”

  He did smile slightly then, and put the car in gear. “Now you sound like a Pythia.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I guess I fell asleep in the car, because I didn’t remember getting back. Or getting into pink-striped shorty pj’s. Or falling headfirst into bed. But I must have. Because I woke up tangled in my own sheets, the pillow half over my head and sunlight leaking in through a crack in the drapes.

  I rolled over, feeling groggy and thickheaded and gritty-eyed and yucky. It was so much like yesterday that, for a minute, I thought it had all been a dream. But even my dreams weren’t that bizarre. And then I tried
to move, and immediately knew it had been real enough.

  Because I got the charley horse from hell in my left calf.

  I didn’t shriek—it wasn’t that loud. But to a vampire’s ears, it must have been loud enough, because the bedroom door burst open and Marco rushed in, gun in hand and face pretty damn scary. He looked around wildly, I suppose for something to shoot, and when he didn’t find anything, he grabbed me.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  I stared up at him, still half-asleep and disoriented from the pain, and didn’t say anything.

  “Cassie!”

  “Charley horse,” I finally managed to gasp, only it didn’t seem to do any good. Because he just stared at me, uncomprehending, as the room quickly filled up with vamps.

  And then he blinked. “Did you say charley horse?”

  I nodded tearfully.

  Marco said something profane and shoved his gun into the small of his back. “Get outta here,” he told the others, who melted away into the shadows, looking absurdly grateful.

  He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. “Where does it hurt?”

  “Everywhere.”

  It wasn’t an exaggeration. It felt like my entire body had whiplash. I was beginning to understand why Fred had said he hated lasso spells. Of course, the one that had made me feel like shit had also saved my life, but that wasn’t all that comforting at the moment.

  I held up my left leg, which was cramped so badly I couldn’t even straighten it out. Marco’s big hand smoothed gently over the muscle, and then he applied a little pressure. I gasped in pain and then in wonder, as the muscle suddenly released. It still hurt like a bitch, a dull throbbing that mirrored the racing of my heart. But at least I could breathe.

  “You know, I’ve lived a long time,” he told me, massaging the calf more firmly now. “And I met a lot of people. But I ain’t never met a woman made me want to beat her to death as often as you.”

  “Sorry,” I choked out, and tried to pull away, but his hand held me firm.