Storm Kissed (29 page)

Anna was nowhere. She was everywhere. She was nothing and everything. She hung in the fog of her own mind, lost.

Sometimes she remembered being a teacher, a wife, a normal woman living a normal life. Sometimes she was a visionary, a priestess, a warrior, a child, a mother. Sometimes she was a thousand women at once, living a thousand lifetimes strung together by a thin chain hung with a glowing yellow crystal carved into the shape of a skull. And other times, like now, she was almost herself. Those times, she could open her eyes and see the room around her, could comprehend it as “hers,” knew she had been told that someone had repainted it for her, wanting her to feel at home.

But “home,” like “hers,” was nothing more than a vague concept in the fog, no more real to her than the memory fragments that shot past her mind’s eye, glimpses of a thousand lives gone past—here, a baby; there, a lover. Never hers.

She felt a presence nearby, the one that she connected to the concept of “brother.” Their shared blood formed a connection that echoed grief and worry into her. She had tried to reach through that connection, tried to latch on to something there that glittered in the fog, but it had slipped away from her time and again. So lately she had stopped trying and simply . . . drifted.

Now, though, she knew she couldn’t drift. There was something she needed to do, something she had to say. She fought through the clinging fog, managed to find a body that felt dim and distant—her body. She made it turn to him and say: “He hides in the darkness, but must come into the light to act. Stop him and fulfill the prophecies, or Vucub will reign.”

He said her name, reached for her, but she was already gone, slipping back into the fog with only that thin connection remaining. In her mind, though, she whispered:
Brother.

December 19
Solstice minus two days

 

When Reese awoke she lay still for a moment and tracked the lightness in her chest, the sense of anticipation. When was the last time she had felt this way? Had she ever, or was it all sharper and more immediate because each minute, each hour, was more precious than it had been before?

She didn’t know, but she knew who and what she wanted. He had said she was it for him, and the reverse applied. As long as they had that going for them, they could figure out the rest of it together, because he was right that there was no such thing as perfect timing, especially for them. She couldn’t wait to see him, to talk to him, but her half-formed plan of sharing a quiet breakfast—and maybe more—went off the rails the moment she got out of the shower and found a “meeting in the great room” message waiting for her.

Dez had saved her a seat, but when she shot him a raised eyebrow, he shook his head. “I’m not sure what’s going on.” He paused and, after a quick glance showed that nobody was paying particular attention to them, lowered his voice. “How’d you sleep?”

“Just fine, thanks,” she purred, and had the pleasure of watching his eyes go hot at her tone, and all that it implied.

She didn’t get a chance to say more, because Strike came into the room then, looking strung out, and said without preamble: “Last night, Anna came around long enough to say: ‘He hides in the darkness, but must come into the light to act. Stop him and fulfill the prophecies, or Vucub will reign.’ Then she lapsed fully unconscious.”

The warm fizz in Reese’s blood flattened out as a murmur of surprise and dismay went around the room. “Oh,” she said softly, heart aching.

“Hell,” Dez bit out, voice sharp. When she glanced at him, he shook his head. “Poor Anna.” But her instincts tugged, because that hadn’t sounded like sympathy. Or was she overanalyzing again, looking for reasons not to commit?

She shook her head, trying to dismiss the Fallonesque logic.

Lucius was talking now, referring to notes written in his crabbed scrawl, which was practically hieroglyphics in its own right. “Breaking down Anna’s message, which we have to assume is legit, given her powers, I would say that ‘he’ refers to Iago. Then the mention of darkness could mean that he’s hiding in the dark aspect of the barrier. That would explain why we can’t find him on this plane—he’s hiding between the planes, at the border of the underworld. He’ll have to come out, though, to detonate the compass weapon during the solstice.” He paused. “As for Vucub, who is also called Lord Vulture, he’s supposed to preside over the twilight that follows the apocalypse, when day and night are no longer separated.”

“Like a nuclear winter,
”
Nate said. He glanced sharply at Dez. “The aftermath of the serpents′ weapon, maybe?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to Lucius. “She mentioned prophecies, plural. Which ones are in play at the moment?”

