Storm Kissed

by Jessica Andersen

  “No,” he said hoarsely. “Don’t.”

  But Strike kept going. “I want you to be my successor and—if it turns out to be the only way to keep Lord Vulture trapped in the underworld—my executioner.”

  “Hell, no!” Dez shot to his feet and faced Strike with his hands balled into fists. His shout was echoed by a bellow from Nate, cries from Jade and Alexis, and various other shocked noises. But it was Reese’s softly indrawn breath that cut through him; she was trying very hard not to cry.

  Strike stayed leaning hip-shot against the couch, waiting for the furor to die down. When it did, he said, “Setting aside the prophecies for a second, my sickness, whatever the hell it is, has driven home the need for me to name an heir, if you will.”

  “Not me,” Dez said flatly. Dear gods, please not me. Not when he and Reese finally had something going right for them after all these years.

  “Then who?”

  “Nate,” he said immediately, preferring this debate to the other one, because how was a guy supposed to argue an execution with his own potential victim? He continued: “Michael or Brandt would work. Hell, why stick with a patriarchy? Choose Leah or Alexis. Someone who knows the current system, who knows how you run things and how to keep things on an even keel for the next twelve months.”

  “I’ve been doing the even-keel thing, and it’s not working. We’ve become a reactionary force, moving in to fix shit after the fact—sometimes way too long after. We need someone who’s going to go out and find the fight, kick ass, take names, shake things up.”

  “Shaking things up,” Reese said softly, with a broken little hiccup in her voice. “The western compass quadrant, the one associated with the star demon, represented the ability to transform and shake things up.”

  “Reese, no.” He caught her hand in his. “No.” But she wouldn’t look at him.

  Leah said, “We read back through all the info we collected on you, back when we were trying to figure out whose side you were on.” She paused. “From a former narc to a former gangbanger, I have to admit, you were a hell of a rey. Under your command, the Cobras expanded their territory and operations, even dabbling in some legit businesses. The local mob wannabes fizzled and died out, the crime and death rates went down slightly in the areas you controlled, and the per capita incomes went up.”

  “Great,” Dez grated. “I was a better criminal than Hood. Give me a fucking cookie. Not the Nightkeepers.”

  But Reese cleared her throat and said, “She’s right. You made the Cobras into something better than they were. Even Fallon admitted it.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’d make the Nightkeepers better.”

  “I’m not asking you to,” Strike countered. “I’m asking you to take the team that’s already been built and use them to win the end-time war.”

  Leah’s voice flattened, and some of her deeply hidden emotions broke through as she said, “Gangs are essentially urban armies.”

  Strike added, “You’re ruthless, ambitious, arrogant, and don’t give much of a shit about anybody’s rules but your own, and even those are flexible when it comes down to doing what it takes to win. You’re a warlord, and we’re headed into war.”

  “Jesus.” I don’t want to be that guy. I promised not to be. “You’re acting like naming a successor is the only issue here. What about the prophecies? What about Iago?”

  Strike’s tired eyes bore into his. “This is the serpents’ solstice. All the signs point to this being your time.”

  “What fucking signs?”

  It was Lucius who said, “Aside from you and Iago being the only two people left on the plane who have the potential to wield the serpent staff? Well, the Hopi believe that their snake dance will call a great white god wearing a crimson cape, who will turn back the apocalypse and allow the earth to enter a new age. And if you consider the whole ‘what has happened before’ doctrine, it seems significant that the last time a Triad was summoned, the peccary bloodline lost the throne to the jaguars. Add to that the fact that the sun god basically sacrificed one third of the Triad magic to send you a spirit guide and get you back on track . . .” He shook his head, dispirited. “Yeah. The signs suggest a power transfer.”

  Dez couldn’t think. He couldn’t fucking breathe. “Are you ordering me on my oath to do this?”

  “Take a few hours and think about it,” Strike said, which wasn’t really an answer. He included Reese in his look. “Both of you. We’ll meet back here at noon, and go from there.” And with that, they were dismissed whether they liked it or not. King’s orders.

