‘‘Mine’s bigger.’’
That got a snort. ‘‘Don’t forget who used to change your Pampers, boyo.’’
‘‘True, but I’ve heard stuff shrinks once you’re on the downhill side of middle age.’’
‘‘Bite me.’’
They grinned at each other, and Sven felt a loosening of something inside him he hadn’t even known was tight. He exhaled. ‘‘I missed you, Pops.’’ He paused, realizing that although they’d been in the same house for a couple of weeks now, they hadn’t really talked. Partly because he’d been sorta freaked by the whole winikin-Nightkeeper revelation—okay, really freaked, but fascinated in a by the way, you’re a superhero sort of way—and partly because the timing hadn’t been right. Now, in the wake of a ceremony that’d left him feeling a step closer to the parents he’d never known, he was ready to deal with the parent he had known, and hadn’t always done right by. ‘‘I’m sorry I didn’t come home for the funeral.’’
Carlos shook his head. ‘‘Australia was too far to fly to for just a few days. I understood. Sometimes the needs of the living outweigh those of the dead.’’
The last part sounded like a quote, underscoring that the winikin had a whole other life and culture aside from managing a ranch and raising two kids who couldn’t have been more different if they’d tried.
Sven shoved his hands in the pockets of his hip-hanger shorts. ‘‘Still, I should’ve been there.’’ He didn’t say that he’d had the offer of a spare seat on an investor’s charter plane but hadn’t taken it because things had been too damn complicated back then. Still were.
His eyes must’ve wandered to the door to Cara’s room, because Carlos shook his head. ‘‘She’s asleep.’’
The lights were up in the suite and the TV was on, though, and Cara was a light sleeper of epic proportions.
Sven nodded, accepting the lie. ‘‘Okay. No problem. I just . . .’’ wanted to see her, wanted us to maybe go for a walk like we used to. He’d wanted to inject a bit of normalcy into the craziness, to get her take on things that were moving too far, too fast for his hang-loose brain to keep up with.
‘‘I know.’’ Carlos nodded as though Sven had said all that aloud. ‘‘But things are different now.’’ He paused. ‘‘She’s not your sister anymore, kid. She’s your servant. If you want me to wake her, I will.’’
She’s not my servant any more than she’s my sister, Sven wanted to argue, but didn’t, because there were some things better left alone. So he shook his head. ‘‘No, let her sleep. Besides, this should probably come from you anyway. I think . . .’’ He paused, weighing his loyalties. ‘‘I think you should tell her to leave.’’
The older man’s eyes widened fractionally. ‘‘Why?’’
Sven shifted, faking a shrug. ‘‘She’s a semester away from her degree. Seems silly to keep her here when I barely even see her as it is.’’
‘‘And?’’ Carlos said with no shift in his expression.
She doesn’t want to be here, Sven wanted to say. Can’t you see that? But he didn’t say it, because he could also see how much it meant to Carlos to have sired the only second-generation winikin in the group, how much he was enjoying having Cara around. So instead he said, ‘‘What we’re going to be doing here is dangerous.’’ He looked at the coyote mark again, because the binding ceremony had made the whole end-of-the-world-as-we-know -it thing seem a whole lot more real than it had when they’d just been sitting around talking about it. ‘‘I don’t want her to get hurt.’’
‘‘Neither do I, but I don’t think that’s what this is really about.’’ Carlos waited, but Sven didn’t say anything else, couldn’t explain it to the man who’d raised him when he could barely understand it himself. After a long moment, the winikin sighed. ‘‘Do you command this?’’
Sven nodded, feeling like a total poser. ‘‘I do. She’s my winikin.’’
‘‘And for that I’m sorry.’’ Carlos shook his head. ‘‘I should be the one serving you.’’
‘‘Nobody’s serving anybody here. We’re all in this together—I’m just trying to figure out how to minimize the danger.’’
‘‘It’s not a Nightkeeper’s job to protect his winikin.’’ Carlos paused. ‘‘But I’ll do as you ask. She’ll be gone before the end of the week; I’ll take care of it. You just concentrate on learning how to control your powers . . . and yourself.’’
