Jessica Andersen - Spellfire

She must have made some sound, because Strike turned and drew her into his arms, and then leaned in to rest his cheek on the top of her head. They stood like that for a long time, holding on to each other, holding each other up. She didn’t let herself cling too hard, though, didn’t let herself think that this might be one of the last times they stood like this. Because once she started thinking like that, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself, and right now they needed to deal with the issue at hand.

As if following her thoughts, he sighed against her hair. “I’m blocked—question is, who’s doing the blocking? If the true gods have been hearing me all along, shouldn’t I still be able to get through to them?”

“The true gods,” she said softly. “Are we sure we know which ones those are?”

He pulled back to look down at her. “I’m sure. Are you?”

“I’m not backing out of what we already agreed . . . but that’s not the same thing as being sure.” She wished she could tell him she was as confident as he was. Despite the way he’d challenged Anna and Dez back in the meeting, he had been ready to renounce the sky gods almost from the beginning. Maybe it was his warrior’s instincts talking, maybe faith in his sister’s magic . . . Leah hoped to hell it wasn’t because it could explain his father’s behavior as kohan-induced madness.

That question was there, though, inside her even when she wished it gone.

He didn’t say anything for a minute, just held her close and breathed her in. She let herself relax into him, trying to believe that they were on the right track, that it was all going to be okay. After a moment, he turned her toward the mirror and the altar, tucking the two of them together in the small space and letting the door swing shut.

When it did, he said softly, “Will you stay with me for a bit, my beloved detective?”

Her lips curved. “Of course, my king.” She wasn’t a detective anymore and he wasn’t a king, but gods willing, they would live long enough to be something else. They had talked about it, of course, planned for it—dreams and realities, and a whole lot of “what do you want to be when you grow up?” But now, as she stood beside him, all that mattered was that they were there, together.

Normally, she didn’t feel anything much when she prayed—she was only human, after all, though a godkeeper. Now, though, as she faced the mirror and the chac-mool, she felt a faint tingle of a magic not her own, as if Kulkulkan himself was reaching through the barrier to warn: You don’t want to do this.

And the damn thing was, he was right. She really, really didn’t want to give up the one piece of the magic that was hers, the connection to the god who had taken her and Strike flying together. Who had saved them from the Banol Kax, over and over again. But that was the point, wasn’t it? The enemy of their enemy wasn’t necessarily their friend anymore.

Please gods, let us get this right.

“Did you get it?” A blond bundle of energy and nerves whipped through the door and homed in on Brandt. “Was it there?”

He grinned and lifted the thick yellow envelope, then shook it a little so the flash drive made a noise. “Got it.”

“Oh!” Patience stopped halfway across the sitting area and clasped her hands, eyes filling. Then she covered her face and gave a watery laugh. “Shit. I told myself I wasn’t going to cry. It makes me feel like a . . . a . . . I don’t know.”

“Like a mommy?” Brandt suggested. “Hey, roll with it.” He sure as hell wasn’t going to ding her, given that he’d watered up a little when he’d gotten the end of the scavenger hunt Jox and Hannah had set up so only he or Patience could reasonably find the drop box, and he’d reached in to grab the envelope, knowing that the twins had no doubt touched it. Plopping down onto the couch, he patted the cushion beside him. “Sit. Christmas came early this year, so let’s open our presents.”

He’d meant it as a joke, but wished it back even as he said it.

The Nightkeepers didn’t celebrate the holiday per se, but most of them had fudged it to one degree or another in order to fit in with the lives they’d lived in the outside world, and they had kept up the tradition at Skywatch with a festival to honor the wayeb days at the end of December, when there were five “forgotten” days in the Mayan calendar, blanks that didn’t have any names. Either way, it had looked suspiciously like Christmas, with gifts, feasting and decorations, especially that first year, when Harry and Braden had lived at Skywatch. The presence of two active little three-year-olds had made it easy to appreciate the whole Santa thing, or a version thereof.

In the years since the boys had gone into hiding with the winikin, the holidays hadn’t seemed nearly so important—or fun—but Skywatch had still celebrated them. Last year, Brandt had taken Patience away for a long weekend, just the two of them and a familiar cheesy hotel room in Cancun, with mirrors every damn place and all the tingles and romance they could’ve wanted.

It was a hell of a thing to think that they might not live to see another Christmas, especially when it was less than a week away. Worse to think that the boys might not, either. The winikin would keep them as safe as possible, locked down somewhere off the beaten track, in a doomsday bunker with all the amenities . . . but that wouldn’t protect them forever.

He didn’t want to think about them coming aboveground to a blasted, empty wasteland or, worse, a demon-occupied earth and a populace that had been enslaved, turned to makol and xombi. He hated, too, picturing them showing up at the prearranged meeting point on the morning of December twenty-second . . . and waiting in vain. Or having only one parent show up. Or—

“Don’t.” Patience wrapped her arm around his waist and put her head on his shoulder. “You’ll drive yourself crazy.”

“Hello, pot? This is the kettle.” Gods knew that they had both been struggling with their decisions—not just to follow Dez’s lead and renounce the sky gods, but also to post an online personal with prearranged keywords that counted as their good-bye, rather than setting up another drop box, as they had planned. They had decided they couldn’t risk it, though. Not when they couldn’t even trust their own prayers not to give them away.

She nudged him in the ribs. “Just open it already!” But when he started to, she grabbed his wrist. “Wait.”

He started to laugh at her, but the impulse died when he saw the tears welling in her eyes. His voice went to a rasp. “Ah, baby. Don’t.”

“I won’t. I’m not.” She reached out a trembling hand to touch the envelope. “I just . . . gods, Brandt. Tell me that we’re going to make it. You, me, Harry, Braden, Jox . . . even if you have to lie, tell me we’re all going to be okay.”

“Hey.” He shifted, caught her chin and turned her to face him. “We’re going to be okay.” Tears broke free and trailed down her cheeks, and he forced determination into his voice, forced himself to believe it when he said, “We’re a team, Patience, you and me. Until death do us part, right? Well, that’s not happening this week.”

“Promise?” she whispered, then shook her head. “Sorry. Forget I said that.” A vow carried the force of a spell for him, after all, and she’d told him it was okay to lie.

He wanted to. He wanted to promise her that the Nightkeepers were going to win the war, that both of them were going to survive. He wanted to swear that four days from now they would be standing on the Cancun beach where they’d first met, watching Harry and Braden run toward them with the winikin walking more sedately behind them, hand in hand. He wanted to say all that, wanted it to be true. But he couldn’t make it a promise.