Storm Kissed

by Jessica Andersen

  But even as she tried to tell herself that Strike would pull through and the team would find some way to get the staff back from Iago and prevent Lord Vulture’s nuclear winter—and that was a hell of a laundry list, dragging at her forced optimism—she ached inwardly at the knowledge that Dez would still be named heir. It was inevitable. And, like an alcoholic taking “just one sip,” he would start the downward slide.

  Unless he didn’t.

  Over the past few weeks, she had learned to believe in the man he had become—a powerful yet self-controlled mage, a good soldier, and the kind of guy who would sneak her peanut butter cups when she’d had a bad day. She liked this Dez, respected him. He fascinated her, frustrated her, challenged her, and pissed her off. And she felt more alive than she had in a damned decade. Love was too simple a word for it—or maybe her onetime perception of love was too simple. Back then, she hadn’t had any doubts that they belonged to each other, and that they could make it work if they both tried hard enough. Now, her feelings for him were deep, dark, and unsettled. He may be addicted to power, but she was addicted to him—she wanted him, craved him, needed him. Or was that how love was supposed to feel? Maybe this crazy, insecure emotional roller coaster was normal. Maybe she needed to trust her feelings and the man he was today.

  “Flip a coin,” she said softly. “Heads I’m fooling myself and heading for self-destruction. Tails he’s for real and history isn’t going to repeat this time.”

  Moments later, a quarter pinged between her feet, took a crazy bounce, and went clinking down the pyramid steps to land somewhere on the packed dirt below.

  There was a pause, then Dez said from behind her, “I pictured that going differently. And for the record, it was tails.”

  Her skin heated; she hadn’t sensed his approach. Stalling, she leaned over and pretended to look for the coin, which was long gone. “Kind of symbolic, really.”

  “Yeah. When it finally stopped, though, it was still tails.”

  She looked back at him, found him standing there looking unbearably sexy in fatigue pants and a brown pullover, with a .44 in his belt and shadows in his eyes. “You can see it?”

  “No. But I’m for real, and history’s not going to repeat itself this time.” He hesitated, though, and said, “Strike got the others on board for a sort of compromise. They’re not happy about it, but . . . if I agree to it, they’ll transfer their fealty oaths to me.”

  Oh, she thought, breathing through a sharp stab of pain. “That′s . . . logical.” And it scared the piss out of her.

  He sat down beside her. “I won’t have the full powers of a king, but it’ll increase our chances when we go up against Iago. Strike is afraid that whatever’s going on with him is going to spill over into the bonds if he doesn’t transfer the oaths.”

  She put her head on his shoulder, very aware of his arm against her, and the place where he would wear the hunab ku if he truly became king. “I want to beg you not to do it, to ask you to run away with me . . . But this is too important.”

  He took her hand, threaded their fingers together. “We’re important.”

  “What I wouldn’t have given to hear that at eighteen.”

  “But not now?”

  “I like hearing it. But this is bigger than us.” Way, way bigger.

  They both knew he would agree to Strike’s plan. He didn’t have a choice—they needed to attack Iago the moment he stepped foot back on the earthly plane, the king wasn’t fit to lead, and the prophecies said the task should fall to Dez. But the thought of him taking over the power of the fealty oaths put a nasty churn in her stomach.

  “You thought about us running away together.” He paused. “So stay with me, instead. Give me a chance to prove myself to you.”

  “It’s not . . .” She trailed off, because in a way it was about him proving himself. He needed to prove—not just to her, but to himself and the rest of the Nightkeepers—that he could handle power and tell the difference between temptation and a strategic move. He had to show them that he wouldn’t fall back under the star demon’s spell when the artifacts were put in play. If it came down to worst-case-scenario time between him and Strike, he needed to make the most honorable choice he possibly could, without any taint of self-service. And after that . . . No, she didn’t want to think about what would happen if he became king, or even if he just kept hold of the fealty oaths and became Strike’s heir.

  How long would it be before she trusted him not to revert to his old self? Or would she always be watching him, analyzing every move? God, that sounded exhausting. And dysfunctional. But how could she be sure that he wouldn’t backslide?