Which answered one question, Sven acknowledged with a dull thud of pain. Carlos definitely knew about what’d happened between him and Cara, knew why he’d taken off and why he hadn’t been back since. He’d always figured Carlos didn’t know, for the simple reason that their relationship had stayed close despite the physical distance. Now, he realized it’d been more a case of the winikin’s imperative to keep tabs on his charge outweighing the other stuff.
The thought was humbling. And damned awkward.
That wasn’t how it was, he wanted to say. I can control myself. But that begged the question of why he’d come knocking on her door too late at night, with his blood humming and his senses on high alert.
So instead, he said, ‘‘Thanks. I owe you one.’’
Carlos nodded, but he didn’t speak, and he hadn’t moved from the doorway, hadn’t invited Sven inside.
That rejection, that split in their onetime family unit, had Sven backing away and searching for a grin as he waved, making sure his mark showed. ‘‘Mine’s still bigger.’’
The older man’s smile didn’t touch his eyes. ‘‘Size doesn’t matter until you know how to use it, kid.’’
After chowing down enough leftover mac ’n’ cheese to feed a boatload of Vikings, and washing it down with a bottle of lemon Perrier, Nate tried to go to back to bed and sleep off the rest of the postmagic hangover. And failed miserably.
Score: Boner 1, Blackhawk 0.
After an hour he finally gave up and headed for the gym on the lower level of the main house, figuring that if he racked enough iron, he should be able to exhaust his dick into submission.
The gym stretched along the short side of the mansion. It was below ground level, so there were no windows, but when he hit the light switch just inside the double door, the fluorescents were bright enough to sear his eyeballs. Like most of the compound, the room wore a fresh coat of stark white paint, new flooring, and had zero in the way of character. But that was okay with him; he was looking to sweat, not have a spa experience, and there were enough top-end machines to promise he’d get a good stink on, along with an equally high-end sound system to crank some tunes.
Hoping the room was soundproofed—or far enough away from the sleeping quarters for it not to matter— he tuned the satellite radio to something heavy on the bass and dance rhythms, gave a couple of halfhearted stretches, and headed straight for the free weights, figuring he’d go old school for the evening’s antistiffy program.
Ever since that hey, here you go, have an instatattoo ceremony, he’d been a walking hard-on. He felt like a teenager, or like he belonged in one of those Cialis commercials where the voice-over guy warns about the dangers of priapism. If your erection lasts for more than four hours, seek medical help. Or a woman. Whichever comes first.
And that was the problem. There was a woman . . . and yet there wasn’t.
Alexis wasn’t Hera—he knew that. Hera was straight out of his imagination, an amalgam of tits and ass that made her a gamer’s wet dream, along with the sharp, strategic intelligence required by any self-respecting warrior-goddess.
However, Alexis was the spitting image of Hera, and that just freaked his shit right out, because between the lectures and the binding ceremony, he was having trouble believing it was just one of those things. The Nightkeepers didn’t seem to go in for coincidence.
Which meant what? That she was his match? His mate?
As he started lifting, he tried to figure out why the thought made him want a one-way ticket to hell and gone. Maybe it was meeting her when everything he thought he
knew about himself—and about reality—was taking a serious beating; maybe it was his inner rebel hating the whole your-life-is-ruled-by-destiny thing. Who knew?
He thought about it as he lifted; thought about her. Sweat started beading on his body despite the central AC, and his muscles had a good burn going after a half hour or so, but a dick check revealed he was still sporting serious wood. If anything, it’d gotten worse rather than better, tenting the front of his gym shorts as he lay back on the weight bench.
Current score: Boner 2, Blackhawk 0.
Glaring at it, he warned, ‘‘All right, that’s it. Two more sets and I’m bringing out the duct tape.’’
‘‘Excuse me?’’
For half a sweaty second, he thought the damn thing was talking back—and wouldn’t that be a trip?—and was doing so in Alexis’s voice. Then what was left of his brain fired up, and he shot a startled glance at the doorway and saw her standing there, watching him talk to his johnson.
