gods knew there was plenty in there—she was acutely conscious of her status as, in her words, a charity case of the magi. So she’d bought only a simple, neutral rug and bedclothes a few shades deeper, then accented the space with the things she and Rabbit had recovered from the New Or-leans tea shop where she’d spent most of her life. The end result was an eclectic mix of voodoo kitsch and halfway decent crystals that somehow suited her perfectly.
Myrinne herself stood at her desk, bent over her laptop, banging off a quick note or IM or something, which gave him an excellent perspective on her ass. She glanced back and grinned at him, her straight dark hair hanging off to one side, her dark brown eyes gleaming with mischief. “Hey.
Where’ve you been?”
Something loosened in his chest at the warmth in her tone and the sparkle in her eyes. Those hints, coupled with the rear view he suspected wasn’t an accident, told him she was in one of her good moods, and gave him an idea of how they could spend the next couple of hours. She was wearing low-
riding jeans and a formfitting cropped sweatshirt that had ridden up to show off the curve of her waist.
He couldn’t see the tattoo that traced around her navel, but knowing it was there, knowing that—gods willing—he’d be getting up close and personal with it soon, was a huge turn-on.
Given that her mood had been seriously up-and-down over the past few days, he was grateful as hell to find her on an upswing, especially with the buzz of frustration humming in his veins, looking for an outlet.
“I was talking to Anna,” he said in answer to her question. “It’s a no-go on getting back to Skywatch over Thanksgiving break.” He glossed over his own frustration because it morphed into another kind of heat as he moved up behind her, cupped her strong, slim waist, and slid his hands along her smooth skin.
There were still times he halfway expected her to haul off and smack him for touching the goods.
Chicks like Myrinne had never been interested in him before, and despite his growth spurts and the added confidence the magic had given him, he still sometimes had trouble believing she was actually with him. Actually wanted him.
She turned, smiling, slid her arms around his neck, and rose up on her tiptoes to press her lips to his.
Rabbit leaned into the kiss. Despite the filters, power flowed through him, hot and hard, and he was instantly ready for battle, for sex, for anything and everything.
“Did you tell her why you wanted to go back?” Myrinne whispered against his mouth, as her hands slid up beneath his sweatshirt and his body temp headed for nuclear-meltdown territory.
“Huh?” It took him a moment to process the question, struggling to put the words together when he would’ve much rather been concentrating on the feel of her fingers on his belt, the taste of her mouth and throat, the softness of her breasts in his hands. “Um. No, I didn’t. She’d just tell me not to worry about it, that they’re working on it.”
“What are you going to do next?” she asked in between kisses.
“Dunno,” he said, trying to get her bra undone with some semblance of grace.
“I’ve been doing some research, and I think there might be something we could do from here.”
The last thing he wanted to discuss was research. “Sure, I’m game. As long as it’s not Nightkeeper magic.” The filters allowed him to talk about it when he was alone with her, though when he was alone with her, he wasn’t usually thinking about magic. At least not of the blood-sacrifice variety.
“It’s not Nightkeeper magic,” she assured him.
“Okay. Fine.” Whatever. Busy here.
“Good.” Her eyes went wicked and she started walking him in the direction of her bed, which was made up in mounds of fluffy pillows and other soft, girlie things, and scented with patchouli and vanilla. “Pencil me in for the night of the full moon.”
“You can have all the nights you want,” he said, not really giving a crap what he was saying at that point, as long as they were headed for the bed. When they got there, he fell back and pulled her with him so they dropped to the mattress together, laughing and wrestling with clothing.
It was the last coherent thing either of them said for a long, long time.
Skywatch The days flew and Sasha’s life accelerated to a blur, enough so that she could almost avoid thinking about the approaching bloodline ceremony. In fact, whether by virtue of the mental filters or simple denial, she found herself living almost entirely in the moment, taking in the information pertinent to her new life without really putting it into the structure of her old existence.
Little by little, she settled in. She tapped the Nightkeeper Fund and ordered some clothes, going with comfortable, functional pieces that were more feminine than the type she’d typically worn before. She didn’t know if it was backlash from her captivity or being around the in nately sexual Nightkeepers, but she was far more aware of her body than she’d been in the outside world, more conscious of the way she looked, the feel of her clothing on her skin. She stopped short of staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, but was conscious that there were changes there, as well. Her hair had grown out from its short kitchen cut, and the curls tended toward the unruly side, but aside from blunting the ends, she left it alone, deciding she liked its unpredictability. Although her weight was the same as before, her face was thinner now, her arms and legs more muscular, her hips and breasts rounder. She suspected the changes were magic-wrought, but didn’t look too closely at the underlying reasons; she could only deal with so much Nightkeeper reality at any given time.
Still, she nested, adding some personal touches to the suite she’d chosen because of the big bow window that stretched nearly the length of the kitchen nook, offering a shallow shelf where she could grow herbs. She outfitted the nook with what she considered the essentials in both cookware and ingredients. And there, when she had a free moment or two, she filled herself once again with the love of her art.
