It was signed, All my love, Ada, though Sasha almost couldn’t read the signature through the blur of tears.
In a flash, she was back in Ada’s pretty kitchen, fussing with a batch of spicy shrimp while her friend “fiddled around,” as she called it, padded violin tucked beneath her chin, rosined bow sliding smoothly as she segued from Beethoven to Bach, from Mozart to others Sasha couldn’t name, some that she suspected were Ada’s own creations. “Find yourself a good man,” the widow had often said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Someone who’ll love you like my Charlie loved me.” After Saul, when Sasha had suffered through a series of bad first dates, and a few worse second ones, she’d decided Ada had gotten one of the good ones, that there might not be a Charlie for her.
Now, her eyes locked on the name in the last paragraph. Michael. He’d found Ada for her. He’d asked her to send . . . what?
She didn’t even care that her hands shook as she broke the seal on the top box, hardly daring to hope that Ada had—Yes, she had! The clay pots were packed one against the next, the greens protected with inverted Tupperware containers duct-taped into place, with airholes perforated into the top. “Hello,” she breathed, knowing she should probably feel like an idiot for talking to her plants, and not giving a crap. “Do you remember me?”
Laughing a little, crying a little, she unpacked all three boxes, which yielded eighteen pots, all but two of which were her personal cooking herbs. Those last two were the fat, furry African violets that always made her smile. And smile she did, as she watered her green friends and arranged the pots in her kitchen window, setting the few shade lovers off to the side. She stood back and felt a tear fall as she saw that she’d arranged them almost the same as they had been back in Boston. Then she swiped at her face, and told herself to pull it together as determination firmed within her.
She was going to track down Michael and thank him, whether he liked it or not.
Michael’s blood was running hot and hard as he blasted away with both autopistols, one in each hand, running through his clips without pause, then slapping a fresh pair home and getting back into it before the targets could even reset. He was jonesing to run and roll and kick some major ass, but Skywatch’s firing range was static. No Hogan’s Alley here—it was all paper targets and a half dozen pop-ups he’d already Swiss-cheesed into submission. He could’ve gone hunting for a partner for the techware laser tag he’d instituted a few months earlier; the high-grade military equipment was pretty close to the real thing—good enough for training runs, anyway. But he wasn’t in the mood for company; he was in the mood to blow some shit away.
The dam was intact, the sluiceways shut, but that didn’t seem to matter these days. His inner caveman was alive and well, and loose within his skull. He wanted to throw his head back, beat on his chest, and howl into the strange orange sun with frustration, anger, and the shitty unfairness of Sasha’s being there, yet beyond his reach. He couldn’t touch her, didn’t dare. Not when she was the one who’d stirred up the darkness within him, calling it so close to the surface. Too close.
He was holding the Other at bay, but just barely. And he was spending a hell of a lot of time and energy burning off the edges.
“Whatever it takes,” he grated, slapping home another pair of clips and hitting the reset button at his right elbow. “Whatever it fucking takes.”
“Words to live by,” a voice said from behind him, filtering through his ear protectors. Her voice.
His whole body went tight in an instant. He would’ve given anything to scoop her up, carry her into the gun shed, lock the door, and lose himself with her, inside her. Because that wasn’t an option, he slammed down every inner shield he possessed, set the autopistols aside, stripped off his protective glasses and earplugs, and turned toward her, moving slowly, trying not to let her see how the sight of her got his body jamming.
She stood a few feet away, at the edge of the rubber-padded cement that formed the main firing platform, with its waist-high reload counter and protective baffles. She was wearing crisp new jeans that hugged her long legs and a clingy green shirt that cinched beneath her breasts. Her hair was a mass of dark curls surrounding her face, and she was wearing a touch of mascara to accent her vivid brown eyes, a slick of lip gloss that caught his eye and made him think of her long, slow kisses and the murmur of pleasure she’d made at the back of her throat when he’d touched her, when they’d touched each other.
