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.”
“But she didn’t tell
you this?” I didn’t need to guess on that one. I couldn’t see
Pritkin having much in common with someone who had loved the world
he hated.
“She told someone,
but it wasn’t me.”
“Rosier.” I don’t
know how I knew. Maybe because Pritkin only got that particular
look on his face when he discussed his father.
A curt nod. “She went
to see him, gained admission by mentioning my name. He later told
me that she said she’d lived her life like a child in a candy
store—one without any money to purchase anything. Able to see the
beauty of her other world, but unable to gain access to
it.”
“Because of her mixed
heritage?”
“No. Demons aren’t
like some of the Fey, jealously guarding their bloodlines, afraid
of any impurity. They regularly mix races, among themselves, other
types of demons, humans, Weres, Fey—anyone who has an attribute
they think might be useful. Anyone who might give them an edge over
a rival.”
“Then why couldn’t
she just change worlds if she wanted? If she didn’t like it
here—”
He shook his head.
“It shouldn’t be difficult for you to understand. In that regard,
as in others, your vampires are very similar to demonkind. What is
the only thing that really matters to a vampire?”
I hesitated, not sure
where he was going with this. “There are a lot of
things—”
“Are there? In that
case, why is your friend Raphael not the head of his own family? He
is arguably one of the greatest artistic talents the West has ever
produced, and yet he serves a sniveling, wretched nobody like that
Antonio.”
“He doesn’t anymore.
Mircea broke Tony’s hold.”
“But he did until
recently.”
“Not by choice. Rafe
is a master, but he isn’t that powerful—”
“And there you have
it. Power. The one thing, perhaps the only thing, your vampires
respect. It is the same with demons. And Ruth had almost
none.”
“But she was part
demon—you said so.”
“Yes, but demons are
like any other species. Mix the genetics and you never know what
will come up. Even full blooded Ahhazu aren’t that strong, and in
her case . . . she may as well have been the human she pretended to
be.”
“But you’re part
demon and part human. And you told me yourself that the incubi
aren’t considered one of the more powerful species, either. But
you—”
“Yes, but my other
half was magical human; hers was not. And that, or the small amount
of Fey blood I inherited from my mother, or the way the genes
combined—something worked to boost my abilities. I ended up
stronger magically than I should have been, instead of weaker. If I
had not, I doubt I would have ever known who my father was. He
would have rejected me as another failed experiment and moved on.
And the same was true for Ruth. Without power, she was of interest
to no one.”
“No one except
you.”
Pritkin was silent
for a long moment. And when he spoke his voice was different from
usual, softer, almost tentative. As if he had to find the words
because he never spoke about this and didn’t have them
ready.
“She saw me, I think,
as an entrée into a world she could only imagine. She knew I was
part demon from the moment she met me. It is difficult to hide that
from another of our kind, but it is also difficult to tell which
species one belongs to if the human side is dominant. I think—I
would like to think—that she didn’t know until I told her. That her
affection for me had some basis other than the fact that my father
was the prince of one of the most magnificent of the courts. It is
far from the most powerful, but in opulence, in decadence, in
wealth . . . it would be difficult to name another more entrancing.
Certainly, it entranced her.”
“I’m sorry.” I
couldn’t think what else to say. No one liked to feel they were
wanted only because of what they had, or, in his case, who they
were.
“As am
I.”
He was quiet for a
while, the whoosh of the air conditioner and the faint buzzing of
the overhead light the only sound. It was peaceful, and the small
office was oddly cozy. It felt like an island away from the
craziness of our usual lives, another moment stolen out of time.
Maybe that’s what did it, or maybe, like me, he just wanted to tell
someone. Have somebody understand.
“Demons do not . . .
have relations . . . the same way humans do,” he finally said. “Or,
rather, they can—the more humanoid of the species, in any case—but
it isn’t considered a real joining. That comes only from merging
with another, gaining power by feeding off their energy, having
them feed off yours.... If done between two full demons, it can
result in an exchange of power, enabling both to grow stronger.
