Skykeepers

by Jessica Andersen

  When they weren’t in bed together, they worked together, along with the others, working out what plans they could for the solstice. The three-year countdown was bearing down on them freight-train fast. The only thing they knew for certain was that Iago wanted him and Sasha at Paxil Mountain. The question was: Which was the better option, using them as bait to lure him into a trap, or sequestering them safely away at Skywatch? As far as Michael was concerned, the answer was obvious: she stayed at Skywatch and he went to the temple in case there was a fight. Splitting them up would make it harder for Iago to grab them both.

  “Or you could stay here and I could go to the temple,” Sasha had pointed out. “I know the site better than you do.”

  In the end, it was decided that they would both go to the temple, not the least because the winikin didn’t want him left behind if the other magi were out in the field. A storeroom wasn’t going to be able to hold him if the Other used the power of the solstice to break through. With that decision made, they turned their attention to planning for the actual solstice ceremony. In going over what Ambrose had told Sasha, Jade locked onto the word “conduit.” Ambrose had said the scroll would summon the Prophet, but that the solstice was required for the formation of some kind of conduit. The original assumption was that the Prophet was a sort of guiding spirit, and the spell would open some sort of portal leading to the library, maybe because it had been hidden within the barrier, much as Skywatch had been for so many years. That, however, wasn’t quite right, according to the archivist’s research.

  “We were correct in guessing that the library was tucked into the barrier,” Jade said during one of the daily planning sessions Strike had instituted. “But this spell isn’t reversible like the one that hid Skywatch, or that we believe Iago has used to hide his hellmouth. There’s no way to bring the library back to earth. Instead, we need to . . . deputize someone as a go-between, I guess you could say. This person, the Prophet, becomes a conduit capable of channeling the necessary information.” Which sounded simple enough, but Michael heard the reservation in her voice.

  “What’s the catch?” he asked.

  “It’s a soul spell. As in, it requires the soul of a magic user to be destroyed; the magic animates the shell, using it as a golem of sorts. That golem is the Prophet.” Jade paused. “It’s the only Nightkeeper spell I’ve come across that requires an actual human sacrifice. More, the victim’s soul doesn’t go to Xibalba, the sky, or even Mictlan. It’s destroyed. There’s no afterlife, no nothing. In the case of a Nightkeeper, the person’s experiences aren’t even added to the bloodline nahwal’s collected wisdom. They quite simply end.”

  Beneath the table, Michael had felt Sasha’s foot press against his in support as the others pointedly avoided looking at him.

  “Does the sacrifice need to be one of us?” he asked, keeping his voice expressionless.

  “Any magic user will do,” she’d answered, “although that remains a small pool: one of us, or one of the Xibalbans.”

  “I’m in favor of door number two,” he muttered. In a way he was relieved, though. It seemed logical that the gods would use the Mictlan as the executioner for a soul-spell sacrifice. Although there was no joy in the thought of killing anyone, even a red-robe, in ritual sacrifice, it seemed better than some of the alternatives he could imagine as the Mictlan’s target. But in the days that followed, the Mictlan talent didn’t activate; there was no hint of his victim’s identity.

  So the residents of Skywatch waited, and they studied, and they prepared. And each night, Michael and Sasha met in his suite or hers, or once out by the pool, where the temperature might have dipped down into the forties but the solar-heated water steamed wisps of fog into the night. Each night they loved each other, and slept in each other’s arms, and pretended everything was okay, even though they both knew it wasn’t. They were waiting . . . waiting for the library, for the target, for something to happen.

  By the night prior to the solstice, Michael had worn himself raw inside trying to run contingencies in his head and figure out what he would do when he got his target.

  He awoke near midnight, almost at the threshold of the solstice day. Even before he was fully conscious, he was aware of an aching hum of magic in the air, one that stirred his blood. He turned to Sasha, only to find her side of the bed empty and cool to the touch.

