Demonkeepers n-4

by Jessica Andersen

  She must have, because moments later he broke the kiss and eased away.

  She was breathing hard, her heart pounding a mad race in her chest. He was breathing fast too—she could hear it, practically feel it even though they weren’t pressed together anymore. Peripherals returned; she could hear the faint rustle of leaves around them, feel the hint of coolness as the too-

  humid air brushed along her overheated skin. She felt more than saw when he held out a hand to her.

  “Come back to the cottage with me,” he said, the words seeming more a command than a question.

  A greedy knot of excitement lodged in her core as she ignored the faint warning still chiming deep within, and instead reached for his hand, twining her fingers through his. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Anticipation vibrated through Lucius as he guided Jade along the packed-dirt path to the cottages.

  Clustered together, the cabins formed what he thought of as a mage motel, relatively private, but cookie-cutter generic. Just now, the other cottages were empty. He’d noticed it as the dusk fell on the night of the new moon, and had guessed what the Nightkeepers were up to, and why. The knowledge had sent him out into the night to wait for Jade, because he’d wanted to approach her on his terms this time. Before, he’d fallen too hard, too fast, making the mistake of thinking yet again that the woman he was panting after was on the same page as him, relationship-wise.

  Not this time, though. This new and improved version of him wouldn’t make the mistakes of his other, weaker incarnation.

  He glanced over as they walked. In the dim light coming from his cottage, her face was a pale oval of smooth, pearlescent skin and features so perfect they could have come from a Victorian cameo. The darkness robbed her eyes of color, but his mind filled in the delicate sea-foam green that matched so well with the sacred stone she was named after. She was Nightkeeper-tall, only a few inches shorter than the six-four he’d recently attained. But where Alexis, Patience, and Sasha often moved with aggressive swaggers, Jade always seemed to glide, serene and elegant and wholly feminine. Maybe it was because she, like Anna, commanded a talent more cerebral than the warrior’s magic, but the comparison ended there. Where Anna was reserved, Jade was open and giving; where Anna wanted to escape her duty and destiny, Jade wanted to be more than her bloodline role. And where Anna stayed away, Jade had come back when the magi needed her. When he needed her, though he hadn’t wanted to admit it, or make the call.

  Her straight, dark hair was longer than it had been before, an empirical reminder of the five, almost six months that had elapsed since he’d last seen her. But he had needed the time to put himself back together on his own terms. He hadn’t wanted to be her patient, didn’t want her to see him the way she did her old clients, with a mixture of empathy and secret inner horror. He’d wanted to be stronger than that, tougher. He’d worked out, hour after hour, forcing himself through increasingly punishing routines as he fought to reclaim his body from the weakness that had plagued him in the wake of the makol’s exorcism. In doing so, it seemed that he’d triggered something else, something that had made him progressively bigger and stronger. Magic, she’d said, and she was probably right; he’d discussed that possibility with Strike and the others as they had tried to figure out how to unlock the Prophet’s powers. But the question remained: If he’d internalized a connection to the psi barrier that powered the Nightkeepers’ magic, thereby gaining some of their physical traits, why the hell couldn’t he connect to the damned library? He was perfect for the job; what Mayanist wouldn’t give his right nut to get his hands on an artifact cache of the library’s reputed scope? More, he knew how to read the glyphs and interpret the inscriptions, knew what the Nightkeepers needed. He just had to get into the pocket of the barrier where the library had been hidden . . . but so far that had been a big-ass fail.

  He’d shed blood onto the Nightkeepers’ sacred altar and the First Father’s tomb. He’d prayed to gods deafened by the skyroad’s destruction. He’d attempted to uplink with Strike and the others during the spring equinox. Hell, he’d even whacked off onto the damned altar—all that had gained him was an unceremonial mess. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that the next step was Jade.

  He’d been making plans to go after her, but the royal council had beaten him to it. And as he’d stood in the shadows, eavesdropping, he’d known he wasn’t going to turn her away. He was going to love her as he should have done before—with pleasure and without strings. And, gods willing, he’d find his way to the magic that had become his through accident rather than bloodline destiny.

