ceremonial dagger like he was ready to do it all over again.
He batted at the images, though he knew they were entirely inside his mind, inside him. “No, godsdamn it, I wouldn’t do that to her! I couldn’t. I love her!”
He’d first seen the vision during the scrying spell, when he’d foolishly asked how he and Myrinne could earn their jun tan mated marks. First, he’d heard his old man’s voice telling him to get rid of the hellmark that had connected him to Iago. Then he’d seen the knife. The blood. Her eyes.
Oh, gods. Her eyes. He pressed his fists against his own closed lids, trying to force away the image, which was a memory yet not, because it hadn’t happened yet even though he’d seen it over and over again in his nightmares.
“Please don’t make me,” he whispered, not sure whether he was talking to his mother or the dream, which was too vivid and unchanging to be anything but prescience. For so long he had thought it was a warning from an ancestor or the gods themselves, a chance to change his course and not make a terrible mistake. But what if the gods weren’t warning him off at all? What if they were telling him what he was supposed to do? Fuck. Agony rolled over him, centering in the place where his heart had been only moments before. “I need her. I can’t do this alone.”
The crossover is one alone, not half of a pair.
He scrubbed his face and then leaned back, squeezing his eyes shut, too broken to give a shit that the move let loose a tear. “Don’t say that. Please… no. Don’t.” There was no anger in him now, though, no denial.
I’m sorry.
He realized he’d wrapped his arms around himself like a fucking girl, which just drove home how much he’d gotten used to having someone holding on to him, telling him he was going to be okay. Not someone. Myrinne. She was his first, his one and only. His—
Betrayer.
“Never.” But he was losing steam. “There’s got to be something else going on. I’ll talk to her,” he decided. “I’ll see—”
You cannot let on that you know. Better to watch her closely and discover her plan, her allies.
“I can…” But he couldn’t mind-bend her. At her request he’d installed a mental block that prevented him from getting inside her. He couldn’t remove it without her knowing what he’d done.
Why do you think she insisted? She couldn’t let you see inside, couldn’t let you know her true agenda. She was the one who called the creatures; she was the one who sent whispers into the winikin soldier’s mind, telling him he could become a mage if he killed one of his own. She wants to disrupt the Nightkeepers while she convinces you to seek the dark magic on her terms—those of the sky gods who control her—because then the magic will destroy you and the dark barrier together. And humanity will be left with this. Her gesture encompassed the remains of Skywatch, which was the earth’s only real hope of surviving the end of days, even though mankind didn’t have a freaking clue.
“Stop. Jesus, please stop.” Desperation closed around him, making it seem as if the dim, ash-darkened skyline were drawing inward and making him want to claw his way out, screaming.
I will stop. I must. My time is up. Her mental tone was suddenly thready and fading, as if she had moved past him and he was getting the tail end of the Doppler shift. But remember this, sweet Rabbie. Your brother and I are watching over you even when you can’t see or feel us. Which means you’re not really alone. The last was a soft whisper, almost inaudible.
Then she was gone, leaving him in the desolation.
And despite what she had said, he sure as shit felt alone.
The solitude echoed through him, around him, as he realized he could be the only person for miles, maybe even the only living creature. Was this, then, the way it was all going to end? One possible future, she had called it, and him the crossover. Mankind’s best hope.
Ever since the shaman had suggested the destiny, Rabbit had been wrestling with the utter fucktarded insecurity of being named the savior of mankind. But he didn’t know if he could do it without Myrinne. She was his cornerstone, supporting him, lifting him up, and making him believe that he could do so many more things than he had thought.
How could that be wrong?
“Rabbit.” His name—nickname?—was a thread of sound in the gray-on-gray world, coming in her voice as if he’d conjured her with his thoughts. When it came again, though, it was accompanied by a lurch of the world around him, like it—or he—had just been shaken. “Come on, Pyro. Time to wake up.”
Pyro. That was a nickname he dug, one that reminded him not only of his first and best talent, but also their too-short time together at college, when he’d actually been popular, not just because he had a hot girlfriend, but because he’d actually found things he was good at, and people who thought he was cool. He’d played the part of a normal guy there, and it hadn’t fit all that badly. More, it had given the two of them a secret to share, a little wink-wink-nudge-nudge when she called him “Pyro” and warned him not to burn anything down.
The game had been fun. It had been very them, and had given him a secret warmth to carry with him when they were apart.
That same warmth pulled him out of the vision now, drawing him back into his body so he could feel the heavy lassitude of his limbs, the quiet, drugging fatigue of having pulled lots of magic without carb loading. There was a mattress beneath him, blankets piled on top of him. And, when he opened his eyes, a dark angel looking down at him.
“You’re awake! When we found you in the john, we thought… Gods. I’m glad you’re back.” Relief flooded her eyes, and a wave of emotion slammed into him so hard and fast that it took his damn breath away before he’d even had a chance to catch it in the first place. With her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and her face bare of makeup save for a touch of something dark at the corners of her eyes, and wearing one of his sweatshirts—so big that it fell off her shoulder at one side—she looked like the hottest coed ever, like the girl who had winked at him across the dining hall and called him Pyro.
In that moment, as the worry in her face dissolved to relief and a mist of tears, he realized that he knew three things without question: He loved her. He trusted her. And, somehow, his mother had to be wrong. He wasn’t sure how, or what he could do to prove it, but she was wrong. Myrinne was… Myrinne. She wasn’t working for anyone else, wasn’t plotting behind his back. He loved her, believed in her.
More, she was his. And anybody who wanted to mess with her was going to have to go through him to do it… including his mother’s ghost.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
September 17
Four days to the equinox; three months and
four days until the zero date
Monterey, California
“I’m sorry, sir,” the little blue-haired docent said, “but that particular piece has been relocated. It was a last-minute substitution into the display we sent out for tonight’s gala.”
“For—” Sven stopped himself. “Right. The gala.” He didn’t need to take another look around the wood- paneled, elegantly appointed Playa Maya Museum or at the rock on the docent’s ring finger to have his mental cash register give a cha-ching. Of course they needed funding, and a chichi party would be par for the area. “Are there any tickets left? We had planned on attending, but things came up—you know how it is—and I never got around to RSVPing.”
Her lashes fluttered down over eyes gone suddenly bright and interested. “As a matter of fact, yes, there’s one stateroom left.”
Cara turned from the display of three-legged pots she had been pretending to study. “Stateroom? The gala’s
