Jonas's face changed colors several times and he opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. Cassie, meanwhile, was staring at John with an expression that verged on panic. He did his best to ignore her, because he felt vaguely nauseated himself.
"Have you gone mad?" Jonas finally asked, his words emerging in a strained, squeaky pitch much higher than his normal tone.
"Don't be obtuse, Jonas," he replied, sharply. "You, more than anyone else, should know what I am."
"I know that you are exactly reckless enough to attempt such a ruse, and I can't condone it. We need you protecting the Pythia, not languishing in a Dark Fey dungeon."
John barked out a laugh. "I'm not sure you understand, Jonas."
"I do agree it would be clever!" the other man assured him. "Especially given your familiarity with fey magic. However, you know as well as I do that Merlin was half incubus, and their powers are quite different than those of Ahhazu demons. You would be found out the moment they asked for proof."
Now John was confused. "Proof?" he repeated.
"I mean to say—and please don't take this the wrong way, John—that incubi are known for their, hmm, carnal abilities, are they not? And while you are a very talented mage indeed, and part demon to boot, I just don't see the whole picture."
Jonas shrugged apologetically. John took a moment to contemplate the Lord Protector's words.
"Are you asking me for sex references?" he eventually spat out. Nearby, Cassie made a noise that was somewhere between a chortle and a sob.
"Oh, you are taking this wrong way," Jonas fussed. "I'm certainly not, but it might come up with others."
John wondered if he had gone insane after the demon curse. Perhaps his soul's journey through time had left him unbalanced. It would explain several unlikely incidents over the past few days—Cassie appearing in the middle of the night to seduce him, his sudden ability to perceive her ghost companion, and this current conversation with Jonas. John had sometimes considered revealing his identity to his colleague, but he had never imagined this outcome.
If this was a delusion, it was a particularly mortifying one.
He might as well enjoy it.
John opened his mouth and a guttural torrent of archaic Welsh came pouring out. He insulted Jonas's magic, appearance, and sexual prowess with the most vituperative expressions he could remember from his youth, ending with a soliloquy on the failings of England's rugby teams.
The Lord Protector's complexion once again faded to gray and he offered no retort. Feeling even more frustrated by Jonas's silence, John switched to the high court dialect of his Alorestri brethren and repeated his screed, save for the speech on rugby. There were no Fae equivalents for that sport.
Jonas continued to stare at him blankly.
"Damn it, you old wanker!" John shouted in English, his words saturated with the heavy Welsh accent that he had lost centuries ago. "I invented modern magic! What on earth am I remembered for, if not that? If I need to prove myself, I can bloody well do it without fucking! And you can thank me for offering to help!"
"I… you… " Jonas sputtered, waving his hands weakly before dropping them back into his lap. He rose abruptly from his chair. "I need to think about this," he said.
Then he walked to the door and left.
John and Cassie remained side-by-side on the couch. He studied his hands for a couple of long minutes and then, finally, looked over at Cassie. Her eyes were round as saucers.
"What the hell was that?" she whisper-shrieked.
"I lost my equilibrium," he replied, hollowly.
"You broke Jonas!"
"I should go clean my weapons," John stated, apropos to nothing. He rose as abruptly as the Lord Protector had done, and proceeded to the door.
"Pritkin." He turned his head to look back at Cassie. "Are you alright?" she asked.
Yes. No.
"Fine," he told her. And he left.
…
..
…
He took the stairs instead of the elevator, walking slowly down the five flights that led to his floor. His footsteps echoed rhythmically in the concrete stairwell. Without thinking, he whispered a song in time with his steps, as the bard Taliesin had once taught him. The sound faded from earshot and his body faded from sight, turning a fuzzy gray that camouflaged him against the walls. There was a simpler camouflage spell these days, one that the Circle had taught him, but it was blunt, brutish, and easily countered by a well-cast reveal spell. Bardic magic, druidic magic, coven magic, was sturdier and subtler.
Better to disappear with, my pretty, he thought to himself, followed by a single, dry harrumph of laughter.