  The man he’d been before would’ve paused at the cottage door to make sure she hadn’t changed her mind on the short walk. The man he’d become shouldered the door open, tugged her through, and kicked the panel closed behind them.

  His living space began with a small kitchen that was neat and organized-looking, more because he ate up at the mansion than because he was either neat or organized. Not pausing there, he led her to the room beyond: a decent-size TV room that was more his style—or lack thereof. The upholstered sofa and chairs, the glossy coffee and end tables, and the kitschy retro Western lamps had been there when he moved in, and were hell and gone more upscale than the hand- me-downs and garage-sale specials of his shared student apartment back at UT. But the leaning piles of books, the drifts of note-scribbled printouts, and the oversize flat-screen jacked into a high-powered laptop were all reminiscent of his student days. So, too, was the image showing on-screen: an enlarged photo of a Late Classic-period Mayan painting. Glorious and vivid, it caught Jade’s attention immediately.

  “Wow.” She let go of him, moved to the TV, and raised a hand to trace the stylized figures of six men arranged in an asymmetrical pattern, two on the left, four on the right. All done in profile, as was the Mayan tradition, they faced a dark sphere that was set off center on the panel. The man closest to it was kneeling in supplication, while four of the others stood near him in postures of protection, or maybe aggression. Those five wore elaborate, feather-worked headdresses made from the skulls of jaguars and coyotes, along with protective shielding that covered only one side of their bodies. There was even more asymmetry in the painting itself, created by the sixth figure, who stood at the far right, apart from the others. Wearing a musician’s loincloth and lacking a headdress, he held a conch shell to his lips. Glyphs emerged from the crude instrument as though they were musical notes, though no such scheme had been identified for the ancient Maya—or, for that matter, the ancient Nightkeepers.

  The paint colors ranged from pale mauve through rusty red to charcoal black. The earthy hues reflected on Jade’s face as she frowned at the text, trying to parse out the glyphs.

  Lucius shook his head. “Don’t bother; the writing doesn’t make any sense. The current theory is that the artist was illiterate, and just copied a bunch of cool-looking glyphs off nearby inscriptions or whatever else he had on hand. It’s just gibberish.” He didn’t say why he’d been studying the painting, why it was important to him.

  Under other circumstances, with another woman, talking translation would’ve spoiled the mood.

  With Jade, though, it served only to heighten the sense of intimacy provided by the small, quiet cottage and the rust red light. They shared a love of language, and although he couldn’t honestly say he was more attracted to her brains than her body, the two together had made a hell of an impression when he’d first met her. Or rather, once he’d gotten past her habitual reserve, which came across as shyness, but he’d learned was her way of hiding in plain sight. He’d long ago realized that they each suffered from their own cultural conditioning, though hers had come from a too-demanding winikin and a set of writs rather than family dysfunction.

  “There’s something . . .” She trailed off, still frowning at the glyphs, but then she shook her head and turned back to him, her expression going from intrigue to warmth with a hint of nerves. “Never mind. That�
�s not what we’re here for.”

  “True enough,” Lucius agreed, trying to keep it casual, because she’d made it clear that was what she wanted. But at the same time this wasn’t just about sex for either of them. There was a far larger goal, one that hung over them, weighing on him as it had for nearly half a year now, though now edged with a sharp sense of anticipation. Determination. He was getting his ass into the library, whatever it took. And if that meant that the Nightkeepers’ needs and his own desire to be part of things wound up getting mixed together with the desire he felt for Jade—had felt for her from the first day they’d worked together—then that was part of the Nightkeepers’ culture, wasn’t it? Sex was magic, magic was power, and power could save the world.

  Reaching out to Jade, he recaptured her hand. Satisfaction kicked through him as his fingers enfolded hers, locking on with easy strength. Rather than growing awkward as his body had increased in size and mass, he’d lost the sprawling clumsiness that had plagued him his entire life. It was as though his brain and synapses had been designed all along for this larger body, and hadn’t known how to tone it down for the scrawny, too-tall beanpole he’d been. Tightening his fingers on hers, he tipped his head toward the other side of the TV room, where a short hallway branched off. “The bedroom’s this way.”

