Demonkeepers

Remind him of all the embarrassing stuff he’s ever told you. While you’re at it, why not call him “Runt Hunt” like his old man used to? She had to remember that the past wasn’t important just then. What mattered was what happened—or didn’t—next. At the thought of that next, heat skimmed through her, brought by the memory of a sexual encounter that had registered Richter high. Leveling her tone so it wouldn’t betray the sudden thudda-thump of her heart, she said, “I’m just trying to help. If you want to turn me down because of what happened before, then do it. But don’t try to make me into the bad guy because I’m offering.”

There was a long beat of silence before he exhaled. When he spoke again, his rasping voice sounded more like that of the man she’d known, or else she was getting used to the change. “I don’t want to turn you down. And I don’t think badly of you. I couldn’t. You’re the only person here that I—” Now it was his turn to break off.

The only person that I . . . what? Jade skimmed through possibilities to settle on “trust.” Despite what had happened, she trusted him. That might work both ways. Given that he knew she’d been discussing his potential for sex magic with Strike and the others, he probably also knew she was the closest thing he had to an ally within Skywatch. “Then why the hell wouldn’t you talk to me?” The question was out before she could stop it, despite her plan to stop bringing up the past. But it had hurt when he’d refused to let her help him deal with the shock of the exorcism and the memories of what he’d done—or rather, what his body had done—while under the makol’s control. She’d been overjoyed by his rescue, had wanted to do everything and anything in her power to bring him back to the man he’d once been, the friend she’d once treasured.

“Because I was a godsdamned mess,” he said. “I didn’t want you to see me that way.”

Jade wished she could see his eyes, wished the darkness didn’t leave her trying to interpret his feelings from a few clipped words in a stranger’s voice. Before, his lovely tenor had painted the old legends of the Nightkeepers into word pictures for her as they’d worked side by side. Though he was only human, he’d taught her about her own ancestors in a way Shandi had never managed, making it less about duty and more about adventure and glory, and the joy of doing something because you could. Now, though, each word sounded like an effort, each sentence a study in pain. The change made her ache from knowing she’d promised her king results in a situation complicated by human factors.

“I was only trying to help you back then,” she said softly. “The same as I am now.”

He shifted in the darkness, though he didn’t come any closer. “I didn’t want you to fix me. I wanted you to go away and give me room to fix myself. . . . I don’t want your pity, and I’m not one of your patients, damn it.”

Ice splashed in her veins, chill and uncomfortable. “I never said I pitied them.”

“If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s reading between the lines.”

Refusing to go there, she said, “Of course you’re not a patient. Nobody said you were.”

“Yet you came back to fix me.”

No, she thought in a frustrated knee-jerk, I came back to fuck you. She didn’t say that, though, because while she considered sex more entertainment than a religious experience, she didn’t like reducing it to that level. She didn’t know whether it was the innate cool reserve of the harvester bloodline, the wisdom that had come from her own experiences, or what, but romantic love wasn’t her thing. Too often in her practice, she’d seen otherwise high-functioning women lose their dreams to love, or because of its loss. The things that love and heartbreak did to otherwise normal people most definitely did not fall within the three “D”s.

Still, as she and Lucius faced off in the darkness, the air thickened with the memory of sex, the anticipation of it.

Blowing out a slow, settling breath, she said, “I came back because you haven’t been able to get into the library, and we’re running out of time and options.” She paused, peering into the darkness and seeing nothing but the shadows. “It’s not your fault. It’s a power incompatibility, that’s all.” He might have spent years collecting the Nightkeepers’ legends and reconstructing their elusive history, despite the derision the hobby had earned in academic circles, but that didn’t make him a mage. Whereas genetics and magic meant that the Nightkeepers were big, strong, and charismatic, Lucius was more angles than muscle. He was human, blood and bone. And the sooner he came around to accepting that the limitations of that had nothing to do with him being Runt Hunt, the better off he’d be . . . and, she suspected, the closer he’d get to gaining control of the Prophet’s magic. She hoped.

“Whose idea was it for you to come?” he asked. He remained hidden in the shadows, but his voice shifted with a thread of what she thought might be acceptance.

“Mine, start to finish.” New heat furled across her skin as the anticipation built.

Their one spontaneous, somewhat rushed coupling in the archive had lit her up like nothing had done before, not even being with the far more polished Michael when the two of them had both been running hot with transitional hormones and their first tastes of sex magic. Where Michael had been skilled and considerate, Lucius had been raw, teetering on the borderline of control. Where Michael had held a portion of himself apart—out of necessity, as they had later learned—Lucius had been entirely there with her, making her feel like he didn’t see her as support staff, a backup, or a fill- in for what he’d really wanted. Unfortunately, that very openness, combined with a Xibalban attack on the antimagic wards surrounding Skywatch, had allowed the makol to briefly emerge from its hiding place and take over Lucius’s consciousness in the aftermath, leading to the near destruction of the archive and beginning Lucius’s downward spiral to makol possession. Despite that terrifying ordeal, though, and the strained “I don’t do love; I do friends with benefits” conversation she’d been forced to lay on him when he’d tried to make their lovemaking into more than she’d ever intended, she wanted this.

She wanted him, though that hadn’t been the argument she’d used on the others. She hadn’t dared.

“Are you doing this because it’s your best chance to finally be on the front lines, finally make a difference in the war?”

“Do you blame me?” It wasn’t really an answer, but she didn’t want him to know that somewhere along the line, duty and desire had gotten mixed together inside her. She wanted to fix him, to help him gain the magic he’d sacrificed for. At the same time, she wanted what they had found together in the archive, when nothing had mattered but the slap of flesh, the rake of nails, the clash of lips and tongues. She missed that, wanted it. It wasn’t magic, wasn’t love, but it was a power she could summon, something she was good at.

“I don’t blame you,” he answered, rasping voice going soft, “but I need you to understand what you’re getting into.”

The night had gone fully dark, and the pinpoint stars did little to lighten the blackness of the new moon. The pool deck at the back of the mansion was unlit; the only real illumination came from a few gleaming windows up at the mansion, and the lights coming from a single cottage off in the middle distance. The darkness meant she felt and heard rather than saw when he moved toward her, closing the distance between them until she could feel the heat from his body, the stir of his breath. Desire tightened her inner muscles and made her acutely conscious of her own breathing, her own actions, as she wetted her lips with her tongue.

“Light a foxfire,” he said. “Just a small one.”

It was one of the few weak spells she could muster, one that had delighted him when they’d first been getting to know each other. His eyes had gleamed with gratifying awe when she’d sent the foxfire dancing from her hand to his and back again, though even that small spell had taxed her.

Thinking that was what he wanted, that this was foreplay of a sort, she turned one palm up and called the magic with a single word in the language of the ancients. “Lak’in.” It meant “east,” the direction of the rising sun.

A tiny light kindled, starting pinpoint small and then expanding outward to a ball of cool blue flame that shed light on the two of them. She looked up at him, smiling, expecting to see his joy in the minor spell, a small connection to better days between them. Instead, familiar hazel eyes looked at her out of a stranger ’s face.

“Gods!” Jade jolted as shock hammered through her, sending her back a step. “Who . . . What the . .

.” She faltered to silence as reality and unreality collided and she recognized the man standing opposite