“Cara,” he whispered, and it sounded like a prayer. Then he shifted his weight to one arm and freed the other to touch her breasts, her thighs, and the place where they were joined.
At the first brush of his fingers to her sensitized flesh she jumped against him. At the second, she leaned in and purred, arching up against him as he moved. Pleasure coiled anew, raw and unfettered, and she swayed and might have collapsed entirely had it not been for his strong arms holding her, caging her. She convulsed in the throes of a second orgasm, this one coming so much stronger than the first, overwhelming her.
“Ah,
gods!
” Sven gripped her and quickened his tempo, driving surer and deeper for three strokes, four, and then surging into her, and growling long and deep as he shuddered and cut loose.
He held himself rigid while a groan drained from him, ending in her name. They stayed like that for an endless-seeming moment. Then, breathing like he’d just run the entire proving grounds with a demon at his heels, he collapsed against her, bringing them both to the bed on their sides, still joined by the flesh that stayed hard within her, pulsing.
Wow,
she thought.
Oh, holy… wow
. Or maybe she said it aloud; she wasn’t entirely sure, though he pressed his lips against the back of her neck as if in answer. But he too seemed to have lost the words.
They lay there, locked together and unspeaking, for a long time. Long enough for their breathing to level off and for them to separate. Long enough for the air to feel cold and him to tug up the comforter over them. And long enough for her to know, as she slipped into a light
doze and then deeper, that things between them would never be the same.
Skywatch
Rabbit crouched over Myrinne’s body, holding a stained knife that dripped blood onto her lifeless face and open, staring eyes, knowing he was in a dream.
It wasn’t the same dream, though. It was day instead of night, and they were inside Sven’s coyote cave. But she was still dead; he was still standing over her, breathing heavily, his blood racing with a mix of grief and rage.
“How could you?” He heard the words echo like he was in someone else’s mind, only he wasn’t. He was himself, inside his own skull. “Why did you do it? For chrissake, why would you—”
He lurched awake with a strangled cry, slashing at the air with his empty knife hand, trying to ward off the images, the nightmares. Then the fog cleared and he found himself sitting up in bed, surrounded by the familiar walls of his old man’s cottage—
his
cottage—cast with the bloodred light that oozed from the scarlet-eyed skull night-light Myrinne had gotten him as a joke last year.
“Sorry,” he said blearily. “Didn’t mean to wake—” He broke off, because she wasn’t there. Her side of the bed was cool to the touch, and the cottage had that echoing feeling of emptiness, silent save for the hum of the fridge, that said he was alone.
“Myr?” he called anyway. “You there?”
He didn’t expect an answer, didn’t get one.
He sighed and scrubbed both hands over his face, trying
to erase the dream, though he knew that was futile. Even if he managed not to think about it for a few hours or days, it would always come back. Him. The knife. Myrinne.
He couldn’t pretend it wasn’t prophetic anymore; if it had just been the same flash over and over again, maybe… but ever since his mother’s spirit had visited him that second time, the nightmare had been changing. First he’d dreamed the scene with Skywatch whole and untarnished in the background, not burning. Then the time had changed from night to day. And now the location had shifted.
The body and the knife were always the same, though.
One possible future, his mother had called the devastated landscape, which meant that unlike the
itza’at
seers, her spirit could see varying outcomes, not just a single incontrovertible one. So the changes in the dream had to mean that his actions were affecting the most likely outcome of that night, which was good. But so far, all he’d changed was the setting, not the act. “I don’t care where it happens,” he said. “I want it to
not
fucking happen.”
In the lonely stillness of the night, though, his words lacked any real punch. Because the hell of it was, he was having doubts.
Where did she go when she slipped out of bed at night? She left her wristband behind, which meant she didn’t want him to be able to track her down. Before, he had told himself there was no crime in her wanting to be alone sometimes. Now he couldn’t stop wondering what the hell she was doing.
He’d been watching her during the day, keeping tabs on where she was, who she was talking to, and he had
noticed her getting chummy with some of the
winikin
. Was it true? Had she somehow orchestrated Zane’s breakdown, as his mother had said?