  But she tugged him back toward her, lips curving when their bodies bumped. “Let’s stay right here.”

  She nodded to the screen. “I want it to be like it was before, only better.”

  In a flash, he remembered being with her in the inner, most secure room of the three- room archive buried deep within the mansion. He remembered kissing her almost desperately, thrusting into her against the backdrop of the ancient writs, which were displayed in flat cases on three sides of the tiny room, with their elaborate glyphwork and painted illuminations highlighted by museum- quality lighting. Back then, he’d been fighting time, fighting the lure of the makol and the song of dark magic in the air. Now he was fighting to gain the power that was his by right of spell and sacrifice. In that, he realized, the ancient backdrop was a fitting one. “Right here,” he agreed, drawing her into him.

  She looped her arms around his neck, using the leverage to draw herself up his body, onto her tiptoes. “Right now,” she whispered against his mouth.

  He kissed her, feeling the play of lips and tongues in a way he never had before, as though his neurons had changed along with the rest of him, becoming more sensitive, more ready to fire the signals of sex. Heat arced across the point of contact with an almost physical force, jolting through him, lighting him up. He’d been hard since before they’d even kissed out by the training hall, but now he filled to bursting, straining uncomfortably in his jeans. He slid his arms around her, caught her up against his body, and was acutely aware that she might be tall, but she was delicate and fine boned, and so much smaller than he’d become. Fierce protectiveness welled up inside him, an unexpected surge of emotion he squelched before it could begin, reminding himself of the rules she’d set before, the ones he needed now.

  Jade broke the kiss, breathing lightly, her body seeming to vibrate against his. “Do you feel that?

  Do you feel the magic?”

  “Maybe.” He wasn’t sure he’d recognize Nightkeeper power if it ran him over doing eighty-five in a forty zone. He’d heard the thoughts of the demon that had possessed him, the one he’d named Cizin.

  Flatulent one. The makol’s foul, angry temper had echoed inside him, becoming his own. Marking him. He knew he would instantly recognize the awful pressure of possession if the Banol Kax ever sought him again. But he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt true magic, not the way the Nightkeepers meant it.

  Even when he had lain on the floor of Iago’s giant volcanic cave, bleeding out onto the stone while the Nightkeepers crowded around him and enacted the Prophet’s spell, he couldn’t say he’d felt the magic.

  He’d felt inner chaos and the soul-deep agony of Cizin being ripped out of him, but he couldn’t have pointed to any part of the spell casting and said, That’s magic. He was only human, after all.

  “There’s magic here,” Jade whispered against his lips. “Trust me.”

  In answer, he kissed her again. He didn’t want to think about trust or power, not really; he wanted to think about the woman in his arms, who would be his first lover in this new body. He wanted to touch her, shape her with hands that spread wider than they had before, registering the soft curves with fingers that seemed to have gotten exponentially more sensitive as the other parts of him had grown and changed. He kissed her, caressed her, learning her body and letting her get used to his, even as he was getting used to the newly acute bite of heat, the powerful thunder of the blood surging through his veins, impelled by the beat of a heart he instinctively knew was stronger than before.

  Murmuring appreciation, Jade slipped her delicately capable hands beneath his tee and ran them up his back, skin-on-skin with an inciting scrape of fingernail. He groaned as an answering avalanche of lust swept into his system, bringing an unexpected and unwanted slash of raw aggression. In the next instant, nothing existed but his need to take her, to wrap her around him, to put her up against the nearest wall and pound into her, lose himself in her. Mine, the heat said, branding the possessive howl across his consciousness.

  His mind jerked back but his body leaned in instead, inviting her maddening touch. Unnerved to be suddenly teetering at the edge of his hard-won control, he broke the kiss and smoothed his hands down her body and back up again, soothing himself more than her. Hold it together, he told himself. Don’t lose your shit. Before, he’d let himself be taken over, used. He didn’t intend to let that happen again, whether by makol, desire, or power. Not ever.

