Skykeepers (13 page)

And there it is
, Michael thought. “A man with the potential to become a killer.”

Ever since childhood, he’d been aware of the urges. He’d never acted on the impulses, hadn’t done anything on the watch list for serial killers—but there had been times he’d wanted to. Badly.

Bryson shook his head. “Anyone can become a killer, given the right circumstances. What I need is someone who can do the work this country needs him to do, then put it aside and function normally otherwise.” He paused, eyes locking with Michael’s. “I need a fighter with a borderline dissociative personality, if not full-blown schizophrenia.”

Michael swallowed hard, knowing his FBI training was over, one way or the other. “What’s in it for . . . for this person? If you found him, I mean.”

“I’ll teach him to control the impulses, how to use them to be a better man. I’ll program him so he can put that part of himself away, and take it out only when and where it will do some good.”

“How?” The word escaped before Michael could curb it, or hide some of the desperation he knew had flashed in his eyes.

“The same way I’ll blank your memories of this entire meeting if you turn me down.” Bryson motioned, and the second man detached himself from the shadows across the road and crossed the street to join them. “Dr. Horn will take care of it.”

The doctor wore the same black fatigues but no jacket, and had wisps of white-blond hair crowning his otherwise shiny scalp. His features were pinched and rabbity, and he didn’t move at all like a fighter. When he dipped into one of his thigh pockets and came up with a pair of preloaded syringes, though, his movements carried the grace of long familiarity. “Your call, Mr. Stone,” he said, his voice surprisingly deep given his unprepossessing exterior. “You in or out?”

Michael locked eyes with Bryson. “If I refuse?”

“You’ll wake up in your room tomorrow morning and remember nothing. The e-mail’s already been purged from the computer systems, so as far as you’ll know, you slept through the night uninterrupted. When you get to your first class, you’ll learn that you’ve been bounced from the program based on your psych profile.”

Michael could picture it all too easily; he’d been projecting exactly that scenario ever since he’d been pulled out for a third round of personality tests that most of the others hadn’t been subjected to. “And if I agree?”

“Then you receive a very different injection, you come with me, and your training begins tonight.”

“How much time do I have to think about it?” Michael hedged.

“About thirty more seconds.”

Okay, then
, Michael thought, brain racing as he tried to figure his options. But was there really another viable answer besides “yes”? He was being offered exactly the sort of thing he’d been gravitating toward in his training, only on a larger, more immediately relevant scale. A childhood spent listening to stories about magical warriors and saving the world had primed him to want to do the same sort of thing in real life, and the 9/11 terror attacks had only reinforced his need to help. Or at least the need of his better half. His darker side just wanted to kick ass.

What if he’d finally found a way to serve both needs? Better yet, what if it had just found him?

Aware that he’d pretty much made his decision the second Bryson offered to teach him not only to control the violence within him, but to use it for the greater good, Michael nodded. “I’m in.”

Bryson’s eyes glittered with something sharper than satisfaction. “Good.” He waved the other man forward. “Dr. Horn, if you please?”

The doctor pocketed one of the syringes, but kept the other one out as he unbuttoned Michael’s right sleeve and pushed the cuff up over his elbow, baring the lighter skin of his forearm. For a second, in the darkness, Michael imagined he saw black marks on the pale skin. But the illusion passed as the doctor moved in and the needle slid home. A pinch was followed by a slow, cool burn that spread up Michael’s arm and across his throat, then downward, until it coated his entire body.

For a moment, the world spun around him. Then he was falling.

Falling.

Fallen.

Michael woke fuzzy headed and nauseated, which wasn’t unusual following one of his unwanted trips down memory’s ass. Sitting up in the SUV-size bed he’d had installed in his suite as part of replacing the Southwestern blah decor that characterized much of Skywatch with his own preference of glass, metal, and leather, he groaned and scrubbed his hands across his face, thinking he felt shittier than usual, even given the dream, as though it wasn’t just the memories bothering him; it was . . . He froze midmotion as he remembered the rest of the prior day’s shitstorm in Technicolor, along with the tastes, scents, and sounds that went with it.

