“You don’t trust me to watch your back?” The stomach churn had escalated to a full-on roil, but she wasn’t sure if that was because she was missing something, or because she could actually see his point and didn’t want to.
He raised a hand and skimmed his knuckles along her jaw. “I trust you.”
“But?”
“It’s me I don’t trust. I’ve only been doing the Nightkeeper thing for a year, and I’ve been in charge of this circus for, what, twenty-six hours? There’s no way I can lead the team at the same time that I’m thinking about where you are, whether you’re safe.” He touched her lips, smiling slightly, though his eyes stayed serious. “I know you don’t want that to be my responsibility, so let’s call it my prerogative as your lover. Or are you going to tell me that you won’t be worried about me?”
She closed her eyes briefly as his question brought the fears she’d been trying so hard to suppress. “Of course I’m going to be worried. But I’d be way less worried if I were right behind you with a gun.”
“Well, I’d be more worried, because if you’re watching out for me and I’m giving orders, then nobody’s watching out for you.”
And, damn it, she didn’t have an answer for that.
He saw it in her eyes, but to his credit, he didn’t gloat. “Gods willing we make it through today somehow, there’ll be plenty more fighting to do, once I’ve got my feet under me and my head back on straight.” He took her hand, lifted it to his heart, and held it there for a moment. She felt the steady beat beneath her scabbed-over palm, and the vibration of his voice as he said, “I know I promised no more waiting around for the perfect moment, but I’m asking you to give me this one. Stay with Lucius, please.”
She hesitated, then nodded. She wanted to fight by his side, yes, but not if it would jeopardize the others. “Okay, you can have this one. But I get the next one.”
“You can have anything you want.” He leaned in and touched his lips to hers in a barely there kiss that seared through her, kicking shimmers through the thin thread of energy that connected them. She reached up, got him by the collar in a pose that had come to mean so much to them, and drew him down for a deeper, darker kiss. The energy amped and flowed, and for a second, she had that strange, disjointed sensation again, the one where she imagined she was inside him, feeling his heartbeat and desire as her own. It was only for a flash, though, and then she was back in her own perceptions as he ended the kiss and whispered against her lips, “Thank you.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get you back later.” Moved, and all too aware that there may not be a “later” for them—for anyone—she turned away before he saw the glint of tears. “I’ll go see how Lucius is doing.”
“Yeah. I should go get suited up.”
She turned back. “Oh, and—” Whatever else she may have said died instantly the moment she caught sight of his profile and saw his expression: pure relief, underlain with a look she hadn’t seen in years, but had once been all too familiar. It was the one that said, “I played that one perfectly.”
Her blood iced and her breath backed up in her lungs. “Son. Of. A. Bitch.”
He whipped back around, expression blanking. “Reese? What’s wrong?”
“You finished congratulating yourself for playing me?”
“I wasn’t . . .” He checked himself—a brief hesitation that spoke volumes. “It’s not what you think.”
Emotions slammed through her in quick succession—shame on the heels of anger, followed by a massive dose of “oh, shit” as she got it. She freaking got it, like it was lit up in neon across his wide chest. “Leaving me behind isn’t about safety or distractions, or some such bullshit, is it? You don’t want me there because you’re planning something and you’re afraid I’ll call you on it, warn the others.”
His eyes cut left and right, making sure they were still alone. “Of course I’m planning something—it’s called a battle, and as tough as you are, Reese, you’re not tough enough for what we’re going to be up against today.”
“You’re trying to divert me by pissing me off. Which means I’m right. What—” She broke off as the hated images flashed through her mind: Hood lying dead; a serpent ring in a pool of blood. Pain sliced through her when the pattern fit, repeated itself. Holy shit, he was going to take out the king regardless of what else happened. He would make it look like an accident, an enemy attack, a slip with the shield spell at the wrong moment. “Strike,” she whispered aghast, then realized her mistake when Dez’s eyes changed, hardening and going cold.
