Since Dante's main drag was under construction, John had to leave the hotel to find his coffee. When he slipped out of a side door, the blistering Vegas air hit him like a slap on the face and the unfiltered sunlight nearly blinded him. He had an epiphany at that moment: the arid climate reminded him far too much of his father's dusty hell plane. No wonder it gave him headaches.

He walked a couple of blocks to a nondescript cafe that he had found months ago, soon after establishing himself in the hotel. It was frequented by casino employees, rather than tourists, so it was usually free of drunks and crying children. The coffee was strong, cheap, and no-nonsense.

Uncharacteristically, he found himself waffling in front of the bakery case.

"Large black coffee and the oatmeal scone," he told the woman at the register. Then he frowned and held up a hand. "No. Make that two large coffees…"

The young woman stared at him expectantly.

"… and a glazed donut, too."

"Bringing something back for your girlfriend?" she asked with a perky smile. John blinked at her.

"For a colleague," he said shortly.

Her smile grew wider and she tossed her ponytail behind her back. She looked up at him through her eyelashes.

"Glad to hear it. My shift ends six, if you want to come back and get a drink."

John lost his grip on the ten-dollar bill in his outstretched hand. She grabbed it and passed back his change.

At that moment, John felt the strangest sensation. His demon nature, awakened by the scent of lust, uncurled itself and evaluated the prospect before him. And then it promptly settled back to sleep, emanating disdain for the mundane human woman at the counter.

Apparently it had developed caviar tastes.

"This is my number," she continued, writing something down on his receipt.

"Thanks," he said weakly, and moved down the line to wait for his order. The girl winked at him and he averted his eyes. Scanning the thin crowd scattered around the café, his gaze caught on a face near the back wall. It was one of Casanova's incubus-possessed spa employees, a lanky young man with dark, gelled hair. John could recognize the aura of the demon inside—and furthermore, the man was staring at him with ill-concealed terror. John glowered back and the incubus host shuddered and bowed his head low.

Sod off, John thought, and he caught himself rolling his eyes. He really needed to stop that.

He grabbed his order and headed back to the hotel.

I'm not hungry, he thought, almost dazed, as he walked. That wasn't exactly true—his stomach was beginning to grumble, and the scone wouldn't do much to tide him over. But just a few weeks ago, his incubus would have fixated on that woman, would have demanded her, and only his iron discipline would have stopped him from draining her dry. Today, that empty cavern was still brimming with energy. Even though his head was spinning, his body felt whole in a way he barely remembered from his youth.

His mind went to Billy Joe's speech earlier that morning. Rosier would say 'I told you so,' John realized sourly. That unpleasant train of thought occupied him as he made his way up to Dante's grand penthouse.

Eventually, the elevator dinged and the doors opened, revealing a gleaming, white marble foyer. John stepped out and strode up to the mahogany double doors, which were flanked by two unfamiliar vampires in suits.

"Restricted premises," one grunted, barely flicking his eyes towards him.

"Glad to hear it," John said mildly. He nodded to the doors and held up the paper cups and bakery bag occupying his hands. "Mind opening for me?"

"State your business," replied the same vampire. His upper lip curled. "Mage."

John felt his blood pressure spiking.

"I've brought the Pythia coffee and a donut," he stated, keeping his voice pleasant. "Moreover, I'm the Pythia's personal bodyguard."

The two vampires looked him up and down.

"Never seen you before. Don't look much like a bodyguard, do you?"

He glanced down at himself. Worn gray jeans, heavy boots, his favorite green shirt that was slowly losing its color in the wash. An unzipped sweatshirt that almost hid the gun and potion holsters that crisscrossed his body. He still mourned the loss of his duster, long since melted into shreds.

"What the devil is a bodyguard supposed to look like?" he snapped. "My name is John Pritkin. I've been indisposed, but now I've returned."

The vampires became utterly impassive. No doubt they were talking amongst themselves, but John didn't feel like waiting. Especially when their master had been actively antagonizing him for weeks.

Open violence seemed unwise, so he considered his options. His demon nature offered a suggestion—a method of travel that had been closed to him for centuries. Perhaps not the best idea, but also not the worst.

John smiled grimly and took a step sideways, into the Shadowlands.

Suddenly the light around him was greenish-gray and he was in a dim concrete passage. Two dingy glass doors stood in front of him. Three steps forward and he pushed one open; several more and he was on the other side.

A moment of concentration brought him back to Cassie's penthouse. He popped into a sunny atrium and the mousy vampire—Fred—was only a few feet in front of him. The vampire stopped short and squeaked.

"Your men were trying to keep me out," John growled.

"Hi," replied Fred. "It's you, alright."

The vampire peered at the closed door, and then all around the foyer.

"Didn't work so well, I guess," Fred sighed. "Now that you're back, you should really take a look at our wards."

"Am I welcome here or not?"

"It's not personal!" Fred reassured him, raising his hands in front of him. "It's just, between the Black Circle and the Silver, the boys aren't fond of mages these days."

