Skykeepers

going to need your help getting into the temple and finding the library scroll. The gods apparently got it wrong as far as us being compatible, but that doesn’t stop our magic from resonating. So get your shit together, will you?”

Magnificent in her fury, she turned and disappeared into the darkness, leaving her words to ring into silence on the night air.

Michael watched her go, aching with the loss, and the knowledge that she’d been meant for the man he should have been. She was his warrior, his equal—at least, she should have been. Given the choices he’d made, the things he’d done, they were badly unequal now, with her so much better than him, her soul so much purer.

For the first time in nearly eighteen months, he wondered whether his first instinct had been the right one, back after his talent ceremony: that it might be better for him to sacrifice himself than risk taking her down with him. Taking all of them down. But in the end, he was a selfish man, too proud to really believe the world would be better off without him, too greedy to let go of his life until he was absolutely positive there was no other way.

He should get the fuck back to work, he knew, should keep fighting to burn off the restless, edgy energy she’d renewed within him, the kind that made him want to go after her, to give her everything he could, and damn the consequences. Instead, he sat cross-legged in the dust and ate the food Tomas had brought him, tasting nothing, knowing only that it fueled the burn within him, but didn’t come close to filling the emptiness.

When the plates and bowls were empty and he registered only that he was full, finding no satisfaction in the feeling, he stood and returned to the center of the court, where the waning moon lit a diminishing patch of earth. His muscles ached a protest when he took the first ready position, having stiffened during the break, but those small pains didn’t even start to get at the burning within him. He had hours to go yet before he collapsed, exhausted.

“The longer you wait, the longer it’s going to take, asshole.” He forced his fists up, pushed himself through the first set of positions, feeling them catch initially and then begin to flow, as his body loosened from the tension of sex magic, and his center allowed itself to be redirected away from Sasha, turning inward, where he needed to be. He launched into the phantom fight viciously, almost inhumanly so, sparring with his inner demons, and the ghosts of the dead. He fought his desire for a woman who deserved so much more than he had made himself, so much more than he could offer her.

And he fought himself, hating what he had become, but not seeing any hope of ever being otherwise.

Sasha’s anger carried her all the way back to the mansion and across the pool patio, where she faltered, not entirely ready to go inside and admit defeat. “Damn him,” she muttered, breathing past the tightness in her throat that came from rage and frustration and a barely acknowledged kernel of unease. She focused on the rage and frustration, though, because those were easy. She could hate Michael for being the worst sort of hunter—the one who seemed sincere in his intentions, who acted like he was trying to do the right by her, only to shut things down when they started getting too serious. Saul had been that kind of hunter. And she hadn’t realized it until far too late.

She didn’t even think it was all about the rage with him. She’d seen him fight the anger to a standstill enough times to believe he could control it. But that was the key, she knew—control. He couldn’t control something that involved another person, couldn’t be sure of his victory if the two of them got involved. So he’d bailed. Again.

This time at least she’d been forewarned, had buffered herself—somewhat—against the sting of rejection. It had still hurt, yes, but it had pissed her off more. Being mad she could deal with, she told herself. It was far better than being needy and heartbroken.

But as she paused on the pool deck and stared out across the nearby rock formations toward the dying moon, she couldn’t avoid the small brain worm that said he truly had seemed sincere, that something within him had changed—with more than just the angry darkness she’d seen before. His face had been different at the end, and his eyes had flashed almost silver. More, she’d felt a kick of power from him; one that had felt strange to her. Not that she was an expert on what magic should feel like, but still . . .Which was worse, she wondered: for him to be mentally unbalanced or magically tainted? And what should she do in either case? What could she do? Even Tomas, who was supposed to be his advocate, thought it was just a too-quick temper and some impulse control problems. If she cried wolf to her new teammates . . .

“There you are!” Jox’s voice said from behind her, sounding breathless and harried.

She turned, something kicking at her, putting her into full battle readiness in an instant. The warrior’s talent , she thought, recognizing the signs of the magic activating, and wondering why it hadn’t done so before, with Michael. Then Jox stepped into the light that came through the sliders, and she got a good look at his face, and she stopped thinking about her own problems. “What’s wrong?”

she asked quickly.

“There was an incident at the university,” the winikin reported, crossing to her and urging her the way he’d come. “Strike just got back. Rabbit’s unconscious, and we need your help reviving him.”

She went along with him, but was baffled. “Why me?”

“Just hurry. Strike will explain everything.”

Figuring she would have to live with that nonanswer, Sasha followed him into the darkness, hoping to hell she could do whatever it was they needed her to do, not just because she owed a personal debt, but because she was a Nightkeeper now, damn it. She would do whatever it took to get the job done.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Jox led Sasha to Rabbit’s cottage, and pushed through the front door without knocking. They stepped into a plain kitchen that had the clean, orderly look of disuse. The next room was a sitting area, with doors off it leading to a pair of bedrooms and a bath. The decor was an odd mix of outdated early eighties furniture and accessories that were heavy on silly pig motifs, overlaid with a layer of modern things—tossed clothes, a pair of sleek laptops, and various high-tech entertainment gadgets.

Sasha glanced at Jox. “You guys didn’t clean out the place after his father died?” She’d bet money nobody born in the past two decades had chosen the china pigs. That would’ve been the work of his father’s first wife, before the massacre.

“Trust me, we tried,” Jox said. “But Rabbit is, among other things, incredibly stubborn. He wanted his father’s stuff left the way it was, despite—or maybe because of—how messed up their relationship was.” The winikin gestured toward the bedroom on the left. “He’s in there.”

Sasha braced herself, then stepped through.

The decor was similar to that in the other room, with a big, plain bed, outdated furniture, and college-kid detritus. Two chairs were pulled up next to the bed; Strike sat in one, and a brunette in her late thirties sat in the other. In the corner, a pretty, dark-haired girl in her late teens, maybe early twenties, was curled up in a third chair, pretending to be asleep. On the bed a sharp-faced twentysomething lay twitching, his face working as though he were trying to talk, trying to scream.

Sasha instinctively drew back and bumped into Jox. Voice hushed, she asked, “What happened to him?”

“He got lost in a spell of sorts,” said the woman. “After that, we’re not sure.” She stood and reached out to Sasha, though most of the room separated them. Letting her hands fall, she said, “This isn’t the best time for introductions, I know, but Strike told me about you. I’m . . . I’m Anna. Your sister.”

Sasha’s brain vapor-locked on two simple words: “holy” and “shit.”

She stood frozen in place, staring at the woman who should’ve been a stranger, but wasn’t. Not because they’d ever met before, but because it was like looking in a fractured mirror, with pieces the same, pieces different. Anna was probably ten years older than Sasha. Where Anna’s eyes were the same brilliant blue as her brother’s, Sasha’s were dark brown. Anna’s face was round, her features soft and regular, whereas Sasha’s face was all about points and angles. But through those differences, there were jarring similarities in the shapes of their eyes and mouths, their hairlines, and the burnished red highlights she didn’t think came from a salon.