  Unease stirred. He told himself to roll over and go back to sleep, that she was safe within the warded compound. But something had been off about her that night, a discord in their vibe, a wrong note or two over the course of the evening. She’d said it was nothing, that she was just keyed up for the solstice, and the planned ambush, which was still on the table, with contingency plans atop contingency plans, none of which completely satisfied any of them. And yeah, she had every right to be jacked up about that. Except he didn’t think that was what she was really worried about. He was pretty sure it was something to do with him, with them.

  Twenty minutes of staring at the ceiling later, he rose, pulled on dark track pants and a white tee, shoved his feet in a pair of rope sandals, and padded off in search of her. He found her, not surprisingly, in the main kitchen at the center of the mansion. The air was heavy with the scents of chocolate and dark spices, bringing a long, low tug of hunger that was more for the woman than the food.

  He’d thought he’d steeled himself for the familiar kick of attraction, the lust that hadn’t faded with their becoming lovers. But need hit him hard the moment he saw her stretched on her tiptoes to return a bowl to a high shelf, her midriff-cropped tee riding up, yoga pants riding down, the two exposing a strip of her taut, strong abdomen, with the soft lines of muscle on either side of her navel, where a trio of freckles drew his eye.

  She turned slowly, and when she met his eyes, he saw a reflection of the burning heat that churned in his gut. “Well?” she said softly.

  His body moved almost without conscious volition around the pass-through and into the kitchen, where he stopped close enough to catch her light scent over the cooking smells, close enough to distinguish the heat of her body from that of the stove. “What’s cooking?”

  She handed over the mug she’d been sipping from. “It’s something I’ve been playing with.”

  He knew she had magic in the kitchen, knew she wielded flavors with the deftness of a trained chef and the inspiration of a mage, but still he was unprepared for what hit his taste buds the moment he took a sip. Sensations exploded across his neurons in a blaze of heat, texture, and taste that had him sucking in a breath. There was chocolate, yes, but it was more savory than sweet, taken away from the realm of dessert by a mix of peppers and salt, and things he wouldn’t even begin to match with chocolate, but that somehow matched perfectly. He sucked in a breath. “Holy shit.” Took another sip and rolled it around in his mouth, closing his eyes briefly as the flavors changed subtly, the peppers mellowing to something else. “Nice,” he said, and this time his tone was one of reverence. “Very nice.”

  “That,” she said with evident satisfaction, “was exactly what I was going for.”

  Eyes still closed, he felt her trying to take the mug back, and tightened his fingers on it. “Leave it,” he said. “I’m at your mercy. Anything you want. Just ask.”

  He’d said it partly in play, but also because he remembered what she’d told him back in the beginning, on her first day at Skywatch. I cook when I’m happy or sad, when I’m celebrating with friends or all alone with my thoughts. Which of those things applied now?

  He felt the air shift, felt her indrawn breath as his own, but instead of “we need to talk” or any of the female warning signs experience had taught him to expect, she surprised him by leaning in and touching her lips to his.

  The kiss was as unexpected as the hint of pepper and spice he tasted amidst the chocolate on her lips, in her mouth. Setting aside his mug, he deepened the kiss, relieved to let it be easy even though a small part of him said it shouldn’t be so easy, that he was skimming t
he surface of something he needed to be diving into. But then she shifted her hands, sliding them up his chest to link behind his neck and tug him closer, pressing her body to his, and the vibe went true, singing inside his skull with the warm sparkle of red-gold magic.

  “Come back to bed,” he said against her mouth. “We’ve got a few more hours to burn.”

  She let him lead her back to bed, and loved him with the passion and intensity that he needed from her, the energy that made him feel whole and alive. But even as they moved together and apart, together and apart, he was aware that she was holding a part of herself back, that she wasn’t entirely there with him. When it was over and she lay sleeping, curled up around him, her fingers tangled in his hair, he stroked her arm, aching for what he knew was coming.

  He would’ve asked what was wrong, but he already knew. She wasn’t built for casual sex, and the sex had been far from casual with them from the very first. She’d gotten to the point where she either had to let herself fall for him or back off. And she was backing.

