Skykeepers

by Jessica Andersen

  “No, actually. He was a brilliant man, a wicked fighter, and a highly respected mage . . . until the day he killed himself.”

  A beat of silence hung between the two men before Michael could bring himself to say, “You think I’m suicidal?”

  Maybe not now. But there had been days.

  “No. But then again, nobody thought Jayce would kill himself,” Tomas answered. “Least of all his winikin. My father.”

  Michael winced. “Oh, shit. Sorry.”

  The winikin culture was one of protection and support. It was a winikin’s job to keep his charge alive and functional. Although suicide wasn’t necessarily a sin in the Nightkeeper world—far from it—he had to figure that an unexpected autosacrifice would be seen as the ultimate failure for the suicide’s winikin, whose job it was to keep the magi alive and kicking.

  Uncle Jayce, Michael thought as a few more pieces fell into place. He supposed that explained even more of Tomas’s control-freak ways, though it didn’t make him any easier to live with. “I’m not going to off myself now,” he said, letting the last word acknowledge Tomas’s instincts.

  When he’d come to Skywatch, Michael hadn’t had a clue he was anything but a salesman with an eye for women and a good, if slightly shallow, heart. When Bryson had terminated him as an operative, Horn had used him as a guinea pig, splitting his halves so thoroughly, he’d thought his cover was really him. That is, until he’d jacked in for his talent ceremony, his bloodline nahwal had laid the warrior talent on him, and he got a hell of a “This is your life, Michael Stone!”

  In the aftermath, hell, yes, he’d thought about killing himself. All he’d been able to think about was murder, reliving the Other’s kills over and over again. He’d eventually regained control, and had decided he could do the Nightkeepers more good than harm by staying alive. But still, it had definitely been an option.

  Unlike the Christian viewpoint of suicide as a sin, in the Nightkeeper culture it was the act of greatest sacrifice to the gods, thereby earning a trip straight to the sky. Michael figured that, in his case, it might at least balance out the bad shit. But at the same time he couldn’t help wanting to think the gods really did have a plan for him, that they wouldn’t have let him get so far toward damnation without some reason.

  Unless, of course, his destiny wasn’t in their hands anymore. The barrier had been sealed when he took Bryson’s job offer. It was possible he’d damned himself beyond the gods’ redemption long before the Nightkeepers were reunited, that he was laboring under ma jorly false delusions now. If that was the case, then Sasha had been meant for a different version of him—the one that had told Bryson to stick his job offer, that he was no killer.

  Except he was a killer. And he hadn’t turned Bryson down.

  He glanced over to the kitchen once again, only to see that Sven was no longer hanging all over Sasha. Instead, he was sitting at the breakfast bar opposite Carlos, downing shots in rapid-fire succession, amidst catcalls from the others. Jade sat nearby, working on a bottle of wine, apparently having also decided in favor of self-medication.

  Michael glanced at Tomas. “You and Carlos already had that cooked up, didn’t you? You’re taking out the competition on both sides.”

  The winikin lifted a shoulder. “You’re not perfect by a long shot, but Sven has some major growing up to do before he’ll know what to do with a mate. You, at least, know how to keep a woman happy.”

  “Not necessarily,” Michael said, thinking of the parade of women who’d passed through his life, starting with Esmee, the FBI trainee he’d dated soon after leaving the academy. He’d hung onto her too long, not realizing that she was the first in a long line of women who would be hot on him at the beginning, then fade when they realized he couldn’t give them the deep emotion they sought. “Is that what you want me to promise? That I’ll give it a go with Sasha?”

  But the winikin shook his head. “That’s between you two and the gods. I want you to promise that if you ever do think seriously about sacrificing yourself for the good of the Nightkeepers, or to quiet whatever it is that’s going on inside your skull, you’ll come talk to me first. Or if you can’t talk to me, you’ll talk to someone.”