Some matings are done specifically for that purpose, to allow
beings with complementary abilities to enhance them, possibly even
mutate them into something neither had experienced
before.”
I frowned, trying to
grasp what he was telling me. “So instead of making a new life, you
. . . remake yours?”
“In a way. Of course,
a joining can result in both outcomes, although that’s exceedingly
rare. But demon lives are long and experimentation is . . . almost
a universal hobby. It is like the human fascination with genetics,
the attempt to make oneself better through whatever means are
available.”
“And Ruth wanted to
do that with you?”
He nodded curtly
once, and then went still. When he finally spoke it was harsh,
clipped. “She didn’t tell me. She told my father, asked for his
advice—why I don’t know. He would be the last person to give anyone
selfless advice, but perhaps she assumed he would want the best for
his son.” His lips twisted in savage mockery.
“And he told her to
go ahead?” I asked.
“I don’t know what he
told her. I know only what he said—after I found out on my own that she had been to
court. He swore that he had informed her of the risk, but he had
every reason to do precisely the opposite. He hated the idea of my
‘wasting’ myself on a human, and a nonmagical one at that, with
barely enough demon blood to mention. He wanted me mated to full
demons, powerful ones, influential ones.”
“Why? Why would he
care—”
“Because it would
lend him influence with the courts. Most demons have a very limited
pool of partners with whom to experiment, because most are
restricted in what kind of energy they can absorb. Incubi, however,
are the . . . the O positive of the demon world. We can feed from
virtually anyone and transmit energy to anyone, anyone at
all.”
I stared at him for a
moment, sure I’d misunderstood. But as crazy as it sounded, I
didn’t see what else he could have meant. “He was going to
pimp you out?”
Pritkin shot me a
glance, and something of the tension went out of his shoulders. His
face relaxed, not into a smile, but into something less forbidding.
“If you could see your expression.”
“How else am I
supposed to look? You’re his son!”
“Which makes me a
bargaining chip. Or was supposed to. I don’t know what he
envisioned—someone like him, I suppose, handsome, charming, ready
to bed whomever and whatever was needed for the good of the clan.
He did as much himself when it would help his negotiations. But
while he could offer a power exchange, he couldn’t give the other
races what they truly wanted.”
“And what was that?”
I asked, almost afraid to find out.
“Children. Progeny
who might carry the traits of both parents, thereby enriching the
line with new blood for eons to come. Full demons have an
incredibly low reproductive rate. They live for so long, if
anything else were true, they would face mass starvation. But
humans . . .”
He paused, but I
didn’t push it, didn’t say anything. I just sat there, torn between
horror and outrage. But he saw, and that same quiet came over his
face, as if my anger somehow lessened his own.
“It is the greatest
strength humans have, and their greatest asset in the struggle to
survive. Despite living far longer, other sentient species can’t
touch the human reproductive rate, can’t even come close. Rosier
spent centuries trying and failing to father a child with other
demonic races. But it wasn’t until he switched to human partners
that he managed it. And even then . . .”
Pritkin trailed off,
but I knew he was thinking about the countless children Rosier had
fathered on his quest and who had died—and had taken their mothers
along with them. I’d never known if that was because of the
terrible rate of death in childbirth among ancient and medieval
women, or if it was the fact that the babies were half-incubus, a
species designed to prey on human energy, that had been the cause.
But none had lived. None until him.
“So he wasn’t pimping
you out,” I said harshly. “He was putting you out to
stud.”
“In a manner of
speaking. Half demons aren’t overly fertile, either, but in
comparison . . . And any demon race would give more—much more—for a
power exchange, if even an outside chance of a child came with
it.”
“And I thought I
hated him before,” I said grimly. “How could he expect you to agree
to that?”
“Because a full demon
would have, without question. Would not have concerned himself with
the futures of any children he helped to create, or the use Rosier
was putting to the influence he gained. He would have viewed it as
an honor, as a way to help the clan and to increase his own status
at the same time. But needless to say, I felt
differently.”
