Blood Spells

by Jessica Andersen

  Cancún, Mexico

  Six years ago

  Hel-lo, handsome, Patience thought as a salvo of salutes flash-banged overhead, lighting the sky and shortening her breath. Or maybe it wasn’t the fireworks driving the air from her lungs. Maybe it was the guy she’d just locked eyes with, picking him out of the crowd because he was a half a head taller than everyone else, and he wasn’t looking at the fireworks. He was looking at her.

  It wasn’t like she’d never been stared at before. She was tall, stacked, and blond, and years of fight training had honed her movements in a way that drew attention—especially that of the Y chromosomes. So yeah, she was used to being looked at, used to being wanted.

  But she wasn’t used to immediately wanting in return. She recognized the warm, liquid shimmy in her stomach as desire, but had never felt it like this before, as an instantaneous chemical response that lit her up and made her yearn for an entirely unknown quantity. Always before, she’d liked her boyfriends before desiring them, gotten to know them before taking the physical plunge. But there was nothing gradual about this; it was like being hit between the eyes with a big cartoon hammer labeled LUST.

  He was built big, which was an instant turn-on given that she towered over lots of the guys she knew. He was flat-out, hands-down gorgeous, with spike-cut hair she thought would be dark brown in better light, and eyes a shade lighter. His dark, unadorned T-shirt was stretched across a wide chest and ripped abs, and tucked into faded cutoffs that were practically painted onto narrow hips and massive thighs. His calves were corded with muscle, tan and hairless, his feet encased in beat-up boat shoes. But it was more than just the way he looked. He seemed to radiate a quiet, watchful strength along with a punch of charisma she wasn’t used to from guys her age, or even a year or two older, as he appeared to be.

  Her body flashed from hot to cold and back; she felt dizzy and a little drunk, though she’d had only two rum-and-whatevers since dinner, holding off the serious tequilaing for later after the fireworks, when she was supposed to be going barhopping with Casey and Amanda. Who, she suspected, were going to be on their own now, because he was coming over.

  Normally, she would’ve felt a flare of feminine triumph that he’d lost their eye-lock standoff by making the move. Now, though, all she felt was anticipation.

  As he came through the crowd toward her, the inebriated human sea eddied. The women turned toward him, faces lighting and then falling when he moved past without noticing them. The men shifted to let him through while they kept their eyes on the sky, subordinates giving way to the alpha. Then he was squaring off opposite her with his weight evenly balanced, leaving him ready to move in or away with equal ease. A fighter’s ready stance.

  Her pulse kicked higher. Oh, yeah. Thanks to growing up with Hannah, she was culturally programmed to want herself a warrior. Not for keeps, of course. She’d promised her winikin she wouldn’t commit to anything until after the end date. She hadn’t promised not to sample the wares, though. And thank the gods for that.

  He held out his hand. “Brandt White-Eagle.” His voice was as rocking as his face and bod, smooth and masculine, with an orator’s resonance.

  She pressed her palm to his. “Patience Lazarus.” How odd that, of the two of them, he was the one with an animal in his name. Hannah had modernized her bloodline name from “iguana” to “lizard,” and from there to “Lazarus”; the winikin was a Heinlein fan. But White-Eagle . . . if he’d been a Nightkeeper, his bird bloodline would’ve outranked her terrestrial one. As it was, the name—and his looks—suggested Native American blood, which was pretty damn sexy in its own right. She’d take Dances with Wolves over Heinlein any day.

  “Are you here with someone?”

  Casey and Amanda had noticed the exchange and were openly gaping. When Patience glanced in her friends’ direction, she got a quadruple thumbs-up. She looked back at the guy. Brandt. “What if I am?”

  She got a long, slow smile with lots of eye contact. “Then he’s out of luck.” A pause. “Unless you’re not feeling it?”

  “I don’t know what I’m feeling, but it’s something.” In fact, the air seemed to be buzzing with that “something.” Her skin tingled almost to the point of itching, making her want to rub herself, touch herself, do something to ease a sudden surge of restlessness.