He’d found Sasha. He’d made love to her. And he’d saved her . . . by letting the Other come through and using the forbidden magic to insta-cremate one of Ia go’s red-robes. And in doing so he’d gotten himself on Iago’s radar screen.
Damn it
. Over the past five months, ever since he’d cut the last of his ties with Bryson and Horn, he’d managed to convince himself the Other was safely locked away, that he had the problem under control. Apparently not. The circumstances might’ve called for extreme measures, but in the end he’d done what his
nahwal
had specifically told him not to—and then he’d lied about it to his king.

Sin upon sin.
How do you think your soul’s looking now?

“Oh, hell,” he grated, squeezing his eyes shut behind his hands, even though the weak gesture had never worked before. Still, denial was a natural human response to a situation that had gone well past human-level fuckup status and straight to cosmic proportions. Even worse, part of him didn’t feel shitty at all. It felt powerful, self-satisfied, and hungry for more of the killing, more of Sasha. And neither of those things was happening, period. Still, though, urgency burned beneath his skin, and the monster he’d been stirred within his mind.

The Other. That was what Bryson and Horn had called their creation, the piece of him that they had pulled forward and honed into a killing machine.

“Fuck off. Leave me alone.” But he knew the memories wouldn’t go away on their own. He was going to have to make them leave.

Michael didn’t call on the hypnotic conditioning and drug regimen Horn had used to keep the Other at bay—those blocks had given way during his talent ceremony. Instead, he turned to the mental discipline he’d practiced and honed until his inner shields were almost as good as his magical ones. Dragging himself out of bed, he dropped down lotus-style on the cold floor. Straightening his spine vertebra by vertebra, he concentrated on his breathing, voiding his lungs of the old, stale air and replacing it with fresh. He breathed. He counted his heartbeats. And when relative calm descended, he pictured the flow of inner energy, and the dam at the back of his brain.

Concentrating, he cranked the heavy sluice gates shut, feeling the effort as a phantom burn in his arms and back, hearing the clank of mechanisms that didn’t really exist outside the construct of his own mind. It didn’t matter whether the physical effort or the metallic clangs were real, though. What mattered was his ability to shut off that part of himself.

The good news was that it worked: The sluiceways shut; the dam held. But, as Michael let himself drift within himself for a moment, he was conscious that closing off that part of himself left him incomplete. Although he’d been trying to improve the man who remained outside the dam, he was still a work in progress. Worse, because of Horn’s conditioning, when he was fully separated, as he was now, he tended to block his own knowledge of his other half, and what it meant, becoming the surface charmer that had been his cover.
Remember all of it, you self-centered prick
, he thought.
Sasha deserves better than your dissociated ass
. But even as he hung there, suspended between the physical and metaphysical, he was aware of a thrumming current of excitement, one that urged him to get his butt off the floor already and go see her.

He’d been searching for her for a long time now. And he sure as hell owed her his protection from the others after what had happened the night before. Not to mention an explanation.

Feeling the sharp edges of his soul dulling down, he flowed to his feet, hit the bathroom, shocked himself awake with a cold shower, shaved off a layer of stubble, and chewed a couple of Tylenol tabs on the theory that they tasted foul but ought to hit his bloodstream faster that way. Maybe. Movements quickening, he dragged on black nylon track pants and a ribbed white tank, shoved his feet into a pair of rope sandals, and was ready to go.

Six months earlier, he would’ve been wearing his high-toned salesman duds, even around the mansion, still playing a role he’d been programmed to forget was a cover story. The plan he’d so carefully executed just after the spring solstice meant that he could finally move on, lose the act, and become the guy he’d wanted to be—or at least try to. He’d been doing his damnedest since then to stay in control, to stay out of trouble and do the right thing, hoping to improve the good to bad ratio the
nahwal
had alluded to. But he’d blown that all to hell the night before, hadn’t he?