  “I know we said that life doesn’t come with any guarantees,” he said, “but I promise you this: I’m going to do my absolute best to be a good soldier and serve my king, and if shit goes south and I wind up wearing the hunab ku, I’ll do my best to get that right, too. And no matter where I wind up in the hierarchy, you’ll be right there with me. I don’t want to lose you again, Reese, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep that from happening.” His eyes were determined, his tone resolute, and the warmth that flared through her at his words carried a spark of lightning and a hum of magic that almost drowned out the tiny, irritating voice that warned it wouldn’t last.

  Screw that, she thought, and leaned in to kiss him, pausing to whisper, “I don’t want to lose you again, either. So be warned: if I see you starting to go off the rails this time, I’m going to do my damnedest to beat some sense back into you.”

  His lips curved against hers. “Deal. Though I’ll try not to make it necessary.”

  “You—” Do that, she meant to say, but lost the words when he closed the final fraction of an inch and kissed her.

  It hadn’t been all that long, really, since their lovemaking that morning, but so much had happened, so many emotions had wrung her out and filled her back up, that she felt like they hadn’t kissed in a year. Warmth was a sweet ache that turned to heat as she touched the back of his neck, his shoulders, and he crowded closer with a rasping groan and deepened the kiss. After not nearly enough time, though, they drew apart. Her lips felt soft and swollen, her breasts were heavy, her skin tingled all over.

  She would have given anything to take the afternoon off, with him, and pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. But it was the whole “world not existing” thing that had her climbing to her feet. “I think we need to hold that thought and head back.”

  “Rain check,” he agreed, and she was struck by the strange normalcy of the exchange, like they had been lovers all along. But the heat between them was bright, fresh, and new as they headed down the pyramid.

  At the bottom, he stopped and bent to pick up a small, shiny bit of metal.

  “Heads or tails?” she asked, telling herself there was no reason for her mouth to go dry. The U.S. Mint didn’t imbue their coins with prescient magic.

  He just shook his head and put the coin in his pocket.

  Heads, she thought, grateful that at least he hadn’t lied. Besides, it didn’t matter whether she was on the fast track toward self-destruction. She had made her choice. Taking his hand, she laced their fingers together, conscious of the way their shadows merged in the slanting afternoon light, stretching larger than their true selves. “Come on,” she said, tugging him in the direction of the mansion. “Let’s go tell the others that you’re ready to take their fealty oaths. The looks on a few of their faces should be good for a laugh, at any rate.” She would take whatever jollies she could get, because the next day and a half had the potential to get seriously grim.

  Virginia Beach

  As the Disco churned up to its mooring, a thousand or so pint-sized whale watchers—okay, technically more like a hundred, but it had felt like there were a thousand of them—leaned over the railing, waving and hooting at nobody in particular while Cara and the school group’s chaperones made sure that was all they were doing.

  “I’m pretty sure we got all the Silly Str
ing, but I don’t trust those guys when they start clumping up,” Too-tight Facelift said as she buzzed past on her way to eagle-eye the group that Cara had mentally dubbed Juvies-in-training. Meanwhile, Stern Teacher was rooting the I’m-too-sexies out of the forward ladies’ room and Nurse Nancy was keeping Pukers One through Three corralled on the lower deck, just in case. Because being barfed on from the observation platform just sucked. Been there, done that.

  “Excuse me, Miss Cara?”

  “Yes?” She turned to find one of the Actually-has-a-brain—this one had borderlined on Smarty Pants, but Cara had decided to give her the benefit of the doubt—standing there with two other girls behind her, all looking owlishly serious. Where most of the others had tweaked their navy sweaters, tan pants, or plaid skirts into fashion statements, this group just let their uniforms look like uniforms, as if saying “This is only temporary—why bother?”

  “You can ship the sperm,” the first girl announced.

  “Excuse me?”

  “For the right whales. You said the populations here and off California were dying from inbreeding, but there was no way to ship whales across the country to mix things up.”

