Hunt the Moon

Chapter Twenty-eight

We walked back into the little space and Caleb slammed a bottle of Jack down on the desk. “Talk about whatever the hell it is you need to talk about, and get your story straight. I have to make out a report before the bosses show up, and it needs to be tight. You feel me?”

I nodded. Caleb left.

The air conditioning was on and my makeshift dress was clammy. I pulled it off and draped it over the back of Caleb’s desk chair, and wrapped myself in a towel instead. When I turned around, Pritkin had pulled the sweats back on and sat on the stinky sofa. He had his arms crossed in front of him, like a man who doesn’t want company, so I took the hard plastic chair in front of the desk.

I poured the Jack, but not because I wanted any. My stomach felt like it might be fine without anything in it for a year, maybe two. But if a guy had ever looked like he needed a drink, Pritkin was him.

“We don’t have to talk,” I told him. “I mean, I don’t mind listening, but it’s . . . I don’t need an explanation.”

“But you deserve one.”

“Do I?” I kind of thought we were even. He’d saved my life; I’d saved his. But it didn’t look like he agreed.

I handed him the whiskey and he threw it back like a pro, not even wincing. He noticed my expression and smiled faintly. “Compared to what I grew up on, this is . . . fairly mild. And yes, you do.”

I was wondering what the hell he’d grown up on—the Celtic version of rotgut? But I didn’t ask and he didn’t offer. He just sat there, cradling the empty paper cup gently in his hands.

They were still long-fingered, still refined. But they looked more like they belonged to a war mage tonight. Along with the ever-present potion stains, there was a smudge of dark brown that the shower had missed—dirt or dried blood—in the crease between the left thumb and the palm. It had run into the cracks, highlighting them like strokes of charcoal on a sketch. I had a sudden urge to reach over and wipe it off, but I didn’t.

And then he started talking, and I forgot about everything else.

“I told you once about Ruth. About . . . how she died.”

I nodded.

“But I didn’t give specifics. We hadn’t known each other long at the time and it didn’t . . . I assumed that you would never need to know.” He paused for a moment, staring at the fake wood paneling on the opposite wall, as if it held some kind of fascination for him. “I think perhaps you do now.”

“Okay.”

“Ruth had a small amount of demon blood. Ahhazu, a minor species, from her paternal grandmother. She was an eighth, or some such amount.”

“You didn’t know?”

“I knew. I knew as soon as I met her. But I assumed that, as she was living on Earth, she must feel the same way about the demon realms that I did. That they have their pleasures, but they are ultimately corrupting to whoever ventures there. Stay long enough and you lose yourself—your ideals, your values, everything you are—all in the pursuit of mindless pleasure. And in the end, there is no pleasure in that.”

“But she didn’t see it that way?” I guessed.

“No. By comparison to the glamorous, glittering courts she had occasionally glimpsed, Earth was squalid, diseaseridden and poor. It didn’t help that she was born into the middle of the Industrial Age, when, in fairness, those things were often true. The Thames stank like an open sewer, and very nearly was. The new industrial cities like Birmingham and Manchester were littered with overcrowded, filthy, ratridden tenements, filled with people dying of overwork, pollution, disease.... Even Prince Albert died of diphtheria, because of the filthy drains at Windsor. It was an ugly age, and she hated it, all the more for the brief glimpses she’d had of worlds beyond human imagining.”

“But she didn’t tell you this?” I didn’t need to guess on that one. I couldn’t see Pritkin having much in common with someone who had loved the world he hated.

“She told someone, but it wasn’t me.”

“Rosier.” I don’t know how I knew. Maybe because Pritkin only got that particular look on his face when he discussed his father.

A curt nod. “She went to see him, gained admission by mentioning my name. He later told me that she said she’d lived her life like a child in a candy store—one without any money to purchase anything. Able to see the beauty of her other world, but unable to gain access to it.”

“Because of her mixed heritage?”

“No. Demons aren’t like some of the Fey, jealously guarding their bloodlines, afraid of any impurity. They regularly mix races, among themselves, other types of demons, humans, Weres, Fey—anyone who has an attribute they think might be useful. Anyone who might give them an edge over a rival.”

“Then why couldn’t she just change worlds if she wanted? If she didn’t like it here—”

He shook his head. “It shouldn’t be difficult for you to understand. In that regard, as in others, your vampires are very similar to demonkind. What is the only thing that really matters to a vampire?”

I hesitated, not sure where he was going with this. “There are a lot of things—”

“Are there? In that case, why is your friend Raphael not the head of his own family? He is arguably one of the greatest artistic talents the West has ever produced, and yet he serves a sniveling, wretched nobody like that Antonio.”

