"Cassie."
A man's voice woke John from sound slumber. There was someone in the room.
Someone besides the naked blonde he was spooning under the covers.
"Cassie!"
An intruder.
John sprang into action. In one fluid movement, he rolled out of the blankets, grabbed the knife that he had long ago glamouried and stuck to the side of the nightstand, and executed a half-somersault to land in a crouch at the side of the bed. He scanned the room, searching for the threat, but he saw… nothing.
Two voices exclaimed at once.
"What the hell, Pritkin?"
"Jesus Christ, Cassie!"
The higher-pitched voice was Cassie, who was looking at him crossly. The second was the intruder's lilting voice, coming from above.
John glanced up and saw a misty gambler in a scarlet shirt hovering against the ceiling. He lost his balance and sat down, hard.
"Billy, can't you knock?" Cassie snapped, her ire re-directed to the man above them.
"I would have, if I knew I'd see the mage's bare ass! Damn it, Cassie, isn't he supposed to be resting? Don't tell me you fed him."
She opened her mouth to issue a retort, but John cut her off.
"Can you please leave my room?" he asked politely, staring straight at the ghost, in the beseeching tone that always came to him when he was well-and-truly unnerved.
"Is he talking to me?" Billy Joe asked, furrowing his brow.
"I'm sorry, Pritkin," Cassie replied, shooting a glare at her spirit companion. "I'm sure that Billy's here for a very important reason."
"I'm here, doing you a favor, because Marco's going to show up at the door if you don't get back to the penthouse in the next five minutes."
Pritkin glanced at the window, which was backlit by the morning sun.
"Shouldn't Marco be asleep by now?"
This time, both Billy and Cassie whipped around to stare at him on the floor.
"… did you hear Billy?" Cassie asked, sitting up and gathering the blankets around her like a cloak.
"I hear him," John replied evenly. "I see him."
Her mouth formed a little 'o' of surprise that was very endearing, in his opinion.
"Great." Billy floated down from the ceiling and stood at the foot of the bed. He crossed his arms over his chest. "The mage and I have some things to talk about. Now move it!"
Cassie crawled out of bed and John was once again treated to the sight of her naked body, no less appealing as she stomped petulantly across the floor to the bathroom. Perhaps more so, because of the extra jiggle of—
He cut his eyes back toward the ghost, who was glowering at him.
Two could play at that game. John scowled back and pushed himself into a standing position. No wobbling this time. The knife was still in his hand, so he set it back on the nightstand. And ignored Billy as he walked over to his dresser and pulled out a fresh pair of sweats.
John was deeply relieved when he could pull them on without falling over.
He was digging through his sock drawer when Cassie swept out of the bathroom, dressed in her clothes from the night before. She walked up to him, grabbed his face, and kissed him long and slow.
"I'll go put out the fire," she said when she finally pulled back. "I don't know what you did with my panties, but I want them back. It's a matching set."
"Don't wanna hear it!" yelled Billy from across the room. Cassie rolled her eyes, gave him a finger wave, and she was gone.
The ghost remained.
They sized each other up.
"Why can I sense you?" John asked.
"I'll give you three guesses."
"I'm not interested in playing games," he snapped.
"Then use your brain. Has anything unusual happened recently?"
"I was cursed."
"Sure, okay, but try again."
John paused and considered the question. How long had it been since anything in his life had been usual?
The day before, he had meditated on his power and checked his shields and aura. They had been smooth and strong, free of erosions or irregularities.
Nothing unusual.
Then he remembered the deep cavern of his incubus-self, brimming with warm, verdant energy.
Oh.
"I absorbed some of Cassie's power," he replied.
"Ding ding ding! We have a winner!" Billy said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Man, I can see why you drive your father crazy. Hundreds of years old and you haven't quite figured out the birds and the bees."
"I've taken power from her before!" John snapped. "Several times now. And never with this result."
"Not a feeding. Power-sharing. Demon sex. Isn't that why incubi are so popular in the hells? Rosier said he gained new skills from the women he seduced. Not just demon power, but fey and human."
John felt his heart sink at the mention of his father, and his face twisted into an expression of disgust.
"I'm not a leech," he growled. "If I… took something from her, it was not deliberate."
"Oh, stop it with that woe-is-me routine." The derision in Billy's voice took him aback, but the ghost just continued with his diatribe.
"I have two things to say to you, mage. I've been saving them up for a long time. First: here's some wisdom from a dead man. Don't linger on the past. What's done is done. You killed your wife? Well, I think the story sounds a little more complicated than that, but denying and ignoring your nature does not help. We all gotta eat, and your talents sound pretty useful from my point-of-view."
John felt the old anger rising in him, rust-red and acrid like congealed blood, and clenched his hands into fists. He had never been lectured by something he couldn't strangle, and his rage wanted an outlet. But he hadn't punched a wall in… a while. And he wasn't going to start again now.
"Building on that, here's number two: Cassie loves you. And she hasn't had a lot of good people in her life. She needs a rock, an ally, not another bodyguard."
The ghost zoomed closer to him, until they were almost nose-to-nose. Billy raised an insubstantial finger and waved it in his face.
