“How’s that coming?” Michael asked.
“Not good.” The reply came from Rabbit himself.
Michael grimaced, hesitated, then said, “All due respect, but my gut says we don’t have time to dick around. Is there a faster option?”
There was a murmur of off-mike convo for a moment; then Strike came back. “The second hidden chamber Leah and I found was clearly Nightkeeper in origin, not Mayan like the rest of them. Maybe the latent power of those stones, plus the group of us linking up, will give me enough to punch through.”
Michael hissed out a breath. “I thought solid rock fouled ’port lock, period.”
“It screws with my ability to lock onto a destination, but I can still trigger the ’port and get us into the travel flow of the barrier. From there—gods willing—I can lock onto a destination and get us the rest of the way home.”
Michael could’ve done without the “gods willing” part, but it seemed their best option, especially when he heard additional bootsteps in an intersecting hallway. “I’ll meet you there.”
He keyed off without waiting for Strike’s response, as his talent warned that he’d better get his ass moving. Dousing the chameleon shield, in case the approaching group included the Xibalbans’ magic sniffers, he moved out, tacking roughly westward through the labyrinth. Soon, the prefab steel-and-
drywall construction gave way once again to stones that hummed with old magic. When he reached the place Leah had described as hiding the Nightkeeper-origin secret chamber, he trailed his fingers along the wall, searching for a pressure pad or something that would indicate the location of the hidden doorway. He didn’t— Ah! There.
He pressed the faint indentation. After a short pause, there was a grating noise and a section of the wall slid aside. Torches flared, lighting a circular stone chamber and providing a familiar ambience.
Intricately carved walls arched overhead in a series of concentric rings, forming a circular temple reminiscent of the one that had housed the intersection beneath Chichén Itzá. In this sacred chamber, though, the ritualistic carvings showed a young goddess with vertical lines that looked like tears bisecting her eyes and cheeks. Her hair, worn in a high topknot, cascaded down around her like silk from an ear of corn, identifying her as the maize goddess, bringer of life and health. Which was just wrong in a place like this. How had Rincon gotten hold of such a powerful shrine?
Doesn’t matter, he told himself. Just be glad it’s here . Because sure as shit the stones held a ton of residual power; the moment he stepped inside the space, red-gold Nightkeeper magic hummed resonantly beneath his skin. And that was just the one of the one-two magical punch. Two was a hard flare of heat that his body translated instantly into a burn of lust. Sex magic, he thought, gritting his teeth as the stone doorway slid shut at his back, closing him in with the buzzing, tempting power, and the woman who’d become his personal quest to do something good for a change. Shit.
Not that he had anything against sex—far from it—but this wasn’t the time or place for him to put his impulse control to the test.
Swallowing hard, he keyed on his mike and grated, “I’m here. Where are you guys?”
“On our way,” Strike reported tersely, a burst of gunfire sounding in the background. “Might take us some time, though. We’ve got company.”
“Shit. Do you want me to—”
“Stay put,” Strike ordered. “Guard Sasha. We’ll get there as soon as we can.”
“Will do,” Michael said, but the line had already gone dead.
Forcing himself not to think about where his hands were landing, he lowered her gently to the floor, propping her up against the wall opposite the doorway. The automatic torches were apparently loaded with incense; the room was filling with the spicy smell of copan, the Nightkeepers’ sacred incense.
The scent ratcheted his magic higher, which was going to be a problem. He needed to tamp it down if he wanted to avoid the Xibalbans’ magic sniffers.
He started by squelching the sexual buzz with a couple of breathing exercises and thinking of hockey—colder than baseball, he figured, so better for the job. Unfortunately, once the buzz of sex magic was down to a manageable level, he became all too aware of another power source in the room: the bespelled woman. Power limned Sasha’s motionless form, trailing red-gold sparkles across her high cheekbones and accenting the soft curves of her breasts and hips, the long lines of her limbs.
His blood thudded in his veins; his body felt hard and heavy. He told himself to look away, but couldn’t. Told himself to swear he wouldn’t touch her, but he couldn’t do that, either.
