Reap the Wind (5 page)

It had nothing on mine.

“The devil is wrong with you?” he choked—literally, since his mouth had been open when the deluge hit. “You utterly insane—”

“Pritkin will be
twenty-four
by the time he reenters this world,” I ground out. “We’re supposed to let hundreds of years slip by and try to catch him in a
few decades
? Knowing that, if we miss, that’s
it
?”

And it would be. The damned demon council had known my abilities when they cursed him, and had used the one spell that would be the hardest for me to counter. His soul would only pass through each period of his life once, and then never again. I couldn’t go back to Amsterdam and try to get him again, because Pritkin’s body might be there, but his soul, the modern, precious, cursed version I had to save . . .

Would not.

It was gone forever, tumbling backward through his life into the period he’d spent in the hells. And if we couldn’t catch it there, with a millennium of time to work with, how were we supposed to manage it in a few short years on earth? How were we supposed to manage it before Pritkin literally aged right out of existence? And how was I supposed to even get us there to
try
it?

“We’ll be waiting for him when he emerges,” the damn demon was saying, because he still didn’t get it. “We’ll catch him the moment he—”

“No, we won’t.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I can’t go back that far!”

I suddenly found our positions reversed, and myself backed into the glass door, forcefully enough to leave bruises on my bruises. And, okay, I thought, staring up into a truly devilish face, Rosier was looking more the part now. “What the
hell
does that mean?” he hissed.

“What I said!” I snapped, too angry to be intimidated. “The farthest back I’ve ever been was four hundred years—and that was without a passenger! What you’re talking about would kill me. It also wouldn’t work,” I added, because Rosier didn’t look too upset at that idea.

“Then why do the rumors say your kind can travel at will, even back to the ancient world?”

“I don’t know! Like I know anything about this damned office. But I’m telling you I can’t do it!”

“And I am telling you that you have to.”

“I don’t have to! We’ll find him in the hells—”

“We aren’t going to the hells,” he said, and then raised his voice to talk over me when I tried to interrupt. “Even if I lost my mind and decided to risk it, it wouldn’t work, girl. By the time you could recuperate enough to get us there, he’d already be gone.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! He was there for ages! We have plenty of—”

“Ages of
your time
. Earth’s time. But he wasn’t on earth, was he?”

I stopped, staring at Rosier. “What?”

“The hells are on a different time line—you know that.” He sounded annoyed. “And the spell isn’t on the time line, it’s on
him
. It follows him. And where he was, perhaps fifty years passed.”

It brought me up short. All the more so because I’d known that. I’d known it, but I hadn’t wanted to think about it, hadn’t wanted to acknowledge even to myself how close to the end we were getting. But suddenly, my hands were shaking.

I wanted to argue with Rosier, wanted to scream at him, to tell him that no, no, no, he wasn’t right, he couldn’t be. Pritkin was from
earth
. He was on
earth time
.
 
. . .

But not when he was away from it.

Which meant that our window of opportunity had just been shortened by something like a thousand years.

I tried to process that, but I didn’t have the strength. That last outburst had left me feeling weak and wobbly, with a brain that was having a hard time keeping up. Everything was coming too thick and too fast, and all I could think was the same thing, over and over.

“Then we’ve failed,” I whispered, feeling dizzy. And lost. And very, very cold.

“Like hell we’ve failed.” I looked up to find Rosier glaring at me again. “I’m going to see Adra,” he said, brushing himself off. And talking about the head of the demon council.

“Why?”

“Because he laid the damned spell! He’s the only one who can track it. He should be able to tell us approximately when Emrys’ soul will enter earth again.”

“What difference does it make?” I demanded shakily. “I can’t shift again, probably not for hours . . . and even if I could, Pritkin was born in the
sixth century
—”

“I know when he was born.”

I shook my head violently, because he didn’t know. He didn’t understand. “You’re talking about
fifteen hundred years.
Even if we had more time, I
can’t
—”

“You can and you will,” Rosier said, his voice a whip crack. For a moment, he sounded exactly like his son giving me an order in the middle of a fight. It was enough to snap my head up, enough to bring me back from the brink. I blinked stupid tears away.

“How?”

“That’s for you to discover. But the spell gets weaker as it moves along, losing power as the magic behind it gives out. It starts out lightning fast, but nearer the end, it slows down considerably. We
have
time.”

