Nightkeepers

by Jessica Andersen

  He came down on her with a muttered oath, and then his hands were everywhere—touching and stroking and shaping her. She arched into him, gasping as pleasure flared, hard and hot. The intensity of his touch and her response would’ve been too much, too soon if it hadn’t been for the edge of tenderness in the way his tongue touched hers when she opened her mouth, strong and sure, but coaxing a response rather than demanding it.

  There was no need for either a coax or a demand, though. She was right there with him. Hell, she was powering past him, ahead of him, waiting for him to catch up.

  Then again, this was her dream. Why shouldn’t she be in charge?

  As the kiss spiraled hotter, harder, she plastered herself against him, feeling his strength through his clothing, the nap of the fabric an exquisite torture against her bare, sensitized skin. He stiffened and hissed out a breath as she hooked his shirt from his waistband and slid her hands beneath, walking her fingernails across the hard ridges of his abs and lingering on the trail of rough, masculine hair leading down. But when she made a move for his belt he caught her wrists in one of his hands and broke the kiss to say, ‘‘Relax. This is about you, not me.’’

  Of course it is, she thought. It’s my dream.

  Bathed in the warmth of desire, she lay back at his urging and spread her legs, offering herself to the night sky and feeling the weight of his eyes, the pressure of a thousand stars burning down from above.

  Heat roared within her when they kissed. Need hammered when he touched her breasts, which were heavy and ached with desire. The world spun when he touched her with his clever fingers, his agile tongue; then she felt the rasp of his beard against the skin of her belly, and lower. Then he was tonguing her, nipping at her sensitized flesh and making her squirm, making the heat spiral harder, making the world contract inward until there was nothing but the two of them and the dream haze.

  She turned toward him, lifting and bending one leg to tilt herself more fully open to him, and her breath came in short, staccato bursts as tension coiled within, tighter and tighter still until she couldn’t breathe. She buried her fingers in his hair and urged him up her body, so they were pressed chest-to-chest, tangled in each other, wrapped around each other. She tasted herself on his lips, tasted him, his need and frustrated desire, and though he’d said it was about her she wanted it to be about the two of them. Together.

  When she opened her eyes to say as much, she found his eyes open as well, found herself caught in their depths. Then he touched her where his mouth had just been, slipped two fingers inside her, and set a hard, fast rhythm that mimicked the beat of her heart, and matched the stroke of his tongue against hers.

  Gasping, she strained against him as a rush of sensation built, coalescing around his fingers, around them both. Then the universe exploded. Golden light flared in her mind, in her body, warming her, pleasuring her. She cried out and clung to him as the orgasm gripped her, rolled over her, washed through her.

  When it was done, the world spun around her and she clung to him still, his solid body her only anchor in an existence suddenly gone unsteady. She stirred against him, opened her eyes to look at him and found them still in her attic, still in each other’s arms.

  Suddenly, the fantasy seemed awfully real. The dreams had never taken her this far before, never continued through completion to the aftermath. They’d never left her feeling both satisfied and terribly alone.

  ‘‘This is real, isn’t it?’’ she whispered, not sure whether the huge emotion that welled up inside her was hope or fear.

  His cobalt eyes went sharp with regret, and he shook his head slightly. ‘‘No. It’s a dream. It’s all a dream.’’

  He touched his lips to her forehead and said something, two words in a language she didn’t know, but which sounded familiar somehow. But before she could ask how she knew the sounds, gray-green mist crept to the edges of her vision, cocooning her in warm lassitude.

  She fought the pull, fought a sudden, overwhelming sleepiness. ‘‘Wait! What—’’

  ‘‘Sleep,’’ he said softly. ‘‘This is all just a dream.’’

  He cut off her protest with a kiss. And as she slid into the kiss, she tumbled off the edge to sleep, taking with her the power of his touch and the safety of his arms.

  Strike was hard and sore, and his body burned for release, for completion, but he denied both and turned Leah in his arms, fitting her up against him so they were nestled together back-to-front. Then he pulled the light sheet off the floor to cover them both.

  The sleep spell wasn’t as comprehensive as Red-Boar’s mind-wipe, but she’d already thought she was dreaming. She’d wake and think of him as a pleasant fantasy, which would have to be enough.