He’d crossed half the distance between them before he was aware of moving, was reaching for her before he could make himself stop. The spark of silver that flashed through him, though, stopped him dead in his tracks, and had his voice going low and harsh. “You shouldn’t be here.”
But she shook her head, holding up her hands as though to ward him off. “I came to thank you.”
It took him a moment; he was too caught up in the edges of battle rage at first to remember. Then he did, and he fell back a step. “Oh. That.” He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I had Jox get her a fake ID, and we moved her to another apartment within the retirement complex, just in case Iago goes looking deeper in an effort to find you.” They couldn’t forget that the Xibalban wanted Sasha. And once Michael had met Ada Moscowitz and seen the older woman’s relief when she learned Sasha was okay, he’d known he wouldn’t be able to walk away without making things as right as he could. He’d wanted the widow to have some closure, wanted Sasha to have a piece of her old life within Skywatch.
And he should’ve had Strike give her the boxes and pretend it’d been his idea, damn it. But he’d wanted . . . hell, he didn’t know what he wanted. Or rather, he knew exactly what he wanted, and didn’t dare take it.
Her lips parted on a soft sigh. “Then I owe you even more than I thought.”
“You don’t owe me a godsdamned thing,” he said flatly. When that didn’t seem to be enough for the edgy heat that was kicking through his system, he added, “Don’t make me into some sort of hero, sweetheart. That was payback.”
He wanted her to be pissed at him. Instead, she rolled her eyes. “Try again, cowboy. One good deed I might’ve bought as guilt. Four or five good deeds—and those are the ones I know about—make me wonder what the hell game you’re playing.”
“Shit. I should’ve known they’d blab. Frigging Yen tas.” Trying really hard to be an asshole, he shrugged. “Fine. You’re welcome. Go away.” He lifted his protective glasses. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
Her eyes went past him to the pop-up targets—this week it was a group of tough-looking men in urban gang gear, packing Uzis. Most of them were headless. “Looks like you’re doing just fine.”
“What part of ‘go away, I don’t want your gratitude’ are you not getting?”
If he’d figured that was rude enough to make her leave, he’d been way off. She looked back at him, the glitter in her gorgeous brown eyes going from irritation to speculation as she moved to the apron of the firing platform, closing the distance between them until he could’ve reached out and touched her, tracing the curve of her cheek, shaping the swell of her hips and breasts.
“Don’t,” he gritted from between clenched teeth. Don’t push me. Don’t tempt me.
The air between them steamed with the memories of the two of them straining together, his big body pinning her to the wall, helpless against the burn of pleasure. Her scent filled his lungs, bringing him the taste of her, the feel of her. They weren’t touching, weren’t kissing, but his whole body lit as though they were. He held still, told himself to take a big step back. Couldn’t make himself move.
“What’s wrong, Michael?” she asked, lifting her chin in the defiant challenge that got inside him, turned him on. “You don’t want me, remember?”
“I never,” he grated, voice rough and low, “said I didn’t want you.” The words were out before he could call them back. “I ache for you.” Whoa. He really hadn’t meant to say that.
Her expression went sharp. “Then . . . what, you’re playing
games? The thrill of the chase isn’t enough; you need to manipulate the people around you, too?”
Sweat prickled along his spine as the heat demanded that he touch her, take her. Yet he couldn’t, damn it. “You don’t understand.”
“No shit, Sherlock. How about you try explaining it to me?” She lifted a hand and splayed it on his chest. “Your heart’s pounding.”
“I’m pissed.”
“You’re turned on,” she countered, “and so am I.” A flush rose high on her cheeks at the admission. “So . . . you want to tell me why, rather than giving us a chance, you’re up here beating the shit out of a bunch of targets—and from the looks of you, yourself too—trying to get yourself too damn tired to feel the burn?”
