Final Prophecy 05 - Blood Spells (30 page)

“None taken.”

“Come on.” Brandt pulled Patience away from the group. But instead of heading straight for their suite, he detoured them to the main kitchen. At her sidelong look, he said, “Don’t know about you, but I’m starving. And I’d like some privacy.”

But where for so long when he’d said “privacy,” he’d really meant “time alone,” now he meant “time alone with you.”

Swallowing against the sudden press of emotion, she nodded. Together, they raided Jox’s supplies for enough food to fix a simple meal of the sort they had cooked together back in Pittsburgh, in the pretty starter house with the chrome toaster and Formica countertops. She was aware that the meeting continued on in their absence, with Strike and Leah discussing contingencies for the solstice-eclipse, while Lucius and Jade conferred with Rabbit about something that lit the younger man’s expression with a wary hope that was mirrored in Myrinne’s face.

But although she was aware of those things, she was also very aware of Brandt, and the way he moved around the kitchen and nearby storeroom and walk-in cooler, juggling the veggies and packaged chicken breasts she’d handed him while cruising the small wine selection and picking a chardonnay.

A small bubble of privacy seemed to separate them from the others, just like it used to out in the outside world, when—especially before they had Harry and Braden—they had often shopped like this, not even really talking about what they were going to make, partly because they were letting it evolve from their choices, and partly because they had been so in tune that they hadn’t needed the words. They might not have recognized it as magic back then, but it had certainly been magical.

Now that same sense of simpatico bound them together as they finished “shopping” and headed for their suite.

Was it love? She wasn’t sure anymore what that felt like. But for the first time in a long, long time, she didn’t feel a pinch of grief when she opened the door. Instead, there was building anticipation.

As they cooked, they shared a glass of wine a sip at a time. The suite’s kitchen nook was a tiny space, but instead of that being an irritation as they bumped into each other, it increased the sense of intimacy that grew as they traded off the wineglass, or reached around each other for ingredients and utensils. As they built a meal of chicken stir-fry, fresh vegetables, tortillas, and cool garnishes of the guac and sour cream variety, they traded “remember-whens” about the boys, making them seem very near.

When the food was ready, she carried their plates to the dining table, which hadn’t been used for anything but clutter since Harry, Braden, and the
winikin
had moved away. Brandt had cleared it off and set two places, complete with candles. As she set down the plates, she saw that he’d added an off-center center-piece: a framed photo he had taken of Harry, Braden, Hannah, and Woody all working on one of the Lego fortresses that had been the boys’ shared passion—Harry’s because of the engineering involved in building them, Braden’s because of the fun in knocking them down.

Her eyes filled as she sat.

Half filling a second wineglass for himself, Brandt handed over the one they’d been sharing, then held his glass out to her, inviting a toast. “To family.”

She blinked back the tears as she clinked her glass to his. “To family.”

They ate largely in silence, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable quiet. It was more that they were both tired of talking about the situation, tired of thinking about it. For the moment, they were both content to just
be
, and to do it together.

Patience suspected that the soft, intimate sense of calm probably came from a strange, delayed sort of postmagic crash, one that smoothed over the rough spots rather than making them sleepy. Or maybe this was what it felt like to be a true warrior couple, bound together in danger, yet able to compartmentalize and focus on each other when time allowed.

Later, after they had tag-teamed the dishes and showered in comfortable sequence, they met without prearrangement at the foot of the big bed in the master bedroom. He had pulled his jeans back on after his shower, and wore unbuttoned one of his old work shirts, a tailored oxford gone soft with age. She had thought about wearing one of the sexy nightgowns he used to love, but instead had gone with the silky, comfortable robe she’d bought recently to please only herself.

His eyes fired at the sight of her in the pale amber robe. His lips curved as he closed the small distance between them, and swept her up into his arms.

Letting herself fall for the moment, she sank against his strong body and slid her hands up beneath his open shirt as he carried her around to his side of the bed, bringing his lips to hers as he lowered her to the yielding mattress. He followed her down without breaking the kiss, and they twined together atop the covers partly clothed, partly naked, and fully involved in each other.