“He doesn’t anymore. Mircea broke Tony’s hold.”

“But he did until recently.”

“Not by choice. Rafe is a master, but he isn’t that powerful—”

“And there you have it. Power. The one thing, perhaps the only thing, your vampires respect. It is the same with demons. And Ruth had almost none.”

“But she was part demon—you said so.”

“Yes, but demons are like any other species. Mix the genetics and you never know what will come up. Even full blooded Ahhazu aren’t that strong, and in her case . . . she may as well have been the human she pretended to be.”

“But you’re part demon and part human. And you told me yourself that the incubi aren’t considered one of the more powerful species, either. But you—”

“Yes, but my other half was magical human; hers was not. And that, or the small amount of Fey blood I inherited from my mother, or the way the genes combined—something worked to boost my abilities. I ended up stronger magically than I should have been, instead of weaker. If I had not, I doubt I would have ever known who my father was. He would have rejected me as another failed experiment and moved on. And the same was true for Ruth. Without power, she was of interest to no one.”

“No one except you.”

Pritkin was silent for a long moment. And when he spoke his voice was different from usual, softer, almost tentative. As if he had to find the words because he never spoke about this and didn’t have them ready.

“She saw me, I think, as an entrée into a world she could only imagine. She knew I was part demon from the moment she met me. It is difficult to hide that from another of our kind, but it is also difficult to tell which species one belongs to if the human side is dominant. I think—I would like to think—that she didn’t know until I told her. That her affection for me had some basis other than the fact that my father was the prince of one of the most magnificent of the courts. It is far from the most powerful, but in opulence, in decadence, in wealth . . . it would be difficult to name another more entrancing. Certainly, it entranced her.”

“I’m sorry.” I couldn’t think what else to say. No one liked to feel they were wanted only because of what they had, or, in his case, who they were.

“As am I.”

He was quiet for a while, the whoosh of the air conditioner and the faint buzzing of the overhead light the only sound. It was peaceful, and the small office was oddly cozy. It felt like an island away from the craziness of our usual lives, another moment stolen out of time. Maybe that’s what did it, or maybe, like me, he just wanted to tell someone. Have somebody understand.

“Demons do not . . . have relations . . . the same way humans do,” he finally said. “Or, rather, they can—the more humanoid of the species, in any case—but it isn’t considered a real joining. That comes only from merging with another, gaining power by feeding off their energy, having them feed off yours.... If done between two full demons, it can result in an exchange of power, enabling both to grow stronger. Some matings are done specifically for that purpose, to allow beings with complementary abilities to enhance them, possibly even mutate them into something neither had experienced before.”

I frowned, trying to grasp what he was telling me. “So instead of making a new life, you . . . remake yours?”

“In a way. Of course, a joining can result in both outcomes, although that’s exceedingly rare. But demon lives are long and experimentation is . . . almost a universal hobby. It is like the human fascination with genetics, the attempt to make oneself better through whatever means are available.”

“And Ruth wanted to do that with you?”

He nodded curtly once, and then went still. When he finally spoke it was harsh, clipped. “She didn’t tell me. She told my father, asked for his advice—why I don’t know. He would be the last person to give anyone selfless advice, but perhaps she assumed he would want the best for his son.” His lips twisted in savage mockery.

“And he told her to go ahead?” I asked.

“I don’t know what he told her. I know only what he said—after I found out on my own that she had been to court. He swore that he had informed her of the risk, but he had every reason to do precisely the opposite. He hated the idea of my ‘wasting’ myself on a human, and a nonmagical one at that, with barely enough demon blood to mention. He wanted me mated to full demons, powerful ones, influential ones.”

“Why? Why would he care—”

“Because it would lend him influence with the courts. Most demons have a very limited pool of partners with whom to experiment, because most are restricted in what kind of energy they can absorb. Incubi, however, are the . . . the O positive of the demon world. We can feed from virtually anyone and transmit energy to anyone, anyone at all.”

I stared at him for a moment, sure I’d misunderstood. But as crazy as it sounded, I didn’t see what else he could have meant. “He was going to pimp you out?”

Pritkin shot me a glance, and something of the tension went out of his shoulders. His face relaxed, not into a smile, but into something less forbidding. “If you could see your expression.”

“How else am I supposed to look? You’re his son!”

“Which makes me a bargaining chip. Or was supposed to. I don’t know what he envisioned—someone like him, I suppose, handsome, charming, ready to bed whomever and whatever was needed for the good of the clan. He did as much himself when it would help his negotiations. But while he could offer a power exchange, he couldn’t give the other races what they truly wanted.”

