Part 21 (1/2)

Only she wasn't his anymore. She was gone. And he was alone in the crowd.

Dez shuddered in the throes of the memory, living it on one level while knowing it was a dream vision on another. Then the nightmare sped up to a flicker-flash of images, impressions showing how very wrong he had been, how quickly he had grown into the skin of the cobra de rey, justifying each slip and slide down into darkness. We need more cash to clean up our act, need more men, more power. We can't go legit right now or the VWs will level the neighborhood. Can't do it now when the Smaldone wannabes are making their big move. Then, before he knew it, he had found himself at the head of his own syndicate, part gang, part mob. All his.

More, the nightmare threw his words back at him-I'm doing this to keep Reese safe . . . to prove to her that I'm not what she thinks . . . for the neighborhood . . . for street rats like me. But really it hadn't ever been about anyone but him. He had done exactly what Keban had taught him to do: take over, lead, control, command. And not give a s.h.i.+t what anybody else thought or said about it.

Another flicker. Another vision.

He woke sharp and alert-always did, always had, no matter what he'd been into the night before. His mind cataloged the morning inputs: decent bed, too-flowery perfume over the funk of stale s.e.x, a woman's arm over his waist. Nothing to trip his inner alarms. Opening his eyes gave him a look at a decent apartment, a woman's hand trailing across his stomach, wearing fake nails and bloodred polish. Cheap sheets, expensive manicure.

Naked, restless, and hungry, but not for her, he got out of the bed, not really caring whether he woke her or not. He headed for the bathroom, snagging his jeans on the way, his initial mood smoothing out some when he felt the weights in opposite pockets: his .44 and the little black statuette that brought him luck.

”Hey, lover,” a feminine purr said behind him. ”Going somewhere?”

He barely glanced back at . . . Darla? Carla? Something like that. She had big t.i.ts, big hair, a b.i.t.c.hy sense of humor, and knew the score. Which was why he was surprised she had even asked. He came and went as he f.u.c.king pleased. ”Things to do,” he said, and hit the bathroom. When he tossed his jeans, something bright pinged off the vanity and plopped in the toilet.

”s.h.i.+t.” He peered in, caught a wink of silver, a gleam of obsidian, and flashed hard on dark hair that framed amber-whiskey eyes that were full of vibrant joy, a love of adventure, a thirst for justice . . . and adoration. ”Reese,” he whispered, his heart clutching as he remembered her as more than just a flail he used to drive himself. His mind raced on a moment of strange clarity, one where he felt like he was waking up from a terrible dream. In it, he had become a monster, a demon. A dark lord come to earth. Jesus. How had it all happened? And Reese. G.o.d, Reese. A hollow ache clutched at him. She was long gone, but she would hate what he had become. She would hate- A static buzz whined in his ears, derailing his thoughts and making his vision go momentarily black. He shook his head to clear it, realized he was crouched over the john like he needed to puke, but didn't.

Whoa. Maybe he was feeling last night more than he thought. He took another look at the ring, debated fis.h.i.+ng it out, decided not to bother. It didn't really fit him anyway.

Mind skipping ahead to the meeting he was having down at the p.a.w.nshop in a couple of hours, he p.i.s.sed and flushed, and when the artificially blue water stilled, the ring was gone. But when he dragged on his jeans, he had the important stuff. Gun, check. Good luck, check. With those two things in hand, he could get everything he needed, everything he wanted. Look out world, the cobra de rey was coming.

The dream vision fragmented. And before he was really ready for it to be, it was the morning of the day before the solstice. One year and one day to the end time.

He woke sharp and alert, and his mind cataloged the morning inputs: familiar bed; the faint smell of smoke from the pyre; the stronger scent of good, earthy s.e.x. His body was curved around a woman's, his arm over her waist, their hands interlocked beneath her cheek. There was no irritation, none of the faint self-disgust of that vision-memory. There was only a poignant ache at the wish that he could snapshot the moment, frame it, keep it inside him: Him and Reese together at long last.

”Bad dream?” She turned in his arms, looked up at him, eyes soft and filled with all the things that had flashed through him in the vision, plus something even more precious: trust.

He pressed his lips to her brow. ”Just Anntah-or maybe my own subconscious-making sure I don't forget about my sins.” He told himself to leave it at that, but her eyes were steady on his, her fingers twined between his, hanging on as if she didn't intend to let go. ”I keep seeing myself kill Hood, keep reliving the way everything twisted itself around inside my head, so the wrong things seemed right.” When her expression turned sad and serious, he lifted their joined hands, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. ”I should've seen what was happening, should've fought harder, but I didn't. And I'm sorry.”