  “I did,” Cara said faintly. It was part of her “how the whaling practices of the seventeen and eighteen hundreds are still screwing us up today” spiel. This was the first time it had sparked a convo about sperm, though.

  “My mom raises horses, and she just has the semen shipped.” Smarty Pants—it was confirmed now—lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Make sure you call FedEx and let them know it’s coming, though. It’s only good for a few days.”

  Choking back a snort, Cara nodded. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” No way she was going into the midocean-orgy factor of whale mating behavior or the unlikelihood of getting a diver in there to collect sperm, never mind what the heck they would do with it on the other end. Nope, not going there. But she was grinning as she stood by the gangplank and said her good-byes to Stern Teacher and the rest.

  “You look happy,” Cap’n Jack said from behind her as the last of the Juvies filtered through.

  Cara tipped her head back and inhaled a deep lungful of air. “I am. I feel better. No. Not just better. Fabulous.” It wasn’t just that the not-flu was gone, either. Energy coursed through her, making her feel like she could take on the world.

  Jack came up beside her, leaned on the gangplank railing. “Any particular reason you’re happy-dancing today?”

  “It was a good day. A good group, good sightings, good energy.”

  “If you say so. Seemed about average to me.”

  She made a face. “Don’t poop on my party.”

  “Sorry.” But he was grinning. “We still on for later?”

  “Lasagna night? Wouldn’t miss it. Tell Beth I’ll be there at six, brownies in hand.” It felt good to have that connection, too. Jack and Beth made her feel like family.

  “You can bring a friend if you like. There’s always plenty of food.”

  She laughed. “What friend? You’re my friends.”

  But he nodded down at the dock. “Looks like there’s a guy waiting on you. Thought he might have something to do with you feeling better these days.”

  “A guy? No way.” She shook her head, glancing over. “There’s no—” Her mouth dried at the sight of a swimmer’s body inside painted-on denim and a tight techno-fabric jacket. Familiar blue eyes looked out from beneath familiar blond hair that was cut in an unfamiliar military brush. Her brain said it’s not him—where’s the ponytail? where’s the surfer gear and perma-tan? But in her heart she knew exactly who it was. “Oh,” she said. As in, oh, shit. As in, oh, that’s why I feel like the world has come back into focus. Damn him. Damn all of them, and the accident of birth that had thrown her in with them. “Sven,” she said, the word coming out more like a wistful breath than a name.

  Jack chuckled. “Thought so. No problem if you’re a lasagna no-show—Beth’ll understand. Or like I said, feel free to bring him along. The dog can come, too. If it acts up, Pegleg will just hiss and go hide somewhere until the coast is clear.”

  “What—Oh.” How had she missed the big, buff-and-gray creature that sat beside him? That’s no dog, she thought half hysterically. Shaving it down doesn’t make it any less a coyote. Which was another shock—Sven had a familiar. The realization sent a shimmy through her.

  “Go on and talk to him.” Jack’s eyes narrowed on her as he caught the vibe. “Unless you don’t want to?”

  She really didn’t. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “But don’t expect him for dinner.”

  “Whatever works.” He gave her shoulder a brief squeeze before he turned away. “If I don’t see you tonight, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “See you,” she echoed, hoping it was the truth. Hoping Sven hadn’t come to bring her back to the desert because . . . gods. Had something happened to her father? Sudden fear rocketed through her, sending her racing along the gangplank and down to the lower level, where man and coyote waited unmoving.

  “Carlos is fine,” he called the moment her feet hit the dock. “Don’t freak.”

  She slowed, blowing out a breath and pressing a hand to her stomach as the quick panic drained. Okay. That was something, anyway. But even as the fear for her father subsided, new disquiet took its place. Because if Sven wasn’t there because of her father, then he was there because of her.

  As he watched her approach, his eyes—the muted blue of a sea under hazy skies—were cool and assessing, making her wonder what he saw. She couldn’t tell from the way he was watching her, and that made her nervous. So, too, did the realization that the changes in his clothing and hair, and the addition of the coyote weren’t the only things that were different about him. He was leaner than he had been, his face honed down to its basic Michelangelo perfection, his body big and broad, but spare. More, he stood perfectly still, not jiggling from foot to foot or looking around in search of the next adventure, the next diversion. That change, more than anything, made him seem like a stranger as she stopped, squared off opposite him.

