Magic Unchained n-7

by Jessica Andersen

  She didn’t know when the angry heat had faded. All she knew was that she was suddenly cold, almost numb. “Because of the writs.” The Nightkeepers’ code spelled out a mage’s duty to act first for the gods and mankind, then his king and the other magi and on down, with family near the bottom of the list.

  He shook his head. “The writs aren’t the problem. I am. I can’t… I’m just not the kind of guy who sticks around. And as much as I wish I could change that—and by the gods, I do; I swear it—I can’t make myself stay put.” He spread his hands. “This is who I am.”

  It was stupid to be surprised or annoyed, yet she was suddenly both. “Bullshit. That’s a cop-out. People can change if they really want to.”

  “You’re thinking like a human. Be a winikin instead.” He tapped his forearm, where he wore the talent marks that said he was a warrior-translocator, capable of fighting, strategizing, and moving things with his mind. Most prominent, though, was the glyph designating him as a member of the coyote bloodline, with an additional circle and numerical dots representing his bond with Mac. “The bloodline stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason. The jaguars are stubborn, the eagles obsessive, the harvesters nurturing, and the coyotes… Well, the coyotes are loners, Cara, and footloose as hell.”

  “That’s…” Bullshit, she wanted to insist, but couldn’t. Because all of a sudden, Sven’s behavior—and her father’s refusal to blame him for it—crystallized in a way it never had before.

  The lean ranginess she had always admired in him, the faint air of wildness that clung to him no matter where he was or what he was wearing, yeah, that was pure coyote. And although the bloodline characteristics had always seemed like a convenient excuse, she’d seen other aspects of the magic at work. Hell, she’d experienced it herself. Given that she’d suffered a string of low-grade illnesses that had vanished the moment she set foot back inside Skywatch, who knew what other tendencies were programmed in at the DNA level?

  What if his inability to stay put and deal with real-life problems hadn’t been self-centeredness so much as an inborn need to roam? What then?

  As if she’d asked the question aloud, he said, “I didn’t know I was a coyote when we were younger. All I knew was that I’d rather be out in the backcountry than at home, and then, once I was away from the ranch, it was easier to keep going than it was to turn back… at least until I wound up here.” He indicated Skywatch and the box canyon surrounding them. “I’ve done my damnedest to stick it out. Learning to use the magic helped, I think, and swearing fealty to the king… But once Mac and I bonded, the restlessness came back. When I’m here, I feel caged in, claustrophobic.” He stretched his limbs, as if even that light layer of clothing was too restrictive. “Hell, even on the outside, I can’t stay in one place too long.”

  “You could fight it,” she said softly, though the words brought a twinge from her winikin self.

  Expression hollowing, he said, “I’ve tried to stay put, Cara. I swear I’ve tried. But the bloodline wins every time.” He paused, his expression flattening. “It’s no accident that I’m the only unmated Nightkeeper. Your dad told me once that the coyote magi didn’t usually have gods-destined mates. A few had familiars, like I do, but when it came to mates they tended to swing, no harm no foul; have your fun or even your kids and then move on.”

  She winced, but said, “That’s not your style.”

  “Isn’t it? I’ve never been in a relationship that lasted past the one-month mark.”

  “You didn’t leave any kids behind.”

  He shrugged. “Different time, different culture.”

  “You’re—” She bit off “not that guy,” not because it was untrue—coyote or not, he was a better man than that—but because she suddenly realized she had somehow fallen into winikin mode. She was soothing him when she really wanted to grab him by the collar and shake him until his perfect teeth rattled. But that was even worse, because it shouldn’t matter to her. He wasn’t her charge, wasn’t her responsibility, and he sure as hell wasn’t someone she should be wanting to make promises to her.

  This was a mistake. She should’ve left the wieners and Skittles in the hall, then knocked and bolted like it was some sort of apologetic practical joke.

  Before she could make an excuse and escape, though, he said, “The main thing I’ve figured out is that since I can’t change who I am, the best I can do is apologize and try my damnedest not to hurt anyone else.” He paused, then reached out to her. “I’m sorry for not being there when you needed me, Cara. Please forgive me.”