  He knew he should feel guilty, and maybe that would come later. For now, there was only the satisfaction of holding her in his arms. She fit against him perfectly, small enough that he could tuck her head beneath his chin, tough enough that she could hold her own against him, against the makol.

  Deep down inside him there was a faint warning tug, a twitch of unease that his connection to her was too strong to be anything but meant by the fates, by the gods.

  ‘‘No,’’ he said aloud. He wanted—needed—to claim something for himself. A moment of private humanity. His feelings for Leah, which he was careful not to examine too closely, weren’t part of his being a Nightkeeper or the son of the king. Maybe they had been at first, but not anymore. Now, the attraction was about his being a man and her being a woman.

  Jox was right—he’d always had a thing for edgy blondes. More, he respected the loyalty to family and friends that had driven her after Zipacna. Her need to fight for what she believed in. She was a cop, a protector in her own right, one who didn’t let herself get pushed around even in situations far beyond her understanding. Yet at the same time, she was all woman in her responses, in her unabashed enjoyment of her own body, and his.

  If he’d been nothing more than a man, or if it were five years later, with the zero date come and gone without drama, he would’ve done whatever it took to make her his own. As it was, that was out of the question, a danger to both of them. So he’d take this one time— and he swore to himself that it would only be once— and let her go, hoping she’d dream of him.

  He’d keep the protection spell in place and make sure the ajaw-makol didn’t try to touch her again. He’d watch over her, just as he was bound to oversee the safety of the human race. But that was it for the two of them together. Hell, he shouldn’t have even come into her house tonight, but once he’d realized where he was, he hadn’t been able to override the compulsion. Hadn’t wanted to.

  Tomorrow, he would meet the new Nightkeepers. Tonight, he’d wanted one last thing for himself. But when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket, twice over five minutes, he knew his time was up. Undoubtedly it was Jox wanting to know where the hell he was, and when he’d be back. And though Strike was feeling vaguely out of step with his winikin these days, it wasn’t fair for him to disappear. There had been too much of that already.

  So he gathered himself and slipped out from underneath the sheet, tucking the single layer around Leah as she stirred and murmured something sweet and low. A faint frown touched her lips and crinkled her brow, forming soft lines in the moonlight.

  ‘‘Sleep,’’ he said in the language of his ancestors, and touched his lips to hers. ‘‘Be safe.’’

  Then he closed his eyes and tapped the barrier for power, envisioned the training compound, and teleported away.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Strike woke late the next morning, groggy and disoriented, and dreading the day ahead. He used the small bathroom at the back of the pool house, pulled on a pair of cutoffs, and stumbled outside. Squinting against the too-bright summer sun, he headed across the pool deck and through the sliders into the mansion, making a beeline for the kitchen, and coffee. He stepped through the doorway to the great room that formed the center of the first floor—

  And sto
pped dead as five pairs of eyes snapped to him and five strangers stopped talking.

  Oh, shit, he thought. They’re here.

  It was stupid for him to be surprised. He’d known the new Nightkeepers had begun arriving the night before, had even seen some of the luggage when he’d zapped in, chowed a snack, and gone to bed. But somehow he’d thought he’d have a chance to confab with Jox and Red-Boar before meeting the newbies.

  Apparently not.

  The five gorgeous twenty-somethings were sitting in the sunken middle of the main room. The long leather couch held two women, a streaky blonde who was six feet tall if she was an inch and a smaller brunette with green eyes, both wearing business casual. Next to them sat a big sprawl of a blond guy wearing swim trunks and a shirt advertising a bait store. Two other guys sat in the flanking chairs, both dark haired and intense-looking. One of them was clean-shaven, short haired, and all business in a navy suit and tie he wore with the ease of familiarity. The other sported a careful layer of stubble on his jaw and long wavy hair, along with a trendy, open-throated shirt that had a pair of shades looped over the first button.

  Strike’s precoffee brain did the first-impression thing, summing them up as the Valkyrie and the Ingenue, the Surfer Dude, the Business Guy, and the Playboy.