  She blew out a breath when her heartbeat picked up again. How had she forgotten the physical punch of a mage? Or had he become even more potent than before, his beauty amped by magic and the power of a familiar? She didn’t know. All she knew was that a part of her wanted to bow, scrape, and worship. And she despised that part of herself. So she tipped her head and shot for casual when she said, “It’s been a while.”

  “It has. You look good.”

  “Whatever you’ve got to say, say it fast. I’ve got a date.” Which was true. Sort of.

  The coyote gave a low whine in the back of its throat. She glanced over, but it was looking past her, to where gulls were squabbling over an unidentifiable something.

  “Cancel it.”

  She bared her teeth. “Newsflash: I don’t have to follow orders—not from my father and not from you.”

  He shook his head quickly, “That wasn’t what I—” He broke off when she shoved the sleeve of her Windbreaker, sweater, and shirt up over her forearm. His eyes widened when he took in the lack of any decoration save for the thin bracelet that curved inward and touched her seasickness pressure points.

  “My marks faded. I don’t work for you anymore.”

  The coyote stirred, but he dropped a hand to the top of its head and it quieted. “I’ve come to bring you back,” he said simply. “Skywatch needs you.”

  She started to answer, but then hesitated, frowning because that really didn’t compute. If anything, she had been a distraction within the training compound—a young half-human winikin who hadn’t been raised in the program and didn’t care for the hierarchy. “How does that work? I didn’t fit in there. I didn’t make any sense there.”

  “Things have changed. They need to keep changing.” He dug into a pocket, held out a note. “From Jox. You’ve been promoted.”

  Heart racing, she took the note, careful not to let their fingers brush.
She didn’t open it right away, though. Instead, she hesitated, looking up at the bulk of the Disco as she rode solidly at the wharf.

  He looked up, too, expression going wistful. “I never figured you for the sea.”

  “Me neither.” And that was all he was getting.

  She hesitated, then opened the letter and read it. Then she reread it. Twice. The words dipped and wheeled like gulls: . . . too stuck in tradition, need to modernize . . . perfect for the job . . . end-time war needs you . . . calling you back to duty. “Jox wants me to lead the winikin,” she said dully. The surf roared in her ears, though the water beyond the marina was glassy.

  “I know. And there’s more, something that Jox didn’t know about.” As with the letter, his words ran together: . . . more survivors . . . unbound winikin . . . members of the resistance . . . Mendez wants them brought in . . . JT wants to meet you first . . .

  For a moment, she flashed back on the pain and terror of her father calling the magic to mark her with the aj winikin and the coyote glyph, indenturing her to Sven. He hadn’t raised her within the system that to him was the natural order of things—he had focused on Sven, leaving her to her mother, and then had the gall to be surprised when she hadn’t been able to make it work at Skywatch. She had hated the place, the people, and the hierarchy that said she was little more than a glorified servant to the shallow, egotistical golden boy her father had raised.

  “. . . and tomorrow’s the solstice,” Sven said in conclusion.

  She lifted a shoulder. “First day of winter. Big whoop.”

  He looked out over the water as if just noticing there was an ocean there. Or maybe he was stalling. Maybe this was just as awkward for him as it was for her. She had outgrown her long-ago crush on him, had decided to file the rest of it under “things I did when I was young and stupid” and move on. But while that might have worked if he had looked like the guy who had finally sent her away from Skywatch before they killed each other, the man who looked back at her now was a stranger—tough and capable-looking. “Strike and Anna are sick,” he said quietly. “Maybe dying. Red-Boar and Woody are already dead. Jox and Hannah are in hiding with the twins. And tomorrow . . . hell, unless the skies split open and drop a damned miracle on us, it could all be over tomorrow and this whole conversation is pointless. But if we make it to next week, we’re going to need the unbound winikin to have any chance. And to get the survivors, we need you.”