Storm Kissed

by Jessica Andersen

  It looked like she had taken—or at the very least ducked—a few punches recently though. She was squared off opposite him, ready to run or fight at a second’s notice. Her body vibrated, strung tight as shit, and with good reason. He had gotten her away from Hood and his fanged freaks, but for all she knew, he was just looking for some privacy.

  “You’ll be safe here,” he said for like the fifth time. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She didn’t say anything. Just looked at him.

  What the hell was he going to do with her? Teach her a few things and send her away? Keep her around? “You hungry?” he said when the silence got weird.

  Her stomach grumbled in answer.

  He grinned, then took a risk by turning his back on her to crouch and pull up the loose floorboard to reveal his food stash, which was heavy on the salt and protein his body craved, with some other randoms because a guy had to grab what he could get. “I’ve got pepperoni, mixed nuts, nachos, and this chipped-beef jerky crap. It tastes like cardboard and takes forever to chew, but it’ll keep you going.” When he looked up, though, he saw that she had crept toward him, her eyes locked on the edge of a bright orange wrapper. One of the randoms. He pulled it out, looked from it to her and back again. “Reese’s, huh?”

  She nodded slowly, then lifted her eyes to his. They packed even more of a punch up close, sucking him in and making him suddenly all too aware of his body, and hers. She’s just a kid, asshole. Hands off.

  A sad smile quirked the corners of her mouth. “My dad used to get them for me.” Then she pressed her lips together, like she wished she hadn’t said even that much.

  He nodded, filing the info. The father hadn’t been the problem then. Stepfather? Uncle? Fucker. Even after everything that he’d seen and done—or fought off—since he’d been on his own, it pissed his shit right off to imagine someone going after her like that. I’ll protect you, he thought. I won’t let anybody else hurt you. He would do it for the baby sister he hadn’t been able to save. And he would do it for her, for this whiskey-eyed kid whose street luck had run out the moment Hood got his eyes on her and picked her to be the next in the rolling cast of disposable “girlfriends” he used up and tossed aside.

  He needed to play it low key, though. Didn’t want to scare her off. “So why Montana?” he asked over the open food stash. “Is that where you’re from?”

  “No, it’s . . . it’s stupid.”

  He wiggled the peanut butter cups, holding them just out of reach. “Why Montana?”

  She scowled. “That’s blackmail.”

  “Technically, I think it’s extortion.” But it had gotten her attention without scaring her. “Why Montana?”

  Rolling her eyes, she said, “Because when I was a little kid, before the—well, before things got bad—I had this poster of Montana in my room, on the wall over my bed.” She held out her hand. “Pay up, Hannibal.”

  Hannibal? Oh, quid pro quo. “Not yet,” he said. “What did you like about the poster?”

  “It had these mountains in it, with a big blue sky, green trees, wide-open field, the works. There was a man and a woman riding double on a spotted horse, headed for the hills.” She was flushed but her eyes were defiant. “At the bottom it said ‘Escape to Montana.′ And if you laugh, I’ll break your nose.”

  “No laughing.” He held up a hand. “Scout’s honor.”

  Her eyes locked on the scar that ran along his lifeline. “You were a boy scout?”

  “Nope.”

  “Mendez, right?”

  It was what Keban had called him—that and “boy” or “pussy,” depending—because he said he hadn’t earned his bloodline name yet, probably never would. “Yeah, it’s Mendez.” But then he surprised himself by saying, “You can call me Dez.”

  “Dez,” she said it slowly, trying it out, as if she somehow knew he’d never used the nickname before. Then she nodded. “Okay, Dez. What’s the deal here?”

  “Beats the hell out of me.” He held out the candy. “Earlier today, something told me to go into that warehouse even though I usually stay the hell out of Cobra business. Now, that same something is telling me we should stick together, watch each other’s backs, stay out of Hood’s way. That sort of thing.” Mentally, he added: get you your GED, a job, and up and out of this hellhole. Because she sure as shit didn’t belong down there in the stews.

