by Karen Chance
Half of it suddenly exploded out at us in an eruption of flying, stinging dirt. It felt like a mortar had hit right in front of us, ripping Pritkin’s hand out of mine and catapulting me backward through the air onto my bruised butt. Leaving me half stunned from the landing and half blind from the dirt and almost completely suffocated from the amount of Wales I’d just inhaled.
And then it happened again, to my left. And then to my right. And all I could think, in the middle of what felt like a combo of mortar barrage and an earthquake, was that the fey didn’t aim any better than I did.
Of course, I could be wrong, I thought, when I felt something whoosh by my head. But this time it wasn’t weapons fire or spell fire or whatever kind of fire they were throwing around. It wasn’t a weapon at all.
It was a boot.
Followed by another one.
Followed by a whole stampede of them, along with the guys in them, who ran right by me as if I weren’t even there.
For a second, I just froze, confused and half blind, with my eyes full of grit and a dirt cloud hovering in the air. But twenty-twenty vision isn’t necessary to see your own hand in front of your face. And I couldn’t.
I couldn’t see anything.
Only no, that wasn’t quite true. I waggled my fingers and saw a vague ripple in the air, not a hand so much as a hand-shaped void where there was no dust. But that was really good enough, wasn’t it, I thought, and slammed back down as some more fey ran my way.
This bunch should have seen me. Even glamouried or whatever Pritkin had done to hide us, because they were right there. Literally right on top of me in the case of one of them. Who didn’t go by so much as over, leaping through the air above my head in a move an Olympic long jumper would have envied.
And then kept right on going with the rest of them, in huge strides that looked more like a bouncy antelope should be making them than anything human. But then, they weren’t human, were they? As they demonstrated by eating up the ground even weighed down by all that armor, tearing down the beach after—
Shit!
I’d flipped over as soon as they passed, scanning the ground for a ripple of nothingness that might be a disguised incubus-in-training. But I didn’t find one. Maybe because instead of hiding, he was tear-assing down the embankment just ahead of the fey, a colorless, Pritkin-shaped void that was all too visible because he was moving, displacing the dust in a long streamer behind him. Which might as well have been a red flag to a bull, because the fey were—
“No!” I screamed, as what looked like a glowing spear tore through the space where Pritkin’s body was outlined, erupting clear through the middle of the torso—
And then kept on going.
I stared in confusion as it exploded against a tree, sending it up like a Roman candle, while the Pritkin void it had just skewered simultaneously shattered, sending dust flying in all directions, like a sand-based firework.
But that was it. There was no body, visible or otherwise. One of the fey extended a booted foot to press into the pile of wet sand at their feet, but all it did was give further evidence that their prey wasn’t there.
Because he was here.
A nearby lump of earth was suddenly thrown back like a rug, and Pritkin’s full-color head stuck out. It was a little wild-eyed and a little sand-filled and more than a little red-faced, but very much alive. Like the rest of him, which emerged a second later and grabbed my hand, and then we were running in the opposite direction—
Right at an even bigger group of fey coming down the riverbank.
That would have been bad enough, even with a glamourie. But the one Pritkin had used to hide us had vanished. And then the fey caught sight of us, because of course they did—we were just standing there out in the open like a couple of crazy people!
A second later, those glowing spears were flashing into hands all around and my hand was tightening on Pritkin’s, because screw this, I’d rather deal with Cherries!
Only I wasn’t going to be.
Because my power didn’t work.
I tried again, and then again. But the result was the same, because I was still too tapped out from the massive shift it had taken to get here. And it didn’t look like Pritkin had another glamourie in him based on his expression, which was a little frantic and a little desperate and a lot scared.
And then amorous and passionate and naughty, in turns, as three more Pritkins suddenly ran past us, chasing three more Cassies. Followed quickly by maybe a dozen more. And then a second dozen, and maybe a third for all I could tell—I didn’t have time to count them. But there were a lot.
Because Pritkin might not be able to make more glamouries right now, but he didn’t need to, did he?
He had a whole crowd of them already.
A crowd we were now in the middle of.
Suddenly, instead of standing alone and exposed on the riverbank, we were surrounded by a large group of carnal clones. Half of whom were still trying to have sex with the other half, and the rest who were looking with lascivious intent at the fey. It was like Woodstock had come to Wales.
Until they broke, scattering in all directions, and we broke along with them. And I guess even fey eyesight had a problem telling one of those jiggling, bouncing, shrieking duos apart. Because they scattered, too, running after us, only that was the collective “us,” leaving only a couple on the right trail.
But a couple was more than enough, so we ran, too, straight down the bank and into the carnage. On all sides, fey were systematically slaughtering every happy humper they came across, including the ones wearing my face. I had the surreal sight of my own severed head bouncing back down the incline before it popped like a balloon filled with steam.
And then we were into the trees and under cover.
Chapter Eighteen
Running through a forest naked is not fun. Running through it naked with homicidal crazies after you, throwing energy blasts that turn trees into stinging rain, is terrifying. Although it really helps you to ignore the whipping branches lashing your skin and the stones bruising your feet and the fact that bark hurts like a bitch when you run into it.
