Storm Kissed Part 4

She glanced at the door, then at the intercom. She could hit the magic number and make it all go away.

Instead, she looked down at the letter. The words "rightful mate" jumped out at her.

"Better brace yourself to be disappointed on that score," she muttered. Until she shot her mouth off back at the hotel, Strike and the others hadn't had a clue that she and Dez had a history. It shouldn't have bothered her that he hadn't mentioned . . . s.h.i.+t. She kept reading.

-realize that you and Dez had problems, but I think I can explain some, if not all of them. You know how Dez changed after the fight with Keban? That wasn't him, it was the effects of magic . . . or, rather, a curse.

Her blood iced and her palms started to sweat, but she didn't stop reading. Couldn't have even if she had wanted to.

That night, Keban gave Dez a small obsidian carving of a star demon, a creature of darkness. We don't know where he got the carving or how he knew what it would do to Dez, but you experienced the fallout. Here's what we've been able to piece together: The star demon amplifies the darker aspects of a mage's personality until it overrides the good stuff. In Dez's case, it also allowed him to form a connection with the barrier, even before the magic reawakened. Although he couldn't use his powers afterward-he was only able to call the lightning that night because it was the equinox and, I'm guessing, because you were in danger-the effects of the star demon's power twisted him into the man who drove you away. But the thing is, he's not that guy anymore.

A year ago, prophecy said that we had to offer ourselves to the G.o.ds and ask them to pick three of us to receive the powers and knowledge of our strongest ancestors. Enacting the Triad spell risked madness, death, possession . . . but forfeiting prophecy carries a heavy price, so we cast the spell. The G.o.ds reached out beyond us, all the way to Denver, and picked Dez. But instead of giving him the powers of his ancestors, they gave him a spirit guide-a long-ago ancestor of his named Anntah-who entered his mind, undid the damage the star demon and Keban had done, and taught Dez what he needed to know. He awoke a new man: centered, powerful . . . and jonesing to make up for the things he had done. Or maybe "new man" is the wrong term-really, he went back to his pre-star-demon personality, his baseline self.

Reese's breath rushed out in a hiss. "Bulls.h.i.+t. That's just bulls.h.i.+t."

The details fit the pattern; there was no question about that. But she didn't for a second believe that Dez had let some piece of rock control him. And if he was acting differently now, it was sure as h.e.l.l because it suited his purposes, not because of some spell.

She gritted her teeth, flipped the page, and read on.

We didn't believe his transformation at first, but Rabbit confirmed his turnaround, and over the past year Dez has worked his a.s.s off to prove himself. Then, two days ago he disappeared without a word. Our usual private investigator found that he had received a letter via the old winikin drop system, but Carter couldn't track him beyond that. He suggested we hire a specialist, and I immediately thought of you. At the time, I a.s.sumed that was simple logic. Now, I'm reminded that what the humans call coincidence we call the will of the G.o.ds.

Don't believe me? Look on the next page. That's a printout from some security-cam footage that Dez downloaded the night before he took off. At first, we thought it was just some guy stealing a Puebloan artifact from a small museum outside of Santa Fe. After Dez disappeared, we guessed who it might be. Now that Rabbit has seen things through your eyes, we know for sure.

A cold chill sliced through her, and she was almost braced for it when she flipped the page and found Louis Keban staring back at her. The photo was blurry and badly lit, and his scars were obscured by shadows, but she knew his eyes and the slightly off-balance way he held himself. Up until a year or so ago, she had still seen him in her nightmares. Now, she had a feeling those bad dreams would be back with a vengeance.

Last she had heard, he had been safely ensconced in a locked mental ward. Apparently not anymore.

Below the photo, the letter finished: We're not sure why Dez didn't tell us what was going on or ask for backup. Pride, maybe, or something in the letter. But we do know one thing for certain: We need him back. The winter solstice marks the one-year threshold, and the magi must be at their strongest. More, we need to figure out what Keban is up to. He clearly knows things we don't-and his history and mental state make him dangerous.

So that's what we want from you, Ms. Montana. Find Dez, find Keban, and figure out what the h.e.l.l is going on there, in the order of your choice. After that, if you're willing to stay, we'll sic you on Iago. The patterns of his recent attacks are . . . baffling. Maybe you'll see something we're missing.

I hope you'll take the job, both for Dez's sake and because it's the right thing to do. But if that isn't incentive enough, then how about this: It'll give you a chance to get back at the man who destroyed the life you could have had with Dez back in Denver.

Think about it. And when you've decided, dial 1313. We'll be waiting.

-Strike Reese lowered the letter and numbly stared out the window, at scenery that warned her that she was badly out of her element.

"d.a.m.n it," she whispered, glancing once more at the picture of Keban.

This was seriously and completely nuts, and it would be insane to even consider taking the job. But she was considering it, for all the reasons Strike had listed.

d.a.m.n the mind-bender for getting inside her head and figuring out which b.u.t.tons to push. And d.a.m.n her for being unable to resist the thrill of the hunt or be content with a safe, predictable life. More, she couldn't ignore the pressure that fisted beneath her heart as Strike's words circled in her head . . . He's not that guy anymore . . . It was a curse . . . back to his old self . . .