  She took the chocolate, but shot him a long look under lowered brows. “That’s it? Watch each other’s backs? Nothing else?”

  His fingers tingled where they had brushed against hers, but he shook his head. “Not the way you’re thinking.”

  Because although most of Keban’s “lessons” might’ve been cracked crocks of shit, a few that made sense had stuck. And one that had gelled on a gut level said a man didn’t take a mate until he had everything else under control.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  December 17

  Solstice minus four days

  After being cooped up in emergency confabs all morning, Sven was feeling seriously squirrelly. The news was bad and more bad: two more villages had been taken, and Lucius and the others hadn’t been able to pinpoint the fifth artifact, figure out what “dark lord” Iago planned to summon, or zone in on where the bastard was hiding or how he would attempt to set off the weapon now that he had at least four of the five pieces, maybe even the fifth. Reese was recovering, but slowly, and that had tied up Mendez, who refused to leave her for long. Strike was looking seriously ragged around the edges, and Nate and several of the others had been shooting Sven strange looks for the past couple of days, like they were afraid he was going to pass out again, or worse.

  I’m not your problem, he had wanted to snarl at them, but kept that one to himself. He had been keeping lots of things to himself lately, including the headaches and the dragging fatigue. Sasha’s chu’ul magic hadn’t helped with the symptoms, so why bitch about them? For all he knew, they were in his head, just like the funky dreams he’d been having, where smells and sounds were amplified, his perceptions altered, and he awoke with a keen sense of loss, like he was missing something important.

  Before, he would’ve taken one of the dune buggies out, or headed over to one of the nearby lakes and bummed a boat. Now, he prowled the halls of Skywatch, not sure what the hell he was looking for anymore. All he knew was that it wasn’t in the mansion.

  “For gods’ sake, people, this isn’t just about JT,” Tomas’s raised voice caught his attention as he passed the winikin’s wing. “Sure, he let the delivery truck through, but can we really say none of us would’ve done the same thing? We shouldn’t be throwing blame around when the simple fact is that we’re struggling. And that’s unacceptable.”

  Sven paused as JT retorted, “Let me guess what you’d consider acceptable . . . opening Jox’s letter and blindly accepting his choice.”

  “Yes, that is exactly what I think we should do. We’re spending so much time trying to reach consensus that we’re not getting our shit done. Period.”

  “Fine. So we vote in our own leader.”

  “That’s not the way it works.”

  Sven kept going. It was no secret that things were coming to a head with the winikin—if they didn’t make a change soon, Strike would make it for them. More, Sven had given Carlos a choice between telling Strike there were other surviving winikin out there, and JT knew how to find them, or having Sven do it. He couldn’t keep that from the king much longer; his fealty oath was already barking. Right now, though, the winikin’s problems weren’t his priority. Searching was. His head pounded in time with his heart as he prowled out to the garage, grabbed a set of keys to one of the older Jeeps, and hit the button to open the big doors at the end of the hangar-sized building.

  He had to puzzle over the stick shift for a second, which just showed how tired and strung out he was; he’d been driving standards since he was twelve, booting the ranch truck around to fix fences, and . . . What was he doing again?

  Righ
t. Driving.

  But instead, his thoughts scattering, he left the vehicle idling and headed through the open door into the dry warmth of the great outdoors. Yes, he thought. Yes. There was sunlight on his face and hot hardpan beneath his feet as he struck out, drawn onward.

  He looped around the back of the mansion, past the pool and out to the picnic area where the fight had taken place. Someone had raked away the scuff marks and greasy ash piles, but a picnic table was missing and several of the closest cacao trees bore gouged-up bark, scorch marks, taped-up branches, and other repairs. Moving past them, he pushed into the cacao grove. The air turned instantly warmer, moister, becoming that of a rain forest. He halfway expected to hear parrots and monkeys overhead, but didn’t.

  Instead, he heard a crackle of brush up ahead.