  He couldn’t blame her. More, he wouldn’t try to stop her, because he couldn’t say she was wrong. So he lay there through most of the remainder of the night, staring at the ceiling. And she felt empty.

  When morning dawned, Sasha lay beside Michael looking into the pale orange light of the solstice day, and she kicked her own ass inwardly. You should’ve told him last night. You shouldn’t have come back here with him.

  She’d gone to the kitchen looking to center herself and find the words she needed to say to him. Instead, she’d let herself fall back into the heat and sex, both of which were easy with him. Too easy. It was the other stuff she was having trouble with, like trust and self-respect. And neither was his fault, really. He’d done exactly what they’d agreed to that first night they’d spent together: taking each day as it came, living in the moment, in each other.

  The Other had remained at bay, so far; his music had stayed pure, his magic red-gold. He might be the Mictlan, but for now he was the man and the Nightkeeper. And her lover.

  It wasn’t his fault she couldn’t stop wondering how long that would last, but there it was. She twitched at shadows, jumped at rattles, strung tight by the knowledge that the thing he called the Other not only could come back, but that it would at some point, when he was called on to kill. And it would be soon, she knew. She could feel the changes coming. When in the triad years . . .

  She’d fulfilled the first piece of the prophecy by becoming a ch’ulel, a daughter of the gods. She didn’t know about conquering death or finding the lost son, but she suspected that the time had come to defy love.

  Easing away from Michael, she slid from his bed and padded to the bathroom, gathering her strewn clothes as she went. When she came back out, he was sitting on the side of the mattress with the sheet pooled at his waist, his expression schooled to careful neutrality as he looked at her. “Does it have to be today?”

  She was surprised he’d guessed, but maybe she shouldn’t have been. For a man who had, by his own admission, lived chunks of his life on the surface of himself, he was capable of deep insight. Deeper, sometimes, than she would’ve wished. So she didn’t bullshit him. “I think so, yes.”

  “What changed?”

  “Nothing. That’s the problem.” She held up a hand to forestall his response. “I know, it sucks and it’s not fair, but there it is. I thought I could handle something day-to-day, thought I’d evolved from human to Nightkeeper, but the truth is, I can’t and I haven’t.”

  He just looked at her for a long moment, his expression bleak. “More you can’t stop looking over your shoulder, waiting for me to lose the blocks and turn back into a monster.”

  “Tell me you’re not thinking the same thing.”

  “Of course I am. The difference there is that I’m stuck with what’s inside my own head, at least for the near future. You’re not. You can walk away.”

  She’d expected him to be angry, had braced herself for the expected blast, telling herself not to be afraid. But she hadn’t prepared herself for this . . . this casual disinterest. “That’s it?”

  He spread his hands. With him naked, draped only with the sheet across his lap, the motion showcased the shift and slide of his elegant musculature and flashed the intricate black marks along his forearm. But he wasn’t trying to attract or seduce her, she knew. He was inviting her to fly free. “This is a mutual thing, with both of us here because we want to be. If that’s only going one way, then it’s not working, is it? And it’s not like I can blame you, or argue the points. I’m one mental block away from being a serial killer.”

  “That’s not who you are,” she hissed. “They took a kernel of something and turned it into a full-blown pathology. That’s not you. That’s programming.”

  “Regardless, it’s part of me now, probably will be for the duration, and I don’t blame you for not wanting to wait around for it to reemerge.”

  “You think I’m quitting on you?” Oddly, his lack of fight made her want to pick one. “If so, then say it.”

  “I think you’re doing what you need to do.”

  Her anger spiked. He was saying all the right things, being mature and sensible. And it was seriously pissing her off. She’d convinced herself that he wasn’t a hunter by nature, that he’d become one solely because Bryson’s brainwashing had left him split from himself, unable to connect with himself, never mind someone else. But she had thought they’d gotten past that issue, that they’d forged a bond beyond the magic. But if that was the case, why didn’t he fight, shout, do something to make her believe—

  That was it, she realized, understanding at last what she was looking for, what she needed from him. “Why aren’t you arguing with me?”