Their lovemaking was a mix of fast and slow, rough and gentle, new and old, and entirely in the moment . . . because neither of them wanted to think about the future.

 

One day until the solstice-eclipse

 

Brandt woke alone to find that Patience’s side of the bed was cool to the touch, and the sun was bright beyond the blue curtains. There was no fuzzy transition between asleep and awake, no moment of wondering what day it was or what he had on his to-do list. Instead, he snapped to consciousness acutely aware that, in sleeping as long as he had, he’d burned through hours he could’ve spent in the library, trying to find a way around the Akbal oath . . . or spending time with Patience.

It was a surprising reality check that those two options were equally tempting. He had a feeling this was what she wanted from him: not for him to subsume his duties as a Nightkeeper so much as for him to put her equal to those responsibilities.

In the outside world, she’d been fond of saying,
I’m a chick. We multitask.
Maybe it was his turn to figure out how to do that. If they made it through tomorrow . . .

His thought process ground to a halt, hung up on that “if.”

“We’ll make it,” he grated with the force of a vow. He didn’t know how, though, or what it might cost them.

And he wasn’t going to figure it out lying in bed.

Hauling himself upright, he hit the can, pulled on the jeans and oxford she’d peeled him out of the night before, along with his boots and knife, and headed for the main mansion. He found her in the great room, along with most of the team and the
winikin
, all scattered over chairs and couches with coffee cups at their elbows, wolfing down an army’s worth of chocolate-chip pancakes. Sasha and Michael were up in the kitchen, working on another batch. Michael sketched a wave in Brandt’s direction. “Go sit. I’ll hook you up.”

“Thanks. And may I say you wear your apron well? For an assassin, that is.” The apron in question belonged to Jox; it had dancing chili peppers on it and came down to approximately the level of Michael’s crotch.

“Don’t push it.”

“I take my coffee light. Keep it topped off and I’ll double your tip.”

“Here’s a tip for you: Stuff a jock in it, or you’re not getting shit.”

“Ha.” Satisfied, Brandt turned for the conversation pit. And stopped when he found pretty much everyone staring at him. “What?”

Patience set aside her plate, stood, and crossed to him, then faced the group with a sardonic grin that briefly lit the stress shadows in her eyes. “I’d like you all to meet my husband, Brandt White-Eagle.” She paused. “Brandt, this is everyone.”

He got it then. “Have I been that much of an asshole?”

Sven shook his head. “Not an asshole so much. You’ve just been . . . preoccupied. Or maybe ‘absent’ is a better word. You do the job and then some, but you don’t connect. Didn’t connect, I mean.”

He stood there for a moment, feeling like a complete dick, hating that the others had been affected by the disconnect, and wondering just how much he had screwed up team morale. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“A man can’t be himself when he’s fighting something inside him,” Michael said from up in the kitchen.

“You would know.” That wasn’t a joke, either. Michael had fought through his own hidden demons not long ago.

“Yeah. And I’m here if you ever need to decompress.” The other man grinned evilly. “We could go out to the range. That usually works for me.”

The offer was strangely appealing, though there was no question that Michael would kick his ass on the target course. “Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.” Aware that the others had gone back to their conversations, Brandt lowered his voice and said to Patience, “How are you doing?”

She looked away. “I’m okay. Hoping we can figure something out.”

He scanned the room. Nate and Alexis were still off guarding Anna, and Rabbit and Myrinne didn’t seem to have made it up yet. The others were all present and accounted for, though. “Anybody had any brilliant ideas yet?” he asked.

“We’re still at the pancake stage. I only just got out here myself.” She still wasn’t looking at him.

“I figured you’d been up for a while.”

“I took a cup of coffee out on the patio and watched the sunrise.” She hesitated. “It’s part of my morning routine.”

It was also something they used to do together. Now she did it alone. More, he thought he knew why she hadn’t woken him. There had been too many fresh starts over the past two and a half years, too many times when he’d promised to be there for her, only to revert. Was it any wonder she hadn’t wanted to wake him, in case he’d turned back into that guy overnight? Gods knew it’d happened before.

