“Weapon, yes,” Michael muttered under his breath. “Control, maybe.” Was that what was going on with him? Were the lies and rationalizations evidence that the silver magic was corrupting him? Or had he come precorrupted, thanks to the Other? And how the hell did a government-created alternate personality relate to the ancestral magic that preceded Nightkeeper power? More, how was Sasha involved with the Other and the magic? Iago had implied that she was important to his transformation, and that his transformed self would be of use to the Xibalbans, and that fit with the way she broke through his defenses without trying. But at the same time, there had been moments when touching her, being with her, had helped level him off, as though she strengthened not only the monster inside him, but the man. And it wasn’t like he could tell her any of what was going on—he’d tried earlier, and had vapor locked on the words. As far as she knew, he was . . . hell, he didn’t know what she thought he was at this point. All he knew was that he couldn’t risk it, couldn’t risk her. Not until he knew what he was, and why Iago wanted him.
“Shit,” he muttered. “We need more info, as usual.”
“Was that what you were looking for?” asked Jade from her desk in the corner.
“Yeah, thanks,” he answered, but he doubted she heard him. She hadn’t looked up from what she was doing, and her tone had suggested she was mostly asking to be polite, and to indicate that she could make herself available if he needed help. All of which was quintessential Jade—always supportive, always there. Even after the talent ceremony, when he’d been too screwed up to continue as her lover, she’d tried to help him.
I’m sorry we couldn’t bring Lucius back with us, he wanted to say. He didn’t, though, because she’d already made it clear she didn’t want to talk about it. She preferred to deal with her problems alone, in silence. He could relate, though in his case it wasn’t necessarily a preference. Fuck it, he thought. He was so damn tired of being alone in a house full of people.
Then, knowing that swearing about it wasn’t going to get the job done, he printed the page and closed the file. After a quick glance to make sure that she’d gone back to her work, he tapped a few keys, got into the code, and, with a twinge of guilt that was weaker than it should have been, he deleted the file, scrubbed it from the directory, and replaced the citation with a dupe of another page he pulled at random.
As he headed out of the archive, sketching a wave, he sought the back of his brain, expecting to find one of the sluiceways cracked, letting through the dishonesty he associated with the Other.
It was shut. That move had come entirely from him.
Shit. Michael stalled in the hallway, not liking that realization one bit. He didn’t want to be the liar, didn’t want to be corrupted. But at the same time he couldn’t stop thinking of what Lucius had written. It’d be a hell of a weapon. And it would. It had killed the red-robe but spared Sasha, who’d been slung over the man’s shoulder. More, the power had felt bottomless. What if, rather than transforming to the monster within, which was what he suspected Iago had meant, he became a man capable of wielding the monster’s power on behalf of the Nightkeepers?
Or was that nothing more than rationalization?
Frustration kicked in his veins, bringing a wash of anger that warned he wasn’t quite as in control as he’d thought. He’d been planning to head for his suite, but detoured for the sliders instead, knowing it was time to burn off some steam. Over the months, he’d learned that it wasn’t enough to be mentally strong. Sometimes he just had to go kick the shit out of something.
A too-tempting target presented itself when Tomas appeared in the doorway leading to the main mansion, his expression thunderous.
Michael held up a hand. “I’m really not—”
“I don’t really give a shit if you’re in the mood or not, Romeo.” The winikin closed on him, five foot six of pissed-off moral compass intent on beating some sense into his charge’s head. “You need to stop fucking around here.”
Right, Michael thought, because your telling me what to do has worked so well in the past. “I’m doing the best I know how to do,” he said finally. “And that’s all I’m going to say about it.” Except he knew that wouldn’t be enough for the winikin. How many times had they gone around in some form or another of this argument?
The winikin just shook his head in disgust. “Your mother and father would be ashamed.”
Fuck. Anger slapped through Michael, rage and shame mingled into a nasty, vicious brew as Tomas went right for the jugular. His fingers twitched for the knife he wore strapped to his ankle, but he left it sheathed. The blade had been his father’s, one of the few pieces he had that connected him to his bloodline. Michael wasn’t as into the whole “what has happened before will happen again” as some of the others were, and didn’t base his life on the history and predilections of his bloodline as much as he might, but he’d done his homework, and knew something of his parents. Jeraden and Silva Stone had been loyal soldiers, strong magi. And in a bloodline that had a reputation for producing more than its share of unmated bachelors, depressives, and suicides, they had found the strong, binding love that had earned them the matching jun tan forearm marks of a love match, a mated pair. They had lived together, loved together, borne a son together. And they had died together in service to their king. Theirs was an honorable legacy. His fuckups were his own.
“Leave them out of this,” he said tightly.
“Get your head out of your ass, boy,” Tomas bitched. “You and Jade weren’t a match. Fine. But are you going to look me in the eye and tell me that the gods themselves didn’t put Sasha in your path?”
“The intersection’s gone. The gods can’t reach us anymore.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.” The only one he could give.