She made recados, the flavor pastes that formed the basis of most Mayan dishes, reminding her that no matter how hard she’d tried to reject Ambrose’s teachings, she’d constantly gravitated back toward the village-wrought flavors of her childhood. She char-grilled maize, not realizing until later that she’d automatically pricked her finger with a paring knife and let a few drops of her own blood drip onto the food, an old habit she’d picked up after a knife slip and a drop of blood had felt oddly right, yielding a meal that had far outstripped her usual efforts. She’d fought to break the habit, and managed to keep it in check when working commercially, but it occasionally crept back into her personal cooking. Now she let herself follow the dictates of her soul, recognizing the autosacrifice as a nod to the gods she was trying to let herself believe in, an acknowledgment of the inextricable link between maize and life itself.
It had been her favorite of her father’s stories, in fact: how the gods had made mankind from maize.
According to the legend, when the creator gods Tepeu and Kulkulkan first raised the earth and sacred mountains from the water, they populated the lands with animals, but quickly became dissatisfied with the animals because they were unable to speak or worship. Determined to create beings that could raise their voices in praise of the gods, Tepeu and Kulkulkan then tried to build men and women out of mud, but the mud people were soft and weak, and quickly fell apart. The creators next made men from wood and women from rushes, but although these people held together okay, they didn’t understand the world around them. Frustrated, the gods sent them to live in the rain forest canopy as monkeys.
Finally, Tepeu and Kulkulkan summoned maize, ground it into powder, mixed it with their own blood to form dough, and used the dough to shape the first humans. That was why the gods thereafter required sacrifices of blood and maize.
As the days passed, Sasha relearned that story, along with so many others, during daily lessons with the winikin. These were followed by afternoon weaponry and hand-to-hand drills, along with basic magic classes. She woul
dn’t get her true access to the power until after her bloodline and talent ceremonies, but she practiced the spells so she’d be ready for whatever came next. After dinner she often sat down with Jade, looking for holes in her knowledge, and finding a couple of places where Ambrose’s stories filled in gaps. The more they compared notes, the more it seemed likely that Ambrose had left Skywatch prior to the Solstice Massacre. Which begged the question of why he’d left, who Sasha’s mother had been . . . and whether she’d been magebred. Lots of questions. No real answers.
During those long talks, Sasha and Jade formed a budding friendship despite—or perhaps because of—having Michael in common.
Sasha saw very little of him in the days leading up to her bloodline ceremony . . . at least in the flesh. To her dismay, she still dreamed of him most nights, reliving their lovemaking in the sacred chamber. Her mind replayed each touch and sigh, and the way they’d come together without pretense, honest in their desire for each other. Magic or no magic, they had connected, or so she believed in the deep of night. In the mornings, when she awakened alone and aching, she found that she couldn’t even curse him for how it had ended. She could only wonder why it had ended. Granted, he was a free man; he had the right to say “no thanks.” But on the rare occasions when she did see him, he looked haggard, and he stared at her with a dark, hungry expression that he tried to conceal when he caught her staring.
More, he did things for her.
The first incident was her second day at Skywatch, when the king himself had broken the news that Iago had torched her apartment soon after he’d captured her, presumably to confuse the Nightkeepers’ search for her. Sasha’s initial shock had turned to worry when she realized that Ada wasn’t among the listed survivors. But Strike told her that Michael was already on it. Carter’s report on Sasha had mentioned her friendship with the widow, and Michael had taken it from there.
He wouldn’t talk to her, apparently, but he’d take the time to find out what had happened to a firefighter’s widow in her seventies, simply because she’d been Sasha’s friend. Which didn’t make any sense.
The next day, Nate—Skywatch’s resident techno geek—had shown up at her suite and handed her his latest castoff laptop, which, although a hand-me-down, still had way more bells and whistles than anything she would’ve bought for herself. Then he’d taken a few hours, taught her how to use the toys, and brought her up to speed on the latest Web sites and current events. He’d accepted her thanks but made sure she knew it’d been Michael’s idea, Michael’s request.
That had left her fuming. He’d dumped her. So why couldn’t he leave her alone?
But despite her annoyance, she kept the computer. The Net access helped her feel reconnected to the larger world without leaving the compound. The first few days, she had no desire to leave. Then, just as she was starting to get itchy to explore, Sven returned from a short assignment—bloody, battered, and drawn—to report that a couple of red-robes had jumped him just outside the gates of Skywatch.
Although a thorough search of the area had turned up nothing, the magi had to assume the Xibalbans were watching the compound, which meant that Sasha wound up under house arrest, at least until her bloodline ceremony.
It wasn’t the hardship it might have been. She studied. She cooked. And when she needed some peace, she went to the greenhouse, where Jox and Tomas made her welcome, giving her time and company when she wanted it, space when she needed it. And let her know that they would have wanted her there, even if Michael hadn’t asked them to make sure she felt at home.
In fact, she heard so many variations on the theme of “He told me, ‘Make her feel welcome, damn it!’ ” that she could almost hear the words in his too-familiar rasp. She was tempted to track him down and demand an explanation, but didn’t because he was so obviously avoiding her. And because she was determined not to chase affection. Never again. So instead she studied the magic that might soon be hers and tried to ignore the fact that it felt like Michael was courting her thirdhand while at the same time pushing her away.