“How much time?”

“That’s what I intend to find out.” The voice was hard. Like the hand that suddenly gripped my arm, possibly because I’d started to sway a little.

I looked up and met Rosier’s green, green eyes. They were so like Pritkin’s that, for a moment, I almost thought I saw a spark of compassion in them. And then the grip turned painful.

“Eat. Sleep. Do whatever you have to do. And then find us a way back there!”

I woke up to a soft bed, cool sheets, and the feel of warm skin sliding against mine. It felt good; it felt better than good. Like the unmistakable thickness that pressed hard against me.

I smiled and stretched, pushing back into a strong embrace. Enjoying the feel of hard muscle and the quiver of anticipation that shivered from me into the body behind me. Or maybe it was the other way around; maybe he was the one shivering. I couldn’t tell, didn’t care.

An arm encircled my stomach, pulling me abruptly back. And the weight against me suddenly grew larger. A rough hand began to wander, exploring the jut of a hip bone, the curve of a rib, the dip of a navel. And then smoothing up my stomach, pushing my shirt along with it, up and over the swell of a breast.

A sound escaped my lips at the combination of chilly air and warm flesh. The latter began exploring my softness, but slowly, teasingly. Deliberately ignoring the tightly furled tip.

I moaned again, louder, and pressed into his grasp. But the gentle torture continued unabated, until I was gasping and sweating, shivering and desperate. Such a little thing, to leave me completely undone. Such a silly little thing . . . but it had, and I was, and I
wanted
 . . .

And finally, finally, practiced fingers found the tender nub, rolling it expertly, making my breath catch in my throat. I pushed into the hand, trembling and aching. And it tightened for a moment possessively before sliding back down my stomach. All the way down, past the silky scrap of my thong.

Until it grasped other things.

My breath sped up and my legs moved apart automatically. The grip tightened, rough calluses against delicate skin, and I writhed, almost in pain now. His breath sped up, too, ruffling the hair on the back of my neck as his fingers found a new nub to torture. And the desire that had been building and building suddenly caught fire, flaming out of control.

But I was trapped, caught between sinuous movements from behind, where his body still cupped me, and sure, sweet strokes from in front, those talented fingers both caging and bringing me to the brink in moments. Until the deep throb of desire blotted out everything else. A hand gripped my thigh, pulling it farther up. Leaving me open and aching as he slid slowly against me from behind, huge and hard and . . .

“Take me already!” I gasped, and heard him chuckle.

“Are you asking or demanding?”

“Either. Both.” I barely knew what I was saying as that wonderful heat kept. Missing. The target. “Can’t you find it?” I asked desperately, after another few seconds, because I was losing my mind.

“I think I can manage.” The voice was amused, but the words were punctuated by a full-length glide against me. “But I don’t take orders well.”

“Neither do I!” I told him, pushing back.

“I’ve noticed” was hissed in my ear as the wonderful, hateful pressure slid against me again. And again. And—

“Damn it, Pritkin! Don’t tease!”

Abruptly, the movements stopped. And the hands on my body tightened. And a familiar voice growled in my ear.
“Pritkin?”

And then somebody knocked on the door.

I jerked awake with a little scream, staring around in confusion and instinctively grabbing for the sheet. That was lucky, because the door burst open a second later, spilling two well-armed security guards into the room. Along with a small vampire clutching large white paper bags.

The vampire’s name was Fred. He was looking a little bewildered. Possibly because of the scream, or because I was staring at him like he had two heads.

I clutched the sheet a little higher and did it anyway. My heart was in my throat, my hair was everywhere, and my nipples were hard as rocks. It was a little difficult to think clearly at the moment.

“Sushi?” he blurted out.

“Wh-what?” I stared at him some more.

“Or Indian?”

He thrust out the bags, so I stared at them instead. They looked like the kind you get at takeout places, and one of them had a greasy bottom that was about to leak through the waxed paper. It smelled wonderful.

My brain finally woke up enough to inform me that I must have fallen asleep while waiting for dinner, and that I was now freaking out Fred. And the other guards, one of whom had a hand on his gun. I licked my lips and retreated from heart attack territory, although I didn’t lower the sheet. I couldn’t because my shirt had ridden up. Had ridden suspiciously up, I thought, glancing around again.

