“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.
“Then we’ve already got something in common.” He reached for her, cupping one big, capable hand along her jaw and holding her there as he leaned in and touched his lips to hers.
Under any other circumstance, Sasha would’ve drawn back at his words, which all but spelled out “only sex, no strings.” But just then, with her body alight and her brain spinning with incense and desire, the proviso sounded right. And his touch was perfect. The contact brought sparks of light and heat, a sizzle of connection and a sense of oh, yes that rippled through her in waves, reverberating and overlapping, heightening as she murmured her pleasure and crowded closer.
Something buzzed at the back of her brain.
At first she thought it was a warning alarm, her unreliable instincts telling her this was a bad idea. Moments later, though, Michael hissed a curse and yanked away from her, putting his big body between her and the door.
A seam appeared in the overlapping stones. Someone was coming in!
Michael crowded her back, sandwiching her between the carved wall and the heavy press of his body armor. His scent surrounded her, sharp and male, resonating with the taste of him. Without thinking, she pressed against him, reaching to touch his hips beneath the armor. His solid strength and the overwhelming thereness of him was an anchor, making her feel far safer than she knew she should. But it had been so long since anyone had been anywhere for her, she’d take what she could get.
He tapped his throat mike and whispered, “Is that you guys? Fuck. They’re here.”
Sasha tightened her grip on him. “That’s not your friends, is it?” she whispered as the crack widened, then stilled. From the other side she caught a snatch of low-voiced conversation, some sort of debate. Was the mechanism jammed, or was the hesitation part of a plan, another layer of torture?
Michael glanced back at her, expression resolute as he said very quietly, “I’m going to cast a shield. Cross your fingers that they don’t have a magic-sniffer with them.” He drew the carved knife from his belt and sliced it sharply across his palm in a move that was all too familiar to her and brought bad memories. Blood welled, looking black in the orange firelight.
Shit, she thought. The torches. There was no way Ia go’s men could fail to notice the flames, or the smoky air. “Should we kill the lights?” she asked, feeling like an idiot for buying into his paradigm even far enough to ask the question. But what if the tiny fireball hadn’t been an illusion? What if—She squelched the thought, unable to go there after so many years of denial.
“They’d still smell the incense,” he answered in a low whisper. “But if we’re lucky and they don’t have a pilli with them, the shield magic should confuse all five of their senses.” He closed his eyes, his face settling into lines of deep concentration as blood dripped from his palm. When the first drop hit the stone floor, Sasha thought she heard a bell chime, and wondered if that meant his magic was working.
Then she wondered whether she’d crossed the border into Crazytown. Because as the door crept open, all she could do was pray that whatever he was doing worked.
Moments later, though, he opened his eyes and bit off a curse. “Nothing, damn it. I can’t find the blood magic. I don’t know—” He broke off and turned to her abruptly, his eyes hard and hot, and more than a little wild. “I’m sorry,” he said inexplicably.
Then, without any other preliminaries, he moved into her, plastered her against
the wall with his big, hard, fully aroused body. And kissed her.
Shock held Sasha motionless as his lips touched hers. The first sizzle of contact arced from him to her and back again, and all she could think was Oh, and then Yes. She might have said the words aloud, because her lips parted and he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue within to touch hers. His taste was potent and masculine; his strength surrounded her, pressed into her, made her feel that she was safe despite the danger. That she wasn’t alone. That finally there was someone on her side.
A red-gold haze rose up inside her, clouding her vision and mind, making the moment all about Michael’s kiss. It somehow ceased to matter that he might be just as bug-crazy as Ambrose had been, and that a rumbling noise warned that the door was opening the rest of the way. What mattered was that Michael was holding her, kissing her. And it was vitally, elementally important that she kiss him back.
So she did.
CHAPTER FIVE
With his access to his normal blood magic blocked—maybe because of the nature of the chamber, maybe because the lure of sex magic was so damn strong—Michael had little choice. He kissed Sasha, swallowing her gasp openmouthed and taking it deep with more heat than finesse. And damned if she didn’t kiss him right back.