  She hesitated, torn by the part of her that still thought he could’ve gone against his nature if he’d truly wanted to. But in the end it didn’t matter, did it? She was getting the apology she’d never expected, the one she’d told herself not to need. So she took his hand. “Apology accepted. And thank you.”

  She’d meant to shake on it, but before she could make the move, he lifted their joined hands and pressed his lips to her knuckles. And although he’d probably meant it as a more-than-a-handshake gesture, it became far more than that in the moment his lips touched her skin.

  Heat seared from the point of contact, racing inward, tightening her chest and stealing her oxygen. Her head spun as all her perceptions suddenly focused on the pressure of his fingers, the soft warmth of his mouth, and the startlement in his eyes as they flew to hers and then darkened, letting her know that she wasn’t the only one feeling the unexpected sizzle.

  “Don’t,” she said. Her voice was little more than a whisper, and she wasn’t really sure which one of them she was talking to.

  “I won’t. I’m not. I didn’t mean… Shit. I’m sorry.” But although he lowered their hands, he didn’t let go. Instead he tugged her closer, so she was standing in the vee of his legs, near enough that she could feel the heat from his body.

  If her defenses had been low before, they were hell and gone now, lost beneath the sudden thunder of blood in her veins. She wanted to pull back but couldn’t make herself move; she wanted to look away but his eyes dominated her vision, drawing her in. “Sven?” she said softly, not even sure what she was asking.

  “It’s the magic,” he grated. “I used too much earlier and now I can’t… Damn it.”

  “You… Oh.” Excitement flared at the realization that she wasn’t the only one whose defenses were low. Except in his case he was trying to block the powerful, sensual magic of a full-fledged—and unmated—Nightkeeper male, the sex magic that kicked in when his other reserves were drained.

  He tightened his grip on her hand. “You should go.”

  “I know.” But she stayed put, rooted by a sudden urgency that came not from the magic, but from her earlier encounter with Zane and the little voice inside her that sometimes whispered that she was remembering it wrong, that she was looking for something that didn’t really exist outside her girlhood fantasies.

  “Seriously. You need to leave.” His free hand came up to touch her cheek and his eyes went dark and intense.

  “In a minute. First, I have a confession.” She hesitated. “I wasn’t being entirely honest earlier when I said the kiss was no big deal. It was, though not the way you were thinking. It’s more that I’ve always compared other guys to what I felt that day. But lately I’ve been wondering… what if that wasn’t that great?” Though the way her pulse was throbbing now suggested that the sparks had been real and, more, that the attraction had persisted despite the many times he’d disappointed her.

  His eyes darkened, but instead of arguing, he rasped, “Last chance to leave, Cara.”

  But the pressure of his hands drew her toward him instead, overriding the part of her that said she should stop, pull back, think this through. “I don’t want to,” she said, though her voice nearly cracked on the words. “I want you to kiss me instead, like before. One kiss, and then you ride off and don’t look back.” That was what made the experiment okay, the knowledge that he wouldn’t be around for long. “I want—”

&n
bsp; “Time’s up.” Eyes flaring with a wildness that set fire to her blood, he moved in on her, curled his fingers around her hips, and kissed her.

  Dear gods in the sky, he kissed her. And she had her answer.

  As a teenager, she had kissed him and felt sparks. Now, as an adult, there were fireworks, lightning, and more. The sensations seared through her, making her head spin and forcing her to clutch at his arms to keep her balance in a world gone suddenly off-kilter.

  She had kissed plenty of guys, slept with a few, and had enjoyed herself just fine, but where before she had wondered why some of her friends put up with bad relationships to get good loving, now she understood. Because as he pulled her into his body so they were touching from hip to brow, curled together as if they truly fit, desire overran her thinking like it never had before.

  She reveled in the press of his muscles and the hard ridge of his erection through the soft, yielding fleece of his sweats, and ran her hands over him, kneading as he kissed slowly, deeply, thoroughly. He didn’t ask; he took. He didn’t seduce; he demanded. And she went weak and pliant against him. Heat thrummed, coalescing in her core, wetting her and making her want. Her breasts were heavy and aching, demanding that she rub against him, and a moan rolled from the back of her throat when he reached to cup one of them and stroke his thumb across a peaked nipple. Gods.

