Unfortunately, once they were back at Skywatch, reality had returned and they had continued growing into their roles and away from their marriage. And no matter how hard they had tried to keep it together, the connection they had shared in El Rey had slipped away and disappeared.
Until now.
Technically, the day had been a bust. As Rabbit had reported, there was no sign of the doorway.
There was also no hint of a concealment spell at the base of the main pyramid, at least not that he or Patience could detect. Jade would have the final say on that; her spell caster’s talent included the ability to sense and manipulate magic-hidden pathways. She and Lucius were off chasing down a lead on Cabrakan, but would be there the next morning to check for evidence of a concealment spell, when Strike did a ’port bounce through the Yucatán, gathering the scattered magi.
Which left Brandt and Patience alone for the night, in the place where they had begun, surrounded by air that danced across his skin and left him aching. The sizzle wasn’t one-sided either; he saw it reflected in the sidelong glances she shot him as they left the park, felt it when their bodies brushed as they walked side by side.
He knew it wasn’t fair for him to want her one moment and push her away the next. But he was having a hard time holding on to that logic now that they were in their own personal paradise, a place out of reality where they could steal a few hours of the past.
That was their mission, after all. Finding memories.
He paused outside the restaurant where he’d taken her for their first real date. “Can I buy you dinner?” It was a feeble joke; with access to a bankroll intended to fund an army, money was one of the few things the Nightkeepers didn’t need to stress about.
“Looks like it’s come up a few notches in the world.” What had been a midpriced joint offering a tourist-friendly selection of Tex-Mex and burger-and-fries staples the first two times they’d been in town now offered Mayan-themed fine dining with handwoven tablecloths and a had Zagat review in the window. She slanted him a look. “Think we’re underdressed?”
His jeans and button-down were casual, his boots practical, his weapons concealed. She, too, was subtly prepared for action in cargo pants, lace-up shoes, and a tight tank that accented the strong lines of her arms and torso, the generous curves of her breasts. Over that, she wore a clingy blue shirt against the cooler air of the rainy-season night. It clung to the contours of her body and was very soft when it brushed against him.
“Let’s find out.”
He tried not to think it was destiny that there was a cancellation in an otherwise booked night, allowing them to slip right in. He wanted to deny that it was fate when they were led to a table for two by the window, in the same spot where they had sat during their first date, and overlooking the place where he’d been standing the very first time he saw her.
“Want to start with a bottle or two of tequila?” she asked, her eyes lighting with wry amusement.
He snorted. “Getting drunk’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
They didn’t, though. Instead, they shared tamalon tutiwah—round, flat corn cakes with bean and pumpkin-seed filling poured into thirteen indentations evenly spaced around the circumference, representing the thirteen-month calendar of the Maya—followed by flavorful spiced snapper wrapped in banana leaves and baked in a clay pot. Dessert was fresh fruit swimming in lightly fermented pineapple juice, leaving them satisfied but not weighed down.
The conversation, too, stayed light, not because they were working to keep it that way, but because they just freaking clicked here.
They left the restaurant and headed toward the hotel with his arm across her shoulders, hers looped around his waist. “I wish—,” she began, but then broke off, shaking her head. “Never mind.”
“Yeah.” He tightened his arm in a half hug. “I know.” He wished too. He wished he knew why things seemed so different here than they did back at Skywatch, wished he knew what kept going wrong between them, and how to fix it. He paused, looking up at a storefront that looked familiar, yet not. “This was the bar I saw you coming out of.” Thanks to the etznab spell, the memory was fresh and new.
“Now it’s a souvenir shop.” A bell above the door tinkled as she pushed into the colorful, crammed space, tugging him along with her. “Come on. Let’s check it out.”
It was a night for bringing things full circle, after all.
They wandered through the shop, took turns trying on a blinged-out, green velveteen sombrero, and picked out a couple of hot sauces to add to Jox and Sasha’s collection.
As they headed to the counter, Patience paused at a display of brightly colored textiles, her face lighting as she touched a vivid purple scarf. “You go ahead. I’m going to look for—” She broke off, animation draining. “Never mind.”
Purple was Hannah’s favorite color, Brandt remembered with a dull twinge of regret, the kind he didn’t usually let himself feel. “You could get it anyway,” he said. “Save it for the day after.” That was what they used to call it, back when they still talked about being reunited with their sons and winikin on the day after the zero date.
Two years and four days. The number was never completely out of his mind, even when it was buried deep.
She turned away from the display. “If I went with that theory, the suite would already be crammed.”
“Yeah. Between birthdays and the wayeb festivals, it’s tempting to go a little crazy and fill the gap with stuff.” He didn’t bother pointing out that anything they bought now would be outgrown long before they saw the boys again. No need to twist that knife. He gestured with the hot sauces. “I’ll go pay out. Think about the scarf. She’ll always love purple.”
But as he moved past her, she gripped his biceps, digging in. “Wait.”
He paused. “Problem?”
“I didn’t know you thought about them like that.” Her expression hovered between wariness and confusion.
