"She didn't browbeat me," Nick said, offended.
Pritkin shot him a look. "Of course not." He was wearing gray sweats that looked like he'd already run a marathon in them. He gave my outfit a long look, but didn't comment. "Get changed and come with me."
"Why?" I asked, my stomach already sinking. Because it was that time of morning, only being up half the night I hadn't noticed.
"We're going jogging."
"I don't run for recreation. I run when someone's after me with a weapon."
"That can be arranged," he muttered, pulling me out the door.
Chapter 17
After I changed into a pair of old sweatpants and a ratty tank top, we made six circuits of the underground hallways and then ran up and down the stairs until I couldn't see straight. Pritkin swore it was only about two miles, which he counted as a warm-up, but I was pretty sure he was lying. Either that, or I was even more out of shape than I'd thought.
We stopped in what had served as the gym for a now defunct acrobatic act before Pritkin appropriated it for training purposes. A few practice mats were still rolled against one wall, looking incongruous considering the rest of the decor. The room was pretty, more like a ballroom than a gym, probably originally designed for smaller conferences that wouldn't need the larger room downstairs. It had thick paneled walls running up to a spandreled ceiling, with huge mirrors on three sides and tall stained-glass windows on the other. The light they let into the room rippled like water, splashing a mosaic of color over the wooden floor.
I leaned casually against the door, trying not to look like it was holding me up, while Pritkin dug around in a large canvas bag. He kept one eye on me, as if he thought I was about to bolt. Which was totally unfair, as that had happened only once and he'd been pulling out the jump rope of doom at the time. Not to mention that the only way I could make a break for it at the moment was if someone carried me.
I expected some fiendish new exercise equipment, or another gun that he thought I might actually be able to aim. The guy lived in hope. So I blinked uncertainly at what emerged instead. "What is that for?"
"Guns jam and misfire with the application of the right spell," Pritkin said curtly, "and occasionally without it. They also aren't effective against every enemy. Spells, likewise, can be countered by shields, stronger spells, or by incapacitating the caster. Neither method is adequate on its own, particularly when, as in your case, the potential enemies come in so many varieties."
I narrowed my eyes. "Meaning what?"
He slapped the flat of an old-fashioned training sword against his leg. Its blade was wood, but it still made a loud thwacking sound. "Meaning here we have it. Swords and sorcery."
"No, there you have it. I'm not a war mage." I'd agreed that I needed to get in better shape and to learn how to occasionally hit what I aimed at, but I hadn't signed up to be sorcerer's apprentice.
"No. You're not. Which is why you almost died yesterday."
"Um, no. I almost died because your father decided he didn't like me talking to Saleh. Something we should discuss sometime."
"I knew you were up to something at that flat."
"Yes, thanks. Not the point."
"What did he tell you?" Pritkin demanded, giving me a weird and very creepy sense of déjà vu.
I just stared at him until he cursed and twisted, hiking up the corner of his sweatshirt. The bright colors of the tattoo reassured me slightly, although I assumed they could be faked. "Maybe we need a code word," I said doubtfully.
Pritkin muttered one that I decided to ignore and shoved a sword at me. I immediately dropped it because, despite being wood, it was roughly half my body weight. It hit the floor pommel-first with a dull, ringing thud. "You can't be serious."
"It's the smallest I have. We'll get you something more appropriate later. And you evaded the question."
"No, I didn't. Saleh didn't say much. He was too preoccupied by the fact that your father killed him." I wondered how many more times I was going to have to bring up the family connection before Pritkin took the hint. Not that under normal circumstances it would have been any of my business, but almost getting the life sucked out of me wasn't normal. Not entirely unknown, but not normal.
"There are some creatures who cannot be killed," Pritkin said, ignoring me as usual. "You encountered one yesterday. Your instincts were good, but throwing potions at that one normally does nothing more than annoy him."
"He looked a little more than just annoyed to me."
"Because you somehow managed to hit him with perhaps two dozen spells, half of them corrosive to demonkind, all at the same time. I doubt if anyone else has managed as much." He shot me a look. "I would like to know how you did it."
"I stopped time. By accident," I said, as his eyebrows rose. "Agnes showed me once that it was possible, but she never had time to teach me how."
"Can you duplicate it?"
I shook my head. "I doubt it. Not without knowing what I did in the first place." And not without spending a day in bed, paying for it afterward.
"You were lucky, then," Pritkin said grimly. "Next time you may not be."
"What do you want me to do? Freak out?"
"No, I want you to learn what you can do to banish him or any demons who might take an interest in you!"
"And why would they do that?" I asked, suddenly wondering if freaking out didn't make sense after all.
"Why does anyone? You attract trouble like a magnet."
I scowled. "Don't even try it. This wasn't my normal bad luck calling and you know it. That demon was your father and you didn't even warn me about him!"
"I'm warning you now. A decapitation won't kill him, but it will force him back into the demon realm for a short time, perhaps a few days. Anything that causes catastrophic failure of the body he has assumed will do as much, but his shields can stop most attacks, including gunshots. And unlike most demons, he is not affected by direct sunlight. He has to drop his protection to feed, however, which gives you a moment of—"
I kicked my sword against the wall. "Pritkin!"
"You need to pay attention to this! I can't be everywhere, and even when I am" — he took a breath, as if the admission pained him—“there are some things from which I may not be able to protect you."
"I don't expect you to. But I do expect to be told the truth."
"We didn't come here to talk." He picked up my sword and shoved it back in my hands.
Maybe he hadn't, but it had definitely been on my agenda. I couldn't force the truth out of him, though. And in his case, I didn't think reminding him of my office was going to do much good. I raised the sword, getting two hands on the pommel and wishing for something less likely to result in back strain. It was about the only body part that didn't already ache.
"You want to fight, fine," I told him. "But if I prove I'm halfway competent at this, you have to answer my questions for a change."
Pritkin didn't even bother to respond, except by attacking. I twisted out of the way before the blow could land, a crotchety voice echoing in my ear, its scathing comments familiar, almost soothing: You don't have strength, girl, and you never will. Don't depend on it! If you don't need to block, don't. Your opponent may be stronger than you, but he can't hurt you if you're not there. A second later, my sword was aimed at Pritkin's jugular, putting him back on point.
I found myself staring at cool green eyes that were suddenly assessing. The tension seemed to crank up a notch without him moving a muscle. I kept a proper distance back, which, since our swords were the same length, was close enough to be able to strike but far enough away to need only one large step forward to attack. He slowly circled me, footwork perfect, never crossing his feet or giving me any chance to unbalance him. I hadn't seen him fight with a sword before, but it looked like he'd also had a few lessons.