"So, enough. With the self-loathing. You have power? Use it. Help her. Be a rock. Don't fuck it up."
"Mind your own business, spirit," John growled, stepping sideways to move away from the ghost's cold aura.
"Cassie is my business!" Billy retorted. "And I will haunt the shit out of you if you hurt her."
"That is not my intention."
"I'm interested in your actions, not your intentions."
John closed his eyes and counted to ten before responding.
"Cassie is… a force of nature," he said, slowly. "She makes me believe in a better world. I am not interested in wasting this second chance."
Billy was still frowning at him. Finally, he made a phlegmy harrumph.
"You're a crazy motherfucker, but you're better than that piece-of-shit, extortionist vampire."
And then he zoomed up towards the ceiling and John watched his body disappear right through the drywall.
John stood there, silently, for a long time. Then he turned back to his dresser and dug out a shirt.
He could use a run.
…
.
…
John had spent much of his life traveling by foot over the rugged landscape of Britain. Even after trains, cable cars, and automobiles appeared, he had preferred roaming the streets of London at his own pace, on his own two legs. It gave him time to think.
When jogging became an acceptable form of public exercise, he embraced it with relish.
Unfortunately, the Las Vegas strip was not a hospitable place for runners. Especially Welshmen who found the desert climate deeply unpleasant. He knew that his body was still healing from the curse, but he needed to clear his head. Compromise: stay out of the heat.
Now that Dante's was closed for business, he could run through the stairwells and passages of the hotel, alone and unseen. He didn't even have to hide his gun holsters.
As soon as he closed his door and set off down the hallway, the rhythm of his steps began to work their magic. He started to sweat out his frustration, and his impotent anger, and the twisting fear in his stomach that he was tainted by his father's blood.
With his recalcitrant feelings neutralized, he tried to take account of his life.
When did this rollercoaster begin?
When Lady Phemonoe died, was the obvious answer. But he glossed over those following months. His current predicament began when the Spartoi arrived and Cassie saved his life. And then he saved her life, breaking his parole. The punishment was instantaneous: he found himself before the demon council before he could blink, and Rosier was happy to ferry him home.
Six months in the hells, and then Cassie showed up with the cavalry. She came so close to succeeding—but the demon council did not appreciate a demigoddess allying herself with a reluctant incubus prince. He had a half-second to see the curse coming before it struck him. Filled with a profound sadness, he waited for oblivion. Instead, he was overwhelmed by sound and color rushing by him too fast to comprehend.
Window dressing, he told himself. Unimportant. What's next?
Eventually his present-self met his youthful-self on a rainy battlefield, and amid the disorientation he recognized Cassie sitting in front of him. She had been battered, bruised, ragged, and her face was filled with the same sadness he had felt as he was cursed.
At that moment, he had no idea what was happening. Cassie was the only thing that mattered, and then his world narrowed until she was the only thing that existed.
Afterwards, laughing and crying, she told him what had happened. Her quest with Rosier, the spell that would save his life, and the missing acolyte who had almost destroyed everything. The crowd of Pythias and the arcane weapons that ultimately saved the day. You saved the day, he had murmured to her, but she had brushed it off with a shrug. He had a scant hour to rejoice with her, to hold her, but then the Pythias took his memories.
Now he remembered, as if in a dream, meeting her in millpond in Wales. Myrddin had been bewitched. Days later, he was risking his life and livelihood for her: he envisioned their mad dash through the city, Caedmon chasing them with righteous fury, and sneaking into the castle on a wagon full of Byzantine dancing girls. Stealing a kiss that was sweet as wine. Those memories were peculiar, almost double-layered. Present-self and young-self knew her differently, but they were united in—what? Love? Not just love.
Utter besotted cow-eyed devotion.
Still running through the hallways of Dante's, John wiped the sweat from his brow and picked up his pace.
So, what did he know about the current situation, and what was he missing? Assess. Address.
Facts: The Spartoi are gone. Ares is defeated. The rogue acolytes accounted for. The demon council is placated. Rosier is alive, if weakened. I am free.
Conjecture: Casanova or Adramelech outed me to Mircea, and he is holding it over Cassie's head. To what end?
Question: What threats remain?
John was accustomed to having enemies, but this current unpredictability unnerved him. Too many unknowns.
At the top of a stairwell, he slid to a halt. Sweat was dripping down his chest and back and his pulse fluttered in his neck. He forced more air into his lungs and willed his heart to slow. Looking at his watch, he saw that only half an hour had passed. Barely four miles, at his usual rate.
Better than yesterday, he reminded himself. Much better. He hobbled towards the elevator, grateful for modern conveniences, and planned the rest of his day. First, his strength-training routine, to test his wasted muscles. Next, shower, then coffee, and then—only then—would he venture up to the penthouse.
There was work to be done, but in his heart, he wanted grab Cassie and disappear into another crowd of Byzantine dancing girls, leaving their lives and their cares behind. A little juggling, a little sleight-of-hand, and they would be set…
When the elevator doors opened, he was whistling a tune that was over a thousand years old.
