The king had declared that since the two of them had already proven that their magics were compatible, Michael would be the one to act as her main point of contact during the bloodline ceremony. Michael had argued—rather unflatteringly—against the plan, but had been overruled. The others would all be involved in the spell; she’d need all the power she could get, given that she was attempting a cardinal-day ritual on a noncardi nal day, one that wasn’t a solstice or equinox.
Michael would be her main point of contact, his power the conduit through which she would enter the barrier and gain her bloodline mark. More, they were hoping the additions they’d made to the traditional ritual would enable her to summon her bloodline nahwal. Assuming that Ambrose’s knowledge had been integrated into the nahwal, it might be able to tell her how to find the library.
That was the theory, anyway. And it all hinged on her ability to lean on Michael, his ability to boost her magic. But what if they’d lost that capacity?
She’d barely seen him since that afternoon out at the firing range, but she’d been acutely, achingly aware of him. That was her problem, she knew, her stupidity. But she wouldn’t let herself dwell on it.
Of all the things she’d taken away with her from the year of captivity with Iago, she’d gained a hard-
edged practicality, and the ability to slap a lid on her emotions when she needed to. She didn’t fall into fantasies of her old life anymore, didn’t let herself dream of a man who’d made it clear he didn’t want to be right for her, despite the apparent signs suggesting that the gods intended otherwise, or had at one point. For all they knew, Iago’s destruction of the skyroad had disrupted the gods’ plans on earth, and her and Michael’s destined pairing had been collateral damage.
A brisk knock sounded on the door of her suite, peremptory and forceful. Michael. Despite her best efforts to shield her heart, heat gathered in her core, alongside the nerves. “It’s open.”
He pushed the door inward, but didn’t step over the threshold. Instead, he stayed in the hall, framed in the doorway. He was wearing the same battle armor and fighting clothes he’d had on the first time she’d seen him, along with a floor-length black robe that had long, pointed sleeves and a line of black beadwork around its edges. He looked dark, sexy, and mysterious, and every inch the warrior-priest.
Damn him.
“It’s time,” he said. “You ready?”
She took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah.” She stood, instinctively smoothing down the set of black-on-black combat clothes she wore along with a robe that was similar to Michael’s in style, but in fabric that was the deep blue of a novitiate rather than the black of a mage. Jox had pulled the clothes from storage, where they had been locked since the massacre. She hadn’t asked who they’d belonged to, hadn’t wanted to know then. But now she found herself wondering who had worn the gear before her. Which made her think of the mother she’d never known. Who had she been? What had she been like? Why hadn’t she left Skywatch with Ambrose? Had losing her broken him, or had he been broken before that?
There were too many questions with too few answers, on too many levels, leaving Sasha feeling lost and cut adrift. Then again, she was quickly realizing she wasn’t that far behind the other magi in that regard. They had all come late to the magic, and were struggling in the absence of a solid knowledge base. And they were counting on her to fix that.
She hoped to hell she didn’t let them down.
She crossed the room to face Michael. His eyes were dark with emotion, with secrets, but he didn’t share either with her. Instead, he took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and pressed a kiss to her palm. “I’ll be right there with you. We all will.”
Shit, she thought. Leave it to him to be sweet when she needed it most. Bastard.
Fear of failure crowded close around her: fear of failing herself, failing her new friends, failing Michael . . . hell, even failing Ambrose more than she already had. Her feelings toward him remained complex, but they were softening some as she became more and more a part of Skywatch and began to understand that the writs guiding the Nightkeepers weren’t the same as the mores of modern humanity. The magi lived primarily for their responsibilities to the magic and the war, meaning that sometimes personal desire had to take a backseat to necessity.
But still, that didn’t excuse what Ambrose had done during that last solstice ceremony she’d been with him. The memories of that terrifying night had crowded far too close as she’d prepared for the bloodline ritual.
“What’s wrong?” Michael asked, watching her carefully. When she didn’t answer right away, he let go of her hand, but didn’t move away. “You can talk to me.”
Then why can’t you talk to me ? she nearly asked, but knew there was no point. She should wave him off, say she was fine. But instead she found herself answering. “I left Ambrose because he almost killed me.”
Michael went very still, his eyes intent on hers. “Tell me.”
It was easier than she would have thought to get started, even though she’d never told the story to another living soul. Only she and Ambrose had known what happened that night. “It was the winter solstice when I was almost eighteen. He . . .” She faltered, remembering the fear and pain, and the crushing sense of betrayal. “It was one of his bad times. Knowing what I know now, he must not have realized the barrier was sealed, the magic non-functional. Every cardinal day during my childhood, we blooded our palms and enacted the proper rituals. When I was thirteen, right after I hit puberty in earnest, he put me through the talent ceremony, then got pissed when it didn’t work. After that, I balked, and started trying to talk him into getting help.” She paused, her lips twitching without humor.
“I thought maybe he’d get better if I proved to him that the Nightkeepers didn’t exist. It didn’t work.”
“Your bloodline must be a stubborn one.”
She snorted, and her chest loosened with the realization that Ambrose really was in her past. The knowledge made it easier to go on. “That last time, he didn’t give me a choice. He locked us both in the ritual chamber, which wasn’t unusual. But this time . . .” She faltered. Okay, maybe it wasn’t easy after all. “He held me down and tied my wrists and ankles.” She flashed on a circular room with torches and incense, and a wooden cross in the center of the floor. No, she thought, wrong ceremony .
That was Iago, not Ambrose. “He must’ve figured if a little blood was good, lots would be better, because he opened my wrists and let me bleed out into a bowl filled with oil. The last thing I remember was the smell of my own blood burning.”
“Son of a bitch,” Michael grated. His body had gone hard and tight, his face to stone.
She didn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t. “I don’t know if he meant to sacrifice me and lost his nerve, or if it was a bloodletting that got out of hand. I woke up in the hospital, where everyone acted like I had tried to kill myself. Because, of course, that was what he’d told them.”