  Strike watched Dez struggle inwardly for a second before the other man snapped off a nod, and tugged Reese away. She went with him, shell-shocked, yet gutting it out because she’d be damned if she’d lose it in public. Strike knew the type; he lived with a prime example.

  If the parallel was as close as he thought, she would . . . yep, there it went: the pause in the hallway, the short, intense conversation. He even knew the script, such as it was: Dez would want to be on his own to process the shock, but he’d push her to come with him, not wanting her to be alone. He wouldn’t do it right, though, or she would see the well-intentioned lie. There it was now—the small shove, the head shake, and then the two of them moving off in different directions to nurse their wounds so later they could present a united front in public.

  Or—hello—maybe you’re projecting all of that, and they’re going to meet back up in his suite in five for some raunchy, desperate, “We’ve got less than thirty-six hours before everything goes to hell so screw the other stuff and let’s get it on” sex.

  “What are you thinking?” Leah said, rising from the sofa to sit beside him on its arm, close enough that he could answer in an undertone.

  “That the fun is only half over,” he said wryly, not because any of this was a joke, but because if he didn’t keep his head in a semi-normal place, he would explode. He was barely hanging on as it was, trying to deal with logistics, grief, anger, and despair—his, hers, and more to come—with a brain that felt like oatmeal. Exhaling, he turned toward the others. Their faces—some looking up at him in disbelief, others looking away, angry or tearful—pretty much encapsulated everything he was feeling. He’d been trying to deal with it all since he had awakened in the middle of the night, finally understanding what the dreams were trying to tell him about the thirteenth prophecy: that he was his own greatest sacrifice. And the prophecies needed to be fulfilled.

  Alexis scowled. “This is a trick, right? You’re testing his loyalties.”

  “I wish. No, this is for real.”

  Beside her, Nate shook his head, letting a rare flash of grief show through his normally controlled exterior. “I’m sorry, man. I wish . . .”

  “Yeah.” Strike had to push the word past the huge lump in his throat. “Ditto.”

  “Isn’t there anything else we could try?” That came from Patience.

  “If you’ve got a suggestion, I’m all ears. Doesn’t matter how far-fetched, I’ll try anything at this point, because the pisser of this thing is that we don’t know what’s going on. Hell, it could be a new talent trying to come through and doing damage in the process. It could be Kulkulkan trying to find a way to communicate without using a skyroad. It could be . . . Shit, I don’t know. Lots of things other than fatal. But there are the prophecies to consider.”

  “Break ’em,” Nate said promptly. “We’ve made it this far with the fates pissed at us. We can make it the rest of the way.”

  Several of the others nodded, all magi. The older winikin, though, didn’t. They knew how bad things could get when a king went off the rails. More, they weren’t just talking about Skywatch now; they were talking about the whole damn world, and he couldn’t put himself ahead of that, no matter how badly he wanted to. He might buy himself a few more hours, days or even months, but at what cost?

  “Lord Vulture symbolizes a nuclear winter,” he said quietly. “I don’t think we can break them.”

&
nbsp; “We might be able to reinterpret them,” Lucius said. Strike had brought him in to things just past one that morning, and it showed in his haggard face. But his red-rimmed eyes gleamed. “Some of the prophecies have had tricks to them, loopholes. Like the way I avoided pieces of the library prophecy because it specified the magi, and I’m human.”

  “You find me a loophole and I’ll owe you a beer.” Hell, a lifetime supply.

  “Deal.”

  Strike looked around the room. “I’m not giving up,” he said, giving each word extra weight. “I’m going to fight this thing in my head every step of the way, and I’m sure as shit not going to roll over and play—” Bad word choice. “I’m not going to throw myself on anyone’s knife voluntarily. But in the meantime, I can’t ignore the other shit that’s going down here. And neither can any of you.”

