Storm Kissed

by Jessica Andersen

  Her knees went wobbly, and she dropped back down to the couch, mouth drying to dust like the desert outside. This wasn’t happening. She was still drugged, still hallucinating.

  Right?

  Closing her eyes, she pinched herself hard on the arm. “Okay, Reese. It’s time to wake up.” But when she opened her eyes the only difference was the presence of reddened fingernail marks on her arm, which stung.

  She glanced at the “read me” pile on the coffee table.

  Don’t do it.

  But how could she not? Knowledge was power.

  On the bottom was a blue binder, half full of pages, with its spine marked “Open log, reunion onward” and fluorescent green Post-its flagging a couple of spots. Sitting on top of the binder was a short stack of papers that were clipped together at one corner. She flinched when she saw her name on the first sheet. But she couldn’t not read the note.

  Dear Ms. Montana,

  Rabbit said that you’d rather have this in writing to digest at your own speed, so here it is. When you’re ready to talk, dial 1313 on the intercom, and someone will come for you. At that point, it will be up to you whether to stay or go. If you choose to leave, you’ll wake up in the hotel remembering only that you turned down the job, and you’ll never hear from us again. But we hope you’ll decide to stay, because we badly need someone like you on our side right now . . . and Rabbit says you’ve always wanted to save the world. Stick with us and you’ll get your chance, gods willing.

  “Oh, shit.” Reese sat back, crossing her arms over her churning stomach.

  That was a seriously low blow, especially when it was those damned stories that had started her crusading in the first place. Back then, she had needed to believe that there were heroes out there, that someone was working behind the scenes to save her. She had been obsessed with Dez’s stories of the Nightkeepers, had pictured herself fighting at the side of a brave and powerful warrior who wore a familiar face. And when Fallon—then an ambitious young detective—had offered her a choice between relocating or helping the cops go after Hood, it was because of the stories that she had chosen to stay. That, and because it had given her a chance to fight, in her own way, at her warrior ’s side. But that was then and this was now, and . . .

  Screw it. She kept reading.

  You may have already guessed, but if not, here it is: We are the last of the Nightkeepers, and the doomsday war is here. The blue binder contains a rundown of our more recent history, including the massacre that left us scattered as orphans, being raised in secret by our winikin; the events that led to our reunion three years ago; and the things we’ve seen and done since then. You’re in there. You impressed the hell out of me in that warehouse—even more so now that I know that you were trying to save Dez’s ass, and why. And you did a job for another of us, Patience White-Eagle, a while back. You found her sons and their winikin in hiding, and that should have been impossible.

  “The bride,” Reese murmured, putting it together with the funny look the blonde had shot her back at the hotel.

  She remembered the case clearly, not because she had met any of the players—it had all been done by remote control, highly hush-hush—but because it had been a rare challenge. Given that the client had provided her a last-known address, it should have been easy to find a sixty-something couple living with twin kindergarten-age boys. In actuality, she had sweated the job, eventually dumping everything else to focus on that one case, day and night, until she had cracked it.

  The guardians had been winikin, she realized now, hiding a pair of Nightkeeper children. No wonder she’d broken a sweat.

  The note continued:

  Your skills are part of why we need you. We’re currently fighting a rearguard action against a Xibalban mage named Iago and the creatures he controls, and to do that we need all hands on deck, including Dez. Also, you’ll find that there’s a matchmaker inside most of us, because a Nightkeeper who has bonded with his or her rightful mate is so much stronger than before. I realize that you and Dez had problems, but—

  “Oh, no. You’re so not going there.” Crumpling the three-page note, Reese shot to her feet and strode to the window. But the sight of all that wide-open space made her long to be back in the city. Any city.

  She glanced at the door, then at the intercom. She could hit the magic number and make it all go away.

  Instead, she looked down at the letter. The words “rightful mate” jumped out at her.

  “Better brace yourself to be disappointed on that score,” she muttered. Until she shot her mouth off back at the hotel, Strike and the others hadn’t had a clue that she and Dez had a history. It shouldn’t have bothered her that he hadn’t mentioned . . . Shit. She kept reading.

  —realize that you and Dez had problems, but I think I can explain some, if not all of them. You know how Dez changed after the fight with Keban? That wasn’t him, it was the effects of magic . . . or, rather, a curse.

  Her blood iced and her palms started to sweat, but she didn’t stop reading. Couldn’t have even if she had wanted to.

  That night, Keban gave Dez a small obsidian carving of a star demon, a creature of darkness. We don’t know where he got the carving or how he knew what it would do to Dez, but you experienced the fallout. Here’s what we’ve been able to piece together: The star demon amplifies the darker aspects of a mage’s personality until it overrides the good stuff. In Dez’s case, it also allowed him to form a connection with the barrier, even before the magic reawakened. Although he couldn’t use his powers afterward—he was only able to call the lightning that night because it was the equinox and, I’m guessing, because you were in danger—the effects of the star demon’s power twisted him into the man who drove you away. But the thing is, he’s not that guy anymore.

