She took a deep breath that didn’t do much to settle the sudden churn of nerves. “I guess your eavesdropping makes us even, then. And it saves me from explaining why I’m here . . . though I doubt you’re surprised. You had to figure something like this was coming.”
His gritty tone darkened. “Given the choice of sex versus ritual sacrifice, I vote for sex.”
She didn’t even try to pretend that execution wasn’t another of the options that had been discussed.
The Prophet’s spell called for the sacrifice of a magic user’s soul, assuming that the sacrificial victim would have just one soul in residence, and would therefore yield an empty golem through which the Prophet’s power would speak, answering the Nightkeepers’ questions from the information contained within the library of their ancient ancestors, which had long ago been hidden within the barrier to keep it safe from their enemies. In Lucius’s case, though, the makol’s soul had been sacrificed, leaving his human consciousness behind. It wasn’t clear whether his failure to access the library had come from the retention of his soul, the fact that he wasn’t a true magic user, the thick mental defenses he’d built up over more than a year of sharing head space with the makol, or what. But it wasn’t much of a stretch to think that the only way to get a fully functional Prophet might be by emptying Lucius’s body of its remaining soul through another sacrifice. To be fair, Strike was holding that out as the absolute last option—the Nightkeepers practiced largely self-sacrifice, helping separate them from the Xibalbans and their dark, bloodthirsty magic. But at the same time, the Nightkeepers’ king would do whatever was necessary to protect the magi and their ability to combat the Xibalbans and Banol Kax.
That was his responsibility, his duty. But what was hers in this case? She wasn’t sure, and nobody seemed to have an answer for her.
She had lobbied the royal council on Lucius’s behalf just as vehemently as she’d begged the warriors to search for him after he’d gone makol. Now, as then, the answer was a maddening, We’ll do our best, but he’s not our priority. She knew what it felt like not to be a priority, which had only made her fight harder on his behalf . . . earning the victory that had her standing there in the darkness, suddenly wondering if she was making a Big Freaking Mistake.
It’s Lucius, she reminded herself again. You’re not afraid of him.
“So . . . does this make you the sacrificial victim?”
A spurt of irritation had her snapping, “I’m not the loser’s forfeit in one of your brothers’ drinking games, Lucius. I’m not offering you a pity fuck, and I don’t need to sleep my way to a better grade in Intro to Mayan Studies. I’m—” She broke off, swearing to herself. Great seduction technique, genius.
Remind him of all the embarrassing stuff he’s ever told you. While you’re at it, why not call him “Runt Hunt” like his old man used to? She had to remember that the past wasn’t important just then. What mattered was what happened—or didn’t—next. At the thought of that next, heat skimmed through her, brought by the memory of a sexual encounter that had registered Richter high. Leveling her tone so it wouldn’t betray the sudden thudda-thump of her heart, she said, “I’m just trying to help. If you want to turn me down because of what happened before, then do it. But don’t try to make me into the bad guy because I’m offering.”
There was a long beat of silence before he exhaled. When he spoke again, his rasping voice sounded more like that of the man she’d known, or else she was getting used to the change. “I don’t want to turn you down. And I don’t think badly of you. I couldn’t. You’re the only person here that I—” Now it was his turn to break off.
The only person that I . . . what? Jade skimmed through possibilities to settle on “trust.” Despite what had happened, she trusted him. That might work both ways. Given that he knew she’d been discussing his potential for sex magic with Strike and the others, he probably also knew she was the closest thing he had to an ally within Skywatch. “Then why the hell wouldn’t you talk to me?” The question was out before she could stop it, despite her plan to stop bringing up the past. But it had hurt when he’d refused to let her help him deal with the shock of the exorcism and the memories of what he’d done—or rather, what his body had done—while under the makol’s control. She’d been overjoyed by his rescue, had wanted to do everything and anything in her power to bring him back to the man he’d once been, the friend she’d once treasured.
“Because I was a godsdamned mess,” he said. “I didn’t want you to see me that way.”
Jade wished she could see his eyes, wished the darkness didn’t leave her trying to interpret his feelings from a few clipped words in a stranger’s voice. Before, his lovely tenor had painted the old legends of the Nightkeepers into word pictures for her as they’d worked side by side. Though he was only human, he’d taught her about her own ancestors in a way Shandi had never managed, making it less about duty and more about adventure and glory, and the joy of doing something because you could. Now, though, each word sounded like an effort, each sentence a study in pain. The change made her ache from knowing she’d promised her king results in a situation complicated by human factors.
“I was only trying to help you back then,” she said softly. “The same as I am now.”
He shifted in the darkness, though he didn’t come any closer. “I didn’t want you to fix me. I wanted you to go away and give me room to fix myself. . . . I don’t want your pity, and I’m not one of your patients, damn it.”
Ice splashed in her veins, chill and uncomfortable. “I never said I pitied them.”
“If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s reading between the lines.”
Refusing to go there, she said, “Of course you’re not a patient. Nobody said you were.”
“Yet you came back to fix me.”
No, she thought in a frustrated knee-jerk, I came back to fuck you. She didn’t say that, though, because while she considered sex more entertainment than a religious experience, she didn’t like reducing it to that level. She didn’t know whether it was the innate cool reserve of the harvester bloodline, the wisdom that had come from her own experiences, or what, but romantic love wasn’t her thing. Too often in her practice, she’d seen otherwise high-functioning women lose their dreams to love, or because of its loss. The things that love and heartbreak did to otherwise normal people most definitely did not fall within the three “D”s.
Still, as she and Lucius faced off in the darkness, the air thickened with the memory of sex, the anticipation of it.
Blowing out a slow, settling breath, she said, “I came back because you haven’t been able to get into the library, and we’re running out of time and options.” She paused, peering into the darkness and seeing nothing but the shadows. “It’s not your fault. It’s a power incompatibility, that’s all.” He might have spent years collecting the Nightkeepers’ legends and reconstructing their elusive history, despite the derision the hobby had earned in academic circles, but that didn’t make him a mage. Whereas genetics and magic meant that the Nightkeepers were big, strong, and charismatic, Lucius was more angles than muscle. He was human, blood and bone. And the sooner he came around to accepting that the limitations of that had nothing to do with him being Runt Hunt, the better off he’d be . . . and, she suspected, the closer he’d get to gaining control of the Prophet’s magic. She hoped.