Atticus smiled and settled his head down once more, a smile of relief upon his face. It was a smile conjured from a mixture of happiness that this was the first time in months that-besides her feeding from his neck-he had been this close to Siya, coupled with the feeling of safety granted by the walls of this very room. So much had taken place here, not a year ago, that Atticus would count as life altering, or at least the beginnings of such an alteration.

He looked back to Siya and sighed. “Well, I could think of a few ways to get that energy back,” he said speaking of her quip about other means to return the blood she had taken from him. 

With a languid groan he rolled over and leaned up to kiss her. It was a compulsory kiss, one that he followed upon the heels of her light and delicate touches over his face. Her lips were as amazing as he remembered, soft and dangerous, and they spurned a wave of memories and emotions that sent the demons upon his skin to shouting, hooting, and gyrating for more. His eyes, now so close to hers, glowed enough to light the high features of her beautiful face, calling forth another smile to his lips.

“Fuck a year, don’t let me miss a day without that.” 

He leaned down to kiss her once more lightly upon the forehead, before he pushed himself up. A laugh escaped him as he had to balance himself against the wall. Siya’s method of travel had affected him more than he had truly thought possible for a demon. With several hard blinks, and a shake of his head, he stepped over Siya and moved towards the expansive table of liquors and delicacies that sat beneath the massive half-moon window. [i]There is something more powerful within her,[/i] Atticus thought, and as he made it to the table, he forcefully did not finish his own thought; that whatever it was could be inherently dangerous.

With Cornelius preoccupied on the phone, Atticus plucked his own way through the bottles of exotic liquor, using the task to further quell his recent thought. He selected a bottle of ancient whiskey of Dwarf manufacture, one from the highlands of Scotland if he wasn’t mistaken. Atticus read the label. It was over five-hundred years old.

“This will do just fine,” he whispered. 

He took two chilled granite cubes from a small ice tub nearby, and placed them into two crystal tumblers. Then, almost reverently, he poured the bright amber liquid of the Scotch into the tumblers. The aroma was sharp and plentiful, and his mouth watered for the warming feel of the liquor. 

With a tumbler in each hand, he made his way back to Siya, and handed her a glass. He sat heavily into a plush leather couch nearby, and raised his own tumbler in a silent toast before taking a first sip. As hoped, the Scotch burned pleasantly upon his tongue, clearing his nostrils, and warming him from belly outward as he swallowed and breathed. 

Atticus was about to comment to the others to feel free to join in, but as he opened his mouth to speak, the room darkened as if the world itself had been hit with a dimmer switch. It was not an unpleasant darkness, and it lasted for only a brief moment before the light of the fires and the twinkling lights of London in the distance, returned. 

He blinked, looking about until he saw them all, the entire group that had gone off to search for the Ankh, and ultimately Max. Atticus stood, his drink still in his hand, and almost simultaneously he spotted the man of the hour amongst them, well amongst Veti anyway.

A flood of happiness, regret, guilt, and once again joy filled him. The tattoos had quite a time keeping up with the shift in emotion that went through the Incubus in that short moment, before at last his feet made up his mind for him. He crossed the room, setting his glass down upon a side table, before thrusting a hand in front of Max.

“I knew I couldn’t get rid of you,” Atticus said with a broad grin, and a bright, glowing spark in the crimson of his eyes.