“Like a nuclear winter,” Nate said. He glanced sharply at Dez. “The aftermath of the serpents′ weapon, maybe?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to Lucius. “She mentioned prophecies, plural. Which ones are in play at the moment?”
“I’m working on it, but I—”
Sirens blared, cutting him off. Reese jolted to her feet along with the others, though Michael said, “It’s probably just another false alarm.”
Then the intercom crackled and Tomas’s voice reported: “Long-range cameras show an old pickup truck headed our way. Single occupant, nothing on the magic sensors.”
Up until a few days ago, the very rare random stranger who had showed up at the front gate had gotten one or two people responding—no, we’re not hiring; no, this isn’t a celebrity retreat; yes, we can hook you up with directions and a couple of gallons of gas. Now, all of the Nightkeepers, winikin, and humans headed out the front door, armed and dangerous. Dez and Reese hit the exit together near the front of the pack and moved out across the front of the mansion, staying off the main walkway, closer to the building where landscaping provided some cover. The other warriors, sorting into their mated pairs, did the same.
Through the wrought-iron gate, Reese saw the pickup—windshield cracked, paint color obscured by dust—roll to a stop. “It doesn’t feel right,” she murmured.
The truck door swung open and the driver got out of his vehicle—more like collapsed out of it—and went down on his face. He lay in the dirt, motionless.
“The monitors are picking up trace readings of magic,” Tomas reported, voice coming from Reese’s armband, and those around her. The information argued against this being a lost-in-the-desert thing.
“Everyone shield up,” Strike said. “Nate, you man the ward—let us through, but close it after. Michael, once we’re out, get a shield around the truck and the guy.”
“Stay close,” Dez said to Reese. Pulse thudding in her ears, she pulled her .38 and put herself right beside him, angled so his gun hand was free. He cast a crackling lightning shield around the two of them just as Nate dropped the ward magic.
“Go!” someone shouted, and they were hustling out to surround the truck and its driver as the air hummed with additional shield magic. For a second, everything seemed very surreal, like she’d been dropped into a movie—not the filming, but the movie itself, where she was living and breathing action scenes that didn’t quite jibe with real life. Then things snapped back into focus as Strike crouched down beside the unconscious man, who was sprawled on his stomach, his hands outstretched toward Skywatch.
The king grabbed the guy by his dirty, torn shirt, and rolled him over. And Reese gaped, blood icing at the sight of a swollen and disfigured face, misaligned jaw . . . and a six-clawed scar slashing across his face.
It was Keban.
“Son of a bitch.” Dez crossed to the winikin, dropped down beside him. There was no danger this time; the bastard was truly out cold. More, he’d had the shit kicked out of him. His wrists and ankles were raw and his forearms scored with deep, weeping burns. His face was gray, his breathing labored and shallow. But when Dez spoke, his eyelids flickered, then cracked, and his pale blue eyes fixed on Dez with dull recognition and more sanity than he had seen there in a long time. Maybe ever.
Fuck me was Dez’s first thought, followed by Why now? Not just because they needed to assume that Iago had thrown the winikin at them, but because of how it was going to look if the whole truth came out now. Our timing really does suck, he thought, glancing at Reese to find her staring with worried eyes that asked if he was okay. He wasn’t, but not for the reasons she thought. When he looked at Keban, he didn’t feel his childhood fear, teenaged rage, or the bone-deep hatred of his adult self. He didn’t feel pity or grief, either. He felt . . . numb. Because nothing good was going to come of this.
After shooting Reese what he hoped was a reassuring look, he leaned over Keban, aware that Strike and the others had stayed back to let him have first crack. All except for Sasha, who was crouched down on the winikin’s other side, sending healing magic into him. From the looks of him, that was the only thing keeping him conscious.
Leaning in closer, Dez grated, “Did Iago send you?”
The winikin’s lower lip was split nearly to his chin. The scab cracked and bled as he said, “Not . . . sent. Escaped. Need to . . . warn you . . .” His head lolled, his muscles going limp as he lapsed closer and closer to unconsciousness.
“Can you bring him back?” he asked Sasha, but she shook her head.
“I’m doing my best, but he’s in tough shape. Iago really did a number on him.” Her eyes were shadowed and Michael had moved up behind her in support, reminding Dez that she, too, had been Iago’s prisoner, and for far longer than the winikin.
Keban’s lips moved, shaping words without sound.
Dez leaned in. “Say that again.”
The winikin coughed. “He and his army are in a mountain temple that hides in the dark barrier except on the cardinal days.” Barely whispering now, he added, “You’ve got to stop him. He’s going to use the serpent staff to make himself king.”
Adrenaline hammered through Dez, not just because he’d just been outed, but because if Iago succeeded, they were beyond fucked. “He’s not a serpent.”
“He is. He’s—” His eyes rolled suddenly back and his body shuddered . . . and went still.
“Keban.” Dez grabbed him, shook him. “Keban!” But the winikin was gone, his face lax, the scars pale slashes against gray skin. In death, he looked small, battered, and used up.