  “You want to get out of here?” He tipped his head away from the water. “We could head up to El Rey.”

  Yearning tugged at Patience. Gods, yes, she wanted to go there with him. El Rey was the only major Mayan ruin located in the Cancún hotel district. Its original name and most of its history were unknown; the modern name, which meant “the King,” came from the discovery of several royal artifacts. The small site encompassed the ruins and footprints of some forty structures, including a large pillared palace and a high, flat-topped pyramid . . . which nowadays offered views of the boat-clogged lagoon and the entire hotel district, and overlooked the Hilton’s golf course.

  El Rey wasn’t as important—or impressive—as the ruins of Tulum or Chichén Itzá; it had held Casey’s and Amanda’s attentions barely long enough to justify the thirty-peso entrance fee. Patience, though, had visited the site every day since the three girls had arrived the week before, until it’d turned into a running joke among them, how she was hoping the magic pyramid—that was the rumor, anyway, that it was magical—would grant her three wishes.

  The friends had discussed those wishes with sotted intensity, finally deciding that she should wish for wild success in her yet-nebulous career aspirations, a long, healthy life, and true love. They had figured if she had those three biggies covered, she could handle the rest. Privately, she’d amended one—maybe all—of those wishes to an inner prayer that the barrier would stay closed, that she would never need to know most of the things Hannah had taught her.

  “Too fast?” Brandt asked when she didn’t answer right away. “Or are you wondering if I’m a Creepy Stalker Guy?”

  She didn’t—couldn’t—tell him what she’d really been thinking, but she’d had a lifetime of practice avoiding some questions, outright lying in response to others. “The park closed at dark.”

  “I paid one of the guides to show me the back way in.”

  So had she. That he’d done the same made her take another, longer look at him. “Are you trying to get me alone?”

  A challenge glinted in his eyes. “Is that a problem?”

  She shook her head slowly. “Not for me. But then again, I’m a fifth-degree black belt.”

  “Figured something along those lines.” He tugged on the hand he hadn’t yet let go of. “Come on.”

  Behind him, fireworks burst in chrysanthemums of red and yellow, and cometlike arcs lit the sky. She was dimly surprised to see that the show hadn’t ended yet, that they’d been talking for only a few minutes. How was that possible, when she felt like they’d known each other for way longer than that?

  Don’t try to make this into more than it is, she cautioned herself, hearing an inner echo of Hannah’s warnings, which contrasted with Casey’s and Amanda’s recent lectures urging her to cut loose. He’s hot, you’re horny, and it’s spring break. Go with the flow.

  “El Rey it is, then.” She let him lead her through the crowd. Again, the men moved aside to let him through and the women turned their heads to appreciate the way he looked, the way he moved. Only this time, they noticed her too, with varying degrees of resignation, envy, and bitchy glares.

  Eat your heart out, girls, she thought in triumph. He’s mine tonight.

  As they let the moonlight and fireworks guide them along the faint pathway used by the few who cared enough to sneak into the park, she was acutely aware of the leashed strength in his muscles, the heat of his body. His strides were powerful, almost gliding, except for once or twice when she noticed the faintest hitch of a limp.

  The small imperfection of an otherwise perfect package made him all the more interesting—what was his story? Who was he?

 
; A liquid shimmy radiated from low in her abdomen outward to her fingertips and toes, making her hyperconscious of the gritty surface beneath her sandals, the weight of her clothes against her skin, the touch of the moist, cool air, and the breathlessness that hadn’t come from the fireworks, after all.

  Pyrotechnics boomed at regular intervals, making the earth below their feet tremble as their bodies brushed together at shoulder and hip. Nerves flared through Patience—not over the advisability of sneaking off alone with a stranger who didn’t seem at all unfamiliar, but over whether she’d be able to hold her own with him. She’d dated plenty of guys who were far more into her than she was into them . . . but this was the first time she was on the other side of the insecurity, the first time she’d found herself wondering if she was aiming at someone out of her league.

