Skykeepers

music, and embraced it, sent the heat of her blood toward it, and welcomed it inside her when it washed back to her on a staccato rattle of drums.

Red-gold sparked at the edges of her vision—or was that in the air itself? She wasn’t sure, but it gathered, stormlike, as she locked eyes once again with Michael, the man who’d rescued her, then turned away from her. He wasn’t turning away now, though. He was staring at her hungrily, as though something she’d said had finally gotten through whatever was keeping him from making the move they both wanted.

She stepped into him, getting inside his space and looking up at him in direct challenge. The heat from his body echoed into hers and back again, binding them together. “And no, I don’t want you to kick my ass,” she said in answer to his earlier question. “I’d much rather do this.”

Reaching up, she twined her arms around his neck, where the long hair at his nape was damp from his exertions. And then she kissed him, pouring all of the red-gold hope and magic that was within her into him, coaxing a response, demanding it. Want me , the kiss said. Want me enough to get past whatever is hanging you up here. Want me enough to risk a relationship, risk a commitment, risk whatever it is that you’re really afraid of. And though she’d gone out there looking for a single night, the adrenaline high of sparring with him, of pushing him to the limits of his self-control, brought her all the way back to naked honesty, and the admission that she didn’t just want this one night. She wanted more. She wanted everything. And so she poured everything into the kiss, and hoped to hell it would be enough.

Michael knew he should’ve sent her away the moment he’d sensed her there, watching him. He cursed himself for the weakness that prompted him to let her stay, the hubris that had convinced him he could handle it, that he could handle her. Instead, she’d leveled him almost immediately with her challenge and then taken him out at the knees with her kiss, and with the magic that spiraled through him, tempting him. Making him yearn.

He leaned into her, letting go of his control enough to cup her slim, strong waist and return the kiss half- measure, holding back, holding tight to the self-discipline he’d found through the katas he practiced in the darkness, using their rhythm and routine to keep the energy flow contained, the sluice gates shut. But even as he let go that much, and let her heady, intoxicating flavor seep through the sturdy barriers he’d erected around his soul, he could feel the Other’s excitement, almost hear its voice. No, he said inwardly. You’re not welcome here . And he turned his back on the creature within and let himself slide into Sasha’s kiss, though he knew he was running a major risk. The feel of her in his arms once again made that risk seem worthwhile.

Her lips parted beneath his. He tasted her desire, felt it in her fingernails digging into his back.

More, he felt the new magic in her, the sparkle of red-gold power. It was strong and sure, seeming so much purer than his own. He embraced it, leaned into it, and felt it push back the darkness inside him.

Take me, her kiss said. I need this. I need you. And gods knew he remembered the hormone burn of new magic, and the craziness it brought. But this was more than hormones, he knew. There was a connection that bolstered his magic and touched his soul, making him believe, for the moment, at least, that anything was possible. He’d managed to block the rage while they had sparred, had managed to keep the Other behind closed doors. That made him think he could keep blocking his nemesis, keep himself in control even when his body begged to be set free, out of control. Letting that control slip another degree, he deepened the kiss and let his hands follow the tug of gravity down from her waist to her curved buttocks, which filled his hands perfectly when he cupped her, drew her up and around him, then turned and pressed her against the carved ball court wall.

Her eyes glinted in the moonlight. “This feels familiar.”

“One of these days we’ll make it to a bed,” he said, and wished he could believe there would be another time for them.

“It’s a date.” She wrapped herself around him and fastened her teeth on his lower lip, nipping gently at first, then increasing the pressure. Lust speared through him, hard and hot, and it was all he could do not to take her then and there.

His thoughts didn’t extend past that prospect. There was no thought of tomorrow, only of that night, and the payback she’d demanded, that she’d challenged him for. She might not have won the fight by points or throws, but he’d ceded it to her rather than risk the edge of violence that rode the periphery of his mind, begging to be set free. Not happening, he told the Other. She’s mine. Not yours, not ours.

Mine.

He touched her through the thin fabric of her pants, kissed her throat, her cheeks, the point of her chin, as heat rose within him, threatened to take him over. He wasn’t sure anymore whether it was her magic or his, the Other’s grasping will, or a combination of all three, but his control wavered as temptation leaked through, borne on her sparkling, newly minted red-gold magic, which seemed somehow determined to reach inside him and find the places he wanted kept hidden.

“Let me love you,” he whispered against her lips, barely aware of what he was saying anymore, knowing only that he needed to lose himself in her, while keeping a piece of himself separate. “Let me have you.”

“Yes.” That was all she said, all she needed to say as she twined around him, flowed into a kiss that started hot and went hotter, heading straight to flash point. Their tongues and teeth clashed, bringing a nip of pain, a taste of blood.

It was the blood that put him over the edge.

Pain detonated at the back of his brain, and silver magic spewed out through a broken sluiceway, called by the blood sacrifice and, he thought, Sasha’s gloriously positive energy. The power reached for her, called to her, and he heard the jarring dissonance of music gone wrong.

He jerked away from her with an inarticulate cry, suddenly suffused with the Other’s memories, which were drenched in the blood of his victims. Michael saw staring eyes, torn throats, and tangled limbs, and knew that his alter ego was throwing them at him, using the dead as weapons in an effort to disorient him, to make him give way fully. Forcing his way through them, wading through their blood, Michael slogged to the dam and reached for the sluiceway, using the mental image to shape his efforts to force the Other back where he belonged, away from his conscious mind.

He doubled over, gagging at the sights and smells, and the knowledge that none of the horrors were fabricated. The Other had made those kills and washed himself in that blood. And, dissociated or not, the Other was a part of him. Which meant he had done those things. Those were his hands in the memories, his blood singing with death and violence. Michael might have killed as a Nightkeeper—

both Rincon’s makol and Iago’s disciples—but he hadn’t enjoyed the brutal task. His other half not only gloried in killing; it existed solely to kill.

“What’s wrong?” Sasha’s voice seemed to come from very far away, from the other side of a river of blood. She was still too near him, though. When she stepped toward him, he held up his hands to ward her off.

“Don’t,” he grated. “I . . . I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” He didn’t want her to see him like this, couldn’t tell her, even now, what was going on with him. More, the gray, clinging muk was attracted to her, wanted to wrap around her, seduce her. And he couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen. When she hesitated, he waved her off, almost violent in the action. “For fuck’s sake, would you just leave me alone?”

She stood her ground for a moment, during which her features came clear through the blur of silver and the effort he was expending to push the Other back beyond the inner barrier that segregated the soul they shared. He expected to see hurt, maybe fear of whatever she could see inside him. Instead, she looked flat-out pissed.

Brown eyes flashing, she fisted her hands at her sides like she wanted to take a swing at him, street-

style this time, with none of the trained finesse she’d shown earlier. He didn’t blame her for the impulse, wouldn’t blame her if she went ahead and punched him. Instead, she lifted her chin in her trademark go to hell gesture and said, “Oh, I’m going, all right. And you needn’t worry about fighting me off again, because I’m done with this. You want space? Fine, you’ve got it, playboy. I might want you, but I sure as hell don’t need your shit.” She spun and stalked off, stiff legged, body screamingly tight with fury. Pausing at the edge of the ball court, she kicked at the tray Tomas had left for him.

“And for fuck’s sake, eat something and go to bed. Whether either of us likes it or not, I have a feeling I’m