credit project for one of her lab classes.
He’d tried to talk her into coming back to Skywatch for the solstice, had even offered to call in a favor with Strike and get him to ’port her there and back, just an overnight. She hadn’t wanted to, though, which had bummed Rabbit out even more. She was drifting, and he didn’t know how to hold on to her without turning into a creepy stalker . . . or using magic on her, which he’d promised not to do.
He reached into the pocket of his jeans and touched the little box he’d been carrying for a couple of weeks now. He’d been waiting for the right moment to give it to her, and now tried not to think the right moment might’ve already passed.
Michael’s breathing hitched, reminding him to keep his mind on the damn job. But what exactly was he supposed to do? The spell was cast—he’d felt the magic. Michael was still bleeding out, though, and now his breathing was getting bad. How far was he supposed to let it go before he pulled the plug? And how, exactly, was he supposed to do that? Reaching out, he touched Michael’s cool flesh, expecting to hear an echo of his consciousness, feel the thread that connected spirit to flesh. He got nothing. Michael wasn’t home anymore; there was no sense of him, no clues where he’d gone or how Rabbit could follow, or bring him back. Shit. Now what? He couldn’t leave Michael, hadn’t brought his cell. How the hell was it that neither of them had brought a damn phone?
Maybe he could go into Michael’s mind, find the connection forged by his sexual liaison with Sasha, and use that to mind-speak to Sasha. That might work. Maybe. But the longer he sat there and thought about it, the more he wondered whether he should blow the whistle. If he did, guaran-fucking-
teed they wouldn’t let him try the spell later. Was that selfish? Maybe. Probably. But like Myrinne said, there wasn’t anyone looking out for their interests at Skywatch except the two of them.
Temptation spiraled, and something inside Rabbit whispered, Do it. You know you want to . It sounded almost, but not quite, like Iago’s voice.
“Shut up,” he said savagely. “You’re not real!” Iago couldn’t get through the wards unless Rabbit initiated contact, and he sure as shit wasn’t doing that. Which meant the voice was his own mind playing tricks on him. It had to be.
Cut yourself, the voice said, feeling somehow oily and dark. The world grayed out, then cut back in, and he found Michael’s knife in his hand, though he was pretty sure he’d set it aside. Cut yourself and go after him. The voice didn’t sound so much like Iago’s now. In a weird-ass way, it sounded like Red-
Boar, except without the insults. He needs your help, it said. The suggestion put a new spin on things.
A rescue mission wasn’t the same thing as deserting his post. The exact opposite, in fact.
Urgency gripped Rabbit, the sudden certainty that Michael was in deep shit and sinking fast. Or was that what he wanted to think, because it called for the course of action he so desperately wanted to take?
Magic hung thick in the air; the spell was still active. All he’d have to do would be to open his wrists. Yeah. He snorted inwardly. That’s all. No biggie.
He’d do it, though. For Michael. For his future with Myrinne. But which thought was motivating him now? Was the voice in his head real, or a figment he was turning into an excuse?
He had to think, had to make the right call. He couldn’t fuck this up; it was too big, too important.
But he had to move fast, because even as he sat there, trying to figure out the right answer, Michael’s chest hitched and his breathing rhythm stuttered. Hitched again. Stuttered.
This was it. He was dying.
Don’t be a pussy. Do something right for once and fucking go after him! That was definitely Red-
Boar’s voice now. And though Rabbit could probably count on one hand the number of times he’d actually done what his father had told him in life, he was inclined to go along on this one. He took two swigs of pulque and got a serious buzz on. He could see and think, but the world was getting pleasantly fuzzed. Took another big swallow and quickly passed to hammered. Swaying, he lifted the knife, set the point against his wrist, and slashed. The pain was far away, but enough to make him want to puke. Instead, he gagged down another swallow of pulque. The world spun and yawed as he took a hack at his other wrist. Blood sprayed. Magic gathered and something went boom in his chest.
For a second he feared it was his heart. Then it didn’t matter because he was sliding, falling. Dying.
In the final instant of consciousness he heard a mocking chuckle, recognized it, and screamed inside because he knew in that moment it wasn’t his father, after all. Hadn’t ever been. It was Iago. Somehow he’d gotten through, grabbing onto Rabbit’s soul.
Bastard! he shouted inside his own head, the rage and fear giving him a precious few seconds more contact with the world outside his failing body. Heart jolting back to a quicker rhythm, he sat halfway up, summoned the magic, and let rip with a hell of a fireball.
It exploded away from him, flew through the round-edged opening leading out of the pueblo ruin, and blasted the fuck-all out of a tree near the edge of the cliff. He felt the blaze and burn, felt the huge, awesome pleasure of destructive magic, and slipped into the darkness of Iago’s hold on him. As he let himself fall, he sent a thought flying along a river of red-gold magic gone somehow gray: Sasha, help us!
Sasha jolted upright from her doze amidst the cacao plants, her mind a confusing jumble of dream images and the sound of her name. “Michael?” she said aloud before she was fully awake. Then she remembered where she was, and why. With a quick, startled glance at her seedlings, which were furry, thriving plants now, she shot to her feet and hurried to the mansion. It was later than she would’ve thought, she realized from the angle of the orange sunlight. Nearly time for the final presolstice meeting, where they would decide whether she and Michael would stay at Skywatch or hang themselves out as bait for Iago. She hoped to hell the royal council would decide on the latter; she wanted another crack at the bastard, this time with her own mage powers, and Michael at her back.
They’d already proven the two of them didn’t need a love bond for them to amp each other’s magic.
Iago wouldn’t know what hit him.
Finding the great room and kitchen empty, she hurried through to the residential wing, her warrior’s talent stirring to life, warning her there was something wrong. It was that warning spurring her on as she pushed through the door to Michael’s suite without knocking, half-afraid of what she would find.
“Michael?” she called. “You in here?” She didn’t get an answer. Hadn’t really expected one. The sixth sense she’d developed when it came to him—a faint hum of magic and a sense of thereness that had come after they’d started sleeping together again—had gone dim inside her, but she didn’t know if that was because she’d given up trying to make their relationship work, or if it meant he was truly gone.
Then she saw the note on his kitchen counter, and had her answer. In square, blocky letters, he’d written: Rabbit is with me. Either all will be well . . . or it won’t. If not, please remember the good stuff, and tell Tomas that he couldn’t have changed this. In the end, what is meant to be will be.