She closed her eyes, took a breath. And when she opened them again, the poker face was gone, tears were welling. ”I told myself I didn't need an apology, that it was enough that you got out from under the star demon's influence.”

”You helped me get clean,” he said. ”If you hadn't gotten me into jail and away from the statuette, I don't think even the Triad magic could've brought me back.”

”You saved my life; I saved yours,” she whispered.

He owed her so much more than that. And he wanted to give it to her, wanted to be with her, watch her soar. ”You may not need an apology, but you've got one anyway.” He kissed a tear away, felt something s.h.i.+ft in his chest. ”I'm sorry.” He kissed her other cheek. ”I won't be that guy.” He kissed her lips, tasted the salt of her tears, and felt warmth flicker in the cold place that sp.a.w.ned the nightmares. ”Never again. I promise.”

Magic sparked beneath his skin, sealing the oath as she opened to him, deepening the kiss and s.h.i.+fting against him, sleek and bare and already wet.

He hissed in a breath as all the blood left his head and went other, more interesting places. In the back of his mind, he knew they had to get up and out, that she had work to do and he needed to see what it was going to take to prove that he wasn't secretly plotting behind Strike's back. And . . . His thoughts scattered, lost to hot, openmouthed kisses. Hands sliding over soft skin. Reese rising over him, taking him inside her.

He arched up beneath her, going rigid with the hot, wet pleasure as she surrounded him, squeezed him, worked him. He touched her, kissed her, lost himself in her. Then, as she tightened around him and cried out, he reversed their positions and pinned her, surged into her, loved her. She was his, always should have been. Screw Anntah and his blithering about destined mates. She had been meant for him from the very beginning. He had just been too f.u.c.ked up to see it.

”Reese,” he breathed against her temple as she came apart in his arms, shuddering and calling his name. ”Jesus, Reese.”

He surged into her, planted himself deep, and cut loose. And as he came, he gladly lost a part of himself to her.

The o.r.g.a.s.m went on, spun out, felt like magic . . . and left him just as ready to crash when it faded. His arms quivered where he was braced over her and his body was practically numb. From the look of her glazed-over eyes, she was in a similar state.

He rolled onto his back, taking her with him. ”G.o.ds, woman. I can't feel my toes.”

She chuckled. ”Was that a complaint?”

”h.e.l.l, no. It was-” He broke off at the sight of a light flas.h.i.+ng on the nightstand. His armband. Someone had left a message in the past few minutes.

Reese followed his gaze, then looked over to where her transponder sat on the floor tangled with her discarded s.h.i.+rt. It, too, was blinking. ”Guess they're looking for us.” She glanced back at him. ”You ready for this?”

He thought about it for a second, then nodded. ”You know, I guess I am. Way more than I was yesterday afternoon, at any rate.” He caught her hand, kissed her knuckles . . . and stalled on what to say next. He wanted to thank her for coming after him, believing in him, taking him as he was; he wanted to tell her she was beautiful, smart, sa.s.sy, honorable, and on some levels way out of his league; he wanted to let her know that he was going to go into the next couple of days stronger because she was behind him, and that he was d.a.m.ned grateful for the chain of events-whether destiny or coincidence-that had brought her back into his life. But all those things wound up jammed together in his chest, so in the end, all he said was, ”Cross your fingers that they don't nail me with a Taser and pack my a.s.s down in the bas.e.m.e.nt.”

She winced. ”Not funny.”

And not that far from possible, he thought ten minutes later as, showered and wearing fresh clothes, they headed to the main room together, holding hands.

The sunken great room was jammed with bodies, and everyone there looked up pretty much simultaneously when Dez and Reese came through the archway leading from the mage's wing. He got the glares he was expecting, with a few notable exceptions: Leah was pale and unusually shaky; Rabbit was glowering, but not at him; and Sasha was looking at him with a hint of pleading, which didn't make any sense. The decision wasn't in his hands. It was the king's call.

Strike was standing on the riser that ran the perimeter of the room and opened into the kitchen, leaning against the wall near the big-screen TV. When he saw them, he straightened and came over. He glanced at their joined hands, nodded fractionally, then tipped his head toward an empty love seat. ”Have a seat and we'll get started.”

Dez swallowed. ”I have a few things I'd like to say.” Strike hesitated, expression guarded, and Dez's gut knotted. ”You already made your decision, didn't you?”

”It's not what you think.” The king pointed to the two-seater. ”Chill. Sit. Listen. Some things have happened that . . . well, let's just say the circ.u.mstances have changed.”

