Skykeepers

was aware of an aching hum of magic in the air, one that stirred his blood. He turned to Sasha, only to find her side of the bed empty and cool to the touch.

Unease stirred. He told himself to roll over and go back to sleep, that she was safe within the warded compound. But something had been off about her that night, a discord in their vibe, a wrong note or two over the course of the evening. She’d said it was nothing, that she was just keyed up for the solstice, and the planned ambush, which was still on the table, with contingency plans atop contingency plans, none of which completely satisfied any of them. And yeah, she had every right to be jacked up about that. Except he didn’t think that was what she was really worried about. He was pretty sure it was something to do with him, with them.

Twenty minutes of staring at the ceiling later, he rose, pulled on dark track pants and a white tee, shoved his feet in a pair of rope sandals, and padded off in search of her. He found her, not surprisingly, in the main kitchen at the center of the mansion. The air was heavy with the scents of chocolate and dark spices, bringing a long, low tug of hunger that was more for the woman than the food.

He’d thought he’d steeled himself for the familiar kick of attraction, the lust that hadn’t faded with their becoming lovers. But need hit him hard the moment he saw her stretched on her tiptoes to return a bowl to a high shelf, her midriff-cropped tee riding up, yoga pants riding down, the two exposing a strip of her taut, strong abdomen, with the soft lines of muscle on either side of her navel, where a trio of freckles drew his eye.

She turned slowly, and when she met his eyes, he saw a reflection of the burning heat that churned in his gut. “Well?” she said softly.

His body moved almost without conscious volition around the pass-through and into the kitchen, where he stopped close enough to catch her light scent over the cooking smells, close enough to distinguish the heat of her body from that of the stove. “What’s cooking?”

She handed over the mug she’d been sipping from. “It’s something I’ve been playing with.”

He knew she had magic in the kitchen, knew she wielded flavors with the deftness of a trained chef and the inspiration of a mage, but still he was unprepared for what hit his taste buds the moment he took a sip. Sensations exploded across his neurons in a blaze of heat, texture, and taste that had him sucking in a breath. There was chocolate, yes, but it was more savory than sweet, taken away from the realm of dessert by a mix of peppers and salt, and things he wouldn’t even begin to match with chocolate, but that somehow matched perfectly. He sucked in a breath. “Holy shit.” Took another sip and rolled it around in his mouth, closing his eyes briefly as the flavors changed subtly, the peppers mellowing to something else. “Nice,” he said, and this time his tone was one of reverence. “Very nice.”

“That,” she said with evident satisfaction, “was exactly what I was going for.”

Eyes still closed, he felt her trying to take the mug back, and tightened his fingers on it. “Leave it,” he said. “I’m at your mercy. Anything you want. Just ask.”

He’d said it partly in play, but also because he remembered what she’d told him back in the beginning, on her first day at Skywatch. I cook when I’m happy or sad, when I’m celebrating with friends or all alone with my thoughts. Which of those things applied now?

He felt the air shift, felt her indrawn breath as his own, but instead of “we need to talk” or any of the female warning signs experience had taught him to expect, she surprised him by leaning in and touching her lips to his.

The kiss was as unexpected as the hint of pepper and spice he tasted amidst the chocolate on her lips, in her mouth. Setting aside his mug, he deepened the kiss, relieved to let it be easy even though a small part of him said it shouldn’t be so easy, that he was skimming the surface of something he needed to be diving into. But then she shifted her hands, sliding them up his chest to link behind his neck and tug him closer, pressing her body to his, and the vibe went true, singing inside his skull with the warm sparkle of red-gold magic.

“Come back to bed,” he said against her mouth. “We’ve got a few more hours to burn.”

She let him lead her back to bed, and loved him with the passion and intensity that he needed from her, the energy that made him feel whole and alive. But even as they moved together and apart, together and apart, he was aware that she was holding a part of herself back, that she wasn’t entirely there with him. When it was over and she lay sleeping, curled up around him, her fingers tangled in his hair, he stroked her arm, aching for what he knew was coming.

He would’ve asked what was wrong, but he already knew. She wasn’t built for casual sex, and the sex had been far from casual with them from the very first. She’d gotten to the point where she either had to let herself fall for him or back off. And she was backing.

He couldn’t blame her. More, he wouldn’t try to stop her, because he couldn’t say she was wrong.

So he lay there through most of the remainder of the night, staring at the ceiling. And she felt empty.

When morning dawned, Sasha lay beside Michael looking into the pale orange light of the solstice day, and she kicked her own ass inwardly. You should’ve told him last night. You shouldn’t have come back here with him.

She’d gone to the kitchen looking to center herself and find the words she needed to say to him.

Instead, she’d let herself fall back into the heat and sex, both of which were easy with him. Too easy.

It was the other stuff she was having trouble with, like trust and self-respect. And neither was his fault, really. He’d done exactly what they’d agreed to that first night they’d spent together: taking each day as it came, living in the moment, in each other.

The Other had remained at bay, so far; his music had stayed pure, his magic red-gold. He might be the Mictlan, but for now he was the man and the Nightkeeper. And her lover.

It wasn’t his fault she couldn’t stop wondering how long that would last, but there it was. She twitched at shadows, jumped at rattles, strung tight by the knowledge that the thing he called the Other not only could come back, but that it would at some point, when he was called on to kill. And it would be soon, she knew. She could feel the changes coming. When in the triad years . . .

She’d fulfilled the first piece of the prophecy by becoming a ch’ulel, a daughter of the gods. She didn’t know about conquering death or finding the lost son, but she suspected that the time had come to defy love.

Easing away from Michael, she slid from his bed and padded to the bathroom, gathering her strewn clothes as she went. When she came back out, he was sitting on the side of the mattress with the sheet pooled at his waist, his expression schooled to careful neutrality as he looked at her. “Does it have to be today?”

She was surprised he’d guessed, but maybe she shouldn’t have been. For a man who had, by his own admission, lived chunks of his life on the surface of himself, he was capable of deep insight. Deeper, sometimes, than she would’ve wished. So she didn’t bullshit him. “I think so, yes.”

“What changed?”

“Nothing. That’s the problem.” She held up a hand to forestall his response. “I know, it sucks and it’s not fair, but there it is. I thought I could handle something day-to-day, thought I’d evolved from human to Nightkeeper, but the truth is, I can’t and I haven’t.”

He just looked at her for a long moment, his expression bleak. “More you can’t stop looking over your shoulder, waiting for me to lose the blocks and turn back into a monster.”

“Tell me you’re not thinking the same thing.”

“Of course I am. The difference there is that I’m stuck with what’s inside my own head, at least for the near future. You’re not. You can walk away.”

She’d expected him to be angry, had braced herself for the expected blast, telling herself not to be afraid. But she hadn’t prepared herself for this . . . this casual disinterest. “That’s it?”

He spread his hands. With him naked, draped only with the sheet across his lap, the motion showcased the shift and slide of his elegant musculature and flashed the intricate black marks along his forearm. But he wasn’t trying to attract or seduce her, she knew. He was inviting her to fly free.

“This is a mutual thing, with both of us here because we want to be. If that’s only going one way, then it’s not working, is it? And it’s not like I can blame you, or argue the points. I’m one mental block away from being a serial killer.”

“That’s not who you are,” she hissed. “They took a kernel of something and turned it into a full-

blown pathology. That’s not you. That’s programming.”

“Regardless, it’s part of me now, probably will be for the duration, and I don’t blame you for not wanting to wait around for it to reemerge.”