Dawnkeepers

money to someone big and mean. The mob, maybe, or Vegas—which pretty much amounted to the same thing, depending on the circumstances.

The two men probably weighed about the same, but whereas Nate’s bulk was mostly gained from a series of increasingly frustrated workout regimes, he rarely saw Michael in the gym downstairs, and had a feeling the other man’s muscles might look good enough, but they were as soft as his pretty hair.

Which probably meant it’d be a quick fight, but he could deal with that, as long as he got a few good licks in before his opponent went down.

Because there was sure as hell going to be a fight. He could see it in Michael’s eyes and feel it in the tension that snapped in the air between them.

Still, though, fairness had him saying, “Look, I’m trying to work it out, okay? I’d appreciate it if you give me some room while I’m doing that.”

“I’m sure you would.” Michael paused. “Not gonna happen. She’s asked me to help her, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

Nate gritted his teeth so hard he was pretty sure he heard a molar give way. “Over my dead body.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Michael grinned, his eyes lighting with a sort of unholy glory. Then he was gone. He just freaking disappeared from the spot where he’d been standing.

Nate stood for a second, gaping. Then, catching a hint of motion out of his peripheral vision, he spun and brought up his fists, but he was already way too late. Michael was already in midair, performing some sort of flying spin-kick that caught Nate in the temple and sent him sprawling. Nate landed, cursing, on the glass-topped coffee table. The glass didn’t break, but one of the table’s metal legs buckled, dumping him to the neutral-toned carpet. He took a burn across his cheek from the rug’s nap, and that just pissed him off worse.

“No teleporting!” he shouted, and lunged for Michael in a flying tackle aimed square at the other man’s midsection.

Only Michael wasn’t there when Nate arrived, meaning that Nate crashed into the wall instead, then took a brutal chop across the back of his exposed neck.

“I can’t teleport, asshole. It’s martial arts,” Michael said derisively from somewhere behind Nate, who sagged to his hands and knees as his opponent jeered, “I’d suggest you try it, but there’s a certain requirement for rhythm, balance, and tact, and you seem to prefer the Viking throwdown.”

Nate didn’t know if his opponent had mentioned Vikings on purpose or not, but the reference kicked his rage higher. The world clicked over to slow motion. Nate stood and saw Michael standing there, saw his mouth flapping as he danced on the balls of his feet, readying for another judo chop or some such crap. Then Nate had the satisfaction of seeing Michael’s eyes go wide when he threw a punch straight from the shoulder, right into his pretty-ass face.

The punch connected, the impact singing up Nate’s arm. Michael’s head snapped back and he went down on the coffee table, and this time the sucker buckled completely, its legs sticking out to the sides, making it look like a squashed chrome-and-glass spider.

Michael lunged back up with a roar, his fancy moves forgotten somewhere in a haze of testosterone, and the two men got into it for real, grappling and punching, staggering around the suite in an inelegant tangle as they fought for balance, for leverage.

Nate was aware of someone opening the door, taking a look at what was going on, then shutting the panel again in a hurry. He was pretty sure it was one of the winikin, but his glance at the door was nearly his undoing, because Michael got in beneath his shaky guard and connected with Nate’s jaw, snapping his head back and making him see a rainbow of pain.

“Son of a bitch!” Nate dug in and landed a decent three-punch combination he’d learned in prison, as part of the this is my ass, not yours battles he’d been forced to fight every few months. Michael grunted in pain but gave as good as he got, and they both went down in the middle of the sitting room, rolling atop the flattened tabletop.

A chrome leg dug into Nate’s kidney, and he roared and reversed their positions. His mouth was full of blood, bringing power singing through him, but he didn’t touch the magic. He wanted the blood and pain, wanted to pound out his frustrations.

Michael, it seemed, had a few of his own frustrations to get out. They hammered at each other for a few more minutes, grunting and cursing, bodies slicked with sweat and spittle and blood.

Then, as though they’d planned it all along, they broke apart and flopped onto their backs, side by side, ribs heaving as they gasped like dying fish.

“Fuck,” Michael said after a moment, “I needed that.”

Nate laughed, then groaned when laughing hurt. “Shit. Me too.” He paused. “You’re not going to the temple with Alexis, right?”

“Never planned on it.”

“Okay.” Nate stared at the ceiling. “What?”

Michael’s chuckle was a split-lipped rasp. “I’ve crossed enough people in this lifetime already; I’m not about to start thumbing my nose at the gods. They picked you for her, and I’m not getting in the middle of that.”

“Okay,” Nate said again, hating that the whole destiny thing was actually helping him out this time.

What mattered, though, was that he and Michael had an agreement, that he was going to have some room to figure out what the hell to do about Alexis. He probably ought to feel victorious or something, but instead he just felt hollow and sore. And hungry.

At the thought of food, his stomach gave a huge growl that got them both laughing again.

“I think that’s your cue.” Michael dragged himself to his feet, kicking a piece of chrome out of the way, then leaned down and offered Nate his hand. “Come on. Let’s see whose winikin freaks out worse when he sees the state we’re in. Five bucks says it’s yours.”

Michael’s shirtfront was stained dark with blood, his lip split and puffy, and he was going to have a matching pair of shiners the next day. Then again, Nate figured the way his face was feeling—all swollen and strange—he probably looked about the same. He shook his head, though, as he let Michael haul him off the ground. “I’ll take that bet. Carlos doesn’t freak. He lectures.”

“Only because he’s worried about you.”

“Don’t start unless you want another beating.”

“Bring it on.” But Michael headed for his bedroom instead, pulling off his shirt as he went. He ducked into the bedroom and grabbed a clean button-down, then reappeared, waving a shirt in Nate’s direction. “You want?”

“Is it as girlie as the rest of the shit you wear most of the time, or are we going landscaper for a reason today?”

“Fuck you.” But Michael was grinning as he tossed the shirt, and as they headed out of the suite and down to the main mansion’s big, fully-stocked kitchen together, Nate was feeling about as relaxed as he had since Strike showed up at his office and hung him off the side of the building to get his attention.

They didn’t see anybody on the way through the mansion to the kitchen, which Nate figured was probably a good thing. But when, by the time they’d killed a gallon of OJ between them, they still hadn’t seen anybody, they shared a look.

“I don’t like this,” Michael said.

“Me neither.” Nate headed across the sunken main room for the sliders that led to the pool and the remainder of the compound out back. If the mansion was empty, then the courtyard or the training halls were their next best bets.

Sure enough, he could see in the distance that the Nightkeepers and winikin were gathered at the picnic tables underneath the ceiba tree.

“Nice of them to come get us,” Michael muttered.

Remembering the winikin head-pop he’d seen in the middle of the fight, Nate said, “I think someone tried. We scared them off.”

“Oops.”

Taking a couple of bagels to go, Nate and Michael headed out to join the group. When they got into range, Strike waved them to a couple of empty places. He didn’t mention anything about their bruises, just said, “Good. Now that we’re all here, we’ll get started. Anna?”