Dez glanced at Reese, who looked just as confused as he was. So they followed orders and sat. But it was evident that whatever they had missed, it was big. And from the looks being shot back and forth among the others, he and Reese weren't the only ones in the dark on what was going to happen next.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

Reese's instincts were shrilling a major warning as Strike leaned a hip against the sofa where Leah was sitting, as though he wanted to be near her but couldn't sit still. He looked serious and strung out, and she couldn't quite squelch the thought that under the writs, the punishment for treason was execution. The Nightkeepers wouldn't go there, would they? What would she do if they did? Visions of her and Dez shooting their way out of the compound locked horns with the memory of Strike's sleep spell and Rabbit's mind-bending. Would she wake up back in Denver and wonder why Fallon wasn't speaking to her?

Dez reached for her hand, twined his fingers through hers, and held on tight.

After what felt like a long pause, Strike took a deep breath, and said, ”There is something very wrong with me. I'm having brownouts, suffering from what I guess you could call psychic brain lesions . . . and yesterday, bringing everyone home from the highlands, I lost the teleport thread. If it hadn't been for Leah and Rabbit propping me up with their magic, none of us would've made it back.”

That so wasn't what Reese had been expecting to hear, that it took her a moment to process what he'd just said. The same thing seemed to be happening to most of the others, because there was a moment of absolute, blank silence broken only by the m.u.f.fled sounds of Leah's jeans and s.h.i.+rt against the sofa when she s.h.i.+fted to take Strike's hand and press it to her face. A single tear leaked down her cheek.

It was Alexis who finally broke the silence. ”I take it Sasha has checked you out?” She was sending the healer a ”what the h.e.l.l?” look, but Sasha was staring at her white-knuckled hands as Michael, himself grim-faced, whispered something into her ear.

”Both Sasha and Rabbit have done everything they can,” Strike said. ”Lucius has scoured the library, and I've had all the relevant human-style scans we can think of. The scans came back clean; it was Rabbit who found the lesions. He's done his best to put me back together, but it's not holding.”

”There's a shadow,” Sasha said without looking up. ”It's like a phantom blood-link or something. I can't get a handle on it. Nothing I do makes any difference.” Strike started to say something, but she held up a hand. ”I know, I know. It's not my fault, I'm doing the best I can, blah, blah.” She looked up to glare, red-eyed, at him. ”What I don't get is why the G.o.ds gave me this talent but won't let me heal my own big brother. My king.” She shook her head. ”G.o.dsd.a.m.n it, I f.u.c.king hate this.” And for her to drop an f-bomb was as unexpected as Leah crying, making everything suddenly very real.

A low murmur built as brains started to unfreeze. Reese glanced over at Dez and found him staring at Strike, eyes gone utterly hollow. And she got it: The serpent prophecy said that Dez had to kill his adversary to take the throne, and the prophecy needed to be fulfilled in order to keep Lord Vulture from arising. And Strike was sick. The blood drained from her head, leaving her dizzy as she flashed back: the gleam of a stone knife as it slashed an upturned throat, blood gouting . . . and that other Dez, the one the star demon had turned him into, watching with hot, satisfied eyes as the cobra de rey died beneath him.

She must've made some noise, because Dez looked at her. His fingers tightened on hers and his throat worked, but he didn't say anything. And for the first time in the time she had known him, he looked terrified. But beneath the terror she thought she glimpsed something else . . . or rather someone else. And that made it even worse.

”It started with the dreams,” Strike said, then went on to describe being in his fathers perceptions during the Solstice Ma.s.sacre. ”The details changed over time, until it seemed more like it was me in the dream. The one thing that didn't change, though, was this moment of realizing that I had it wrong, that when the thirteenth prophecy called for the last jaguar king to make the 'ultimate sacrifice' before the four-year threshold, it wasn't talking about the king sacrificing his mate. It meant that he was supposed to . . . that I was supposed to sacrifice myself.”

Sasha made a low, broken noise and pressed her face into Michael's arm. He s.h.i.+fted to hold her, hanging on tight. Leah sat there, still and white-faced, staring at the floor with the look of a woman who had argued herself sick on a point, and was gearing up for another round. Reese's heart hurt for them, and for pale, p.i.s.sed-off Rabbit, who would be truly orphaned without Strike. She hurt for Nate and Alexis, whose parents had been advisers to the prior king, and who had helped steer this one, to the extent he let himself be steered. And she hurt for all of the others, who were staring at Strike with expressions ranging from disbelief and anger to blank shock. She hadn't yet begun to hurt for herself. She knew it was coming, but didn't try to brace for it, because how could she buffer herself against something like this?