“I’d hope
so!”
“My refusal caused
the first major breach between us, although there had been others.
But it was what finally convinced me to leave it all behind, to
rejoin the human world, to build a life free of him, of the courts,
of the constant scheming and power plays.”
“And he let you
go?”
Pritkin finally
smiled, and it wasn’t a very nice one. “I forced his hand, you
might say. But in the end, it mattered little, as his ambition for
me remained the same. And a monogamous marriage to a nonentity
would do nothing to service it. He said he warned her, but he does
nothing counter to his own interests. Nothing!”
I didn’t say anything
that time, because I had finally caught on to where he was going
with this. At least, I was afraid that I had. But I don’t think
Pritkin noticed. He was staring at the damn paneling, but his face
was . . . somewhere else.
“I will never know
for certain what went on at that meeting,” he said. “I know only
what she did. On our wedding night, she initiated the exchange of
power. I believe she hoped it would strengthen her own magic, make
her acceptable in the eyes of the courts. And had she been fully
demon, even half, it may well have done so. May have given her
entry into that world she wanted so badly. But she wasn’t, and she
didn’t understand. . . .”
He paused, and for a
moment, I thought that would be it. But then he spoke again. And it
was so raw, so bitter, that the very tone hurt to
hear.
“The exchange of
power is designed to be exactly that. But I suppose she never
wondered what would happen if one partner had no excess power to
give. Had nothing but the energy she needed to live. And I was . .
. distracted.... I didn’t notice what was happening, not for a
moment, because incubi typically feed in those instances. But not
that much, not that fully. And by the
time I realized, it was too late. Before the cycle could even
properly begin, she was—” His lips tightened. “She never received
anything back. She never had time. She gave and gave and then it
was over . . . so quickly. . . .”
He trailed off, for
which I was grateful. Pritkin had described what happened once
before, and I remembered the conversation in vivid detail. It was a
little hard to forget, as he hadn’t spared himself. He hadn’t told
me the reason his wife ended up a dried-up shell of a creature,
shriveled and desiccated, barely recognizable as human. But he had
made sure I knew who had been responsible, at least in his
mind.
He might have hated
his father because of what he knew or suspected.
But he hated himself
a lot more.
Again, I didn’t know
what to say. Except the obvious. “It wasn’t your fault,” I said
quietly, only to have him give me a look of incredulous
disbelief.
“I’ve just
explained—”
“That you tried to
stop it and you couldn’t. What else could you have done? You didn’t
know—”
“I should have! There
must have been signs, clues to what she intended—and yet I saw
nothing!”
“Maybe there was
nothing to see. Maybe she was careful—”
“Maybe I was a blind
fool!” He got up and poured more whiskey. “I should have realized
what was going on, should have noticed how giddy she suddenly was,
how happy . . . but I put it down to the forthcoming wedding. Women
like weddings, all the . . . the decorations and the gowns and the
. . . And I was busy searching for a home for us. I’d lived in
bachelor quarters until then, but they wouldn’t do for her,
and—”
He broke off and went
back to the sofa. He took the whiskey bottle along. I really
couldn’t blame him.
“That night . . . I
should have been able to shut things down before they progressed
that far. But I couldn’t, because I’d refused to mate with demons,
had restricted myself to humans, and therefore knew little about
the process. I knew what was happening, but not how to stop it. And
obviously, neither did she. I’d kept my lofty principles, thwarted
my father’s wishes, and in doing so, left myself ignorant in the
one area that mattered. And he knew that. Knew he had the perfect
way to punish me for daring to tell him no—”
“Which is my point,”
I said, leaning forward, because I couldn’t stay quiet any longer.
“Rosier set you up. If you want to blame someone, blame
him!”
“I do! But he wasn’t
there. He didn’t drain her, he didn’t steal her life away, didn’t
feel her crumble in his arms like—”
He cut off, breathing
hard, and put his head in his hands. I went over and sat beside
him, not hugging him because those moments in the shower had been
an aberration, and I somehow knew he wouldn’t appreciate it now.