  They were also complete and utter strangers. He didn’t know why that surprised him, but it did. Maybe deep down inside, he’d figured he’d recognize them because he’d known their parents when he was a kid.

  Jox came out of the kitchen on the opposite side. Skirting the upper level of the room, he joined Strike and handed over a mug of coffee, whispering, ‘‘If you weren’t going to dress for the occasion, you could’ve at least brushed your hair.’’

  ‘‘Shit.’’ Strike looked down at himself, bare chested in a pair of cutoffs and nothing else, and stifled a curse. No need to question where he scored on the first-impression scale: somewhere between Scuzzy Bedhead Guy and Please Don’t Tell Me That’s Him.

  ‘‘You’ll do fine.’’ Jox clapped him on the shoulder and turned to leave.

  ‘‘Hey!’’

  The winikin paused. ‘‘What, you want a fanfare or something?’’

  Yeah, actually. Well, maybe not trumpets, but he’d sort of imagined that when it came time to meet the newcomers, Jox would at least introduce him, maybe play up his father or something. But that was the point, wasn’t it? He wasn’t his father, and this wasn’t his father’s time anymore. So much had changed, they were going to have to rewrite some of the rules and protocols as they went. Starting now.

  So Strike didn’t ask for a fanfare, instead saying, ‘‘Where are the others?’’

  Jox jerked a thumb over his shoulder, in the direction he’d been headed. ‘‘Their winikin are in the kitchen getting reacquainted. I figured we should stagger the intros so your head doesn’t blow up.’’ He paused. ‘‘Besides, Carlos’s daughter is pretty shell-shocked.’’

  ‘‘She can join the club.’’

  ‘‘No.’’ Jox shook his head. ‘‘It’s more than that. Carlos didn’t give her the option . . .’’ He trailed off, shook his head. ‘‘Not your problem. I’ll handle it.’’

  Strike glanced over his shoulder to where the five newbies had returned to their conversations, but were keeping a collective eye on him. ‘‘Who are we missing? I know Mendez is in jail, and obviously Blackhawk hasn’t seen fit to show yet.’’ And he was going to have to figure out a way to make sure that happened. ‘‘But that still leaves us one short.’’

  ‘‘Working on it.’’

  ‘‘Another holdout?’’ Strike said, hoping that was all it was.

  ‘‘She said she was coming, then didn’t show. Her winikin , Hannah, has gone to pick her up.’’ Jox paused. ‘‘I sent Red-Boar along in case there’s trouble.’’

  Something in his tone warned Strike not to ask. Hannah was the name Jox had breathed over the phone with such reverence the night before, yet there was none of that in his tone or expression now. There were only fatigue, frustration, and worry.

  Or maybe I’m the one who’s tired and frustrated, Strike thought. For a brief, crazy second he pictured himself zapping back to Miami—do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. He could get a job and accidentally-on -purpose bump into Leah. They could get to know each other like normal human beings and see if what had started between them was real.

  What if it is? said his conscience. So what? Maybe you get married. Maybe you have kids and the picket fence. You won’t make it past your fourth anniversary. Boom. Gone. Game over.

  Damn it.

  So he sighed, shoved aside the lovely fantasy of walking away from it all, and held up a hold on finger to the newcomers. ‘‘Give me five minutes and we’ll try this again.’’

  Four minutes later, fortified by caffeine and wearing jeans, a concert T, and rope sandals—on the theory that he shouldn’t sell a bill of goods he couldn’t deliver—he strode back into the great room and sat on the back of a chair with his feet on the seat cushion, so he was higher up than the rest of them. Then he said, ‘‘Okay, take two. As you probably guessed already, I’m Striking-Jaguar. Call me Strike.’’

  They did introductions first. The streaky blond Valkyrie, Alexis Gray of the smoke bloodline, looked him in the eye and had a man-strong handshake. The brunette Ingenue, Jade Farmer of the harvester bloodline, spoke so softly he could barely hear her. Surfer Dude was Coyote-Seven, who went by Sven and didn’t look like he was taking much of anything seriously. Business Guy was Brandt White-Eagle, who looked like he wanted to be somewhere else, and Playboy was Michael Stone, whose easy smile and surface charm did little to change Strike’s first impression of a player.

