Storm Kissed

by Jessica Andersen

  Dez was painfully aware that a couple of the others were thinking the same thing he was: If it came to it, Strike could very well die today, by his hand. There had been no more messages, no miracle cure from Lucius. The prophecies stood, the danger clear and present : The king had to make the ultimate sacrifice and the last serpent needed to take out his adversary and become king.

  As if sensing his thoughts, Strike limped over to him, Leah hovering at his elbow. The king’s eyes were still the same vivid cobalt blue, his hair black and thick, tied back at his nape. But beneath the jawline beard, his face was gaunt and drawn. When he reached Dez, he held out a hand. “Whatever happens today is on the gods, Mendez. Not you.”

  Aware that the others were watching, Dez inclined his head in a shallow bow. “If we go down, we go down fighting . . . Sire.” He’d never called Strike that before, probably never would again. But in that moment, it felt right. Then he took the king’s hand, aligning palm to palm, and, going on instinct, opened himself wide, trying to pump energy into the other man, shoring him up as he had learned to do with Reese.

  For a moment, he made the connection: The king’s eyes widened and color stained his throat. “Don’t drain yourself on my account.”

  “I’m good.” In fact, he was better than good—the power flowed around him like blood, thick and warm. It coalesced, pulsed, surged. And then suddenly it was rushing away from him, flaring outward as if magnetized to a distant point, and “good” went to “oh, shit” in an instant. His magic was wild, crazed, jacked on the solstice rush. Damn it. He yanked away from Strike, trying desperately to rein in the power that poured through him, strange and sinuous.

  The king pointed. “Look!”

  A section of air near the mountain’s peak shimmered and dark magic hissed as, with a whoomp that sent Sven’s familiar scattering, the serpent temple appeared, its snake-carved pillars and open-roofed structure completely enclosed within a shield that had a strange, pearlescent sheen. The moment it was fully in place, the energy flow cut out and Dez sagged, suddenly drained. Shit. Shitshitshit. “What the fuck was that?”

  “I’m guessing it was you summoning the serpent temple,” Leah said drily. But her eyes telegraphed a silent thanks for the color in Strike’s face, and the fact that he looked like he might be able to fire a weapon without the recoil flattening him.

  “We’re still ten minutes from the three-hour window,” Michael reported. He tossed Dez a pair of binoculars. “And check it out. I don’t think they were ready for the big reveal.”

  The scene jumped into focus: a robed shadow knelt within the shield while the green-eyed villagers scrambled to surround the temple, their weapons at rest position, deactivated. “Fuck the recon,” Dez said, making the call. “We hit them now.”

  As the others sprang into action, digging into the crates for guns and ammo rather than computers and tactical equipment, Strike said in an undertone, “You know this is either a brilliant tactical move, or suicide.”

  “Story of my life,” Dez said, telling himself that bad timing was his and Reese’s thing, not his alone. But as his team formed up around him, he heard something that chilled his blood and made him wonder whether his tactical move wasn’t entirely self-serving. It was a soft, feminine whisper at the back of his brain that said: I’m here.

  Skywatch

  Anna, for fuck’s sake, get up! The mental snarl cut through the fog, harsh and familiar, yet so out of place that it jolted her to a semblance of focus, bringing a flash of hard gray eyes and anger.

  “You’re dead,” she whispered. She felt her face move, but didn’t hear any sound.

  You’ll be dead, too, if you don’t get moving and open your godsdamned eyes.

  “There’s nothing but the fog.”

  Those aren’t the eyes I’m talking about and you damn well know it.

  Her heart shuddered. “I can’t.”

  You have to. He needs you to wake the hell up and open your fucking eyes.

  She knew who “he” was. Brother. The one who sat beside her, sad and silent, looking like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Because he did. “I can’t.” This time the whisper came with a breathy sound. Her own voice. She heard the noise on the air, felt the vibrations in her throat. And part of her despaired, because the fog was safe and familiar. It didn’t take anything from her or force anything on her. It didn’t show her tunnels and flames, didn’t make her die over and over again in her dreams, didn’t—

  They need you.

