Emma waited until the doors shut behind him to push her seat back and stand.
“Don’t,” Red said. “Mayhap you shouldn’t go after him.”
“Maybe not.” She gave him and fern a tight smile. “But I’m going.”
Seshua was standing at the porch rail, looking out over the flat scrub desert that stretched for miles beyond the Roadhouse. At least he looked like he was looking at it. The morning was overcast, storm darkening the eastern sky, and cold, not that Seshua would notice. Emma approached slowly, giving him time to tell her to get lost. When he didn’t, she stepped up beside him.
His skin was the same color as the storm clouds, and he smelled like jungle and lightning, but he was warm. He didn’t look at her.
“I came so close, in Russia, to having you. Making you mine. No,” he cut her off as she opened her mouth to speak, and his voice roughened. “I’m not talking about the sex, though I am sure it would be sweet, and I’m not talking about the power, either.” He looked down at his hands, turning them palm up, as though searching for something he’d misplaced. “I’m talking about the piece of me that belongs to you, that I gave you through the unfinished ritual, back before I understood who and what you are.” He closed his hands into fists. “Something in me yearns to finish it, not to gain power, but because I am helpless as I am now. I cannot protect you. I cannot shield you. I cannot lend you my strength, and I cannot win you. Everything I am, I am because I was born to this and raised to find and keep you, and now I am completely fucking useless.”
Emma tried not to stare at him in disbelief — the Jaguar King was having a midlife crisis. “I’m not a prize to be won, Seshua. Believe me, I’d rather have been won than stolen, but I’m still not a prize. I’m a person. You know that.”
He laughed, a short and bitter sound. “You keep trying to remind us, and we keep forgetting.”
She shrugged. “It’s okay. That happens when you’re super old.” His laugh was genuine this time, and the scent of jungle got a little fainter.
She studied him while he still wouldn’t meet her eyes. Of all the ancient and powerful creatures Emma had met, he was the one who looked most like a god, and who acted like it; every compromise she’d ever managed to wrestle out of him had more to do with the compulsion of the unfinished binding ritual than it did with any give on his part.
Seshua didn’t give, he maneuvered.
The only time he’d ever shown any other colors was in Russia, when she’d asked him to complete the ritual to awaken her powers fully, so she could save Katenka.
Every single day since, Emma had struggled with what seemed like an impossible dilemma: if she had completed the ritual with Seshua that day, instead of asking for time to come to terms with what she was about to do, she would never have ended up at Alan’s mercy.
Sure, she might still have been taken, but things would have gone a lot differently. She would have been stronger, better able to fight back. Katenka would’ve been stronger too. More importantly, Alan wouldn’t have had the leverage to force her into anything.
However, if she’d completed the ritual with Seshua, she might have never discovered what happened to Rain’s brother, Storm.
And then there was Alexi. She’d wondered if what was happening between her and him — if in fact there was anything happening — would have ever had a chance to take its first breath, if not for what happened in Russia.
Sometimes, when the voice of her own trauma got loud and desperate, she wondered if she had been punished by fate for wanting more than she had a right to want, asking for more than she had a right to ask.
Maybe what happened in Russia was simply the price of her own ignorance, for asking for too much and thinking there would be no consequences.
It sounded stupid, and it was stupid — it was the trauma talking. As she’d said to Fern, she didn’t have to accept what happened to her as a fair price for finding out about Rain’s brother, or for saving Katenka — or for whatever was kindling between her and Alexi.
Those things were very fine, and she was thankful for them. But the price had been too high.
“Seshua,” Emma said quietly, leaning against the porch rail, close enough to feel his furnace heat.
He still didn’t look at her, and answered faintly, as though he’d gone somewhere far away in his mind. “Yes, Emmalina.”
“I wish you’d been the one,” she said. He didn’t move, but she heard his breath grind to a halt, sensed his sudden tension. “I was ready to choose, and I chose you. I wasn’t happy about it, but I also believed you when you said you’d be good to me.”
