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“The Pythia controls the power, not the reverse,” Pritkin said, calling me a liar.
“Believe what you want,” I said, suddenly weary. Fighting with him got old fast because it never seemed to solve anything. “If what you said earlier about us needing every advantage is true, I have a job for Mac.”
Mac glanced up, still looking dazed. “What?”
“My ward,” I said, tugging down the back of my tank to show him the top of the pentagram. “Pritkin said the Circle deactivated it. Can you fix it?”
“I did not say ‘deactivate.’ That would be impossible,” Pritkin corrected as Mac moved to take a look. “From a distance, the Circle can only block it, which they almost certainly did for fear that you would use it against them. They would not have closed the connection otherwise—whenever it flared, it gave them an approximation of your location and they want to find you badly.” Pritkin suddenly moved forward until he invaded my personal space. “Your explanation of the power’s actions makes no sense,” he said, his voice harsh. “Not if you truly are Pythia.”
I suppose he was trying to be intimidating, but it didn’t work out quite that way. He had stopped about an inch from me with his bare chest right in my line of vision. It was lightly furred over muscles that were hard and sleekly defined, and the inadequate air-conditioning had caused rivulets of sweat to run in
fascinating ways through all that hair. The only men I’d ever touched had been smooth, or almost so, and I had the insane desire to run my hands through those damp blond curls to see what patterns I could make with my fingers.
I didn’t know why the mage, whom I didn’t like in the least, was affecting me like this, but I felt like someone who’s been on a starvation diet for weeks and just caught sight of an ice cream sundae. My hands were sweaty and my breath was coming faster, to the point that I’d be panting in a minute. I tore my eyes away from his torso before I lost control, but that didn’t help since they only drifted lower, to what was concealed by that infuriating expanse of tight denim. I swallowed and struggled to get a grip before I gave in to the burning desire to rip the jeans off him.
I had almost succeeded in talking myself into stepping back, even if it meant letting him think he’d intimidated me. That would, after all, be better than the truth. But then I made the mistake of looking him in the eyes. I finally figured out why he had always appeared a little odd: his sandy lashes and eyebrows were so close to his skin tone that, from a distance, he didn’t appear to have any. This close, I could see that his lashes were actually long and thick, and that they framed clear green eyes—the rare kind with no hint of any other color.
Despite strict orders to the contrary, my hands were on him, tracing the muscles in his chest. His pupils expanded to the point that his eyes turned almost black and a shocked look crossed his face, probably more so than would have been true if I’d slapped him. But he didn’t pull away. There was an odd tingle in my hands where they pressed against his pecs, and his skin felt warmer than it should have even with the shop’s lousy air-conditioning. Or maybe that was me. I didn’t care: very little thought was happening in my mind, except how to get that damned zipper down.
Before I could act on that plan, Pritkin grabbed my wrists. I’m not sure whether he meant to push me away or to pull me closer, and judging by the look on his face, I don’t think he did, either. But neither of us had the chance to find out.
It suddenly felt like someone had doused me in gasoline and thrown on a match. It wasn’t pain that flared through me; it was agony, and it seemed to spear every cell in my body simultaneously. I screamed and jumped back, hitting Mac and taking us both to the floor. Pritkin followed us down because he still had hold of my wrists, and I vaguely heard Mac yelling something at him, but I couldn’t concentrate enough to understand. I arched my back and began convulsing like a fish out of water, only what I wanted wasn’t air but relief from the excruciating pain.
I gained a real understanding of what it must feel like to burn alive, fire ripping its way up my spine, every nerve ending exploding with white-hot agony. I forgot where I was, forgot my problems, which suddenly appeared trivial to the point of absurdity next to the torture I was undergoing. I think I would have forgotten my name in another few seconds, but then, as abruptly as it had come, the pain was gone.
I found myself on the linoleum floor of Mac’s workroom, trying to relearn how to breathe. I looked up to see him holding Pritkin’s wrists captive. He’d obviously pulled him off me, and for that I could have kissed him, if I hadn’t been shaking too hard to even sit up. Once he’d solved the immediate problem, Mac dropped Pritkin’s hands and turned to me.
