by Karen Chance
It was providing a bath for a future war mage.
“That’s nice,” I thought, drifting lazily over into a reed patch, where some little fishies started trying to nibble on my toes.
And then realization struck, and I almost drowned.
I came up, spluttering and coughing, and staring around—at a mass of black birds that had just taken off from the treetops. Their flapping and cawing covered the sounds I was making, like the weeds covered my body. Which was lucky. Because the river wasn’t that wide and Pritkin was just down from me, dabbling a foot in the water on the opposite bank.
I grabbed a bunch of weeds in both hands, and stared.
He was dressed in some whacked-out ghillie suit, or considering where we were, possibly something a drunk Druid had devised: a tunic covered in branches and leaves and vines, a hood shaggy with more of the same, and a pair of brown boots barely visible under the drooping foliage. His face was painted like a commando’s, too, all brown and green splotched, and his hair was midlength and shaggy instead of short and spiky.
But it was him. I knew him instantly, and almost yelled his name in sheer relief before I remembered. And clamped my teeth on my lower lip, hard enough to hurt.
Because this Pritkin didn’t know me.
This Pritkin wouldn’t even know the name I’d been about to shout, since he didn’t go by it yet. This Pritkin was a dangerous mage in a dangerous time, and he probably wouldn’t take it well if he knew he was being spied on. Fortunately, the reeds ensured that he didn’t immediately see me.
Unfortunately, that didn’t really help, since I had no idea what I was supposed to do now.
My thought processes, such as they were, went something like: urp.
Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit!
Rosier. Scan hillside frantically. No Rosier.
Damn him!
What a time to disappear—and for me to let him go!
But it shouldn’t have mattered. We hadn’t seen a soul all day. We were out in the middle of nowhere and Pritkin was supposed to be at court and it shouldn’t have mattered.
But he was here and it did and Rosier had only just left, maybe half an hour ago. It couldn’t have been much longer than that, so who knew when he’d be back? And what was I supposed to do in the meantime?
What was I supposed to do when Pritkin decided to leave?
Only he wasn’t.
He was getting naked instead.
For a moment, I just stared. I don’t know why. Probably still in shock. But the great ghillie-what’s-it went thump on the ground, leaving him standing there bare-chested in a pair of cut-off drawstring trousers and a decent tan.
I blinked. Pritkin didn’t tan. Pritkin was British-tourist pale even in Vegas because of all the war mage paraphernalia he carted around. It required a full-length coat or, when jogging, a bulky hoodie, to hide the various lethal bulges, and neither left the sun a lot of opportunities.
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 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.
Which might explain the hands on my ass.
Pritkin said something while I stood there and gaped at him, but it was just gibberish to me. After a moment, he changed cadence and tried again, and I guess it was a different language because he looked expectant. Only to purse his lips in thought when I shook my head.
And then to glance to his left and narrow his eyes. I followed his gaze but didn’t see anything particularly interesting. Just weeds and rocks and the gently turning water wheel.
And a very naked me on top of a very naked Pritkin.
I did a double take, and then one more for good measure, but the view didn’t change. That was definitely a Pritkin clone who had just popped into being on the riverbank. And that was definitely me on top, back arching, thighs flexing, while we did some, uh, very naked things. . . .
And before I had a chance to assimilate that, another me and another him appeared a few yards off, only he was on top this time, and sliding steadily down to—
I abruptly looked away, but another couple blinked into existence on our right. And then more and more, on both sides of the river, each one with a slightly different specialty. Like some kind of crazy menu . . .
And that’s exactly what it was, I realized. An incredible display of magic for no other reason than to bypass the pesky language barrier. And maybe to show off a little. Because this Pritkin had his full incubus abilities and power to burn, and none of the hang-ups of the man I knew.
Or, you know, any.
Because he wasn’t the man I knew. He was a young incubus princeling who was injured and in pain, and had just spied a naked chick perving on him from the weeds. And who probably thought he’d found an easy way to heal. And who . . . and who . . .
And who was being pretty damned optimistic, I thought, staring at the closest couple. And yes, I knew it was an illusion, I knew that. But for some reason, it was still a shock to see the look on my—on her—on the woman’s face as she—
And I guess maybe I’d stared a little too long. Because Pritkin—the real one—said something. And I looked up to find him smiling and nodding and appearing enthusiastic about my choice.
“No,” I told him forcefully. “No, that was surprise. That was not a selection.”
An eyebrow raised, but he didn’t appear too put out. Maybe, I realized a second later, because I’d just taken the vanilla stuff off the table. I blinked as more couples popped into being, peppering both sides of the bank with carnal delights.
And damn, I thought, staring at a threesome just down a bit on this side of the river. And then tilting my head to the side, because I couldn’t quite figure out what . . . Oh. Oh yes. Well, that wasn’t happening—
Only, suddenly, it was.
