Jessica Andersen - Skykeepers

He didn’t bother denying it. “That’s part of it.”

“What’s the other part?”

“We don’t just need the library, Sasha. We need you . If Ambrose was one of us, then you have power. You’re already showing signs of it.”

“Bullshit,” she said flatly. “If I’m showing signs of anything, it’s being held hostage for a year.”

Except that most of those symptoms were gone, weren’t they? What sort of hypothesis fit with that evidence?

Trying to settle the sudden churning of her stomach, she took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the incense-spiced air. When she exhaled, she seemed to lose a layer of tension with the breath. She didn’t lose the buzz of heat, though. If anything, it ratcheted a notch higher, making her want to lean into him. Sucking in another lungful of scented air, she looked up into eyes that were nearly black now, with only a thin line of forest green at the edges. Once she stopped thinking of him as SWAT or a local equivalent, and looked beyond the body armor and weapons to the man beneath, there was something grimly piratical about him, a ruthless air that warned he would take what he wanted. The idea shouldn’t have kicked up her body heat, but it did. So, too, did the long, dark hair brushing his shoulders, and the muscular ripple of his throat as he swallowed, his eyes locked on hers.

In that breathless, charged moment, she saw his desire, and knew it reflected her own. Which was abso-fucking-lutely nuts. The last thing she should be thinking about was sex. But somehow that was the only thing she could imagine at that moment. Sex. With him.

A shiver worked its way down her neck when she realized what that evidence suggested. More drugs. “What the hell is in this smoke?”

“It’s just copan ,” he answered. “Sacred incense.” A pause. “Why? What are you feeling?”

Like he didn’t know. She gritted her teeth, suddenly grateful for the too-big sweatshirt, which covered the pebble-hard points of her nipples. You know damn well what I’m feeling , she thought.

You’re feeling it, too . Unless he wasn’t, which was a hell of a sobering thought . . . and wouldn’t be the first time she’d mistaken a man’s intentions.

Although she hadn’t answered, he seemed to take her wince as a response. “This”—he waved at the carved stones surrounding them—“was a Nightkeeper temple. If you’re getting a buzz, it’s because of the residual power in the stones. That’s why we’re here—the others’ll be joining us soon. When they do, we’ll use the power boost from the stones to teleport out.” Again, he watched her speculatively.

“You’re insane.” But even she heard the lack of conviction in her words, the weakening of her resolve in the face of what had to be drugged smoke. “Seriously, what’s in the smoke? Some sort of aphrodisiac?”

His eyes glittered. “If you’re growing horns, it’s magic, not drugs. The man who called us to come get you was the one who cut your palms, hoping to trigger the healing powers of a mage. Seems like it worked.”

“No . . .” Her voice had gone whisper thin. “This isn’t real.” Everything she’d experienced over the past year, and everything that was going on now . . . it was all part of an elaborate, expensive sham constructed around a fantasy world in which Mayan demons menaced the earth and mankind was under the protection of Nightkeeper magi. Which was nuts.

Right?

He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “And given that the healing magic worked, I guess it’s no surprise that you’re picking up on the sexual aspects of the power too.”

“I dreamed you,” she blurted. She didn’t realize she’d said the words aloud until she saw his eyes go blank with shock for a second, then fill with roaring heat underlain by deep wariness.

“Sasha . . .” His expression softened and he took a step toward her, only to stall abruptly, his eyes losing focus as he touched his ear, where he wore a small receiving device. “Come again?” He paused, grimacing. “Shit. Copy that.”

Swallowing hard, she said, “Problem?”

“A delay.” He hesitated, as if trying to figure out how much to share. “The others are cut off, and there’s a Xibalban search party headed this way.”

Dread prickled, cutting through the sensual haze. “If they open the door to this room, we’re toast.”

His mouth flattened. “I might be able to shield us.”

“How?” She gestured around the empty room. “Not much to hide behind.”

“It’s called a chameleon shield,” he explained, watching her carefully. “It confuses perceptions.”

“You’re insane.” Just like Ambrose .

He stared at the doorway as though weighing his options. “I’d offer you a demonstration, but I can’t risk casting the spell until they’re actually here. There’s a chance they’ll be able to sense the magic.”

She shouldn’t, absolutely shouldn’t believe him. The fact that she almost did just supported her suspicion of drugs in the smoke. This whole conversation was part real, part hallucination, and she couldn’t tell where one stopped and the other began.

She looked past him to the door. What if it was all lies? What if this was another, more devious method of torture, whether from Iago or another group?

“Don’t,” he said, following her eyes. “Please. Trust me.”

“How can I?” Her voice cracked on the question, though she hadn’t meant to let it. “How am I supposed to know what to believe?” She’d been on her own for so long, had had her trust betrayed so many times.

He hesitated a moment, then held out his hand, palm up, baring the elegant black tattoos on his vein-roped forearm.

“I don’t—” she began, then broke off with a strangled gasp as a small glitter of bluish white light kindled in his palm, like a tiny piece of Saint Elmo’s fire trapped inside it. “Oh,” she said aloud.

Hallucination , she said inwardly. But when she reached out and touched the tiny fireball, she felt its warmth. And his. “I thought you couldn’t risk a demo.”

“It’s my weakest magic,” he said, voice husky, eyes guarded. “And worth the risk if it keeps you from knee ing me in the ’nads and taking off.” He closed his fingers over his palm, extinguishing the small flame.

“Special effects,” she said faintly, trying to hang on to what she knew about how the world was supposed to work.

“What about your dreams?”

She wished she hadn’t said anything about the dreams, wished she weren’t thinking of them now.

But what else could she think of when it seemed that those fantasies were coming true? The circular stone room, the torches, the incense . . . and the man who stood too near her, embodying the heroes she’d grown up hearing about—it was all exactly as she had dreamed. Only she had dreamed so much more.

The rush of desire must have shown in her face, because his eyes darkened. But he held himself still. Waiting.

“What I’m feeling . . . it’s not the smoke, is it?” she asked finally.

“The copan might be intensifying your latent connection to the barrier, but it can’t create something out of nothing. What you’re feeling is the magic that’s in your blood.”

“What if I don’t want it to be?” Despite her best efforts, her voice trembled. “What if I just want to go home and forget any of this ever happened?”

“You can’t. Iago will come for you.”

She shuddered. “Not helping.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.” He paused. “None of us got a vote in this, either, and we’ve all had days we wanted to bail and let someone else take up the slack, except there wasn’t anyone else . . . until we found out about you.”