Jessica Andersen - Dawnkeepers

“He made it out,” Alexis started to say, but Nate waved her quiet, and she was surprised enough that she actually shut up.

Knowing he’d have to apologize for—or pay for—that one later, Nate rose and crossed to Strike.

Pitching his voice so the others couldn’t hear, he said, “With all due respect, Nochem, get a fucking grip.”

Strike stiffened, pulled away from the wall, and turned to glare. “Ex cuse me?”

Ignoring a sudden memory of being hung off the side of a warehouse roof, Nate stared him down.

“You want to be upset, do it on your own time. Right now we need you in the king zone.” He paused.

“Don’t make me quote the writs at you.” The king’s writ, which set out the priorities of the ruling Nightkeeper, was unfortunately apt under the circumstances, a reminder that the king looked to the gods and his people first, followed by mankind and the end-time war. His own desires as a husband, father, and friend were way down on the list.

Strike’s lips twitched. “Bet that’d hurt you far more than it’d hurt me.” But he inhaled a long breath and visibly centered himself. By the time he’d exhaled, he nodded to Nate. “Okay. Sorry. And thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Seriously.”

They rejoined the others, and Nate tried not to see Leah’s quiet nod or Alexis’s covert thumbs-up.

He didn’t want to be good at this advisory crap, godsdamn it.

“You guys ready for me?” a quiet voice asked from the doorway. Nate looked up to see Anna holding the Volatile’s knife balanced in her palm, crossing her sacrificial scar.

A hush took hold of the room.

“What have you got for us?” Strike asked, waving her in.

She set the knife on the coffee table and took one of the empty armchairs, leaning forward at the edge of the chair so she could point to a line of text inscribed at the base of the handle portion of the carved knife, which had been formed from a single piece of obsidian and polished to a deep black shine. “See this here? It’s a regular, nonstarscript inscription.” Tracing the fluid beauty of the Mayan glyphs, she translated, “‘The Volatile challenges the sky.’”

“Well, that’s not good news,” Alexis said, frowning. “If he’s going after the gods, then it’s a pretty good bet that he’s either one of the demons, or Xibalban. What confuses me is the apparent link with Ixchel and, by extension, with me.”

Nate shot her a look. “We’re not handing you over to Iago, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“I’m not going to argue with you on that one.” But she’d paled, nonetheless.

He leaned close and said under his breath, “The prophecies aren’t immutable. Strike and Leah proved that.” But he knew she was having trouble with the hypocrisy of believing they needed to follow the gods and prophecies, but choosing to disbelieve the one that specifically related to her.

He, on the other hand, had no such issue. If the Volatile—whoever or whatever it was—wanted Alexis, it would have to go through him to get to her.

“What about the starscript?” Strike asked.

Anna shook her head. “That’s the strange thing. There wasn’t any.”

Silence followed that pronouncement, formed of a combination of surprise and consternation.

“That’s it?” Alexis said, looking shattered. “Nothing else? Nothing about Ixchel? The inscription on the statuette said Camazotz would succeed unless the Volatile is found. Does that mean we have to find and destroy the Volatile before the equinox? I hope not, because I don’t see it happening.”

Nate cursed inwardly. “Maybe Rabbit will know something.”

“He’s out cold,” Jox said, “and not likely to be coherent enough to answer questions until sometime tomorrow. Whatever happened to the poor kid, he’s used up.”

Strike nodded. “Then that’s a wrap. We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning, unless anyone gets any brilliant ideas between now and then.”

The members of the council disbanded and went their separate ways, Jox and Anna to their adjacent quarters in the royal wing, Nate and Alexis in the direction of the residences.

When they got to the door that was the most direct route to the cottages, she paused. Normally—at least every night over the past week—they would’ve headed out to his cottage by tacit consent.

Tonight she hung back.

Because he’d been getting a slightly off vibe from her ever since the Volatile’s prophecy was read, Nate said, “No pressure, but you look like you could use the company.” Keep it light, he told himself.

Don’t make it weird if the answer is no.

But his gut went sour when he saw the answer in her eyes a few seconds before she shook her head and looked away. “I’m pretty tired.”

They hadn’t taken a night off from each other since they’d started sleeping together again, and it was part of their unspoken agreement that they . . . well, didn’t speak about it. It seemed like the best way to have a more or less casual thing, given that they both lived in the compound and would continue to do so regardless of how things ended up between them. They were together when they wanted to be, apart when they wanted to be, and if it’d wound up that they wanted to be together more than they’d wanted to be apart, then that was another thing they were leaving unspoken. At least, they had up to that point.

Tonight, though, Nate found he didn’t want to let it go and keep it casual. The confirmation that the Volatile was an enemy of the gods had shaken him as much as it’d affected her. He was churned up, pissed off with the situation, and with the gods-awful obscurity of it all. Why couldn’t the gods just tell them what the hell they were supposed to be doing? Yeah, fine, he knew all the rhetoric about the difference between the long, tenuous skyroad and the wide-open hellmouth. But it seemed like the gods had had ample time to get their messages through, and instead kept letting the supposed saviors of mankind get their asses kicked over and over again, setting them up for an impossible battle when the end-time came.

But being pissed off at the gods wasn’t what Alexis needed from him right then; he could see it in her eyes, in the way she’d turned toward him, and how her face had gone a little wistful as she looked at him.

Catching her hand when she would’ve headed toward the residential wing to spend the night alone, he said, “Then let me rephrase. I could use the company. And it doesn’t have to be anything more than that.” Though he’d like it to be; he wanted to hold her, to feel her curled up next to him and know that for tonight, at least, she was safe.

She went still for a moment before she turned back to him, her eyes guarded. “Really. I don’t think it’s such a good idea.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, as though she were cold, or getting goose bumps. “I think I’ll just call it a night.”

Because she looked like she needed it, he moved into her, wrapped his arms around her, and rested his cheek on hers. “Lexie, talk to me. I’ll listen.”

She leaned into him for a moment and drew a deep, shuddering breath. Then she pushed away from him and took a big step back. “Fine. You want the truth? Don’t say I didn’t try to avoid it. And it’s not a magic thing or an equinox thing. It’s a totally, depressingly human thing. A girlie-girl emotional thing. You sure you’re up for it?” She paused, waiting for him to beg off.

He squared himself opposite her instead, as though they were getting ready to spar. Which was about what it felt like. His rational self was yelling for him to back off, to let things stay the way they were. But another side of him, the side that didn’t want to sleep alone—that side had him saying, “Lay it on me. I can take it.” He twitched a grin. “Hell, I’m dealing with being a royal adviser, which was one of the last possible things I ever wanted to be. If I can handle that, I can handle whatever’s bothering you. Maybe I can even help you fix it.”