Catching her hand in his, he pressed his lips to her knuckles. “Weren’t you supposed to spend the day in bed?”
Was it only that morning she’d been chafing at being stuck in her suite? That felt like forever ago. “Christ, I’m tired. Physically. Emotionally . . . God. I need some time to process.” Slanting him a look, she said, “Your timing blows. You know that, right?”
His lips twitched. “Like I said, I’m through with waiting for the perfect moment.” But he stepped away from her and pushed open her door. “Get some rest.” He leaned in and gave her a lingering good-night kiss that was soft and sweet, and shifted something in her chest. “I’ll see you in the morning. And do me a favor and keep a gun on you.”
She pressed her cheek to his and closed her eyes at the grim reminder of the world beyond the two of them. “Count on it.” But she appreciated that he was giving her the space she needed, and trusting her to be smart about her safety.
And she appreciated how, when she got out of the shower a half hour later, feeling warm, drowsy, and achy, she found a king-sized sleeve of peanut butter cups sitting just inside the door, like a sacrificial offering from an old friend who knew what she needed, and may finally be ready to give it to her.
It was nearly ten p.m. when Dez headed for the royal wing, but it had taken him some time to come down off the high of having finally made a real and honest move on Reese. She needed to think about things—he got that—but he thought they may finally—finally—be on the right track. But, given that, there was something he needed to do.
He tapped on the heavy double doors that led to the opulent royal suite. A moment later, Leah swung open the smaller, normal-sized panel inset into the carvings, but instead of inviting him in, she pointed farther down the hall. “He’s sitting with Anna. Said for you to meet him there.”
“Thanks.”
The royal wing contained the king’s huge suite, along with apartments for the royal winikin—empty now that Jox was gone, though still kept exactly how he left it—and several sets of kids’ rooms. The door to one of them stood open.
Dez tapped on the frame, got Strike’s quiet, “Yep,” and went on in.
Anna had taken the suite that she and Strike had shared as kids, though it had been redecorated in an eclectic mix of bright colors and choice pieces from her rogues’ gallery of fakes. Strike was in the living room, sitting on a plush love seat with his feet on a circular wooden coffee table that was carved with the calendar round. Anna lay on a sofa nearby, curled on her side, eyes closed, breathing slowly. Her skin was very pale, her dark reddish hair a stark contrast. She could simply have been sleeping, but Dez knew it was much more than that. He had come out of his Triad coma within a couple of weeks. She had awakened the same day, but never came all the way back. And now she was drifting again, losing ground.
“You want to tell me why this is a priority all of a sudden?” Strike asked, setting aside the magazine he had been holding, and rising to his feet. “Or should I take a wild guess that it has something to do with our resident bounty hunter, who looks way more at home in guns and leather than she did in business casual?” A Nightkeeper couldn’t take a mate without having sworn to his king.
“That’d be a decent guess.” Reese wasn’t the whole reason he wanted to take the oath, not even the primary one, but Strike would know the rest of it soon enough. He wanted to tell Reese first, then the others. Tomorrow. He would do it tomorrow.
“Want to take it outside?” Strike asked.
“Probably a good idea.” Less messy than sacrificing onto the carpet.
They headed through a pair of sliders to a small patio that was enclosed by a sturdy metal railing. Two chairs and a small table sat off to one side near an unfolded awning. The night air was cool and dry, the stars washed out by the mansion lights, and as Dez faced Strike squarely, he caught a glimmer surrounding the other man—a halo of energy, maybe, or a hint of magic that didn’t hit his other senses. He did a double take, but when he looked more closely, it was gone. Maybe hadn’t ever been. Pulling his ceremonial blade, he nodded. “I’m ready when you are.”
There was no fancy ceremony, no invocation. Strike simply looked him in the eye and said, “Who am I?”
Dez drew his knife blade sharply across his tongue. Pain slapped; blood bloomed salty in his mouth and ran down his chin to drip on the patio stones. Bending, he spat a mouthful of blood at Strike’s feet, and said, “You are my king.”