In the weeks after Dez's death-supposed death?-she had been buried in memories of the young man she had loved. The old Dez had driven her crazy with his stubbornness, but despite his protectiveness he'd never tried to box her in. The gang task force had been her thing, but he'd always had her back. He had nagged her into her GED, and had brought her chocolate and information, knowing they were neck-and-neck in her universe. And when the nights got cold and too dark, he had told her stories about magical warriors who could move things with their minds and hear each others thoughts, and who drew their greatest powers from love.

Back to his old self . . . a Triad mage . . . incredibly powerful.

"Bulls.h.i.+t." She lurched to her feet, stomach knotting. The ache wasn't quite hunger, but it was safer to call it that, so she headed for the kitchen, figuring the apartment looked lived-in enough that it ought to have some staples, even if it was just a guest suite . . . or a prison cell with better-than-average amenities. That thought brought a shudder, but the moment she got the fridge open, both the queasiness and her appet.i.te disappeared-boom, gone.

Oh. s.h.i.+t.

She stood there for a long moment in the cold wash of air, s.h.i.+vering as she stared at the items that were cl.u.s.tered 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. n.o.body 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 h.e.l.l 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, "d.a.m.n 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 relations.h.i.+p 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 d.a.m.n thing.

Don't do it, her smarter self said. Don't do it, don't do it, don't- "s.h.i.+t." 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 d.a.m.ned 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."

CHAPTER FOUR.

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 teachers 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Where the h.e.l.l are you?

Ever since Dez had awakened from his Triad-induced coma and his ancestors 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d until-thank f.u.c.k-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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 pa.s.sageways 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 teachers words.

"Despite the name, these buildings weren't originally built by the Aztecs. The mistake was made in the mideighteen 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, s.h.i.+fting 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 c.r.a.p anyway? It's so old. Why can't we learn about stuff that matters?"

Dez snorted to himself. "Consider yourself lucky somebody gives a s.h.i.+t 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 warriors mark, because she had forsaken the Nightkeepers to live out in the human world, or what, but she had suffered a h.e.l.l 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.

Seeing her around Skywatch had hammered home to Dez that he was seriously f.u.c.king lucky. The Triad magic hadn't just picked him; it had saved him, given him a second chance. And in the process, it had sleeked him down and enhanced his existing magic. Like a serpent, he used all of his senses, a.n.a.lyzing scent signatures by both smell and taste, and detecting minute changes in body heat. Not to mention that his warriors talent gave him the sharpened reflexes and strategic thinking of a killing machine, and the lightning magic gave him some serious shock-and-awe. The three together made him a formidable weapon, and he was determined to be the best d.a.m.ned soldier he could be. He couldn't undo the past, but since waking up from the Triad transition, he had thrown himself into the Nightkeepers' war, taking his own ego out of the equation and doing whatever he was d.a.m.n well told.

That is, until last week when he got Keban's strangely formal note-his f.u.c.king marching orders: Prepare yourself-and the rest of the magi-to meet me at noon on the day of the solstice. Bring the black artifact. I'll gather the others that have been found, and on the proper days I will find the two that remain hidden. I will contact you with instructions when the time comes. Be ready.

Bull-f.u.c.king-s.h.i.+t to that. Anntah had made it clear during Dez's mental Roto-Rootering that Keban had some of his rhetoric right, but he didn't speak for the serpent bloodline. He was sick and damaged. More, he knew far more than a winikin should about the magic, which made him dangerous. So Dez was prepared, all right . . . prepared to kill Keban and destroy the artifacts. And if there was some grim satisfaction in the ch.o.r.e, he figured he could live with that. He'd never claimed to be a frigging saint.

A trickle of dislodged rocks interrupted his train of thought and brought his head up. The sound was followed by the faint tread of footsteps coming not from the path, but from the back country on the other side of the park.

Heat flared as his warriors talent came on line, sharpening his reflexes and bringing his fighting magic close to the surface. He bared his teeth when he caught the faintly sour smell he had been trailing for days. His enemy had arrived, and for once he was a step ahead of the b.a.s.t.a.r.d rather than chasing behind.

Easing from the cold pa.s.sageway into the warmer air outside, he let his magic ramp up, the fine electrical currents making him acutely aware of each neuron and synapse. The sun was gone, the sky a clear, darkening blue going scalloped pink at the edges as he slipped from one shadow-shrouded doorway to the next, working his way through the interconnected chambers of the labyrinthine ruin. The small, furtive noises he was tracking headed for the northernmost point of the ruin, where eight-foot-high stone walls outlined a huge circular chamber.

Dez wedged himself into the shadowy juncture where an intersecting wall ran into the curve of the room's outer edge and a small window gave him a decent view of the inner courtyard. Moments later, Keban came into view. And even though Dez had braced himself to see the winikin again-and to kill him-the sight of the hunched-over body and scarred face shot his pulse into the stratosphere. In an instant, he flashed back on that night in the storm, and the look on the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's face as he had pressed the star demon into Dez's bleeding palms.