“Are you all right? Cassie, can you hear me?” I nodded, unable to do more at the moment. “Right.” He looked freaked out, his usually laid-back, G’day, mate, attitude entirely gone. “Stay where you are and I’ll be right back. Whatever you do, no touching!”
Mac disappeared through a door that led off from his workroom, and I heard water running. The pain had receded, but the memory of it was burned into my body the way an afterimage of a blinding light damages a retina. My nerve endings pulsed with vivid recall and, although I was no longer convulsing, a light tremor seemed to have settled in for good. I was terrified to move, afraid that I might accidentally trigger it again.
I vaguely realized that the gasping breaths I was hearing weren’t all mine, and shifted my eyes to the side without moving my head. I got a glimpse of Pritkin, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling with eyes that showed white all around. His face was flushed, his muscles corded, and his breathing was as shallow as mine. It occurred to me that maybe I hadn’t been the only one affected.
Mac returned with a damp washcloth, which he put on my forehead. I was about to tell him that I needed a bit more than that, like a shot of codeine or a bottle of whiskey, but the small gesture did seem to help. I watched a moth circle the halogen light overhead and tried to regain motor control. The very idea of sitting up sounded insane, so while Mac tended to Pritkin, I lay there and thought. I had been having what qualified, even after some memorable experiences in the past, as a crazy day. So maybe it was understandable that it would take me this long to figure something out.
I’d been reacting strangely all day around men. Normally, I noticed attractive guys as much as the next woman, but I’d had years to learn how to admire in a detached sort of way and then move on. Living on the run meant that any guy I became involved with got the added bonus of a death threat. Not wanting to get anyone killed, I’d made sure to keep my distance, and practice, as they say, makes perfect.
I’d found it hard to concentrate around Casanova and Chavez, but come on. They were both drop-dead gorgeous, not to mention being possessed by incubi. I’d assumed I was having the reaction any heterosexual female could expect around them, and had just been grateful that I hadn’t dragged one or both into the nearest closet. But Pritkin was another matter.
Not only did I find him completely insufferable, and had ever since we met, but I’d also never thought him particularly attractive before today. Okay, I was willing to admit that his body was pretty good and that his face wasn’t that bad, when it wasn’t wearing its usual sneer. His hair was unfortunate, looking like it had been styled with a Weed Eater, but nobody was perfect. But Pritkin definitely wasn’t my type. I’ve never been attracted to blonds, especially homicidal ones who probably have my name on their target list. Yet all of a sudden I was seriously lusting after him.
I abruptly sat up, feeling sick, and barely managed to grab the damp cloth before it fell in my lap. What if Mircea was fiddling around with the geis, trying to force me to finish the ritual? I knew he could do it, since he’d modified it once before to accept Tomas in his place. Maybe he could alter it to accommodate even more partners—a lot more, if today was anything to go on. I covered my eyes with my palms, pain of a different kind lancing through me. The idea that Mircea might not care who completed the rite, just so long as I ended up Pythia for good, was like a cold fist to the chest.
After a few minutes, I hauled myself up from the floor, using the tattoo table for leverage. Surprisingly, my body didn’t protest. “Could Mircea have altered the geis?” I asked. I was proud of the fact that I managed to keep my voice steady.
Pritkin had also regained his feet and as an added bonus had put his shirt back on. He glanced at me, then quickly looked away. “Unlikely.”
“Would somebody please tell me what the hell just happened here?” Mac asked.
“Then why am I suddenly lusting after every guy I meet?”
Pritkin was staring intently at the wall behind the fridge, and after I found myself starting to focus on the front of his jeans, I decided to do the same. “The pain was the geis defending you against an unauthorized partner,” he told me. “It would not draw you to one.”
I felt a sudden surge of relief, strong enough to make me weak in the knees. I clutched the table with both hands and fought not to grin like an idiot. After a few seconds, I managed to tamp it down. Maybe Mircea hadn’t set me up—this time— but I obviously still had a problem. “So what is going on?”
“I . . . am not sure.” Pritkin took in a ragged breath and closed his eyes. After a moment the flush in his cheeks faded a little. “Did anything go wrong during the ritual?”
“What ritual?” Mac was trying to ca
