Blood Spells

she’d bought recently to please only herself.

His eyes fired at the sight of her in the pale amber robe. His lips curved as he closed the small distance between them, and swept her up into his arms.

Letting herself fall for the moment, she sank against his strong body and slid her hands up beneath his open shirt as he carried her around to his side of the bed, bringing his lips to hers as he lowered her to the yielding mattress. He followed her down without breaking the kiss, and they twined together atop the covers partly clothed, partly naked, and fully involved in each other.

Their lovemaking was a mix of fast and slow, rough and gentle, new and old, and entirely in the moment . . . because neither of them wanted to think about the future.

December 20 One day until the solstice-eclipse Brandt woke alone to find that Patience’s side of the bed was cool to the touch, and the sun was bright beyond the blue curtains. There was no fuzzy transition between asleep and awake, no moment of wondering what day it was or what he had on his to-do list. Instead, he snapped to consciousness acutely aware that, in sleeping as long as he had, he’d burned through hours he could’ve spent in the library, trying to find a way around the Akbal oath . . . or spending time with Patience.

It was a surprising reality check that those two options were equally tempting. He had a feeling this was what she wanted from him: not for him to subsume his duties as a Nightkeeper so much as for him to put her equal to those responsibilities.

In the outside world, she’d been fond of saying, I’m a chick. We multitask. Maybe it was his turn to figure out how to do that. If they made it through tomorrow . . .

His thought process ground to a halt, hung up on that “if.”

“We’ll make it,” he grated with the force of a vow. He didn’t know how, though, or what it might cost them.

And he wasn’t going to figure it out lying in bed.

Hauling himself upright, he hit the can, pulled on the jeans and oxford she’d peeled him out of the night before, along with his boots and knife, and headed for the main mansion. He found her in the great room, along with most of the team and the winikin , all scattered over chairs and couches with coffee cups at their elbows, wolfing down an army’s worth of chocolate-chip pancakes. Sasha and Michael were up in the kitchen, working on another batch. Michael sketched a wave in Brandt’s direction. “Go sit. I’ll hook you up.”

“Thanks. And may I say you wear your apron well? For an assassin, that is.” The apron in question belonged to Jox; it had dancing chili peppers on it and came down to approximately the level of Michael’s crotch.

“Don’t push it.”

“I take my coffee light. Keep it topped off and I’ll double your tip.”

“Here’s a tip for you: Stuff a jock in it, or you’re not getting shit.”

“Ha.” Satisfied, Brandt turned for the conversation pit. And stopped when he found pretty much everyone staring at him. “What?”

Patience set aside her plate, stood, and crossed to him, then faced the group with a sardonic grin that briefly lit the stress shadows in her eyes. “I’d like you all to meet my husband, Brandt White-Eagle.”

She paused. “Brandt, this is everyone.”

He got it then. “Have I been that much of an asshole?”

Sven shook his head. “Not an asshole so much. You’ve just been . . . preoccupied. Or maybe

‘absent’ is a better word. You do the job and then some, but you don’t connect. Didn’t connect, I mean.”

He stood there for a moment, feeling like a complete dick, hating that the others had been affected by the disconnect, and wondering just how much he had screwed up team morale. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“A man can’t be himself when he’s fighting something inside him,” Michael said from up in the kitchen.

“You would know.” That wasn’t a joke, either. Michael had fought through his own hidden demons not long ago.

“Yeah. And I’m here if you ever need to decompress.” The other man grinned evilly. “We could go out to the range. That usually works for me.”

The offer was strangely appealing, though there was no question that Michael would kick his ass on the target course. “Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.” Aware that the others had gone back to their conversations, Brandt lowered his voice and said to Patience, “How are you doing?”

She looked away. “I’m okay. Hoping we can figure something out.”

He scanned the room. Nate and Alexis were still off guarding Anna, and Rabbit and Myrinne didn’t seem to have made it up yet. The others were all present and accounted for, though. “Anybody had any brilliant ideas yet?” he asked.

“We’re still at the pancake stage. I only just got out here myself.” She still wasn’t looking at him.

“I figured you’d been up for a while.”

“I took a cup of coffee out on the patio and watched the sunrise.” She hesitated. “It’s part of my morning routine.”

It was also something they used to do together. Now she did it alone. More, he thought he knew why she hadn’t woken him. There had been too many fresh starts over the past two and a half years, too many times when he’d promised to be there for her, only to revert. Was it any wonder she hadn’t wanted to wake him, in case he’d turned back into that guy overnight? Gods knew it’d happened before.

“Maybe I could meet you out there tomorrow morning,” he suggested casually.

Her lips curved. “It’s a date.”

It was also, he thought, a start.

“Sit,” Michael ordered, coming up behind him. “Unless you’d rather wear this?”

Seeing that he was balancing two pancake-piled plates and a couple of cups of coffee—one light, o n e black as tar—Brandt relieved him of a plate and the non-paint-peeling coffee, and followed Patience to the love seat.

As Michael and Sasha settled themselves, Strike asked Brandt, “Anything you want to add to what you told us last night?”

“Wasn’t that enough?” But Brandt knew what the king was asking. He shook his head. “I’ve got all the memories. Now it’s going to be a case of figuring out what we can do with them. If anything gels, I’ll tell you.”

“Do that.” Strike turned to Lucius, who was hacking away at something on his laptop, fingers flying. Seeing that he was in full-on glyph-geek mode and oblivious to the outside world, the king threw a balled-up napkin, bouncing it off his forehead. “Yo, Doc.”

Lucius straightened and looked around, blinking in surprise. “What? Oh, sorry. This glyph string is .

. . right. Never mind. And don’t call me Doc. My thesis defense was a train wreck.”

“Largely because the head of your committee was Xibalban.” But Strike waved the point off. “What have you got for us?”

“Is Rabbit coming?”

Strike shook his head. “He and Myrinne didn’t crash until like an hour ago. He was up late working on disguising the classified stuff in his head.”

Lucius said, “Well, send him my way when he wakes up. I think we found something that’ll help him block the mind-link.” He dug under his chair, came up with a wrapped bundle, and shook off the T-shirt wrapping to reveal a circlet of pale jade that was worked so thin that it was almost translucent.

Patience leaned forward. “What is it, some sort of necklace?”

“You’re about a foot too low.” Holding the delicate artifact carefully between his palms, Lucius said, “Turns out the tinfoil-hat wearers aren’t that far off; they’re just using the wrong material to protect their brain waves. They should be wearing jade. With this”—he set the circlet on his head, where it perched awkwardly—“the hellmagic shouldn’t be able to get through to him.”

“Nice work,” Brandt said.

Lucius removed the diadem and stared at it for a moment. “I’m still figuring out how to be an effective Prophet, obviously. Now that I’ve got this thing, it seems ridiculously obvious. You guys use jade-tipped bullets and