  Adrenaline sizzled and he went on alert. Had Iago returned? He reached for his armband, but didn’t hit the panic button. After a moment, his hand fell away as a simple, gut-deep urge swept through him: Kill the enemy. It was more impulse than words, an imperative that came with the thought of the green-eyed ajaw-makol . But on another level, something inside him said, Search. Search and find. Complete. Up ahead.

  Lowering his head and baring his teeth, Sven stalked stiff-legged through the cacao grove. Something cracked behind him and he whipped around with a growl, but there was nothing there. Then a low whine came from the bushes nearby, and he froze in place, held motionless while something inside him crowed: Found!

  As he stood, staring, a huge dog slunk out from between two trees.

  Not a dog, he realized. A coyote. This was the big sucker Dez had seen, the one that had torn a makol’s face off, then disappeared. It pricked its ears, sat on its massive haunches, and looked at him, head cocked, as if it were waiting for him to do something. But what?

  He moved in, doing his best Dog Whisperer impression, and—

  “Now!” a voice shouted from behind him.

  And all hell broke loose.

  Sven howled as shield magic slammed into place surrounding him. A second spell pinned the coyote, which writhed and screamed, snapping at the invisible force. Adrenaline hammered, an atavistic surge that said: fight, flee, survive! Then he was suddenly seeing through the coyote’s eyes. He smelled the magi, sensed their power, fought for freedom. He snarled and snapped, struggling to escape. Escape!

  Terror lashed through him as big, hulking shadows drew close and unintelligible voices yammered orders. Then a noose dropped around his neck, and was cranked tight from the far end of a long pole. He gagged and clawed at it, trying to find words, magic, logic, anything. Something stung his thigh, bringing warm lassitude.

  Then darkness.

  For the next immeasurable period—maybe hours, maybe days—Sven faded in and out, aware of being strapped down, the sting of palm cuts, the shadows bending over him as he writhed and howled, his system hammering with the fear of being trapped. Then another sting would send him under. As he faded he heard them talking. Sometimes he understood the words. Other times he didn’t.

  “. . . halfway bonded to his familiar. Carlos said he never showed any of the usual signs, that he didn’t start to suspect it until just . . .”

  “. . . big son of a bitch. Must’ve been descended from the coyote bloodline’s breeding stock. We thought they all died in the massacre, but I guess a few made it out. This one must’ve come looking for him, probably bit him to start the bonding . . .”

  “. . . a tricky one. Try it again, this time with . . .”

  “. . . much tranq can we keep on board without risking one or both of them? I don’t want to . . .”

  “. . . think we have it this time. Everybody link up.”

  He felt hands take his, felt healing warmth spread through him like sunlight. Felt something shift inside him, realigning and forming new connections, blocking others. Something stung his forearm.

  Then, finally, the clouds lifted from his brain. He blinked, surprised to find himself staring at the sky, which was reddish with dawn. Skylight, his brain supplied, the word feeling slightly foreign, like he was relearning his native language.

  Details came next: He was in the sacred chamber at the center of the mansion. And unless he was way off, he was strapped to the chac-mool like a damned sacrifice. Which was probably what he deserved, given what he’d been up to over the past few months. He hadn’t even been aware of sneaking out at night, but that was what he had been doing—sleepwalking, trying to tame the big coyote’s feral ass using tips from reality TV. What the hell had he been thinking?

  He hadn’t been, at least not the way he normally did. And now he knew why. Familiar. The word whispered through him, reminding him of the flashes, the snatches of conversation. Yeah, that played. The coyotes were one of the few bloodlines that could bond directly with their totem animals, the magic offered to a select few who were trained from birth to handle the blood-bound connection. He remembered Carlos trying to get him to help train a litter of ranch dogs, remembered the winikin’s quiet disappointment that Sven preferred dogfish over actual dogs. But now . . .

  Now, everything was different.

  He could tell simply by stretching his senses that the coyote lay nearby with its head in its paws, thinking that one of the humans had smelly feet, and food would be good soon. Sven could feel its light mental touch almost as an extension of his own mind, its thoughts shifted toward human patterns now, where before the connection had skewed his mental patterns toward canine: feral, untrusting, and reactive.

