It was the moment her younger self had dreamed of. And her more mature, grounded self fumbled the shit out of it. “I don’t . . . I mean, I didn’t think . . . Oh, hell.” She blew out a breath. Made herself stop babbling. “Yes.”
His eyes glinted. “Was that a yes, you’ll marry me, or are you still stuttering?”
She laughed. “A little of both?” She felt the smile start, felt warmth and heat and love expanding inside her chest, growing out beyond the bounds of her body as her eyes filled with tears. “Yes. Of course I’ll marry you. I love you. Every piece of you.”
“And I love you,” he said. And, as the bonfire showered sparks behind them, she realized he’d been wrong about one thing: It was the perfect time and place for them, for the ceremonies of life to counter those of death.
He rose then, and flipped open the box, which held a fat, princess-cut diamond in the most exquisitely traditional of settings. Tradition for a man who was anything but traditional, she thought.
It should’ve jarred. Instead, it fit perfectly. As did the ring.
“I love you,” he said again, the words coming easily, from his heart. “I can’t promise you the jun tan or a quiet life, but I can promise you that nobody will ever love you as much as I do. Nobody will ever need you the way I do.”
The words were raw and honest. And she answered in kind, touching her lips to his before she said, “Nobody’s ever challenged me the way you do, and I know I’ve never loved anyone the way I do you.
Just love me; that’s all I ask. We’ll figure out the rest as we go along. Deal?”
He smiled against her lips. “Deal.”
They kissed to a round of applause from the assembled group. And when they parted, something danced across Sasha’s nape. A coyote howl lifted from the near distance, the wild music rising to the sky. Eyes drawn by something—maybe magic, maybe instinct, maybe just a wish—Sasha looked through the fire to the empty ball court beyond the pyre. There, in the firelight, stood a tall, lanky man with a tired face, a long gray ponytail, and a pronounced stoop to his shoulders, as though he’d spent many years trying to look smaller than he was, trying to blend into a life he hadn’t chosen.
“Ambrose,” Sasha said, tears welling up to spill over and track down her cheeks. She lifted her hand in a wave, saw her new diamond glint in the firelight. “Thank you.”
The spirit—ghost?—lifted a hand, returning the wave. The fire distorted the air between them, but she could swear she saw a smile on the spirit’s face, and no hint of madness in its eyes. For a moment, she imagined he looked like the man she’d glimpsed on his good days, in the gaps between obsessions.
And in that moment, she imagined that all was forgiven between them both.
It is, she heard in the crackle of the fire, in a multitonal voice that shouldn’t have existed outside of the barrier. Michael stiffened at her side, letting her know he’d heard it, too. Then the spirit’s form wavered. And disappeared.
“What did he mean by that?” he asked quietly.
“It means all is forgiven.” She lifted their joined hands to her cheek, rested her face on his strength.
“It means we go on from here and do the best we can do.”
“That I can manage.” He gathered her close, pressing her against his broad chest and rocking her gently as the others ringed the bonfire once again.
Strike and Leah, Nate and Alexis, and Rabbit and Myrinne paired off, the mated couples wrapping together while the other magi and the winikin stood apart and alone. They watched the fire burn down, even knowing that Ambrose’s spirit had passed onward. Sasha suspected each of them saw something slightly different in the flames—scenes of the past, of futures near and far.
She had fulfilled three-quarters of the prophecy: She’d become a daughter of the sky, a ch’ulel; She’d conquered death, bringing Rabbit, Michael, and Lucius back from the brink; and she’d defied love—or at least what she’d thought she’d known about what she wanted when it came to falling in love—by claiming Michael for her own despite all the reasons they made no sense together. As for the lost son . . . well, time would tell.
The next six months would be critical. They needed to call the Triad, deal with Moctezuma, and figure out where the Banol Kax would strike next. Each of those things seemed an insurmountable obstacle in isolation. In sum, they could be seen only as impossible. Yet rationality said that a dozen magi wouldn’t be enough to save the world when the prophecies spoke of hundreds. So far they might not be kicking ass, but they were holding their own. Over the next few months, the next three years, they would continue to do the same.
“It’s not going to be easy,” Sasha whispered, pushing slightly away from Michael’s chest so she could see the firelight play on his face. “The next few years, I mean.”
“No, it’s not. But whatever happens, we’re in it together.” He tapped the ring, the symbol he’d known she needed, and had come to need himself. “That’s a promise.”
She smiled up at him, touched her lips to his. “I like the sound of that.”
The next three years—and the future beyond—were wreathed in shadows and darkness. But she had a family now, and a lover. A fiancé. There was strength in that, and power. And, in the beginning and the end, there was love. And it was in that love she wrapped herself as stars prickled in the sky and the fire burned low, leaving the Nightkeepers in gathering darkness, standing together as a team, as a family.
Her family.
Read on for a sneak peek at the next book
in the Final Prophecy series
by Jessica Andersen,
DEMONKEEPERS
Coming from Signet Eclipse in April 2010.
Skywatch
It was almost full dark when Strike materialized himself and Jade beneath the ceiba tree. The mansion was only dimly lit, making it seem far away, while the stygian silhouette of the training hall loomed very near. But despite the darkness, Jade appreciated the king’s tact; the absolute last thing she wanted to do was see the others. She wasn’t sure she could handle doing the Hi, how have you been routine right now, as she’d been gone nearly ten weeks, taking a crash course in ancient Mayan glyphs and language . . . and getting some distance.
Yeah, she’d needed the miles. At that, she’d still be far from Skywatch if it hadn’t been for Strike’s message. She wasn’t sure which was worse: the secondhand booty call, or the fact that she’d volunteered for it. It’s the right thing to do , she reminded herself. Lucius needs to trigger the Prophet’s powers, and he’s not getting it done on his own. This isn’t about us; it’s about the magic.
More, it was her chance to be on the front lines for a change.
“Okay,” she said under her breath. “Here goes everything.”
But when she headed for the mansion, thinking to sneak in through a side door, Strike shot out a long arm and aimed her in the other direction. “He moved into one of the cottages a couple of months ago. Said the mansion made him feel claustrophobic after being trapped inside his own head for so long.”
“Oh.” She tried not to let that rattle her, even though when she’d pictured what was going to happen, she’d always envisioned being in the safely familiar three-room suite a few doors down from her own.
Not a big deal, she told herself. It’s just a change of scenery . Experience, both as a woman and as a therapist, had taught her that people didn’t fundamentally change; only peripherals did. Human, Nightkeeper—it didn’t matter. Some people were good, some bad, most a mixture of the two. She knew Lucius, trusted him. Wasn’t scared of him. She could do this.