No, impossible,
he’d told himself over and over again, trying not to read too much into each conversation, each witnessed head tilt and overheard laugh. And later, when they were together, the guilt would come crashing down and he would get stiff and awkward with her, or cling too hard and then, when she asked what was wrong, make up some shit about the screaming skull and the First Father.
She knew he was lying; he could see it in her eyes. But she didn’t call him on it. Instead, she would rub his back, make love to him, fall asleep next to him… and sneak out several hours later, headed gods only knew where, leaving him too much time to think. With Zane and Lora cleared of any involvement in the funeral attack, there was still the question of how the creatures had gotten through the ward. Which could—maybe, possibly—leave Myrinne as a suspect.
Gods, please, no,
he thought, digging his fingertips into his eye sockets and trying to work away the pain that had become a constant companion over the past few days, along with blurry vision and a shitty appetite. It was depression, he knew, confusion. Giving it a name didn’t make it feel any better, though, so he reached for the Pepto he’d installed in his nightstand and knocked back a third of the bottle, using it to wash down a few Tylenols for good measure.
After all the times Myrinne had stood up for him, stood beside him, behind him, wherever she freaking could stand that would help him make the most of himself… after all that, he hated that he was having
doubts. But even if his mother was wrong about some or all of it, that didn’t explain two years of nightmares.
As the Pepto smoothed the sandpaper in his gut and the Tylenol took the edge off the knives being driven into his brain, he dragged himself out of bed and into the second bedroom. Part “toss it in there and we’ll get to it later” and part workspace, the spare room mostly held Myrinne’s Wiccan woo-woo stuff and their school crap. A few months ago, he had cleared out a corner and set up a private altar.
Rather than the Nightkeepers’ standard
chac-mool,
he had filched a carved stone turtle from the library. Roughly two feet across and resembling an oval coffee table with a domed top and turtle head, it had the calendar glyphs carved around the rim of its shell and a circular depression in the center of the dome. Affiliated with neither light nor dark magic, the turtle symbolized the earth and its waters. Which he figured made it an okay choice, because he wasn’t breaking his “no dark magic” promise to Dez, but he wasn’t praying to the sky either. He was more opening himself up to the possibilities.
Now, though, as he pricked his finger with a stingray spine and smeared the blood onto a small piece of parchment, he was feeling more churned up than opened up. He wanted answers, not more questions; he needed to prove that his mother’s beliefs were flawed in some logically explained way and Myrinne wasn’t using him. He needed both of them to be right.
Then again, the universe hadn’t exactly given a shit about what he wanted in the past. What were the odds it was going to start now?
He lit the parchment and set it in the central pit atop the turtle’s shell, and as it burned he brushed the smoke
toward his face and breathed deeply, trying to find some scrap of inner calm through the headache and nausea. Normally he had a tough time praying—he often spent more time watching the patterns the smoke made than he did actually communing—but tonight the words came straight from his soul. “Please help. I need to know, is the dream something I need to stop from happening… or are you showing me what I’m supposed to do?”
September 18
Three days to the equinox; three months and
three days to the end date
Skywatch
“Bullshit!” Carlos stormed across his sitting room and into the kitchen. “That’s just bullshit.”
Apparently this was where she and Sven had learned to use the word so forcefully, Cara thought with grim humor. “You’re not the first to say that.” Though Dez’s tone had been more wondering than disbelieving, and he’d gotten on board pretty damn quick with the idea of her having a connection to the magic and the gods. “But just because it sounds crazy on the surface, that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “I know you’re not a liar, Cara Liu. But you’re reaching.”
Glasses clinked as he rearranged the dirty dishes in the sink, then turned on the water to let it warm in an old habit that had started as a gesture of housekeeping after
her mom died—it had been his way of saying, “I help out around here too”—but over time had become a tic, a defense mechanism. If he saw a hard conversation coming, on would go the water. Tears? Bring on the dish soap.