Although something deep down inside told him it was a bad idea, that given the uncertainty of the Triad magic, they should keep the status quo between them, he met her eyes and said, “There’s a midgrade book about coral reefs on the shelf near the door, packaged with a snorkel, mask, and fins.
That would be for Harry, because he’d love the book so much that he’d want to get out in the water and see all the critters for real. I’d get Braden one of the make-your-own Mayan drum kits in the back.
We could sneak in some history while putting it together, and he’d be into the potential for making noise.” He paused, throat thickening. “I miss them too.”
A single tear tracked down her cheek. “You never say anything.”
“Talking about it didn’t seem to help either of us. If anything, it made things worse.”
To his surprise, she nodded, accepting that. Or if not accepting it, then accepting that was the way he’d seen it. With a small, defiant chin tilt, she took the purple scarf off the display and headed for the checkout desk.
She didn’t say anything when he added the snorkeling gear and the drum kit to the pile on the counter.
In fact, neither of them said anything, really, as they left the store with their purchases and headed for the hotel. But he was entirely aware of her, of the way her body moved with a fighter’s economy of motion, but was still utterly feminine. The neon-lit darkness cast her face in light and shadow, making her look fierce and capable. Like a fitting mate to an eagle warrior. Like the woman he fell in love with, but had somehow lost along the way.
She glanced at him. “You’re staring.”
He should let it go. But he didn’t. “I wish I knew why we get along so much better here.”
Stopping, she turned to face him. “You know why. We both do. And we don’t have to talk about it.
Truly.”
She was offering him an out. They could check into the hotel, go upstairs, and they would probably make love, because the two of them made sense together in El Rey.
But he didn’t want the out. Not tonight. “Things went to hell after I got my warrior’s talent.”
According to Woody, his eagle ancestors had been tough, loyal, and almost always brilliantly successful at their jobs, as long as they stuck within their skill sets of math and engineering. They had also been workaholics, and had the highest rate of broken matings among the magi, largely because their talents so often took over their lives.
“You’re not the only warrior in the family.”
“Your bloodline is different. It didn’t affect you the same way.”
It was the simplest answer. And although it wasn’t comfortable—none of this was—it made sense within the magic, and gave him reason to hope, deep down inside, that he’d be able to put his life back together once the war was over.
But Patience shook her head. “Unfortunately, there’s another explanation.” She paused. “Why else would we have been crazy about each other from the night we met, right up until our talent ceremonies?”
Brandt frowned, not seeing it . . . until he did.
Oh, holy crap. The bloodline marks they had both gotten on that first—and forgotten—night had formed their initial link with the barrier. Their talent ceremonies had formed the second link, bringing them into their full powers. And in between those two events . . .
“Bullshit.” He didn’t want to think their marriage had been nothing more than an extended case of pre-talent hornies.
“Is it? The timing fits.” Her expression was closed and sad. Resigned.
As part of their transition from childhood to full-fledged magehood, Nightkeeper youngsters experienced wild hormonal fluctuations in the weeks leading up to their talent ceremonies. Most of the current magi had gotten their bloodline marks as adults, followed two weeks later by their talent marks. During those two weeks, they had paired off in some serious sexual marathons, trying to burn off the horns.
All except for him and Patience, who had gotten a contact high off the others, but hadn’t really experienced the same sexual urges. Maybe because they’d been living with those urges for the the past four years and mistaking them for love?
No. Impossible. Closing the small distance between them, he took her hand in his, feeling the kick of warmth, the soft strength of her, and the faintest of tremors that told him she felt the heat too, despite all their problems.
Her eyes met his, darkening as he unbuttoned her cuff and pushed back her sleeve, trailing his fingers up the smooth skin of her inner wrist to touch the stark black jun tan glyph.
“This didn’t come from hormones, damn it.” His voice was low, rough. “It means that we’re gods-
destined mates. It wasn’t a coincidence that we met on that beach, and it sure as shit wasn’t by accident that we found our way into that cave. The gods chose us for a reason; they put us together for a reason.”
“Maybe this is it.” Eyes shadowed, expression unreadable, she linked their fingers, stepped away, and tugged him in the direction of “their” hotel, where Jox had reserved them a room. “Come on.
We’ve got a job to do.”
The hotel was way tackier than Brandt remembered. Way, way tackier.
The formerly understated mission style had been replaced with brightly patterned serapes, velveteen sombreros, and lacquered castanets tacked to the walls, along with drink advertisements and prominent signs pointing to the cantina, and some decent prints that leaned heavily on festival and mariachi themes.
It wasn’t until they got up to the desk and he saw a stand-up display of brochures that he realized the prints had something else in common: They all had brides and grooms in them. The place had been turned into a wedding factory.
“‘Mariachi wedding packages,’” Patience read, sliding him a look. “Seriously?”
Her expression invited him to lighten things back up. More, it practically begged him to. I’m trying to be strong, her look said. Help me out.
His chest tightened at the sight, and at the realization that for all the times he had wished she could be more like an eagle and focus on her duties, the change saddened him, and made him very aware of the souvenirs he was carrying.
But she’d had a point—they had a job to do. So he played along.