Run! her instincts screamed, suddenly far clearer than they had been in weeks. She ducked, spun, and bolted for the nearest door, knowing there was no way she could take him down without help. She had to get to the others, had to warn them!
A shield materialized in front of her, spitting static and making her hair stand on end. She slapped her palms against it and screamed, “Hel—” Fatigue slammed into her and her muscles gave out, dropping her to her knees, then the floor.
She landed on her side, unmoving, but fought the sleep spell with everything she had, forcing her eyes to stay open even as her vision blurred and the darkness crept in. A camouflage-clad blur moved in front of her, then crouched down. She couldn’t see his face, but she could feel his anger. “Damn it, Reese, I didn’t want to do that. But you had to be a stubborn—” He broke off as footsteps sounded in a nearby hallway. “Shit.”
He gathered her up and lifted her easily, cradling her close to his chest. She could hear his heartbeat, quick and agitated at first, then slowing as he got her through the archway to the residential wing. No! she cried inwardly. Someone, help! Not because she was afraid that he was going to hurt her physically, but because she knew what he was going to do: Keep her out of sight and mind until it was too late.
Sure enough, he carried her, not to her room, but to his own—the one with the sealed-shut windows and the lock on the outside of the door. He set her on his bed, then leaned over her as though to kiss her. Instead, he braced himself on one hand and stared hotly down at her. “If you can’t give me the benefit of the doubt for two damn seconds, how am I supposed to prove I can handle the power? And for the record, the only thing I was hiding back there—the thing I was congratulating myself on not having to tell you—was that I couldn’t have you on the op because I can’t filter every decision through whether or not you’re going to approve—especially when my damn job is to push the team past their limits, which means doing things you’re not going to like. And I can’t have you putting doubts into the others’ heads, like you were about to just now in the great room. Fealty oath or no, if they think I’m taking aim at the king, they’ll be distracted, which is going to get them dead.” He paused, shifting to pinch the bridge of his nose.
The vantage put his marked forearm right in front of her face, bringing the serpent, the warrior, and the lightning god into focus. More, she saw the images made by his wrist cuff: the star demon and the red skybearer. West and east. Transformation and rebirth. Her head spun.
Dropping his hand to the side of her face, he bent even closer, so his breath feathered along her jaw and made the side of her neck tingle as he said, “Either you trust me or you don’t . . . and I guess we’ve got our answer there.” He paused, voice going sad. “Maybe it’s not that we’ve got bad timing. Maybe we just missed our chance.”
Tears stung her eyes as he whispered a string of unfamiliar syllables into her ear, repeating the sleep spell. She felt a drop break free as her eyelids turned into lead and dragged shut. Then, as she spun toward unconsciousness, she felt his lips on hers in a chaste, achingly tender kiss, then his hands moving gently over her body, taking her armband and phone, her .38, and even the cute little .22 she wore on her ankle. The tendril of energy between them pulsed, filling her with warmth as red-gold sparks shimmered behind her eyelids.
Then there was darkness, punctuated only by the sound of a door easing shut and a lock clicking into place.
&n
bsp; CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Coatepec Mountain
The ’port went off without a hitch, with Strike and Rabbit collaborating to land the team safely in the small clearing downhill from the mountain’s crown, right on target. Once they were there, though, Strike doubled over and retched miserably.
“Jesus.” Dez stared at the king as the sharp sounds broke through his dark roil of emotion: regret, remorse, anger, grief. Reese would hate him for knocking her out and locking her up, but what other choice had she left him? He’d been telling the truth, damn it. Maybe not all of it, but the part that he’d left out hadn’t hurt anyone but her, and he hadn’t dared risk having her destabilize an already fragile team. Especially not when parts of it were getting shakier by the second.
“Sorry.” Strike straightened painfully, waving off Leah when she tried to help, though softening it with a quiet, “I’m good.” That was an overstatement, though; he was gray and peaked, and his combat gear hung on him even with extra holes punched.
Dez was painfully aware that a couple of the others were thinking the same thing he was: If it came to it, Strike could very well die today, by his hand. There had been no more messages, no miracle cure from Lucius. The prophecies stood, the danger clear and present : The king had to make the ultimate sacrifice and the last serpent needed to take out his adversary and become king.