  Leah shifted beside him, tense. This was where she wanted the conversation to end, period. She wanted to pour every resource and every waking minute into figuring out what was going on with him and how to stop it. And, yeah, if the situations were reversed, he would want the same thing—hell, he would find a way to make it happen, even if it meant knocking her out and locking her in the basement for her own good. Been there, done that. But the thing was, as much as he considered her his equal in most things, his superior in some, she wasn’t the jaguar king of the Nightkeepers. Saving her had created ripples . . . but if he went against the gods now, it would make waves. And putting everything they had into this fight would be self-indulgent, which had never really been an option for him.

  For one, Jox would kick his ass. And, damn, he missed the old guy. He had lost his winikin, was watching Anna slip further away each day . . . and now this. Where was it going to end? Or was that the point? Was this it for the jaguars?

  “Which brings us to Dez,” Nate said, as if reading his mind.

  “Exactly.” Strike scrubbed a hand over his eyes to clear the grit, then stopped when he realized the problem wasn’t with his eyes. The fog was back, creeping in around the edges of his vision. Swallowing, he said, “I’m sure some of you have issues with my naming him heir and putting him in charge of ops—trust me, I’ve been through all the what-ifs.” He paused, sobering. “The thing is, the prophecies are there and the logic is sound. If you guys can poke holes in it, be my guest. But if not . . . then he needs to be the guy, and you’re going to need to deal.” Which would be easier for some than others.

  There was a round of low murmurs and some curses, but nobody spoke up. In the relative silence, he was conscious of a faint hum coming from the strange, knotted pulse that had taken up residence at the back of his brain just that morning. He was very carefully not thinking about it, because when he did, the fog got worse and his mind started playing tricks on him, replaying one fragment of Anna’s message over and over again: The prophecies must be fulfilled or Vucub will reign.

  “Oh, come on!” JT jerked to his feet, eyes gone nearly molten silver with frustration. “This is bullshit.” Beside him, Natalie winced a little, but stayed quiet. Which meant she agreed with the content, if not the delivery. JT continued, “Tell me you’re not serious. The guy’s unpredictable, and as far as trusting him, forget it. There’s a big difference between a guy who comes out of prison having learned his lesson and one who comes out having learned to beat the system. He’s not the first kind, I’ll bet my right arm on that.” He paused, looking around the room. “Yesterday morning, half of you wanted to kick him out of the compound for hiding the truth about the serpent staff. Now you’re acting like it makes sense to not just put him in charge of tomorrow’s op, but to make him the frigging heir apparent.”

  Strike moved to get in his line of sight, knowing JT wouldn’t look at him unless he was forced to. The unbound winikin might have agreed to become part of the war effort but he was far from ready to forgive and forget. When the other man sent him a sidelong look, Strike said, “The situation has changed. We’re talking about prophecies and nuclear freaking winter here, so you’ll have to forgive me if I think we should hit things with the biggest hammer we’ve got. Right now, whether we like it or not, that’s Mendez.” He paused. “This isn’t what I had planned for. It’s not what I want . . . but it might be the only way for most of us to get through this solstice intact.”

  Leah made a soft noise, but didn’t say anything.

  Some of the tension went out of JT. “Look, I’m sorry about what you’re going through. Seriously. If I could do something to help, I would. And if it comes down to it, I’ll follow orders. But I’ve gotta ask . . . Are you sure this is coming from the right place?”

  “Because a jaguar king acting on his dreams is your worst nightmare?”

  “You said it, not me.” The unbound winikin looked around the room at the others. “And you guys are all oath bound. You’ve got to go along with it.”

  Lucius grated, “What would you rather have us do, sit around and count votes for the next thirty-six hours? There’s a structure here, a way of doing things that’s evolved over thousands of years and exists for a reason. Strike knows what he’s doing . . . and so does Leah. I’d follow either of them into the heart of the nuclear storm. So, yeah, even without the prophecies, I’m on board . . . and I’m not bound by any oath.” He rose and held out a hand to Jade. “Come on. Let’s crack some books.”