  The sensation was disconcerting . . . and oddly exciting. Was her hand sweating? She’d showered after the beach, and crunched a couple of Altoids after her onion- and spice-heavy dinner, so she should be okay on those fronts, but—

  Her mental train derailed as they passed through the last of the low trees that surrounded the site.

  The ruins spread out in front of them, washed blue white in the moonlight and cast with splashes of color when the fireworks briefly brightened the night sky. They had approached from the back side of the pyramid, which was the size of a split-level ranch, flanked by a pillared temple platform on one side and a long building—possibly a market—on the other.

  Always before, in daylight, Patience had felt a buzz of reverence, a sense of connection that she hadn’t had at any of the other ruins. Now, in the darkness, the sensation of being someplace both ancient and sacred was heightened by the heat of sexual anticipation, and her awareness of the equinox.

  Back before the massacre, when the magic had worked and the Nightkeepers flourished, the cardinal days had been times of celebration and sex. Now, as fireworks painted the ruins yellow orange, making her think of torchlight, it seemed right for her to turn toward Brandt and move in for the kiss they had been heading for ever since he’d taken her hand to lead her out of the crowd.

  Except she froze midturn, her eyes locking on a dark rectangle outlined in silver moonlight.

  There was a doorway in the lower tier of the pyramid.

  Brandt whispered, “That wasn’t there before. Was it?”

  “I don’t think so.” Actually, she knew for a fact that it hadn’t been, but didn’t want to seem too sure. Nightkeepers were supposed to fly under the human radar. But her pulse kicked and her hands started sweating in earnest.

  He glanced down at her, eyes alight. “Want to check it out?”

  She hesitated. Of course she wanted to check it out—she was dying to get in there, her anticipation fueled by a combination of her inner adrenaline junkie and cultural conditioning—but logic said she should ditch him before she entered the ruin. If the doorway had opened because of some equinox-triggered spell put in place by the ancients, possibly one that required the presence of Nightkeeper blood, then she shouldn’t let the human anywhere near it.

  But what if it was something more banal, like a new passageway opened by a rock slide? If it didn’t have anything to do with the magi, there was no harm in exploring it with her spring-break hookup.

  Or, more accurately, there was no more harm than there would be for two full humans who had snuck into a national park with zero equipment, experience, or mandate to set foot inside the pyramid. But because of her warrior’s blood, that caution quickly lost to the urge to explore. What was more, a glance showed that Brandt was full-on channeling his inner Indiana Jones, practically vibrating with the urge to get his ass through that door and see what was on the other side.

  When she hesitated, though, he said, “We don’t have to. We could just sit and watch the fireworks.” But the energy between them changed when he said it, making her suspect that if she went with option B, she’d find herself back on the beach while he returned to El Rey alone. Which so wasn’t happening.

  Besides, she thought, her brain skipping from option to option almost faster than her consciousness could follow, if the door is Nightkeeper-made and keyed to the presence of mageblood, then it being open now is . . . She trailed off, not even daring to say it inwardly. But what if the barrier had reactivated, if only at this one small spot?

  If the magic was back online, then theoretically, she should be able to put Brandt to sleep, and even make him forget what he’d seen. Granted, she didn’t have her bloodline mark, but the sleep and forget spells were lower-level magic. She might be able to pull them off.

  So either the door was magic, in which case she should be able to handle the damage control . . . or it wasn’t magic, in which case she was about to go exploring with a seriously hot, mega-interesting guy, during the equinox, when her blood was already on fire. Win-win.

  Digging into her pocket, she pulled out her key chain, unsnapped the little emergency light, and gave it a flash. “What are we waiting for?”

  His slow, sexy grin was practically its own reward.

  They crossed the moonlit courtyard hand in hand, and approached the pyramid. The doorway, which was set in the center of the lowest tier, looked like many of the others she’d seen over the years, with carved pillars on both sides and a lintel over the top. She barely glanced at the carvings, in part because she knew only a few of the ancient glyphs and these were badly weatherworn. The larger part of her haste, though, was the hot excitement beating in her veins, urging her onward.