His final slide had started at that moment. The bad s.h.i.+t that followed had come from inside him, it was true, but Keban had set it free.

Wait it out, Dez told himself. Let him get the artifact first. He watched through slitted eyes as the winikin skimmed a hand over a section of the wall where the masons had worked a snakelike stripe of green stone into the red-rock background, then paused, lips moving as he read the shadowscript. After a moment, he turned and paced the diameter of the kiva three separate times, scuffing his feet when he hit the center. Then he stood in the place where his scuff marks intersected and started walking north, perpendicular to the plane of the setting sun. When he reached the wall, he dropped to his knees, pulled a folding shovel from his knapsack, screwed the pieces together, and started digging.

Almost, Dez thought, s.h.i.+fting restlessly in his hiding spot. A second later he realized that the twitchiness was more than his usual impatience-there was a new current humming in the air, an itchy heat that was familiar yet not. Magic, he thought, gut knotting on the realization. s.h.i.+t. The buzz was coming from Keban, growing stronger the farther down he dug. It was from the artifact, a soft, insistent call that reached inside Dez, seeming to echo in his very DNA.

Block it out, he told himself, steeling himself against the siren song. He could handle it this time. He would have to handle it.

He started to sweat.

The winikin suddenly made a satisfied noise, ducked down and shoved his hands into the hollow he had carved alongside the wall. He came up with a bundle, started unwrapping a layer of rotting fabric, then paused and turned away to paw through his knapsack for something.

Digging his fingernails into his palms hard enough to draw blood, both as a crude sacrifice and to keep himself from doing something stupid, Dez called the magic for a s.h.i.+eld spell, intending to turn it into a d.a.m.ned cage. Power raced in his veins as he spread his fingers and imagined the s.h.i.+eld falling into place, but he didn't trigger the spell. Wait for it, he told himself. Wait . . . for . . . it.

Keban straightened, holding a flashlight.

Now! Dez unleashed his s.h.i.+eld spell at the same instant that Keban turned on the flashlight. There was a spark of electricity, a flare of magic.

And the world went nuts.

A fat spark shot from Keban to Dez and back. The winikin cried out and dropped the flashlight, but a flare of blue-white power suddenly engulfed Dez, lighting his surroundings and totally f.u.c.king the element of surprise. Keban spun, took one look at him, and bolted.

d.a.m.n it! Dez slammed his crackling s.h.i.+eld around the other man. Not invisible like most of the warriors defensive spells, or concealing like the chameleon s.h.i.+elds Michael or Alexis could call, Dez's s.h.i.+eld was like most of his magic: loud, unsubtle, and supercharged. It arced with blue-white electricity, forming a weblike cage that stopped bullets and buzz-swords, and could make like a Taser if he wanted it to. And h.e.l.l, yeah, he wanted it to right now. He wanted the b.a.s.t.a.r.d to burn.

Keban skidded to a stop in the center of the magic, and turned back as Dez approached the cage. The blue-white light showed a face that sagged like wax around the scars, eyes that were sly and calculating, but didn't track normally.

Nate's illegal hack into the winikin's psych ward records had revealed that Keban had suffered an acute psychotic break a few days after that night in the storm. He'd stayed put for a decade, then vanished the day of the Triad spell, which couldn't have been a coincidence. He'd been rational enough to work out an escape, rational enough to send that letter and track down the artifacts he wanted. Now, though, he stared past Dez's shoulder, twisting his fingers in the filthy cloth wrappings, and mumbling to himself, looking more pitiful than rational.

Dez's rage didn't quite die, but it sure as h.e.l.l faltered.

Up close, the man inside the glowing cage was a deflated, deranged version of the beast he had seen in his nightmares, year after year, until new demons took his place. He didn't look like the ruthless b.a.s.t.a.r.d who had dragged Dez to dozens of crumbling ruins as a kid and turned him loose with a knife and orders to find the temple's sacred chamber, make his sacrifice, and "for f.u.c.k's sake, get it right." And he didn't look like the man who had whipped him b.l.o.o.d.y each time he failed.

Instead, he looked old, sad, and defeated. And nothing like the man Dez had primed himself to kill.

"s.h.i.+t." He scowled through the bars at his captive. "Now what?" His prior self would have stuck stubbornly to the original plan. The better man he was trying to be thought it might be safe to bring him back to Skywatch, after all. If he was this far gone, not even Rabbit would be able to get at the truth that needed to stay hidden.

Still looking off to the side, as if unable to meet his eyes, Keban held out the wrapped bundle and mumbled unintelligibly.

Dez hesitated. Then, dampening the s.h.i.+eld spell so it wouldn't fry either of them, he moved in closer. "You want me to take it?"

The winikin jerked his chin in what might have been a nod, and went to work on the rotting cloth. Within moments, he had unwrapped a fist-sized chunk of white crystal carved into a head. The face was Mayan, the accoutrements those of a G.o.d with matching "T" shapes inscribed on both cheeks.