As if sensing his thoughts, Strike limped over to him, Leah hovering at his elbow. The king’s eyes were still the same vivid cobalt blue, his hair black and thick, tied back at his nape. But beneath the jawline beard, his face was gaunt and drawn. When he reached Dez, he held out a hand. “Whatever happens today is on the gods, Mendez. Not you.”
Aware that the others were watching, Dez inclined his head in a shallow bow. “If we go down, we go down fighting . . . Sire.” He’d never called Strike that before, probably never would again. But in that moment, it felt right. Then he took the king’s hand, aligning palm to palm, and, going on instinct, opened himself wide, trying to pump energy into the other man, shoring him up as he had learned to do with Reese.
For a moment, he made the connection: The king’s eyes widened and color stained his throat. “Don’t drain yourself on my account.”
“I’m good.” In fact, he was better than good—the power flowed around him like blood, thick and warm. It coalesced, pulsed, surged. And then suddenly it was rushing away from him, flaring outward as if magnetized to a distant point, and “good” went to “oh, shit” in an instant. His magic was wild, crazed, jacked on the solstice rush. Damn it. He yanked away from Strike, trying desperately to rein in the power that poured through him, strange and sinuous.
The king pointed. “Look!”
A section of air near the mountain’s peak shimmered and dark magic hissed as, with a whoomp that sent Sven’s familiar scattering, the serpent temple appeared, its snake-carved pillars and open-roofed structure completely enclosed within a shield that had a strange, pearlescent sheen. The moment it was fully in place, the energy flow cut out and Dez sagged, suddenly drained. Shit. Shitshitshit. “What the fuck was that?”
“I’m guessing it was you summoning the serpent temple,” Leah said drily. But her eyes telegraphed a silent thanks for the color in Strike’s face, and the fact that he looked like he might be able to fire a weapon without the recoil flattening him.
“We’re still ten minutes from the three-hour window,” Michael reported. He tossed Dez a pair of binoculars. “And check it out. I don’t think they were ready for the big reveal.”
The scene jumped into focus: a robed shadow knelt within the shield while the green-eyed villagers scrambled to surround the temple, their weapons at rest position, deactivated. “Fuck the recon,” Dez said, making the call. “We hit them now.”
As the others sprang into action, digging into the crates for guns and ammo rather than computers and tactical equipment, Strike said in an undertone, “You know this is either a brilliant tactical move, or suicide.”
“Story of my life,” Dez said, telling himself that bad timing was his and Reese’s thing, not his alone. But as his team formed up around him, he heard something that chilled his blood and made him wonder whether his tactical move wasn’t entirely self-serving. It was a soft, feminine whisper at the back of his brain that said: I’m here.
Skywatch
Anna, for fuck’s sake, get up! The mental snarl cut through the fog, harsh and familiar, yet so out of place that it jolted her to a semblance of focus, bringing a flash of hard gray eyes and anger.
“You’re dead,” she whispered. She felt her face move, but didn’t hear any sound.
You’ll be dead, too, if you don’t get moving and open your godsdamned eyes.
“There’s nothing but the fog.”
Those aren’t the eyes I’m talking about and you damn well know it.
Her heart shuddered. “I can’t.”
You have to. He needs you to wake the hell up and open your fucking eyes.
She knew who “he” was. Brother. The one who sat beside her, sad and silent, looking like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Because he did. “I can’t.” This time the whisper came with a breathy sound. Her own voice. She heard the noise on the air, felt the vibrations in her throat. And part of her despaired, because the fog was safe and familiar. It didn’t take anything from her or force anything on her. It didn’t show her tunnels and flames, didn’t make her die over and over again in her dreams, didn’t—
They need you.
She didn’t want to be needed, not that way. She wanted her little house in the suburbs, her office at the university, her students, her husband, a baby . . .