“Probably. But I’d do it again under the same circumstances,” he grated to the empty room, knowing that the sentiment did little to ameliorate the heavy debt on his soul. The writs said a Nightkeeper owed his allegiance first to the gods, then to the king, the end-time war, his fellow magi, mankind, and then his own family, wants, and desires. Or something like that. He wasn’t much into scripture, but he knew that relationships and personal desire went way down at the bottom of the list. Yet he’d chosen Sasha’s safety over his own
nahwal
’s directive.

She’s important
, he thought.
It was worth it, given how badly we need the library
. More,
he
needed the library. Having exhausted the archive, he was banking on the library having some answers, like whether there was some way to fix what was broken inside him.

And he was so rationalizing. He hadn’t been thinking about the library when he’d given over to the Other and its silver magic. He’d been thinking only of Sasha, his thoughts and perceptions telescoping down to
her
. Which was more evidence of how badly off balance she’d gotten him. She was inside him even now, her face right at the edge of his mind, her scent, her taste imprinted on his sensory memory. He’d dreamed of her and had awakened hard and alone.

“Get used to it,” he told himself. “Sacrifices aren’t easy, and she damn well deserves better.” Or rather, she
didn’t
deserve a man whose very soul was in question, one Iago seemed to think could become an ally.

Telling himself there was no way in hell he would turn—he’d die first—he headed out of his suite and down the long hallway that led from the residential wing.

The main mansion was a sprawling edifice done in sandstone, wood, and marble, housing a great room connected to a large open kitchen, with a banquet-size dining room that had become a war chamber. Hallways radiated from the great room, leading variously to the residential wings, the archive, a glass-roofed sacred chamber, and forty-car garage. The second and third floors of the main house were empty, as were many of the residential rooms, mute testament to the numbers the Nightkeepers had once boasted. As it had been in his suite, the decor was neutral Southwestern blah, except for the occasional splash of decent art, thanks to Alexis, who wasn’t afraid to hit the near-bottomless Nightkeeper Fund for upgrade money, and had a good eye for investments.

Michael paused at the arched doorways that opened onto the sunken great room, glancing over at the big, open-plan kitchen. His system said he needed food. His conscience said he needed to talk to Sasha. He hated how he’d been forced to leave things between them. An orgasm followed immediately by a sleep spell wasn’t exactly up to his usual standard. More, there had been nothing “usual” about what had happened between the two of them . . . and she needed to understand that nothing else
could
happen. Especially given what Iago had said.

Ignoring an echo of his own voice rasping,
Mine
, he headed across the great room for the basement stairs, figuring she’d be down there for the time being. He was halfway across the sunken sitting area of the great room when Strike appeared in the hallway leading to the royal quarters, and gestured for him to divert. “Debriefing time.”

“Can you give me five minutes?”

The king’s expression flattened. “She’s still asleep.”

“You haven’t been able to wake her?” Michael didn’t like the sound of that. Even if the counterspell wasn’t working, the sleep spell should’ve worn off on its own by now.

“Not yet.” Strike’s cobalt blue eyes glinted with frustration and worry. “I’ve done what I can think of. Even had Rabbit try to bring her around.”

Michael’s head snapped up. “You had the kid
mind-bend
her? Again?”

Earlier that year, during Rabbit’s imprisonment with the Xibalbans, Iago had borrowed the young man’s talent—one of them, anyway—and used it to crawl inside Sasha’s head and attempt to force her to divulge the library’s location. She had fought the invasion hard, and even though the attempted mind-rape had given Rabbit his chance to escape from Iago, the kid’s eyes still went haunted when he spoke of the incident and its victim. Michael couldn’t believe that anyone had thought another such mind-bend would be a good idea for either party. Strike leveled a long, speculative look in Michael’s direction, one that held a measure of satisfaction, as though he’d just gotten an answer to an entirely different question. All he said, though, was, “I made the call I felt I had to make. Remember, we’re not just looking at her as a potential new mage; we need the library, and we need it fast. And if that means making some tough calls, that’s part of my job description.”