  Natalie got to her feet, too, and when JT glared at her, she glared right back. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that I came here to help the Nightkeepers protect the barrier, not to play politics.” But she reached out and straightened his collar. “Don’t be too big of an ass, okay?”

  He stared after her as she followed Jade and Lucius out through the sliders that led to the pool deck, shoulders slumping a little as the fight drained out of him. “Shit,” he said under his breath, following that up with, “Damn it all to hell.”

  With any of the others, Strike would’ve clapped him on the shoulder. Instead, he said, “You’d be an idiot not to be scared.”

  “I’m not . . .” He shook his head. “It didn’t use to matter so much. Bosnia, the Middle East, the death-bat caves down south. I didn’t care if I died, really. Now I do.”

  Strike glanced over and caught Leah’s eye. “I know the feeling.” But as much as he couldn’t imagine leaving her behind, he couldn’t do what she wanted either.

  JT slid him a look. “I’ll fight alongside you and the others. But I’m fighting for her.”

  “Better watch it or I’ll start liking you.”

  The winikin snorted. “Give it five minutes, it’ll fade.”

  As he moved off, Strike saw that the meeting was breaking up slowly, awkwardly, with lots of looks in his direction that said each of them wanted some one-on-one with their king. But he was cold and tired, and the humming whine in his ears was pissing him off. He just wanted—Shit, this wasn’t about what he wanted. They needed face time, and he would give it to them, even if it was going to feel too damn much like saying good-bye.

  “Out!” Leah ordered suddenly, making shooing motions that sent Sven’s coyote skittering with a low snarl. “There are fifteen doors in this room. Use them.” She had the room cleared in minutes.

  He exhaled slowly. “I seriously love you.”

  “Back atcha.” She flowed into his arms, pressed her face into his throat, and clung, hard.

  He felt a fine tremor run through her, and held her tighter. “Hey. It’s okay, I’m not giving up, okay? I’m going to fight until . . . I’m going to fight. I promise.”

  But as she tipped her face up to his and their lips met and melded, he heard that damn humming, and a soft whisper of: Fulfill the prophecies or suffer Vucub’s wrath.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  At the lower end of the firing range, the Nightkeepers had built a training ground peppered with fake ruins that mimicked the places where they did most of their fighting. The replica temples, stelae, and crumbling walls were mostly made of cinder blocks and plaster, and the big pyramid at one en
d was steel and cement.

  Reese had always liked it there. It was the closest she could get to being back in a city. She sat atop the big pyramid, some three stories up, even though the sweeping view of the wide canyon, with its clustered buildings and out-of-place rain forest grove, made her ache for skyscrapers and gritty alleys, and the feeling that she was one among many, even when she was alone. Here, she was one of a chosen few; her actions, her choices, carried a different sort of weight.

  She wasn’t going to run. Dez had pissed her off when he accused her of having a history of bolting rather than seeing things all the way through to their bitter end, but there had been a kernel of truth to it. Over and over again, she had gotten to a certain point in a struggle when the walls closed in, trapping her—with her parents and stepfather, with Dez, with her work in LA . . . and with Fallon—and each time she had gotten to a point where she just snapped and took off. Every. Single. Time.

  Her entire life, people had called her stupid-brave or a variation on the theme, so it was a hell of a thing to realize that she was a coward when it came to her own life. This was different, though—her comfort level didn’t do much to tip the scales, given what was on the other side of the balance. So she would stay, and she would help the geek squad find the patterns they needed, help the warriors think more like street rats.

  If the worst went down and Dez wound up fulfilling the serpent prophecy, she didn’t think he would survive it, not as the man he was now. Killing Hood—a truly vile soul the world had been better off without—had put him fully under the star demon’s spell. What would happen to him if he was put in a position where he was forced to—or worse, chose to—kill Strike and take possession of all five artifacts? She wrapped her arms around her body, though the sudden chill came from within. “That won’t happen,” she said aloud. At some point, the Doctrine of Balance would have to kick in and the Nightkeepers would catch a break.