  A year ago, prophecy said that we had to offer ourselves to the gods and ask them to pick three of us to receive the powers and knowledge of our strongest ancestors. Enacting the Triad spell risked madness, death, possession . . . but forfeiting prophecy carries a heavy price, so we cast the spell. The gods reached out beyond us, all the way to Denver, and picked Dez. But instead of giving him the powers of his ancestors, they gave him a spirit guide—a long-ago ancestor of his named Anntah—who entered his mind, undid the damage the star demon and Keban had done, and taught Dez what he needed to know. He awoke a new man: centered, powerful . . . and jonesing to make up for the things he had done. Or maybe “new man” is the wrong term—really, he went back to his pre-star-demon personality, his baseline self.

  Reese’s breath rushed out in a hiss. “Bullshit. That’s just bullshit.”

  The details fit the pattern; there was no question about that. But she didn’t for a second believe that Dez had let some piece of rock control him. And if he was acting differently now, it was sure as hell because it suited his purposes, not because of some spell.

  She gritted her teeth, flipped the page, and read on.

  We didn’t believe his transformation at first, but Rabbit confirmed his turnaround, and over the past year Dez has worked his ass off to prove himself. Then, two days ago he disappeared without a word. Our usual private investigator found that he had received a letter via the old winikin drop system, but Carter couldn’t track him beyond that. He suggested we hire a specialist, and I immediately thought of you. At the time, I assumed that was simple logic. Now, I’m reminded that what the humans call coincidence we call the will of the gods.

  Don’t believe me? Look on the next page. That’s a printout from some security-cam footage that Dez downloaded the night before he took off. At first, we thought it was just some guy stealing a Puebloan artifact from a small museum outside of Santa Fe. After Dez disappeared, we guessed who it might be. Now that Rabbit has seen things through your eyes, we know for sure.

  A cold chill sliced through her, and she was almost braced for it when she flipped the page and found Louis Keban staring back at her. The photo was blurry and badly lit, and his scars were obscured by shado
ws, but she knew his eyes and the slightly off-balance way he held himself. Up until a year or so ago, she had still seen him in her nightmares. Now, she had a feeling those bad dreams would be back with a vengeance.

  Last she had heard, he had been safely ensconced in a locked mental ward. Apparently not anymore.

  Below the photo, the letter finished:

  We’re not sure why Dez didn’t tell us what was going on or ask for backup. Pride, maybe, or something in the letter. But we do know one thing for certain: We need him back. The winter solstice marks the one-year threshold, and the magi must be at their strongest. More, we need to figure out what Keban is up to. He clearly knows things we don’t—and his history and mental state make him dangerous.

  So that’s what we want from you, Ms. Montana. Find Dez, find Keban, and figure out what the hell is going on there, in the order of your choice. After that, if you’re willing to stay, we’ll sic you on Iago. The patterns of his recent attacks are . . . baffling. Maybe you’ll see something we’re missing.

  I hope you’ll take the job, both for Dez’s sake and because it’s the right thing to do. But if that isn’t incentive enough, then how about this: It’ll give you a chance to get back at the man who destroyed the life you could have had with Dez back in Denver.

  Think about it. And when you’ve decided, dial 1313. We’ll be waiting.

  —Strike

  Reese lowered the letter and numbly stared out the window, at scenery that warned her that she was badly out of her element.

  “Damn it,” she whispered, glancing once more at the picture of Keban.

  This was seriously and completely nuts, and it would be insane to even consider taking the job. But she was considering it, for all the reasons Strike had listed.

  Damn the mind-bender for getting inside her head and figuring out which buttons to push. And damn her for being unable to resist the thrill of the hunt or be content with a safe, predictable life. More, she couldn’t ignore the pressure that fisted beneath her heart as Strike’s words circled in her head . . . He’s not that guy anymore . . . It was a curse . . . back to his old self . . .

  In the weeks after Dez’s death—supposed death?—she had been buried in memories of the young man she had loved. The old Dez had driven her crazy with his stubbornness, but despite his protectiveness he’d never tried to box her in. The gang task force had been her thing, but he’d always had her back. He had nagged her into her GED, and had brought her chocolate and information, knowing they were neck-and-neck in her universe. And when the nights got cold and too dark, he had told her stories about magical warriors who could move things with their minds and hear each other′s thoughts, and who drew their greatest powers from love.

  Back to his old self . . . a Triad mage . . . incredibly powerful.

  “Bullshit.” She lurched to her feet, stomach knotting. The ache wasn’t quite hunger, but it was safer to call it that, so she headed for the kitchen, figuring the apartment looked lived-in enough that it ought to have some staples, even if it was just a guest suite . . . or a prison cell with better-than-average amenities. That thought brought a shudder, but the moment she got the fridge open, both the queasiness and her appetite disappeared—boom, gone.

  Oh. Shit.

  She stood there for a long moment in the cold wash of air, shivering as she stared at the items that were clustered together on the top shelf, as if tossed back in after a snack: horseradish mustard, olive loaf, grape jelly, and pumpernickel bread. Four cans of Mountain Dew were racked in the door.

  A low moan broke from her as her heart took up a heavy thud-thud beat in her ears. Nobody could come up with that combination accidentally, and there was only one person on the planet who would do it on purpose.