  She didn’t want to be needed, not that way. She wanted her little house in the suburbs, her office at the university, her students, her husband, a baby . . .

  Bullshit, he snapped, plucking the thoughts from her mind. You just don’t want to face the truth. A pause. Why am I even bothering? You always were such a girl.

  “Screw you.”

  There was no answer, the voice was gone, lost again in the beckoning fog. Her anger, though, didn’t go with it. The burn stayed inside her, refusing to let her slide back into the grayness of her own mind. And along with it came whispers, not in his voice, but in the thought-images and sensory memories of a thousand lifetimes, a hundred thousand visions. Get up, they said. You have power—use it! Help him, or you both will die.

  She saw Brother ’s face, still and cold, caught a gleam of luminous green, and her heart shuddered. To her surprise, that progressed to a full-body shudder, then a prickling wash of sensation as long-unused neurons flared to life and she became cognizant of the space around her. She was in a room—bedroom, her brain supplied—with things arranged on shelves and hung on the walls. Artifacts. Fakes. Cheap knockoffs. Just like she was a cheap knockoff of a true itza’at seer, unable to control the talents she didn’t want. But one of the fakes caught her attention. The stone knife was unwieldy and poorly balanced, its hilt carved with gibberish glyphs from wildly different periods—she knew that because she knew the knife, had used it to open the occasional letter. But now she locked on it, and the building urgency inside her said: Yes.

  She lurched to her feet, was up before she was aware of the effort it took, made it across the room in a stutter-step parody of walking on long-unused legs, and grabbed the knife from its little display stand. Without thinking or pausing, she drew the knife sharply across her right wrist. And power flared through her, bringing images of death.

  In the next wing over, Reese awoke and blinked up at the ceiling, then around at her surroundings, aware of a deep pit in her stomach. Dez’s bed. Dez’s bedroom. No Dez. Memory returned like a knife through the heart. He had left her here, locked her in so she wouldn’t warn the others.

  “Son of a—” She cut herself off and launched off the bed, adrenaline clearing the last of the sleep spell. She slapped for her armband, but it was gone. A vague memory stirred of him searching her, disarming her. Bastard. Moving too fast for all of the things he had said to her to catch up, too fast even for her gut instincts to find her, she flung herself into the suite’s main room, cursing when she found the house phone gone, the intercom deactivated. No doubt he’d told Lucius and the winikin that she was working alone on a special project, and not to disturb her. That was what she would have done.

  “Damn it!” She glared around at the austere apartment that lied as slickly as its occupant, making it look like he’d changed when, really, some of the glossy shine had been rubbed off but the rest was the same. At the thought, her eyes went to the coffee table. Or, rather, to the small rectangular rug that lay beneath it.

  It was the only rug in the suite, save for a shaggy bath mat. And he was the same guy he’d always been.

  Breathing a quick prayer to whatever entity might be listening, she shoved the table and rug aside. Disappointment churned when all she found was more of the same hardwood that was everywhere else in the suite. But when she got down close and brushed her fingertips along the surface, she found the faint line of a seam.

  “Didn’t totally trust them, did you?” Or maybe he
was hardwired to hide things. The thought brought a pang, but she ignored it.

  A quick search uncovered a hidden pressure pad. She hit it, expecting it to pop up and reveal a lock. Instead, the larger panel loosened with zero fanfare. Apparently, he hadn’t been that worried about his teammates . . . or else he had assumed he was far away from anyone who would know where to look.

  Heart tapping, she used her nails to pry up the panel and reveal a small arsenal—MAC-10, a couple of decent .44s, a snub-nosed .22, and ammo all around. But that wasn’t all; he’d also stashed some nuts and jerky . . . along with a couple of packages of peanut butter cups. She stared at them for a three-count while her instincts and the things he had whispered before leaving caught up with her—things about her proving that she didn’t trust him, and how he couldn’t let her distract him or the team with her suspicions.

  If she took her emotions out of the equation, she thought those things fit the pattern and sounded like the truth. Only they weren’t, because she had long ago learned that she had to listen to what Dez did, not what he said. So she chambered a few bullets in one of the .44s, and stood to take a bead on the door. Then she yelled, “Fire in the hole!” and blasted two rounds through the lock.