Unprepared for her cooperation—hell, unprepared for her—he lost himself in the moment. Her taste was sweet, like the soft, light energy that sang through her, making him feel dark, hard, and hot in comparison.
Danger! his brain warned when his control started to slip.
Ending the kiss and calling on the power it had brought, he summoned the chameleon shield from a seemingly bottomless well of sex magic that was suddenly his to command. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the magic shimmered to life, curling sinuously around the doorway just as the stone panel slid fully open to reveal a small group of heavily armed gray-robes.
There was no shout of discovery, no sudden turmoil. The shield was working, and whatever a pilli was, it hadn’t shown up yet.
Still, the enemy was very near. The dark warrior in Michael was acutely aware of their positions on the other side of the chameleon spell. At the same time, he was wholly conscious of the woman in his arms.
Sasha twined herself around him, her fingers buried in his hair as she kissed him back, wet and hot, her greed matching his own. Keenly aware that whatever was between them right now was way more about the magic than it was about either or both of them, he broke the kiss, cupping her face to hold her still. “That was enough to trigger the spell.”
She looked beyond him to the curving wall of not-light that swirled near the doorway, her lips forming an O of surprise. Then she whispered, “Magic.” He couldn’t tell whether the word was a question or a curse.
“Sex magic,” he said. He meant it as a clarification, but the words hung between them. “Physical intimacy is another way to access Nightkeeper power.” Granted, the highest levels of such magic belonged to the gods-destined mated pairs, but he’d been able to lean on Sasha for enough of a boost to jump-start his shield. More evidence that she’s mageborn, he thought. Not to mention that it’d been a far stronger boost than he’d expected, more than he’d gotten when he and Jade had been lovers. Maybe that was because Sasha’s was a stronger bloodline, maybe because he was better trained now, or the end-time was a year closer. “The shield is up,” he continued. “We don’t have to take this any further. Probably shouldn’t.” Desire howled, but he held on to his control. Barely.
Eyes intent on the shield, she reached past him and caressed the magic as she had done moments earlier with the small fireball. Now, as then, he felt her touch as if she’d stroked his naked skin. Sensation brought desire, kicking the magic higher, bringing an edge that hadn’t been there moments earlier. He nearly arched into the touch, almost purred with the pleasure, even as he told himself to let her go, move away, move on. Once they were back at Skywatch everything would be different. She wouldn’t need to be rescued anymore. She wouldn’t need him anymore, because although she might have dreamed him, the last thing she needed after living in darkness for the past year was a man who lived partway in the shadows.
Lips curving, pupils blurred with sex magic, she moved to stroke the chameleon shield again, but he caught her wrist. “Don’t,” he said. His voice came out harder than he’d intended, so he softened the order with, “Please.”
She met his eyes, and hers widened. “Michael?” Her voice held a faint tremor, but she didn’t pull away. He almost wished she would. More, he wondered what she saw in him, and whether it scared her.
It should, he knew, just as he knew damn well he should let her go. But the jagged, primal heat was unassailable, undeniable, compelling him to move in for another kiss. Somewhere in the back of his brain he told himself it would level off the energy that built within him, help him rein it in. But the moment their mouths touched he knew it was a lie. Heat blasted through him, tipping his balance and skewing his world off-kilter. And the magic—of the temple and the night, and the sacred sexual power that was suddenly laced with something more—rose up and swept him away. Magic roared in his veins, lighting his neurons with a howl of, Yes, yes, this one, mine! as he slanted his mouth across hers, teased her lips apart and plunged his tongue inside, needing more from her, demanding more.
Far from pushing him away, she met him equally and then raced ahead of him, pouring herself into the kiss. He told himself to back off, that she was in the grip of new magic, that she didn’t have full control. But he couldn’t seem to make that matter as he lost himself in her.
Magic sparked red-gold in the air between them, revving his blood even higher. She felt it too; he could see it in her eyes, hear it in her shuddering inhalation. Then she reached down and cupped him through his combat pants, rubbing the line of his painfully hard erection.
