Skykeepers

blur, enough so that she could almost avoid thinking about the approaching bloodline ceremony. In fact, whether by virtue of the mental filters or simple denial, she found herself living almost entirely in the moment, taking in the information pertinent to her new life without really putting it into the structure of her old existence.

Little by little, she settled in. She tapped the Nightkeeper Fund and ordered some clothes, going with comfortable, functional pieces that were more feminine than the type she’d typically worn before. She didn’t know if it was backlash from her captivity or being around the in nately sexual Nightkeepers, but she was far more aware of her body than she’d been in the outside world, more conscious of the way she looked, the feel of her clothing on her skin. She stopped short of staring at herself in the bathroom mirror, but was conscious that there were changes there, as well. Her hair had grown out from its short kitchen cut, and the curls tended toward the unruly side, but aside from blunting the ends, she left it alone, deciding she liked its unpredictability. Although her weight was the same as before, her face was thinner now, her arms and legs more muscular, her hips and breasts rounder. She suspected the changes were magic-wrought, but didn’t look too closely at the underlying reasons; she could only deal with so much Nightkeeper reality at any given time.

Still, she nested, adding some personal touches to the suite she’d chosen because of the big bow window that stretched nearly the length of the kitchen nook, offering a shallow shelf where she could grow herbs. She outfitted the nook with what she considered the essentials in both cookware and ingredients. And there, when she had a free moment or two, she filled herself once again with the love of her art.

She made recados, the flavor pastes that formed the basis of most Mayan dishes, reminding her that no matter how hard she’d tried to reject Ambrose’s teachings, she’d constantly gravitated back toward the village-wrought flavors of her childhood. She char-grilled maize, not realizing until later that she’d automatically pricked her finger with a paring knife and let a few drops of her own blood drip onto the food, an old habit she’d picked up after a knife slip and a drop of blood had felt oddly right, yielding a meal that had far outstripped her usual efforts. She’d fought to break the habit, and managed to keep it in check when working commercially, but it occasionally crept back into her personal cooking. Now she let herself follow the dictates of her soul, recognizing the autosacrifice as a nod to the gods she was trying to let herself believe in, an acknowledgment of the inextricable link between maize and life itself.

It had been her favorite of her father’s stories, in fact: how the gods had made mankind from maize.

According to the legend, when the creator gods Tepeu and Kulkulkan first raised the earth and sacred mountains from the water, they populated the lands with animals, but quickly became dissatisfied with the animals because they were unable to speak or worship. Determined to create beings that could raise their voices in praise of the gods, Tepeu and Kulkulkan then tried to build men and women out of mud, but the mud people were soft and weak, and quickly fell apart. The creators next made men from wood and women from rushes, but although these people held together okay, they didn’t understand the world around them. Frustrated, the gods sent them to live in the rain forest canopy as monkeys.

Finally, Tepeu and Kulkulkan summoned maize, ground it into powder, mixed it with their own blood to form dough, and used the dough to shape the first humans. That was why the gods thereafter required sacrifices of blood and maize.

As the days passed, Sasha relearned that story, along with so many others, during daily lessons with the winikin. These were followed by afternoon weaponry and hand-to-hand drills, along with basic magic classes. She wouldn’t get her true access to the power until after her bloodline and talent ceremonies, but she practiced the spells so she’d be ready for whatever came next. After dinner she often sat down with Jade, looking for holes in her knowledge, and finding a couple of places where Ambrose’s stories filled in gaps. The more they compared notes, the more it seemed likely that Ambrose had left Skywatch prior to the Solstice Massacre. Which begged the question of why he’d left, who Sasha’s mother had been . . . and whether she’d been magebred. Lots of questions. No real answers.

During those long talks, Sasha and Jade formed a budding friendship despite—or perhaps because of— having Michael in common.

