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 catch up but not doing real well. I’d felt the same way all day.
“The transfer ritual,” I clarified, “the one required to become Pythia. I don’t know what it’s called. Agnes started it but she said that I had to, uh . . .” I trailed off in deference to Mac’s old-fashioned sensibilities.
“But Mircea took care of that,” Pritkin said.
“Not exactly.” I could understand his confusion. Other than for the play interlude, the last time he’d seen Mircea and me together we’d been nude and sweaty. Well, technically I’d been wrapped in a blanket, but you get the idea. “We were interrupted. Rasputin attacked, remember?”
“Vividly.” Pritkin wrinkled his brow as if trying to get his mind around a difficult concept. “You’re saying that you are still a virgin?” he asked bluntly. His voice held the same level of incredulity anyone else would use if told that a spaceship had landed on the White House lawn. Like something barely possible but highly unlikely.
I stopped looking at the wall to glare at him. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes!”
He shook his head in disbelief. “I would never have considered that.”
I was getting ready to become seriously annoyed when I found myself admiring the way the damp hair at the base of his neck curled up. Damn, damn, damn! “Do you have a theory or not?”
“The most likely explanation is that the Pythian Rites are trying to complete themselves.”
I stared at him blankly for a moment. He didn’t notice, being too busy counting bricks in the wall. “Let me get this straight,” I finally said, sounding a little strangled despite my best efforts. “Since Mircea isn’t here, the unfinished ritual is starting to draw me to other men to complete itself. But the
geis
doesn’t like that, and it’s making its feelings known by torturing me and anybody who gets near me. Is that right? And more importantly, is it going to keep happening?”
“What
geis
? You’re under a
geis
?” Mac asked.
“Her vampire master put her under a
dúthracht
. It is conflicting with the Pythian Rites, which have yet to be completed, ” Pritkin said curtly.
“Oh, bloody hell.” Mac sat down on his stool, looking shell-shocked.
“Answer me!” If I’d dared to touch Pritkin, I’d have shaken him within an inch of his life.
“I don’t know enough about the rites to say for certain if there is a way out at this point,” he said unhelpfully. “The ceremonies are held within the Pythia’s court, and there are few records kept on anything connected to the office.”
“What about witnesses?” I hoped I didn’t sound as frantic as I felt. “The ritual was done for Agnes once, right?”
“That was more than eighty years ago. And even if any witnesses still live, they would be of little use. Most of the ritual is carried out privately. The only people who know the complete procedure are the Pythia and her designated heir.”
“Myra.” Great, I was back where I’d started. “What about the
geis
then?”
“You are already doing what you can by staying away from Mircea. That will at least slow down the process. There is no other remedy, other than having it removed.”
“Then how do I do that?”
“You don’t.”
“Don’t give me that! There has to be a way.”
“If there is, I don’t know it,” he told me, sounding tired. “If I did, I would tell you. Unless the ritual is completed, it will continue to draw you to men, but the
geis
will oppose any except Mircea. And it will likely grow worse over time. The
dúthracht
is spiteful when it’s opposed.”
“But . . . but what about Chavez?” I asked desperately. “He touched me and nothing happened. I didn’t go writhing all over the ice rink!”
“You were at the ice rink? Why?” Pritkin was back to looking pissed. I couldn’t have cared less.
“To get that.” I gestured at the duffle. “I didn’t want to take it into Dante’s.”
“So you left it unattended in a public arena, where anyone might pick it up?!”
“It was in a locker,” I said sullenly. “And can we get back to the point? I felt something start to build when Casanova touched me. It was nothing like what just happened, but it felt—I don’t know. Like it could get bad fast. Only he dropped my hand before it flared. But Chavez didn’t affect me at all, and that was later. So if you’re right and the reaction is strengthening, shouldn’t it have been worse?”
Pritkin looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know.”
“The only reason I can think of,” Mac mused, “is that the
geis
determines the amount of threat by reading the interest level of any prospective partners, and reacts accordingly. Casanova was likely somewhat attracted to you and this Chavez wasn’t. Casanova was therefore identified by the
geis
as the wrong match and as a potential problem, and warned off. But Chavez, although also the wrong one to complete the bond, was not interested in you, and therefore was not perceived as a danger.”
Mac looked pleased with himself, while Pritkin and I stared at each other in mounting panic. As if by mutual consent, neither of us made the obvious connection. I did
not
want to go there. Ever.
“Of course,” Mac continued obliviously, “when there’s a mutual attraction, the reaction is stronger because the warning is going both ways . . .” He trailed off awkwardly.
“Okay.” I put a hand to my head, which had started throbbing in time with my pulse. At this rate, I was going to be the youngest person ever to die from a stress-induced stroke. “How do I deal with this thing?” I asked Mac, because Pritkin was busy trying not to look horrified.
Mac scratched his stubble-coated chin. “Usually, there’s a way out built into these things, especially the
dúthracht
. It has a habit of causing chaos, and I can’t imagine anyone putting it in place and not giving himself an escape route. But only two people are likely to know what the safety net is.”
“Mircea and whoever cast the spell.”
He nodded. “And the mage was doubtless someone disavowed who was under the vamp’s protection. He isn’t going to risk losing that to help you, even if we could figure out which of the hundreds of rogue mages—and that’s just the ones in this country—Mircea used. Of course, there aren’t a lot with that kind of skill, outside of the Black Circle. But that doesn’t help greatly. Say we could narrow it down to a few dozen, we’d still have to find him or her, and if that was easy it would have been done long ago.”
“Is there anything that can slow this thing down, make the reaction less . . . extreme?” I asked Mac, but it was Pritkin who answered.