  His expression flattened. For a second, she thought she saw a flash of something silver and ominous. “Maybe because I’m used to women going for the shiny exterior, then fading on me when the newness wears off.”

  Now he was trying to piss her off. She could see it in his eyes. But she also saw something else, something that made her wary as she said, “It’d take more than a week for me to get tired of your body, dipshit, and you damn well know it. Try again. Why aren’t you fighting me?” Why aren’t you fighting for me?

  “Because we both know I’ll lose. You’ve made your decision. Now do us both a favor and finish it, will you?” He sounded bored with the conversation. It was only because she knew him as well as she did that she saw the hollow anger beneath. But that wasn’t enough for her anymore, not this time. She was through looking for the scraps and interpreting the hints, using her imagination to fill in the words. He’d promised not to lie to her anymore. But he wasn’t telling her the whole truth, either

  “I will. I am.” It hurt to say, but in the way of lancing a wound. “And you know the funny thing? It’s not really about the day-to-day thing, or even how the Mictlan hangs over all of it. I’m through waiting around for a man to care enough to fight. Ambrose let me go. Saul wished me luck. And you . . . I thought you were a hunter, the sort of guy who’d track his prey and fight off his competitors. But you’re not. You’re . . . hell, I don’t know what you are, except that I can’t tell if you want me because you want me, or if I’m just as convenient as Jade was.”

  She paused, looking for a spurt of anger to match her own, and not finding it. Waiting for the fight that didn’t come.

  “Well. I guess that’s my answer.” She turned away, willing back the tears. “I’ll see you around. And don’t worry: I won’t stalk you. You have anything else you want to say, you know where to find me. Otherwise, I’ll see you this afternoon for the final prep meeting.”

  He didn’t say a damn thing as she exited the bedroom with her head high and her throat tight with unshed grief. And as the door closed behind her, he didn’t call her back.

  Heartsore, not wanting to be in her rooms, not wanting to see anyone else, Sasha headed for the greenhouse, drawn to the nonjudgmental company of growing things th
at demanded nothing more from her than soil and water and a soft touch.

  After assuring herself the greenhouse was empty, she let herself into the space that had become hers and Jox’s together, and headed along the winding cement pathway through the indoor orchard to a small raised bed. There, she’d planted her cacao seedlings a couple of weeks earlier, agonizing over their fragile roots and leaves, urging them to dig in and thrive. So far, the plants struggled onward, not thriving but not all the way giving up, either. They clung to life, but were making little headway.

  I can relate to that. Settling down beside the raised bed, leaning against the sturdy masonry that made up its sides, she folded her arms atop the moist, fertile soil and dropped her forehead to her glyph-marked forearm.

  She felt hollow and very alone. She was surrounded by family, by people who cared for her, who would endanger themselves to save her. Once, she would’ve thought that would be more than enough for her. Now, having experienced the heights that she and Michael could achieve together, and glimpsed what she thought was his true self, the man she wanted for her own, she couldn’t be satisfied with mere support. She wanted more.

  She wanted the magic, damn it.

  A tear slid free, then another, though she didn’t give in to the sobs that would have liked to come. After a while, when the few tears had dried on her face, she became aware of movement nearby—a leafy brush, a rustling breeze in the closed space. Magic prickled across her nape, and she caught a wisp of song, though the radio was off.

  She lifted her head. And froze at the sight of the young, strong plants surrounding her. Where just a few minutes earlier the cacao seedlings had been thin and borderline sickly, now they were thick and dark green, and several inches taller than before.

  “Magic,” she whispered, realizing she’d made them grow, given them life. But if so, why did she feel so damned empty? She ached with lethargy, felt drained. Sighing, she pressed her head back down onto her forearms. Then, feeling safe and warm, and surrounded by the innocent love of growing things, though not of the man she wanted, she slept.