Nightkeepers

I’m not a Nightkeeper—trust me, that’s been made crystal clear. But the thing is, I didn’t ask to come here; you brought me. Your gods brought me. Whatever. So I’m going to tell it how I see it.’’ She paused, her voice softening a notch. ‘‘You and Jox and Red-Boar got tossed headfirst into a hell of a situation; I get that. But I think they’re dealing with it by leaning way too hard on traditions that just aren’t relevant anymore . . . and you’re dealing with it by not dealing.’’

‘‘I don’t think you’re in a position to lecture,’’ Strike said through gritted teeth. ‘‘As you’ve pointed out, you’re not one of us.’’ Which was mean, but she had him feeling mean. Did she think he liked spending fourteen hours a day locked in the archive? He was doing it for her, damn it. For all of them.

Something flickered in her eyes—hurt, maybe, or an anger that echoed his own—but she kept her tone reasonable when she said, ‘‘All the others were raised, to some degree or another, within the Nightkeeper culture. I’m an outsider. I can see stuff you can’t. Besides, in case you hadn’t noticed, things aren’t happening exactly the way the stories say they should. You’ve got a human who seems to have a god’s powers, but only when the barrier is at its thinnest, a half-blood with wild talent but no mark, and a full-blood with a mark but no apparent talent. Not to mention that you’re dealing with a bunch of trainees who grew up in the modern world and have opinions of their own.’’ She paused. ‘‘Seems to me that it’s time to make some changes.’’

He hated being ambushed, but had to admit she might have a point. Temper leveling slightly, he said, ‘‘Like what?’’

She waved to the barbecuers. ‘‘Did it occur to you to ask why the winikin are cooking while the Nightkeepers screw around?’’

‘‘Because—’’ He stopped himself.

‘‘Right. Because they’re winikin. Am I the only one here who has a problem with that?’’

He cut her a frustrated look. ‘‘This is a monarchy, not a commune, and the hierarchy exists for a reason. The Nightkeepers need to conserve their energy for the magic. For fighting.’’

‘‘But there’s not much magic going on at the moment, and even less fighting.’’

‘‘Don’t start,’’ he warned. He gestured to the field, where the football game was more a mess of arms and legs than a coordinated strategy. ‘‘Do they look like they’re ready to fight?’’

‘‘And whose fault is that?’’ she demanded. ‘‘If this is a monarchy, then the king’s son needs to give some serious thought to stepping up and taking over rather than hiding in the library.’’

‘‘I—’’ He broke off, practically choking on a quick flash of rage. He wanted to grab her, shake her, shout at her. Who did she think she was, talking to him like that, making it sound like he was shirking his duty, when all he’d ever been was duty? Every decision he’d made since the summer solstice had been for the Nightkeepers, for mankind, though he’d get no thanks from that corner. Humans were—and had always been— narrow and self-absorbed, too caught up in their small little lives to see—

Whoa. Strike reined himself in, fighting back the anger as best he could. His body hummed with rage, with bloodlust and deep disillusionment. He wanted to run and howl, wanted to fly, though that wasn’t one of his talents. He wanted to take Leah, to possess her, absorb her very being into himself until he was complete.

And none of those were his emotions, he realized with a start. They were coming from a hard, hot place at the back of his skull, along with a pounding pressure that felt like hate. Like darkness.

Holy shit, what was going on with him?

‘‘In order to fight,’’ Leah continued, unaware of his inner turmoil, ‘‘they’re going to need to feel like a unified force. And every team needs a leader. Trust me, cops are about as independent a bunch as you’ll find, but we need to know there’s someone calling the shots. The trainees need that from you. The winikin keep telling them that you’re in charge, that the king has the final say, but they barely know you. You’ve left the training to Jox and Red-Boar, and you spend practically all your time in the archive. How can you possibly run this show if you don’t know the strengths and weaknesses of your people?’’

They were standing outside, yet he felt as though walls were closing in around him, suffocating him until he could barely breathe. The darkness rose up, threatening to swamp him, to take him over and leave nothing but rage and frustration.

Part of him feared it was makol magic that had somehow slipped through the wards surrounding the compound. But it didn’t feel like evil; it felt like anger, like the need for freedom.

And it was that last piece of the emotions, that need to escape, that made him think it wasn’t coming from an outside source at all. It was inside him—his anger, his frustration . . . and his desire to run away.

The question had dogged him for weeks now. What sort of a king could he possibly make when he didn’t really want to be king at all?

‘‘Grub’s on!’’ Jox called, his voice tinny with distance, providing a much-needed distraction.

The football game broke up and the trainees headed for the tables, pushing and shoving one another, and cursing good-naturedly about the game as they loaded their plates and grabbed drinks from a couple of coolers nearby. Strike saw a few curious glances shot his way, but nobody shouted for him to hurry his ass up so they could eat.

Instead, they started without him, which proved Leah’s point. While he’d been wrestling with his own demons, he’d lost track of what the others needed. Not only was he not their leader, he wasn’t even part of their gang.

‘‘Damn,’’ he said, which seemed to sum things up.

She took his hand and tugged him toward the barbecue. ‘‘It’s fixable.’’

Is it? he thought, but didn’t say. Instead, he allowed himself to be led to the small barbecue, where he made a concerted effort to engage with the other magi, putting faces and impressions to Jox’s and Red-Boar’s reports, and trying to channel what he remembered of his father’s public persona, which was all he knew of how a king should act.

But as the night wore on and beer and wine flowed, and Jox even broke out the potent ceremonial pulque— one shot each, no more—and everyone else relaxed, Strike grew increasingly tense while he fought the red haze that threatened to coat his mind with anger, hatred, and vicious sexual frustration. A single thought kept pounding through his skull, chasing itself around in endless circles.