Tempt the Stars Page 8

  Agnes hadn’t even told them she was going.

  So, yeah, if she’d started to lecture me about taking chances, I’d have had a few things to say right back. And then I’d have asked her what she’d have done in this situation. Only she probably wouldn’t have told me because she’d refused to talk to me, in case I gave her some hint of the future that might cause her to mess it up.

  But if she had been willing to talk . . . I think I knew what she’d have said. What she’d have done. Now I just had to figure out—

  The bathroom door blew open before I could finish the thought, in a swirl of comparatively cold air. And before I could yelp, I found myself jerked out and slammed against the wall of the entryway. That left me facing the bathroom door, where clouds of steam were billowing out, like the place was on fire.

  It was kind of appropriate, considering that they were framing the face of a livid half demon.

  A second later, my hands hit the wall beside my head, which might have left me indecent, since they were clutching the bath towel I’d been in the process of wrapping around myself. Only I didn’t let go. So the towel ended up being spread out as my hands were, forming a wet, clingy barrier in front of me.

  Which, unless it was a lot more magical than it appeared, wasn’t going to be enough.

  Because Pritkin was looking pretty damned homicidal.

  “They were out of cheesy biscuits?” my mouth said, because my mouth is an idiot.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, getting in my face. “What are you?”

  “What?” I said, staring up into furious green eyes.

  “I’m not playing games,” he warned, his voice low and flat and dead. “If the next words out of your mouth aren’t a confession, they will be your last.”

  My brain froze up at that, because it had seen what Pritkin could do in a rage. But my mouth—my stupid, apparently unconnected-to-brain-matter mouth—began panicking. And running a mile a minute.

  “Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me! It’s me! You know it’s me! It’s like—God! Why would some crazed assassin come in here and use your shower? Do people do that? Especially when it needs cleaning that bad? I mean, you need to let housekeeping in here occasionally or stop brewing potions in there or something, because the creeping crud is going to kill you a long time before the bad guys have the chance and don’t slam me against the wall like that! It hurts! I can explain, I promise, only I can’tifyoukillmeohGod!”

  The last was in response to a couple of enchanted knives slipping out from inside Pritkin’s old gray hoodie, the one he used on jogs because his battered leather trench would look a little weird. But he needed something to cover the arsenal of illegal and would-be-illegal-if-humans-knew-about-them weapons that went everywhere he did. These two rose on either side of his face, underscoring the fact that he didn’t have to let me go in order to gut me, a thought that stopped even my mouth’s inane babble. Maybe because it was too busy shrieking.

  “Stop that!” he said as the slamming recommenced, which of course only made me shriek harder. And try to shift away, only that didn’t work because Pritkin was holding on to me. Which meant he came, too.

  We ended up over by the window, something that didn’t help my dignity, since my bare butt was now pressed firmly against the glass. Welcome to Vegas, I thought hysterically, wondering if I was flashing half the parking lot. And then wondering why I cared considering I was about to be killed by my own bodyguard.

  Or maybe not.

  Pritkin didn’t let go, but the knives stayed on the other side of the room. Considering how fast they could remedy that situation, it didn’t make me feel that much better. But potential death is better than imminent death, and I’d take it.

  Only now it looked like I had some ’splaining to do.

  “You just shifted us,” he accused.

  “Of course I did!” I said feverishly. “What was I supposed to do? Stay put and get skewered?”

  “You’re a Pythia.”

  I stared at him. “Duh!”

  “Or some Pythian initiate pretending to be one!”

  “Oh, for—Myra’s dead,” I reminded him. My rival for the Pythian power had tried to kill me, but had ended up shredded in my place. I hadn’t done it, but I hadn’t wasted a lot of tears over her memory, either.

  “There are other initiates,” Pritkin reminded me as he pressed closer, his eyes narrowed on my face.

  I shivered. But not because of the words. But because my bare ass against the air-conditioned window had just caused me to break out in full-body goose bumps.

  At least that’s what I told myself.

  I tried to move back, but there was nowhere to go. I was already flat against the damned window. And the sensation of slick cold on one side and hard heat on the other was . . . distracting.

  Like those eyes on me, with an intensity that prickled over my skin, making me itchy and jumpy. Or like the heat of his body radiating through the wet towel, or the strong fingers digging into my skin, or the hot breath on my face. At least, I assumed that was why my breathing had sped up and my head had gone swimmy and I was suddenly oddly grateful that my hands were trapped beside my head.

  Because they really wanted to run themselves through his hair.

  Pritkin was saying something, something I should probably be paying attention to since he was looking a little . . . stressed. I suppose it was due to suspicion or anger or the kind of frustrated rage I seemed to call up in him sometimes. But it didn’t look that way. Or, rather, it did to my brain, which was now wide awake. But to my body . . .

  My body cheerfully informed me that he felt really good pressed against me like that, all hard muscles and smooth contours and ominous bulges. My body liked the air of barely leashed strength and caged mayhem he was giving off. My body thought he smelled really good, like heat and coffee and electricity.