After a long moment, Seshua’s tension eased. “I wish that too, pequeña ,” he said in the tired voice he’d only started using since Russia. “But it matters not. The jaguar kingdom was never meant to hold your power.”
Emma frowned, then remembered where she’d heard that before, and looked up at him sharply. “That’s exactly what Alexi said when I decided to go through with the ritual. Am I missing something here?” When he didn’t respond, she put on her scary voice. “Seshua…”
He sighed. “This is not the time.”
“Seshua. ”
“Fine,” he snapped, twitching like a disgruntled cat. “Before my father died, his royal oracle Beata had a prophetic dream, or so she claimed, that told her the jaguar kingdom was not fated to hold the power of the Caller of the Blood.”
Beata was Ricky and Anton’s mom. She’d rebelled against the jaguar kingdom, fled, and lived a long, long life before meeting Ricky and Anton’s dad. Tragically, he’d died before Ricky was old enough to remember him, and Beata had died when Ricky was fifteen. But before she died, she made Telly promise to watch over her sons and help them find Emma.
“Telly mentioned this once,” she said, managing not to stumble over Telly’s name. “He said he and Beata didn’t agree with some of your dad’s ideas concerning the prophecies. He made it sound like you were sympathetic to them, at first.”
Seshua huffed a humorless laugh. “They tried to convince my father, and when that did not work, they tried to convince me. Together, Telly and Alexi could be very…compelling. And I was already in love with Beata.” Seshua swallowed, throat clicking. “But then my father began to waste.”
Holy. Shit.
Talk about an info-bomb. He’d been in love with Ricky and Anton’s mom? And his dad died of the wasting disease? And Telly and Alexi had been friends?
“Seshua…”
“It took him quickly,” he continued, as though she hadn’t spoken, but his voice was harder now and his words came faster. “It seems the purer the lineage, the more susceptible we are to the illness. My mother died of it when I was too young to remember her.”
Emma cleared her throat, blinking back unexpected tears and biting back questions that seemed rude in light of this last revelation. “Do you have anything of hers?” She asked instead.
Seshua snorted. “I put away such things when I ascended my father’s throne and took up his cause.” He made a bitter sound. “I was so determined to prove them all wrong. But Betty’s dream was right. She claimed not to know who would eventually anchor your power, but I’ve wondered often if she knew more than she said. Perhaps that is what drove the wedge between Alexi and the walking god. But it doesn’t matter now, does it. I was never meant to hold you, and I cannot even protect you.”
She wanted so badly to ask what the hell he meant about driving a wedge between Alexi and Telly, but she needed Seshua fully operational. A serious pep talk was required.
“What makes you say you can’t protect me?” Emma asked. “Isn’t that what you’re doing now?”
He scoffed harshly. “Hiding you is what I’m doing now. If your powers are tied to Alexi, he is the one whose power and allegiance will shield you.”
“Says who?”
He finally looked down at her, nostrils flaring and brows lowered. “That is how it is.”
“Why?”
A grow
l trickled out of him. “You are like a child, all these questions, Emmalina. You do not understand —”
“I understand plenty, your Majesty. I understand you. Strangely enough, I trust you, because I know that you’ll always put yourself first, and that just so happens to mean putting me first too, because in spite of what I’ve said and how you feel right now, I know you’ll probably never stop trying to win me.” He was staring at her like she’d grown an extra head, so she hurried on. “Alexi has his hands full with the serpent priesthood and whatever comes next, and I have no idea what the connection between me and him means. I don’t want his power or allegiance. I want yours.”
“You do not love me,” Seshua said.
Heart thudding heavily in her chest, Emma kept her cool. “You don’t love me, either,” she pointed out. “That’s kinda why it works. We don’t need to love each other, I’m not talking about the ritual — the ritual’s done — I’m talking about loyalty.”