Losing his count and his concentration, he forgot to lock his elbows and his arms folded under the weights. The barbell whumped onto his upper chest, just below his throat.
‘‘Shit!’’ he said, only it came out as a gurgle as he fought to dead-lift the thing from zero leverage.
‘‘Oh!’’ Alexis sprinted across the room and helped him wrestle the bar off his Adam’s apple and onto the overhead stand. ‘‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you okay?’’
‘‘Fine,’’ he said shortly, sitting up so fast his head swam. He snagged his shirt so he could pretend to scrub the sweat off his face and chest, and then casually dumped the T-shirt in his lap.
Current score: Boner 3, Blackhawk 0.
From the flush that rode high on her slashing cheekbones and the way she was careful to look him in the eye rather than lower down, he had a feeling she knew exactly what was going on. Either that, or she was dealing with some horns of her own. He should be so lucky.
Then again, maybe he was that lucky, he thought when he saw that she’d changed into formfitting workout pants and a soft shirt that hung off one shoulder to play peekaboo with a bra strap, but wasn’t wearing sneakers or carrying a towel.
Despite not really being on board with the predestiny thing, he figured he’d be an idiot not to engage in some scratch-the-itch for the next two months if she made the offer.
‘‘You looking for me?’’ he asked after a moment. Please say yes.
‘‘Yeah.’’ She cleared her throat. ‘‘Um, well, you see . . .’’ The flush rode higher on her cheeks, creating two spots of color. ‘‘I thought we could . . . Oh, screw it.’’ She held out her hand to him. ‘‘Come on.’’
Nate might not’ve been raised by his winikin, but he was no dummy. He didn’t argue. He simply put his hand in hers and let her lead the way.
Score.
Rabbit observed the mansion from the perch he’d found high up in the ceiba tree, where he could watch without being watched in return. He saw most of the newbies pairing up and disappearing into darkened rooms, saw Woody hand Jox his hat. More interesting was the scene between Strike and the blonde out by the pool. He hadn’t been able to hear what they were saying, but the end result was obvious: Strike struck out, and the blonde headed back to her room alone.
Rabbit watched her go.
So that was the girlfriend, huh? She was pretty enough, he supposed. Okay, she was damn near a knockout, with long blond hair, slim hips, and legs that kept on giving inside a pair of loose jeans that hung practically off her ass.
Rabbit had heard the old man and Strike arguing about her earlier, had heard the old man muttering long after—he’d caught a few words, like ‘‘blasphemy’’ and ‘‘rewriting history’’ . . . which had entertained Rabbit to no end, and took his mind off what’d happened at the ceremony.
Or rather, what hadn’t happened.
The old man had tried to tell him it was for the best that he hadn’t gotten his mark, but of course he’d say that. Really, the ceremony had just proved what Rabbit had known all along—if he wanted to learn the magic he was going to have to figure it out on his own. He’d never been, and would never be, a priority for his father and the others. So he’d hit the books, do some experimenting. He wanted to know what he could do besides torch stuff. Pyrokinesis was cool as far as it went, but had its limitations, because he didn’t just want to destroy stuff . . . he wanted to create stuff. He wanted to control, to rule.
He wanted to be someone.
‘‘Rabbit.’’
The old man’s voice was an unpleasant jolt, as was the sight of him at the bottom of the tree, scowling straight up into the branches, making it clear he knew exactly where his son was hiding. He’d traded his robe for fatigues and boots, but his belt bore no weapons.
For about three seconds, Rabbit was tempted to light the seat of Red-Boar’s pants, or maybe give him a hot-foot. Then sanity returned. ‘‘Yeah?’’
‘‘I’m leaving.’’
The two words hit Rabbit harder than he would’ve expected, punching him in the gut and making his breath whoosh out. ‘‘For good?’’ His voice squeaked.
Red-Boar scowled. ‘‘No, you idiot. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow.’’
‘‘Oh.’’ And suddenly he could breathe again. Not like he wanted the old man to know that, though. ‘‘So?’’
‘‘I didn’t want you to wonder. And I thought you might want to use the cottage while I’m gone.’’
