I never really relaxed anymore. How could I? I never knew when the next hammer blow would fall, never knew who might come knocking at my door, never had any peace. I went to war council meetings in the morning, held sessions to judge the supernatural community in the afternoon, and tried to find time to manage the court’s business at night. But every moment of every day, the same clawing anxiety walked alongside me, turning down the edges of my mouth, causing my hands to shake at inopportune moments, and making me drop things or look up, startled, when someone entered a room, with a cry on my lips that shouldn’t have been there.

Except that it was always there—with one exception.

At night in Pritkin’s arms.

Then, for a few hours, I didn’t feel it. My anxiety vanished, to the point that it was hard to imagine it being there at all. There, for a little while, I laughed and giggled and talked and lived. Just for a while.

It kept me going. I sometimes thought it was the only thing that did. So, yeah, the incubus understood power, but he didn’t understand that it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t some kind of robot—plug her in and let her go. Or a Pythian Barbie: watch her defeat gods and fey kings and monsters galore. Now with a new accessory pack, a shiny golden whip!

I wasn’t either of those, or any of the other things that different groups wanted me to be. I was just me. And while I didn’t know what the gods were like, I got tired. I got discouraged. I got afraid and neurotic and had panic attacks and took far too many baths.

They didn’t help to calm me down much anymore, but at least I was clean.

But the point, and why an incubus of all creatures didn’t understand this was beyond me, was that it didn’t matter how powerful I was. Whatever strength I had wouldn’t help if I didn’t have the heart to wield it. And Pritkin, as irascible and crusty and annoying and occasionally rage-inducing as he could be, was my heart.

When we first met, I’d assumed that our relationship was a case of opposites attract. He was the smart, studious type, while books with tiny, medieval print gave me headaches. He was the planner, the type to lay everything out ahead of time and check and double check all possible outcomes, while I was busy running into traffic without looking both ways. Or, you know, either way. He was capable, skilled, and depended on a lifetime of experience to get him through crises. Whereas I… hoped for the best?