Jessica Andersen - Nightkeepers

Right?

He fought the urge to tug at his jeans and T—or worse, beat a quick retreat to his quarters and change into a better shirt, maybe a nicer belt, and boots instead of sandals. But that would be stalling, and he was no wimp. ‘‘Besides,’’ he said under his breath as he reached her door, ‘‘it’s Hannah. You’ve known her forever.’’ Okay, so there was that twenty-four-year gap in the middle and all, but still.

Telling himself it’d be okay, he knocked on her door.

She answered immediately, as though she’d been waiting for him. She was wearing flowing drawstring pants of royal blue and a patterned teal-colored top, and had a scarf of the same material tied around her head, pirate-style. When she saw who it was, though, surprise flashed across her face. ‘‘Jox!’’

‘‘Expecting someone else?’’ He heard the faint bite in his tone and winced. ‘‘Sorry. Not my business.’’

‘‘No, it’s not. Can I help you with something?’’

‘‘I wanted . . .’’ you, he should’ve said, but he was still fighting a losing battle against logic, against the part of him that said he needed to focus on his duties, now more than ever, since Strike seemed to be wobbling off course.

‘‘You wanted . . . ?’’ She wasn’t helping him out, and seemed faintly irritated that he was there at all, as though two weeks after their reunion was far too late for him to come knocking.

And maybe it was. Maybe Strike had been right that he’d cared more for the idea of her than the reality. The thought was a cold wash that had him retreating a step and dropping back to winikin mode. ‘‘I came to make sure things were under control over here.’’

‘‘We’re good,’’ she said, seemingly willing to pretend that was what he’d come to ask. ‘‘Carlos is going to keep Cara close for the next few days while we see how things shake out.’’

‘‘In other words, while the newbies figure out who belongs in which bed between now and the talent ceremony. ’’

Her lips twitched, despite the tension between them. ‘‘What’s the current score?’’

‘‘Well, Patience and Brandt are a given.’’

‘‘One should hope. They’re married.’’

‘‘And stupid in love,’’ Jox agreed with what might’ve been a twinge of jealousy. He ticked off the others on his fingers. ‘‘Michael and Jade headed off together—they’re either a couple or will be soon. Rabbit didn’t get his mark, so he probably won’t get the binding hornies— and besides, he’s too young for anyone here, so he’s on his own. That leaves Alexis, Blackhawk, and Sven, which means either there’ll be an odd man out, or some three-way kink.’’

‘‘Have you seen the way Nate looks at her?’’ Hannah shook her head. ‘‘Sven’s out of luck.’’

‘‘Strike and Alexis would make a hell of a couple,’’ Jox said, still not ready to give up on the idea.

‘‘They would.’’ Hannah nodded. ‘‘She’s the strongest of the women, she’s smart as hell, and she has a knack for strategy. She’d make a superlative queen. But it’s not going to happen.’’

‘‘It might.’’

Her face softened. ‘‘Poor Jox. Still trying to save the jaguar kings from themselves.’’

Before he could respond to that—if he could even figure out how—there was a clatter of footsteps and Brandt’s winikin , Woodrow, swung around the corner. He was wearing jeans and a button-down Hawaiian shirt, and his long, graying hair was caught back in a ponytail that made him look like he’d gone native. He was barefoot, whistling, and carrying a bottle of wine in one hand, a couple of glasses in the other.

He hesitated midstride when he saw Jox and Hannah standing close together in her doorway. ‘‘Wow. I know I’m late, but you didn’t need to call the boss on me.’’ It was said with all of Wood’s typical laid-back good humor, but there was a glint of challenge beneath the words.

Oh, Jox thought. So that was how it was.

Disappointed, but also relieved because the decision had already been made for him, he stepped away from Hannah. ‘‘You’re lucky you got here when you did,’’ he said, forcing humor. ‘‘We were talking about organizing a search.’’

‘‘Doubt you’d have much luck,’’ Wood said, moving to Hannah’s side so they formed a unit, blocking the doorway and putting Jox on the outside. ‘‘Most everyone in this place is otherwise occupied, one way or the other.’’

He handed the wineglasses to Hannah, pulled a corkscrew from his pocket, and looked at Jox. Lifted a shoulder. ‘‘Sorry, dude. Only two glasses.’’

‘‘No problem,’’ Jox said, and almost meant it. ‘‘Actually, I wanted to talk to both of you real quick; then I’ll get out of your way.’’ He thought he saw a flicker of surprised hurt in Hannah’s eye, but couldn’t be sure. And even if he had, what of it? She had the right to make time with whomever she wanted. They’d never promised each other anything.

Wood gestured with the corkscrew. ‘‘Go on.’’

‘‘Can you be in charge of both Patience and Brandt for a couple of days, so Hannah can spend some time with Leah?’’

When Wood nodded, Hannah said, ‘‘How much do you want her to know?’’

‘‘Everything.’’ He gritted his teeth, totally disagreeing with Strike’s plan. ‘‘She’s going to be sitting in on Magic 101 starting tomorrow. He’s convinced himself that even though Red-Boar couldn’t detect any connection to the barrier or the gods, she gained power of some sort during the ajaw-makol ritual.’’

She tipped her head and hummed a flat note. ‘‘But you don’t think so.’’

‘‘He’s not thinking with his head.’’ Not the right one, anyway.

‘‘Because he believes this human may have power.’’

‘‘Because he saw her even before he met her.’’ He paused. ‘‘In a dream.’’

Wood lost his grin. ‘‘He’s been having visions?’’

‘‘Hannah can fill you in.’’ Jox took a step back. ‘‘I’ll leave you two to your . . . whatever.’’ He strode off, not wanting to watch the door close behind him.

‘‘Jox,’’ Hannah called softly.

He stopped, cursed himself, and turned. ‘‘Yeah?’’

She stood alone, having apparently sent Wood inside. Soft light spilled from behind her, picking out the silvery waves of her hair, softening the lines of her face, and buffing away the lower edge of the scars, making her look very young, younger even than she’d been the night of the massacre.

She was silent so long he thought she wasn’t going to say anything, that she’d meant only to call his name. Then she said, very quietly, ‘‘It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything to cause this—not now, and not back then.’’

He almost resented that she saw it so easily. ‘‘I keep hoping it’ll be different this time.’’

‘‘Maybe it will be.’’ But there was little hope in her voice, which told him she feared it, too.

It was like the writs said: What had happened before would happen again.

Hearing footsteps coming up the hall toward him, Sven ducked through the nearest doorway and closed the door to a crack. Not because he was doing anything wrong, but because he didn’t want to have to talk to one of the other winikin —not about the ceremony, not about the coyote’s-head mark on his forearm, which tingled faintly as though the ink—or whatever the hell it was—had rerouted the blood vessels beneath his skin, and certainly not about what he was doing outside the winikin ’s wing at oh-dark-thirty in the a.m.

He was busy not sleeping, that was what he was doing. Busy not thinking about sex. He and the rest of the newbies—except for Patience and Brandt, no doubt, because they had sanctioned shagging privileges and had gotten their marks years ago. And potentially Michael and Jade, who he was pretty sure had hooked up a couple of days ago. The rest of them . . . well, it was either make friends real quick, or hello, self-service.