Storm Kissed (26 page)

December 18
Solstice minus three days

 

By day three of Reese’s magic-accelerated convalescence, she wanted to be free from the fuzzy bubble of lassitude that had lingered in the wake of the
makol
bite, out of her suite, and far away from Dez.

It shouldn’t have been easy to live with him. They had spent five years together, more than ten apart, and they had become completely new people during that decade. But somehow none of that had mattered the first morning, when she had woken up beside him and felt his heartbeat as her own. And it hadn’t mattered over the following three days, as he calmly but firmly refused to be fired as her nurse, remaining immovable as granite when she tried to get him to leave her alone to be her cranky bitch self—she didn’t do sick well—in peace. Instead, he had stayed with her, hung out with her, and brought her revoltingly balanced meals, each time holding her dessert hostage until she had eaten what he considered an acceptable amount of the salad, stir fry, or whatever.

The food wasn’t bad—quite the opposite, in fact—but the principle of it galled her. She was a grown-up. She would eat her damned dessert first if she wanted to. Yet even that pique had a hard time holding out against him as the first day turned into the second, then the third, and she was forced to admit, inwardly at least, that it wasn’t so much about the past anymore, not really. She liked the man he was today. More, she was coming to trust him, because her gut said he was what she saw in front of her. He was solid and real. More, he was powerful, yet he was willing to be part of the team rather than its leader. A new man, just as Strike had called him.

During the day, he mostly acted as her data-crunching assistant, making library runs, phone calls, and whatever else she needed. There was still a hard edge in the “fuck the world, I’ll do it my way” attitude he brought to every task, and the way his voice lowered an octave when her contacts gave him static. But then each night he lay beside her, holding her hand and channeling his warmth into her, healing her. Caring for her.

Something had changed between them since the
makol
attack, as if the blood-link he’d used to save her had connected them more permanently. She saw it in his eyes, felt it in the way the way the air sparked when they were near each other. Yet although they slept together each night, they hadn’t even kissed . . . which had her alternating between frustration and relief. Part of it was her injuries, she knew. But as the days passed and she caught a heated glance with no follow-up, or found herself reaching out to him but pulling back before she made contact, she realized it was more than that. It was . . . everything.

Before that long-ago night in the storm, when she had been nineteen and love blind, she had resented the way he kept telling her to wait until they had a better place, better jobs, assured safety. Back then she had believed utterly that if he had wanted her—really wanted her—he would’ve taken her, no matter what. Now, though, she was starting to see his side. Because how could she and Dez devote time and energy to each other when they needed to be focusing on finding the fifth artifact and the location where the weapon was to be detonated? The Nightkeepers’ mission was too important.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, and made herself get back to work, hammering away at her laptop. Dez was down south for a few hours, seeing if he could pick up a faint trail that Sven’s coyote had found and then lost. “It might be something,” he had said, “might be nothing.” But Strike had figured it was worth checking out, because they were low on leads and running out of time. Meanwhile, she was working her ass off on locating the fifth artifact or, failing that, some clue to where Iago might have stashed Keban, the artifacts, and the
makol
army. “Come on,” she urged under her breath as she scanned down the e-mail responses she’d gotten to her various queries. “Give me something here. We need a damned break.”

Her heart gave a little shimmy when she saw a familiar e-mail address with the Denver PD′s tag. She hesitated for a long moment before clicking it open and reading the message. Then she reread it, heart sinking because it was a break, all right, but not a good one: Iago had the fifth artifact.

“Damn, damn, damn.” She hit up Dez’s cell with a text:
Two-headed snake staff stolen from private collection three hours ago. All info is being suppressed in media, but the file is waiting for me in Denver.

That was the small bright spot in what was otherwise shitty news: She had an excuse to get out of her suite and back into the field, because her PD contact had insisted that she pick up the file in person. She thought that the familiar sights and sounds of uptown would be a welcome change, for a few hours, at least. And it would give her a break from Dez, a chance to clear her head.

Or so she thought, until ten minutes after she sent the text when he strode into her suite. They were arguing by the eleven-minute mark, when he announced that he was going with her.

“What part of ‘familiar face’ and ‘parole violation’ are you not getting?” She glared at him, mentally calling him six kinds of stubborn. “You should stay the hell out of the city.”

“And you should stay the hell in bed.” He glared back, standing too close, wearing desert-camo pants and a tight brown shirt. Among the magi, brown was the color of penitence. He had told her that he wore it as a reminder to stay humble, be a good soldier, follow orders. Apparently that didn’t apply when she was the one giving the orders.

“I told you,” she said through gritted teeth, “Lucchesi will only give me the file in person.”
Let me go. I need the space.

“And Lucchesi is . . . ?”

“Fifty-something and happily married. I’ve consulted on a few of his cases, made some suggestions.”
No, he’s not the guy. And what do you care, anyway?

“You could get the report through other channels.”

“Not this fast.”
I know how to do my damn job.

His eyes flared, warning that his temper was doing a not-very-slow burn. “Iago has to know who you are by now. You’re not safe out there on your own.”

“I’ll take Michael. He scary enough for you?”

“We go together, or you don’t go.”

“You don’t—” She bit off the snap. “Look. I get that you’re worried about me. I even like it a little. But only a little.” She indicated with her thumb and forefinger. “A
very
little.”

He caught her hand, held it. “Reese, please. Be reasonable.”

She damned the tingles, snatched her hand back. “I am. Eminently. But since you don’t seem able to comprehend that having your parole-jumping ass with me in Denver would be a far bigger risk than me going with a death-wielder with a clean record, how about we get a royal ruling on it?” He was oath bound to follow Strike’s orders, right?

Dez’s teeth flashed. “Deal.”