He felt the fealty oath take hold, felt the magic of the Manikin scepter—the barrier-bound symbol of the jaguar′s rulership—forge a link with his soul, and knew the deed was done. He was bound to Strike, to his king. Gods help them both.
Anna was nowhere. She was everywhere. She was nothing and everything. She hung in the fog of her own mind, lost.
Sometimes she remembered being a teacher, a wife, a normal woman living a normal life. Sometimes she was a visionary, a priestess, a warrior, a child, a mother. Sometimes she was a thousand women at once, living a thousand lifetimes strung together by a thin chain hung with a glowing yellow crystal carved into the shape of a skull. And other times, like now, she was almost herself. Those times, she could open her eyes and see the room around her, could comprehend it as “hers,” knew she had been told that someone had repainted it for her, wanting her to feel at home.
But “home,” like “hers,” was nothing more than a vague concept in the fog, no more real to her than the memory fragments that shot past her mind’s eye, glimpses of a thousand lives gone past—here, a baby; there, a lover. Never hers.
She felt a presence nearby, the one that she connected to the concept of “brother.” Their shared blood formed a connection that echoed grief and worry into her. She had tried to reach through that connection, tried to latch on to something there that glittered in the fog, but it had slipped away from her time and again. So lately she had stopped trying and simply . . . drifted.
Now, though, she knew she couldn’t drift. There was something she needed to do, something she had to say. She fought through the clinging fog, managed to find a body that felt dim and distant—her body. She made it turn to him and say: “He hides in the darkness, but must come into the light to act. Stop him and fulfill the prophecies, or Vucub will reign.”
He said her name, reached for her, but she was already gone, slipping back into the fog with only that thin connection remaining. In her mind, though, she whispered: Brother.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
December 19
Solstice minus two days
When Reese awoke she lay still for a moment and tracked the lightness in her chest, the sense of anticipation. When was the last time she had felt this way? Had she ever, or was it all sharper and more immediate because each minute, each hour, was more precious than it had been before?
She didn’t know, but she knew who and what she wanted. He had said she was it for him, and the reverse applied. As long as they had that going for them, they could figure out the rest of it together, because he was right that there was no such thing as perfect timing, especially for them. She couldn’t wait to see him, to talk to him, but her half-formed plan of sharing a quiet breakfast—and maybe more—went off the rails the moment she got out of the shower and found a “meeting in the great room” message waiting for her.
Dez had saved her a seat, but when she shot him a raised eyebrow, he shook his head. “I’m not sure what’s going on.” He paused and, after a quick glance showed that nobody was paying particular attention to them, lowered his voice. “How’d you sleep?”
“Just fine, thanks,” she purred, and had the pleasure of watching his eyes go hot at her tone, and all that it implied.
She didn’t get a chance to say more, because Strike came into the room then, looking strung out, and said without preamble: “Last night, Anna came around long enough to say: ‘He hides in the darkness, but must come into the light to act. Stop him and fulfill the prophecies, or Vucub will reign.’ Then she lapsed fu
lly unconscious.”
The warm fizz in Reese’s blood flattened out as a murmur of surprise and dismay went around the room. “Oh,” she said softly, heart aching.
“Hell,” Dez bit out, voice sharp. When she glanced at him, he shook his head. “Poor Anna.” But her instincts tugged, because that hadn’t sounded like sympathy. Or was she overanalyzing again, looking for reasons not to commit?
She shook her head, trying to dismiss the Fallonesque logic.
Lucius was talking now, referring to notes written in his crabbed scrawl, which was practically hieroglyphics in its own right. “Breaking down Anna’s message, which we have to assume is legit, given her powers, I would say that ‘he’ refers to Iago. Then the mention of darkness could mean that he’s hiding in the dark aspect of the barrier. That would explain why we can’t find him on this plane—he’s hiding between the planes, at the border of the underworld. He’ll have to come out, though, to detonate the compass weapon during the solstice.” He paused. “As for Vucub, who is also called Lord Vulture, he’s supposed to preside over the twilight that follows the apocalypse, when day and night are no longer separated.”