  Wood splintered and cracked, the panel shuddered. It would’ve been very satisfying to kick it open, but it opened in, so that would’ve been more work than necessary. Instead, she tried the knob, jiggled it, put her shoulder into it, and got the door open. Stepping out, she exhaled a quiet, “Yes!”

  “Freeze!” a man’s voice bellowed, and a big figure lurched into view two doors down, pointing a machine pistol at her.

  “Shit!” Fight response flaring, she flattened and ducked back into the room, whipping up the .44, all too aware she had loaded only four rounds. Scenarios flared—the compound under siege with her unaware, makol in the hallways . . . but a makol wouldn’t have yelled for her to freeze. And that was Lucius standing there, crutch under one arm, MAC-10 in the other.

  His expression quickly ran from determination to surprise, and from there to confusion. He let his weapon sag. “Reese? What the hell’s going on?”

  “Long story.” She lunged back to her feet. “Are they gone yet?”

  “Maybe ten minutes ago.” Confusion turned to alarm. “What’s wrong?”

  “I need to talk to Strike.” She hesitated for a second, unnerved to find that a piece of her still didn’t want to blow the whistle on Dez, still wanted to think he was telling the truth. But the outrage was too much—the story came out of her in a clipped précis, like one she would have given to the task force. She finished with, “So I need you to put me on a tight band transmission to Strike or Leah. Or failing that, anyone but Dez. They should still be doing recon. We’ve got time.”

  But Lucius sagged back against the wall, his face draining of color. “They skipped recon and attacked when Dez’s magic pulled the temple out of the dark barrier ahead of schedule. Right after that, the satellite cut out. I’ve got no ears, no way to transmit.”

  “He cut the feed?” Even as the knots in her stomach tightened, a dumb-assed part of her kept saying, Maybe he’s not doing what you think. “We need to get it back up.”

  “I thought it was barrier interference. The closer we get to the end date, the wonkier the atmosphere gets during the cardinal days. If he cut it, though, there are a couple of other things I could try.”

  “Let’s go.” Shoving the .44 into her waistband at the small of her back, where it pressed awkwardly into her spine, she headed down the hallway toward the great room. Her thoughts churned as a ragged pattern assembled itself in her head. “I bet he meant for me to stay asleep longer than I did, long enough so it wouldn’t matter. Maybe the blood-link warned me that he was making his move, woke me up early.” She was going full steam now, pieces falling into place slightly askew. “I bet he sensed that I was coming around and knew he had to move his timetable up. So he—”

  “Wait.” Lucius caught her arm and swung her around in the archway leading to the main mansion. “Stop. Back up. What blood-link?”

  “We don’t have time for this.” She tugged at his arm.

  He didn’t budge. More, his normally easygoing demeanor had hardened and a glint had entered his eyes. “Yes we do. It’s important. Start talking.”

  She didn’t want to think about it, because the link, too, was a lie. But she trusted Lucius. “It started when I was bitten by the makol.” She quickly described the thin trickle of energy that had fitfully connected them ever since their blood and energies had mingled. “And when we . . .” She faltered as a stab of grief ripped through her.

  Lucius finished for her. “And when you make love, sometimes it seems that you can feel what he’s feeling and see the world through his eyes.”

  Hating how the reminder brought a prickle of tears and made her yearn, she snapped, “Like I said, a blood-link.”

  But his eyes had taken on a strange glint. “A blood-link comes from shared DNA—siblings, parents and children, that sort of thing. What you’re talking about is the early stages of the jun tan connection. The mated bond.”

  “Bullshit.” The word burst out of her.

  “Not bullshit. Jun tan.” He tapped his wrist, where he wore the curving glyph. “And, especially when it’s newly formed, the bond won’t activate unless the two of you are open to each other, not holding anything back. Which means he was telling the truth about why he locked you up.”