The winikin glared up at him. “When did you get to be such a prick?”
Takes one to know one, Michael would’ve said on another day, during another fight, and they would’ve been off down another familiar loop. But the anger was too close to the surface now, the violence too tempting, the Other too near. “Do us both a favor and leave it. I don’t want to hurt you.”
The winikin’s eyes went wide and he fell back a step. “Michael? Are you okay?”
Michael didn’t have an answer for him, so he did the only thing he knew how to do these days to keep himself from doing something terrible: He walked away.
Pushing past the winikin, he headed down the hallway toward the main mansion, ridden hard by jagged teeth of anger, and the tight rein he held on it. When Tomas called his name, he almost didn’t turn back. But although the affection had long ago bled from their relationship, their history remained. Michael stopped and looked at his winikin. “Yeah?”
Bleakness edged the other man’s eyes. “I’m asking you, as a personal favor, to go talk to Sasha. You didn’t see the look on her face when you took off with Jade.”
Michael stifled a curse; he hadn’t even thought that one through. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Don’t tell me. Tell her.”
For a change, he couldn’t argue with his winikin. “Where is she?”
“I think she was headed outside to find Jox. So probably the garden or the greenhouse.”
Michael nodded. “Okay. That much I can do.”
But as he cut through the deserted great room and headed outside, frustrated excitement kindled at the thought of seeing her again. His skin heated as his mind filled with the memory of losing himself inside her. He wanted to taste her vitality again, wanted her chocolate brown eyes laughing up at him, challenging him. He wanted to know she was okay after everything that had happened, wanted to tell her it would get better, even if that was a lie.
But he couldn’t go to her, didn’t dare. The blood ward surrounding Skywatch might protect them from enemy magic coming from outside the shield, but it didn’t quell magic coming from within, dark or otherwise. And right now, with hi
s desire gone silver around the edges and the killing rage held back by only a thin grip on sanity, he didn’t know if he could, either.
Feeling the darkness rise up within, he turned away from the path leading to the greenhouse and headed off in the other direction instead, toward the ball court, out of sight of the others. He knew only one sure way to regain his center, his control.
He would fight himself. And, gods willing, he would win.
Jox’s garden was a wide, rectangular swath of rich dark earth that contrasted sharply with the arid surroundings, making Sasha suspect that the humus had been trucked in. Several different varieties of maize grew in graceful rows along one side, nearly ready for harvest, while squash, pumpkins, and other late-season vegetables grew on the other side. Above and around the crops, PVC pipes showed where an irrigation system made up for what the skies didn’t provide in the way of moisture, and reflective screens and frost-retarding drapes were stacked against a nearby shed. The setup was expensive and extravagant, but she was pitifully grateful for the splurge as she crouched down, pressing her palms to the moist, yielding surface. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling a layer of tension ebb.
Even if she hadn’t needed to speak with Jox, she would’ve visited the greenhouse sooner rather than later, because her love of green plants was second only to her love of cooking; truly, the two were intertwined. Although she’d never had the space to grow more than a window-box garden, the feel of soil against her palms had always soothed her, centered her. And she was sorely in need of peace just then.
Beside the garden loomed a geodesic greenhouse formed of a central dome and several radiating spokes. The complicated setup—again, top-of-the-line, like everything she’d seen within Skywatch so far—was geared to use solar energy for heating, cooling, and regulating humidity. She was impressed even before she slipped through the door. Then she got her first look at the plants being grown inside, and was blown away.
She stopped just inside the door. “Wow.”
Instead of a traditional central aisle and square planting beds or tables leading off it, a pathway of textured cement wound through the space, twisting among potting tables and beds full of knee-high flowering plants, then disappearing into a grove of sour oranges and thin-skinned key limes. The air inside was moist and redolent with the fragrances of fruits and flowers, the earthy smell of compost, the sharp tang of granular fertilizer. Music emerged from speakers set high around the space, something with a country twang, turned to a low murmur.
She inhaled deeply, drawing in the fragrances of a hundred different flowers and the perfect smell of moist earth. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flutter of movement as a butterfly wafted on an unseen air current, lifting to alight on the fine sprinkler mesh overhead.
Jox was just inside, perched on a metal stool pulled up to one of the potting benches, where he was transplanting small, delicate shoots from peat pots to five-inch rounds. He glanced over at her, his eyes kind. “I had a feeling you’d find your way here.”
“Strike said you could hook me up with a room that has an actual bed.”
“And you have questions, and need a moment of peace, away from the others.”
A layer of tension fell away, and she exhaled. “Oh, holy shit. Do I ever.”
Jox nudged another of the metal stools with a foot. “Have a seat.” He pushed one of the flats of peat pots toward her, along with some larger pots. “Transplant.”
She climbed onto the stool, took a peat pot and turned it in her fingers. It was very real, very mundane. “I don’t know where to start,” she said, meaning the questions, not the potting.
“It’ll come to you. But work while you talk.”