“Like a nuclear winter,” Nate said. He glanced sharply at Dez. “The aftermath of the serpents′ weapon, maybe?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to Lucius. “She mentioned prophecies, plural. Which ones are in play at the moment?”
“I’m working on it, but I—”
Sirens blared, cutting him off. Reese jolted to her feet along with the others, though Michael said, “It’s probably just another false alarm.”
Then the intercom crackled and Tomas’s voice reported: “Long-range cameras show an old pickup truck headed our way. Single occupant, nothing on the magic sensors.”
Up until a few days ago, the very rare random stranger who had showed up at the front gate had gotten one or two people responding—no, we’re not hiring; no, this isn’t a celebrity retreat; yes, we can hook you up with directions and a couple of gallons of gas. Now, all of the Nightkeepers, winikin, and humans headed out the front door, armed and dangerous. Dez and Reese hit the exit together near the front of the pack and moved out across the front of the mansion, staying off the main walkway, closer to the building where landscaping provided some cover. The other warriors, sorting into their mated pairs, did the same.
Through the wrought-iron gate, Reese saw the pickup—windshield cracked, paint color obscured by dust—roll to a stop. “It doesn’t feel right,” she murmured.
The truck door swung open and the driver got out of his vehicle—more like collapsed out of it—and went down on his face. He lay in the dirt, motionless.
“The monitors are picking up trace readings of magic,” Tomas reported, voice coming from Reese’s armband, and those around her. The information argued against this being a lost-in-the-desert thing.
“Everyone shield up,” Strike said. “Nate, you man the ward—let us through, but close it after. Michael, once we’re out, get a shield around the truck and the guy.”
“Stay close,” Dez said to Reese. Pulse thudding in her ears, she pulled her .38 and put herself right beside him, angled so his gun hand was free. He cast a crackling lightning shield around the two of them just as Nate dropped the ward magic.
“Go!” someone shouted, and they were hustling out to surround the truck and its driver as the air hummed with additional shield magic. For a second, everything seemed very surreal, like she’d been dropped into a movie—not the filming, but the movie itself, where she was living and breathing action scenes that didn’t quite jibe with real life. Then things snapped back into focus as Strike crouched down beside the unconscious man, who was sprawled on his stomach, his hands outstretched toward Skywatch.
The king grabbed the guy by his dirty, torn shirt, and rolled him over. And Reese gaped, blood icing at the sight of a swollen and disfigured face, misaligned jaw . . . and a six-clawed scar slashing across his face.
It was Keban.
“Son of a bitch.” Dez crossed to the winikin, dropped down beside him. There was no danger this time; the bastard was truly out cold. More, he’d had the shit kicked out of him. His wrists and ankles were raw and his forearms scored with deep, weeping burns. His face was gray, his breathing labored and shallow. But when Dez spoke, his eyelids flickered, then cracked, and his pale blue eyes fixed on Dez with dull recognition and more sanity than he had seen there in a long time. Maybe ever.
Fuck me was Dez’s first thought, followed by Why now? Not just because they needed to assume that Iago had thrown the winikin at them, but because of how it was going to look if the whole truth came out now. Our timing really does suck, he thought, glancing at Reese to find her staring with worried eyes that asked if he was okay. He wasn’t, but not for the reasons she thought. When he looked at Keban, he didn’t feel his childhood fear, teenaged rage, or the bone-deep hatred of his adult self. He didn’t feel pity or grief, either. He felt . . . numb. Because nothing good was going to come of this.
After shooting Reese what he hoped was a reassuring look, he leaned over Keban, aware that Strike and the others had stayed back to let him have first crack. All except for Sasha, who was crouched down on the winikin’s other side, sending healing magic into him. From the looks of him, that was the only thing keeping him conscious.
Leaning in closer, Dez grated, “Did Iago send you?”