  My body was going to get me killed.

  And okay, this was an unexpected complication. In a situation that was already complicated enough. But it wasn’t exactly surprising.

  Pritkin and I had been together a lot lately and he was half incubus. Hell, he was the son of their king, or whatever the creature’s title was. It would have been odd if I didn’t feel something occasionally. And that was without the memory of his last night on earth, when he’d given me energy the only way an incubus could.

  I closed my eyes, but that only made it worse, shutting out distractions and allowing me to relive what I’d been trying really hard to forget. The familiar voice a sibilant whisper in my ear, the small of his back slick with sweat, the surprisingly soft hair brushing my body when he took control. And moved over me.

  “Stop it,” Pritkin grated, his voice somehow cutting through the fog. But he didn’t let go. I suppose he was afraid to, because a Pythia or one of her senior initiates could shift without him if there was no contact. But that left us stuck together, and that was becoming really, really—

  Awesome, my body piped up enthusiastically.

  “I told you, cut it out!” Pritkin said, sounding pissed.

  “You first,” I snarled, snapping my eyes open to glare at him, because he wasn’t exactly helping.

  Of course, neither did that.

  He must have been jogging, probably his usual early morning ten-mile warm-up before coming to torture me. At least, I assumed that was why the rock-hard abs were outlined by a damp khaki T-shirt, the thin old sweatpants were clinging in all the right places, and the sleeves of the hoodie had been pushed to his elbows, showing the flexing muscles in his forearms. And then there were those hands and those eyes and that mouth . . .

  I shivered again, a full-on shudder this time, and he cursed. But that didn’t seem to matter. Because it had come out like a growl, and my body liked that, too. My hips shifted automatically, pressing us together, and I gave a little gasp because it felt so good.<
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  And then gasped again when I was abruptly released.

  It was fast enough that I almost lost my grip on the towel. I had to grab it in a hurry and then I just stayed there, breathing harder than technically necessary and still flat against the infernal window. Because he was too close to go anywhere without bumping up against him again.

  And I didn’t think that would be a great idea.

  Pritkin had moved off a few paces, but he hadn’t turned his back on the dangerous creature that had invaded his room and his life. So I was able to see the flush on his skin and the anger on his face. Anger that, for once, I completely didn’t deserve.

  “What the hell was that?” I demanded shrilly.

  “My abilities are triggered by strong emotion,” he said stiffly. “Whether mine or another’s.”

  Incubus powers. No wonder I felt . . . like I felt. “No! I meant that,” I said, waving the arm that wasn’t busy keeping covered what little dignity I had left. “All the slamming and the knife waving and the . . . that. What is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing.” Accusatory green eyes met mine. “Other than the fact that the trace charm I have on you pinpoints your current location—five stories above our heads.”

  Damn. I should have thought of that. The vamps weren’t the only ones who kept a tracking spell on me. Pritkin had his own to help him locate me in emergencies. But like all spells, it had to be renewed. And he hadn’t been around to do that lately.

  Meaning that the only spell in this time frame was on the other me.

  And that meant—

  “Oh, holy crap!” I grabbed him with my free hand. “Did you talk to her?”

  “About you? No. I merely called—”

  “You called?” I shook him. “What did you say?”

  He scowled. “I inquired how she was, and satisfied myself that it was in fact her. You. Damn it! Who are you?”

  “Who do you think?” I said, sitting down on the window ledge, suddenly weak-kneed with relief.

  God, if he’d said anything, and if that had caused me to do anything differently . . . But he hadn’t. He couldn’t have. Proof of that was the fact that I was still here instead of having my bones scattered all over a field somewhere.

  “You’re from Cassandra’s future, aren’t you?” Pritkin demanded.

  “Way to keep up,” I said, pushing wet hair out of my eyes. I looked up to find him glowering at me, but I was too far gone to care. “Look, I need something—”

  “Evidently.”

  “Don’t get all British on me,” I snapped as his accent went clipped. That usually precipitated a hissy fit, but I was already having one and we didn’t get to do that at the same time. “I need weapons. Against demons. A lot of demons.”

  “No.”

  I had been tucking in the towel, because I’d provided enough of a free show for whoever was down below as it was, so I wasn’t sure I’d heard that right. “I beg your pardon?” I said nicely.

  “You heard me.” Pritkin was back to his default, steely-eyed look. And his voice had taken on some nuance again, with that faint lilt thing he did on the end of words sometimes. But that just meant he was less homicidal, not more helpful.

  “I need weapons,” I repeated. “Something easy to use. I don’t know how to fight demons—”

  “Which is why you aren’t getting them,” I was told flatly. “Angering a group of dangerous beings by shooting at them is hardly likely to improve your longev—”

  “Shooting at them?” I perked up slightly. Because that would be good. Well, better than having to get close enough to dump a potion all over them, anyway.

