by Karen Chance
Did you really think you could stand against Zeus? I thought, as Mircea’s arms tightened around me. He’d steamrollered the world—any number of worlds; he’d led a pack of human piranhas on a feeding frenzy that had wiped out half of the hells; he’d commanded the loyalty, however begrudging, of beings like Ares, who himself had been terrifying. Had I really thought that I was going to defeat something like that?
Yes, for one short moment, I had.
Probably sheer bloody mindedness, as Pritkin would say. But that wasn’t enough, any more than stubbornness, anger, desperation, or courage were. Whatever was needed, I didn’t have it, and I didn’t know who did.
The storm above us was obviously leaner now, with pieces of the room becoming visible as its essence was used up. It was flowing into the fight, trying to stave off the inevitable for another few minutes, because the power we were generating was no longer sufficient. I watched it melt away, stripping itself of strength, of life, in a futile attempt to save me, and I didn’t even know for sure what it was.
And then something started whispering to me, out of the glittering depths.
It wasn’t a voice, wasn’t even a language, at least none that I’d ever heard. It was . . . feelings, emotions, passions, but so vivid, so clear and tangible, that it almost felt like I could reach up and touch them. And along with them, they brought information, although I struggled to interpret it.
I stared from the clouds to Pritkin and back again, trying to focus with a thousand questions suddenly crowding my mind: was that his incubus up there? Was that why he and Mircea were here—had Pritkin’s demon brought them? Because it had done something like this once before, in this very room, forming itself a body out of stolen power.
But if it had brought them, why not bring their bodies, too?
Maybe because it couldn’t. Maybe they had chased that fey creature straight into Faerie, where my power didn’t work. Maybe this had been the only way to reach me—
But why make them bodies? If this was a spiritual struggle, they didn’t need them. This wasn’t about the physical . . .
Only, of course it was, I thought, wondering how I was so slow. It may not have started out that way, but we’d turned this into a physical contest, because incubus magic was sex magic. It might manifest on a spiritual plane, but it wasn’t made there. It was made here, in sweaty hands slipping over heated flesh, in whispered words and panted breaths, in physical contact—
And, finally, I understood. I didn’t know how much of that was me figuring it out, and how much was coming from the creature boiling through the air around us. I couldn’t hear it that clearly, possibly because it didn’t have much strength left. But we could fix that, couldn’t we?
And not through a vampire’s bite.
That might feel sexual, at times, but it wasn’t. It was a trick, an illusion to quiet a violent response in the victim, and an illusion wouldn’t work here. We needed the real thing.
Help me, I begged Mircea, and sent him the jumbled thoughts that were the best I could do at the moment.
But they must have been enough, because the next second, I felt a hand on the back of my neck, bending me over, felt a heavy weight against me, felt—
“Ahhh!”
A familiar warmth entered me, a familiar thickness took me, causing me to cry out in surprise, even though I’d asked for it. Because Mircea was bigger than Pritkin, bigger than most, something I’d almost forgotten. But my body welcomed him, embraced him, engulfed him as eagerly as if it had missed him, too. And the familiarity of his touch, his scent, his heartbeat thudding against my back, eased the transition from one lover to the other.
I could feel his emotions through the bond as he took me, and there was conflict there. He needed to go fast—there was no time for anything else—needed to generate power before ours was all used up. But he desperately wanted to take it slow. To savor this, to enjoy it, to properly experience what was likely our last time together. The depth of his feeling surprised me; I hadn’t expected that.
But he wouldn’t endanger me for his own gratification. Which was why he almost immediately thrust deep, causing me to cry out again, in surprise this time. He paused for a moment, giving me time to feel the pulse of him inside me, to experience his heart beating at my center, to sense the familiar heat of his body melting into my own. And then he slowly withdrew, allowing us this if nothing else, the long, slow glide of his flesh through mine, so good that it was almost torture.