“And what was that?” I asked, almost afraid to find out.

“Children. Progeny who might carry the traits of both parents, thereby enriching the line with new blood for eons to come. Full demons have an incredibly low reproductive rate. They live for so long, if anything else were true, they would face mass starvation. But humans . . .”

He paused, but I didn’t push it, didn’t say anything. I just sat there, torn between horror and outrage. But he saw, and that same quiet came over his face, as if my anger somehow lessened his own.

“It is the greatest strength humans have, and their greatest asset in the struggle to survive. Despite living far longer, other sentient species can’t touch the human reproductive rate, can’t even come close. Rosier spent centuries trying and failing to father a child with other demonic races. But it wasn’t until he switched to human partners that he managed it. And even then . . .”

Pritkin trailed off, but I knew he was thinking about the countless children Rosier had fathered on his quest and who had died—and had taken their mothers along with them. I’d never known if that was because of the terrible rate of death in childbirth among ancient and medieval women, or if it was the fact that the babies were half-incubus, a species designed to prey on human energy, that had been the cause. But none had lived. None until him.

“So he wasn’t pimping you out,” I said harshly. “He was putting you out to stud.”

“In a manner of speaking. Half demons aren’t overly fertile, either, but in comparison . . . And any demon race would give more—much more—for a power exchange, if even an outside chance of a child came with it.”

“And I thought I hated him before,” I said grimly. “How could he expect you to agree to that?”

“Because a full demon would have, without question. Would not have concerned himself with the futures of any children he helped to create, or the use Rosier was putting to the influence he gained. He would have viewed it as an honor, as a way to help the clan and to increase his own status at the same time. But needless to say, I felt differently.”

“I’d hope so!”

“My refusal caused the first major breach between us, although there had been others. But it was what finally convinced me to leave it all behind, to rejoin the human world, to build a life free of him, of the courts, of the constant scheming and power plays.”

“And he let you go?”

Pritkin finally smiled, and it wasn’t a very nice one. “I forced his hand, you might say. But in the end, it mattered little, as his ambition for me remained the same. And a monogamous marriage to a nonentity would do nothing to service it. He said he warned her, but he does nothing counter to his own interests. Nothing!”

I didn’t say anything that time, because I had finally caught on to where he was going with this. At least, I was afraid that I had. But I don’t think Pritkin noticed. He was staring at the damn paneling, but his face was . . . somewhere else.

“I will never know for certain what went on at that meeting,” he said. “I know only what she did. On our wedding night, she initiated the exchange of power. I believe she hoped it would strengthen her own magic, make her acceptable in the eyes of the courts. And had she been fully demon, even half, it may well have done so. May have given her entry into that world she wanted so badly. But she wasn’t, and she didn’t understand. . . .”

He paused, and for a moment, I thought that would be it. But then he spoke again. And it was so raw, so bitter, that the very tone hurt to hear.

“The exchange of power is designed to be exactly that. But I suppose she never wondered what would happen if one partner had no excess power to give. Had nothing but the energy she needed to live. And I was . . . distracted.... I didn’t notice what was happening, not for a moment, because incubi typically feed in those instances. But not that much, not that fully. And by the time I realized, it was too late. Before the cycle could even properly begin, she was—” His lips tightened. “She never received anything back. She never had time. She gave and gave and then it was over . . . so quickly. . . .”

He trailed off, for which I was grateful. Pritkin had described what happened once before, and I remembered the conversation in vivid detail. It was a little hard to forget, as he hadn’t spared himself. He hadn’t told me the reason his wife ended up a dried-up shell of a creature, shriveled and desiccated, barely recognizable as human. But he had made sure I knew who had been responsible, at least in his mind.

He might have hated his father because of what he knew or suspected.

But he hated himself a lot more.

Again, I didn’t know what to say. Except the obvious. “It wasn’t your fault,” I said quietly, only to have him give me a look of incredulous disbelief.

“I’ve just explained—”

“That you tried to stop it and you couldn’t. What else could you have done? You didn’t know—”

“I should have! There must have been signs, clues to what she intended—and yet I saw nothing!”

“Maybe there was nothing to see. Maybe she was careful—”

“Maybe I was a blind fool!” He got up and poured more whiskey. “I should have realized what was going on, should have noticed how giddy she suddenly was, how happy . . . but I put it down to the forthcoming wedding. Women like weddings, all the . . . the decorations and the gowns and the . . . And I was busy searching for a home for us. I’d lived in bachelor quarters until then, but they wouldn’t do for her, and—”

He broke off and went back to the sofa. He took the whiskey bottle along. I really couldn’t blame him.