But there were no phantom lovers in sight, and I knew from phantom. Just soft darkness, a dim haze from the nightscape outside the windows, and the air conditioner tossing the sheers around. I pushed sweaty hair out of my face and told myself to calm down.

It had been a dream, that was all—just a vivid dream.

Really, really vivid.

I swallowed, and turned my attention back to the small vamp.

He was silhouetted in the brighter wedge of light from the hall, a short, somewhat dumpy figure in an ill-fitting suit. It showed off his love handles but matched his large, myopic gray eyes. He had wispy brown hair that he’d let grow a little long to try to cover a bald patch, a tie that always ended up everywhere except where a tie was supposed to be, and a nose that looked like it was missing the glasses he chose not to wear because he thought they made him look weak.

I hated to tell him, but it really didn’t matter. Scary, Fred was not. However, we all have our gifts. And right then, he was holding bags from two of the local eateries that had received the Fred seal of approval. Which meant that they specialized in greasy, sugary, spicy, or fried foods, or preferably all of the above.

My mouth started to water.

“Suuuushi, or Innnndian?” he asked again, recovering slightly. And wafting the bags around.

“What . . . what kind of Indian?” I managed to say, without drooling on myself.

“Tikka masala. And tandoori chicken, just out of the oven. They had some leftover stuff in the warming pans, but I made ’em give me the fresh.”

“Poppadums?”

Fred drew himself up. “What am I, an animal? And garlic naan.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

“Do you want to know about the sushi?”

“No.” After a chase through an ice storm and a dunk in frigid water, cold fish didn’t appeal.

Fred shrugged philosophically. “More for me.”

He ambled over and switched on the lamp beside the bed, while the other two vamps looked around. Probably wondering what I’d done with Rosier. They apparently decided that I’d either shifted him somewhere or thrown him off the building, and neither seemed to worry them overly much.

They left.

Fred started divvying up food.

I went to get a couple of towels—for hygiene’s sake; the bedspread was already done for—and to check out the bathroom. But all I found was a mountain of extra linens and a plastic bag of the tiny toiletries the hotel gave out, for the girls, I guessed. But no phantom lovers.

Sometimes a dream is just a dream, I told myself, feeling a little embarrassed. And a lot hungry. I grabbed some towels off the heap and went to claim my share of the bounty.

And discovered that Fred—good old Fred—had outdone himself. I helped him lay out the picnic, then climbed into the small amount of space left by the headboard, my stomach insisting that I was starving the whole time. I must have looked it, too, because Fred generously donated a tempura shrimp roll to my plate, although he was stingy with the wasabi.

He saw my face and rolled his eyes. “Don’t pout. Anyway, this place makes their own. None of that fake shit.”

“Fake?”

“Didn’t you know?” He plopped a much larger portion on his own plate, which he totally didn’t need because vampire senses are stronger than humans’.

“Know what?” I asked, with my mouth full.

“That the wasabi in most sushi places isn’t real. It’s horseradish they’ve doctored up with green food coloring and some mustard.”

“The bastards.”

“Tell me about it. But this place has the genuine article, and it’s hot. So be careful.”

I was careful. It was delicious. I happily ate my way through the tempura with a burning tongue and watering eyes before starting on the bright red tandoori. It was good, too, falling-off-the-bone tender and oniony and spicy and . . .
yum
.

I came out of a food-induced haze a few moments later to find that something else had appeared on my plate. It wasn’t chicken tikka. “What?” I asked, around a mouthful of awesomeness.

“Samosa.”

I poked at the little fried ball with a fork. Some nasty green stuff oozed out through a break in the breading. And, okay, ewww.

“It’s peas,” Fred told me impatiently.

“Peas?”

“You know, small and green? They’re these things called vegetables.”

“Very funny.” I pushed the pea thing over to the side of my plate.

Fred pushed it back. “Eat it.”

“I don’t want to eat it.”

“It’s good for you.”

“Then you eat it.”

“I don’t need veggies.”

“You don’t need tikka masala, either,” I pointed out, although a bunch of it had ended up on his plate. Along with most of the naan. I stole a piece back.

“There’s plenty left,” he said indignantly. “And you have to eat it.”

