That was it, she realized, understanding at last what she was looking for, what she needed from him.
“Why aren’t you arguing with me?”
His expression flattened. For a second, she thought she saw a flash of something silver and ominous. “Maybe because I’m used to women going for the shiny exterior, then fading on me when the newness wears off.”
Now he was trying to piss her off. She could see it in his eyes. But she also saw something else, something that made her wary as she said, “It’d take more than a week for me to get tired of your body, dipshit, and you damn well know it. Try again. Why aren’t you fighting me?” Why aren’t you fighting for me?
“Because we both know I’ll lose. You’ve made your decision. Now do us both a favor and finish it, will you?” He sounded bored with the conversation. It was only because she knew him as well as she did that she saw the hollow anger beneath. But that wasn’t enough for her anymore, not this time. She was through looking for the scraps and interpreting the hints, using her imagination to fill in the words. He’d promised not to lie to her anymore. But he wasn’t telling her the whole truth, either
“I will. I am.” It hurt to say, but in the way of lancing a wound. “And you know the funny thing? It’s not really about the day-to-day thing, or even how the Mictlan hangs over all of it. I’m through waiting around for a man to care enough to fight. Ambrose let me go. Saul wished me luck. And you . .
. I thought you were a hunter, the sort of guy who’d track his prey and fight off his competitors. But you’re not. You’re . . . hell, I don’t know what you are, except that I can’t tell if you want me because you want me, or if I’m just as convenient as Jade was.”
She paused, looking for a spurt of anger to match her own, and not finding it. Waiting for the fight that didn’t come.
“Well. I guess that’s my answer.” She turned away, willing back the tears. “I’ll see you around. And don’t worry: I won’t stalk you. You have anything else you want to say, you know where to find me.
Otherwise, I’ll see you this afternoon for the final prep meeting.”
He didn’t say a damn thing as she exited the bedroom with her head high and her throat tight with unshed grief. And as the door closed behind her, he didn’t call her back.
Heartsore, not wanting to be in her rooms, not wanting to see anyone else, Sasha headed for the greenhouse, drawn to the nonjudgmental company of growing things that demanded nothing more from her than soil and water and a soft touch.
After assuring herself the greenhouse was empty, she let herself into the space that had become hers and Jox’s together, and headed along the winding cement pathway through the indoor orchard to a small raised bed. There, she’d planted her cacao seedlings a couple of weeks earlier, agonizing over their fragile roots and leaves, urging them to dig in and thrive. So far, the plants struggled onward, not thriving but not all the way giving up, either. They clung to life, but were making little headway.
I can relate to that. Settling down beside the raised bed, leaning against the sturdy masonry that made up its sides, she folded her arms atop the moist, fertile soil and dropped her forehead to her glyph-marked forearm.
She felt hollow and very alone. She was surrounded by family, by people who cared for her, who would endanger themselves to save her. Once, she would’ve thought that would be more than enough for her. Now, having experienced the heights that she and Michael could achieve together, and glimpsed what she thought was his true self, the man she wanted for her own, she couldn’t be satisfied with mere support. She wanted more.
She wanted the magic, damn it.
A tear slid free, then another, though she didn’t give in to the sobs that would have liked to come.
After a while, when the few tears had dried on her face, she became aware of movement nearby—a leafy brush, a rustling breeze in the closed space. Magic prickled across her nape, and she caught a wisp of song, though the radio was off.
She lifted her head. And froze at the sight of the young, strong plants surrounding her. Where just a few minutes earlier the cacao seedlings had been thin and borderline sickly, now they were thick and dark green, and several inches taller than before.
“Magic,” she whispered, realizing she’d made them grow, given them life. But if so, why did she feel so damned empty? She ached with lethargy, felt drained. Sighing, she pressed her head back down onto her forearms. Then, feeling safe and warm, and surrounded by the innocent love of growing things, though not of the man she wanted, she slept.
After Sasha left, Michael sat naked on the edge of the mattress for a long time. Not because he was aimless, but because he was fighting for fucking control of his head.
He didn’t know if Rabbit’s mental blocks and his own control were failing in the face of the increase in magic that came with the solstice, or if there was something else going on, but he’d barely hung on to himself as Sasha faced him down, almost didn’t remember what he’d said. He’d known only that he needed to get her out of there, fast.
The old barriers had reared up, not letting him tell her what was happening, leaving her to think he didn’t care. Then again, some of what she’d said was right on the mark—he hadn’t fought for her, didn’t intend to. He’d tried fighting with Tomas and that had never made a damn bit of difference.
He’d argued with Esmee when she’d left him in the middle of his programming, trying hold on to the one familiar thing he’d had in a shifting life. He’d fought the Other and barely drew a stalemate, one that had needed to be renegotiated over and over again. Same with the women after Esmee. He’d learned the lesson often and welclass="underline" He could kick ass, but if he couldn’t throw a punch it wasn’t worth having the fight. It just made everyone involved miserable, and didn’t change the outcome one iota.
The knowledge burned within him, dark and resentful. Get a grip, he told himself, finally rousing from his fugue, only to realize it was later than he’d thought, nearly late morning. “Get off your lazy, fucked-up ass,” he growled, but didn’t move right away. He was dizzy and disoriented. And this didn’t feel like the Other’s work. It felt like something else entirely.
He needed to eat, that was all. He was strung up, depressed, and dumped. He needed coffee. He needed a kick in the ass.
Dragging himself to his feet, he headed for the bathroom. And froze just inside the door at the sight of the face that looked back at him from the mirror.
It wasn’t him. It was Rabbit, in full-on sneer mode, his eyes hard and wild.
Rabbit, he thought, his heart clutching. No. Oh, gods, no.
The target will reveal itself when it’s time , Tomas had said. When that happens, the clock starts ticking. You’ll have nine hours to make the kill.
Unbidden, unwanted, the Other slipped into him, chilling his heart to stone. Under the influence of his alter ego, Michael checked the time automatically, methodically, like the executioner he was. It was just past eleven a.m. He had until eight that night to take out his target. And his right forearm bore a faint shadow: that of a hollow-eyed skull.
But even as his body went through the motions, his mind rattled inside his skull.
Rabbit. Shit. Sullen, pain-in-the-ass Rabbit, a loose cannon who was potentially more powerful than the rest of them put together, and who’d helped save Michael’s sanity when he otherwise would’ve come undone for good. Sure, the kid—man, whatever—had the potential to torpedo the end-time war.