Jessica Andersen - Storm Kissed

Oh. Shit.

She stood there for a long moment in the cold wash of air, shivering as she stared at the items that were clustered together on the top shelf, as if tossed back in after a snack: horseradish mustard, olive loaf, grape jelly, and pumpernickel bread. Four cans of Mountain Dew were racked in the door.

A low moan broke from her as her heart took up a heavy thud-thud beat in her ears. Nobody could come up with that combination accidentally, and there was only one person on the planet who would do it on purpose.

Dez.

Her hand trembled on the refrigerator door. There was no way in hell that this was his suite. It was too bland, too impersonal. There were no high-tech toys, no expensive clothes, no glitter and gloss, no leather or other indulgences. But there was pumpernickel, olive loaf, and the grossest condiment pairing known to mankind.

He’s not that guy anymore.

Throat closing on a burn of tears, she whispered, “Damn it.”

She thought about Denver, about the new life she was building there, and her determination to be a better person, one who didn’t take the same sort of risks the old Reese had, who lived with less danger, less pain. Then she thought about the young man she had known, the one she had mourned even though their relationship had died years before his actual—or faked—death. She thought of the comfort of his spine pressed into hers, crowding her against the wall so she would be warm while he kept watch. And she thought about the puniness of saving the world one person at a time when she could potentially help save the whole damn thing.

Don’t do it, her smarter self said. Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t—

“Shit.” She crossed the room in a few strides, went for the intercom pad, and hit 1313 so hard her fingertip stung.

Strike came on the line immediately, voice sounding resigned and tired as he said, “Give me good news, Ms. Montana. I could really use it right now.”

“I’m going to need whatever you’ve got on the museum break-in—provenance on the artifact that Keban stole, any cross-refs on similar cases, the works. Dez knows how to hide his tracks, so I’m guessing it’ll be easier to find the damned winikin.” She paused, toughening her voice to hide how small and vulnerable she suddenly felt, how deeply out of her element. “And for future reference? The next one of you who puts a spell on me without permission is going to be choking on his or her own spleen.”

There was a pause. Then the king of the Nightkeepers said simply, “Welcome to the team.”

Aztec Ruins National Park

New Mexico

December 10; total lunar eclipse;

one year and eleven days until the zero date

Well into hour three of his stakeout, Dez barely even twitched at the sound of a kid-sized stampede approaching from the visitors’ center, followed by the nasal chirp of a teacher′s voice doing the facts-and-figures thing.

He was well hidden, and knew that the human herd would stay on the marked path that crossed the huge circular footprint of an ancient kiva. From there, they would wind through a few of the hundreds of rooms belonging to the thousand-year-old stone-and-mortar structure, loop up to a smaller, heavily restored building called the Hubbard Site, then back around to the gift shop and picnic area. The tour groups didn’t stray off the beaten path. Not like he had. And not like the man he hunted would do.

Come on, you bastard. Where the hell are you?

Ever since Dez had awakened from his Triad-induced coma and his ancestor′s this-is-your-life-and-hey-you-suck reprogramming, he’d been working on curbing his impatience and maintaining control. But sitting and waiting still wasn’t his strong suit.

He had been chasing Keban’s dust for the past week, always two steps behind the bastard until—thank fuck—yesterday, when he’d finally crossed a fresh trail and recognized the sour scent and faintly off vibration that he’d caught a whiff of at the Santa Fe museum Keban had robbed. He’d followed it to a library downtown, got his hands on the same book the bastard had touched, found the map he had lingered on, along with a reference to shadowscript and the lunar eclipse, and knew he’d finally gotten the break he needed.

The winikin would be there at dusk. Not long now.

Dez had picked a spot just inside one of the dozens of low passageways that ran through what was left of the huge ruin. He was fifty or so feet and several chambers away from the self-guided path, but the alignment of the rectangular doorways and thick, rubble-filled masonry walls carried the teacher′s words.

“Despite the name, these buildings weren’t originally built by the Aztecs. The mistake was made in the mid–eighteen hundreds by scholars who believed the Aztecs had originated here and migrated south to Mexico. But this was most likely a trading center for the Puebloan tribes, and may have had ties to the Chacoans in the canyon country south of here.”

“Try definitely had ties to the Chacoans,” Dez said under his breath, shifting to get at his water bottle and take a swig. “This was one of ours.” Even a thousand years later, the place vibrated with echoes of Night-keeper magic, warming him slightly as the sun started its downward slide and the shadows grew.

“Although early scholars thought the huge North Ruin might be an archaic apartment building, we now think there were maybe only a couple of hundred permanent residents, with thousands of other people gathering here during ceremonial days . . .” The kid-herder’s voice faded as the group moved along the path.

“. . . sooo bored,” a straggler said, her ennui reaching Dez on an echo.

“I know, right?” said another. “This blows.” Her voice dropped to a carrying whisper. “You wanna sneak back around to the gift shop? I’ve got my mom’s AmEx.”

“I—”

“No,” interrupted an older, equally bored voice, though this one coming from an adult. Auxiliary kid-herder, no doubt. “Come on, let’s go catch up with the others.”

There were grumbles as the three moved off, with the first of the girls complaining in a put-upon voice, “Why do we have to know this crap anyway? It’s so old. Why can’t we learn about stuff that matters?”

Dez snorted to himself. “Consider yourself lucky somebody gives a shit whether you learn it or not. And the old stuff—especially this old stuff—matters more than you’ll ever know.” At least, she would never know if the Nightkeepers had anything to say about it.

The shadows lengthened further. The air chilled. The park cleared.

Dez tugged his fleece-lined cap down over his smoothly bald scalp and turned up the collar of the heavy desert-camo jacket he’d bought from an army surplus store, along with night-vision goggles and a KA-BAR knife. He should’ve gone with the lined pants too. He might still be in New Mex, but he was practically on top of the Colorado border, and the sharp wind smelled of snow. Not to mention that serpents didn’t do too well in the cold, and the main effect of the Triad magic—aside from saddling him with a now-decamped spirit guide and some nasty dreams—had been to skew many of his senses closer to those of his bloodline totem.

The Triad magic had affected each of the chosen magi differently: It had given detail-oriented Brandt a mental filing system that contained all of his ancestors’ spells and talents, yet the same spell had nearly killed Strike’s sister, Anna. It wasn’t clear whether that was because she lacked the warrior′s mark, because she had forsaken the Nightkeepers to live out in the human world, or what, but she had suffered a hell of a cranial bleed. She was up and moving now, and the doctors said her scans were within normal limits, but still she ghosted from day to day, silent and foggy-eyed.