Rabbit eased down a couple of branches, so he could see the old man’s face. ‘‘Are you, like, apologizing for kicking me out?’’
‘‘Strike offered you a room in the big house and you took it. No kicking involved.’’
‘‘Whatever.’’ Rabbit headed back up.
‘‘Wait.’’
He paused. Looked down. ‘‘What?’’
His old man took a step back, into a stripe of deep shadows, so it was like his voice came from the darkness when he said, ‘‘I’m sorry.’’
Rabbit scowled, though it helped some to hear. ‘‘Sorry for which part? Sorry for not accepting me as your son or sorry for not prepping me properly?’’
‘‘I’m sorry the circumstances of your birth dictate that you’ll never belong.’’ Then, before Rabbit could wheeze past the gut-punch of pain, the old man turned and walked away, leaving what he hadn’t quite said to ring in the air between them: I’m sorry you were born, period.
It wasn’t a surprise. But it still sucked to hear.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Leah slept far better than she would’ve expected, given her level of sexual frustration—high—and the general weirdness of staying in a suite of rooms that had belonged to her not-quite-lover’s parents, the king and queen of what-the-hell-is-going-on-here. Still, she woke tired. She supposed she could blame her fatigue on the postmagic hangover, but that didn’t exactly improve the logic of the situation.
Magic. Right.
Pulling on her borrowed clothes, she stumbled into the ornate marble-and-chrome master bathroom and gave herself a once-over in the mirror. The results weren’t exactly impressive—the clothes were too big and she had a shiner and no makeup.
‘‘Note to self,’’ she said aloud. ‘‘Find a mall. Or an Internet connection to Overstock.com, whichever comes first.’’ Or, hell, she could just have Connie mail her some stuff from home. She’d need clothes and whatnot if she was going to stay.
And yeah, she was going to stay—for the time being, anyway—because she might not appreciate Strike’s I’m-calling -the-shots attitude about Zipacna, but he’d been right about a few things. For one, it sure looked like the ajaw-makol was jonesing for a do-over of his interrupted human sacrifice, starring her, and for another, this whole mess was going way outside the usual for the MDPD, which meant it was just good policework to cultivate an expert in the field.
And whether or not it ran the logic train right off its rails, she wanted to know more about the magic.
She hadn’t
been into D&D as a kid, and the whole Harry Potter thing had left her cold, but those had been make-believe. The things she’d experienced over the past few weeks were . . . well, whatever they were, she was betting that if it turned out she had some sort of power, and if she could learn how to use it, then she’d have that much more ammunition against Zipacna. Because whether or not Strike liked it, as soon as she found the bastard, she was going after him personally.
Ignoring the faint twinge of disquiet brought by the thought of going behind Strike’s back—and equally ignoring the flare of heat brought by any thought of the dark-haired warrior—she prowled the suite a little, not quite ready to head for the kitchen and face the rest of the Nightkeepers and their winikin. She’d seen most of them briefly in passing the day before, and had weathered their what the hell are you still doing here? surprise, but she wasn’t looking forward to joining their magic lessons later in the morning.
It was all just too freaking weird.
Her prowling brought her to the locked door she’d found the day before when she’d toured the suite, checking all the drawers and closets—because, hey, she was a cop—and finding nothing but bland decor and hotel-neat conveniences. And the locked door just before the solarium.
It was an utterly normal-looking door, save for a pair of glyphs carved into the upper half of the panel, both of which she recognized from Strike’s arm: a jaguar’s head and a long-nosed, highly stylized human figure holding a staff of some sort.
She didn’t need to be able to translate the writing to know what it meant: family only. Which didn’t include her, as Jox had so clearly pointed out the day before. But she’d never been able to resist a locked door.
‘‘It’s not much of a lock, either,’’ she said aloud, giving the knob a shake. The door rattled in its frame, far looser than it needed to be for the sake of security. Heck, it was more like a suggestion than a real lock.
Her conscience told her they would’ve left the key if she was supposed to open the door, but that didn’t stop her from pushing the panel to the edge of the bolt, twisting the knob, and giving it a hip check.
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