“Dez?” Reese’s quiet voice brought his head up, but he couldn’t read her expression. Wasn’t sure he dared. “What’s going on? What was he talking about?”
Strike was on one side of her, Leah on the other, with the rest of the magi fanned out on either side, the winikin behind them. And suddenly it wasn’t about him and Reese being a pair of outsiders who were loners otherwise, but knew they could rely on each other. Now she had some serious backup, and it wasn’t coming from him.
Taking a deep breath, he dragged himself to his feet and stood opposite her. But he was talking to all of them when he said, “I want to make two things very clear first. Last night, I swore my fealty to Strike. He is my king, and not only would I never do anything to challenge that, I flipping can′t.” Once in place, the fealty magic wouldn’t allow an oath-bound mage to harm the king.
Strike nodded. “That’s true. In fact, it was right after he swore his oath that Anna woke up.” His eyes narrowed. “I thought you swore the oath for Reese’s sake.”
“I did.” He said it to her, urged her inwardly to believe it, but the wariness was back in her eyes. Risking it, he took her hands, holding them tight as he said, “That’s the second thing I need to say—I promise you that everything I’ve done has been to stop history from repeating itself. I swear it on my soul and my bloodline.”
Her lips trembled. “Okay. Now you’re scaring me.” She didn’t pull away . . . but she didn’t acknowledge his promise either.
Letting go of her, he jammed his hands in his pockets. When he realized he was unconsciously searching for the star demon, he put his hands behind his back and locked them there. Then, focusing on Strike, he said, “The artifacts, when activated properly, will transfer the Nightkeepers’ fealty oaths to the wielder of the serpent staff . . . who must be a member of my bloodline.”
“Son. Of. A. Bitch,” Strike growled. “You want the fucking throne, Mendez?” Behind him, shock and bitter anger raced through the others.
“I took the oath,” he repeated. But that didn’t stop several of the faces around him from resetting in the familiar mistrustful lines. He had told himself to expect it, that it wouldn’t matter as long as he knew he had done his best to make the right call. But it hurt. And the pain in Reese’s eyes nearly did him in.
“You told me it was a weapon.” Her face had drained of color and her knuckles were white where she was sti
ll gripping her .38.
“I told you that assembling the artifacts would blow things up. It will, just not the way I implied.”
Her eyes burned into his. “That’s not good enough.”
“It gets worse.” He took a deep breath. “According to Keban, Iago is—or believes he is—descended from the bloodline. If he manages to activate the staff during the solstice and our fealty oaths transfer to him . . .” The oath couldn’t force the magi to act against their natures, but the contradictory impulses could paralyze them, leaving them vulnerable to the makol.
“Motherfucker,” Strike grated. “If we had been on this from the beginning—”
“I know.” But Dez held up a hand. “Let me finish. Then you can decide what to do with me.” When the king sent him a clenched-jaw nod, he took a deep breath, locked eyes with Reese, and said, “For years I told myself that Keban was nuts, that he’d brought me up to lead an army that hadn’t ever existed . . . but then, during the Triad magic, Anntah said it, too. There’s a secret prophecy that’s been handed down through certain serpent lineages . . . It says that in the end, the last serpent must kill his rival and take the throne.” When the mutters died down, he finished: “Yeah . . . Keban raised me to kill Strike and take over.”
“Over my dead body.” That came from Leah, but the glares said the others were right there with her. The two royal advisers, Nate and Alexis, looked like they wanted to fly him up into thin-air territory and let him drop.
“I can’t kill Strike,” he reminded them all. “I took the oath.”
“You’re a Triad mage,” Reese said. “The rules don’t necessarily apply to you.”
“That one does.” He wished she hadn’t been the one to bring that up, but at the same time, if she was arguing with him, she hadn’t shut down completely. He hoped. “Think about it. I didn’t make any move to track down the artifacts until I got Keban’s note, and then only to destroy them.”
“So you say.”
He palmed his knife and held it out. “I’ll swear it in blood if you want.”
“You’d just tweak the wording.” She pushed the stone blade aside and strode past him, headed for the main gate.
Dez started after her, then stopped and looked back, torn. His relationship with the Nightkeepers was crucial . . . but so was what was happening between him and Reese.
“Go on,” said Strike. “We need to discuss this anyway.” And by “we” he meant “everybody in the compound except you.”
Every fiber of Dez’s body told him to go after her. But he stood his ground and held his king’s eyes. “For the record, the biggest reason I didn’t come clean about the serpent staff and the prophecy is because you guys are doing something important here. And I wanted a chance to be part of something good for a change.”
Strike’s expression didn’t change. “Well, I guess you fucked that up.”
“Yeah. Guess I did.” And, as he turned on his heel and headed after Reese, he hoped to hell he hadn’t just destroyed that part of his life, too.
Reese’s heart hammered thickly, jamming her throat. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, didn’t want to think, because if she did she would have to admit that she had bought into him again. Which hadn’t been stupid-brave, it had just been stupid. She knew him, knew what he was capable of. And she’d fallen under his spell anyway.
“Reese, damn it!” He caught up with her on the covered pathway leading back into the mansion, grabbed her uninjured arm.
