Nightkeepers (33 page)

Ever since that
hey, here you go, have an instatattoo
ceremony, he’d been a walking hard-on. He felt like a teenager, or like he belonged in one of those Cialis commercials where the voice-over guy warns about the dangers of priapism.
If your erection lasts for more than four hours, seek medical help. Or a woman. Whichever comes first.

And that was the problem. There was a woman . . . and yet there wasn’t.

Alexis wasn’t Hera—he knew that. Hera was straight out of his imagination, an amalgam of tits and ass that made her a gamer’s wet dream, along with the sharp, strategic intelligence required by any self-respecting warrior-goddess.

However, Alexis was the spitting image of Hera, and that just freaked his shit right out, because between the lectures and the binding ceremony, he was having trouble believing it was just one of those things. The Nightkeepers didn’t seem to go in for coincidence.

Which meant what? That she was his match? His mate?

As he started lifting, he tried to figure out why the thought made him want a one-way ticket to hell and gone. Maybe it was meeting her when everything he thought he knew about himself—and about reality—was taking a serious beating; maybe it was his inner rebel hating the whole your-life-is-ruled-by-destiny thing. Who knew?

He thought about it as he lifted; thought about her. Sweat started beading on his body despite the central AC, and his muscles had a good burn going after a half hour or so, but a dick check revealed he was still sporting serious wood. If anything, it’d gotten worse rather than better, tenting the front of his gym shorts as he lay back on the weight bench.

Current score: Boner 2, Blackhawk 0.

Glaring at it, he warned, ‘‘All right, that’s it. Two more sets and I’m bringing out the duct tape.’’

‘‘Excuse me?’’

For half a sweaty second, he thought the damn thing was talking back—and wouldn’t
that
be a trip?—and was doing so in Alexis’s voice. Then what was left of his brain fired up, and he shot a startled glance at the doorway and saw her standing there, watching him talk to his johnson.

Losing his count and his concentration, he forgot to lock his elbows and his arms folded under the weights. The barbell
whumped
onto his upper chest, just below his throat.

‘‘Shit!’’
he said, only it came out as a gurgle as he fought to dead-lift the thing from zero leverage.

‘‘Oh!’’ Alexis sprinted across the room and helped him wrestle the bar off his Adam’s apple and onto the overhead stand. ‘‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you okay?’’

‘‘Fine,’’ he said shortly, sitting up so fast his head swam. He snagged his shirt so he could pretend to scrub the sweat off his face and chest, and then casually dumped the T-shirt in his lap.

Current score: Boner 3, Blackhawk 0.

From the flush that rode high on her slashing cheekbones and the way she was careful to look him in the eye rather than lower down, he had a feeling she knew exactly what was going on. Either that, or she was dealing with some horns of her own. He should be so lucky.

Then again, maybe he
was
that lucky, he thought when he saw that she’d changed into formfitting workout pants and a soft shirt that hung off one shoulder to play peekaboo with a bra strap, but wasn’t wearing sneakers or carrying a towel.

Despite not really being on board with the predestiny thing, he figured he’d be an idiot not to engage in some scratch-the-itch for the next two months if she made the offer.

‘‘You looking for me?’’ he asked after a moment.
Please say yes
.

‘‘Yeah.’’ She cleared her throat. ‘‘Um, well, you see . . .’’ The flush rode higher on her cheeks, creating two spots of color. ‘‘I thought we could . . . Oh, screw it.’’ She held out her hand to him. ‘‘Come on.’’

Nate might not’ve been raised by his
winikin
, but he was no dummy. He didn’t argue. He simply put his hand in hers and let her lead the way.

Score
.

Rabbit observed the mansion from the perch he’d found high up in the ceiba tree, where he could watch without being watched in return. He saw most of the newbies pairing up and disappearing into darkened rooms, saw Woody hand Jox his hat. More interesting was the scene between Strike and the blonde out by the pool. He hadn’t been able to hear what they were saying, but the end result was obvious: Strike struck out, and the blonde headed back to her room alone.

Rabbit watched her go.

So that was the girlfriend, huh? She was pretty enough, he supposed. Okay, she was damn near a knockout, with long blond hair, slim hips, and legs that kept on giving inside a pair of loose jeans that hung practically off her ass.