But we pelted full speed ahead anyway, trying to get as far as possible while the fey were preoccupied. And it looked like we just might make it, because the fakes didn’t have adrenaline on their side, which slowed them down and made them easier targets. But that also meant they weren’t going to last long.
Which was why I pulled back hard when Pritkin suddenly broke to the left.
“No, no—this way!” I told him, because I didn’t know Wales, but I knew enough to run away from the fire.
But Pritkin wasn’t listening to me, which would probably be true even if he could have understood, because “stubborn” wasn’t the guy’s middle name, it was his whole philosophy of life, and that was usually really irritating but was now about to get us killed.
Like when a tree burst apart nearby, sending fiery limbs and pieces of trunk everywhere. And would have sent them into us if we hadn’t thrown ourselves behind an even bigger one. And then I stopped arguing and just ran, because anything was better than here!
We pelted behind the mill and then kept on going, splashing through the river, back toward where Pritkin had been when I first saw him. We were too close to the general mayhem for comfort, and the wind was blowing smoke the other way, making us a lot more visible suddenly. But at least most of the fey were on the other bank, since the ones on this side had waded across in an attempt to catch us.
And right now, if I never saw another fey, it would be too soon.
I finally figured out where we were going when we reached the ghillie suit and Pritkin’s abandoned clothes. I was surprised that an incubus would be shy, but maybe finding a place to hide would be easier if we weren’t flashing the natives. Only Pritkin wasn’t getting dressed. Pritkin was searching around under
the clothes and then throwing them aside, looking increasingly frantic. And then spotting something off to the side, something that was half buried by weeds, something that looked a lot like—
“A stick?” I stared at the ugly thing, which was a homelier version of Rosier’s walking stick. Except it must have fallen into a fire at some point, because it was not only cracked and missing part of one end, but also charred almost black. Only Pritkin was gripping it like it was made of pure gold. “We came back for that?”
Pritkin saw my expression and shook his head. And said a bunch of rapid-fire stuff that I couldn’t understand. And then thrust the thing at me, along with its coating of mud, which he was wiping away as his finger ran along its length, tracing a line of—
Well, I guess it was writing, only it wasn’t anything I could read. It wasn’t even in an alphabet I recognized, more rune-y, all hard, sharp angles and deep, angry lines. At least they looked angry to me, but maybe I was projecting.
“We could have been half a mile away by now!” I whispered furiously.
But Pritkin was shaking his head again. And gesturing at the opposite side of the river. And then back at the stick. And then back at the river.
Or no, I finally realized as light belatedly dawned.
Not at the river.
At the creatures on the other side of it.
“You . . . you stole their . . . you stole their stick?” I asked, incredulous.
But of course, Pritkin didn’t understand.
So I gestured at them. And then at the stick. And then at him, and—
And he was nodding and smiling. Smiling.
“Are you crazy?”
Okay, less smiling now. And more of hand clenching on said useless piece of—
“Give it back!”
But Pritkin wasn’t going to give it back. I didn’t need to be fluent in whatever they spoke in sixth-century Wales to know that. It was in the line of his jaw, the glint in his eye . . . the way he suddenly took off running.
Goddamnit!
I ran after him, and actually managed to tackle him because he’d suddenly hit the dirt—why, I didn’t know. Until I looked up. And saw a couple fey sauntering by the bank above, not rushing, almost casual. Like they were taking an afternoon stroll, enjoying the forest fire.
And coming within a couple yards of us.
God, I thought wildly, I’d never been so grateful for weeds in my life.
We waited, motionless, until they’d passed by, a minute lasting what felt like an hour. And then another minute, Pritkin tense and alert, fingers digging into my arm where he gripped me, breathing fast but quiet. Because yeah, this side wasn’t so deserted, after all.
And then we ran up the bank and across the patchy undergrowth at the top, across a terrifying open space and then into another tree line on the far side. Where we stopped, breathing hard and listening. But there was nothing—nothing except the distant crackle of fire, the chirrup of a pissed-off bird, and the sigh of the wind through the treetops.
And the almost silent footfalls of another fey we hadn’t seen, not until we ended up practically right on top of him.
Pritkin slammed us back against a tree, but it was too late. The fey had seen us, and the next moment, the canteen in his hand hit the dirt, and a glowing spear replaced it. And I tried to shift, tried hard, because it was now or never. But it wasn’t happening. I was too exhausted or too freaked out, or probably a combination of both, and did it matter when we were about to be roasted alive?
But then something changed in the air around us, something powerful. It felt like a rush of wind, but not like the kind that was tossing the treetops around. But hot, hot, almost searing, like something straight off a desert. Yet it managed to send a wash of goose bumps shivering up my body anyway, furling my nipples and wrenching a cry from my throat.
And I suddenly noticed something else weird.
The fact that the fey was just standing there.
It wasn’t because he didn’t see us. He was looking right at us, lit spear in hand, only he wasn’t throwing it. He wasn’t doing anything, in fact, except blinking. And then casting a quick glance over his shoulder.