Perhaps better to remain hidden until this derangement passed. And it felt like derangement. Why were ancient songs bubbling up in his memory? Why did his fingers itch for a crwth? Why had he lashed out at Jonas, why did he try to feed from Cassie without specific consent, without even noticing?
He had been John Pritkin for over two hundred years, and painfully celibate for more than half of that time. His iron will and laser focus were legendary in the Corps. But now, that deep well of spring-like power at his core made him feel reckless, almost drunk. Even worse, his memories felt disjointed, some faded and some vivid regardless of chronology. Myrddin, Emrys, and Pritkin were warring for dominance.
He was grateful when he arrived at his room unnoticed. There were no angry vampires at his door, and the interior was also blessedly empty. There was, however, a full bottle of whiskey on his nightstand. Underneath it was a folded note. He opened it gingerly.
You're going to need this if you're dealing with the knuckleheads upstairs.
Don't forget that you owe me a coat.
I'll come by again tomorrow.
-C
"Bless you, old friend," John murmured under his breath. He tossed the note back on the table and twisted the cap off of the whiskey. It was Irish—Caleb knew him that well, at least—but not exactly top shelf. When he raised the bottle to his lips, the liquor burned a warm, sweet path down his throat. Two long swigs and he set it back down. He surveyed his room as the warmth bloomed in his core.
It had been a long time since he had last reviewed his arsenal. A few weeks. Six months and change. Six months and a lifetime. His last memory of this room—before his current convalescence—was his struggle with Niall and his desperate realization that Cassie was in mortal danger. Earlier that day, he and Cassie had faced the dragon in downtown Las Vegas and he had lost his coat along with a number of weapons.
We're still at war, he told himself sternly. And you have a job to do. Protect the Pythia. Protect her court. Check your goddamned inventory, soldier.
He took another swig of the whiskey and proceeded to the closet. Inside, a series of beakers, flasks, and vials were arranged in neat rows next to an unplugged hot-plate. Some of the sealed flasks held bright, clear liquids, while others contained multi-colored sludge. John winced. There had been several potions brewing when he left earth for his father's realm. They had gone rancid in his absence.
Lucky that no one had disturbed them. He grabbed one rusty-brown concoction and raised it to his eye; there were flecks of putrid green floating through the suspension. The green meant heightened volatility. This one would explode upon contact with oxygen.
"You get a free trip back to headquarters," he muttered to the flask. The Corps maintained a laboratory for processing hazardous waste.
Would he still be welcome there, after his outburst in front of Jonas?
John shoved the stray thought out of his head and rummaged around on the floor of the closet. There—the thick iron case where he dumped his brewing leftovers. He pulled it out and began culling his materials efficiently, even viciously. He decanted the potions that were still viable into small vials. He refilled the spare potions holster slung closet door. Time passed.
He rewarded himself with a few more slugs of whiskey.
He noted the broken nunchucks on the floor, still waiting for re-soldering. He shoved them aside. Turning away from the closet, he pulled a long, shallow footlocker from under the bed. The glimmering knives inside were solid and familiar. He perused them methodically, testing the blades for sharpness and inspecting all surfaces for corrosion. The dry Las Vegas air was good for them, but some were about to succumb to wear.
Did he really need to replace the machetes, given his current barren environment? Absolutely, if you plan to venture into Faerie, he reminded himself.
Back to the whiskey. After a long pull, he directed his body towards the gun safe tucked under his desk. However, as he crouched down and touched his hand to the door, an old memory swept over him.
Cleaning and oiling an old-fashioned revolver. His coat hung heavily around him, pockets weighed down with ammunition. Everything smelled like gunpowder and sour liquor, including him. His body practically shook with tension, but his hands were steady as he began loading bullets into the gun. His mind was suffused with an effervescent fury. He would kill the bastard, grind his skull into splinters, and if John himself died in the process—so much the better—
"Stop," he whispered to himself. He stood up slowly, removing his hand from the gun safe, and took in a deep, slow breath. He counted to ten and let it out.
The memories of Wales were bittersweet and not entirely unwelcome. But he didn't need to relive those wretched days after losing Ruth. Not again.
