Dawnkeepers

The day the Boston mission left, Alexis spent most of the day in her suite studying—she refused to think of it as hiding. She was reading up on the Godkeeper legends, which were woefully lacking in detail, and trying out a few selected spells to see if she could pull them off.

So far, that would be a no.

Her tactile senses were heightened, especially when it came to textiles and other woven things. She could touch a piece of fabric and know instantly where its weak spots lay; give her a piece of clothing and she immediately knew where its seams were imperfect, its design flawed. She saw new colors in the world around her, and was preternaturally aware of how the light bent slightly as it came through a window, how it refracted in a droplet of water dripping from her bathroom sink. And she knew at a glance where the women around her were in their biological cycles—hello, TMI. All of those were consistent with Ixchel’s triad role as the goddess of weaving, rainbows, and fertility. But how the hell was any of that supposed to help her repel the first of Camazotz’s sons during the vernal equinox in two weeks?

Alexis didn’t have a freaking clue.

Back in the fall, Leah’s bound god, Kulkulkan, had manifested as a giant winged serpent to fight the flying crocodile demon, Zipacna. Which had made some sense—flying monster versus flying monster.

So what, exactly, was the goddess of rainbows supposed to do against a death god? And how the hell did the Volatile fit in? It would’ve helped if she could talk to the goddess and ask for info. That had been the hope going into the ceremony. Leah had gotten some thought-flashes from Kulkulkan, so they’d theorized that a true, full-blood Godkeeper might have a closer bond, one that allowed for actual conversation. Unfortunately, not so much. Which meant that so far Leah, with her flawed connection to the creator god Kulkulkan, was still more useful than Alexis as a fully bound keeper to Ixchel.

Granted, although she might be fully bound, she was functioning without her gods-destined protector. She’d stopped thinking of Nate as her gods-destined mate and gone with “protector” instead, because the more comfortable she got with her connection to Ixchel’s subtle powers, the more the fabric of her own life took shape around her, letting her see that she deserved someone who wanted her, flaws and all, someone who loved every piece of her and asked nothing but that she love him back. Which, she realized, was sort of what Nate had been saying before, that sex and love shouldn’t be a commodity used to pay for increased power.

She couldn’t help thinking, though, that if he wanted her enough, needed her enough, then none of the power stuff would matter to him, and he’d take her any way he could get her. That meant he hadn’t —and didn’t —want her enough. Story of her life.

Aaron had liked her as a portfolio manager and arm candy in certain social situations, and most of his predecessors had been iterations of the same theme. Izzy loved her; Alexis was sure of that. But at the same time, she couldn’t help wondering how much of that emotion was tied into the winikin’s ambitions, always wanting her to be the best and brightest, to live up to her bloodline and her mother’s reputation. And Nate . . . hell, he wanted her sexually because the gods had hardwired him that way, whether or not he was willing to admit it. But the woman he truly wanted wasn’t her. He wanted the warrior in his video game, the woman Alexis might have been if the massacre had never happened, if she’d been raised by her parents within the Nightkeeper system. But that hadn’t happened, and the lives each of them had lived prior to discovering their true nature had made them too different from the people they should have been. Which meant she and Nate were almost—but not quite—a match.

A quick knock on the door jolted her out of her reverie. “Yes?”

“We’ve got a problem. You’d better come.” It was Nate, sounding clipped and urgent.

His voice brought a buzz of heat and frustration, coming so close on the heels of her thoughts of him. But his tone warned that something was wrong.

“Coming,” she called. Heart kicking against her ribs, she scrambled to her feet, dumping a pile of reference books on the floor. Pausing only to jam her feet in a pair of scuffs, she headed for the door, coming up short when she swung open the panel and found him standing in the hallway, waiting for her. He was wearing combat clothes, though no bulletproof vest or belt. Hesitating, she said, “Should I get my gear?”

He shook his head. “I was headed out to the shooting range when Carlos came for me. There’s a problem with the team in Boston.”

“Iago?” she asked immediately.

“Rabbit.”

“Let’s go.” They hurried up the hall to the main body of the mansion. When they pushed through a set of swinging doors leading to the sunken main room, Alexis gave a low cry at the sight of Patience lying motionless on one of the big couches with Jox bent over her. Sven was sitting on the other sofa with his head in his hands; Carlos was trying to make him drink some OJ, only to be shaken off. Jade was hovering over the sofas, looking lost, with Lucius in the background behind her. The other winikin were in the kitchen, pulling together food, suggesting that serious magic was on tap. There was no sign of Strike, Brandt, Michael, or Rabbit.

“Where’s everyone else?” Nate asked before Alexis could. For a moment there was no answer; then Sven dragged his face out of his hands and looked up, revealing a hunted, haunted expression. “They went back for the demon-prophecy bowl. I managed to make the switch, but I zapped it into my hands instead of out into the alley. A guard saw, and I lost the bowl while we were trying to get away from the cops. I fucking dropped it, and now we’ve got nothing.”

“It wasn’t—” Carlos began, but Sven shot to his feet and stood, swaying.

“It was my fault; don’t you get it? I dropped the bowl and didn’t go back for it. I was too busy running away, just like—” Now he interrupted himself, clicking his teeth over the words and saying instead, “It fucking was my fault.”

Alexis, who’d never had much patience with breast-beating guilt trips, found herself crossing the room and taking the glass of OJ from Carlos. “Get him food,” she ordered. Then she made Sven sit back down and pressed the juice into his hand. “Bottoms up,” she said firmly. “You need the sugar after pulling off the double translocation.”

“I didn’t pull it off,” he snapped. “I—”

“Dropped the bowl. Yeah, I get that. Thing is, you won’t be any good for damage control if you’re half-dead from a postmagic hangover. So drink the damned juice, and eat whatever Carlos brings you.”

A little to her surprise, he complied.

Shifting her attention to Jox, she said, “What’s her status?”

The winikin had a hand on Patience’s wrist, tracking her pulse. He shook his head. “One of the guards Tasered her, and she’s always had a bit of an arrhythmia. Kicked her heart off rhythm pretty good, but it seems to be settling now.”

“Does she need to get to a hospital?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Be sure,” Alexis pressed, her voice hard.

Surprise flashed in Jox’s eyes, but he nodded. “I’m sure.”

A small piece of Alexis wondered why he knew about Patience’s med history, and why he was hovering as if she were his charge, not Hannah’s. But Hannah and Wood were away in hiding with the twins, so perhaps he’d become in loco winikin to Patience and Brandt. Besides, the surprise in the royal winikin’s expression reminded Alexis that it wasn’t her place to be handing out orders; she wasn’t in charge. She asked, “Where’s Leah?”

Strike’s mate had recently returned to Skywatch, unsuccessful in her efforts to find Kulkulkan’s altar stone. The artifact bearing the seventh demon prophecy had dropped from the historical record after World War II, reappeared briefly in a private collection in Denmark, and disappeared again in the sixties, leaving the ex-cop frustrated as hell.

“I’m here, but don’t let me stop you when you’re on a roll.” Leah came into view, wearing combat gear and a worried expression. She glanced at Jox. “Any word?”

“Nothing yet.” He looked down, relief smoothing some of the frown lines when Patience stirred and her eyelids fluttered. “She’s coming around. That’s something, at any rate. Why don’t we—” A slap of concussion cut him off, and Strike, Brandt, and Michael appeared in the center of the room, in a flash of royal red and a hum of strong, pissed-off Nightkeeper magic.