But there was no one there. And when he turned his attention back on us, the spear abruptly faded out of sight. Because he thought we were a couple of happy, naked hippies, I realized, one of the fakes he’d been destroying for the last fifteen minutes along with his buddies.
Only his buddies weren’t here now. And he was hot and probably tired. And suddenly seemed a lot less interested in continuing the wild-goose chase than in . . .
Than in watching the show, I realized, my heart beginning to pound.
Pritkin’s hand abruptly clenched on my thigh.
His back was to the tree trunk; mine was to him. So I couldn’t see his face. But I didn’t need it.
I didn’t need it to know that he was giving me the choice.
The body behind me was tense, the arms flexed, prepared for a contest if it came to it. And for all I knew, Pritkin could take a single fey. My Pritkin could have.
But this wasn’t my Pritkin. And this one didn’t have hundreds of years of fighting experience. Or weapons. And after everything, his magic had to be redlining if it wasn’t already there.
And even if he managed it, even if he won, he might well lose, because this place was crawling with fey. If this one got off a single cry, we’d have another dozen down on us in a moment, and we couldn’t handle that. We couldn’t handle half of that.
I slowly reached up and put a hand behind Pritkin’s neck.
The fey picked up his canteen and leaned against a tree.
And another rush of sensation flooded over my body like a warm tidal wave.
A callused hand found my breast, and the breeze blowing across the water became a warm, dragging caress. It smoothed down my stomach, and the dappled light sifting through the treetops hit my skin like golden coins, holding warmth and weight. It dipped between my thighs, and the light burst apart into a thousand individual suns.
My hair was all in my face; the fey couldn’t have seen much of my expression. Which was just as well. Because I doubt stunned disbelief was the expected response when Pritkin began to explore, gently at first, questing, searching. And then becoming more assertive as he learned what made me shiver. And shudder. And arch back, a flood of goose bumps cascading up and down my body.
I cried out, and the forest shattered around us. Colors, already brilliant in the lead-up to sunset, exploded like strobes were behind them. They flooded into the air like mist; blues shimmered, greens were slick and wet, golds hurt. And they all sent spikes and waves of pleasure everywhere they touched, soaking into my skin, making the treetops whirl in a kaleidoscope of sensation and emotion and—
And it was too much. I cried out, writhing back against him, and would have fallen except for the hands on my body. Their grip tightened, holding me up when I would have drowned in sensation, drowned and not cared because God, and help, and please, and God.
And then a new hand gripped me, wrenching me away. Throwing me to the ground while my head was still spinning, my body was still shuddering, spell-induced euphoria making me laugh. Laugh even when I was kicked over onto my back, when my legs were pried apart, when a face I didn’t know hovered over mine—
And was suddenly jerked back.
By the staff in Pritkin’s hands, the one he’d slipped around the fey’s throat.
But the man—the fey—wasn’t trying to get away. He wasn’t attempting to throw Pritkin off. He wasn’t doing anything I’d have expected while his face reddened and his eyes popped and his tongue began to swell.
Because he was still coming for me.
And he continued to come, to reach, to claw, even as I sobered up, sobered up fast, and scrambled back out of reach, sweating and shivering and staring—
But not as much as when he suddenly blinked and stared around, disoriented, his hands coming up to grasp the stick. Which almost immediately began to move away from his neck because the fey were strong; they were so damned strong. And then I was back on my feet, breathing hard, unsure how to help, before scrambling for the fey’s discarded pack, hoping for a knife—
Which I didn’t get. Because another wave of incubus power hit, as Pritkin struggled to reestablish control. And this one was less like a fist than a freight train, sending me back to the ground, writhing under a wash of sensation too strong for pleasure, too euphoric for pain.
The next few seconds were a blur of contradictory images: The fey’s lust-filled face hovering over mine, once more focused and determined. The grass licking my skin, like a thousand tiny tongues. The sound of the carnage across the river, cries and screams and shouted commands. The smell of wood smoke, rich and pungent.
The crunch of neck bones, soft and subtle, but as loud as a gunshot in my ears.
I wasn’t sure—I was never sure—if Pritkin had done it. Or if the fey had done it himself by pushing against the restraint, still reaching out as he toppled over, the purple face still staring, the dead eyes still wide and fixed—
On me.
And even with the muffling effect of the spell, it was too much. I felt a scream building, felt it clawing its way up my throat, felt Pritkin pull me back against him, his hand over my mouth, his lips whispering something I couldn’t hear and wouldn’t have understood if I did, probably don’t scream, don’t scream, don’t scream in whatever language they spoke here.
But I was doing it anyway, almost soundlessly against the pressure of his palm, screaming and screaming and screaming, even as he dragged me away, deeper into the forest.
Only that didn’t work too well with the trees shaking all around me, like someone using a camcorder who doesn’t know how. But you can steady a camcorder, and I couldn’t seem to steady myself. Or to stop the sensory overload or whatever had me suddenly able to taste colors and smell sounds and touch light and shadow as if they were tangible things.