Suddenly, the smell of whiskey and oil were suffocating in the small space. He looked towards his window—it had long since grown dark outside. Normally the casino would be swarming with guests and gamblers. But today, perhaps, he could find some peace and quiet on the grounds.
….
..
….
In a quiet corner of the Dante's complex, near the spa that catered to bored housewives, there was an outdoor swimming pool. It was surrounded by a high wall that almost blocked the noise and bustle of the Vegas Strip outside, and the interior courtyard was filled with palm trees and exotic flowers. Empty white lounge chairs surrounded the pool on all sides. With the hotel shut down, the normal lamps and pool lights were dark and cold. The water was deceptively murky, and the scent of gardenias permeated everything.
John held his breath and dove straight into the deepest end of the pool.
The chlorine stung his eyes when he opened them underwater. He shut them again and propelled himself forward, muscles straining in his arms and legs. He reached the other side in less than thirty seconds and flipped over to retrace his path. And then he did it again.
John disliked modern swimming pools. Long ago, he had found his power in the muddy rivers and ponds of Wales. By contrast, the chemical water surrounding him was foul and lifeless. Instead of babbling happily or roaring dangerously, this water barely whispered over his skin. The quiet felt almost like a betrayal. But it was still cool and crisp, especially against the chilly night air, and the ripples and bubbles flowing away from his body helped stifle the turmoil in his mind.
He swam until his arms and legs ached. Then he flipped over onto his back and floated gently on top of the water. Normally, a man with such high muscle mass and low body fat would sink right to the bottom—but water was his element, and even the chlorinated dreck in the pool would bear his weight when asked.
He lay there and watched the night sky. The stars were invisible from inside of Vegas, but he enjoyed studying the full moon's craters and ridges.
The minutes passed—perhaps an hour or more—and finally his trance was broken by a soft voice.
"Everything okay?"
Cassie. He tilted his head and there she was, standing at the edge of the pool, wrapped in an oversized sweatshirt.
"I thought you might come up for dinner, but you didn't," she continued.
"I just needed some air," he replied obliquely. She wasn't fooled.
"Try again," she said.
He hesitated until she crossed her arms and gave him the evil eye.
"Physically, I am fine. But I am… not feeling quite myself."
"Rian warned us that you might be woozy or confused for a few days," Cassie told him, the worry apparent in her tense jaw and knitted brows. "Maybe you need to rest."
"I don't feel woozy," he said. And sighed. "I feel haunted. But all the ghosts are past versions of myself."
Cassie lowered herself to the ground and pulled her knees to her chest, pulling the sweatshirt around her legs.
"Tell me about it," she said. "I have a lot of experiences with hauntings."
She looked so fragile in the dim light, wrapped in her makeshift cocoon. He flipped over and paddled closer until his feet hit the bottom of the pool. When he pushed himself upright, the air was chilly against his bare torso. He shivered as he took the final few steps to the edge of the water.
"You look like Aphrodite rising from the sea," she told him with a soft smile. He snorted and took a seat next to her.
"The goddess of love I am not," he said wryly.
"You have water and sex pretty well covered, though."
This time, as always, Cassie succeeded at putting a smile on his face. He grinned at her.
"Was it fine last time, then? Am I improving?"
"Practice makes perfect," she said with a perfectly straight face. It only lasted a moment before she dissolved into laughter, giggling and chortling into her bent knees. As he watched her, John felt a bolt of love pass through him, sharp as an arrow and sweet as honey. He was all too familiar with the dull ache of unfulfilled yearning, but this wild, piercing sensation was startling and new.
He scooted closer to her because he could, and wrapped his arms around her shaking body. She leaned her head against his bare chest and he rested his cheek on her soft curls.
"I'm being self-indulgent," he said quietly. "I should be asking you about your own well-being."
She wheezed a few more times and then took a deep breath. There was still humor in her voice when she responded.
"I've been living on coffee and Apollo's Tears for weeks, Pritkin. I'm allowed to be a little hysterical."
"You need to eat more," he said, frowning, even though she couldn't see it. Cassie nuzzled his chest hair and laid a kiss just underneath his collarbone.
"I need to eat more, and you need to tell me what's wrong."
