Skykeepers

Stopping outside the second of the doors, Michael said a quick spell to drop the ward spell that barred magic users from entering or exiting the cell, and then turned the key stuck in the exterior lock.

He was strung tight as he pushed through the door to the sparsely furnished fifteen-by-fifteen-foot cell, exhaling only when he saw that Sasha was there, still sleeping, curled up beneath a blanket.

Wearing a set of Alexis’s workout clothes, with her hair bed-wild and the strain of the prior day evident in the circles beneath her eyes, she wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. But call it her innate healing magic, call it Rabbit’s intervention—hell, call it good genes—whatever it was, even in repose she seemed to glow from within with strength and vitality, and the sort of go-to-hell attitude he’d never been able to resist. And that was a problem, because he was starting to realize he wasn’t just attracted to her, wasn’t just drawn to her on a magical or even physical level. He was in danger of liking her, of wanting to be with her. He told himself to about- face it and get out of there before he did something they would both regret, but he was already too late. She hadn’t been sleeping, after all; she’d been faking it. Now, having no doubt identified him through cracked lids, she sat up and glared at him.

When their eyes met, magic and anger kicked, and every cell of his body lit with desire. Heat rushed through him, tensing his body, hardening his flesh. And he knew he wasn’t going anywhere, not just because of the library and the questions that needed answering, but because of her. Problem was, the Other felt the exact same way.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Sasha took a good long look at her latest captor. With the clean, elegant lines of his body visible beneath soft black track pants, and a tight muscle shirt that showed off a whole hell of a lot of muscles, Michael was just as big and gorgeous as she had first remembered, when she’d awoken and found herself far more clearheaded than she would’ve expected. Or rather, some things were fuzzy while others—like the two of them tearing into each other like crazed nymphos—were crystal.

As their eyes met, heat chased through her. Still, though, she tried to hang on to rationality. What had she been thinking? Maybe she’d gotten into a couple of ill-fated relationships far too quickly in the past, but the incident in the smoke-filled chamber had to be one for the Guinness book: introductions to orgasm in fifteen minutes or less, with no payment involved. Hello, sex with a stranger. She’d nearly talked herself into believing that what had happened between them had come from nothing more than adrenaline and incense, that she’d imagined the connection they’d seemed to forge. But now, as his forest dark eyes looked right at her and saw her, really saw her rather than dismissing her or passing by, she knew she was in some big, bad trouble. He was trouble. Because even though she knew who and what he was, her blood ran hot for him and her chest tightened with the greedy, grasping need that was her downfall.

She would have cursed him, but she had only herself to blame for the weakness. So many things would’ve been different in her life if she could’ve found a way to be happy alone, if she could’ve been enough for herself. Her ex, Saul, might not have been kind when he’d accused her of clinging too hard, of needing too much, but he’d been right. Even her ill-advised trip into the rain forest had been a quest for her father’s posthumous approval. And yesterday? Michael had told her he’d come looking for her, that he and his friends needed her, and she’d fallen right in with his plan of hiding until reinforcements arrived. Then, somehow, they’d wound up making love. And for a few moments, she hadn’t been alone. The sex had been flat- out, earthshaking, tooth-rattling amazing. More, it had made her feel powerful, as though she’d finally taken something for herself after too many months of having things taken from her. Yet it had to have been a huge mistake. Even though the dreams made him seem more familiar than he ought to, she didn’t know him, really. She thought she’d glimpsed something dark and angry in him the day before, something that reminded her too much of Ambrose on a bad day. And although it had been for just a second, and he’d gotten it under control just as quickly as it had flashed, it had been in there. She was sure of it.

Not to mention that she was still a freaking prisoner. She was someplace different from before; that much was evident in the makeshift cell outfitted with a narrow camping cot, a portable toilet, and a small bookshelf that held a couple of paperbacks and a six-pack of bottled water. Still, though, it was a cell.

When he didn’t say anything, just stood there staring at her, she tossed aside the light blanket and stood, squaring off opposite him, barefoot, in a fighter’s ready position matching his own. Then she lifted her chin in challenge and fixed him with a look. “Well?”

Finally, he let out a long, slow breath and said, “Glad to see you’re awake. You had us worried.”

“Us?” She didn’t let on that she’d been playing possum for the past hour, that she’d seen at least two others checking up on her, a tall, rawboned blonde and a smaller, darker man with gray-streaked hair pulled back in a ponytail much like the one Ambrose had worn. “And where are we?”

“There are a couple dozen of us in residence here, give or take. And you’re at Skywatch. Our training compound.” He paused. “How much do you remember about what happened last night?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” she said, buying time while her thoughts churned. I remember that you’re just as bad as Ambrose and Iago, she thought with a flash of anger that cut through the sensual pull that seemed to anchor her body to his. I know you believe in the same shit they do, and you think I’m somehow part of it. More, you had me convinced there for a few minutes.

Granted, her jumbled memories contained splashes of the inexplicable. How had he found her? How had they avoided being seen by the gray-robes? What the hell was the deal with that curtain of glittering light? How had he knocked her out again without even touching her?

But now that she’d slept off whatever had been in the incense, she’d returned to rationality. They had to be using drugs of some sort, she thought. And some special effects to make the magic seem real.

Panic spiraled, bringing a prickle of sweat to her skin, though the room was cool. What the hell kind of rabbit hole had she fallen into? Who were these people? They were Ambrose’s kind of people, she knew. And she had to get the hell out of there. It didn’t matter that they thought they were the good guys. They were still insane, still dangerous. I’ve got to get out of here, she thought. But how? Step one seemed obvious. She needed to get free from her cell and figure out where she was. Iago’s labyrinth had proved to be too much for her, but her current accommodations looked to be a converted storeroom. What if the rest of her prison was similarly makeshift?

Scattered thoughts coming together into a plan of sorts, she said, “You want to know where Ambrose hid the library.”

Michael stilled. “You know we do.”

She lifted her chin, trying not to let the nerves show. “How about we make a deal? I’ll tell you everything I know about it, on one condition.”

“Which is what—a ticket back to Boston and a vow that we’ll forget you exist?” he asked dryly.

She tamped down the kick of excitement brought by the impossible offer. “If you promised me that, I’d know you were lying.” She shook her head. “No, no plane ticket. Let’s go with straight-up barter instead. You get me out of here and into a kitchen, hook me up with some fresh ingredients, and I’ll answer your questions.”

His gorgeous eyes went blank for a moment. She’d surprised him. Good.

“That’s your demand?” he asked after a moment. “You want to cook?”

She shrugged. “You’ve looked into my background, so you know that’s what I do—I cook. I cook when I’m happy or sad, when I’m celebrating with friends or all alone with my thoughts. Cooking is my outlet, one of my greatest pleasures.” When the word stirred the physical memory of another, greater pleasure, she hurriedly continued, “I haven’t been in a kitchen or touched real food in nearly a year. So, yeah. That’s the trade. You give me an hour in a kitchen, I’ll you what I know about the library.”

A true warrior might not have gone for the pots and pans as her first demand, but she’d never pretended to be a warrior, despite Ambrose’s claims otherwise—and his last brutal attempt to prove those claims. She was who she was, nothing more. And in this stupid, screwed-up situation where everybody had the power except her, she needed, for a few moments, anyway, to pretend she was back in her own world. More, she needed to get the hell