Storm Kissed n-6

by Jessica Andersen

  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 end 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 wi
th 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.

  But even as she tried to tell herself that Strike would pull through and the team would find some way to get the staff back from Iago and prevent Lord Vulture’s nuclear winter—and that was a hell of a laundry list, dragging at her forced optimism—she ached inwardly at the knowledge that Dez would still be named heir. It was inevitable. And, like an alcoholic taking “just one sip,” he would start the downward slide.

  Unless he didn’t.

  Over the past few weeks, she had learned to believe in the man he had become—a powerful yet self-controlled mage, a good soldier, and the kind of guy who would sneak her peanut butter cups when she’d had a bad day. She liked this Dez, respected him. He fascinated her, frustrated her, challenged her, and pissed her off. And she felt more alive than she had in a damned decade. Love was too simple a word for it—or maybe her onetime perception of love was too simple. Back then, she hadn’t had any doubts that they belonged to each other, and that they could make it work if they both tried hard enough. Now, her feelings for him were deep, dark, and unsettled. He may be addicted to power, but she was addicted to him—she wanted him, craved him, needed him. Or was that how love was supposed to feel? Maybe this crazy, insecure emotional roller coaster was normal. Maybe she needed to trust her feelings and the man he was today.

  “Flip a coin,” she said softly. “Heads I’m fooling myself and heading for self-destruction. Tails he’s for real and history isn’t going to repeat this time.”

  Moments later, a quarter pinged between her feet, took a crazy bounce, and went clinking down the pyramid steps to land somewhere on the packed dirt below.

  There was a pause, then Dez said from behind her, “I pictured that going differently. And for the record, it was tails.”

  Her skin heated; she hadn’t sensed his approach. Stalling, she leaned over and pretended to look for the coin, which was long gone. “Kind of symbolic, really.”

  “Yeah. When it finally stopped, though, it was still tails.”

  She looked back at him, found him standing there looking unbearably sexy in fatigue pants and a brown pullover, with a .44 in his belt and shadows in his eyes. “You can see it?”

  “No. But I’m for real, and history’s not going to repeat itself this time.” He hesitated, though, and said, “Strike got the others on board for a sort of compromise. They’re not happy about it, but . . . if I agree to it, they’ll transfer their fealty oaths to me.”

  Oh, she thought, breathing through a sharp stab of pain. “That′s . . . logical.” And it scared the piss out of her.

  He sat down beside her. “I won’t have the full powers of a king, but it’ll increase our chances when we go up against Iago. Strike is afraid that whatever’s going on with him is going to spill over into the bonds if he doesn’t transfer the oaths.”

  She put her head on his shoulder, very aware of his arm against her, and the place where he would wear the hunab ku if he truly became king. “I want to beg you not to do it, to ask you to run away with me . . . But this is too important.”

  He took her hand, threaded their fingers together. “We’re important.”

  “What I wouldn’t have given to hear that at eighteen.”

  “But not now?”

  “I like hearing it. But this is bigger than us.” Way, way bigger.

  They both knew he would agree to Strike’s plan. He didn’t have a choice—they needed to attack Iago the moment he stepped foot back on the earthly plane, the king wasn’t fit to lead, and the prophecies said the task should fall to Dez. But the thought of him taking over the power of the fealty oaths put a nasty churn in her stomach.

  “You thought about us running away together.” He paused. “So stay with me, instead. Give me a chance to prove myself to you.”

  “It’s not . . .” She trailed off, because in a way it was about him proving himself. He needed to prove—not just to her, but to himself and the rest of the Nightkeepers—that he could handle power and tell the difference between temptation and a strategic move. He had to show them that he wouldn’t fall back under the star demon’s spell when the artifacts were put in play. If it came down to worst-case-scenario time between him and Strike, he needed to make the most honorable choice he possibly could, without any taint of self-service. And after that . . . No, she didn’t want to think about what would happen if he became king, or even if he just kept hold of the fealty oaths and became Strike’s heir.