  Once they’d done the intro thing, Strike tried to think of something grand and wonderful to say. In the end, though, he was neither grand nor wonderful. He was just a basic sort of guy. So he went with the basics. ‘‘I’m assuming your winikin have explained the situation?’’

  All five of them nodded. Strike would’ve bet a hundred bucks that none of them had the slightest clue what they were about to buy into, but it wasn’t like he could pull a Monty Python and start shouting, ‘‘Run away, run away!’’ And if he couldn’t bail, then they shouldn’t get the option, either. They were all in this together, bound by a bloodline responsibility none of them had asked for.

  So instead of offering them the illusion of an out, he held out his right arm and flipped his hand palm up. ‘‘I know you’ve seen marks like these on the people who raised you. You’re going to get your first ones exactly seven days from now, on the Fourth of July.’’

  ‘‘What happens then?’’ This from Surfer Dude. Sven.

  ‘‘The aphelion,’’ Strike answered. ‘‘It’s one of the minor astral events when the barrier increases its activity. We’re going to hold the connection ritual, which will bind you to the barrier and give you your bloodline marks, along with your first link to the power.’’ He paused. ‘‘That doesn’t mean you’ll be able to do major magic—that’ll come after the talent ceremony, which won’t be until mid-September.’’

  There was a moment of silence, and he could almost feel the newcomers trying to figure out which question to ask first.

  Finally, Alexis said, ‘‘What happens in between?’’

  ‘‘You’ll be studying spell theory, working out, training, preparing to fight.’’ Pausing, he scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck, remembering the horns that’d ridden him in the days leading up to the solstice, when the barrier had reactivated. ‘‘There’s also a good chance that you’ll experience some, um, sexual side effects.’’

  Sven crossed his legs. ‘‘You mean we’re going to go Bob Dole?’’

  Bob—oh, Viagra. Strike shook his head. ‘‘Exactly the opposite. You’ll most likely spend those two months horny as hell.’’

  Sven grinned wide and shrugged. ‘‘I can handle that. Get it? Handle?’’

  ‘‘What are you, eighteen?’’ Alexis shot
over at him, her eyebrows arched in disgust.

  Which made Strike wonder where their resident juvenile delinquent had gone. If Red-Boar was off tracking down their straggler, that left him and Jox on Rabbit duty.

  ‘‘No, I’m honest.’’ Sven jerked his thumb at the other guys. ‘‘And if these two are being honest, they’ll back me up."

  Michael shot him a keep dreaming look, but White-Eagle ignored them both. He leaned forward, bracing his shirtsleeved forearms on his knees. ‘‘Is there any other way to get the bloodline mark besides this connection ceremony?’’

  Strike shook his head. ‘‘Not as far as I know.’’ But that made him think about the marks on Snake Mendez’s arms, which meant there was probably at least one other way to connect.

  ‘‘What about before the massacre, when the barrier was still active?’’

  Strike sent White-Eagle a sharp look. ‘‘Maybe. I was nine when it went down. You’ll have to ask Jox, or Red-Boar when he gets back. Why?’’

  White-Eagle lifted a shoulder. ‘‘Just trying to figure all this out.’’ He shifted in his chair, glancing over his shoulder. ‘‘You mind if I hit the bathroom? Too much coffee.’’

  ‘‘Go.’’ Strike waved him off. ‘‘We’re not going to do hall passes or anything.’’ But as the big man moved off, walking with the same smooth glide Strike remembered from his childhood, when he’d watched the Nightkeeper warriors train under his father’s guidance, he wondered whether hall passes might not be a good idea, after all.

  He had a feeling White-Eagle’s disappearing act had nothing to do with coffee.

  The minute Brandt hit the john, he closed and locked the door, and whipped out his cell phone. Hitting the number labeled HOME SWEET HOME, he murmured, ‘‘Come on, Patience, come on. Pick up!’’

  Finally, she did. ‘‘Hey, baby. I was just thinking about you. How’s Chicago?’’

  ‘‘I lied,’’ Brandt said succinctly. ‘‘I’m not in Chicago. I’m in New Mexico, near Chaco Canyon. Which I’m guessing is where you’re supposed to be.’’