  Shock took her breath and she sagged against the nearest wall. “You’re kidding.” Her heart leaped at the possibility, but twisted as she warned herself not to talk herself into believing what she wanted to. “The spirit guide said we weren’t meant to be mates.”

  “Looks like you’re falling in love with each other anyway.”

  Her mouth went dry. “No.” The whisper wasn’t a denial of her feelings, but of the hope that suddenly swept through her. “Oh, God.” Could it be true? She pressed a hand to her suddenly jittery stomach as her mind skipped around, thoughts jumbling into a mishmash of yearning and regret. “He’s a Triad mage,” she said, heart beginning to pound with excitement even as her practical side poked at the gaps in the pattern. “He could’ve manipulated the magic.”

  “Not this kind of magic,” Lucius said with quiet assurance. “The jun tan doesn’t answer to anything but true emotion.”

  “But I . . .” She didn’t know what she wanted to say, didn’t know how she felt, but as the new information sank in and the pattern rearranged itself into something that fit perfectly, she heard his parting words whisper in her heart. Maybe we missed our chance.

  She must have looked suddenly panicked, because Lucius’s expression took on a tinge of empathy. “It’s early yet. If this isn’t what you want—”

  “I need to talk to him,” she interrupted, her heart suddenly beating hard and fast in her ears. “I need him to know . . . No. Wait.” No distractions. Let him keep his mind on the fight. But what if he didn’t make it through? What if he died with her angry words and his quiet despair the last thing between them? He dies, we all die, logic said, because without the serpent king to stop him, Lord Vulture would arise.

  “Come on.” Lucius steered her through the archway and onto the upper landing of the great room. “Let’s get some brownies and try the satellite feed again, and when that doesn’t work, I’ll introduce you to the suckfest called ‘stuck at home, waiting for news.’ ”

  Reese let out a shuddering breath as they turned for the kitchen. “Okay. Deal.” She glanced over at him. “Fair warning. I’m not very good at waiting.”

  “There’s a shock. I—” He broke off as his crutch slipped out from underneath him, then hissed as the move jarred his bad leg. Reese grabbed his arm, steadying him as she looked down, expecting to find spilled water, maybe a leak.

  Except it wasn’t water. It was blood.

  She hissed as all of her quick fears about makol in the compound came racing back. Yanking the .44 and going into su
rvival mode, she said in a low voice, “Check on the others. If they’re okay, have them get armed and get out here.”

  “Oh, shit,” he said, face going stark. “This isn’t good.” But as Reese moved away, she heard him activate his armband, heard a reassuringly calm answer from one of the winikin, elsewhere in the compound.

  The blood started thinly—a few gravitational drops near the archway leading to the royal quarters, a couple of smears tracking to a nearby hallway. Then it got heavier as it turned down another hall and started weaving, then turned to bloody scuff marks as it turned through the doorway leading to the sacred chamber. Pulse hammering, she tucked herself beside the door, crouched, and took a look around the edge, staying low. Then she froze for a second, mind refusing to process the horror-movie scene.

  Anna lay motionless near the altar, wearing blood-soaked pajamas. More of the red liquid was splashed on the altar, the floor, the curving walls, even the glass ceiling, creating reddish patches on the floor where the sun shone through. She was alone. There was no makol, and the ceremonial knife clutched in her hand, the vivid slashes on her wrists, said there never had been.

  “Jesus.” Reese was up and into the room in a flash, jamming the .44 in her belt as she dropped down beside the motionless woman. The cuts were fresh and running, showing a sluggish pulse. Reese’s stomach grew queasy as the salty tang of blood invaded her lungs, her sinuses, but she grabbed the other woman’s wrists, gripped tightly, and lifted her arms above the level of her heart. Her blood was warm and wet, sticky in spots.

  She heard Lucius’s uneven steps out in the hallway. “It’s Anna,” she called in scant warning, hurting for him. “She’s—”

  “Oh, gods.” His voice was low and broken, as if he wasn’t all that surprised. He stood for a half second in the doorway, then limped to let himself down on Anna’s other side, his leg sticking out at an awkward angle as he wedged himself behind her, up against the altar, so he could support her upper body while Reese kept the pressure on.