That is, until one morning a few days before the full moon when she opened the door to her suite and found three file-size cardboard boxes sitting in the hallway just outside her door. Her name was written above the address for the postal drop-ship location the Nightkeepers used to maintain a layer of anonymity, and the boxes were plastered with stickers that read, FRAGILE, RUSH DELIVERY, and THIS END UP. Assuming the packages contained the new mixer and bowls she’d ordered online, she lugged them into her suite and attacked the first one, punching through the layers of tape with a kitchen knife.
Instead of commercial packing, she found wadded newspaper within. A white envelope lay on top, her name written across the front in spidery handwriting.
Familiar spidery handwriting.
“Ada?” Sasha whispered, nearly dropping to her knees when her legs went wobbly.
She reached for the envelope with trembling fingers, then hesitated, half afraid the note and boxes would disappear, proving to be a figment, a wish. Instead, the envelope crinkled beneath her touch. If this were a posthumous delivery, she had to assume Michael would have been there to break the news.
Or, more likely, sent an emissary. But this . . . this had to mean her friend was alive, that she’d survived the fire.
“Thank you, gods,” she whispered.
She opened the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper, then blinked back tears at the sight of the familiar stationary, which was watermarked at the top with Ada’s name intertwined with that of her husband, Charlie, who’d been gone nearly a decade but lived in her heart. Or so she’d always claimed. Dear Sasha, the letter read in Ada’s nearly illegible writing.
I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am to know that you’re okay. I’d be terribly mad at you, but your Michael explained about the robbery and witness protection, so I know you couldn’t have clued me in before the trial, and you can’t contact me yourself now.
Sasha’s mind stuttered a little, not just on the fabricated WitSec protection, which she supposed was as good a story as any to cover her disappearance, but on the words “your Michael.” She reread them a few times, then made herself move on.
The letter continued: When I told him that I’d moved out after you disappeared, but before the fire, your friend—and dare I hope he’s more to you?—asked me if I’d brought anything of yours with me, and of course I had. You asked me to look after things, and I did, even when they said you weren’t coming back.
So here are the survivors, dearest heart, packaged with my fondest wish that your new life is a wonderful one, and you find someone special to share it with—someone who’ll challenge you, make you crazy, make you bigger than you’d be on your own. Someone like my Charlie was to me.
That is what I wish for you, dear friend. But having seen your Michael, I wonder if you haven’t already found him?
It was signed, All my love, Ada, though Sasha almost couldn’t read the signature through the blur of tears.
In a flash, she was back in Ada’s pretty kitchen, fussing with a batch of spicy shrimp while her friend “fiddled around,” as she called it, padded violin tucked beneath her chin, rosined bow sliding smoothly as she segued from Beethoven to Bach, from Mozart to others Sasha couldn’t name, some that she suspected were Ada’s own creations. “Find yourself a good man,” the widow had often said, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Someone who’ll love you like my Charlie loved me.” After Saul, when Sasha had suffered through a series of bad first dates, and a few worse second ones, she’d decided Ada had gotten one of the good ones, that there might not be a Charlie for her.
Now, her eyes locked on the name in the last paragraph. Michael. He’d found Ada for her. He’d asked her to send . . . what?
She didn’t even care that her hands shook as she broke the seal on the top box, hardly daring to hope that Ada had—Yes, she had! The clay pots were packed one against the next, the greens protected with invert
ed Tupperware containers duct-taped into place, with airholes perforated into the top. “Hello,” she breathed, knowing she should probably feel like an idiot for talking to her plants, and not giving a crap. “Do you remember me?”
Laughing a little, crying a little, she unpacked all three boxes, which yielded eighteen pots, all but two of which were her personal cooking herbs. Those last two were the fat, furry African violets that always made her smile. And smile she did, as she watered her green friends and arranged the pots in her kitchen window, setting the few shade lovers off to the side. She stood back and felt a tear fall as she saw that she’d arranged them almost the same as they had been back in Boston. Then she swiped at her face, and told herself to pull it together as determination firmed within her.
She was going to track down Michael and thank him, whether he liked it or not.
Michael’s blood was running hot and hard as he blasted away with both autopistols, one in each hand, running through his clips without pause, then slapping a fresh pair home and getting back into it before the targets could even reset. He was jonesing to run and roll and kick some major ass, but Skywatch’s firing range was static. No Hogan’s Alley here—it was all paper targets and a half dozen pop-ups he’d already Swiss-cheesed into submission. He could’ve gone hunting for a partner for the techware laser tag he’d instituted a few months earlier; the high-grade military equipment was pretty close to the real thing—good enough for training runs, anyway. But he wasn’t in the mood for company; he was in the mood to blow some shit away.
The dam was intact, the sluiceways shut, but that didn’t seem to matter these days. His inner caveman was alive and well, and loose within his skull. He wanted to throw his head back, beat on his chest, and howl into the strange orange sun with frustration, anger, and the shitty unfairness of Sasha’s being there, yet beyond his reach. He couldn’t touch her, didn’t dare. Not when she was the one who’d stirred up the darkness within him, calling it so close to the surface. Too close.
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