Rabbit had heard the old man and Strike arguing about her earlier, had heard the old man muttering long after—he’d caught a few words, like ‘‘blasphemy’’ and ‘‘rewriting history’’ . . . which had entertained Rabbit to no end, and took his mind off what’d happened at the ceremony.

Or rather, what
hadn’t
happened.

The old man had tried to tell him it was for the best that he hadn’t gotten his mark, but of course he’d say that. Really, the ceremony had just proved what Rabbit had known all along—if he wanted to learn the magic he was going to have to figure it out on his own. He’d never been, and would never be, a priority for his father and the others. So he’d hit the books, do some experimenting. He wanted to know what he could do besides torch stuff. Pyrokinesis was cool as far as it went, but had its limitations, because he didn’t just want to destroy stuff . . . he wanted to create stuff. He wanted to control, to rule.

He wanted to be someone.

‘‘Rabbit.’’

The old man’s voice was an unpleasant jolt, as was the sight of him at the bottom of the tree, scowling straight up into the branches, making it clear he knew exactly where his son was hiding. He’d traded his robe for fatigues and boots, but his belt bore no weapons.

For about three seconds, Rabbit was tempted to light the seat of Red-Boar’s pants, or maybe give him a hot-foot. Then sanity returned. ‘‘Yeah?’’

‘‘I’m leaving.’’

The two words hit Rabbit harder than he would’ve expected, punching him in the gut and making his breath whoosh out. ‘‘For good?’’ His voice squeaked.

Red-Boar scowled. ‘‘No, you idiot. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow.’’

‘‘Oh.’’ And suddenly he could breathe again. Not like he wanted the old man to know that, though. ‘‘So?’’

‘‘I didn’t want you to wonder. And I thought you might want to use the cottage while I’m gone.’’

Rabbit eased down a couple of branches, so he could see the old man’s face. ‘‘Are you, like, apologizing for kicking me out?’’

‘‘Strike offered you a room in the big house and you took it. No kicking involved.’’

‘‘Whatever.’’ Rabbit headed back up.

‘‘Wait.’’

He paused. Looked down. ‘‘What?’’

His old man took a step back, into a stripe of deep shadows, so it was like his voice came from the darkness when he said, ‘‘I’m sorry.’’

Rabbit scowled, though it helped some to hear. ‘‘Sorry for which part? Sorry for not accepting me as your son or sorry for not prepping me properly?’’

‘‘I’m sorry the circumstances of your birth dictate that you’ll never belong.’’ Then, before Rabbit could wheeze past the gut-punch of pain, the old man turned and walked away, leaving what he hadn’t quite said to ring in the air between them:
I’m sorry you were born, period
.

It wasn’t a surprise. But it still sucked to hear.

Leah slept far better than she would’ve expected, given her level of sexual frustration—high—and the general weirdness of staying in a suite of rooms that had belonged to her not-quite-lover’s parents, the king and queen of what-the-hell-is-going-on-here. Still, she woke tired. She supposed she could blame her fatigue on the postmagic hangover, but that didn’t exactly improve the logic of the situation.

Pulling on her borrowed clothes, she stumbled into the ornate marble-and-chrome master bathroom and gave herself a once-over in the mirror. The results weren’t exactly impressive—the clothes were too big and she had a shiner and no makeup.

‘‘Note to self,’’ she said aloud. ‘‘Find a mall. Or an Internet connection to
Overstock.com
, whichever comes first.’’ Or, hell, she could just have Connie mail her some stuff from home. She’d need clothes and whatnot if she was going to stay.

And yeah, she was going to stay—for the time being, anyway—because she might not appreciate Strike’s I’m-calling -the-shots attitude about Zipacna, but he’d been right about a few things. For one, it sure looked like the
ajaw-makol
was jonesing for a do-over of his interrupted human sacrifice, starring her, and for another, this whole mess was going way outside the usual for the MDPD, which meant it was just good policework to cultivate an expert in the field.

And whether or not it ran the logic train right off its rails, she wanted to know more about the magic.