She started transferring the seedlings to their new homes, and was soothed almost immediately by the rhythm, the winikin’s undemanding silence, and the flicker of butterfly wings here and there. “Tell me about Michael,” she said finally. It probably shouldn’t have been the topic foremost on her mind, but there it was. She’d dreamed of him, had sex with him, been dumped by him, all in the space of twenty-four hours. An entire relationship done on fast-forward.
The winikin hesitated, as though weighing his response. “If you had asked me about him a year ago, I would’ve said he was a classic example of a male of the stone bloodline. They generally come in two flavors: Most of them are handsome and charming, but not stayers—the type who wind up bachelor uncles rather than mated fathers. They’re good in a fight, but don’t go beyond what’s asked of them. In the second category are the heavyweights, like his parents. They fight fiercely, love fiercely, protect fiercely—and often burn out early, like shooting stars.”
“I take it Michael’s a type A Stone?”
“Up until this past spring, I would’ve put him firmly in the first category. Slick and charming but . . . a little insubstantial. He was here, but he wasn’t always present, if you know what I mean. Particularly after his talent ceremony, it seemed like he was always locked away in his room, on his phone, doing some sort of business. He was edgy, jittery, always looking over his shoulder. If anything, I’d say that back then he was waiting for something.”
“What?”
“Not sure. Whatever it was, I think he found it, or dealt with it, or whatever, right after the spring solstice. It wasn’t an overnight change, but looking back, it was pretty abrupt. Over the space of maybe a month, he went from business casual and vodka tonics to muscle shirts and beer. Not that there’s anything wrong with nice clothes and expensive drinks, but they never quite seemed to suit him, like they were an act. Anyway, after that, the personal phone disappeared, and he started sitting in on council meetings and working like hell on his magic.”
“What happened in the spring?”
Jox lifted a shoulder. “A whole bunch of things: Nate and Alexis became mates, Lucius went makol and disappeared, Rabbit escaped from Iago and came back with Myrinne, the magi fought the Banol Kax at the hellmouth, Iago destroyed the intersection. . . . I’m not sure which of those things, if any, triggered the changes.” The winikin paused. “Please understand that I wouldn’t be telling you this if I didn’t consider you an interested party.”
She smiled with little humor. “Let’s say I’m trying very hard not to be interested, because he’s made it clear he’s not.”
“Bullshit. He nearly tore the place apart last night when he couldn’t wake you up, and he got into it with the king this morning over making sure everybody gives you some room to find your balance here. And the way he stood over you in the great room, glaring at the world? That’s not the behavior of an uninterested man.”
She tried not to let it matter, but warmth curled around her weak, needy heart. “Fine. He doesn’t want to be interested, which in my experience is worse than disinterest, and drags on a lot longer.” She fell silent, concentrated on the feel of potting soil between her fingers. She told herself not to ask, but asked anyway. “What’s the deal with him and Jade?” Might as well get it out there.
This time there was no hesitation, as though the winikin had known it was coming. “They were lovers for a couple of months right after the barrier reactivated. It was during the gap between their bloodline and talent ceremonies, when their hormones were raging. It ended after the talent ceremony, and they’ve been friendly since.”
The winikin didn’t say how friendly, and Sasha didn’t ask. And although she could’ve guessed they had been lovers, the sex-magic parallel brought a wince. He’d become Jade’s lover to defuse the pretalent hornies. He’d become Sasha’s lover to fuel the chameleon shield. Although she wanted to think it had been more than that, his actions since said otherwise.
Jox glanced at her workstation. “You potting or plotzing?”
“A little of both.” She got back to work, but stayed pensive. The more she learned about the situation, the more she realized how little she actually knew. “If I could go back to when Ambrose was alive, and talk to him about what’s going on now . . .” She
stopped, shook her head. “You know what? That’s a lie. I don’t want him back.” It felt good to say that, she realized. She didn’t have to forgive everything just because he’d been telling the truth about the Nightkeepers.
Jox shoved another flat across the table to her, a different kind of seedling. “Keep transplanting. It helps.”
Their eyes met over the furry, optimistic greens. She saw sadness in his eyes, but didn’t think he’d thank her for bringing it up. So instead, she said, “You said you thought I’d come here. Why?”
“Because growing and cooking are inextricably intertwined,” he said. “Along with healing.”
“I’m no healer.” But she passed a hand over the soft leaves, drawn to them. “What are they?”
“Cacao.”
Her lips curved. “Chocolate. My favorite.”
“I had a feeling.”
Letting that one pass, she commented, “You’re ambitious. I didn’t think cacao grew well in greenhouses, or at all in areas like this.”
“Neither do ceiba trees like the one out in the court-yard.” Jox returned his attention to the other seedlings, which had the round, waxy leaves of a member of the squash family. “The cacao can be your project, if you like.”
Suddenly, she couldn’t think of anything better. “I’d like that. Thanks.” And as she started with the seedlings, working side by side with Jox in a comfortable silence, she realized that she’d found her little bit of peace, after all.
CHAPTER TEN
Skykeepers Page 16