“I . . .” He wanted to. By the gods, he did. If she understood that much about what he was doing, maybe she could understand the rest, at least as much as he did. Hell, maybe she’d even have some ideas. But he couldn’t find the words for what was happening inside him, the shame and the anger, and the daily battle to hold on to himself. He’d tried to tell her, but hadn’t been able to. He’d tried to drive her away, but hadn’t been able to do that, either, because he’d betrayed his own good intentions through his friends. Had that been his subconscious sabotaging his conscious intent? Maybe. Probably. Gods, he wanted her.
He wanted her beneath him, surrounding him. Arching up against him as she came. But more than the physical, he wanted to sit with her, laugh with her, be with her. But above all, he wanted to keep her safe. And to do that, he had to keep his hands off her.
Or did he? He was nearly dead on his feet, and the target practice had burned off the leading edge of the anger. If there was ever a time he’d be able to keep himself level around her, it was now. And if the logic was self-serving, maybe even coming from the corruption brought by the silver magic, in that moment, with Sasha close enough to touch, he was having trouble caring. He’d run himself ragged each day until he dropped into bed too exhausted to do anything but sleep. And in sleeping, he’d dreamed of murder and magic.
He needed something different to take with him tonight. He needed her.
Control, he reminded himself. Drawing a deep breath, he counted his heartbeats, feeling them slow beneath her palm. Then he leaned into her touch and dropped his head, zeroing in on her glossy lips. Her darkened eyelashes fluttered to her cheeks as she tipped her head back in tacit agreement. He wanted to crush her to him, wanted to take her deep in an instant, but held himself in check. Hold it together.
Slowly, he leaned in. Softly, he touched his lips to hers. Then he paused, assessing. The magic stirred; the Other pressed at the edges of his consciousness but remained in check as he increased the pressure fractionally. Her mouth opened beneath his; their tongues touched. Retreated. Touched again. And then, daring to test the limits of his knife-edge control, he took the kiss deeper, trying to tell her the things he didn’t have the words for. I want to be with you, he said in his kiss. I’m sorry for the things I’ve done, the things I can’t tell you about. And then as he pulled her to him and took her lips in a branding, blatantly carnal kiss, something shifted within him.
She stiffened and started to pull away, then hesitated as he gentled the kiss, trying to tell her the things he didn’t have the words for. After a moment, she brought her hands up to grip his wrists, and her mouth opened to him.
Yes! exulted the creature that was him. His blood raced, burning in his veins, seeming to stretch his skin from within as he crowded closer to her, taking the kiss deeper and deeper still as his hands slid from her shoulders to the crooks of her elbows, then down to the soft skin of her wrists. He moved to link their fingers as the heat gained an edge of wonder, a sense that—
She shifted, spun, and drove a knee into his side, below his ribs. Completely unprepared for attack, entirely off balance on every level imaginable, Michael let go of her and fell back. His body dropped automatically into a fighting crouch, while his head fought for control, fought not to go after her as she moved past him. Then he wished he had gone after her, because she grabbed one of the autopistols and leveled its business end in his direction.
He froze. “Those rounds are live, sweetheart.”
“Do you really think now is the time to ‘sweetheart’ me?”
“Possibly not.”
She regarded him levelly, holding the weapon waist-high with the ease of a childhood familiarity that had come back to her with, according to Jox, amazing speed. The winikin, who was their resident gun nut, had waxed enthusiastic over her dead aim at close and middle distances, though he’d allowed how some of the others, including Michael, were far better sharpshooters. They were sure as shit at close range now, though.
“Do I have your attention?” she inquired, pinning him with a glare that held a bright-eyed edge of the same passion that hammered in his veins. It was a short leap from sex to combat for him. Apparently for her too.
He spread his hands away from his body, indicating helplessness on many levels. “You’ve had my attention from the first second I saw your picture.”
“Damn it, that’s what I’m talking about!” Her eyes narrowed in fury, but she let the muzzle of the autopistol dip an inch. “You don’t get to say stuff like that; you don’t get to kiss me like you just did, or do what you did for Ada, and then tell me you’re not interested in me.”
“I never said I wasn’t interested.” Even that much was an effort to get out; it bumped up against the fused-shut part of him, the part that made him work around the things he couldn’t say.
