Final Prophecy 04: Demonkeepers

by Jessica Andersen

  But then again, that would mean undoing the past six years. It would mean her not meeting Brandt on spring break, nor marrying him months later. She would’ve missed the good years with him, when they’d lived as humans, neither of them knowing that they were both under the shadow of the same secret heritage, that their crossing paths had been more destiny than chance. In the altered reality of her warrior self, they wouldn’t have met until two and a half years earlier when the magic reactivated and Strike summoned the surviving magi to Skywatch. They would have met as strangers, probably would’ve become lovers, but without the complications of all the secrets and lies, and the heavy weight of the love they shared for their twin sons, Harry and Braden.

  Would it have been easier that way? Probably. But even on the worst of the bad days, she’d never, ever wished she could go back and not have the twins. Granted, she hadn’t seen them in almost two years; she had missed out on so many firsts, and longed to see them with an intensity that was a physical constant, an ache beneath her heart. But even without seeing them, she still knew they were out there, safe with Hannah and Woody. And the knowledge kept her going.

  I’m doing this for you, she whispered to them, although she knew that, without their bloodline marks and the accompanying connection to the barrier, they couldn’t hear her. They were far safer off the grid than on it. But knowing that they couldn’t hear her didn’t stop her from talking to them in her head, even if that sometimes made her wonder whether, in marrying Brandt, she had taken on some of the madness rumored to linger in his eagle bloodline, along with the depression she’d battled for the past two years. That didn’t really matter, though. She’d beaten the depression, or at least learned to manage it. She could do the same with the other impulses too. Most of them, anyway.

  Switching hands, her grip going slippery, she cut her other palm, then wiped the blade on her robe and returned it to her belt. Then, unable to delay any longer, she held out her hands to the men on either side of her so they could uplink, joining blood-to-blood in order to call on a deeper, collective wellspring of magic. On her left side, Sven took her hand immediately. The contact brought a flare of heat and magic, amping the champagne fizz to Alka Seltzer foam as he squeezed her hand in support, or maybe nerves—it was hard to tell with him.

  To her right, though . . .

  When her hand hovered midair, unclaimed, ice frosted the hard knot in her stomach. Don’t do it. Not here. Not now. It was her darkest unvoiced fear, that one day Brandt would decide that with the twins gone and the two of them living mostly separate lives, he didn’t want to bother with the thin veneer of a shared suite and matching rings anymore. He wasn’t big on public displays of anything, but gods knew he was more obsessed by the concepts of duty and destiny than even the winikin who’d raised him. He might think he was doing the right thing by severing the last of their ties before the ceremony, leaving either or both of them free to enter the Triad if chosen, without fearing that the mated bond would transfer some of the magic and risks. And those risks had to be on his mind, she knew. Of the three members of the previous Triad, one had survived, one had died outright . . . and one had gone insane.

  Don’t you dare break it off, she thought fiercely. What we’ve got left is still better than what most people ever get. Or so she kept telling herself.

  Once, their mated bond had been so strong that he might’ve caught a whisper of those words in his head even without the bloody hand clasp of an uplink. That wasn’t the case anymore, though, which forced her to look at him, an action she’d been avoiding ever since he’d taken his place beside her. As she turned her head, she swore she heard her vertebrae creak, as if she’d grown old at twenty-six.

  Their eyes locked, her sky blue to his gold-spangled brown. She took in the details without wanting to, seeing how his bronzed skin stretched across his high cheekbones, aquiline nose, and wide brow, drawn tight by stress and the sleepless nights that were reflected in the shadow smudges beneath his eyes. His sable hair was as neat as ever, his shave smooth, his eyebrows the matched curves of a gliding eagle’s wings. He was physical perfection even under the weight of duty and the threat of death or madness, and his cool calm made her feel sweaty and desperate in comparison.

