To his surprise, it wasn’t difficult to push the Other back; it seemed sated from the kill, and the magic. Gods, the magic. He could still feel the echo of mad silver power, the thundering might. It fascinated and repelled him, called to one side of him and scared the shit out of the other. When it was gone, he was left empty and all but powerless, with only the faint hum of red-gold Nightkeeper magic to lean on. And that was a problem. Where before he’d been able to manage the postmagic crash that followed big spell casting, now he felt it hammering down on him, threatening to black him out even though he and Sasha were far from safe.
“Keep it together,” he gritted through clenched teeth, summoning the last of his reserves. With the rattle of foreign magic gone, he could hear the sounds of battle from out in the hallway, forcibly reminding him of what Iago had said about the place cratering, suggesting that he’d set a self-destruct mechanism.
Save Sasha, he reminded himself, going back to basics when nothing else made sense. She’s the priority.
Summoning the last of his reserves, he bent and got his arms around Sasha. She was warm and lax in his arms, solid and real. The feel of her centered him as nothing else had, which was ironic, considering that it was his rampaging desire for her that had breached his defenses in the first place.
Iago had implied she was the key to his transformation, whatever that was, and Michael was afraid the change had already begun. He felt dark and angry, like he could kill the world even with the Other locked away.
Holding her close, he breathed in her scent, felt it seep into him, lighting the darkness and pushing the impulse away. For now.
Then, knowing the fight wasn’t over—not by a long shot—he shifted her to his shoulder. Then, cradling her with one arm and wielding a single autopistol with a half-full clip in his other hand, he stepped through the doorway, took in the situation at a glance, and opened fire.
Killing the gray-robes was far too easy.
The closest group went down without a sound, without even knowing they had an enemy behind them until it was too late. They had been ranged across the hallway, firing to keep the Nightkeepers pinned down in an alcove while their reinforcements came up from the other side. The moment Michael neutralized the cover fire, the Nightkeepers burst from their scant shelter and took out the second team with a combination of jade-tips and fireballs. Michael swayed. “Hurry,” he rasped. “Iago triggered some sort of self-destruct.” There was no sign of the enemy mage; he’d fled the scene, leaving the last of his troops behind.
“She okay?” Strike asked with a dubious look at Sasha.
“Overwhelmed. I thought asleep was better than hysterical.” Which was true, though not the way the king would assume.
“Let’s get the hell out of here, then.” Strike clapped Michael on the shoulder, nearly flattening him.
“Good job.”
You have no fucking idea , Michael thought with zero humor as he followed the others into the temple of the maize goddess.
There, the magi stared down at what was left of the red-robe’s body.
Strike shot Michael a look from beneath lowered brows. “Did Iago do this?”
Now, as before, Michael ran into a mental barrier he hadn’t put there, one that tugged at his magic and his instincts and told him that no matter what, he couldn’t tell them what he was. It wasn’t just fear of their reactions, either. There was something bigger at stake here, something he didn’t yet understand. Worse, he didn’t know whether it was the light or dark half of himself making the call. He just knew that there was only one possible answer to Strike’s question. And it was a lie. “Yeah, it was Iago. His magic misfired.”
“Shit.” Strike stared at the charred, grasping hand a moment longer, then gestured for the magi to join up for the ’port. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” When the magi were uplinked, Strike said, “Sorry, gang. I need everything you’ve got.” He leaned hard on the blood links, sucking every last bit of red-gold magic from each of the Nightkeepers, wringing them dry.
Michael’s vision grayed. “Son of a—” he began, but got cut off midcurse. The ’port magic triggered and the world slid sideways. As they zapped out, a terrible explosion rocked the compound. Michael felt the scorch of the blast as the last few molecules of him were sucked into the barrier, traveling along the edge of the energy flow.
Then Strike found his ’port lock, yanked the thread, and dumped them all out in the middle of the great room back at Skywatch.
Michael landed flat-footed and nearly pancaked it then and there, but managed to keep himself upright somehow, gutting it out because he couldn’t collapse until he knew Sasha was safe.
Easing her off his shoulder, he deposited her more or less gently on a nearby couch, and slurred the words that would rescind the sleep spell. She didn’t awaken.
Panic spiked as he said the words again, louder and with actual diction. Still nothing. “Come on, come on!” he hissed under his breath, shaking her a little. Nausea spiked when her head lolled. “She’s not coming around. What’s wrong?” Had she caught the edge of the silver magic? He touched her throat, reassured himself that her pulse was steady and true, her skin warm. But still, she didn’t wake.
He said the spell again, didn’t feel the slightest hint of red-gold power, even when he dug deep. He was toast.
His vision tunneled to the sight of her face, soft yet strong in repose, her dark lashes forming twin smudges on her cheeks. She wasn’t coming around, godsdamn it.
Someone caught his arm, tried to pull him away. He rounded with a feral snarl, grabbing his assailant. “Get the fuck—” He broke off when he recognized Tomas, and realized he’d nearly pitched his winikin across the room. He had to get himself under control, damn it. The world hazed muddy red as he looked down into the winikin’s narrow, pious face and gray, almost colorless eyes. “Don’t give up on her too,” he ordered, voice low and dangerous. “Don’t you fucking give up on her.”
Something flickered in Tomas’s face—something that might have been hope. The winikin nodded.
“I’ll see to her. You can trust me.”
And the damned thing was, Michael knew that despite everything they’d said to each other—and there had been a shit-ton of it—he did trust Tomas, in this, at least. “Don’t let anyone question her until I get back,” he ordered as the muddy grayness closed in on him.
Tomas frowned. “Where are you going?”
“Away,” Michael answered. And, with his soul aching from the burden of his lies, and the knowledge that the last thing Sasha needed was a man with a monster inside him, he finally gave himself permission to pass the hell out. As he slid into the darkness, he heard Sasha’s voice in his head, echoing from the moment they were first joined as lovers. It’s okay, she’d said.
Only it wasn’t. Not anymore.
♥ Uploaded by Coral ♥
PART II
LUNAR APOGEE
The moment when the moon is farthest from the earth. A time of reversal.
CHAPTER SIX
Six and a half years ago Quantico, Virginia
The e-mail had been carefully devoid of information, giving Michael nothing more than a time—
midnight—and a meeting place in Hogan’s Alley. Which set off all his internal alarms. He might’ve thought it was from Esmee, the hottie trainee he’d been in heavy flirt mode with since his arrival in Quantico, except that the e-mail address belonged to his superior’s superior, who he highly doubted was looking for a quickie behind the post office. So he set out on schedule, and watched his back.