Skykeepers

Jox’s garden was a wide, rectangular swath of rich dark earth that contrasted sharply with the arid surroundings, making Sasha suspect that the humus had been trucked in. Several different varieties of maize grew in graceful rows along one side, nearly ready for harvest, while squash, pumpkins, and other late-season vegetables grew on the other side. Above and around the crops, PVC pipes showed where an irrigation system made up for what the skies didn’t provide in the way of moisture, and reflective screens and frost-retarding drapes were stacked against a nearby shed. The setup was expensive and extravagant, but she was pitifully grateful for the splurge as she crouched down, pressing her palms to the moist, yielding surface. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling a layer of tension ebb.

Even if she hadn’t needed to speak with Jox, she would’ve visited the greenhouse sooner rather than later, because her love of green plants was second only to her love of cooking; truly, the two were intertwined. Although she’d never had the space to grow more than a window-box garden, the feel of soil against her palms had always soothed her, centered her. And she was sorely in need of peace just then.

Beside the garden loomed a geodesic greenhouse formed of a central dome and several radiating spokes. The complicated setup—again, top-of-the-line, like everything she’d seen within Skywatch so far—was geared to use solar energy for heating, cooling, and regulating humidity. She was impressed even before she slipped through the door. Then she got her first look at the plants being grown inside, and was blown away.

She stopped just inside the door. “Wow.”

Instead of a traditional central aisle and square planting beds or tables leading off it, a pathway of textured cement wound through the space, twisting among potting tables and beds full of knee-high flowering plants, then disappearing into a grove of sour oranges and thin-skinned key limes. The air inside was moist and redolent with the fragrances of fruits and flowers, the earthy smell of compost, the sharp tang of granular fertilizer. Music emerged from speakers set high around the space, something with a country twang, turned to a low murmur.

She inhaled deeply, drawing in the fragrances of a hundred different flowers and the perfect smell of moist earth. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a flutter of movement as a butterfly wafted on an unseen air current, lifting to alight on the fine sprinkler mesh overhead.

Jox was just inside, perched on a metal stool pulled up to one of the potting benches, where he was transplanting small, delicate shoots from peat pots to five-inch rounds. He glanced over at her, his eyes kind. “I had a feeling you’d find your way here.”

“Strike said you could hook me up with a room that has an actual bed.”

“And you have questions, and need a moment of peace, away from the others.”

A layer of tension fell away, and she exhaled. “Oh, holy shit. Do I ever.”

Jox nudged another of the metal stools with a foot. “Have a seat.” He pushed one of the flats of peat pots toward her, along with some larger pots. “Transplant.”

She climbed onto the stool, took a peat pot and turned it in her fingers. It was very real, very mundane. “I don’t know where to start,” she said, meaning the questions, not the potting.

“It’ll come to you. But work while you talk.”

She started transferring the seedlings to their new homes, and was soothed almost immediately by the rhythm, the winikin’s undemanding silence, and the flicker of butterfly wings here and there. “Tell me about Michael,” she said finally. It probably shouldn’t have been the topic foremost on her mind, but there it was. She’d dreamed of him, had sex with him, been dumped by him, all in the space of twenty-four hours. An entire relationship done on fast-forward.

The winikin hesitated, as though weighing his response. “If you had asked me about him a year ago, I would’ve said he was a classic example of a male of the stone bloodline. They generally come in two flavors: Most of them are handsome and charming, but not stayers—the type who wind up bachelor uncles rather than mated fathers. They’re good in a fight, but don’t go beyond what’s asked of them.

In the second category are the heavyweights, like his parents. They fight fiercely, love fiercely, protect fiercely—and often burn out early, like shooting stars.”

“I take it Michael’s a type A Stone?”

“Up until this past spring, I would’ve put him firmly in the first category. Slick and charming but . .

. a little insubstantial. He was here, but he wasn’t always present, if you know what I mean.

Particularly after his talent ceremony, it seemed like he was always locked away in his room, on his phone, doing some sort of business. He was edgy, jittery, always looking over his shoulder. If anything, I’d say that back then he was waiting for something.”

“What?”

“Not sure. Whatever it was, I think he found it, or dealt with it, or whatever, right after the spring solstice. It wasn’t an overnight change, but looking back, it was pretty abrupt. Over the space of maybe a month, he went from business casual and vodka tonics to muscle shirts and beer. Not that there’s anything wrong with nice clothes and expensive drinks, but they never quite seemed to suit him, like they were an act. Anyway, after that, the personal phone disappeared, and he started sitting in on council meetings and working like hell on his magic.”

“What happened in the spring?”

Jox lifted a shoulder. “A whole bunch of things: Nate and Alexis became mates, Lucius went makol and disappeared, Rabbit escaped from Iago and came back with Myrinne, the magi fought the Banol Kax at the hellmouth, Iago destroyed the intersection. . . . I’m not sure which of those things, if any, triggered the changes.” The winikin paused. “Please understand that I wouldn’t be telling you this if I didn’t consider you an interested party.”

She smiled with little humor. “Let’s say I’m trying very hard not to be interested, because he’s made it clear he’s not.”

“Bullshit. He nearly tore the place apart last night when he couldn’t wake you up, and he got into it with the king this morning over making sure everybody gives you some room to find your balance here. And the way he stood over you in the great room, glaring at the world? That’s not the behavior of an uninterested man.”

She tried not to let it matter, but warmth curled around her weak, needy heart. “Fine. He doesn’t want to be interested, which in my experience is worse than disinterest, and drags on a lot longer.” She fell silent, concentrated on the feel of potting soil between her fingers. She told herself not to ask, but asked anyway. “What’s the deal with him and Jade?” Might as well get it out there.

This time there was no hesitation, as though the winikin had known it was coming. “They were lovers for a couple of months right after the barrier reactivated. It was during the gap between their bloodline and talent ceremonies, when their hormones were raging. It ended after the talent ceremony, and they’ve been friendly since.”

The winikin didn’t say how friendly, and Sasha didn’t ask. And although she could’ve guessed they had been lovers, the sex-magic parallel brought a wince. He’d become Jade’s lover to defuse the pretalent hornies. He’d become Sasha’s lover to fuel the chameleon shield. Although she wanted to think it had been more than that, his actions since said otherwise.

Jox glanced at her workstation. “You potting or plotzing?”

“A little of both.” She got back to work, but stayed pensive. The more she learned about the situation, the more she realized how little she actually knew. “If I could go back to when Ambrose was alive, and talk to him about what’s going on now . . .” She stopped, shook her head. “You know what?

That’s a lie. I don’t want him back.” It felt good to say that, she realized. She didn’t have to forgive everything just because he’d been telling the truth about the Nightkeepers.

Jox shoved another flat across the table to her, a different kind of seedling. “Keep transplanting. It helps.”

Their eyes met over the furry, optimistic greens. She saw sadness in his eyes, but didn’t think he’d thank her for bringing it up. So instead, she said, “You said you thought I’d come here. Why?”

“Because growing and cooking are inextricably intertwined,” he said. “Along with healing.”

“I’m no healer.” But she passed a hand over the soft leaves, drawn to them. “What are they?”

“Cacao.”

Her lips curved. “Chocolate. My favorite.”

“I had a feeling.”

Letting that one pass, she commented, “You’re ambitious. I didn’t think cacao grew well in greenhouses, or