"I heard that Jonas sent a few men to join the security staff."

"Oh, yeah." Fred snorted. "We, um, haven't found a good system yet." His face brightened. "Hey, maybe you should talk to them."

"I will," John said. "First, I need to see Cassie. Where is she?"

"Upstairs. But I don't know if—"

John was already striding up the stairs. From the landing, a short hallway opened into a wide room with wall-to-wall windows. He saw Cassie perched on a couch, along with two women and a small child. Standing in front of them was Augustine, the casino's shrill in-house designer. He was gesturing at a small mannequin wearing a white dress, and Cassie was looking mutinous. John slowed his pace, but Cassie glanced to the side and her eyes latched on to him. And to the contents of his hands.

"Pritkin!" she called out, and he emerged into the living room. "Is that for me?" she asked reverently.

"Of course."

She grabbed the coffee from him and immediately started rooting around in the bakery bag. He caught himself smiling fondly—like an idiot, old chap—and moved his concentration to the room's other occupants.

"Apologies for not bringing enough for everyone," he told the others. "I didn't realize that you were in a meeting."

He recognized one of the women—Cassie's friend Tami, an anti-Circle activist. The other one was hardly more than a girl. Her straight, dark hair trailed down to her waist and an ugly red weal stretched across her pale throat. Clasped against her was a girl of five or six years old, with curly black pigtails.

"As I was saying—" interjected Augustine, loudly, "There's no compromising on the white. It's traditional. It's essential. It's iconic."

Cassie's mouth was full of donut, so she just narrowed her eyes.

"I think he's right, my lady," the pale young woman said timidly. "It's a sign of our office and our responsibilities."

Belatedly, John realized that she must be one of the initiates. The oversized robe and sweatpants were decidedly less regal than the starched white gowns he remembered.

"Let's think about accessories, Cassie, OK?" This from Tami. "Sashes or ribbons for the little ones, a good statement necklace for the teenagers…"

John slowly began to back away at the word "accessories." But Cassie held up a hand.

"Wait, Pritkin! We're almost done here," she said, sitting up straighter. "Augustine, we'll go forward with this. But get back to me on some personalization? It's just, really, really… sterile."

Augustine pursed his lips. "Perhaps you mean 'virginal.'"

"Thank you, Augustine," Tami said quickly, kicking Cassie's ankle. "We look forward to seeing the finished product."

He just sniffed and snatched up the mannequin, which shrunk down to doll-size in his hands. He stalked out of the room, passing John without a glance. A minute later, the front doors slammed shut.

"Next time, kill me," Cassie groaned, dropping her face into her hands. "If I say, 'Oh, let's ask Augustine!' for anything, just kill me on the spot."

"Needs more glitter," observed the little girl sagely. She kicked her bare feet against the couch and her toes shone with sparkly nail polish. Tami turned a laugh into a cough.

"That's my girl," said Cassie, tugging on one of her curly pigtails. She turned back to Pritkin and smiled—a bright, guileless smile that made her face glow. "Pritkin, you haven't met my court yet. This is Rhea, my very first acolyte." She gestured to the older girl.

"And this is Asma, one of the initiates."

The little girl scrambled off of the couch and executed a perfect curtsey. Perfect, except that she was wearing leggings and a kitten t-shirt instead of a dress.

Rhea just pulled her robe around her chest more tightly and blushed.

"I'm pleased you have returned safely, Commander Pritkin," she said, not quite meeting his eyes. "I'm sorry we couldn't greet you more formally—"

"No need to stand on ceremony," John replied, smiling wryly. "I'm no longer part of the Corps. I serve at the pleasure of the Pythia."

Tami started coughing and clearing her throat loudly. He watched her suspiciously, but her eyes were wide and innocent, betraying no humor. She harrumphed a few more times and stood up, extending her hands to Rhea and Asma.

"And I'm sure you and the Pythia have some important matters to catch up on," Tami wheezed. "Ladies, we have our own business to discuss. To the dormitory?"

Rhea stood slowly, leaning heavily on the other woman, and Asma took her free hand. The little girl gave him a military salute as they shuffled off and Tami snorted a laugh. John felt certain that he was being teased, but he found that he didn't mind. He was reminded of the Welsh covens that had welcomed him, long ago—friendly, even merry, but fierce and ruthless when threatened.

He was happy that Cassie had found her coven.

John looked back at the Pythia, who was chugging her coffee.

"An acolyte?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"She's been a life-saver. And I mean that very literally." Her lips thinned into a grim line. "She was one of the initiates, in charge of the nursery. But she had a vision about Ares and she came all on her own to find me."

She put the empty cup down on the coffee table, a little harder than necessary. "Pritkin, I didn't even know I had a court. No one told me. I could have had allies, but everyone was busy playing tug-of-war over me. And by everyone, I mean Jonas."

"We should discuss that," he started. But Cassie shook her head and stood up.