“Then what are you? Because I’ve got to tell you, I don’t have a frigging clue.”
I’m crazier than your father ever was. I’m a split personality that some powerful men made worse. I’m a time bomb. A killer. And you, who are an angel, bring out the devil in me. His mouth worked, but none of that came out.
Her expression flattened; her eyes went hot with disgust and fury, aimed not at him, but at herself. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. Shit, I did it again.” Spinning, she squeezed off three rapid bursts of gunfire in quick succession, rocking the three nearest Uzi-toting pop-ups. Then she slapped the pistol back on the counter and stormed past him, jaw set.
“Sasha . . .” He held out a hand to stop her, but then let it fall, because what could he say? It would be better for both of them—for all of them—if she were pissed at him.
She turned back at the edge of the cement pad. “Don’t do me any more favors, okay? Just leave me the hell alone. My whole life, I watched Pim wait around for Ambrose to get tired of chasing his dreams and settle down. I swore I wouldn’t be that woman, swore I’d hold out for a man who wanted to be in a relationship with a woman rather than an idea. Then, when I thought I’d found him, it turned out that he’d wanted the relationship, yes, but then he wanted to move on to the next, and the next after that. Saul didn’t want me; he wanted the idea of me, which was just as bad.” Eyes dark, she opened her hands, as though letting her own dreams fall free. “And you . . . I don’t know what you want. It’s like you’re two different people—the guy who rescued me, who made love to me, who kissed me just now . . . and then the guy who warns me off at the same time he’s tracking down an old lady and having her ship my herbs so I’ll have a piece of myself back.” She paused expectantly.
He ached for the girl whose father hadn’t known how to love anyone but the life he’d left behind, for the woman who’d sought answers for herself and found only pain and confusion. He hated knowing he was adding to that pain.
If I could find a way to make it work for us, I’d do it, he wanted to say. But he didn’t see any answers on the horizon, and he was losing hope that he ever would. So in the end, he said only, “I’m sorry, Sasha. I’m so damned sorry for all of it.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, her mascaraed lashes were damp with tears. “Is that all you’re going to say?”
“It’s all I can say.” And that was the truth.
> “Okay.” She swallowed hard, and nodded. “Okay. I guess that’s it, then.” She turned away without another word and headed back down the path with her spine straight and her shoulders unbowed.
He was the one who slumped and hung his head, wishing to hell he could go back in time and change the decisions he’d made, the things he’d done. She made him want to be a different, better man. But he’d wished for that a thousand times since his talent ceremony and it hadn’t happened yet. He was who and what he was, and had had to find a way to make that work for the Nightkeepers, not the Xibalbans.
So, moving very deliberately, he replaced his earplugs and protective glasses and turned back to the counter, picking up the weapon that was still warm from her hand.
He sighted on the pop-ups she’d hit, expecting to see them blasted through the ’nads. But they weren’t. Each of the men was shot center mass, clean through the heart. The sight made him want to howl her name.
Instead, he very calmly, very methodically shot the rest of the targets to shit.
PART III
FULL MOON
The moon is in opposition to the sun, meaning that
it is large and bright in the sky. This night is associated
with insomnia, insanity, and magic.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
December 2 Full moon Three years and nineteen days until the zero date
Sasha had never before been aware of a full moon as anything more than a passing thought, as a pretty white circle in the night sky, brightening the darkness. But as the sun set on the night of her bloodline ceremony, she thought there was something different about this particular full moon, something different about her body. As she sat alone in her suite, waiting out the last hour before the ceremony, her skin felt too tight on her bones and her body temp flashed from hot to cold and back again. She didn’t know if the stirred-up feeling was nerves or the sensation of the Nightkeepers’ magic strengthening as the barrier thinned with the approach of the three-year solstice. Probably both. And honesty compelled her to admit, inwardly at least, that she was jittery about being one-on-one with Michael to the degree they would need for the ritual.
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