The winikin’s lower lip was split nearly to his chin. The scab cracked and bled as he said, “Not . . . sent. Escaped. Need to . . . warn you . . .” His head lolled, his muscles going limp as he lapsed closer and closer to unconsciousness.
“Can you bring him back?” he asked Sasha, but she shook her head.
“I’m doing my best, but he’s in tough shape. Iago really did a number on him.” Her eyes were shadowed and Michael had moved up behind her in support, reminding Dez that she, too, had been Iago’s prisoner, and for far longer than the winikin.
Keban’s lips moved, shaping words without sound.
Dez leaned in. “Say that again.”
The winikin coughed. “He and his army are in a mountain temple that hides in the dark barrier except on the cardinal days.” Barely whispering now, he added, “You’ve got to stop him. He’s going to use the serpent staff to make himself king.”
Adrenaline hammered through Dez, not just because he’d just been outed, but because if Iago succeeded, they were beyond fucked. “He’s not a serpent.”
“He is. He’s—” His eyes rolled suddenly back and his body shuddered . . . and went still.
“Keban.” Dez grabbed him, shook him. “Keban!” But the winikin was gone, his face lax, the scars pale slashes against gray skin. In death, he looked small, battered, and used up.
“Dez?” Reese’s quiet voice brought his head up, but he couldn’t read her expression. Wasn’t sure he dared. “What’s going on? What was he talking about?”
Strike was on one side of her, Leah on the other, with the rest of the magi fanned out on either side, the winikin behind them. And suddenly it wasn’t about him and Reese being a pair of outsiders who were loners otherwise, but knew they could rely on each other. Now she had some serious backup, and it wasn’t coming from him.
Taking a deep breath, he dragged himself to his feet and stood opposite her. But he was talking to all of them when he said, “I want to make two things very clear first. Last night, I swore my fealty to Strike. He is my king, and not only would I never do anything to challenge that, I flipping can′t.” Once in place, the fealty magic wouldn’t allow an oath-bound mage to harm the king.
Strike nodded. “That’s true. In fact, it was right after he swore his oath that Anna woke up.” His eyes narrowed. “I thought you swore the oath for Reese’s sake.”
“I did.” He said it to her, urged her inwardly to believe it, but the wariness was back in her eyes. Risking it, he took her hands, holding them tight as he said, “That’s the second thing I need to say—I promise you that everything I’ve done has
been to stop history from repeating itself. I swear it on my soul and my bloodline.”
Her lips trembled. “Okay. Now you’re scaring me.” She didn’t pull away . . . but she didn’t acknowledge his promise either.
Letting go of her, he jammed his hands in his pockets. When he realized he was unconsciously searching for the star demon, he put his hands behind his back and locked them there. Then, focusing on Strike, he said, “The artifacts, when activated properly, will transfer the Nightkeepers’ fealty oaths to the wielder of the serpent staff . . . who must be a member of my bloodline.”
“Son. Of. A. Bitch,” Strike growled. “You want the fucking throne, Mendez?” Behind him, shock and bitter anger raced through the others.
“I took the oath,” he repeated. But that didn’t stop several of the faces around him from resetting in the familiar mistrustful lines. He had told himself to expect it, that it wouldn’t matter as long as he knew he had done his best to make the right call. But it hurt. And the pain in Reese’s eyes nearly did him in.
“You told me it was a weapon.” Her face had drained of color and her knuckles were white where she was still gripping her .38.
“I told you that assembling the artifacts would blow things up. It will, just not the way I implied.”
Her eyes burned into his. “That’s not good enough.”
“It gets worse.” He took a deep breath. “According to Keban, Iago is—or believes he is—descended from the bloodline. If he manages to activate the staff during the solstice and our fealty oaths transfer to him . . .” The oath couldn’t force the magi to act against their natures, but the contradictory impulses could paralyze them, leaving them vulnerable to the makol.
“Motherfucker,” Strike grated. “If we had been on this from the beginning—”
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