Until that moment, she hadn’t consciously thought about what she was going to do next . . . but she had been headed for the garage. Claustrophobia gnawed at her beneath the too-open desert sky. She wanted to move, keep moving, not let herself get tied down to something that was only going to get worse. She needed some distance, some perspective. Let Strike and the others deal with this. I’m in way over my head. She looked past him, unable to meet his eyes, and her gaze was caught by the brass plaque beside the main door. It had been Leah’s way of christening Skywatch, which had simply been known as “the training compound” before her arrival. The sign was etched with the image of a world tree, with three words below it: Fight. Protect. Forgive. She could do the first two. She wasn’t sure about the third.
After a long pause, she said, “What do you want from me, Dez?”
“I’m asking you not to run away again.”
Fury flooded her. “You son of a bitch. I’ve never run away from a fight that was worth fighting.” Which was true. By the time she ran away from home, away from him, she had already lost.
“So don’t run away from this one. And don’t run away from me.” He moved in and, when she refused to flinch, touched her cheek. “I’ve learned my lesson, Reese. I’m not holding off anymore. The situation isn’t perfect—in fact, it fucking sucks. But I haven’t done anything wrong this time . . . and I’m not backing off.”
Son of a bitch. Surprise roared through her at the realization that he actually thought he could play her, that he could—
Kiss her.
He covered her mouth with his before she could brace or defend. His lips were hard, quick and clever; his tongue didn’t ask, it demanded. But if he was angry—with the situation, with her—then she was far angrier. Lust and fury mixed and amped, setting her aflame. She told herself to pull away, crack him in the jaw, knee him in the balls, make him pay for making her want to weep, rage, and scream. But the heat flared higher, bringing the crackle of magic. And instead of pulling away, she moved in.
She kissed him back, openmouthed and searching, got a handful of his shirt and pulled him closer. Their lips and tongues clashed, teeth nipped a sting of pain, a taste of blood, dark and inviting.
He broke the kiss, groaned her name, and pressed his forehead to hers. He was breathing hard, his eyes desperate. “Please, don’t give up on me, Reese. Not now, when I’m trying to do the right thing.” And he meant it, she knew. Problem was, he saw the world through serpent-colored lenses . . . and he could talk himself into almost anything.
She shook her head, pulled away. “I can’t do this. I can’t go through it all again.” And, tears clouding her vision, she did what she had just claimed she never did. She ran.
Dez let her go. He didn’t know what else to do, what else to say that would convince her he was telling the truth. You can’t, a whisper said deep in his soul. Either she believes in you or she doesn’t. He told himself not to blame her, that he’d given her a thousand reasons not to trust him, and only a few on the other side. He had hoped those few would be enough, though. Maybe not.
“Godsdamn it,” he said hollowly as she headed around the corner of the garage. And was gone.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Reese ran until she couldn’t anymore, then walked, pressing the heel of her hand into her cramped side. The winter sun shone down on her, making her light-headed. Or maybe the spins came from the endless expanse of sky above the canyon, which trapped her without walls or promises.
Sure, she could snag one of the Jeeps and start driving, but she would take way too much baggage with her—knowledge of Iago, Anna’s warning, the serpent staff, the end-time war, all of it. How could she leave that behind, knowing that she could help? More, how could she abandon this odd group of strangers who had become her friends?
From the day she turned down the Denver cops’ offer to relocate her and became an informant instead, refusing to let the Cobras win, she had been trying to make a difference. What was more, she had almost always been part of a team. She had drifted on the outskirts of those teams, it was true—as both a snitch and a bounty hunter—but there had been others around her, people who were also trying to make the world a better place. She had lost that when she went private, with her jobs becoming a one-man show and Fallon easing her out of cop work “for her own good.” Stumbling onto the Nightkeepers’ world had changed all that, though. She was part of a team here; she could make a difference.
She couldn’t walk out on them, on what they were doing. That was a no-brainer. But she could work from anywhere, which meant that the decision to stay wasn’t nearly so simple. Not when things had suddenly gotten far too complicated. Even if she stayed, even if she gave Dez the chance he had asked for, on some level she would always be watching him, waiting for him to make a move against Strike. How could she be with him like that? But she didn’t think she could stay at Skywatch and not want to be with him, because when he had kissed her just now it had felt like she was his entire focus, like nothing else existed in that moment except the two of them. Finally.
Damn it, Dez. How freaking typical of him that when he finally got it, when he finally wanted her so much that he didn’t give a crap about anything else, it was in a situation like this.
When the trail she’d been stomping along doubled back, she stopped, blinking up at the back wall of the box canyon. She hadn’t meant to hike this far, at least not consciously. Now though, something tugged at her, drawing her onward.
Off to one side, the library door stood open, inviting her in. She could go in and begin searching for the mountain temple Keban had mentioned, getting a head start on Jade and Lucius. That was something real and tangible she could do, something that would put off the decisions she needed to make.
It wasn’t the library she was being drawn to, though. The world spun gently around her as her feet—which suddenly seemed very far away from her head, as though the top and bottom of her had become disconnected somehow—carried her up the path to the pueblo. On one level, she was getting worried—was she dehydrated, feverish, suffering some new aftereffect of the makol bite? The larger part of her, though, was caught up in the sudden swirling conviction that she needed to do this, that it was important. Come on, the mud-daubed walls seemed to beckon. This way.
She found herself in one of the rooms where opposite walls were carved and painted with the squiggly petroglyph lines that might be water, might be wind, might be serpents. Dizzy and suddenly very tired, though she had really been up for only an hour or so, she put her back to the wall and slid down, so she was sitting with the serpent symbols right above her. The air was warm, the sun a honey-colored reflection from another room, making everything putty colored and soft, as her eyes . . . drifted . . . shut.
She awoke moments later, but she wasn’t really awake. She was dreaming. She had to be, because there was a see-through warrior sitting opposite her, beneath the second set of petroglyphs.
He was timeworn, careworn, his face weathered, his skin tough, but even in his translucent state she could see that his hair was dark, with only a few threads gone gray. Wearing a brown robe worked with intricate patterns of beads and feathers, along with flat jade prosthetics designed to exaggerate his nose and sloping forehead, he struck a halfway point between Mayan and Hopi. His eyes were wholly black, with no whites at all, and his forearm was marked with the glyphs of the serpent and the warrior.
A tremor ran through her at the realization that either this was a really vivid dream . . . or she had been shanghaied by one of Dez’s ancestors.