Skykeepers

ancestral magic that preceded Nightkeeper power? More, how was Sasha involved with the Other and the magic? Iago had implied that she was important to his transformation, and that his transformed self would be of use to the Xibalbans, and that fit with the way she broke through his defenses without trying. But at the same time, there had been moments when touching her, being with her, had helped level him off, as though she strengthened not only the monster inside him, but the man. And it wasn’t like he could tell her any of what was going on—he’d tried earlier, and had vapor locked on the words. As far as she knew, he was . . . hell, he didn’t know what she thought he was at this point. All he knew was that he couldn’t risk it, couldn’t risk her. Not until he knew what he was, and why Iago wanted him.

“Shit,” he muttered. “We need more info, as usual.”

“Was that what you were looking for?” asked Jade from her desk in the corner.

“Yeah, thanks,” he answered, but he doubted she heard him. She hadn’t looked up from what she was doing, and her tone had suggested she was mostly asking to be polite, and to indicate that she could make herself available if he needed help. All of which was quintessential Jade—always supportive, always there. Even after the talent ceremony, when he’d been too screwed up to continue as her lover, she’d tried to help him.

I’m sorry we couldn’t bring Lucius back with us , he wanted to say. He didn’t, though, because she’d already made it clear she didn’t want to talk about it. She preferred to deal with her problems alone, in silence. He could relate, though in his case it wasn’t necessarily a preference. Fuck it, he thought. He was so damn tired of being alone in a house full of people.

Then, knowing that swearing about it wasn’t going to get the job done, he printed the page and closed the file. After a quick glance to make sure that she’d gone back to her work, he tapped a few keys, got into the code, and, with a twinge of guilt that was weaker than it should have been, he deleted the file, scrubbed it from the directory, and replaced the citation with a dupe of another page he pulled at random.

As he headed out of the archive, sketching a wave, he sought the back of his brain, expecting to find one of the sluiceways cracked, letting through the dishonesty he associated with the Other.

It was shut. That move had come entirely from him.

Shit. Michael stalled in the hallway, not liking that realization one bit. He didn’t want to be the liar, didn’t want to be corrupted. But at the same time he couldn’t stop thinking of what Lucius had written.

It’d be a hell of a weapon. And it would. It had killed the red-robe but spared Sasha, who’d been slung over the man’s shoulder. More, the power had felt bottomless. What if, rather than transforming to the monster within, which was what he suspected Iago had meant, he became a man capable of wielding the monster’s power on behalf of the Nightkeepers?

Or was that nothing more than rationalization?

Frustration kicked in his veins, bringing a wash of anger that warned he wasn’t quite as in control as he’d thought. He’d been planning to head for his suite, but detoured for the sliders instead, knowing it was time to burn off some steam. Over the months, he’d learned that it wasn’t enough to be mentally strong. Sometimes he just had to go kick the shit out of something.

A too-tempting target presented itself when Tomas appeared in the doorway leading to the main mansion, his expression thunderous.

Michael held up a hand. “I’m really not—”

“I don’t really give a shit if you’re in the mood or not, Romeo.” The winikin closed on him, five foot six of pissed-off moral compass intent on beating some sense into his charge’s head. “You need to stop fucking around here.”

Right, Michael thought , because your telling me what to do has worked so well in the past. “I’m doing the best I know how to do,” he said finally. “And that’s all I’m going to say about it.” Except he knew that wouldn’t be enough for the winikin. How many times had they gone around in some form or another of this argument?

The winikin just shook his head in disgust. “Your mother and father would be ashamed.”

Fuck. Anger slapped through Michael, rage and shame mingled into a nasty, vicious brew as Tomas went right for the jugular. His fingers twitched for the knife he wore strapped to his ankle, but he left it sheathed. The blade had been his father’s, one of the few pieces he had that connected him to his bloodline. Michael wasn’t as into the whole “what has happened before will happen again” as some of the others were, and didn’t base his life on the history and predilections of his bloodline as much as he might, but he’d done his homework, and knew something of his parents. Jeraden and Silva Stone had been loyal soldiers, strong magi. And in a bloodline that had a reputation for producing more than its share of unmated bachelors, depressives, and suicides, they had found the strong, binding love that had earned them the matching jun tan forearm marks of a love match, a mated pair. They had lived together, loved together, borne a son together. And they had died together in service to their king.

Theirs was an honorable legacy. His fuckups were his own.

“Leave them out of this,” he said tightly.

“Get your head out of your ass, boy,” Tomas bitched. “You and Jade weren’t a match. Fine. But are you going to look me in the eye and tell me that the gods themselves didn’t put Sasha in your path?”

“The intersection’s gone. The gods can’t reach us anymore.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.” The only one he could give.

The winikin glared up at him. “When did you get to be such a prick?”

Takes one to know one , Michael would’ve said on another day, during another fight, and they would’ve been off down another familiar loop. But the anger was too close to the surface now, the violence too tempting, the Other too near. “Do us both a favor and leave it. I don’t want to hurt you.”

The winikin’s eyes went wide and he fell back a step. “Michael? Are you okay?”

Michael didn’t have an answer for him, so he did the only thing he knew how to do these days to keep himself from doing something terrible: He walked away.

Pushing past the winikin, he headed down the hallway toward the main mansion, ridden hard by jagged teeth of anger, and the tight rein he held on it. When Tomas called his name, he almost didn’t turn back. But although the affection had long ago bled from their relationship, their history remained.

Michael stopped and looked at his winikin. “Yeah?”

Bleakness edged the other man’s eyes. “I’m asking you, as a personal favor, to go talk to Sasha.

You didn’t see the look on her face when you took off with Jade.”

Michael stifled a curse; he hadn’t even thought that one through. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Don’t tell me. Tell her.”

For a change, he couldn’t argue with his winikin. “Where is she?”

“I think she was headed outside to find Jox. So probably the garden or the greenhouse.”

Michael nodded. “Okay. That much I can do.”

But as he cut through the deserted great room and headed outside, frustrated excitement kindled at the thought of seeing her again. His skin heated as his mind filled with the memory of losing himself inside her. He wanted to taste her vitality again, wanted her chocolate brown eyes laughing up at him, challenging him. He wanted to know she was okay after everything that had happened, wanted to tell her it would get better, even if that was a lie.

But he couldn’t go to her, didn’t dare. The blood ward surrounding Skywatch might protect them from enemy magic coming from outside the shield, but it didn’t quell magic coming from within, dark or otherwise. And right now, with his desire gone silver around the edges and the killing rage held back by only a thin grip on sanity, he didn’t know if he could, either.

Feeling the darkness rise up within, he turned away from the path leading to the greenhouse and headed off in the other direction instead, toward the ball court, out of sight of the others. He knew only one sure way to regain his center, his control.

He would fight himself. And, gods willing, he would win.