Three hours later, she was gritting her jaw as she waited in the great room for her traveling companion-slash-bodyguard. And she was cursing herself for having forgotten that the Nightkeepers were, at their hearts, incorrigible matchmakers. Hell, Strike had even warned her of it himself. “Shit,” she muttered, disgusted.

But that wasn’t what had her crossing to the main kitchen to filch one of Sasha’s killer brownies for a much-needed chocolate hit. No, that would be the fact that she and Dez were headed back to Denver . . . and Luc wanted to meet in the burned-out shell of an old and familiar haunt.

 

 

In some ways, Seventeen looked better than Reese remembered, in other ways worse. Structurally, it seemed pretty sound; the charred mess didn’t seem ready to collapse on her and Dez as they loosened a couple of sheets of plywood and slipped inside, avoiding their old routes by unspoken consent. As far as the rest of it went, though . . . the place was an echoing ghost of its former self.

With the main gang focus shifting northward and some state money up for grabs, an investment group had started reclaiming the warehouses a few years ago. The debris had been cleared, along with the firedamaged catwalks, lofts, and other inner structures; the roof and walls had been reinforced with thick steel columns and replacement panels; and a premature stab had been made at repainting. Then the economic crash had taken the investors and grant money down with it and the project had been abandoned, leaving Seventeen to sit empty and echoing, the hopeful paint job fading from whitewash to a dingy, graffiti-splashed yellow.

As Strike
whoomped
back to Skywatch and she and Dez headed across the echoing space, aiming for the eastern entrance where she had arranged to meet Luc, Dez looked around at the destruction. “Guess we can add this place to the long list of things I fucked up back then. Guess Rabbit and I have more in common than I’d like to think.”

It took her a few seconds. Then her eyes widened. “You set the fire? Seriously?”

“Not on purpose.” He slanted her a look. “It happened the day I jumped bail.”

“The day . . .
”
She trailed off as the pattern started shifting into place. Before, she hadn’t wanted to look too hard at that part of her life. Now, she let herself remember.

She had been living in LA, doing the bounty hunting thing she had fallen into after failing to make it in the cube farm corporate world, and then washing out of the police academy with high marks on everything, including insubordination. She had gotten word that the VWs were gunning for Dez back in Denver, but her old task force buddies had a plan. They had almost everything they needed to do a full-fledged crackdown on the old neighborhood . . . and they would trade Dez’s safety for her getting them the last few pieces of the bigger puzzle.

She had done it, of course. He had saved her life, so she saved his, albeit in her own way. Unfortunately, a shark of a lawyer had wrangled Dez out on bail, laying him open once more to the VWs. Knowing that the only way to keep him alive would be to put him in a cage while the task force took out his enemies, she had flown back to hunt him down and drag his ass back to jail. At the time it had seemed sadly fitting that Seventeen had burned down the same night she got back into the city. Now, knowing what she did about the magi, she did the math. It had been the first day of summer. The solstice.

She stopped dead and stared at him. “That was the day the barrier reawakened. The day Strike figured out he was a teleporter and the end-time countdown was back on.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I had been feeling progressively shittier and shittier all day, and holed up here like some wounded animal waiting to die. A couple of VWs found me, started working me over, and I snapped. Between that and the fact that I had the star demon in my pocket, like always, I jacked in automatically, got my bloodline and talent marks, and grabbed right back on to the lightning magic. I blasted the bastards off me, hit the wiring, and the rest is history.”

So much of it was history, she thought. The past suddenly crowded close, making her feel hemmed in. Yet at the same time, the warehouse that had once been their world was now alien and unfamiliar. More,
she
felt alien and unfamiliar in her black leather jacket, combat pants and boots, with a blue-green shirt that she had worn to put a splash of color into an image that had looked hollow-eyed and bleached in the mirror. Physically she was okay, not as weak as she would have expected given how sick the
makol
bite had made her. But she was far from being herself.

Then again, did she even know who that was anymore? She didn’t want to go back to being the woman who had left Denver two weeks ago. She didn’t want to be her dumb-assed nineteen-year-old self, either, or even the bounty hunter. She liked the work she was doing for the Nightkeepers—it was challenging, different, exciting, and, yes, she was helping save the world. Or trying to, anyway. The
makol
bite had been a sobering reminder of her mortality, but she’d never shied away from danger. Just the opposite, in fact. But although she wanted to be part of the Nightkeepers’ war, she wasn’t sure Skywatch was for her. Or, rather, she wasn’t sure she could stay there with Dez if she wasn’t really
with
him.

She didn’t know quite who or what she wanted to be, or what she wanted to have happen next, leaving her feeling off balance as she and Dez crossed the echoing warehouse, automatically avoiding certain areas without speaking. She couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the far end of the building, though, or the place where a set of catwalks had once led to a series of tunnels. And when she glanced back at Dez, he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

Maybe the past wasn’t so far gone, after all.

When they reached the eastern entrance, he checked out the short hallway that led from the outer door and past a trio of offices before opening into the main warehouse. “It’s clear,” he reported.

“You should hide in one of the offices. Luc transferred in a few years ago, but that doesn’t mean he won’t recognize you.”

He grinned wryly. “And even if he doesn’t, I’m not exactly the kind of guy who gives a cop warm, fuzzy feelings.”

Although he wasn’t fully geared out in autopistols and extra ammo, he looked deadly enough in camo and boots, with a double layer of thermal shirts and a thin black jacket zipped over the top, the collar turned up to his jaw. They had argued over weapons—she was meeting with a friend, after all, and he had his magic on the off chance that any
makol
showed up. Still, she’d bet money that he had his knife on him somewhere, probably his .44 as well.

He cocked his head in the direction of the outer door. “Showtime.” Then he melted into the nearest office, becoming part of the shadows.