  “He’s awake,” Jade said. Her face swam into view from beyond his right shoulder. “Hey there. How are you feeling?”

  He woofed at her. Then he grinned through his stiff-feeling face at her look of absolute horror. “Sorry,” he said, voice rough from disuse. “I couldn’t help it.”

  “Ohh,” she growled, flushing. “I could just . . . Urgh!” She stalked off.

  “A little help with the straps, here? I promise I won’t bite. And I’ve had my shots. At least I think I have.”

  “I’d say we should leave you here,” Lucius said, hobbling into view on a single crutch, which he balanced on as he went to work on the straps that held Sven down on the altar. “But you’d just have your furry friend chew you out, right?” His expression said that he was asking about more than just a little jaw power.

  “Yeah. I get what happened. I feel like an idiot for not seeing it sooner.”

  “You weren’t yourself. You were sharing the coyote’s perceptions and instincts, and those instincts said to stay the hell out of sight. Now that you’re in control of the bond, it should work the other way around.”

  “You mean I won’t wake up trying to lick my own balls anymore?” But where before the jokes had been a natural part of his hang-loose flow, now they felt forced.

  “Here. Let’s get you up.”

  Most of the other magi were in the sacred chamber, watching him as he sat up and let his legs dangle over the edge of the altar. Carlos wasn’t there, though, which brought a thump of disappointment. Making himself ignore the feeling of being a damned zoo exhibit, he rubbed his chest where he had bruised himself struggling against his bonds, then his wrists, where the ties had chafed. He glanced at the red marks. Then he stopped and took a second, longer look. The warrior′s mark and the translocator′s talent glyph that meant he could move small things from point A to point B with his mind looked the same as before. But his bloodline mark was different now: it was enclosed in a circle with two domino-type dots in the upper right, indicating the number “two.”

  He was twice a coyote. Once for himself, once for the creature that was now inextricably linked to him.

  He tuned in on the animal’s low-grade thought stream, something about jackrabbits, smelly feet, and the coyote’s contentment at having finally soldered the necessary connection with its Man. Beneath that was a solid, ineffable core of determination: the coyote would kill for its Man, die for him. It would be his weapon, his companion, his eyes and ears.<
br />
  And this was going to take some serious getting used to.

  Picking up on his sudden emotional surge, the coyote lifted its head and whined softly.

  “Sorry, Mac,” he said. “I didn’t know what the hell was going on. I wish for both our sakes I had caught on quicker.”

  “Mac.” Lucius nodded. “From chaamac. Coyote. Good name.”

  “Actually, I was going for the CSI: New York character. It’s got Gary Sinese’s eyes.”

  Michael snorted, but then did a double take. “You know what? You’re right. Weird.”

  Sven pushed himself off the altar and stood, feeling far more balanced than he would have expected. “Mac isn’t the only one I owe an apology to. I owe all of you one, and to the winikin and whoever I’m missing. I knew something wasn’t right, but I didn’t deal with it. I just . . . I don’t know. Did an ostrich.” He inhaled deeply, feeling the blood in his veins, the magic at his fingertips. “But that’s over, starting right now. I feel clearer and stronger than I have in . . . hell. Months. Years.”

  Maybe ever. Had he been seeking his familiar all this time? He thought he might have been, because he felt suddenly centered and strong. He had a feeling he wouldn’t have any more problems targeting his translocations, no more wet-firecracker fireballs, no more questioning whether he was really a warrior or not. Now, there wasn’t a shred of doubt in his mind that he could—and would—kick some major ass. He could feel the latent power stirring in his blood, so much stronger than ever before.

  Mac got up and heeled up against his side, Sinese eyes hard and businesslike. Sven dropped a hand to the top of his familiar’s head, felt the stiff, bristly fur, and the click of connection that said: finally. And he looked at Strike. “Send me south, to the latest village that was hit. Maybe we’ll be able to find something the rest of you missed.”