Until he thrust back in, setting up a powerful rhythm that had me gasping at every move, had sweat running in rivulets over my already overheated body, had goosebumps cascading and my skin flushing and my teeth biting onto my lower lip to try to keep the most embarrassing sounds in my throat.
I found myself surprisingly emotional, too. I’d thought I was over him, or as much as I was ever likely to get. Other people seemed to be able to drop a lover, once the relationship soured, to put them in the past, to just forget . . .
I didn’t have that skill. And our relationship hadn’t soured so much as . . . not worked out. If I’d hated him, maybe it would have been easier. But I didn’t hate him; I never had.
Okay, maybe for a few hours, after the daughter he’d never told me about almost killed me, but really not even then. I’d been furious—and hurt and betrayed and just so very sad. But I hadn’t been able to really hate him; I’d come closer to hating myself for failing to do so.
I’m sorry. It thrummed through the bond suddenly, not words, not even thoughts; like with the incubus, it was more of a feeling. And the more I concentrated on it, the more I could feel it: his sorrow, his loss, his regret—and worse, the knowledge that he deserved all of it. He hated himself, as I couldn’t, for causing the rift between us. For causing me pain and putting me in danger, and for what?
Cowardice. The idea was bitter in his mind, on his tongue. It was the worst accusation one of his rank could have made against them, either in his time or our own. A master had to be many things, but most of all, he was expected to be fearless in defense of his own. But he had been a coward—
That’s unfair, I thought, and it was. There had been extenuating circumstances; he’d wanted to save his wife, who he’d believed had suffered a terrible death, and needed my abilities to do it. He had lied to me, but not for himself. He’d done it for her—
And that makes a difference? The words appeared in my mind, as clearly as if they were my own. I feared to trust you—you, who had never deceived me—feared to lose you if you knew the truth, feared to lose her, feared to risk . . .
And thus I lost it all anyway, as cowards always do.
You’re not a coward.
I was when it counted. And for that, I am sorry. I am sorry for everything, Cassie.
If I’d heard it, if those words had come from his lips, I wouldn’t have believed them. Would have assumed it was manipulation, some sort of ploy to get me back on his side. Not that I’d ever left it; we had always been allies. But still . . . there had been a rift between us, ever since I found out the truth; I couldn’t deny that.
But this wasn’t speech, wasn’t even thought, although there was some of that mixed in. This was emotion, pure and unadulterated, and as full of pain as I had been feeling. I didn’t know if the incubus was responsible for that, if we were speaking to each other through its language instead of our own, didn’t know anything.
Except that it made all the difference.
I’d never gotten an apology from Mircea, not a real one. More of an ‘I’m sorry I got caught trying to use your power to rescue the wife I didn’t tell you about, and hid the daughter I also didn’t tell you about for worry that she would tip you off.’ Somehow, I hadn’t found that too convincing.
But this . . . maybe I was crazy, and this was some kind of trick, but I didn’t think so. I felt his pain, his regret, his anger at himself. Felt the cost, the fracture in the family that never should have happened, another piece lost instead of one restored.
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Felt genuine remorse, and didn’t know what to do with it.
But I guess my heart did, because it flooded the bond with so much emotion that it shocked me, and caused Mircea to suck in his breath. There was love there, and relief, and forgiveness, with part of me so happy, so joyful, to heal at least some of the breech between us. I had missed him, more than I’d allowed myself to realize, because it was less painful to shove it away, to not think at all, to not feel.
So, when I finally could, it was overwhelming.
But there was conflict, too, so much that it almost drowned out the other. Wariness, fear, hurt, distrust—because I guessed all that didn’t just go away because of an apology, did it? No matter how heartfelt. But louder than all of those was worry—because I had a lover, one who had never betrayed me, and the depth of my feelings for him was a deep thrum along the bond.