  She dragged her teeth along his lower lip, nipped his chin, and he growled and reclaimed her mouth in a dark, hot kiss that had her swaying against him, needing him. Their breathing synched, their flavors mingled, and what little coherent thought remained inside her centered on a single word: more. She wanted more of the kiss, more of his touch on her body, more of his skin against hers. She reached for the zipper of his sweatshirt, wanting to touch his skin, taste it, and—

  Zzziip. The sound was loud and shocking in a room gone silent except for their breathing, and it jolted her back to reality. She jerked away. Oh, gods. She had been kissing Sven. Devouring him. Another few minutes—or a quieter zipper—and she might’ve been naked with him.

  Naked. With Sven.

  A sharp burst of desire lashed through her, but then turned to a flush of something that wasn’t quite horror, but was close. And in his eyes, she saw the same progression, the same endpoint of, What in the hell are we doing?

  They let go of each other, opening their hands in mirrored moves of not touching you, and she backed away. Her heart thundered in her ears; her breath rasped in her lungs, quick with excitement and a burgeoning fight-or-flight response that said to run, to get the hell out of there and not look back.

  But that would be admitting that she couldn’t handle herself—couldn’t handle him—and she wasn’t about to do that. So she exhaled softly and said, “Well. That answers that question with a resounding, ‘Yes, it really can feel that good.’ Now I just need to find that kind of chemistry with a guy who isn’t allergic to boundaries.”

  His eyes darkened. “Cara—”

  “Don’t.” She held up a hand. “Please.” She didn’t want to know that what they had just felt was more than good chemistry, more than sparks on steroids. “Just leave it, okay? What happened here… it didn’t mean anything, doesn’t change anything. Besides, a hundred bucks says you’ll be out of here in a few days.” She forced a thin-feeling smile. “Dez isn’t going to let you and Mac lounge around here for long.”

  He didn’t return the smile. “What if we stayed put?”

  Back in the day, she would’ve given anything for the offer. Now she couldn’t let it matter. “Don’t, at least not on my account, not thinking that something could happen between us.”

  “I’m pretty sure it just did.” His low words threatened to send a zing of renewed excitement through her bloodstream. She was highly conscious of the way his unzipped shirt hung open, baring his torso. The play of light and shadow on that warm-toned skin, along with the burn in her blood and the taste of him on her lips, made her want to touch him, lick him, pick up where they had left off and never stop.

  Bad idea.

  “Maybe, but it’s not going to happen again.” She backed away a couple more steps, putting herself closer to the door and far enough from him that she couldn’t feel the warmth of his body against her skin. “Even if we were any good for each other, the last thing I want to do is give the winikin another reason to dislike me. Which means staying away from you for the next three months.”

  “And after that?”

  “If we make it past the zero date, I’m cutting ties and getting out of here. I’m going to give myself a fresh start”—she met his eyes—“maybe even a new identity.” She didn’t think she could make it any plainer than that. She didn’t want to be a winikin, didn’t want to stay in touch with the Nightkeepers, didn’t even want the last two members of her crumpled family to be able to find her. She would be alone, adrift… and, for the first time in her life, entirely free. And, gods, it sounded glorious.

  At the same time, though, sadness struck her as she looked at him, knowing that when they said good-bye after the war, it would be for good. Always before, he’d been the one taking off. Soon it would be her turn, gods willing.

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, quietly, he said, “You deserve to be happy, Cara. If starting over is what it’s going to take, then do it.” There was an echo of grief in his voice, banked resignation in his eyes. Those two emotions were so foreign to the guy he used to be that she almost reached out to comfort him.

  She didn’t, though, because this wasn’t about her being a winikin. It was about being her own person, damn it. So she met his eyes and refused to acknowledge the ache. “I won’t be starting over. I’ll be learning how to be me for the first time in my life.”

