Dawnkeepers (26 page)

He flopped back on the sofa. “Fuck me.”

Carlos had told him about his parents’ cottage early on. Or more accurately, the
winikin
had tried to tell him about the place, and Nate had cut him off midsentence with a stern warning that he had no intention of looking back. He didn’t blame his parents for how he’d grown up, hadn’t blamed them even before he’d known the circumstances. But he’d done just fine without a family history up to this point, and didn’t see the need to acquire one now. At least, he hadn’t intended to. Now it was looking like his subconscious might’ve had other ideas, probably egged on by the eclipse, maybe some sort of collective hawk consciousness bleeding through the barrier. Or whatever.

“Gods damn it,” Nate grumbled, and swung up to vertical on the sofa, which was seriously dated, but non-musty, making him suspect Carlos had sneaked in and done some cleaning, just in case Nate came for a visit. A long look around supported the suspicion; there was very little dust, and the air smelled suspiciously of Febreze.

The walls of the sitting room where he’d crashed were painted a warm putty color, and the floor sported an unfortunate shag rug a few shades darker. The sofa was beige and nubby, brightened with colorful pillows of red, green, and blue. Two large paintings hung on sturdy hooks on either side of the polished brass plate inscribed with the hawk-man emblem, giving the room a distinct personality.

Nate stood and headed toward the paintings, drawn particularly by the one on the left, which was a canyon scene that might’ve come from right outside the window, but was seen from an unusual angle, sort of a three-quarter helicopter’s-eye view. He halfway expected to find it was a print, something done by an artist that Alexis’s expensive taste would’ve recognized.

It took him a second to figure out that it wasn’t a print, another for his brain to decipher the painted scrawl in the lower right-hand corner:
Two-Hawk.

“Aw, shit,” he said, then realized that everything he’d said so far in the little house had been a swear. But who could blame him? It wasn’t like he’d wanted to be here, wasn’t like he wanted to know anything about his parents. He knew all he needed to: His father had been the king’s adviser, his mother a healer named Sarah, originally of the owl bloodline. They’d given him their DNA, a
winikin
whose expiration date had come way too soon, some bloodline magic, and a hell of a responsibility he wasn’t sure he wanted.

So leave,
he told himself.
Nobody’s keeping you here.
Instead of about-facing it, though, he looked at the other painting, which was of a group of partially restored Mayan ruins seen from a similar angle as the canyon picture.

Then, when he couldn’t put it off any longer, he planted himself in front of the oversize medallion, or whatever it was. The big metal plate shone dully in a shaft of sunlight coming through one of the windows, making the hawk figure seem to move. Pulling out his medallion, he compared the two. Same etching, same shift from bird to man and back depending on the viewer’s angle. And that was about it. But they clearly matched; it had to mean something.

Feeling dumb, he touched his medallion to the plate on the wall, then laughed at himself when abso-freaking-lutely nothing happened.

“Admit it: The thing’s just a chain. It’s not a magic amulet.” Somewhere in the back of his head, ever since learning of his heritage, he’d wondered whether the medallion was something more than an identifier, wondered if it had power. Granted, it hadn’t shown any hint of activity during the cardinal days, and he hadn’t been able to get anything out of it when he was jacked in, but still, he’d wondered whether one day it wouldn’t suddenly wake up, more or less like the barrier had, and offer him increased magic, maybe a cool talent.

Now, staring at the plate on his parents’ wall, he had a feeling he’d fallen prey to the gamer’s fantasy of thinking the thing would turn out to be an all-powerful amulet to be named at a later date, when it was really nothing more than a decoration.

He started to swear, but bit it off and said nothing, just turned away and headed for the door. He found himself glancing back at his father’s paintings, caught himself wishing he’d been in that helicopter, skimming over the canyons and the Pueblo ruins, over rain-forest canopies and the mountain-shaped shadows of long-lost pyramids. But his early daydreams of becoming a pilot and flying free across the landscape, like his childhood fantasies of having a family, had long been lost to the practicalities of survival, of fighting for what he wanted and needed.