I think it surprised Mircea, how strong my feelings for Pritkin were. I felt shock, dismay, possessiveness, anger—his immediate reaction. And then confusion, sadness, regret, competitiveness, and—weirdly—a strange kind of joy. He was happy that I was happy, I realized, but there was a slew of other emotions that went along with that, which he didn’t seem to know how to handle any more than I had.
It made me feel slightly better, that someone five hundred years old hadn’t figured out human relationships, either.
But joy was there, nonetheless, and happiness that we were together again, if only for a moment. I decided to focus on that instead of the rest while I could. And I guessed Mircea agreed.
Because one of his hands found my breast, pulling me up, pulling me back against him. Another cupped me down below, capturing my body, helping his thrusts find their mark. I felt orgasm shiver over me, time and again, felt his breath warm against my flesh, felt his tongue licking the remaining blood off my neck. My hand went up, cupping his cheek, even as my breath sped up, as if it hadn’t already been fast enough. Almost there—God—almost there!
And yet nothing.
Release remained elusive, as it had with Pritkin, which made no sense at all!
Either man could speed up my breath with a look, could bring me to the brink with a touch, could tip me over within moments. Hell, Pritkin had to actually hold back his incubus nature, whispering spells to prolong our passion, or any contact would have been disappointingly short. And Mircea . . . well, whatever problems we’d had, they had never extended to the bedroom.
Yet I couldn’t finish.
I thrashed against him, almost in anguish now, my body twisting, trying to find relief. But nothing worked. Nothing even came close.
And the Pythian power, likewise, stayed just out of reach.
What was wrong with it? I thought desperately. Why didn’t it come? I didn’t know, but I couldn’t make it; it wasn’t my slave. It had its own mind, and for the first time, I wondered: was it afraid? Did it fear Zeus, too?
Because it had reason. It was godly energy, gifted to the priestesses at Delphi by Apollo himself. But he had played nice with the All Father, hadn’t he? Just as Ares had. Both of them afraid of the repercussions if they didn’t.
And the Pythian power was merely a part of Apollo.
Maybe it didn’t think it would be enough. Maybe it didn’t want to take the risk. Maybe it thought I had already lost, and that it needed to preserve itself for Rhea and the fight to come, because it was really starting to feel that way.
Pritkin was staring at me wildly, as if he didn’t know what to do, either. But unlike me, he wasn’t used to failure; he always had a solution to everything. And the fear that he might not be able to save me this time was tearing him apart.
I could feel his emotions as well, as I lowered myself down to kiss him. Not for any magically-related reason, but because I wanted to. Because I wanted to wipe that look off his face.
Our lips touched, soft and gentle, and then hard and frantic, his hand going around the back of my head and tangling in my hair, his mouth and tongue searching for some sort of comfort in the end.
But, instead, we found something else.
A small electrical shock went through us, jumping from him to me to Mircea, as soon as we touched. It was a tiny hit of power, hardly anything, especially compared to what we had been creating. But it gave me an idea.
Or maybe it was one of theirs; I didn’t know anymore. Couldn’t tell the difference. And I guessed Pritkin couldn’t either, because he didn’t object when I kissed down his body, when I teased him with my tongue; when I took him into my mouth and licked along his length, luxuriating in the strength and feel of him, and of having his pleasure in my control. I swallowed him down, and the heady feel of him throbbing in my throat warring with the feel of Mircea pulsing into my body, a completely new sensation—
And then another one ripped through me, almost violently, like a supernova bursting across the night sky. Or as if a connection had been made between the three of us, an electric current almost as strong as anything Zeus could invent, flashing along the link in my mind, until I couldn’t look at it anymore, until it overpowered everything else, until it was like being swallowed by the sun. Until something that sounded a lot like a lock clicked shut.
Three of us, I thought dizzily; we’d needed all three of us . . .
And, finally, my pleasure exploded, orgasm tearing through me and then out into the spell, magnified a thousand times by incubus magic—and by the emotion it fed on. Lover’s Knot, I thought dizzily. Why had I never understood the title of the spell? Incubus magic used emotion as a conduit, used love not logic, and there had been a huge emotional block between us.