“Why?” I eyed the pea thing suspiciously. I wouldn’t put it past Marco to drug me. He wasn’t supposed to, since it interfered with my ability to access my power. But after the last few days, I could see him deciding that it was the lesser of two evils.

But apparently I was being paranoid, because Fred looked heavenward. “Because I’ll get The Look if you don’t!”

“What look?” I asked, shoveling the rest of the cumin-infused basmati rice onto my plate and pouring on the remains of the tikka. This place Fred had found made it right, with lots of cream in the tomato sauce and big, tender chunks of chicken and large, fluffy rounds of naan and—

And I almost forgot what we’d been talking about.

Until I looked up. And encountered a credible imitation of my former governess’s patented Look of Disapproval. It was so good, I felt a surge of the old, familiar guilt, despite the fact that I hadn’t done anything.

Except picnic on the bed, which would have been enough for a Stern Talking-To, at the very least.

“Who is giving you The Look?” I asked, confused.

“Who do you think?”

“I have no idea.” And I didn’t. Because living in a penthouse full of guys, even vampire guys, was sort of like hanging out at a frat house.

The kitchen never had food but always had beer. The living room was filled with full ashtrays, cast-off suit coats that nobody had bothered to hang up, and the latest sports event on the TV. But the salon was where people mostly lived because it had the pool table and the newly installed poker table and the dartboard that someone had made out of a picture of Casanova’s face.

He was the casino manager, and yes, usually looked pretty constipated, at least when he was around me. But he didn’t have The Look. As far as I knew, nobody did.

“Rhea,” Fred said, glancing over his shoulder, like he was afraid he might find her standing there.

“Rhea?”

“Yes, Rhea. Your acolyte. Or whatever she is.” Fred looked like he might have some suggestions for other titles.

I frowned.

“What’s wrong with her?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Fred said, and started on a local specialty, the Rock and Roll roll. It had spicy barbecued eel and creamy avocado and crunchy cucumber, and toasted sesame seeds sprinkled all over the top of—

“Stop it,” he told me.

“Stop what?’

“Stop lusting after my roll. And start figuring out what to do about your court.”

“Didn’t they eat?” I asked, feeling guilty again. I hadn’t thought—but then, I wasn’t used to having to feed anybody but me. Which was hard enough around here.

“Oh, they ate,” he said heavily. “I told them they could call up for pizza or whatever from room service, but no. Rhea wasn’t having it.”

“Then what did they have?” I asked. Because I was pretty sure that the only food in the fridge was a few stale beer nuts and some ketchup.

And I wasn’t sure about the ketchup.

“Stuffed chicken. Roasted potatoes.
Broccoli
.” Fred made a face.

“Where did they get that?” Vegas was not known for home cooking. You could get everything from a twenty-four-ounce prime rib topped with goat cheese and lobster, to a ninety-nine-cent shrimp cocktail that might or might not give you Mobster’s Revenge. But stuffed chicken?

Fred mumbled something around a mouthful of eel.

“What?”

He swallowed. “I said, she got it at the grocery store.”

“What grocery store?”

“The one she made me go out to. In the middle of the day.” He shuddered. “She decided that, since we have a double oven, she’d cook.”

“We have a double oven?”

“I know, right?” He munched cucumber. “Who knew?”

“So she sent you to the grocery store,” I said slowly, because I was trying to imagine a girl who’d just narrowly escaped death deciding that what she really needed right then was a stuffed chicken.

And because of something else.

Rhea wasn’t just some teenager. She was a member of the Pythian Court, and one who’d been handling the weirdness a lot longer than I had. If there was a way for me to go back fifteen centuries without turning inside out, she ought to know.

Well, maybe. I’d gotten the idea that she’d mostly worked in the nursery, taking care of the little kids we seemed to have a bunch of for some reason, instead of doing crazy time leaps. In fact, I seemed to remember her saying that she wasn’t really an acolyte at all, just an initiate, although I wasn’t totally clear on the difference.

But still, she might know something.

“—lettuce. Spinach.
Bean sprouts
,” Fred was saying, with the air of someone pronouncing unfamiliar curse words.

“Is she awake?”

He looked up from corralling an unholy mix of masala and wasabi with some naan, and blinked. “Who? Rhea?”