made family, it was her. More, Sasha, Strike, and Anna should be able to uplink and increase one another’s power significantly—the sibling bond wasn’t as powerful as the twin bond or that of a mated pair, but it was meaningful nonetheless. With Strike and Leah’s Godkeeper bond negated by the destruction of the skyroad, Sasha’s ability to amplify the king’s power would be invaluable in battle, since she also wore the warrior’s mark.
Which meant that while there was no denying the power of the sex magic boost she and Michael made together, she didn’t technically need him for the magic anymore. She could lean on Strike or Anna. Michael told himself that should be a relief, that the less she needed him, the better off they all were. He’d gotten away with kissing her to bring them both back out of the barrier, but he had a feeling the Other had been almost . . . toying with him. Like it was waiting for something. But what?
Big surprise, he thought, irritated. More questions, no answers. He shifted against the wall, strung tight with a restless, edgy energy entirely at odds with the postmagic burn he should’ve been feeling.
He wanted to run into the night, wanted to pick a fight, wanted to throw his head back and howl at the moon.
Fuck all that; he wanted sex. He wanted Sasha, hard and fast, tight and wet around him, bowing back, her name tumbling from his lips as he pounded himself against her, poured himself into her, marking her as his own. Lover, killer—he didn’t even totally care which aspect of him got the score, as long as he was buried deep within her, and they were—
Oh, shit, he thought, squeezing his eyes shut as he figured it out. The hormones.
Sasha might have gotten her bloodline and talent marks at the same time, but that didn’t mean she was totally clear of the hormone surges they’d all experienced between their bloodline and talent ceremonies. In fact, from the look of her flushed face and the way she’d suddenly become the center of attention in the kitchen, where Jox was plying her with tamales and some sort of seafood concoction, Michael would’ve bet his left nut she was on the brink of a really compressed version of the pretalent hormone surges. And it was going to be a Very. Long. Night.
Peeling himself away from his wall perch, he took a step in her direction, then made himself stop.
She didn’t need him near her right now. In fact, he should stay the hell away from her for the duration.
You’d rather someone else do the honors? a sly voice said from deep within him. He wasn’t sure if it was the Other or his own black mood talking. Either way, it was a valid point, Michael thought, glaring down at Sven, who’d pried himself off the floor to join the testosterone party in the kitchen.
The other magi were happily mated—they’d soak up some of the sex-magic buzz she was giving off, then take to their own beds. The winikin weren’t sensitive to the magic, so they were safe. But Sven was neither mated nor a winikin. And as Michael watched, he moved in, dipped his head toward Sasha with intimate familiarity, and said something that made her laugh.
Rage flashed through Michael, blinding him. For a second all he could see was Sven’s eyes bugging, his mouth drawing wide in horror; all he could feel was the hammer of the other man’s carotid under his thumbs as he choked the living shit out of the bastard who’d pretended to be his friend, then taken his woman. He—
Oh, shit. I’ve got to get the fuck out of here. Blinking hard in an effort to banish the horrible sensory image and the way it both repulsed and tempted him, Michael spun and headed for the sliders. He nearly plowed over Tomas, who stood in his path.
“Out of my way. I need air.”
The winikin stood fast. “You need food. How about we head over to the kitchen and I can—”
“Not the kitchen,” Michael said, his voice going ragged. “You want me to eat, snag me something and bring it out. You know where I’ll be.” He was pretty sure the winikin had followed him out to the ball court at least once over the past few weeks.
“Do you really care so little for the will of the gods?” the winikin said, eyes narrowing. “I know you too damn well to believe you haven’t picked up on it. She’s for you. Don’t you get that?”
Desire flared so hot that it felt like desperation. “I can’t—” Michael almost got it out that time before the inner shields slammed down, stopping the words in his throat.
Tomas made a disgusted noise, and Michael figured the next thing out of his mouth was going to be a variation on the old, Get your head out of your ass and take some damned responsibility, for gods’ sake! Instead, the winikin fixed him with a look and said, “I want you to promise me something.”
The seriousness of his tone had Michael focusing on the other man. “Maybe,” Michael answered, momentarily distracted by the sound of Sasha’s laugh when Sven—the bastard—said something else to her. He growled. “On one condition. You promise me that once we’re done here, you’ll grab Carlos, and the two of you will get Sven good and drunk. I want him legless until midday tomorrow.
Understand?”
“It’s a deal,” Tomas said immediately.
Reluctantly, Michael refocused on him. “What do you want from me?” The question might’ve started as a reference to the promise at hand, but once it was out there, it somehow expanded to cover so much more than that. Even if he’d been able to talk to Tomas about his work with Bryson, he suspected the winikin still would’ve found fault somehow. There had always been something, going back as far as he could remember. There was perfection. Then, beyond that, there was Tomas. “Let me guess,” he said when the winikin didn’t answer immediately. “You want me to shape up and be a better man. You want me to work harder, try harder. You want me to give what’s between me and Sasha a chance. Better yet, you want me to pair up with her, regardless of what my gut is telling me, just because the signs say we’re meant to be. News flash, winikin: The gods aren’t here anymore. We’re on our own.”
He expected Tomas to bark at him, and was disconcerted when the other man just shook his head, looking sad and strung out. “You’re so much like him. It scares the hell out of me sometimes.”
“Like who? My father? I don’t know why that would scare you. You’ve always made him sound like the model mage, the ideal.”
“He was. I was talking about his brother. Your uncle Jayce.”
Michael zeroed in on him. “I didn’t know I had an uncle Jayce. Let me guess—he was an underachieving disappointment, a general blot on the stone bloodline until he semiredeemed himself by dying for his king during the Solstice Massacre.”
“No, actually. He was a brilliant man, a wicked fighter, and a highly respected mage . . . until the day he killed himself.”
A beat of silence hung between the two men before Michael could bring himself to say, “You think I’m suicidal?”
Maybe not now. But there had been days.
“No. But then again, nobody thought Jayce would kill himself,” Tomas answered. “Least of all his winikin. My father.”
Michael winced. “Oh, shit. Sorry.”
The winikin culture was one of protection and support. It was a winikin’s job to keep his charge alive and functional. Although suicide wasn’t necessarily a sin in the Nightkeeper world—far from it —he had to figure that an unexpected autosacrifice would be seen as the ultimate failure for the suicide’s winikin, whose job it was to keep the magi alive and kicking.