I honestly didn’t know if Pritkin had won our game or not, because I didn’t know anything. Rhea had assumed that my mother hadn’t wanted me, and maybe she was right. Rosier had admitted that he would have abandoned Pritkin if he hadn’t had the abilities he craved, so was she any different? Had she been disappointed with her mostly human daughter?
Because I was very human. Sometimes it felt like a bad joke, like the universe had played a trick on her. The great Artemis finally decided to have a child, and she ended up with someone who took back almost entirely after her human father.
An image of dad as I’d first seen him drifted across my mental vision. Mother always seemed so otherworldly and unreachable. But dad . . .
Dad was a putz.
He couldn’t walk across a room without falling on his face, he freaked out at the slightest hint of danger, he was overly emotional, often being pissy for no apparent reason, and he whined a lot.
Yep, the apple hadn’t fallen far, as they said.
But he’d had a few good qualities, too. He was brave when he didn’t think too much about it, loyal, creative and weirdly funny. None of which explained what he’d been doing in a Stuart era basement surrounded by gunpowder. That was where Agnes had tracked him down, and dragged him back to the Pythian Court, where he’d met a goddess in disguise. It seemed a little out of his league, frankly.
Sort of like her.
I guessed they were both mysteries, and were likely to remain that way. And maybe that was for the best. She’d been a warrior, the greatest of them all, because she’d beaten them all. On her own, and with no help from anyone. Would she think me weak, for not being able to do the same? Would she cringe as I bumbled about, lucking into a few victories, acting in a supporting role in others? Would she have seen a wimp instead of a warrior?
In all honesty?
Probably.
But I personally thought dad was more heroic, crazy as that might seem. He’d been terrified, the few times I’d seen him in combat, and rightfully so. He didn’t have super awesome power to fall back on, or centuries of knowledge, or anything but craft and guile and bravado. And, when necessary, the ability to run screaming down the roadway, faster than anyone.
Dad didn’t win elegantly, but he won.
Right up until he didn’t.
Because who was I kidding? Yes, I admired certain things about my father; I practically was my father, getting by any damned way I could. But sometimes, most of the time, hell yes, I’d take some of mom’s power. Just a fraction of it so that I wasn’t tired all the time, trying to channel magic that wasn’t meant for a human being, and so I could keep the people I cared about safe.
What must that be like? I wondered. So much power, enough to be able to wade into battle as an army, all on your own? To lay waste and never have to count the cost?
I’d never known that; never would. I had to ration my spells so carefully, always thinking about which one I was going to use, how many more I might need, how to get by on the least amount of power possible so as to reserve some stamina for later. Once, just once, I’d like to know what it felt like to just let loose . . . to just . . . to . . .
My thoughts petered out; I wasn’t sure why.
Then I realized why.
I’d turned over onto my side, facing Pritkin, who was also turned toward me. He didn’t react, which wasn’t too surprising since his face was slack and what could charitably be called some deep breathing was coming from his slightly open mouth. He was clearly asleep.
Yet the eyes were wide open, and regarding me curiously.
And I knew those eyes.
In the low light, I couldn’t tell if they were black or a deep, deep jade, but there was no other color. Not even the rim of firelit green around the edges, which I’d seen before when Pritkin’s incubus was awake. But there were stars—a whole field of them.
Later, I would wonder if the amount of green indicated how much of Pritkin was still aware and in control, but I didn’t then. Then I froze, like a deer in headlights, with the only coherent thought in my head whether I could make it to the door. And if it even mattered, or if he would just follow me, slack jawed and snoring, on a mad chase around the pub.
The idea was so insane that I let out a small noise, and no, no, no, that had definitely not been a great idea.
Not great at all, I thought, as he slowly moved closer.
The man I knew was still asleep, so his movements lacked their usual efficient grace. But clumsy or no, they sufficed to carry the resting body to my side, and to raise a limp hand so that the back of it could just brush my cheek. As if to ask, “What’s wrong?”
I tumbled backwards off the bed, screaming bloody murder, and kept on doing it even when Pritkin jumped up, his eyes flooding back to green, and a half a dozen levitating weapons sprang into the air from the coat he’d thrown over a chair.
The last time I’d seen it, it had been in the living room, where he’d taken it off when we first came up here. But he must have retrieved it after I went to sleep, because paranoia is practically a war mage requirement. And because he’d want to make sure he could protect me, which would have been great.