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But he wasn’t a war mage yet, was he? And it looked like he could tan, after all. Which was more than a little disconcerting, because with the shaggy, sun-streaked hair and the Celtic version of board shorts, he looked less like a dangerous mage than a surfer from Malibu.
He looked like it in other ways, too. The man I knew didn’t have a choice but to work out. No chance to use his incubus abilities anymore meant no chance to boost his magic, and war mages were constant targets. But this guy didn’t have that problem. And while he was still nicely defined, he looked more like someone who liked to stay active than a bodybuilder.
Except when he stood up and turned away in order to strip off the shorts. Leaving it impossible not to notice that the legs were the same, thick and hard with muscle, probably due to the daily Wales workout. Like the thighs, which were slightly paler than the calves and chest, as if they didn’t see the sun as often. And the still lighter mounds higher up, which stretched and flexed when he moved, to toss the last of his clothing on the heap.
And then to turn around and stretch on the riverbank instead, giving me a chance to see that other things were the same as I remembered, too.
Like the fact that he was injured.
Pritkin was sweaty and muddy, which didn’t worry me much because Wales, but one knee was scraped bloody. And so was his right leg, where what looked like a livid burn snaked down from midthigh to just above the shin. And his hip . . .
I bit back a sound as he turned this way, because it was one huge bruise.
It looked like he’d recently been in a fight that, considering the shape he was in, I wasn’t sure he’d won. But he must have, I told myself, before my blood pressure went through the roof. He was here and in one piece, and I doubted he’d be stripping down in the presence of an enemy. Or leaving his stuff on the riverbank. Or diving into the water unarmed—
And not coming up again.
I looked both ways after a minute, when he didn’t reappear, but there was nothing. Just the old wheel, leisurely turning, a lot of slow-moving water, and no Pritkin. I waded out of the reeds to get a better view, thinking that maybe he’d swum under the surface somewhere I couldn’t see, but still nothing.
And, suddenly, I lost it.
The combo of shock, vast relief, panic, and then more shock made the second mental shutdown more extreme than the first. All I could think about was him being hurt and passing out after he dove in. And drowning while I just stood there, stood there like an idiot.
Okay, that didn’t make sense, I knew that, because he hadn’t died in medieval Wales! But what if I’d somehow changed things? What if he’d caught a glimpse of me just as he dove and it threw him off course and then he hit his head on something? What if I’d come back to rescue him, only to kill him myself, and that might sound crazy to anyone else, but they didn’t know, they didn’t know my life, and—
And I dove, trying desperately to see something in water that was all dapples—swaying tree limbs above and darting fish below and shadows and sunlight and waving water plants—the whole place was moving! And I couldn’t hear any better, not over the water rushing in my ears. Or feel anything but the current tugging at me, stronger now that I was completely under and fighting to go farther.
And fighting hard. But instead, I felt my feet leave the slick stones of the riverbed, and my body start to move back toward the surface. I thrashed and kicked, but it didn’t do any good. In seconds I surfaced anyway, gasping and dizzy, because I’d been down longer than I thought. Which meant that Pritkin—
I dove again, or tried to, but this time, I didn’t go anywhere at all. I pushed down, and the water pushed back. I was so confused by then, so terrified, and so close to crazed, that I didn’t even stop to wonder why. I grabbed at it, tearing it like it was cloth, or dirt that I could dig my way through if only I tried hard enough. But it wasn’t—it ran through my fingers and then re-formed into this suddenly impenetrable barrier that mocked me, mocked me until I slapped at it, yelling in fury and rage, and scaring a water bird half to death.
Which was nothing to how I felt when strong arms suddenly went around me from behind.
The bird erupted from the patch of reeds, its narrow wings slicing through the air with a whistle. It dipped low to the water, its long tail skimming the reflected sun, shattering it into a thousand gleaming pieces until the whole river ran gold under the weight of the clouds. Except for a dark silhouette in the middle of it all, solid and real in the dance of light as I spun in his arms.
And saw the light of late afternoon reflected in a pair of green eyes.
Chapter Seventeen
In the distance, the heavy clouds that had followed me all day broke open with a sigh, and rain fell like a veil across the horizon. More startled birds took off with ululating trills of complaint. And a feeling leapt up in my chest, so bright and full that it was almost pain, the lightning a dim echo, the sky too small to hold it.
/> And then Pritkin laughed, and the mood broke, leaving me blinking and shell-shocked.
And kneeling on a mat of rubbery water that steadfastly refused to accept me.
“You . . . you bastard!” I breathed, slipping and sliding and trying to cover up with what felt like a giant, overstuffed water balloon that I had somehow ended up in the middle of. And being watched by a hairy-chested forest sprite who appeared to find the whole thing very funny. I glared at him, caught between relief and outrage, until the bubble burst as abruptly as it had formed and I plunged under again.
Warm hands grasped my waist, helping me back to the surface. And then hauled me close to an amused face, which promptly cracked into an even wider grin. And then into a full-on laugh, rich and loud and long, at whatever expression I’d managed to come up with.
Which was probably shock, since I’d never heard Pritkin laugh like that.
And because, weirdly, he looked even less familiar close up.
There were similarities to the man I knew: the stubbled chin, the let’s-be-generous-and-call-it-a-Roman nose, the green, green eyes. But the differences were bigger, and they were everywhere. Like the mouth, which was fuller than it should have been, maybe because it was currently stretched into a smile. And the cheeks, which still had some of their baby fat, softening the hard lines I knew. And the eyes . . .
Which, other than for the color, I didn’t know at all.
They lacked the suspicion, the cynicism, and the wariness I was used to. Instead, they were sparkling with wicked humor, and the delight I’d seen on rare occasions when he had just done something breathtakingly dangerous. Not to mention being mischievous and curious and more than a little flirty.