“Oh, shit,” I whispered as two more warm arms encircled me from behind.
And that was what I’d been looking at, wasn’t it, I thought, as hard hands splayed on my lower belly, pulling me back against an equally hard torso. While Pritkin number one’s hands framed my face, pulling it up as his head came down. For a moment, there was just warm breath against my lips, fingers caressing my cheekbones and hip bones simultaneously, and identical lines of thick, needy hardness pressing against me on both sides, silken soft and rigid strength and aching, seeking heat.
“Uh, look, I, see, uh,” I said intelligently.
And then he kissed me. And it was nothing like Pritkin’s kisses, and everything like them. It was less desperate, starving man at a banquet than I was used to, but just as demanding, just as possessive, just as borderline arrogant. With an added enthusiasm-makes-up-for-lack-of-technique technique that just really, really worked on some level I wasn’t in a headspace to define just then.
He pulled back after a moment, although it didn’t feel that way since the fake him was still plastered to my back, and his lips had started roaming around my neck. Like his hands around my torso. I was about to make a fuss, but real Pritkin took that moment to step back and execute a very formal and completely surreal bow, considering that his doppelganger currently had my tits in his hands.
“Myrddin,” he told me, putting a hand on his chest, his laughing face looking up into mine.
“Um—I—what?”
“Myrd-din,” he enunciated more slowly, straightening up and tapping his chest again. Because I guess even in medieval Wales it was considered polite to introduce yourself before—before—
“Oh, shit!” I squeaked, and began desperately scanning the riverbank. And the hill, and the area around the mill, and the opposite freaking bank—anything for Rosier. Because this would be a really good time for him to show back up.
“Ohshit,” Pritkin repeated, rolling it around on his tongue thoughtfully.
“No,” I told him distractedly, trying to see what was moving behind the trees. “No, that’s not my—I didn’t mean—I—oh, shit.”
The latter was because someone had just broken through the tree line, all right, but it wasn’t Rosier. It also wasn’t the Pythian posse, which should have made me happy considering how much magic we were splashing around. But for some reason, I wasn’t getting that vibe.
For a second, I just stood there, taking in the sight of three too-lithe bodies coming down the bank. They had weird black armor, long silver hair, and a fluid, alien way of moving that was less Lord of the Rings sexy than intensely creepy.
Fey, I thought blankly.
I wonder what they’re doing here.
And then one of them pulled a spear out of some contraption on his back. And stood over one of the writhing couples on the riverbank. And brought it down in a savage move that skewered the two of them with a single thrust, like a human shish kebab.
“Ohshit!” Pritkin said, more confidently that time.
My thoughts exactly.
The diddling duo shattered and then evaporated into mist, and I started wading madly for shore. Which would have been easier if fake Pritkin hadn’t decided to come, too, still trying to kiss my neck. And if this whole damned country wasn’t covered in moss.
Real Pritkin murmured something seductively while trying to help me up off my ass. “No!” I said, with feeling.
“No?”
he repeated, as if wondering what this new word was.
“No!” I grabbed his head and turned it toward the fey. Who had fanned out and were now systematically butchering illusions left and right.
“Ohshit,” Pritkin breathed, as another brutal blow scattered a squirming duo to the winds.
“That should be our motto,” I muttered, and scrambled for the bank.
At least I did until he grabbed my arm, saying something I couldn’t understand. But it became a little clearer when he started pulling me farther into the water. Which made no sense, no damned sense at all, because I’d just spotted some fey on the other bank, too. At least four or five who were busily turning carnal into carnage, and we needed to go.
But Pritkin at twenty, or whatever the hell he was, was just as stubborn as the man I knew. And a second later I decided that maybe he had a point, and not just because he was about to pull my arm out of its socket. But because one of the fey on top of the ridge had spotted us.
And I guess we weren’t looking sufficiently amorous anymore. Because he broke off from the rest and started heading down the bank straight for us. I had an instant to see my panicked expression in his shiny, shiny armor—
And then Pritkin threw himself at me, just as something flashed by us, blindingly bright, like the blaze of sunlight off a car window. And the patch of water where we’d been standing a second ago erupted into a geyser of steam. We both stopped to look at it, and then at the stuff around us, which had gone from straight-off-the-mountains chilly to lava. And then we leapt for the bank, because the threat of being boiled alive tends to end arguments pretty damned quick.
Not that things were looking a lot more survivable on land. The three fey I’d seen must have been a vanguard, because there were double that many now. And more were coming over the ridge every second, like they were sprouting out of the damned ground. And then another flash of something flew by, missing us despite the fact that the closest fey couldn’t have been more than a dozen yards away.
But it didn’t miss the bank we were trying to scale.