  Michael’s throat went dry. “That . . . Yeah. That I can promise.” He didn’t like that the winikin saw as much as he did. But at the same time, it shifted something inside him, something that said, If only. If only he’d turned down Bryson. If only he’d taken his FBI training more seriously, made less of an ass of himself. If only he’d grown up sooner, like Tomas had wanted him to do. Damn it all.

  The winikin nodded. “Thanks. Go on, then. I’ll pull together some food for you and leave it by the path.” He paused and nodded toward the kitchen. “Unless you’ve changed your mind?”

  Sasha, Strike, and Leah were chatting animatedly while wolfing down whatever Jox had put in front of them. Carlos and Sven were going strong on the shots. Nate and Alexis, Brandt and Patience had already decamped to their suites, no doubt to take advantage of the contact high from Sasha’s sex-magic buzz. For a moment, Michael yearned. Because he did, and because the Other’s darkness stirred beneath the want, he turned away. “I’ll be outside.”

  Tomas nodded. “Your call.” But his tone said, You’re an idiot.

  When Sasha finally wound down enough that she thought she could sleep, she headed for her suite, feeling as if she were floating on feet that barely touched the floor.

  Part of her euphoria came from the barely realized amazement of finding her family, finding that she was royalty—she thought that would become a reality over the next few days, not all at once. Another part of the bubbling dizziness came from sheer exhaustion; she wasn’t just physically tired—she was mentally drained, and felt like she’d been sucked dry of both thought and energy. She was dragged down by having seen what Ambrose had become, but energized by the promise that the scroll was somewhere inside the temple. And the magic that had come from Michael’s kiss hadn’t yet faded, though it had been hours.

  Body tingling with the sensual awareness brought by sex magic, she jittered around her small apartment as the night deepened and the mansion quieted around her. She checked her herb family for their water status—all good—and straightened things in the kitchen and main room that didn’t need straightening. Her laptop failed to hold her attention, as did the paperbacks stacked beside the couch. She thought about taking a shower, but it wasn’t until she vetoed the idea because it meant going through the bedroom that she admitted to herself what the problem really was.

  She was horny. And not just a little. A lot.

  It wasn’t like she hadn’t known what was going on out in the kitchen; she’d caught the looks, and the not-too-subtle jockeying for the mated pairs to get very near her, then slip away, bright-eyed and holding hands. She’d snorted inwardly when Carlos had waylaid Sven with a bottle, and suffered a pang when she saw Jade anesthe tizing herself similarly. The pretty brunette had silently toasted Sasha with her glass, and mouthed, Go get him, across the room, giving her blessing again, though Sasha had long known the coast was clear on that account.

  No, the winikin and magi had conspired to make it easy for her and Michael to be together in the hormone burn of the aftermath. What they didn’t get, because they didn’t know, was that it wasn’t going to happen. Their exchange prior to the bloodline ceremony suggested that he wasn’t just pushing her away to be an ass. There was something going on with him, something dark and angry inside him that he didn’t want her to see. She didn’t know whether to give him the space he seemed so desperate for or talk to one of the other magi about it or what. But she knew one thing: She wasn’t signing on for anything long-term with a man who had both commitment and anger issues. She wasn’t Pim, damn it.

  But what if it’s not long-term? she asked herself, moving restlessly around the space that was quickly becoming her home. What if it’s just for tonight?

  He’d first kissed her to fuel his shield spell, and though
he’d later apologized for how far it had gone, she knew the sex had given him a hell of a power boost. What if she went to him now, and asked him to return the favor?

  On another day, under other circumstances, she never would’ve considered a booty call. But the Nightkeeper ways were different from those of the outside world, often for logical reasons. Like this one. And once the idea took root, she couldn’t shake it. Didn’t want to. She was hot and bothered, wet and wanting; strange tingles skimmed over her skin, heating her, making her ache with the need for sex. For him.

  She’d changed out of the combat clothes into flowing drawstring pants and a tight tank, with a sweatshirt over the top. Figuring that—gods willing—she’d be out of the clothes pretty damn quick, she didn’t bother switching to something else, instead jamming her feet into a pair of slip-on sneakers and heading out of her suite, her pulse already bumping, her body ready for hard, fast sex.