What he could do—what he had to do—was kill the sleep spell and take his chances.
Sasha woke quickly, with none of the disorientation that had become so familiar over the past year.
The first thing she saw was the curving wall of a flame-lit circular chamber, where mad shadows danced on carved stone. That should’ve brought instant panic. Except it wasn’t panic she felt as she stared at the gorgeous stranger who’d grabbed her from the hallway. He stood across the circular room in a fighter’s ready stance, with his feet set parallel directly below his wide shoulders, his big, capable hands hooked into his weapons belt, looking very male, very dangerous.
She should be afraid. He was armed, and she had a feeling that whatever his hand-to-hand training had been, it went well beyond her own. But fear was far from her first response as their gazes connected. Instead, something shifted inside her, warming her core, tightening her skin, sensitizing her body.
An impossible whisper said that the resemblance was no coincidence, that this was the man she’d imagined in the depths of her despair, the man whose image had carried her through countless interrogations. And now he’d come for her. What took you so long? she almost said. Instead, she shook herself inwardly, reminding herself that she’d sworn off making assumptions without proof.
When he didn’t say anything, just stood there watching her steadily, his dark green eyes unreadable, she said, “Where are we?”
“Still in Iago’s compound. Working on changing that.” His short, clipped answers gave away little, yet his voice skimmed along her skin, sounding far more intimate than it should have.
“How’d you put me out like that? Drugs? Vulcan neck pinch?”
“Magic.”
Whoa. Wack-job alert , she thought, forcibly reminded that he’d flat-out claimed to be a Nightkeeper mage. She blew out a breath as the greedy churn in her stomach shifted to a twist of disquiet. “No, really. I’m serious.”
“Trust me, so am I.”
“Shit.” She looked away, trying not to let the disappointment feel deeply personal. “You’re one of them. A doomsdayer. Part of this . . . sick-assed war game Iago’s playing.”
“I wish it were a game,” he said. “It’d make all our lives a whole hell of a lot easier. Unfortunately, the end-time is very real. Iago and the Xibalbans are real, as are the Nightkeepers, the Banol Kax, the prophecies, and the coming war.” He watched her as he spoke, as if checking to see how much she already knew. Apparently finding what he’d hoped for, he nodded fractionally, broke from the ready stance, and crossed the room to lean down and offer her his hand. “I’m Michael Stone. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”
Sasha took his hand and let him pull her to her feet, his grip warm and reassuring. She was dimly aware that the cut on her palm had almost healed, that he seemed to have a matching slice—or maybe a scar?—on his own. The raised ridges rubbed one against the other, sparking excitement deep within her.
Exhaling a deep breath in an effort to smooth out the jagged edges of an attraction that made no sense, she said, “I’m Sasha Ledbetter. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
“We’ve been looking for you since late last year. We would’ve come for you sooner, but we couldn’t find Ia go’s base of ops. I’m sorry.”
On one level, the apology made her yearn. On another, it ticked he
r off. “We. You mean the Nightkeepers?” The word conjured bedtime stories of warrior heroes, fearsome monsters, and love affairs that changed the world. And there had been a time in her life that she’d imagined herself a Nightkeeper, dreaming of fantastic magical powers, supernatural enemies, and the darkly handsome mage gods-destined to be her mate. But as Ambrose lost his grip on sanity, he’d increasingly claimed the stories were real, until the day he’d taken it too far. The memory brought a twist of nausea. “Let me guess . . . you want me because of my connection to Ambrose, and the library he supposedly hid.”
He didn’t bother denying it. “That’s part of it.”
“What’s the other part?”
“We don’t just need the library, Sasha. We need you. If Ambrose was one of us, then you have power. You’re already showing signs of it.”
“Bullshit,” she said flatly. “If I’m showing signs of anything, it’s being held hostage for a year.”
Except that most of those symptoms were gone, weren’t they? What sort of hypothesis fit with that evidence?