  “Don’t.” She thought she whispered it aloud, a single word of an unvoiced prayer to the gods he refused to call on. The room was silent around them, as the others waited for her and Brandt to complete the circle.

  “What’s wrong?” Unlike his smooth looks, his voice was slightly rough, edged with a sensual rasp that, even now, shot straight to her core and made her remember warm sheets and lazy mornings spent in bed, sometimes cuddling with the boys, other times just the two of them.

  She looked away as a spike of anger flattened the magic fizz. What the hell kind of question was that? Everything’s wrong, she wanted to say, but that was the answer of the woman she’d been for too long, the one who had turned inward and self-pitying. She had pulled herself out of that place and didn’t intend to go back, which meant the easy answer wasn’t an option anymore. But what could she say instead? The woman inside her—the one who still loved the memory of the man she had thought she’d married—that part of her wanted to tell him to be careful, to stay strong, and, even, gods forgive her, reject the Triad power if it was offered to him, knowing the added risk his heritage would bring. She wanted to tell him to think of the twins, of her, of the shared future they had once imagined, even though it seemed to grow more distant by the day. The warrior inside her, though, couldn’t let those words come. The ritual they were about to enter wasn’t about being careful; it was about fulfilling a three- thousand-year-old prophecy. It was about ascending to the next stage of the end- time countdown, and maybe—hopefully—gaining the power the Nightkeepers needed to defend the increasingly volatile barrier against the Banol Kax during the upcoming winter solstice.

  Knowing it was the right answer, the only answer, the woman let the warrior take over, blunting her emotions and quickening her blood with determination and the hot, hard throb of magic. She stretched out her hand, palm up, so the blood track glistened dark in the torchlight. “Right now the only thing that matters is calling the Triad.”

  It was the proper answer, the dutiful one. And the warrior within her meant every word of it, even as the woman would’ve given almost anything to turn back the clock to safer, easier times.

  “We need to—”

  “Uplink,” she interrupted.

  He exhaled. “Patience . . .” he began, but then trailed off, as though he didn’t know what else there was to say anymore, either. Magic curled between them, hazing the air red-gold and making it sparkle in the flickering light. The hum within her changed pitch, inching upward as their eyes locked once again, and she felt the click of the connection that had been absent for far too long.

  Heat pooled in her midsection, forming a hard pressure on her diaphragm before it dripped down, warm and liquid, making her ache with longing for another time, an earlier version of the man he’d become. The need came from the inextricable link between Nightkeeper magic and sex, she knew. That and the power of the jun tans, the mated marks they both wore on their inner wrists, joining their flesh and souls through the power of the barrier even though the connection of their minds and hearts had waned.

  “We’re running out of time,” she said, not quite sure where the words had come from. Was that the warrior’s sentiment or something else?

  His eyes flared, going hard and hot, more like those of the intense young architect she’d married than the reserved, withdrawn mage he’d become. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he growled, “Fuck it.”

  Leaning in, he closed the distance between them. His mouth covered hers before she could brace or even comprehend. He swallowed her gasp, smothered her half-formed protest, and took her under with a kiss. He wasn’t holding her, wasn’t touching her anywhere but her mouth, but his kiss held her shackled as shock colli
ded with a roar of magic-amplified lust that had her opening to him before she could call back the impulse. Their tongues touched and slid; his flavor caromed through her, lighting neurons that had been dim for months now. Years. She felt the vibration of his groan, though the sound was lost beneath the escalating hum that surrounded them, bound them together.

  Heat raced through her veins. Magic. Power. Love. Then he took her hand, pressed their bleeding palms together, and completed the circle of ten. The red-gold buzz went to a bloodred scream, the world lurched, and suddenly Patience was moving while standing still as her spirit-self peeled out of her corporeal body and lurched sideways into the energy curtain that separated the earth, sky, and underworld. Gray-green mist raced past her, laced with lightning and the smell of ozone and desperation. Then the Triad spell took them . . . and there was no going back.