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“Marco. Said you either call him or he’s accusing us of kidnapping you.”
He handed me a phone and I took it with a sigh. I punched in the suite’s number and it was picked up on the first ring. “Cass
ie, what the hell—”
“You know what the hell. Am I still a prisoner?”
“You know damn well you aren’t!”
“Then I’ll be back. Now stop calling.” I hung up.
Caleb just looked at me. “That was it?”
“That was it until I figure out what story I’m using.”
“I know the feeling,” he snarled, and pushed us toward the office.
Chapter Twenty-eight
We walked back into the little space and Caleb slammed a bottle of Jack down on the desk. “Talk about whatever the hell it is you need to talk about, and get your story straight. I have to make out a report before the bosses show up, and it needs to be tight. You feel me?”
I nodded. Caleb left.
The air conditioning was on and my makeshift dress was clammy. I pulled it off and draped it over the back of Caleb’s desk chair, and wrapped myself in a towel instead. When I turned around, Pritkin had pulled the sweats back on and sat on the stinky sofa. He had his arms crossed in front of him, like a man who doesn’t want company, so I took the hard plastic chair in front of the desk.
I poured the Jack, but not because I wanted any. My stomach felt like it might be fine without anything in it for a year, maybe two. But if a guy had ever looked like he needed a drink, Pritkin was him.
“We don’t have to talk,” I told him. “I mean, I don’t mind listening, but it’s . . . I don’t need an explanation.”
“But you deserve one.”
“Do I?” I kind of thought we were even. He’d saved my life; I’d saved his. But it didn’t look like he agreed.
I handed him the whiskey and he threw it back like a pro, not even wincing. He noticed my expression and smiled faintly. “Compared to what I grew up on, this is . . . fairly mild. And yes, you do.”
I was wondering what the hell he’d grown up on—the Celtic version of rotgut? But I didn’t ask and he didn’t offer. He just sat there, cradling the empty paper cup gently in his hands.
They were still long-fingered, still refined. But they looked more like they belonged to a war mage tonight. Along with the ever-present potion stains, there was a smudge of dark brown that the shower had missed—dirt or dried blood—in the crease between the left thumb and the palm. It had run into the cracks, highlighting them like strokes of charcoal on a sketch. I had a sudden urge to reach over and wipe it off, but I didn’t.
And then he started talking, and I forgot about everything else.
“I told you once about Ruth. About . . . how she died.”
I nodded.
“But I didn’t give specifics. We hadn’t known each other long at the time and it didn’t . . . I assumed that you would never need to know.” He paused for a moment, staring at the fake wood paneling on the opposite wall, as if it held some kind of fascination for him. “I think perhaps you do now.”
“Okay.”
“Ruth had a small amount of demon blood. Ahhazu, a minor species, from her paternal grandmother. She was an eighth, or some such amount.”
“You didn’t know?”
“I knew. I knew as soon as I met her. But I assumed that, as she was living on Earth, she must feel the same way about the demon realms that I did. That they have their pleasures, but they are ultimately corrupting to whoever ventures there. Stay long enough and you lose yourself—your ideals, your values, everything you are—all in the pursuit of mindless pleasure. And in the end, there is no pleasure in that.”
“But she didn’t see it that way?” I guessed.
“No. By comparison to the glamorous, glittering courts she had occasionally glimpsed, Earth was squalid, diseaseridden and poor. It didn’t help that she was born into the middle of the Industrial Age, when, in fairness, those things were often true. The Thames stank like an open sewer, and very nearly was. The new industrial cities like Birmingham and Manchester were littered with overcrowded, filthy, ratridden tenements, filled with people dying of overwork, pollution, disease.... Even Prince Albert died of diphtheria, because of the filthy drains at Windsor. It was an ugly age, and she hated it, all the more for the brief glimpses she’d had of worlds beyond human imagining.”