"Not here. Come with me?"

When he nodded, Cassie grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the stairs. Past the thicket of ferns and vases in the atrium, past a few stony-faced vampires, past Fred and his bemused expression. Straight into a large bedroom facing the pool, where she let go of him and kicked the door shut behind them.

"Can you cast a silence spell?" she whispered. He murmured the incantation and they were surrounded by a gentle buzz of white noise. She sighed heavily and flopped backwards onto the bed.

And remained quiet.

John sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over to look down at her. She was staring blankly at the ceiling, but her eyes re-focused on his face.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yes. No. Ugh." She shook her head. "We have a lot to talk about."

"Your strength is most important," he said seriously. "If you need to eat, or rest—"

But she was already shaking her head. A curl fell in her face and he smoothed it behind her ear. She smiled tremulously.

"Marco called me back here for a stupid reason this morning. Something about a scheduled security briefing, but it was bullshit. He was mad because my locator spell placed me in your room all night, and he had to report that back to Mircea."

John's gaze wandered away from her face, towards the damask pattern on the pale blue duvet.

"Is Mircea punishing you for my—our—actions?" His voice was detached, and he was proud of that. On the inside, his demonic half was raging and gibbering that Cassie and her honey-sweet power were his and his alone. And he was troubled that his heart and his incubus seemed to be allied in this matter.

"Not out of jealousy," Cassie replied. The bitterness in her tone made him feel queasy; even now, it galled him that she had loved the vampire, and she was in pain because that love had been tainted. "He wants… he thought that if I loved him, I would do something for him. Change something in the timeline for him."

"That's anathema." John didn't think his aversion to the vampire could get any worse. But there it was.

"I told him that. And now he's threatening you. He sent me a message, implying that he'd expose you if I didn't do what he said. I tried to see him yesterday afternoon, but he was away."

She reached out and threaded her fingers through his own. When he forced his gaze back to her face, her eyes bored into him.

"Pritkin. I would do it. If you say so, I would do it. Not for him, but for you."

He shook his head sharply.

"As I told you before, that is not your burden to bear."

"You're absolutely sure?"

"I am certain." He paused, trying to formulate his thoughts. "Cassie, I've been running from myself for a long time."

"Your demon heritage," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes, but more than that." He ran his hands through his hair, a nervous habit he could never break. "When I was young, I cared about people. I helped them. I made things, I invented and recorded spells that made a difference. I served Arth Aur because he was trying to make the world better for everyone, even if that world was just a corner of Britain."

"You still help people," Cassie argued. "You helped me."

"For the first time in over two hundred years!" he exclaimed. "When I came back to earth, it was nearly a year before I felt some sense of normalcy. I was hard pressed to find a place for myself, disgusted with what I had seen in the hells, and then I discovered that I had become some sort of bizarre magical legend."

"I'm sure it was awful," she said softly. She pushed herself up to face him again.

"It was awful, yes, but many things are awful." He hesitated. "I've seen injustices, Cassie, but I haven't done much about them. I've seen the way the Circle has split from the covens, treating witches as second-class citizens. I've seen mages tear difficult children away from their parents and lock them away in schools like prisons."

"You can't fix the world's problems on your own, right?"

And John laughed mirthlessly. "But you try, don't you?"

"Well, I don't." Cassie glared at him, but as usual, it was one of the least intimidating things he had ever seen. What had she called herself once? An outraged Kewpie doll.

"I've never tried to do it by myself," she continued. "I always had Billy, and then I had Mircea, and then most importantly, I had you. You believed in me, and eventually everyone else started doing it, too."

John wanted to keep arguing, but her blue eyes held his gaze and dared him to disagree. He took a deep breath instead.

"My point," he said, "Is that I could have been doing far more than demon-hunting. I was obsessed with my own anger for all of those years, and it was selfish. If Mircea chooses to reveal me to the world, so be it. If my legend has any power at all, perhaps I can use it to strengthen the alliance you've built."

"Even if it changes your life forever?" Cassie pressed.

"It already has," he replied. And despite the seriousness of the situation, he couldn't help but smile.

She hugged him impetuously and he wrapped her in his arms.

Yes, said his incubus-self, and his head and his heart agreed.

"You always were insane," she muttered into his armpit. "That's what I learned from the sixth century. The historical Myrddin was a totally irresponsible adrenaline junkie. I should write a book."

"Takes one to know one," he shot back.

"So we wait?" she asked. "We call Mircea's bluff and see what happens?"

"We wait and see, and in the meantime, you tell Marco that I'm none of his business, and I'll see what I can do with the magic-users you've acquired."

"Deal."

Cassie pulled her head away from his chest and twisted out of his lap, landing feet-first on the carpet.

"But first, we get a pizza."

Chaos is like jumping off a cliff, he thought, watching her slight figure amble towards a closet and pull out a battered pair of Converse.

Thankfully, he had always enjoyed paragliding.