Trying to settle the sudden churning of her stomach, she took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the incense-spiced air. When she exhaled, she seemed to lose a layer of tension with the breath. She didn’t lose the buzz of heat, though. If anything, it ratcheted a notch higher, making her want to lean into him. Sucking in another lungful of scented air, she looked up into eyes that were nearly black now, with only a thin line of forest green at the edges. Once she stopped thinking of him as SWAT or a local equivalent, and looked beyond the body armor and weapons to the man beneath, there was something grimly piratical about him, a ruthless air that warned he would take what he wanted. The idea shouldn’t have kicked up her body heat, but it did. So, too, did the long, dark hair brushing his shoulders, and the muscular ripple of his throat as he swallowed, his eyes locked on hers.
In that breathless, charged moment, she saw his desire, and knew it reflected her own. Which was abso-fucking-lutely nuts. The last thing she should be thinking about was sex. But somehow that was the only thing she could imagine at that moment. Sex. With him.
A shiver worked its way down her neck when she realized what that evidence suggested. More drugs. “What the hell is in this smoke?”
“It’s just copan,” he answered. “Sacred incense.” A pause. “Why? What are you feeling?”
Like he didn’t know. She gritted her teeth, suddenly grateful for the too-big sweatshirt, which covered the pebble-hard points of her nipples. You know damn well what I’m feeling , she thought.
You’re feeling it, too. Unless he wasn’t, which was a hell of a sobering thought . . . and wouldn’t be the first time she’d mistaken a man’s intentions.
Although she hadn’t answered, he seemed to take her wince as a response. “This”—he waved at the carved stones surrounding them—“was a Nightkeeper temple. If you’re getting a buzz, it’s because of the residual power in the stones. That’s why we’re here—the others’ll be joining us soon. When they do, we’ll use the power boost from the stones to teleport out.” Again, he watched her speculatively.
“You’re insane.” But even she heard the lack of conviction in her words, the weakening of her resolve in the face of what had to be drugged smoke. “Seriously, what’s in the smoke? Some sort of aphrodisiac?”
His eyes glittered. “If you’re growing horns, it’s magic, not drugs. The man who called us to come get you was the one who cut your palms, hoping to trigger the healing powers of a mage. Seems like it worked.”
“No . . .” Her voice had gone whisper thin. “This isn’t real.” Everything she’d experienced over the past year, and everything that was going on now . . . it was all part of an elaborate, expensive sham constructed around a fantasy world in which Mayan demons menaced the earth and mankind was under the protection of Nightkeeper magi. Which was nuts.
Right?
He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “And given that the healing magic worked, I guess it’s no surprise that you’re picking up on the sexual aspects of the power too.”
“I dreamed you,” she blurted. She didn’t realize she’d said the words aloud until she saw his eyes go blank with shock for a second, then fill with roaring heat underlain by deep wariness.
“Sasha . . .” His expression softened and he took a step toward her, only to stall abruptly, his eyes losing focus as he touched his ear, where he wore a small receiving device. “Come again?” He paused, grimacing. “Shit. Copy that.”
Swallowing hard, she said, “Problem?”
“A delay.” He hesitated, as if trying to figure out how much to share. “The others are cut off, and there’s a Xibalban search party headed this way.”
Dread prickled, cutting through the sensual haze. “If they open the door to this room, we’re toast.”
His mouth flattened. “I might be able to shield us.”
“How?” She gestured around the empty room. “Not much to hide behind.”
“It’s called a chameleon shield,” he explained, watching her carefully. “It confuses perceptions.”
“You’re insane.” Just like Ambrose.
He stared at the doorway as though weighing his options. “I’d offer you a demonstration, but I can’t risk casting the spell until they’re actually here. There’s a chance they’ll be able to sense the magic.”
She shouldn’t, absolutely shouldn’t believe him. The fact that she almost did just supported her suspicion of drugs in the smoke. This whole conversation was part real, part hallucination, and she couldn’t tell where one stopped and the other began.
She looked past him to the door. What if it was all lies? What if this was another, more devious method of torture, whether from Iago or another group?