  Dez.

  Her hand trembled on the refrigerator door. There was no way in hell that this was his suite. It was too bland, too impersonal. There were no high-tech toys, no expensive clothes, no glitter and gloss, no leather or other indulgences. But there was pumpernickel, olive loaf, and the grossest condiment pairing known to mankind.

  He’s not that guy anymore.

  Throat closing on a burn of tears, she whispered, “Damn it.”

  She thought about Denver, about the new life she was building there, and her determination to be a better person, one who didn’t take the same sort of risks the old Reese had, who lived with less danger, less pain. Then she thought about the young man she had known, the one she had mourned even though their relationship had died years before his actual—or faked—death. She thought of the comfort of his spine pressed into hers, crowding her against the wall so she would be warm while he kept watch. And she thought about the puniness of saving the world one person at a time when she could potentially help save the whole damn thing.

  Don’t do it, her smarter self said. Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t—

  “Shit.” She crossed the room in a few strides, went for the intercom pad, and hit 1313 so hard her fingertip stung.

  Strike came on the line immediately, voice sounding resigned and tired as he said, “Give me good news, Ms. Montana. I could really use it right now.”

  “I’m going to need whatever you’ve got on the museum break-in—provenance on the artifact that Keban stole, any cross-refs on similar cases, the works. Dez knows how to hide his tracks, so I’m guessing it’ll be easier to find the damned winikin.” She paused, toughening her voice to hide how small and vulnerable she suddenly felt, how deeply out of her element. “And for future reference? The next one of you who puts a spell on me without permission is going to be choking on his or her own spleen.”

  There was a pause. Then the king of the Nightkeepers said simply, “Welcome to the team.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Aztec Ruins National Park

  New Mexico

  December 10; total lunar eclipse;

  one year and eleven days until the zero date

  Well into hour three of his stakeout, Dez barely even twitched at the sound of a kid-sized stampede approaching from the visitors’ center, followed by the nasal chirp of a teacher′s voice doing the facts-and-figures thing.

  He was well hidden, and knew that the human herd would stay on the marked path that crossed the huge circular footprint of an ancient kiva. From there, they would wind through a few of the hundreds of rooms belonging to the thousand-year-old stone-and-mortar structure, loop up to a smaller, heavily restored building called the Hubbard Site, then back around to the gift shop and picnic area. The tour groups didn’t stray off the beaten path. Not like he had. And not like the man he hunted would do.

  Come on, you bastard. Where the hell are you?

  Ever since Dez had awakened from his Triad-induced coma and his ancestor′s this-is-your-life-and-hey-you-suck reprogramming, he’d been working on curbing his impatience and maintaining control. But sitting and waiting still wasn’t his strong suit.

  He had been chasing Keban’s dust for the past week, always two steps behind the bastard until—thank fuck—yesterday, when he’d finally crossed a fresh trail and recognized the sour scent and faintly off vibration that he’d caught a whiff of at the Santa Fe museum Keban had robbed. He’d followed it to a library downtown, got his hands on the same book the bastard had touched, found the map he had lingered on, along with a reference to shadowscript and the lunar eclipse, and knew he’d finally gotten the break he needed.

  The winikin would be there at dusk. Not long now.

  Dez had picked a spot just inside one of the dozens of low passageways that ran through what was left of the huge ruin. He was fifty or so feet and several chambers away from the self-guided path, but the alignment of the rectangular doorways and thick, rubble-filled masonry walls carried the teacher′s words.

  “Despite the name, these buildings weren’t originally built by the Aztecs. The mistake was made in the mid–eighteen hundreds by scholars who believed the Aztecs had originated here and migrated south to Mexico. But this was most likely a trading center
for the Puebloan tribes, and may have had ties to the Chacoans in the canyon country south of here.”

  “Try definitely had ties to the Chacoans,” Dez said under his breath, shifting to get at his water bottle and take a swig. “This was one of ours.” Even a thousand years later, the place vibrated with echoes of Night-keeper magic, warming him slightly as the sun started its downward slide and the shadows grew.

  “Although early scholars thought the huge North Ruin might be an archaic apartment building, we now think there were maybe only a couple of hundred permanent residents, with thousands of other people gathering here during ceremonial days . . .” The kid-herder’s voice faded as the group moved along the path.

  “. . . sooo bored,” a straggler said, her ennui reaching Dez on an echo.

  “I know, right?” said another. “This blows.” Her voice dropped to a carrying whisper. “You wanna sneak back around to the gift shop? I’ve got my mom’s AmEx.”

  “I—”

  “No,” interrupted an older, equally bored voice, though this one coming from an adult. Auxiliary kid-herder, no doubt. “Come on, let’s go catch up with the others.”

  There were grumbles as the three moved off, with the first of the girls complaining in a put-upon voice, “Why do we have to know this crap anyway? It’s so old. Why can’t we learn about stuff that matters?”

  Dez snorted to himself. “Consider yourself lucky somebody gives a shit whether you learn it or not. And the old stuff—especially this old stuff—matters more than you’ll ever know.” At least, she would never know if the Nightkeepers had anything to say about it.