“That night . . . I should have been able to shut things down before they progressed that far. But I couldn’t, because I’d refused to mate with demons, had restricted myself to humans, and therefore knew little about the process. I knew what was happening, but not how to stop it. And obviously, neither did she. I’d kept my lofty principles, thwarted my father’s wishes, and in doing so, left myself ignorant in the one area that mattered. And he knew that. Knew he had the perfect way to punish me for daring to tell him no—”

“Which is my point,” I said, leaning forward, because I couldn’t stay quiet any longer. “Rosier set you up. If you want to blame someone, blame him!”

“I do! But he wasn’t there. He didn’t drain her, he didn’t steal her life away, didn’t feel her crumble in his arms like—”

He cut off, breathing hard, and put his head in his hands. I went over and sat beside him, not hugging him because those moments in the shower had been an aberration, and I somehow knew he wouldn’t appreciate it now. Maybe because of the nervous energy that was thrumming through him, like a grounded lightning rod. I could feel it, just sitting there, an electric charge jumping under his skin.

I didn’t know what to say to Pritkin. When you hated and blamed yourself for something for years, it became truth, your truth, whether it actually was or not. And technically, we were in the same boat. What had happened to Eugenie wasn’t my fault, at least in the sense that I couldn’t have prevented it.

And that was exactly no fucking comfort at all.

After a while, I pulled my feet up and grabbed the whiskey, drinking straight from the bottle. My stomach wasn’t too happy about it, but my stomach could go to hell.

“The worst part,” he finally said, his voice hoarse, “was that I enjoyed it. Emotionally, mentally, I was horrified. But physically . . . it was the same as tonight. When I woke in that car, it was to terrible pain, but also to indescribable pleasure. You held nothing back, your power was right there, and I . . . I could have . . .”

“But you didn’t. You didn’t drain me.”

“I came damn close!”

I shook my head. “No, you didn’t. You took a lot, but I know drained, okay? I’ve fed ghosts, vampires and now a half demon—twice. And both times—”

“I was conscious last time!” he said savagely. “I kept control for nearly the entire process, and you had a place to run when I lost it. None of that was true tonight!” Green eyes blazed into mine. “Do you understand that? Do you realize the risk you ran? You were trapped and there was no one to help you and—”

“And nothing happened.” I didn’t even bother to get annoyed at his tone; yelling at me for saving his life was typical of the man. “Besides, there was someone to help me.”

He snorted. “Caleb? Do you have any idea how inadvisable it is to disturb a demon when it is feeding? And I am more powerful than most because of who sired me. If he’d interfered, the only damage would have been to him!”

“I wasn’t talking about Caleb,” I said evenly.

“You couldn’t access your power. You couldn’t have shifted—”

“Damn it! I’m not talking about me, either. And if you say Rosier, I swear I’ll hit you.”

“There was no one else there.”

I rolled my eyes. Maybe I’d hit him anyway. It was starting to look like the only viable option.

“There was you. I knew I would be okay because I was with you. I knew you wouldn’t—”

“Then you’re a fool,” he rasped. “For one moment, I didn’t know where I was, who you were—I didn’t know anything, but how good pulling on all that power felt. And a moment is all it takes!”

“But you didn’t do it,” I repeated, because he didn’t seem to get that. Which was odd, because for me, it was kind of the main point here.

“But I could have! I felt it, the hunger, the burning, the need.” His fists clenched. “I didn’t want to stop—”

“But you did. I remember when you pulled back. You’d have stopped it right then, as soon as you figured out what was happening, if your father hadn’t laid that damn spell.”

“You don’t know—”

“And even then, it’s not like you did all that much,” I said, talking over him, because it was the only way to get a word in edgeways with Pritkin sometimes.

He had filched the bottle back to take a drink, but at that he lowered it and looked at me, his eyes very green next to the amber liquor. “What?”

“I just meant, it wasn’t all that and a bag of chips. You know?”

He blinked at me.

“No offense,” I added, because he was looking kind of poleaxed. Like maybe he hadn’t had a whole lot of complaints before. Which was, frankly, pretty damn understandable. But I feigned indifference. “I mean, it couldn’t have been that bad if—”

“Bad?”

“Well, not bad bad.”

He just looked at me.

“I mean, I came and everything, so that has to count for some—”

I cut off because I was suddenly enveloped in a strong pair of arms, and my head was crushed to a hard chest. A chest that appeared to be vibrating. It took me a few moments to get it, and even then I wasn’t sure, because Pritkin’s face was buried in my hair. But I kind of thought—as impossible as it seemed—that he might be . . . laughing?