He was silent for a few beats, staring at the bright ripple of the pool's surface. She waited for his answer patiently.
"I'm very old," he began, slowly. "Not as old as some of your vampires, perhaps, but older than I ever expected to be. I have lived several different lives in that time, and I have left many identities and people behind me. There are very few… individuals… who have remained in my acquaintance over that time. My father, of course. Some of the fey that I met as a youth. And Jonas, to a lesser extent."
He paused.
"And you, too, I suppose. By now, you've seen me in all of my iterations."
"Iterations?" she repeated, turning it into a question.
"Myrddin. Emrys. John." He sighed. "I always adapted because I had no choice. When I shut a door, I locked it behind me."
"And?" she prompted. He made a sound of frustration deep in his throat.
"And now everything is roiling around inside of me! Six months on Rosier's plane was bad enough, but now I can see Arth Aur's citadel as if it were yesterday, and Victoria's London dark with fog—"
He cut himself off abruptly, squeezing his eyes shut.
"My incubus is full of power, more than it ever has been, even in the days after I first returned to earth," he continued. "Between that and the memories, I feel… reckless."
John was taken aback when she snorted. He lifted his head to look down at her and she looked back up at him, smiling wryly.
"I once saw you take on a theater full of master vampires on your own. You are the most reckless person that I know. By, like, a mile."
"That was different," he retorted.
"How?" she asked, still with those laughing eyes.
"I feel impatient!"
"Pretty typical, Pritkin."
He rolled his eyes towards the heavens, chastising himself silently as he did it.
"It feels like an adrenaline high," he finally said, still searching for the right words. "I'm ready to react without thinking. However, Myrddin or Emrys are just as likely to respond as the steadfast John Pritkin."
This time, she was quiet. After a moment, he continued.
"And for the first time in decades, I think I may be able to live my life, and live it happily. But what if I ruin it?"
He felt her nodding against his chest.
"And you're scared," she said softly.
He squeezed her a little more tightly.
"I am, too," she told him.
For a while, they just listened to the burble of the pool filter and the distant sound of traffic.
"I like all of them," Cassie said suddenly.
"Who?"
"Them. Myrddin, Emrys, and Pritkin. They're all you."
He kissed the top of her head.
"Thank you," he replied, simply but honestly.
"And I don't care if anyone else approves of you. No one approves of me."
There was that smile again, sneaking across his face.
"We both make people intensely uncomfortable," he agreed.
"You are perfectly fine the way you are," she said. "Health nut and incubus and weird hair and all."
"Is that an official Pythian pronouncement?" he asked, crooking an eyebrow.
"Yes." She pushed herself away from his chest and slid out of his grasp, looking him squarely in the eyes. "Now will you stop brooding and come to bed?"
Instead of answering, John scooped her up and stood in one swift movement. Cassie yelped and grabbed his shoulders, steadying herself. "Goddamnit, I love your arms," she breathed.
"Your place or mine?" he asked, feeling the impatient, reckless, happy energy rising inside of him. She laughed again, a pure and joyful sound.
"Mine. I have a better mattress." She planted a soft kiss on his jawline and his incubus shivered awake.
John was giddy. And terrified.
She won't let you fuck it up, he told himself. Don't let her down.
And then she shifted them to her penthouse, where the darkness was cool and welcoming.
...
..
...
The end.
..
…
..
…
[A/N: I started writing this fic when I was still reeling from Ride the Storm. I felt like Pritkin would be reeling, too, once he got back on his feet and started processing everything that's happened. He sleeps through the events of two books, hurtles backwards through his life, has mind-blowing sex for the first time in decades, defeats a god, and then wakes up to find that his interdict is lifted, and his secret identity is in danger. That's a lot for one guy to take in, even one as stoic as Pritkin.
I really thought that more would happen in the story. But my head-Pritkin said nope, I really just need to think a lot and talk things out with Cassie. Especially after their heart-to-heart conversations in Ride the Storm, I feel like they are just about perfect for each other. It's not just lust. They have a lot of the same baggage and I think they can offer a lot of comfort and understanding to each other.
I promise, my next fic will be a little more action packed. Thanks for reading!]