  As she skimmed down the hall, she knew her eyes were too bright, her cheeks flushed, and she hoped to hell she didn’t meet anyone coming or going, because they would know exactly what she was up to. Tacit permission was one thing; the walk of shame was another.

  Breath backing up in her lungs, she stopped outside Michael’s suite, which was a corner unit with hallways on two sides, one leading to the mansion, the other connecting to the winikin’s residential wing. She knocked quietly. When there was no answer, she knocked a little louder, then risked it and stuck her head through the door, took an interested glance around the slick glass-and-chrome tables and black leather furniture, and called his name. There was no answer. Michael’s suite was empty.

  “Damn it,” she muttered under her breath. “Where the hell are you?”

  “If I might make a suggestion?” a familiar voice said from around the corner leading to the winikin’s wing.

  Sasha blushed and shuffled around the corner, following the voice to its source. She found Michael’s winikin sitting just down from his door, reading a well-thumbed hardcover. “Were you waiting for me?” she asked, feeling awkward in the extreme.

  “Hoping,” he said, with a small, tired smile. “I was hoping.”

  “And your suggestion?”

  “Try the ball court. These days he goes there almost every night and fights himself into exhaustion.”

  “Oh.” She winced at the image that engendered. “Do you . . . Never mind.” She didn’t want Michael to think she’d been sneaking around behind his back, quizzing his winikin.

  But Tomas answered. “He has problems managing his temper sometimes. He was an angry kid, got worse in his teens. That was why all the fight training, not just because it’s expected of a mage child, but because it was the only way I could think to keep him in check. I thought the military would be a good choice for him. That didn’t stick, but he found his way into FBI training on his own. I thought it’d be a match. It wasn’t. And since then . . .” The winikin spread his hands. “He’s trying.”

  “He’s been much worse since I came, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. You might be just the motivation he needs to make him buckle down and fix himself. The process is not uncommon in the bloodline.”

  “So that makes it okay?”

  “Of course not. But it makes it . . .” Tomas paused, trying to find the right word. “Manageable. The Stones that have the problem eventually figure out how to control it. You met him at an awkward time, that’s all.”

  She stared at the winikin, not sure whether he totally believed that himself. “And that’s all it is, right? Nothing, um, magical?” She still wasn’t totally comfortable discussing magic as a reality. “There’s not a really nasty talent in the bloodline, right?”

  He glanced away, shaking his head. “Mostly warriors.” He paused, then met her eyes once more and said softly, “That first night, when he brought you out of Iago’s compound, he handed you off to me and made me promise not to give up on you, no matter what. So I’m asking for the same thing from you. Don’t give up on him. Please.”

  “I—” She broke off, unable to make the promise. “I don’t want to.” But at the same time, she had to protect herself.

  “I understand.” Tomas closed the book, let it rest on his thin knees for a moment. “The gods brought you to him. I just hope he’ll listen to them better than he ever listened to me.” He stood and inclined his head in a half bow. “Good night, Princess.”

  Then he turned away and headed for the winikin’s wing of the mansion, leaving Sasha to stare after him.

  When he was gone, she told herself to abort the mission. Maybe she should follow Jade’s example and drink herself to sleep. But the idea didn’t appeal nearly as much as the image of Michael somewhere outside under the full moon, fighting himself into oblivion. She considered the options for all of five seconds. Then she pushed through the sliders and headed out into the moonlit night, intent on a hunt of her own.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Outside, the moon was lower than it had been before, during the ceremony, and gone yellow with its declination. Some small part of Sasha noted that it wasn’t orange or otherwise off-color, confirming the latest reports that whatever was wrong with the sun, it wasn’t the atmosphere’s fault.

  The larger part of her, though, focused on her footing, and the growing sense of nervy panic at what she was about to do—not only the booty-call aspect of things, but the prospect of disturbing Michael at his most private.