Sasha saw very little of him in the days leading up to her bloodline ceremony . . . at least in the flesh. To her dismay, she still dreamed of him most nights, reliving their lovemaking in the sacred chamber. Her mind replayed each touch and sigh, and the way they’d come together without pretense, honest in their desire for each other. Magic or no magic, they had connected, or so she believed in the deep of night. In the mornings, when she awakened alone and aching, she found that she couldn’t even curse him for how it had ended. She could only wonder why it had ended. Granted, he was a free man; he had the right to say “no thanks.” But on the rare occasions when she did see him, he looked haggard, and he stared at her with a dark, hungry expression that he tried to conceal when he caught her staring.

More, he did things for her.

The first incident was her second day at Skywatch, when the king himself had broken the news that Iago had torched her apartment soon after he’d captured her, presumably to confuse the Nightkeepers’ search for her. Sasha’s initial shock had turned to worry when she realized that Ada wasn’t among the listed survivors. But Strike told her that Michael was already on it. Carter’s report on Sasha had mentioned her friendship with the widow, and Michael had taken it from there.

He wouldn’t talk to her, apparently, but he’d take the time to find out what had happened to a firefighter’s widow in her seventies, simply because she’d been Sasha’s friend. Which didn’t make any sense.

The next day, Nate—Skywatch’s resident techno geek—had shown up at her suite and handed her his latest castoff laptop, which, although a hand-me-down, still had way more bells and whistles than anything she would’ve bought for herself. Then he’d taken a few hours, taught her how to use the toys, and brought her up to speed on the latest Web sites and current events. He’d accepted her thanks but made sure she knew it’d been Michael’s idea, Michael’s request.

That had left her fuming. He’d dumped her. So why couldn’t he leave her alone?

But despite her annoyance, she kept the computer. The Net access helped her feel reconnected to the larger world without leaving the compound. The first few days, she had no desire to leave. Then, just as she was starting to get itchy to explore, Sven returned from a short assignment—bloody, battered, and drawn—to report that a couple of red-robes had jumped him just outside the gates of Skywatch.

Although a thorough search of the area had turned up nothing, the magi had to assume the Xibalbans were watching the compound, which meant that Sasha wound up under house arrest, at least until her bloodline ceremony.

It wasn’t the hardship it might have been. She studied. She cooked. And when she needed some peace, she went to the greenhouse, where Jox and Tomas made her welcome, giving her time and company when she wanted it, space when she needed it. And let her know that they would have wanted her there, even if Michael hadn’t asked them to make sure she felt at home.

In fact, she heard so many variations on the theme of “He told me, ‘Make her feel welcome, damn it!’ ” that she could almost hear the words in his too-familiar rasp. She was tempted to track him down and demand an explanation, but didn’t because he was so obviously avoiding her. And because she was determined not to chase affection. Never again. So instead she studied the magic that might soon be hers and tried to ignore the fact that it felt like Michael was courting her thirdhand while at the same time pushing her away.

That is, until one morning a few days before the full moon when she opened the door to her suite and found three file-size cardboard boxes sitting in the hallway just outside her door. Her name was written above the address for the postal drop-ship location the Nightkeepers used to maintain a layer of anonymity, and the boxes were plastered with stickers that read, FRAGILE, RUSH DELIVERY, and THIS END UP. Assuming the packages contained the new mixer and bowls she’d ordered online, she lugged them into her suite and attacked the first one, punching through the layers of tape with a kitchen knife.

Instead of commercial packing, she found wadded newspaper within. A white envelope lay on top, her name written across the front in spidery handwriting.

Familiar spidery handwriting.

“Ada?” Sasha whispered, nearly dropping to her knees when her legs went wobbly.

She reached for the envelope with trembling fingers, then hesitated, half afraid the note and boxes would disappear, proving to be a figment, a wish. Instead, the envelope crinkled beneath her touch. If this were a posthumous delivery, she had to assume Michael would have been there to break the news.

Or, more likely, sent an emissary. But this . . . this had to mean her friend was alive, that she’d survived the