“Shut it,” his slightly more sober friend advised, then blinked rapidly, trying to focus his reddened eyes on Sven. “C’n I help you?”
“You shut it,” Beer Bottle said, elbowing Blinker. “We don’ have to help ’im.”
“I’m juss bein’ polite.” Blink, blink. “Nothin’ wrong with that, izzere?”
“Absolutely not,” Sven said. “Could you tell Cara I’d like to talk to her out here?” Then, not wanting anybody to get the wrong idea, he tacked on, “I have a message for her.” Which he did, sort of.
Beer Bottle sneered. “Whassa matter? You don’t want to go inside?”
“Do you blame me?”
The sneer flattened, then got a little confused. “Well… no.”
“I don’t want to make trouble; I just need to talk to Cara. Please.”
Blink, blink. “She’s not in there.”
“She’s not—” Sven let out a breath. “Where did she go?”
“Dunno. Saw her leave, though.” Blinker did the blinkety-blink thing, then added helpfully, “It was a while ago.”
“Did you— You know what? Never mind. Thanks.”
Beer Bottle scowled and jabbed an elbow at Blinker. “I tol’ you not to help him.”
“Nothin’ wrong with bein’ polite.” And they were off again, wobbling around the same conversational circuit as Sven popped his hood and jogged back out into the rain, leaving them to it.
He was just about to head back to the mansion, thinking he’d missed her, when a faint tickle hit the edge of his mind, a pulse of agitation. “Mac?” He stopped in his tracks and opened his mind to their bond.
Instantly, thought-glyphs seared themselves across his mind, seeming ten feet high and glowing red-hot: Emergency! Come now! Danger! Comenowcome!
Gut knotting even as his body spun toward the signal, which was coming from the firing range, he sent back: What? Who?
Followfollowfollow! was paired with a glimpse of the main pyramid of the proving grounds.
I’m coming! Catching that Mac was poised to bolt after something—or someone—Sven sent an emphatic: NO. Wait. Then he put his head down and booked it, adrenaline shrilling through his body as his warrior’s talent came online, juicing his magic and getting him ready to fight. A foxfire spell lit the night around him, though he didn’t remember calling it. Was it more of those demon creatures? Something worse? He wasn’t getting images from Mac anymore, just fury.
When he reached the ruins, he caught sight of Mac’s bristling silhouette up ahead and swerved in that direction, skidding in a patch of mud and nearly going down. He kept going, though, racing toward where the big coyote was standing splay-legged with his head down, as if guarding something—or someone.
“I’m here,” he called over the growl of thunder. “What’s wrong?”
There was no answer from the coyote. When Sven reached him, the foxfire spread out to shed bright white light on the scene. The rain had plastered Mac’s fur to his body, making the coyote look lean and lethal. His eyes were slitted against the sideways-whipping wind, and a growl grated at the back of his throat.
The big animal was staring down at a churned-up section of ground that was going rapidly smooth under the pelting hammer of rain. But as Sven hunkered down, he shifted slightly and the foxfire glinted off something metallic being shielded by the big coyote’s bulk.
“What have you got there?” Sven leaned in, reached for it… and froze for a second at the sight of a torn, muddy piece of desert-camo cloth snagged on a winikin’s wristband. It had the initials CL etched inside.
Ice sluiced through his veins. Cara!
Mac’s eyes met his and a wash of guilt poured through their bond, along with two piteous thought-glyphs: Gone! Hurt!
Sven’s body kicked into action while his mind screamed inside. He went for his armband, slapping the alarm and the all-transmit in the same move. “Mayday, mayday!” he said, raising his voice above the thunder and rain. “There’s been—” He broke off because there was no signal light, no whooping alarm. The storm was screwing with the transmission.
No. Not now. Fuck! He hit the buttons again, then the reset, saw the readout lights flicker but didn’t get a damn thing.
He was cut off.
Mac whined urgently, his thought-glyphs becoming a jumble of distress and, Come on, this way! as he circled the scene of the attack, his paws turning dark with mud.
Sven hesitated. Protocol and the good of the many said he should go back for his teammates, that it was too big a risk. But Mac’s thought-stream filled with the need to hurry, follow, run—along with the smell of fear and blood.
Cara. Her name lashed through him on the next bolt of lightning, driving him to his feet as Mac spun and bolted into the night.
“Godsdamn it, wait!” Sven took two steps after him, then saw in the next flash that the coyote had paused at the edge of the pyramid, eyes wide and wild, lips drawn back in a snarl. There were no glyphs to his thoughts now; there was only instinct and the pounding need to chase, find, protect.
Then Mac whirled and galloped off, disappearing into the night and the storm.
Cursing, Sven plunged after him. And as he ran into the teeth of the wind and rain, he hoped to hell they weren’t already too late.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cara awoke to a bone-numbing chill that was so intense that she didn’t remember ever not being cold, as if the sensation had lived in her marrow forever.
On some level she knew that was crap, that she’d been warm before, that she’d been many, many other things. But as she swam up through the layers of unconsciousness that flowed like water and clung like mud, she knew only the cold. It bit into her, locked onto her, and made her want to sink back down to where she didn’t care that she was freezing, didn’t care about anything.
Screw that, said some stubborn core within her. Stop whining and get your ass moving. Something bad had happened; she knew that much. But what? How? Wake up and figure it out!
Huge shivers clamped her muscles tight, and her chattering teeth nipped the tip of her tongue and drew blood. The sharp, bright pain brought her closer to consciousness, letting sounds penetrate from the outside world: She heard the roar of thunder above her, the splash of water all around her.
For a second she was back on the Discovery, riding out a squall on the whale-watching boat that had been as much a home for her as she’d ever known. She imagined Captain Jack up in the wheelhouse and the passengers huddled inside over cocoa and barf bags, leaving her alone on the forward deck, leaning into the wind and rain as the deck surged beneath her feet. But then the image fragmented, because the air wasn’t salty or ocean clean; instead, her mouth was foul with sandy grit and a chemical aftertaste that brought back newer, far less pleasant memories.
The desert. Skywatch. War games.
Heartache.
As reality returned with sledgehammer blows, she sucked in a breath that was a harsh sound over the other noises. Suddenly, she was sickeningly aware of all sorts of tactile sensations, none of them good: There was a solid surface beneath her, ties binding her in place at her chest, hips, wrists, and ankles. Terror lashed as it came back to her: the pyramid, the storm, a splash of rain.… And Zane coming for her with cold, determined eyes.
Zane. Gods. That wasn’t him, couldn’t have been. It was a trick, a demon, magic. Only how was that possible? Her stomach lurched with the alternative: that he’d betrayed the winikin, the Nightkeepers. And her. Impossible, she thought, but she knew what she had seen. And now—
“Shit, she’s waking up.” It was a woman’s voice, distorted by distance, echoes, and the noise of rippling water. A woman? Who? Why?
“Good.” A man’s voice, familiar. Zane.