Maybe because of the nervous energy that was thrumming through him,
like a grounded lightning rod. I could feel it, just sitting there,
an electric charge jumping under his skin.
I didn’t know what to
say to Pritkin. When you hated and blamed yourself for something
for years, it became truth, your truth, whether it actually was or
not. And technically, we were in the same boat. What had happened
to Eugenie wasn’t my fault, at least in the sense that I couldn’t
have prevented it.
And that was exactly
no fucking comfort at all.
After a while, I
pulled my feet up and grabbed the whiskey, drinking straight from
the bottle. My stomach wasn’t too happy about it, but my stomach
could go to hell.
“The worst part,” he
finally said, his voice hoarse, “was that I enjoyed it.
Emotionally, mentally, I was horrified. But physically . . . it was
the same as tonight. When I woke in that car, it was to terrible
pain, but also to indescribable pleasure. You held nothing back,
your power was right there, and I . . .
I could have . . .”
“But you didn’t. You
didn’t drain me.”
“I came damn
close!”
I shook my head. “No,
you didn’t. You took a lot, but I know drained, okay? I’ve fed
ghosts, vampires and now a half demon—twice. And both
times—”
“I was conscious last
time!” he said savagely. “I kept control for nearly the entire
process, and you had a place to run when I lost it. None of that
was true tonight!” Green eyes blazed into mine. “Do you understand
that? Do you realize the risk you ran? You were trapped and there
was no one to help you and—”
“And nothing happened.” I didn’t even bother to get
annoyed at his tone; yelling at me for saving his life was typical
of the man. “Besides, there was someone
to help me.”
He snorted. “Caleb?
Do you have any idea how inadvisable it is to disturb a demon when
it is feeding? And I am more powerful than most because of who
sired me. If he’d interfered, the only damage would have been to
him!”
“I wasn’t talking
about Caleb,” I said evenly.
“You couldn’t access
your power. You couldn’t have shifted—”
“Damn it! I’m not
talking about me, either. And if you say Rosier, I swear I’ll hit
you.”
“There was no one
else there.”
I rolled my eyes.
Maybe I’d hit him anyway. It was starting to look like the only
viable option.
“There was you. I
knew I would be okay because I was with you. I knew you
wouldn’t—”
“Then you’re a fool,”
he rasped. “For one moment, I didn’t know where I was, who you
were—I didn’t know anything, but how good pulling on all that power
felt. And a moment is all it takes!”
“But you didn’t do it,” I repeated, because he didn’t
seem to get that. Which was odd, because for me, it was kind of the
main point here.
“But I could have! I
felt it, the hunger, the burning, the need.” His fists clenched. “I didn’t want to stop—”
“But you did. I
remember when you pulled back. You’d have stopped it right then, as
soon as you figured out what was happening, if your father hadn’t
laid that damn spell.”
“You don’t
know—”
“And even then, it’s
not like you did all that much,” I said, talking over him, because
it was the only way to get a word in edgeways with Pritkin
sometimes.
He had filched the
bottle back to take a drink, but at that he lowered it and looked
at me, his eyes very green next to the amber liquor.
“What?”
“I just meant, it
wasn’t all that and a bag of chips. You know?”
He blinked at
me.
“No offense,” I
added, because he was looking kind of poleaxed. Like maybe he
hadn’t had a whole lot of complaints before. Which was, frankly,
pretty damn understandable. But I feigned indifference. “I mean, it
couldn’t have been that bad if—”
“Bad?”
“Well, not
bad bad.”
He just looked at
me.
“I mean, I came and
everything, so that has to count for some—”
I cut off because I
was suddenly enveloped in a strong pair of arms, and my head was
crushed to a hard chest. A chest that appeared to be vibrating. It
took me a few moments to get it, and even then I wasn’t sure,
because Pritkin’s face was buried in my hair. But I kind of
thought—as impossible as it seemed—that he might be . . .
laughing?