slapped for her armband, but it was gone. A vague memory stirred of him searching her, disarming her. Bastard. Moving too fast for all of the things he had said to her to catch up, too fast even for her gut instincts to find her, she flung herself into the suite’s main room, cursing when she found the house phone gone, the intercom deactivated. No doubt he’d told Lucius and the winikin that she was working alone on a special project, and not to disturb her. That was what she would have done.
“Damn it!” She glared around at the austere apartment that lied as slickly as its occupant, making it look like he’d changed when, really, some of the glossy shine had been rubbed off but the rest was the same. At the thought, her eyes went to the coffee table. Or, rather, to the small rectangular rug that lay beneath it.
It was the only rug in the suite, save for a shaggy bath mat. And he was the same guy he’d always been.
Breathing a quick prayer to whatever entity might be listening, she shoved the table and rug aside. Disappointment churned when all she found was more of the same hardwood that was everywhere else in the suite. But when she got down close and brushed her fingertips along the surface, she found the faint line of a seam.
“Didn’t totally trust them, did you?” Or maybe he was hardwired to hide things. The thought brought a pang, but she ignored it.
A quick search uncovered a hidden pressure pad. She hit it, expecting it to pop up and reveal a lock. Instead, the larger panel loosened with zero fanfare. Apparently, he hadn’t been that worried about his teammates . . . or else he had assumed he was far away from anyone who would know where to look.
Heart tapping, she used her nails to pry up the panel and reveal a small arsenal—MAC-10, a couple of decent .44s, a snub-nosed .22, and ammo all around. But that wasn’t all; he’d also stashed some nuts and jerky . . . along with a couple of packages of peanut butter cups. She stared at them for a three-count while her instincts and the things he had whispered before leaving caught up with her—things about her proving that she didn’t trust him, and how he couldn’t let her distract him or the team with her suspicions.
If she took her emotions out of the equation, she thought those things fit the pattern and sounded like the truth. Only they weren’t, because she had long ago learned that she had to listen to what Dez did, not what he said. So she chambered a few bullets in one of the .44s, and stood to take a bead on the door. Then she yelled, “Fire in the hole!” and blasted two rounds through the lock.
Wood splintered and cracked, the panel shuddered. It would’ve been very satisfying to kick it open, but it opened in, so that would’ve been more work than necessary. Instead, she tried the knob, jiggled it, put her shoulder into it, and got the door open. Stepping out, she exhaled a quiet, “Yes!”
“Freeze!” a man’s voice bellowed, and a big figure lurched into view two doors down, pointing a machine pistol at her.
“Shit!” Fight response flaring, she flattened and ducked back into the room, whipping up the .44, all too aware she had loaded only four rounds. Scenarios flared—the compound under siege with her unaware, makol in the hallways . . . but a makol wouldn’t have yelled for her to freeze. And that was Lucius standing there, crutch under one arm, MAC-10 in the other.
His expression quickly ran from determination to surprise, and from there to confusion. He let his weapon sag. “Reese? What the hell’s going on?”
“Long story.” She lunged back to her feet. “Are they gone yet?”
“Maybe ten minutes ago.” Confusion turned to alarm. “What’s wrong?”
“I need to talk to Strike.” She hesitated for a second, unnerved to find that a piece of her still didn’t want to blow the whistle on Dez, still wanted to think he was telling the truth. But the outrage was too much—the story came out of her in a clipped precis, like one she would have given to the task force. She finished with, “So I need you to put me on a tight band transmission to Strike or Leah. Or failing that, anyone but Dez. They should still be doing recon. We’ve got time.”
But Lucius sagged back against the wall, his face draining of color. “They skipped recon and attacked when Dez’s magic pulled the temple out of the dark barrier ahead of schedule. Right after that, the satellite cut out. I’ve got no ears, no way to transmit.”
“He cut the feed?” Even as the knots in her stomach tightened, a dumb-assed part of her kept saying, Maybe he’s not doing what you think. “We need to get it back up.”
“I thought it was barrier interference. The closer we get to the end date, the wonkier the atmosphere gets during the cardinal days. If he cut it, though, there are a couple of other things I could try.”
“Let’s go.” Shoving the .44 into her waistband at the small of her back, where it pressed awkwardly into her spine, she headed down the hallway toward the great room. Her thoughts churned as a ragged pattern assembled itself in her head. “I bet he meant for me to stay asleep longer than I did, long enough so it wouldn’t matter. Maybe the blood-link warned me that he was making his move, woke me up early.” She was going full steam now, pieces falling into place slightly askew. “I bet he sensed that I was coming around and knew he had to move his timetable up. So he—”
“Wait.” Lucius caught her arm and swung her around in the archway leading to the main mansion. “Stop. Back up. What blood-link?”
“We don’t have time for this.” She tugged at his arm.
He didn’t budge. More, his normally easygoing demeanor had hardened and a glint had entered his eyes. “Yes we do. It’s important. Start talking.”
She didn’t want to think about it, because the link, too, was a lie. But she trusted Lucius. “It started when I was bitten by the makol.” She quickly described the thin trickle of energy that had fitfully connected them ever since their blood and energies had mingled. “And when we . . .” She faltered as a stab of grief ripped through her.
Lucius finished for her. “And when you make love, sometimes it seems that you can feel what he’s feeling and see the world through his eyes.”
Hating how the reminder brought a prickle of tears and made her yearn, she snapped, “Like I said, a blood- link.”
But his eyes had taken on a strange glint. “A blood-link comes from shared DNA—siblings, parents and children, that sort of thing. What you’re talking about is the early stages of the jun tan connection. The mated bond.”
“Bullshit.” The word burst out of her.
“Not bullshit. Jun tan.” He tapped his wrist, where he wore the curving glyph. “And, especially when it’s newly formed, the bond won’t activate unless the two of you are open to each other, not holding anything back. Which means he was telling the truth about why he locked you up.”
Shock took her breath and she sagged against the nearest wall. “You’re kidding.” Her heart leaped at the possibility, but twisted as she warned herself not to talk herself into believing what she wanted to. “The spirit guide said we weren’t meant to be mates.”
“Looks like you’re falling in love with each other anyway.”
Her mouth went dry. “No.” The whisper wasn’t a denial of her feelings, but of the hope that suddenly swept through her. “Oh, God.” Could it be true? She pressed a hand to her suddenly jittery stomach as her mind skipped around, thoughts jumbling into a mishmash of yearning and regret. “He’s a Triad mage,” she said, heart beginning to pound with excitement even as her practical side poked at the gaps in the pattern. “He could’ve manipulated the magic.”
“Not this kind of magic,” Lucius said with quiet assurance. “The jun tan doesn’t answer to anything but true emotion.”
“But I . . .” She didn’t know what she wanted to say, didn’t know how she felt, but as the new information sank in and the pattern rearranged itself into something that fit perfectly, she heard his parting words whisper in her heart. Maybe we missed our chance.
She must have looked suddenly panicked, because Lucius’s expression took on a tinge of empathy. “It’s early yet. If this isn’t what you want—”
“I need to talk to him,” she interrupted, her heart suddenly beating hard and fast in her ears. “I need him to know . . . No. Wait.” No distractions. Let him keep his mind on the fight. But what if he didn’t make it through? What if he died with her angry words and his quiet despair the last thing between them? He dies, we all die, logic said, because without the serpent king to stop him, Lord Vulture would arise.