“I’m working on it, but I—”

Sirens blared, cutting him off. Reese jolted to her feet along with the others, though Michael said, “It’s probably just another false alarm.”

Then the intercom crackled and Tomas’s voice reported: “Long-range cameras show an old pickup truck headed our way. Single occupant, nothing on the magic sensors.”

Up until a few days ago, the very rare random stranger who had showed up at the front gate had gotten one or two people responding—
no, we’re not hiring; no, this isn’t a celebrity retreat; yes, we can hook you up with directions and a couple of gallons of gas
. Now, all of the Nightkeepers,
winikin
, and humans headed out the front door, armed and dangerous. Dez and Reese hit the exit together near the front of the pack and moved out across the front of the mansion, staying off the main walkway, closer to the building where landscaping provided some cover. The other warriors, sorting into their mated pairs, did the same.

Through the wrought-iron gate, Reese saw the pickup—windshield cracked, paint color obscured by dust—roll to a stop. “It doesn’t feel right,” she murmured.

The truck door swung open and the driver got out of his vehicle—more like collapsed out of it—and went down on his face. He lay in the dirt, motionless.

“The monitors are picking up trace readings of magic,” Tomas reported, voice coming from Reese’s armband, and those around her. The information argued against this being a lost-in-the-desert thing.

“Everyone shield up,” Strike said. “Nate, you man the ward—let us through, but close it after. Michael, once we’re out, get a shield around the truck and the guy.”

“Stay close,” Dez said to Reese. Pulse thudding in her ears, she pulled her .38 and put herself right beside him, angled so his gun hand was free. He cast a crackling lightning shield around the two of them just as Nate dropped the ward magic.

“Go!” someone shouted, and they were hustling out to surround the truck and its driver as the air hummed with additional shield magic. For a second, everything seemed very surreal, like she’d been dropped into a movie—not the filming, but the movie itself, where she was living and breathing action scenes that didn’t quite jibe with real life. Then things snapped back into focus as Strike crouched down beside the unconscious man, who was sprawled on his stomach, his hands outstretched toward Skywatch.

The king grabbed the guy by his dirty, torn shirt, and rolled him over. And Reese gaped, blood icing at the sight of a swollen and disfigured face, misaligned jaw . . . and a six-clawed scar slashing across his face.

It was Keban.

 

“Son of a
bitch
.
”
Dez crossed to the
winikin
, dropped down beside him. There was no danger this time; the bastard was truly out cold. More, he’d had the shit kicked out of him. His wrists and ankles were raw and his forearms scored with deep, weeping burns. His face was gray, his breathing labored and shallow. But when Dez spoke, his eyelids flickered, then cracked, and his pale blue eyes fixed on Dez with dull recognition and more sanity than he had seen there in a long time. Maybe ever.

Fuck me
was Dez’s first thought, followed by
Why now?
Not just because they needed to assume that Iago had thrown the
winikin
at them, but because of how it was going to look if the whole truth came out now.
Our timing really does suck
, he thought, glancing at Reese to find her staring with worried eyes that asked if he was okay. He wasn’t, but not for the reasons she thought. When he looked at Keban, he didn’t feel his childhood fear, teenaged rage, or the bone-deep hatred of his adult self. He didn’t feel pity or grief, either. He felt . . . numb. Because nothing good was going to come of this.

After shooting Reese what he hoped was a reassuring look, he leaned over Keban, aware that Strike and the others had stayed back to let him have first crack. All except for Sasha, who was crouched down on the
winikin’
s other side, sending healing magic into him. From the looks of him, that was the only thing keeping him conscious.

Leaning in closer, Dez grated, “Did Iago send you?”

The
winikin’
s lower lip was split nearly to his chin. The scab cracked and bled as he said,
“
Not . . . sent. Escaped. Need to . . . warn you . . .
”
His head lolled, his muscles going limp as he lapsed closer and closer to unconsciousness.

“Can you bring him back?” he asked Sasha, but she shook her head.

“I’m doing my best, but he’s in tough shape. Iago really did a number on him.” Her eyes were shadowed and Michael had moved up behind her in support, reminding Dez that she, too, had been Iago’s prisoner, and for far longer than the
winikin
.