  “There is no reason to discuss weapons you are not going to be using,” Pritkin said repressively.

  I barely noticed because I was busy checking out his demon-fighting arsenal. I assumed that’s what it was, given that most of his weapons were in a footlocker or taking up the space meant for clothes in his closet. But I figured that the demon fighting stuff would be together, because Pritkin was persnickety about his weapons if little else.

  So I went to the bookshelf.

  “What does this do?” I asked, reaching for one of the weird-looking guns arrayed on the wall above the racks of little vials. It had a maw at least twice the size of a .45, and looked like it should be used for shooting elephants. I bet it was heavy—

  A hand clamped over my wrist, just before I had a chance to find out.

  “Never. Touch. My. Weapons.”

  I scowled up at him; the hold was strong enough to hurt. “Ow.”

  He didn’t apologize, and he didn’t let go, although his grip softened a fraction. “You can’t handle that gun.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen you shoot,” he said sourly, taking it off the wall.

  “You haven’t seen me shoot that.”

  “And I’m not going to. What kind of demons?”

  “What?”

  “Demons. What kind are you facing?” Pritkin demanded.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “My information wasn’t that precise,” I said, stung by the disbelief on his face. If he’d known what I’d had to go through to get that much . . . “I was just told that there’s a lot of them. They’re around this house and I . . . well, I need to get in.”

  “Where is the house?”

  “Why do you need to know that?”

  He looked at me, exasperated. “Different demon groups frequent different areas. They are often territorial, as your vampires used to be. Knowing where this house is could possibly tell us what you are facing, or at least narrow the field.”

  “Yeah,” I said, because that made sense. “Only no.”

  Pritkin frowned. “What?”

  I didn’t say anything. It had just hit me that I couldn’t say anything. Geography didn’t matter because these demons weren’t there for the usual reasons. They were there because Mom had summoned them—or whatever you did to call up an unholy army. I couldn’t tell him where I was going, because he knew the location of Tony’s farmhouse, and he was even less likely than Jonas to help me muck around with my own past. And of course, what I was planning to do was off-limits since no way would he go along with any plan to help me walk into hell.

  Basically, I couldn’t tell him anything.

  “I can’t tell you anything,” I said, knowing how well that was likely to go over. “I wish I could, but I can’t. I just need something that will get me through a forest of unknown demons and to the front door, long enough for someone to let me in. Do you have anything like that?”

  Pritkin crossed his arms and glared at me. “Yes.”

  Chapter Seven

  “I didn’t mean you,” I said viciously, when we materialized in the middle of a dark, foggy field a few minutes later.

  Pritkin was too busy scanning the area Special Ops–style to bother answering. Just like he hadn’t mentioned that he intended to grab me just as I started to shift. I should have figured it out when he suddenly got cooperative, but I’d been distracted trying to make the too-short emerald T-shirt he’d loaned me fit over my ass.

  It wasn’t working that great.

  I pulled it down again, wishing that he was taller or that I had a coat. It was chilly, and the thin tee wasn’t doing a lot to keep goose bumps from popping up. Or a couple of other things.

  “Is it obvious that I’m not wearing a bra?” I asked nervously. I hadn’t given a lot of thought to what I would wear when I went to visit my parents, but a thin old T-shirt with nothing underneath wasn’t on the list.

  “I . . . hadn’t noticed,” Pritkin told me.

  I looked down at the offending mounds, which were straining the soft green cotton. And making a couple of points about my lack of underwear. “Do you think anyone else will
?”

  He glanced at me and then looked quickly away. “Well . . .”

  “Well what?”

  “They are a bit . . . jiggly.”

  “Jiggly?” I looked down in horror. I wasn’t jiggly; I was too young to be jiggly. I bounced a little on my toes, and they moved, sure. But that was normal. Wasn’t it? “They’re not jiggly!”

  “Perhaps it was a bad choice of word.”

  “You’re damn right, it was!”

  “I merely meant that they tend to sway a bit when you . . .”

  “When I what?”

  “Do anything, really.”

  I sighed and hunched over. “Does this help?”

  Pritkin didn’t say anything.

  “Well?” I demanded.

  “They’re a little . . . large . . . to be easily concealed by—”

  “They’re not large!” I did not have large, jiggly boobs, damn it. I had nice, pert breasts. I’d always been proud of my breasts. I just didn’t want to flash the parents, that was all. “They’re the perfect size!”

  “No arguments here.”

  I stared at him, because coming from any other guy that would have sounded flirtatious. But Pritkin didn’t flirt. He did, however, pull off the hoodie he was still wearing and put it around me.

  It was warm from his body and it smelled like him. And the fact that he was being an ass didn’t stop me from clutching it for a second, and the hands that were trying to zip it up, not wanting to let him go. Stop it, I told myself harshly. I was going to get him back. I was going—

  “Where are we?” he asked softly.

  I just looked at him silently for a moment. And then said what had to be said. “I’m taking you back.”