  He didn’t say anything for a long moment, and the silence tightened the air between them. For a crazy second that was as much a teenage flashback as anything, she imagined him crossing to her and going to one knee as he begged her to reconsider, to give him a chance. He didn’t move, though, except to glance in the direction of the spare room as if he’d heard something. “Go,” he said softly. “If you leave now, we can both pretend nothing happened.”

  “Sven, I—”

  “Just go.”

  She swallowed hard, then nodded and headed for the door, feeling as if she were being carried there by someone else’s feet. Pausing on the threshold, she said without looking back, “You guys be careful out there, okay?”

  “You too. Take care.” It was as much of a dismissal as a good-bye would’ve been.

  Which was for the best, she told herself as she pushed through into the hallway. But as the door closed behind her, she had to swallow past panic and blink away tears. And when she headed for the shortcut leading through the winikin’s wing, she felt like she was leaving a part of herself behind.

  As the door thunked shut, a low whine sounded from behind Sven.

  “It’s okay, buddy.” He turned as Mac slunk in. He had been aware that the coyote had returned; he’d felt the change in the bond strength, and had caught a mental whiff of concern. Now, though, while Mac had his ears flat in sympathy, his pale green eyes were accusatory, seeming to say, Well, that didn’t go the way you planned, did it?

  Okay, that was a stretch—Sven’s familiar communicated more in impressions and emotions than actual words—but the question hung in his mind as Mac came up beside him and nudged his hand. The coyote’s fur carried the scent of open air and high plateaus, and stirred something hungry and restless inside Sven even beyond the now-draining buzz of sex magic.

  Hunkering down, he dug his fingers into Mac’s ruff for a good scratching, needing the contact as much as his familiar did right then, because, yeah, that hadn’t gone at all the way he had planned. My fault, he thought. He had put off talking to Carlos because he was still thinking over Dez’s request, and there was no way he could apologize on the one hand and spy on the other. But because he’d been stalling—on both making a decision and facing the difficult conversati
ons—Cara had gotten the drop on him, and he had fumbled. Badly.

  And then he’d kissed her.

  A low growl rumbled in Mac’s chest, though Sven wasn’t sure if the coyote was picking up on the vibes or trying to get him to scratch harder.

  He dug into the spot as he said, “That shouldn’t have happened. Seriously. What kind of a jackass am I? I apologize to her and then go right back and do it again.” Granted, he believed her when she said the kiss hadn’t scarred her for life—he’d been reaching on that one, had known it pretty much all along. And, yes, she had wanted the kiss, had asked for it, even… which was why he’d done it, really. Not because he’d wanted to help her out with her future comparisons, but because it had pissed him off. He didn’t want to imagine her with other men, hated the image of her walking away from Skywatch—from him—and not looking back.

  Mac flinched and flashed his teeth, warning Sven that he was holding on way too hard.

  “Sorry.” He eased up, scratched the spot on the big coyote’s shoulder where he’d dug in, and then stood. He was suddenly restless, feeling caged by the room and the situation—hell, by his own damn clothes. He wanted to pace and growl, wanted to race naked through the afternoon heat, wanted to snap his fingers and be on a beautiful beach with an uncomplicated hookup. That was how he was supposed to do things: no regrets, always looking forward to the next wave, the next port, the next adventure.

  And now… shit, he didn’t know what was next.

  Mac whined and shifted, picking up on Sven’s urges. Hell, maybe he was even contributing to them—he’d been restless and frustrated lately, constantly on the lookout for a female of his kind. Sven hadn’t been able to find others; heck he wasn’t even sure where Mac had come from. So, for the moment, at least, the coyote was riding the celibacy train. Which probably explained his fascination with Cara, and why he squirmed like an idiot puppy whenever he saw her.

  “She brought you weiners,” Sven said, plucking the Skittles off the couch and jiggling the bag in his hand. The candies shifted and clinked like little stones, bringing memories of a wide-eyed girl who had hustled him out of his allowance and into doing her chores. That same girl—now a grown woman—had faced down hellspawn with nothing more than a MAC-10 and a ’tude. And then she had kissed him and walked away. Just like he needed to do.