Expression thoughtful now, he nodded once, and crossed his arms. “You are talking about war. And you are right. Alexi made a mistake keeping this from you and from the rest of us, and he made that mistake because his feelings eclipsed his good judgment.” Seshua nodded again; Emma wasn’t sure she agreed with him, but she was glad to see him no longer on the edge of despair, and besides, she really didn’t want to discuss her feelings for Alexi with Seshua any more than she already had.
She didn’t want Alexi’s power or his allegiance — she wanted something more, and she had no idea if Alexi wanted that too, or if it was even possible.
“If this is a war, Seshua, how do we win it?”
“With power,” he answered.
Emma bit her lip. “What power?”
His sigh carried the scent of dark green leaves and electricity, and his hair moved in a wind that wasn’t there as he contemplated that question. “Yesterday, I would have said Alexi. His is the only power that can overcome the serpent priesthood, or so I thought, but if they have defied him and are powers in their own right, then I don’t know. I won’t know until I speak to him.”
If he spoke to him, Emma thought. Anything could have happened to Alexi. She thought she’d know if he was dead — their powers were tied together — but she wasn’t sure.
“Well,” Seshua said. “Perhaps there’s something we can —”
Whatever he said was drowned out by Fern’s mental scream and the wave of panic that crashed into Emma through the merge.
11
“He tried to Travel!” Fern yelled at them as Emma and Seshua slammed through the Roadhouse doors. “He was gone a few seconds, came back like this.” Red Sun was on his back on the floor and it looked like he was having a seizure. Fern was trying to restrain him. An awful grizzling sound keened from Red’s throat, and his eyes were rolled back, and red-tinged foam flecked his chin and chest. Emma hoped to any god who might listen that Red had bitten his tongue and the blood didn’t come from more vital places.
“Seshua, roll him to his side and hold him down,” Emma ordered. “And give me your belt.” The belt slapped into her hand and Seshua dropped to his knees, hooked a leg over Red Sun’s legs to control the kicking, and pinned Red in place. Red kept seizing.
“Fern, hold his head for me.” It was like wrestling a bear. Seshua absorbed the force of Red’s thrashing, but the effort was visible, and cords stood out on Fern’s arms as he struggled to hold Red’s head still. Without regard for Red’s comfort, Emma shoved the leather belt into his mouth, working it between his teeth as Red’s jaw chattered and more blood-flecked spittle flew. Somehow she got it threaded and cinched behind his head. That was when Red’s arm thrashed free and hit her in the chest, except the hand on the end of his arm had short brown fur and claws.
Emma felt heat punch through her but no pain. That was bad. She met Fern’s eyes as he looked up at her in horror. “Did the serpent priests do this to him? Did he say anything?”
Fern shook his head just as Red’s mental voice burst into her mind. I was stubborn. Tried to. Break their shields. His heels drummed the floor, and his body bucked off the ground in spite of Seshua holding him down. White light started to seep off his skin. Blood trickled down his chin, bright, bright red. Shouldn’t have done that.
Emma put both hands on his chest to try to help keep him still. “What do we do?”
Fern shook his head at Seshua when the king opened his mouth to reply, and understanding smoothed Seshua’s forehead, but Red didn’t answer her.
Red! What do we —
Don’t let me change. Too damaged. My b-b-b-brain. I’ll hurt you.
What else!
Fuck it all to blazes, flower, there’s nothing. Nothing. Nnnnnnnn —
Red began to glow, and blood flowed down his chin, and there was no time left. Emma reached inside herself to the place that made her what she was, the place that bound her not to any one shapechanger but to the magic that ran through them all, and opened the Call.
Power made every hair on Emma’s body stand up. Fern gasped. Seshua growled. The call was like metaphysical sonar, and she felt their beasts, but more importantly she felt Red’s beast, roaring in confusion and terror as his brain misfired over and over again.
BE STILL, she commanded his beast, halting the change.
