Jessica Andersen - Magic Unchained

Problem was, she didn’t know which pieces of the damage she was supposed to be controlling, which ones she was supposed to be letting loose… and, damn it, there wasn’t anybody left that she trusted enough to ask for advice.

Or was there?

“Shit,” she said on a sigh, staring down at her forearm mark while her chest went hollow and funny-feeling. Because whether she liked it or not—and she really, really didn’t—she needed to talk to her father.

September 16

Five days until the equinox; three months and

five days until the zero date

Sven awoke to the smell of bacon and an inner sense of discontent, and couldn’t immediately place either of them.

For a second he flashed back to lying in the Mexican highlands, sprawled restlessly half-off a folding cot, staring up through gauzy bug netting at the ceiling of a pop-up tent pitched in one of a hundred temporary campsites. There, the smell would’ve been the stink of charred bodies, the discontent the residue of his work. Now, as he blinked up at the white-painted ceiling and slowly turning overhead fan, he got that he was in his room at Skywatch, and the smell was definitely bacon. It took him another groggy, magically hungover moment to place the discontent.

Cara. Oh, shit.

His heart gave a painful squeeze and part of him wished he were back down south breathing xombi dust. Because he’d really fucked things up this time.

So much for being a better man. A better man wouldn’t have said anything unless he knew for real what he wanted and that he could get it without screwing things up even more than they were already screwed. Which, as she had pointed out, was impossible.

At the time—in the cave, in the aftermath—it had seemed utterly imperative that he tell her he had feelings for her. Now, though, in the light of day he knew that even though he couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t wanted her, he could’ve made it another three months without saying anything. And he damn well should have, because he couldn’t promise to stay.

Everyone she had ever cared about had left her: him by running away, her mother by dying, Carlos by being more winikin than father. She deserved someone who would stick by her and put her first and foremost, always. And that sure as shit wasn’t him.

He tossed an arm over his eyes. “Cocksucking hell.”

“Good. You’re awake,” Carlos’s voice said from the doorway.

Shit. The bacon. Dragging his arm off his face and his body upright, Sven faced his winikin, who was a familiar sight standing in his bedroom door with a tray of food and a half scowl. What wasn’t at all familiar, though, was the twinge of unease brought by the sight.

He’d never before broken a promise to Carlos; and while Cara’s age wasn’t the factor it had once been, he knew damn well that Carlos would still be pissed at them for crossing what he considered a sacred line. Not to mention, Sven realized with a kink of fatalistic amusement, he’d never before faced off against the father of a girl he’d hooked up with, and sure as hell not the morning after, naked.

Carlos was all business, though. “The king sent me to get you moving. He wants to see you in his quarters as soon as you’re up and functional. He’s talking to Cara now.”

Oh, hell. “How long have they been at it?”

“Half hour, maybe.” Carlos gestured with the breakfast tray, which smelled of grease and salt, and for a human would’ve been a heart attack special. “You want this in here?”

“I’ll get dressed and come out.” And eat fast. He didn’t like the idea of Dez and Cara closeted away together, not because he was afraid of what she would say about the two of them, but because he was afraid of what she would say about everything else. She was too brave for her own good, and so determined to prove that the winikin deserved to be independent that she lost track that they were vulnerable in ways the Nightkeepers simply weren’t. And that scared the crap out of him.

He was out of bed in an instant, and three minutes later shrugged on a faded green T-shirt to go with his jeans and boots as he walked into the kitchen, where Carlos had laid out the goods on the breakfast bar. Sven couldn’t quite place the winikin’s expression; he wasn’t sure if there was a new disturbance in the force there, or if it was a continuation of the same distance they had been dealing with for years.

As he started shoveling calories on board, he asked around a mouthful, “How much do you know about what happened last night?”

Turning on the hot water to suds up in the sink for washing—which for him was a kind of therapy—the winikin leaned back against the counter, eyes sharpening. “Nothing, really. I was out back at the library helping Jade and Lucius with deciphering Anna’s latest prophecy and tracking down some lead on a cave in the middle of nowhere, Guatemala. I spent the night, caught a nap here and there, and worked straight through. I’d barely put a foot back in the mansion when Dez sent me to get you moving. Why? What happened?”

Shit, Sven thought. Carlos didn’t know Cara had been in trouble, or that the two of them had been the source of the lead, never mind that Zane and Lora were under arrest, and the rebels undoubtedly pissed, maybe worse.

But it also meant that Dez had somehow squelched the rumor pipeline… and probably had a plan for how he wanted things let out in public. “Hm. You should probably hear it from Dez or Cara.”

Sharp gray eyes got way sharper. “I’d rather hear it from you, right now.”

But Sven’s fealty oath said to keep his mouth shut, so he said only, “There was an incident. She’s fine, but there’s going to be some fallout. Let me take this meeting with Dez and find out where we stand.”

The winikin didn’t ask, not even about his daughter. He just nodded. “The king will tell us what we need to know, when we need to know it.”

It wasn’t the first time Sven had done the stop-and-blink thing over Carlos’s acceptance of—and, hell, defense of—the hierarchy. Now, though, there was a spark of frustration. Okay, more than a spark. “Don’t you want to know what happened to Cara?”

“You said she was fine. And she’s made her choices.”

“Some of them, maybe.” But she hadn’t chosen to take her marks in the first place, and yesterday she hadn’t chosen to once more wear the coyote glyph. They just kept getting handed to her. And even though Carlos wasn’t doing anything out of his norm, it suddenly pissed Sven off far more than usual. “It really gets you that she’s trying to find a middle ground with the rebels, doesn’t it?”

The winikin’s lips turned down. “There shouldn’t need to be any compromise, no need to rewrite traditions that have served us for centuries. Especially not now.”

“And you’re sure all of the traditions are right?”

“I don’t think she should be the one deciding which ones to set aside.”

“Who, then?” Sven pressed.

“Jox wouldn’t have—” Carlos shook his head, scowling. “It doesn’t matter, does it? He put himself ahead of the winikin, ahead of the war.” He didn’t quite say the words “selfish bastard” aloud. “And he chose Cara as his successor… why? Four years ago she refused to do her duty and took off. Why would he figure she’d be any more reliable now?”

Leave it alone, Sven told himself. She doesn’t want anyone fighting her battles for her. Or was it more that nobody had ever offered before? Either way, he couldn’t just let it go. Not when he’d spent the past few days—and, hell, the past twenty-four hours—seeing her strength and resourcefulness, and her dedication to the winikin. So he said, voice low, “She’s your daughter, Carlos. Yours and Essie’s.”