Seeing it now put a lump in her throat and made her miss her mom more than she had in years. By the time the cancer finally took her it had been a blessing, and they’d all had their chances to say good-bye—sometimes it had felt like too many chances. Now, though, as she stared at her father and saw a stranger, she wished she had someone to talk to, someone who understood him.
She was on her own, though. Sven had offered to come with her, but she’d turned him down. Things between them were still too new. She hadn’t expected to come back to Skywatch as his lover, hadn’t expected it to have changed her outlook as much as it had.
Besides, this was between her and Carlos.
Forcing her voice steady, she said, “I don’t think it’s a reach. Look at the evidence—the
nahwal,
the visions, the mark, the skull statue, the way the hellhound seems focused on me… all of it points to the
winikin
being part of the gods’ plan, with me leading them.”
“Zane thought the same thing.”
It would have stung if she hadn’t already thought it. “Zane was a solo act. Sven and I have shared the visions.”
A plate banged. “I’m guessing that’s not all you’ve shared.” His voice was cold, his shoulders set.
She fought not to let him see that he’d made a direct hit. “I know you didn’t want us together.”
“Still don’t.” He slapped off the water and spun to
glower at her. “You don’t get to say that you’re doing what the gods want, but do it by defying the writs.”
“There’s nothing in the writs forbidding a relationship between a
winikin
and a mage. And you know as well as I do that the First Father wasn’t a god. He was just the guy who got the Nightkeepers out of Egypt ahead of the death squads, and led them to this continent for a do-over.”
“Yet you think his resurrection will win the war, and that you and Sven are meant to bring him back.”
Another direct hit. But rather than argue, she blew out a breath and said, “I’m just doing my best here. I’d like to think we all are… but we’re running out of time.”
He turned back to the sink. “What do you want from me? You must want something, or you wouldn’t be here.”
“I…” She trailed off as angry tears threatened, not just at him, but at herself for not realizing how bad things had gotten between them. She had thought they were peacefully coexisting.
Wrong
. If she’d had a plate in her hand she would have banged it louder than he was doing as he attacked a stubborn speck. “What is your problem? What have I done that’s so awful, really? Is it because I refuse to behave like a proper little servant? Because I left? Or is it because Jox put me in charge rather than you?”
“I’ve had about enough of this.”
“Bullshit. I’m the one who’s had enough. I should have called you on this when I first got back and you made it clear that you didn’t want me here if I wasn’t going to do things your way.”
“Stop it,” he said, louder this time, but he wouldn’t
look at her, just kept scrubbing away like he wanted to take the design off the plate.
But she couldn’t stop. The words were tumbling out now, propelled by years of frustration and the inner voice that whispered,
No regrets
. “Or maybe you just don’t want me around at all. If I hadn’t been at the ranch, Sven wouldn’t have needed to stay away for all those years, would he? Or maybe I should go all the way back, to when Mom got pregnant with a half-blood. Is that why you spent all your time with Sven and left me to her? Because I’m half human, not even a real
winikin
? Is that why you never cared as much about me… because you didn’t want me in the first place?”
Her eyes were dry, her chest hollow, because none of it was news. She’d thought it all before, though never said it aloud. And for a moment it seemed like she still hadn’t, because she got zero response.
Her father kept working, methodically washing and rinsing the last glass and then setting it in the drainer. He turned off the water and wiped his hands on the towel he’d tucked at his waist. And then—and only then—he turned to face her.
She wasn’t sure what she had been hoping to see in his expression—grief, perhaps, or guilt. Maybe the hint of a tear… some acknowledgment that he’d been a shitty dad. What she got was… nothing. There was no guilt, no anger, no nothing but the face of a man who thought himself blameless in this mess. “I did my duty by both you and Sven.”
“Your duty according to the writs, you mean.”
“Of course.” For a second she thought she saw something in his eyes, as if maybe he wasn’t as sure as he
seemed, but needed to cling to that certainty rather than admit there might have been other ways to go. But when she looked again, it was gone.