Red went stiff as a surfboard. Emma’s hands started to go numb as magic swirled around them, filling the space between her body and Red, thrumming to the time of her pulse. Red’s pulse slowed to match hers; his eyes were still rolled back, jaw hard as rock as he bit helplessly into the leather belt, and the blood flowing down over his chin and chest didn’t slow.
She’d managed to stop him from changing, but he was dying, she had no doubt. The scent of magic and blood slid down Emma’s throat, coating her tongue with the taste of him, pine and copper and —
This was what she was made for. She was a lock, and blood was the key.
Red, are you still with me? Can you hear me?
Sweetheart. His mental voice sounded drunk. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to get killed.
Red, open the call.
He jerked. What?
She tightened her fists in his tank top, blood squelching between her fingers. The pledge, Red, make the pledge!
He didn’t answer. There was no way to tell if he understood her or not; the whites of his eyes had gone bloodshot, and now his nose was bleeding. There was no time! Emma breathed in, feeling his beast curl and flex between them, closed her eyes, and told his beast to open the call.
It worked. His power jumped to welcome her, engulfing her in his freezing, stinging sweet aura. The connection was made.
Please, Red, make the pledge.
He went into cardiac arrest.
Emma pressed her face to his shoulder and screamed in denial.
The scream cut off abruptly when Fern pushed the power of his own beast into her through the merge. Dark and smoky and coldly indifferent, it filled her up and emptied her at the same time, but he wasn’t done; power coursed through her, the twisting storm of their lifeforces combined via the merge, and Fern gathered it all and blasted it at Red Sun.
With the call opened both ways, the effect was like electricity: it stopped Red’s heart. Stopped the heart attack. For a moment Emma was deaf and blind, and then she looked up into Fern’s face, saw determination in eyes that were black from lid to lid, and felt Red’s heart heal itself and start to beat again.
She looked down. Red’s face was slack, eyes closed. He’d bitten through the belt with teeth that belonged not to a man but to a bear.
One eye cracked open, blood-red from the burst vessels and not focused on anything. His breath rattled in his chest. Emma’s heart broke; he might be breathing again, but they’d failed, they couldn’t possibly bring him back from this.
His mind brushed hers, more beast than human. I would be willing sacrifice to your altar.
Emma cried out. The world tilted as the ritual words hit her.
Red coughed. My body
is proof of the pledge. Emma’s breath came faster; Red’s other eye opened, though he still couldn’t focus. Do you accept?
Words almost running together she shouted: “My body is vessel for the blood and I accept! ”
Seshua said something in a language Emma didn’t recognize — it sounded like a prayer — but she could see nothing but Red’s face, do nothing but hold onto him as the pledge reconfigured reality. The magic of the pledge pressed down on them both, heavy and warm, aching, straining to claim them — the need, the desire, deeper than sex, to finish it — and Emma forced air into her lungs as she rode the power, waiting for the next words to come, the words she’d never learned but somehow knew, words that belonged to the power that made her what she was.
“Your body is proof of the pledge,” she whispered. “But your blood is the pledge itself. My body is vessel for the blood, and I am the caller of the blood.” Then she leaned into the bend of Red’s neck, because there was nowhere else to do what she needed to do, tightened her grip on his blood soaked shirt, and bit him.
Human teeth weren’t meant for breaking skin, and a human bite involved more crushing force and bruising than it did piercing and tearing. To bite deep enough to make blood flow, you had to open your mouth wide so your side molars could get purchase, bite hard and fast, and make sure you weren’t aiming for any tendons because they were impossible to chew through.
Emma didn’t ever have to learn any of that; it simply came to her through the path that the ritual opened, and her body knew what to do.
The moment Red’s blood hit her tongue, the world shattered. There was a roaring in Emma’s ears like the ocean, and her body sang like a struck bell, and Red’s pulse ran like a river through them both, matching the beat of Emma’s heart. Then she swallowed, finishing it, sealing the pledge.
Suddenly she was on her back with Red Sun on top of her.
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