Keban’s lips moved, shaping words without sound.

Dez leaned in. “Say that again.”

The
winikin
coughed. “He and his army are in a mountain temple that hides in the dark barrier except on the cardinal days.” Barely whispering now, he added, “You’ve got to stop him. He’s going to use the serpent staff to make himself king.”

Adrenaline hammered through Dez, not just because he’d just been outed, but because if Iago succeeded, they were beyond fucked. “He’s not a serpent.”

“He is. He’s—” His eyes rolled suddenly back and his body shuddered . . . and went still.

“Keban.” Dez grabbed him, shook him.
“Keban!”
But the
winikin
was gone, his face lax, the scars pale slashes against gray skin. In death, he looked small, battered, and used up.

“Dez?” Reese’s quiet voice brought his head up, but he couldn’t read her expression. Wasn’t sure he dared. “What’s going on? What was he talking about?”

Strike was on one side of her, Leah on the other, with the rest of the magi fanned out on either side, the
winikin
behind them. And suddenly it wasn’t about him and Reese being a pair of outsiders who were loners otherwise, but knew they could rely on each other. Now she had some serious backup, and it wasn’t coming from him.

Taking a deep breath, he dragged himself to his feet and stood opposite her. But he was talking to all of them when he said, “I want to make two things very clear first. Last night, I swore my fealty to Strike. He is my king, and not only would I never do anything to challenge that, I flipping
can′t
.
”
Once in place, the fealty magic wouldn’t allow an oath-bound mage to harm the king.

Strike nodded. “That’s true. In fact, it was right after he swore his oath that Anna woke up.” His eyes narrowed. “I thought you swore the oath for Reese’s sake.”

“I did.” He said it to her, urged her inwardly to believe it, but the wariness was back in her eyes. Risking it, he took her hands, holding them tight as he said, “That’s the second thing I need to say—I promise you that everything I’ve done has been to stop history from repeating itself. I swear it on my soul and my bloodline.”

Her lips trembled. “Okay. Now you’re scaring me.” She didn’t pull away . . . but she didn’t acknowledge his promise either.

Letting go of her, he jammed his hands in his pockets. When he realized he was unconsciously searching for the star demon, he put his hands behind his back and locked them there. Then, focusing on Strike, he said, “The artifacts, when activated properly, will transfer the Nightkeepers’ fealty oaths to the wielder of the serpent staff . . . who must be a member of my bloodline.”

“Son. Of. A. Bitch,” Strike growled. “You want the fucking throne, Mendez?” Behind him, shock and bitter anger raced through the others.

“I took the oath,” he repeated. But that didn’t stop several of the faces around him from resetting in the familiar mistrustful lines. He had told himself to expect it, that it wouldn’t matter as long as he knew he had done his best to make the right call. But it hurt. And the pain in Reese’s eyes nearly did him in.

“You told me it was a weapon.” Her face had drained of color and her knuckles were white where she was still gripping her .38.

“I told you that assembling the artifacts would blow things up. It will, just not the way I implied.”

Her eyes burned into his. “That’s not good enough.”

“It gets worse.” He took a deep breath. “According to Keban, Iago is—or believes he is—descended from the bloodline. If he manages to activate the staff during the solstice and our fealty oaths transfer to him . . .
”
The oath couldn’t force the magi to act against their natures, but the contradictory impulses could paralyze them, leaving them vulnerable to the
makol
.

“Motherfucker,” Strike grated. “If we had been on this from the beginning—”

“I know.” But Dez held up a hand. “Let me finish. Then you can decide what to do with me.” When the king sent him a clenched-jaw nod, he took a deep breath, locked eyes with Reese, and said, “For years I told myself that Keban was nuts, that he’d brought me up to lead an army that hadn’t ever existed . . . but then, during the Triad magic, Anntah said it, too. There’s a secret prophecy that’s been handed down through certain serpent lineages . . . It says that in the end, the last serpent must kill his rival and take the throne.” When the mutters died down, he finished:
“
Yeah . . . Keban raised me to kill Strike and take over.”