“Don’t,” he said, following her eyes. “Please. Trust me.”
“How can I?” Her voice cracked on the question, though she hadn’t meant to let it. “How am I supposed to know what to believe?” She’d been on her own for so long, had had her trust betrayed so many times.
He hesitated a moment, then held out his hand, palm up, baring the elegant black tattoos on his vein-roped forearm.
“I don’t—” she began, then broke off with a strangled gasp as a small glitter of bluish white light kindled in his palm, like a tiny piece of Saint Elmo’s fire trapped inside it. “Oh,” she said aloud.
Hallucination, she said inwardly. But when she reached out and touched the tiny fireball, she felt its warmth. And his. “I thought you couldn’t risk a demo.”
“It’s my weakest magic,” he said, voice husky, eyes guarded. “And worth the risk if it keeps you from knee ing me in the ’nads and taking off.” He closed his fingers over his palm, extinguishing the small flame.
“Special effects,” she said faintly, trying to hang on to what she knew about how the world was supposed to work.
“What about your dreams?”
She wished she hadn’t said anything about the dreams, wished she weren’t thinking of them now.
But what else could she think of when it seemed that those fantasies were coming true? The circular stone room, the torches, the incense . . . and the man who stood too near her, embodying the heroes she’d grown up hearing about—it was all exactly as she had dreamed. Only she had dreamed so much more.
The rush of desire must have shown in her face, because his eyes darkened. But he held himself still. Waiting.
“What I’m feeling . . . it’s not the smoke, is it?” she asked finally.
“The copan might be intensifying your latent connection to the barrier, but it can’t create something out of nothing. What you’re feeling is the magic that’s in your blood.”
“What if I don’t want it to be?” Despite her best efforts, her voice trembled. “What if I just want to go home and forget any of this ever happened?”
“You can’t. Iago will come for you.”
She shuddered. “Not helping.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.�
�� He paused. “None of us got a vote in this, either, and we’ve all had days we wanted to bail and let someone else take up the slack, except there wasn’t anyone else . . . until we found out about you.”
Her head spun—maybe with drugs, maybe with overload—and she tried hard not to let what he was saying matter. “I didn’t sign up for your game.”
Not bothering to correct her, he said, “I’ll do whatever I can to help you adjust. We all will.”
“I don’t want your help,” she said. “I don’t want any part of this.” But the words sounded weak, even to her. Emotions cascaded; fear, arousal, and confusion spinning together in an overwhelming mélange, pressing inward. Pinching the bridge of her nose in an effort to stave off the insanity she’d apparently inherited from Ambrose, along with his friends and enemies, she said, “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“What do your instincts tell you?”
She smiled with little humor. “My instincts have gotten me fired I don’t know how many times because I just had to experiment with an in-house recipe. They’ve hooked me up over and over with guys who say they’re ready for a commitment but aren’t really. And they sent me off into the rain forest by myself, because I’d promised Ambrose a proper burial. Let’s just say I’m not too high on my instincts these days.”
“That was then. This is now.” He took her hand, turning it palm up so torchlight hit the cut on her palm, which, incredibly, was little more than a thin scar now. “What is your gut telling you to do?”
Sasha couldn’t make herself look away from his damned gorgeous green eyes. In that instant, she realized she didn’t give a damn what logic dictated, didn’t care what it said about her sanity. She wanted him. Call it incense, instability, or magic; she didn’t care. For too long she’d been unable to take anything for herself, and this was what she wanted. He was what she wanted; he had been since she’d first awakened from the fantasy, warm and wanting, and feeling so damned lonely she’d nearly howled when she opened her eyes and he wasn’t there.
“No offense,” she said, “but I’m pretty sure these impulses are coming from significantly south of my heart.” She was trying to keep it light, trying not to let him know how much the dreams had meant to her. But, in tacit acceptance, she took the last half step that separated them, watching as his eyes blurred, hearing as his breath hitched, and feeling as he shifted to align his body with hers, though they weren’t yet touching.
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