  Still, though, she didn’t turn back. She padded across the ash shadow where the great hall had stood in Ambrose’s day. The ceiba tree that had grown from its ashes was black in the wan moonlight, its leaves limned in gray. Then she forged onward and passed into the wide space between the tall, parallel walls that formed the I-shaped ball court, where small stone rings were set high overhead as the goals of the ancient game, with its life-and-death stakes.

  She was dimly aware of passing a tray of covered food, but she focused entirely on the man at the center of the open space.

  Barefoot and naked to the waist, wearing only the loose black track pants he favored around the compound, Michael wielded a pair of curved swords as though they were extensions of his arms. He moved as one beautiful, balanced whole when he spun, leaping into the air to avoid the swipe of an invisible attacker. He landed and lashed out, then flowed away again, his movements liquid and lovely in their perfect violence.

  Sasha was hardly aware of moving, but she drew closer to him, crossing the packed earth that her ancestors had used for a game that had celebrated the daily rise and fall of the sun, the cycle of life itself. This night, though, the lone player wasn’t celebrating anything. He was trying to burn himself out.

  The moonlight gleamed off his skin; shadows edged the sharply defined muscles that slid beneath. His wide shoulders bunched and flexed, and the strong column of his spine curved elegantly as he reversed, redirected, then swept low and pinwheeled out of his phantom opponent’s reach. There was no sound but the brush of his feet on the trampled dust, and the flare of his nylon pants. The silence made the whole scene feel otherworldly, as if she were standing outside herself, looking down on the scene.

  Then he paused, holding a final triumphant form for several heartbeats before he broke the kata, set the swords aside, and turned to face her. Eyes dark in the night, he said, “You shouldn’t have come.”

  She held her ground, tipped her head in acknowledgment. “Probably not. But I collect what I’m owed. You’ve used me twice to ramp up your magic. Now I need you to help me burn mine off.”

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I owe you distance, not another go-round.”

  “I’m not sure that’s your call.” Blood hummed beneath her skin, pulsing in time with her heart, with the tension that sprang to life between them, hot and wanting.

  “Then whose call is it?”

  On impulse, riding the burn of her blood, she said, “I’ll fight you for it. Winner chooses. Sex or distance.”

>   “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Too late, she thought, but didn’t say, because what would be the point? She was coming to realize that he hadn’t intentionally hurt her; he was stuck in a loop of desire feeding into anger and back again, and not sure how to deal with either. So she jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “You haven’t eaten yet, and you’ve been out here, what, an hour already? I’m guessing the edge is off.”

  “Not even close,” he growled, eyes fixed on her with an intensity that sent shimmers of heat along her neurons to gather at her center, where they coiled, thrumming with desire.

  This was the man she wanted, the one she’d come looking for. She tipped up her chin. “I’m willing to take my chances.”

  He stared at her a moment longer as the night closed in on them, the silence broken only by a whisper of wind running along the top of the ball court walls, and a coyote’s eerie howl in the distance. Finally, moving so slowly that she was acutely aware of the change in each muscle, the exquisite control he commanded over his own body, he came to a ready position and inclined slightly in a bow. Acknowledging her challenge. Challenging her in return.

  Adrenaline and burgeoning hormones hummed in her bloodstream, along with a sparkle of nerves that warned her she was already in over her head. But she didn’t back down, didn’t wimp out. She’d come outside for him. If this was what he was willing to give her, she’d take it. Then, gods willing, she’d take more.

  Hyperconscious of her own body and the brush of cloth on skin, she skimmed out of her long-sleeved shirt, leaving her in the tight sports tank and flowing pants. She kept her sneakers on for the benefit of grip, bouncing on the balls of her feet a couple of times to test her balance and loosen muscles that threatened to go tight with excitement and need.

  He watched her in utter stillness, the only movement the dark gleam of his eyes as they tracked her with an intensity that made the touch of his gaze into a caress. But when she squared off opposite him and mimicked his earlier bow before dropping into a balanced, fight-ready stance, he didn’t make a move in her direction. Instead, he moved away, circling her slowly. She turned, keeping their eyes locked as he reversed the rotation, moving back widdershins.