Forcing himself to shove aside the thoughts and questions the cottage had brought, feeling a low burn of anger that he’d even gone there, he stomped across the courtyard and past the pool to the mansion. He’d meant to head straight to the kitchen and put something in his empty stomach, but his feet—and the growing rage gnawing at his gut—headed him toward the residential wing instead.

He didn’t knock, just barged straight into Michael’s suite.

The other man was in the kitchen area, talking on the phone, which was no big surprise. He was wearing heavy black boots, worn jeans, and a plain tee. His too-long dark hair was pulled back under an unmarked ball cap, making him look far more like a blue-collar laborer than the jet-setting urbanite he usually played, leaving Nate wondering who the hell the real Michael Stone was, and whether the distinction mattered worth a damn.

At Nate’s entrance he turned and clicked the phone shut without saying anything to the caller, and moved to block the kitchen pass-through with his big body. He said simply, “Let’s not do this here.”

“Too late.” Nate slammed the door behind him and advanced across the sitting room, barely taking in the sparse furnishings, which were chrome and glass, and expensive. “And for the record, I don’t give a shit what you’ve got going on in the outside world, or what you’re hiding from, as long as you don’t bring it back here.”

Michael seemed to consider that for a moment, then tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Fair enough. I assume you’re here about me and Alexis.”

“There is no you and Alexis.”

One dark eyebrow raised in speculation. “Is she aware of this fact?”

Nate barely hesitated. “She will be.”

But Michael had caught the quick pause. His dark eyes narrowed. “As soon as you figure it out for yourself, right? Wrong. You’ve already done the hot-cold thing too many times, and she deserves better.”

Hands balled into fists, rage riding him hard, Nate advanced on his fellow Nightkeeper. “And what, exactly, do you consider ‘better’? You?”

“In some ways, yes.” Michael unfolded from the doorway and advanced so the two of them were squared off.

They were similar in height, and both dark haired, but as far as Nate was concerned that was where the similarities stopped. Back in Denver he’d worn Armani suits and good silk ties, got his hair cut every month in the same damn style by the same damn stylist, and ran a business that half a dozen other people depended on for their livelihoods. Michael, on the other hand, kept his hair long and flowing, his jaw artfully stubbled, and wore his trendiness like a badge. He also, as far as Nate knew, had never held down a tax-paying job in his life. He was a playboy at best, a gigolo at worst, probably somewhere in between, and Nate’s gut-check said the guy owed money to someone big and mean. The mob, maybe, or Vegas—which pretty much amounted to the same thing, depending on the circumstances.

The two men probably weighed about the same, but whereas Nate’s bulk was mostly gained from a series of increasingly frustrated workout regimes, he rarely saw Michael in the gym downstairs, and had a feeling the other man’s muscles might look good enough, but they were as soft as his pretty hair. Which probably meant it’d be a quick fight, but he could deal with that, as long as he got a few good licks in before his opponent went down.

Because there was sure as hell going to be a fight. He could see it in Michael’s eyes and feel it in the tension that snapped in the air between them.

Still, though, fairness had him saying, “Look, I’m trying to work it out, okay? I’d appreciate it if you give me some room while I’m doing that.”

“I’m sure you would.” Michael paused. “Not gonna happen. She’s asked me to help her, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

Nate gritted his teeth so hard he was pretty sure he heard a molar give way. “Over my dead body.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Michael grinned, his eyes lighting with a sort of unholy glory. Then he was gone. He just freaking disappeared from the spot where he’d been standing.

Nate stood for a second, gaping. Then, catching a hint of motion out of his peripheral vision, he spun and brought up his fists, but he was already way too late. Michael was already in midair, performing some sort of flying spin-kick that caught Nate in the temple and sent him sprawling. Nate landed, cursing, on the glass-topped coffee table. The glass didn’t break, but one of the table’s metal legs buckled, dumping him to the neutral-toned carpet. He took a burn across his cheek from the rug’s nap, and that just pissed him off worse.