He flicked one of the brochures. “The economy’s in the crapper. If the shtick works, more power to them.” Still, it was disconcerting that their hotel had gone from three-star anonymity to a chapel-
slash-reception-hall that offered four different themes that he read off the brochure. “Sexy Spanish, Enduring Elvis, Beach Bash, and Mayan Adventure. Guess they couldn’t come up with anything alliterative to go with ‘Mayan.’”
“Mayhem?”
“Works for me. Not sure if that was quite what they were going for, though.”
Her relieved grin not only thanked him for following her lead; it quashed his fleeting urge to bag it and head for more romantically neutral territory. So when the couple in front of them moved aside, he exchanged plastic for a couple of key cards.
In the elevator, the Muzak was mariachi, the posters pimped the cantina, and the wall-to-wall was a muted tan with a pair of red footprints smack in the center in a faux-Mayan pattern. Brandt avoided standing on the prints, as did Patience. To the Maya, those woven footprints had symbolized leadership. When the king had stood on the footprints, it meant “Listen up. I’m about to say something important.” That the symbol had been transferred to an elevator seemed—
“Tacky,” commented Patience, finishing his thought as the doors opened on their floor and they headed for the end of the hall.
“No kidding. I’m almost afraid to see what the room looks like.” He stuck one of the key cards into its slot, and pushed open the door. “What do you think? Are we going to get a heart-shaped bed, a full champagne-and-strawberries spread, or maybe—?”
He flipped on the lights and broke off when their reflections blazed back at him. Swallowing hard at the noncoincidence of it all, he finished, “Or maybe mirrors.”
There were mirrors on three walls, windows on the fourth. The dressers were glossy black with mirrored edging, glass tops, and reflective knobs. Even the headboard was mirrored, though with beveling—to make a stab, he supposed, at taste. Neutral-colored drapes hung at the corners of the room, looped back with tasseled gold braid.
From the looks of the curtain rods, the drapes could be pulled across the walls, dampening the effect of the mirrors, which was pretty damned startling when his and Patience’s images were reflected back at them from what seemed like a hundred different surfaces.
As Brandt stared into his own eyes, the faint background hum of magic—the one that sounded different to him there than anywhere else in the Mayan territories—quivered slightly and increased in volume.
“Let me guess—they got the ceiling too,” she said from half a step behind him, her voice betraying a faint tremor, though he wasn’t sure if that came from nerves or half-hysterical laughter. Or both.
Overhead, mirrored ceiling tiles gave way to a huge mirror hung over the king-sized bed.
Swallowing at the thought of what the mirrors were meant to show, he nodded. “You know, we should probably be laughing about this. It is way tacky.”
But it wasn’t laughter that heated his blood as he turned to face Patience, and it wasn’t amusement that lit her eyes.
It was heat. Desire. Magic. And a certain sense of inevitability.
There was power in the air, in their reflections. And when she lifted her hands to frame his face, there was magic in her touch, and in the brush of her breasts against his chest when he gripped the curves of her hips to draw her closer still. Their bodies fit together perfectly, bringing an ache of memory. Yes, said something deep inside him as his blood fired and his body hardened. Oh, hell, yes.
Their images were reflected at dozens of different sizes and angles. She was light to his dark, lean to his bulk, but as he angled down and she rose up to meet him, their reflections merged and blended, be
coming one intertwined blur of light and dark as they kissed.
The first touch of their lips drew him tight and sent flames rocketing through his body. The second kiss, coming with a gentle slide of tongue, eased some of the hollowness within him even as a new, far more demanding urge built. His fingers dug into her hips, latching her body to his as he went in for kiss number three, taking it blatantly carnal with a thrust of tongue and a slow grind that said: Here.
Now. Mine.
After that, he couldn’t count, couldn’t think. He could only feel and react, and take what she offered him, then demand more. He kissed her throat as she caught his earlobe in her teeth and sent heat hammering through him. His hands raced over her clothing, then under to find soft skin.
She hissed and tugged at his shirt, and then they were wrestling out of their clothes on their way to the bed, while his head spun with lust and the relief of finally being where he was supposed to be, there and then, with her.
Naked, he pressed her up against the bedpost, which ran all the way to the ceiling and was bolted firmly in place. Not letting himself think too hard about what acrobatics might have prompted that engineering decision, he cupped her breasts up against his face as he pressed butterfly kisses between them.
The past and present collided and then meshed, becoming a singular “now” composed of sensations and moves that were familiar yet not.
He knew the taste of her skin and the way she arched against him as he spiraled soft, licking kisses inward along one breast, knew the fascinating transition of textures where velvet skin went exquisitely smooth at the edge of her areola, then became crinkled as he worked ever inward. He knew her gasps of pleasure, the rhythm of her hands as they slid to his shoulders and trailed across the ticklish spots along his rib cage. And he knew the aching pleasure-pain of being hard and full to the point of bursting, throbbing and dying to pound himself into her, yet holding back, knowing it would please them both more to wait and take it slow. Even if it killed him.
But then she fisted her hands in his hair and tugged, raising his head from her breast, and he didn’t recognize the gleam in her eyes. It called to the hard, hot thud of “want to hit that now” resonating through his system, tempting him to put her up against the nearest wall, mirrors be damned.
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