Until now.
But the limit we’d placed on its power was suddenly gone, and it roared back, harder and faster than ever—and so did something else. Something absent from the equation until now, but surging into the fight, glimpsing an opportunity. A sparkling tide of golden power twined around the other two streams, braiding them together, merging them until it was impossible to tell where one began and another ended.
And then all three of them turned on Zeus, with an almost human howl of fury. Taking everything that we’d made, all that power all at once, and striking back. And bitch slapped the All-Father across space and time.
Chapter Fifteen
I woke up yet again, this time to someone pounding on the inside of my skull. Pound, pound, pound; it echoed in my head, which was already freaking out for some reason. It felt like I’d woken up in the middle of a scream, which was weird enough, but I had the strangest impression that it was a scream of triumph.
And I didn’t get many of those.
I opened my eyes.
The sound stuck in my throat stayed that way, which was lucky, because it wasn’t my head that was pounding. It was the door. And it was more like knocking, only my senses were currently set on overdrive, making it echo like a kettledrum.
“Rhea? Lady Cassandra?”
For a moment, the words didn’t register, kind of like the room. I finally figured out that I was still in my bed at Gertie’s, but turned the wrong way around, which was why everything looked weird. My face was also hanging off the end, with my chin crushed between the mattress and the footboard, and there were no warm bodies beside me.
I frowned. Was there supposed to be? Because it felt like there was supposed to be. I reached out with the arm that wasn’t trapped below me and half asleep, but felt nothing but air.
And the wood of the headboard when my knuckles knocked into it, which—ow.
After a moment, I pried myself out the gap and rolled over, feeling a sense of loss and joy and pain and serious confusion. It was like rising to the surface after a too-long dive underwater. It was like awakening upside down, hanging over a gorge, supported by a single bit of rope. It was like . . .
I didn’t know what it was like, but it was discombobulating.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
“What?” I croaked.
“Lady Cassandra? Is that you?”
Well,
who else would it be? I thought crabbily, and managed to accidently flip a pillow onto my face. I stopped waving my arms around, which I’d been doing for some reason, and just stayed there, like a turtle suddenly tossed onto its back.
Help, I thought.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
“Coming!” I yelled, without having any idea how I was supposed to do that. But something told me that I didn’t want to draw any more attention to myself. That maybe I’d done enough of that for one day, and should act all casual like for a while. Before the Edwardian equivalent of the guys in the white coats came to . . . came to . . . do whatever it was they did, and what had I been thinking about?
Pound. Pound. Pound.
Oh, holy shit.
“Lady Cassandra? Do you need any help?”
“No! I’m fine!” I finally got the damned pillow off. And also managed to recognize the voice that was determinedly not going away.
Crap, I thought blearily. It was Iris. Or Lily. Or possibly Rose. Some flower name, anyway. She was the acolyte I’d borrowed the now-ruined coat from.
Guess nobody had told her that she wouldn’t be getting it back.
I rolled off the bed, muttering, and still not sure which way was up. I took a shot and must have chosen correctly, because my feet found purchase on the floor. I stood up, and then just stayed there, swaying a bit, because the room was slowly revolving, like a fun house ride that wasn’t very fun.
Even worse, my brain kept insisting that something was wrong, that something was coming. A blow, an attack, it didn’t know, but something. Something bad!
I waited.
Nothing happened.
I waited some more.
Nothing continued to happen, except that I started to feel foolish and my toes went numb. And flower girl started pounding on the door again. I sighed, drew my robe around myself, straightened my shoulders, and staggered in her approximate direction.
It took a while, because my feet kept making detours to visit the dressing table and the tub, and then ran me straight into the wall beside the door. But I finally made it and grabbed the knob after the fourth or fifth try. I cracked it open to see a smooth blonde chignon and a pair of lovely gray eyes reflecting the light of a single candle.