  Tangling her fingers with his, she used her pitiful little light to illuminate the darkness beyond the doorway. Behind them, fireworks pounded, the deep thuds reverberating in the heavy stones of the pyramid. In front of them, an ancient stone staircase led, not up within the pyramid . . . but down into the earth.

  Her breath thinned with excitement. On some level, she was aware that one or both of them should probably be bringing up some what-ifs—what would they do if the penlight died? What if the tunnel was booby-trapped? She wasn’t entirely sure if that sort of thing was fact or fiction. Was this really such a good idea?

  On another, more visceral level, though, she knew that hesitating wasn’t an option. If this was equinox magic, the doorway would shut in a few hours. And if it wasn’t . . . hell, either way, she was dying to see where the staircase led, and to see it with this man. Call it the hereditary bravery of a warrior bloodline, call it hormones, call it equinox madness; she didn’t care.

  Glancing at him, she lifted an eyebrow. “You ready?”

  He brushed his knuckles across her cheek in a soft, sensual caress. The warm glow of the penlight brought color to his face and lit his eyes, which were a deep, gold-flecked brown. He inhaled as if to say something, but stayed silent instead, and in that instant, she thought she caught a hint of reserve in his expression, the question of whether he dared share the adventure with her. But those were her thoughts, not his, she reminded herself. And there was nothing but the thrill of the hunt in his face when he grinned. “I’ve been ready since the moment I spotted you in the crowd.”

  She laughed. “Lame.”

  “Yeah, sorry. I’m pretty sad in the pickup-line department.”

  She didn’t believe that for a second, but the exchange had dispelled some of the tension, putting them back where they had been on the beach, daring each other to make the move. Then, he’d been the one to pull her into the darkness, headed for privacy. Now it was her turn to lead the way.

  Taking a deep breath, she stepped across the threshold. And started down.

  The air around them cooled as they descended the curving stone staircase in a silence broken only by the sound of his boat shoes, her sandals, and their cadenced breathing. The interlocking stones that surrounded them were uncarved and unadorned, and slippery with a layer of moisture that grew heavier as they went. The air, though, stayed fresh, suggesting that there was an outlet nearby.

  “I can taste salt,” Brandt said from close be
hind her. She was very aware of the heat of his big body, the brush of their clothing, and the feather of his breath along her jaw as he looked over her shoulder, both of them depending on the small penlight.

  “Maybe this leads all the way back to the lagoon.” She tried to remember if there was a cliff along the beach, someplace where the native limestone base ran down to the water.

  “Or an underground river,” he suggested. “There’s almost no surface water in the Yucatán—it’s all subterranean except for where the cenotes punch through. The ancient Maya used to throw sacrifices into the cenotes, hoping to appease the gods, and—” He broke off. “And I’ll shut up now.”

  She glanced back. “Archaeology student?”

  He shook his head. “Architecture student. But a geeky one. Day one, when my buddies headed for the cantina, I hit the museum.”

  It was a perfectly reasonable explanation that didn’t play, though she couldn’t put her finger on what seemed off about it, or why the realization kicked her pulse higher in a good way rather than bad. Then her pitiful flashlight beam showed that they had hit the end of the staircase, and she couldn’t think of anything except what might lie beyond, where the walls fell away and there was only darkness. She smelled brackish water and thought she heard a liquid drip up ahead, so when she reached the edge of the last step, she aimed the light down, making sure there was something solid for her to step onto.

  Without warning or preamble, a crack-boom split the air, and fireworks lit an almost perfect circle far above them with yellow, orange, and red sparks. The illumination brightened the interior of what proved to be a high, arching cavern. Graceful stalactites dripped down, reaching toward a circular pool of rippling water. At the apex of the arched ceiling, a sinkhole had punched through, letting in the night sky, where blue-green pinwheels twirled outward in concentric firework rings.

  “Holy shit.” Brandt stepped past her, trailing his hand across the small of her back as he moved onto the wide strip of soft limestone sand that separated the curving cave walls from the lagoon. He was staring up at the circle of sky. “I didn’t know there was a cenote at El Rey.”