Bullshit, he snapped, plucking the thoughts from her mind. You just don’t want to face the truth. A pause. Why am I even bothering? You always were such a girl.
“Screw you.”
There was no answer, the voice was gone, lost again in the beckoning fog. Her anger, though, didn’t go with it. The burn stayed inside her, refusing to let her slide back into the grayness of her own mind. And along with it came whispers, not in his voice, but in the thought-images and sensory memories of a thousand lifetimes, a hundred thousand visions. Get up, they said. You have power—use it! Help him, or you both will die.
She saw Brother ’s face, still and cold, caught a gleam of luminous green, and her heart shuddered. To her surprise, that progressed to a full-body shudder, then a prickling wash of sensation as long-unused neurons flared to life and she became cognizant of the space around her. She was in a room—bedroom, her brain supplied—with things arranged on shelves and hung on the walls. Artifacts. Fakes. Cheap knockoffs. Just like she was a cheap knockoff of a true itza’at seer, unable to control the talents she didn’t want. But one of the fakes caught her attention. The stone knife was unwieldy and poorly balanced, its hilt carved with gibberish glyphs from wildly different periods—she knew that because she knew the knife, had used it to open the occasional letter. But now she locked on it, and the building urgency inside her said: Yes.
She lurched to her feet, was up before she was aware of the effort it took, made it across the room in a stutter-step parody of walking on long-unused legs, and grabbed the knife from its little display stand. Without thinking or pausing, she drew the knife sharply across her right wrist. And power flared through her, bringing images of death.
In the next wing over, Reese awoke and blinked up at the ceiling, then around at her surroundings, aware of a deep pit in her stomach. Dez’s bed. Dez’s bedroom. No Dez. Memory returned like a knife through the heart. He had left her here, locked her in so she wouldn’t warn the others.
“Son of a—” She cut herself off and launched off the bed, adrenaline clearing the last of the sleep spell. She slapped for her armband, but it was gone. A vague memory stirred of him searching her, disarming her. Bastard. Moving too fast for all of the things he had said to her to catch up, too fast even for her gut instincts to find her, she flung herself into the suite’s m
ain room, cursing when she found the house phone gone, the intercom deactivated. No doubt he’d told Lucius and the winikin that she was working alone on a special project, and not to disturb her. That was what she would have done.
“Damn it!” She glared around at the austere apartment that lied as slickly as its occupant, making it look like he’d changed when, really, some of the glossy shine had been rubbed off but the rest was the same. At the thought, her eyes went to the coffee table. Or, rather, to the small rectangular rug that lay beneath it.
It was the only rug in the suite, save for a shaggy bath mat. And he was the same guy he’d always been.
Breathing a quick prayer to whatever entity might be listening, she shoved the table and rug aside. Disappointment churned when all she found was more of the same hardwood that was everywhere else in the suite. But when she got down close and brushed her fingertips along the surface, she found the faint line of a seam.
“Didn’t totally trust them, did you?” Or maybe he was hardwired to hide things. The thought brought a pang, but she ignored it.
A quick search uncovered a hidden pressure pad. She hit it, expecting it to pop up and reveal a lock. Instead, the larger panel loosened with zero fanfare. Apparently, he hadn’t been that worried about his teammates . . . or else he had assumed he was far away from anyone who would know where to look.
Heart tapping, she used her nails to pry up the panel and reveal a small arsenal—MAC-10, a couple of decent .44s, a snub-nosed .22, and ammo all around. But that wasn’t all; he’d also stashed some nuts and jerky . . . along with a couple of packages of peanut butter cups. She stared at them for a three-count while her instincts and the things he had whispered before leaving caught up with her—things about her proving that she didn’t trust him, and how he couldn’t let her distract him or the team with her suspicions.
If she took her emotions out of the equation, she thought those things fit the pattern and sounded like the truth. Only they weren’t, because she had long ago learned that she had to listen to what Dez did, not what he said. So she chambered a few bullets in one of the .44s, and stood to take a bead on the door. Then she yelled, “Fire in the hole!” and blasted two rounds through the lock.
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