  How long would it be before she trusted him not to revert to his old self? Or would she always be watching him, analyzing every move? God, that sounded exhausting. And dysfunctional. But how could she be sure that he wouldn’t backslide?

  “I know we said that life doesn’t come with any guarantees,” he said, “but I promise you this: I’m going to do my absolute best to be a good soldier and serve my king, and if shit goes south and I wind up wearing the hunab ku, I’ll do my best to get that right, too. And no matter where I wind up in the hierarchy, you’ll be right there with me. I don’t want to lose you again, Reese, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep that from happening.” His eyes were determined, his tone resolute, and the warmth that flared through her at his words carried a spark of lightning and a hum of magic that almost drowned out the tiny, irritating voice that warned it wouldn’t last.

  Screw that, she thought, and leaned in to kiss him, pausing to whisper, “I don’t want to lose you again, either. So be warned: if I see you starting to go off the rails this time, I’m going to do my damnedest to beat some sense back into you.”

  His lips curved against hers. “Deal. Though I’ll try not to make it necessary.”

  “You—” Do that, she meant to say, but lost the words when he closed the final fraction of an inch and kissed her.

  It hadn’t been all that long, really, since their lovemaking that morning, but so much had happened, so many emotions had wrung her out and filled her back up, that she felt like they hadn’t kissed in a year. Warmth was a sweet ache that turned to heat as she touched the back of his neck, his shoulders, and he crowded closer with a rasping groan and deepened the kiss. After not nearly enough time, though, they drew apart. Her lips felt soft and swollen, her breasts were heavy, her skin tingled all over.

  She would have given anything to take the afternoon off, with him, and pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. But it was the whole “world not existing” thing that had her climbing to her feet. “I think we need to hold that thought and head back.”

  “Rain check,” he agreed, and she was struck by the strange normalcy of the exchange, like they had been lovers all along. But the heat between them was bright, fresh, and new as they headed down the pyramid.

  At the bottom, he stopped and bent to pick up a small, shiny bit of metal.

  “Heads or tails?” she asked, telling herself there was no reason for her mouth to go dry. The U.S. Mint didn’t imbue their coins with prescient magic.
>
  He just shook his head and put the coin in his pocket.

  Heads, she thought, grateful that at least he hadn’t lied. Besides, it didn’t matter whether she was on the fast track toward self-destruction. She had made her choice. Taking his hand, she laced their fingers together, conscious of the way their shadows merged in the slanting afternoon light, stretching larger than their true selves. “Come on,” she said, tugging him in the direction of the mansion. “Let’s go tell the others that you’re ready to take their fealty oaths. The looks on a few of their faces should be good for a laugh, at any rate.” She would take whatever jollies she could get, because the next day and a half had the potential to get seriously grim.

  Virginia Beach

  As the Disco churned up to its mooring, a thousand or so pint-sized whale watchers—okay, technically more like a hundred, but it had felt like there were a thousand of them—leaned over the railing, waving and hooting at nobody in particular while Cara and the school group’s chaperones made sure that was all they were doing.

  “I’m pretty sure we got all the Silly String, but I don’t trust those guys when they start clumping up,” Too-tight Facelift said as she buzzed past on her way to eagle-eye the group that Cara had mentally dubbed Juvies-in-training. Meanwhile, Stern Teacher was rooting the I’m-too-sexies out of the forward ladies’ room and Nurse Nancy was keeping Pukers One through Three corralled on the lower deck, just in case. Because being barfed on from the observation platform just sucked. Been there, done that.

  “Excuse me, Miss Cara?”

  “Yes?” She turned to find one of the Actually-has-a-brain—this one had borderlined on Smarty Pants, but Cara had decided to give her the benefit of the doubt—standing there with two other girls behind her, all looking owlishly serious. Where most of the others had tweaked their navy sweaters, tan pants, or plaid skirts into fashion statements, this group just let their uniforms look like uniforms, as if saying “This is only temporary—why bother?”