She spun on him, teeth bared, free hand going for her pistol. But then she stopped, refusing to give him the fight he wanted. In a low, measured voice, she said, “Let me go.”
“I can’t.” The two words were stark. His eyes bore into hers. “I’m sorry, Reese. I’m so fucking sorry it happened like this. I was going to tell you this morning, I swear. Hell, I should have told you everything that morning in the hotel, but I knew what you would think, and I wanted us to get to know each other again first.”
Her throat closed at the raw regret in his tone, which made her want to think that this, finally, was the truth. He was going to tell you everything this morning, her inner nineteen-year-old said, but he didn’t get a chance. But her older, wiser self knew he’d had plenty of chances. “Let. Me. Go.”
He tightened his grip. “No. Not until you’ve listened for a damn minute.”
“That would’ve worked better last night. Or this morning. Or any other time before you got your ass caught out.”
“Ever since I woke up from that coma and saw what was going on here at Skywatch, I’ve been hoping—praying—that it wasn’t a real prophecy.” He was talking fast now, as if trying to get it all in before she walked away. “The serpent bloodline is full of arrogance and ambition, but not seers. I thought the serpent prophecy might just have been wishful thinking that had morphed into something more than that over time. But once I got Keban’s letter and saw the tape from the museum, I realized it might be for real. That’s why I took off from Skywatch, and why I kept trying to chase you off.”
“So I wouldn’t catch on.”
“No, damn it, so I would have the room to maneuver without worrying about flattening you in the process.” He shook her slightly. “For gods’ sake I don’t want the damn throne. I’ve done everything I can think of to keep it from coming down to this. Don’t you get it? This isn’t what I want.”
She twisted free of his grip. “You’ve made your choices. Now I get to make mine.”
His expression tightened. “Before you do, consider this: Anna’s prophecy, or vision, or whatever mentioned ‘the prophecies,’ plural. What do you want to bet that the serpent prophecy is one of the ones she mentioned?”
“So?”
“The team is going to need your help figuring that out, finding Iago’s mountain, and a thousand other things between now and the end date.”
Until that moment, she hadn’t consciously thought about what she was going to do next . . . but she had been headed for the garage. Claustrophobia gnawed at her beneath the too-open desert sky. She wanted to move, keep moving, not let herself get tied down to something that was only going to get worse. She needed some distance, some perspective. Let Strike and the others deal with this. I’m in way over my head. She looked past him, unable to meet his eyes, and her gaze was caught by the brass plaque beside the main door. It had been Leah’s way of christening Skywatch, which had simply been known as “the training compound” before her arrival. The sign was etched with the image of a world tree, with three words below it: Fight. Protect. Forgive. She could do the first two. She wasn’t sure about the third.
After a long pause, she said, “What do you want from me, Dez?”
“I’m asking you not to run away again.”
Fury flooded her. “You son of a bitch. I’ve never run away from a fight that was worth fighting.” Which was true. By the time she ran away from home, away from him, she had already lost.
“So don’t run away from this one. And don’t run away from me.” He moved in and, when she refused to flinch, touched her cheek. “I’ve learned my lesson, Reese. I’m not holding off anymore. The situation isn’t perfect—in fact, it fucking sucks. But I haven’t done anything wrong this time . . . and I’m not backing off.”
Son of a bitch. Surprise roared through her at the realization that he actually thought he could play her, that he could—
Kiss her.
He covered her mouth with his before she could brace or defend. His lips were hard, quick and clever; his tongue didn’t ask, it demanded. But if he was angry—with the situation, with her—then she was far angrier. Lust and fury mixed and amped, setting her aflame. She told herself to pull away, crack him in the jaw, knee him in the balls, make him pay for making her want to weep, rage, and scream. But the heat flared higher, bringing the crackle of magic. And instead of pulling away, she moved in.
She kissed him back, openmouthed and searching, got a handful of his shirt and pulled him closer. Their lips a
nd tongues clashed, teeth nipped a sting of pain, a taste of blood, dark and inviting.
He broke the kiss, groaned her name, and pressed his forehead to hers. He was breathing hard, his eyes desperate. “Please, don’t give up on me, Reese. Not now, when I’m trying to do the right thing.” And he meant it, she knew. Problem was, he saw the world through serpent-colored lenses . . . and he could talk himself into almost anything.
She shook her head, pulled away. “I can’t do this. I can’t go through it all again.” And, tears clouding her vision, she did what she had just claimed she never did. She ran.
Dez let her go. He didn’t know what else to do, what else to say that would convince her he was telling the truth. You can’t, a whisper said deep in his soul. Either she believes in you or she doesn’t. He told himself not to blame her, that he’d given her a thousand reasons not to trust him, and only a few on the other side. He had hoped those few would be enough, though. Maybe not.
“Godsdamn it,” he said hollowly as she headed around the corner of the garage. And was gone.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Reese ran until she couldn’t anymore, then walked, pressing the heel of her hand into her cramped side. The winter sun shone down on her, making her light-headed. Or maybe the spins came from the endless expanse of sky above the canyon, which trapped her without walls or promises.
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