“No teleporting!” he shouted, and lunged for Michael in a flying tackle aimed square at the other man’s midsection.

Only Michael wasn’t there when Nate arrived, meaning that Nate crashed into the wall instead, then took a brutal chop across the back of his exposed neck.

“I can’t teleport, asshole. It’s martial arts,” Michael said derisively from somewhere behind Nate, who sagged to his hands and knees as his opponent jeered, “I’d suggest you try it, but there’s a certain requirement for rhythm, balance, and tact, and you seem to prefer the Viking throwdown.”

Nate didn’t know if his opponent had mentioned Vikings on purpose or not, but the reference kicked his rage higher. The world clicked over to slow motion. Nate stood and saw Michael standing there, saw his mouth flapping as he danced on the balls of his feet, readying for another judo chop or some such crap. Then Nate had the satisfaction of seeing Michael’s eyes go wide when he threw a punch straight from the shoulder, right into his pretty-ass face.

The punch connected, the impact singing up Nate’s arm. Michael’s head snapped back and he went down on the coffee table, and this time the sucker buckled completely, its legs sticking out to the sides, making it look like a squashed chrome-and-glass spider.

Michael lunged back up with a roar, his fancy moves forgotten somewhere in a haze of testosterone, and the two men got into it for real, grappling and punching, staggering around the suite in an inelegant tangle as they fought for balance, for leverage.

Nate was aware of someone opening the door, taking a look at what was going on, then shutting the panel again in a hurry. He was pretty sure it was one of the
winikin
, but his glance at the door was nearly his undoing, because Michael got in beneath his shaky guard and connected with Nate’s jaw, snapping his head back and making him see a rainbow of pain.

“Son of a bitch!” Nate dug in and landed a decent three-punch combination he’d learned in prison, as part of the
this is my ass, not yours
battles he’d been forced to fight every few months. Michael grunted in pain but gave as good as he got, and they both went down in the middle of the sitting room, rolling atop the flattened tabletop.

A chrome leg dug into Nate’s kidney, and he roared and reversed their positions. His mouth was full of blood, bringing power singing through him, but he didn’t touch the magic. He wanted the blood and pain, wanted to pound out his frustrations.

Michael, it seemed, had a few of his own frustrations to get out. They hammered at each other for a few more minutes, grunting and cursing, bodies slicked with sweat and spittle and blood.

Then, as though they’d planned it all along, they broke apart and flopped onto their backs, side by side, ribs heaving as they gasped like dying fish.

“Fuck,” Michael said after a moment, “I needed that.”

Nate laughed, then groaned when laughing hurt. “Shit. Me too.” He paused. “You’re not going to the temple with Alexis, right?”

“Never planned on it.”

“Okay.” Nate stared at the ceiling. “What?”

Michael’s chuckle was a split-lipped rasp. “I’ve crossed enough people in this lifetime already; I’m not about to start thumbing my nose at the gods. They picked you for her, and I’m not getting in the middle of that.”

“Okay,” Nate said again, hating that the whole destiny thing was actually helping him out this time. What mattered, though, was that he and Michael had an agreement, that he was going to have some room to figure out what the hell to do about Alexis. He probably ought to feel victorious or something, but instead he just felt hollow and sore. And hungry.

At the thought of food, his stomach gave a huge growl that got them both laughing again.

“I think that’s your cue.” Michael dragged himself to his feet, kicking a piece of chrome out of the way, then leaned down and offered Nate his hand. “Come on. Let’s see whose
winikin
freaks out worse when he sees the state we’re in. Five bucks says it’s yours.”

Michael’s shirtfront was stained dark with blood, his lip split and puffy, and he was going to have a matching pair of shiners the next day. Then again, Nate figured the way his face was feeling—all swollen and strange—he probably looked about the same. He shook his head, though, as he let Michael haul him off the ground. “I’ll take that bet. Carlos doesn’t freak. He lectures.”