She hadn’t been into D&D as a kid, and the whole
Harry Potter
thing had left her cold, but those had been make-believe. The things she’d experienced over the past few weeks were . . . well, whatever they were, she was betting that
if
it turned out she had some sort of power, and
if
she could learn how to use it, then she’d have that much more ammunition against Zipacna. Because whether or not Strike liked it, as soon as she found the bastard, she was going after him personally.

Ignoring the faint twinge of disquiet brought by the thought of going behind Strike’s back—and equally ignoring the flare of heat brought by any thought of the dark-haired warrior—she prowled the suite a little, not quite ready to head for the kitchen and face the rest of the Nightkeepers and their
winikin
. She’d seen most of them briefly in passing the day before, and had weathered their
what the hell are you still doing here?
surprise, but she wasn’t looking forward to joining their magic lessons later in the morning.

It was all just too freaking weird.

Her prowling brought her to the locked door she’d found the day before when she’d toured the suite, checking all the drawers and closets—because, hey, she was a cop—and finding nothing but bland decor and hotel-neat conveniences. And the locked door just before the solarium.

It was an utterly normal-looking door, save for a pair of glyphs carved into the upper half of the panel, both of which she recognized from Strike’s arm: a jaguar’s head and a long-nosed, highly stylized human figure holding a staff of some sort.

She didn’t need to be able to translate the writing to know what it meant: family only. Which didn’t include her, as Jox had so clearly pointed out the day before. But she’d never been able to resist a locked door.

‘‘It’s not much of a lock, either,’’ she said aloud, giving the knob a shake. The door rattled in its frame, far looser than it needed to be for the sake of security. Heck, it was more like a suggestion than a real lock.

Her conscience told her they would’ve left the key if she was supposed to open the door, but that didn’t stop her from pushing the panel to the edge of the bolt, twisting the knob, and giving it a hip check.

The lock popped free.

‘‘Oops.’’ Feeling only a little guilty, she stepped through the door into a dark, windowless chamber and fumbled for the lights. There was no switch plate, but the moment her foot hit the floor, torches flared to life at each corner of the square, closet-size space.

She froze, partly because, damn, that was weird, and partly because she couldn’t go very far. Right in front of her, a mat lay on the tiled floor. Made of some sort of natural fiber, the neutral beige rug had a green border of strange symbols, and two bright red footprints woven into its center. The footprints faced a waist-high statue that looked like the one in the ritual chamber from the night before, the one Vince had called a
chac-mool
. Behind the statue, a circular plate was set into the wall. Made of highly polished black stone—obsidian, maybe?— it showed her torchlit reflection.

And that of a large man sneaking up behind her.

Leah spun automatically and threw a punch straight from the shoulder.

‘‘Whoa!’’ Strike feinted and the blow grazed his ear.

‘‘Sorry!’’ She pulled the follow-up, which put her off balance and sent her stumbling into him. He caught her against his chest, and she felt the vibration of his chuckle.

‘‘Does this mean we can add assault and battery to the B and E charge?’’ he asked, holding her easily. He was wearing jeans and rope sandals, as he had been the night before, with a worn-soft oxford rolled up to his elbows, showing off the ink. Marks. Whatever. She didn’t know what they were exactly, but the sight of the symbols made her hot and cold, thirsty and hungry all at once.

Or maybe it wasn’t the marks. Maybe it was him, or the room. Or the both of them together. Whatever the cause, where she’d been able to buffer herself against the attraction—more or less—the day before, now the gut-deep chemistry flared between them, making the air crackle with tension.

Flushing with sudden warmth, she pushed away from him. ‘‘Sorry. I was just—’’ She broke off, then sucked it up and said, ‘‘I was just snooping where I had absolutely no business being. I’ve never been able to resist a locked door.’’

But it was more than the door, she realized as her eye was drawn back to the statue. It was as though the contents of the room had called to her. Compelled, she stepped onto the mat, fitting her feet to the red shapes on the thatch. The woven footprints were larger than her own, creating a bloodred halo around her feet as she leaned forward and touched the altar.

The stone was cool and slick to the touch, and it felt like, well, stone. Leah frowned slightly. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but that wasn’t it. Then Strike stepped onto the mat, crowding behind her, pressing up against her and covering her hands with his, and suddenly the woven footprints weren’t too large at all . . . and the altar didn’t feel like stone.