You might kill me, you fuckers, he thought. But you won’t get all of us. You won’t get . . . us . . . all . . .
He was still smiling when he collapsed against the floor, unmoving.
Chapter Eleven
J ohn Pritkin was in hell. Not the literal one—not any of the thousands of worlds that made up the hell dimension—which was a shame. Because even the most fearsome of them had nothing on this.
He slowly picked up a loofah and began to scrub.
It was one of those extended versions on a stick, for which he had been truly grateful, until he realized: it didn’t matter. Silken water slid over silken skin, until John wasn’t sure where one ended and the other began. And the sensual rubbing of the loofah didn’t help.
God, it really didn’t!
He quickly put it back down and picked up a washcloth instead, which looked to be one that Jonas had pilfered from the Corps’ locker rooms. The Corps had little in common with human militaries, except for the firm belief that hardship was good for the soul. So, the Corps’ idea of a washcloth was more akin to sandpaper, something that John had been known to complain about on occasion.
He wasn’t complaining now.
Because now, thanks to a magical clusterfuck, he found himself dealing with the unsettling experience of inhabiting a different body. That was bad enough; incubi might be spirits and possess people all the time, but his human blood had kept his soul anchored very firmly in place, a fact he had not fully appreciated until this moment. But to make things worse, it wasn’t just any body he’d invaded.
It was Cassie’s.
He had never quite realized how small she was, how slight, how bird like her wrists were or how sharp her shoulder blades, the latter of which looked likely to tear through her skin if he wasn’t careful. He didn’t know what to do with a body that felt like it weighed nothing, that had virtually no muscle, no stamina, and a center of gravity so different from his own that he kept stumbling into things.
The whole experience was incredibly disturbing for a number of reasons, but the one most concerning him at the moment was the pain. The washcloth was unforgiving, highlighting every scratch, every bruise, every wrenched muscle that protested as he moved and stretched. And all of them were his fault, his failure.
Damn it, he was supposed to be better than this!
He had to be. Every war mage was technically the guardian of the Pythia, the supernatural world’s chief seer, and willing to lay down their lives for hers at a moment’s notice. But he had taken on a special charge, given to him specifically by the previous Pythia, who had realized that Cassie—beautiful, mercurial, stubborn, clueless Cassie—hadn’t received the usual training, and was going to need help. And he was supposed to give it to her.
Specifically, he was supposed to keep her alive until she could grow into her power, something that should have been easy enough, except that Cassie Palmer attracted enemies like bees to honey!
The Corps, her rightful protectors, were currently convinced that she was a dangerous rogue and were trying to bring her in for trial—the outcome of which John was pretty sure had already been decided. The vampire senate were trying to control and use her, specifically that oily Basarab, who had gotten his claws into her early and deep. And the rest of the supernatural community only knew her as the daughter of a dark mage and a traitor.
She needed friends, she needed support, and she damned well needed a better bodyguard!
He flung the sad excuse for a washcloth against the wall, having finally managed to get her more or less clean, by scrubbing an appalling amount of dried mud off the sweet rounded limbs, adorable shoulders and taut, firm backside—
John stopped, scowling, and removed his hand from somewhere it had no business being. Then he shut the water off and, for a long moment, just stood there, watching suds swirl down the drain around sparkly pink toenails. And wondering what god he’d offended to end up in this mess.
Daikoku, apparently, a little Buddha-looking Japanese deity who thought that every day was April 1st. He was actually a damned djinn in disguise—one of the pranksters of the demon world—and his favorite play was switching people’s bodies with those of their friends, companions, or enemies, then sitting back to enjoy the show. How he must he chortling now, John thought savagely, at the idea of a half-starved incubus suddenly thrust into the body of—
Shit.
Don’t use the word thrust, he thought miserably, and slid down onto his haunches.
Only they weren’t his, were they?
He tried really, really hard not to think about the sleek, tanned thighs with the fascinating color line demarcating where her shorts usually reached, so golden brown on one side and so creamy white on the other. Or the sweet line of her calves flowing into her delicate ankles, with a sprinkling of freckles making intriguing patterns that he’d like to trace with his tongue. Or the dimpled knees—and why the hell did she have dimpled knees? Or any of the five hundred or so other distractions currently tormenting him, but it didn’t work.
Not least of which was because his new position left certain other plump assets almost touching the aforementioned dimples.
Fuck!
He climbed out of the shower, thankful that the bathroom mirror had fogged over. He left it that way, toweling off as impersonally as he could, whilst staring at the ceiling. It was useless, of course. He felt like he was about to come out of his skin, or at least, out of hers, but that didn’t seem to be on the agenda just now and—
And damn it all, where the hell were his clothes?
The ones he’d arrived in—and then slept in, after an exhausting, headlong race to get here ahead of some dark mages—were ruined. Torn, stained and filthy, he doubted if they would be salvageable at all, and they certainly weren’t at the moment. He finally wrapped a towel around himself and went off to find something suitable.
Only to find Jonas instead.
His old friend and mentor was coming up the stairs bearing a coffeepot on a tray, the smell alone being enough to make John’s borrowed mouth water. But it wasn’t getting any closer. Because Jonas had stopped, stared, and then looked quickly away with what appeared to be a faint blush creeping up the old cheekbones.
What the devil was the matter with the man?
“Jonas?”
“John. Yes.” Jonas cleared his throat. “Good morning. Did you sleep well, then?”
“Is it morning?” John couldn’t tell. The usual rasp of beard announcing the passage of time was absent, and it was still dark outside.
“More or less. I, er, I was just going to start some breakfast.” The rheumy old eyes were staring fixedly at a knot in the wood paneling lining the stairs, why John didn’t know.
“What are you doing?” John demanded.
“I, er, I was just bringing you up some coffee.”
“I can see that. I meant, why are you staring at the damned wall?”
“Oh.” Jonas’s eyes found another knot they liked. “I was giving you time to cover up.”
“I am covered!”
“Yes, well. But perhaps a little higher, dear boy?”
John scowled at him, wondering what he was going on about. Before looking down at the area where Jonas determinedly wasn’t. Only to realize that he’d wrapped the towel around his waist instead of . . . instead of . . . oh, damn it all to hell!