She’s not in control, he reminded himself. And she doesn’t know why. He remembered how it had been for him right after he’d tasted Nightkeeper power—how the need for sex had been sharp and overwhelming, and nothing he could’ve walked away from. He told himself to back off, back away, that she wasn’t entirely rational. But although he’d been raised out in the modern world, with modern mores and ethics, he was a Nightkeeper by blood and magic, and some deeply primitive part of him argued that there was nothing wrong with magic-wrought desire.
Red-gold power crisped the air as she touched him again, shaping him through the tough fabric of his Kevlar-impregnated combat pants. “Gods,” he grated, dimly aware that the shield had gone red-gold, shot through with other, unfamiliar colors. Darker hues to match the dark, edgy power that bit at the edges of his mind.
A warning bell sounded at the back of his brain, reminding him of the danger, the pilli. The creature that lived within him. But he was lost to reason; his universe had concentrated itself at the place where she was holding him, touching him. He was no stranger to sex—far from it. He loved women, loved the pleasure his body could give them, the moment of their orgasm, and his own. Yet despite all that, he’d been celibate since his talent ceremony more than a year ago, when the shock of gaining the warrior talent had busted through the hypnosis and drug-induced mental blockade, slamming Michael with lost memories and almost releasing the thing lurking within him.
If this bloodline nahwal hadn’t zapped him into an offshoot of the barrier, he might’ve slaughtered the other Nightkeepers then and there. The nahwal’s warning had echoed in Michael’s skull: Your past has put the balance of your soul too close to the darkness. Don’t touch the power it offers. And for gods’ sake, don’t lose control.
In the aftermath of that vilely nasty surprise, Michael had been a mess. He’d broken things off with Jade and had kept to himself ever since then. Now, though, those three hundred and however many days roared through his bloodstream now, heat and temptation howling for release. But not just any release; his blood and body were clamoring for Sasha—for the woman in the photos, the fighter who’d escaped from her own cell. He wa
nted her energy, wanted to take it inside himself and use it to light the dark corners of his soul.
He was vaguely aware of a half dozen gray-robes blocking open the damned doorway and taking up positions inside the chamber, looking out into the hallway. As if from a distance he heard radio traffic, reports that the other magi were just around the corner, but meeting heavy resistance from search parties bent on recapturing Sasha. But if Iago wanted her, why had he used her to bait the Nightkeepers into Lucius’s ambush? Why not just have Lucius himself call for help?
A half-realized thought gnawed at the edge of his consciousness, warning of something deeper, but it was quickly lost when Sasha kissed him again, then moved against him, restless with desire.
A hard-fought battle raged within his soul. The Nightkeeper warrior in him wanted to attack the gray-robes, helping clear the way for his teammates, and the man in him wanted to rip into them for what they’d done to Sasha. But at the same time he was brutally aware of the nahwal’s warning. He was already running too close to the edge of his control; killing could put him all the way over.
“We’ll be there as soon as we can,” he dimly heard Strike report. “Hold tight and keep the woman safe.”
I will, Michael thought with the force of a vow.
Magic hummed in his skull—a compulsion for sex, for orgasm, the feeling sharper than before, more protective. Possessive. He wanted to take her, make her his own. He wanted to keep her safe, kill for her, take his revenge on the men who had hurt her. He held the impulses grimly in check, but then she twined her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his in a blatantly carnal, openmouthed kiss.
And he broke.
Heart hammering, heat roaring through him on a wash of red and gold gone gray at the edges, he returned the kiss and dragged his hands down her curvy body as he pressed her into the wall, his body armor a hard barrier between them. He growled as he reversed the caress, bringing her shirt up so he could reach beneath. Her skin was warm and soft and so very alive under his touch. She was alive, arching and quivering, responding beautifully to him as he shaped the dip of her waist, the flare of her ribs, the curves of her breasts. She moaned as, beyond himself, Michael groaned and kissed her, tasted her, touched her.
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