  Needing a moment, he released her to turn and snag the quilt he’d left tossed over the back of the couch, having dragged it in from the bedroom one night when he’d been working on a series of translations, unable to sleep. Done in masculine shades of rust, brown, and cream, the quilt’s color scheme mimicked the hues on the TV screen. Shoving aside the coffee table with his foot, he spread the comforter on the thick carpeting and swept a bunch of pillows off the sofa onto the quilt, creating a layer softer even than the padded wall-to-wall carpeting beneath, a comfortable nest in the wide- open space of the floor rather than the close confines of a too-soft couch that occasionally made him feel trapped even when he was sitting there alone.

  Unable to bear the constricting chafe of his tee, he shucked off his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. He was acutely aware of Jade watching him, taking in the sight of muscles where there hadn’t been any before. He was grateful that she didn’t seem to linger on the heavy, gnarled scar that ran across his stomach, just below his ribs. Maybe, like him, she didn’t care to remember the day he’d almost died . . . and had been reborn instead. He’d taken the pain and the smell of his own blood pumping from his slashed throat, the grotesque panic of seeing his heart on the outside of his chest cavity, connected to him by a few thin threads of vessel and fascia—and he’d locked those memories deep inside, away from the things that mattered. He hoped she could do the same, hoped she already had. And yes, he hoped she cared enough to need to lock those things away. Just because they were distilling sex to mutual pleasure didn’t mean he didn’t care deeply for her. It was just that he’d finally grown up—and out—to the point that he got what she’d been trying to explain before: that not every sexual relationship had to be aiming for more. Sometimes it was just about friendship and sex. And in this case, there were also the issues of their summoning sex magic and getting his ass into the library.

  Gods willing.

  Blood humming, feeling back in control, he toed off his sandals, dropped to the makeshift bed, and stretched out on his side, head propped up on one hand. Looking up at her, he patted the wide empty space beside him. “You want to at least get horizontal this time?”

  He meant as opposed to their rushed coupling in the archive, when they’d stayed
partially dressed and gone at it hard, starting up against the wall and finishing on one of the study tables in the inner sanctum. But they both knew that he was also saying, Last chance . . . you going to go through with this or not?

  Jade stared at the bare skin of Lucius’s torso, where hard muscles glowed with burnished highlights in the reddish brown light. Shirtless and barefoot, wearing only his jeans and an I-dare-you gleam in his eyes, he looked like something out of the pages of Cosmo. His caption might have read, Ways to let him please you, or some such nonsense that implied the article was aimed at female self-actualization, but the subheading would’ve been a thin lipstick gloss over the simple fact that sex sells, the hotter, the better. Hell, yes, I’m going through with it, she thought, wetting her lips and seeing his eyes darken in the rusty light. Dipping into the pocket of her jeans, she touched the earpiece Strike had given her, partly to make sure it was toggled off, partly to reassure herself it was there, just in case. Because even if Lucius couldn’t feel the magic, it crowded thick and warm around her, seeming expectant, the calm before the storm.

  Yes, there was magic in the air. She only hoped her reserves would be enough to jump-start the Prophet’s powers. But if Lucius could grow into the jock’s body he’d always wanted, then she should be able to grow into the power she craved. And if that wish bumped up against the knowledge that people didn’t really change, she ignored the disparity to focus on the moment, and the man watching her with an intensity that brought heat to her skin and tension coiling deep inside her.

  Entirely conscious of his eyes on her, imagining herself silhouetted against the fiercely elegant painting projected on the big screen behind her, she caught the hem of her floaty green shirt in both hands, gave a little shimmy as she skimmed it up and over her head, then stretched sinuously to let the garment fall beside his discarded tee. Leaving her soft, lace-edged bra—the same jewel green as the shirt—in place because it made her feel wholly feminine, she toed off her sneakers and socks into a small pile. The cool air tightened her skin, though the blood pumping through her veins still sizzled with desire.