“Maybe I could meet you out there tomorrow morning,” he suggested casually.

Her lips curved. “It’s a date.”

It was also, he thought, a start.

“Sit,” Michael ordered, coming up behind him. “Unless you’d rather wear this?”

Seeing that he was balancing two pancake-piled plates and a couple of cups of coffee—one light, one black as tar—Brandt relieved him of a plate and the non-paint-peeling coffee, and followed Patience to the love seat.

As Michael and Sasha settled themselves, Strike asked Brandt, “Anything you want to add to what you told us last night?”

“Wasn’t that enough?” But Brandt knew what the king was asking. He shook his head. “I’ve got all the memories. Now it’s going to be a case of figuring out what we can do with them. If anything gels, I’ll tell you.”

“Do that.” Strike turned to Lucius, who was hacking away at something on his laptop, fingers flying. Seeing that he was in full-on glyph-geek mode and oblivious to the outside world, the king threw a balled-up napkin, bouncing it off his forehead. “Yo, Doc.”

Lucius straightened and looked around, blinking in surprise. “What? Oh, sorry. This glyph string is . . . right. Never mind. And don’t call me Doc. My thesis defense was a train wreck.”

“Largely because the head of your committee was Xibalban.” But Strike waved the point off. “What have you got for us?”

“Is Rabbit coming?”

Strike shook his head. “He and Myrinne didn’t crash until like an hour ago. He was up late working on disguising the classified stuff in his head.”

Lucius said, “Well, send him my way when he wakes up. I think we found something that’ll help him block the mind-link.” He dug under his chair, came up with a wrapped bundle, and shook off the T-shirt wrapping to reveal a circlet of pale jade that was worked so thin that it was almost translucent.

Patience leaned forward. “What is it, some sort of necklace?”

“You’re about a foot too low.” Holding the delicate artifact carefully between his palms, Lucius said, “Turns out the tinfoil-hat wearers aren’t that far off; they’re just using the wrong material to protect their brain waves. They should be wearing jade. With this”—he set the circlet on his head, where it perched awkwardly—“the hellmagic shouldn’t be able to get through to him.”

“Nice work,” Brandt said.

Lucius removed the diadem and stared at it for a moment. “I’m still figuring out how to be an effective Prophet, obviously. Now that I’ve got this thing, it seems ridiculously obvious. You guys use jade-tipped bullets and jade grenades to neutralize creatures of dark magic, so it makes sense that something like this could work.” He paused. “We’ll need to field-test it, of course. I can’t guarantee it’ll work against Iago, given that he’s got a demon riding shotgun in his skull.”

“We’ll set something up once Rabbit’s awake,” Strike confirmed. “How did you guys do on the Akbal oath?”

Brandt was aware that Patience’s fork hesitated halfway to her mouth, then slowly lowered to her plate. He almost said,
Don’t get your hopes up.
Now that the memory block was fully demolished, he remembered the hours he’d spent online and in the library, researching all the religious oaths he could find, looking for a way to break them.

Lucius shook his head. “Sorry.”

Patience let out a long, slow breath. “Did you find
anything
?”

“No. And that doesn’t make any sense.” Lucius patted the laptop fondly. “Think about it: Akbal is an incredibly common glyph—it’s a day name, and the ancestors were all about their calendars. So going into the library search, I was figuring on getting Google bombed like whoa and damn, because even specifically asking about the ‘Akbal oath’ should’ve pulled hits from most everything related to the concepts of fealty and the calendar.” He paused and spread his hands. “Instead, I didn’t get shit, not even a bunch of random hits. Nothing in the library appears to have the words ‘Akbal’ and ‘oath’ together.”

Strike narrowed his eyes. “Does that mean the oath magic postdates the hiding of the library?” Because their ancestors had folded the library into the barrier to keep its contents safe from the conquistadors, its knowledge cut off in the mid-fifteen-hundreds.

Lucius tipped his hand in a yes-no gesture. “Maybe, but that wouldn’t explain the lack of random hits.”