Spellfire (21 page)

The two leaned in together and mugged for the camera, giving a ragged chorus of, “Hi, Mommy! Hi, Daddy!”

“They’re so handsome,” Patience murmured tightening her grip on his hand. “Just like you. But oh, they’re growing up so fast.”

“I know.” He brushed his lips across her temple. “But they’ve got plenty of growing up left to do, and we’re going to be right there with them.”

Harry disappeared from the screen while Braden launched into a story about a winter festival at their school, and how his class had done face painting, while Harry’s had done a ball toss.

Pulling Patience closer against his side, Brandt settled in to enjoy the show, which the ticker at the bottom said was twenty-four minutes long.

Twenty-four minutes to spend with their boys. Gods, how they needed this.

The prior videos hadn’t had any real pattern. One had been shot at a nameless country fair, and had included a now-famous scene of Jox wobbling his way off a roller coaster and doing a near-violent “cut the camera” motion as he headed for some bushes. Another had been on a white-sand beach that could’ve been anywhere on either of the coasts. That was one of the keys to the video editing, that nobody—not even Patience or Brandt—should be able to use the images to figure out where the
winikin
were hiding with the boys.

This was a rare indoor-set video. The background seemed to be their current home, though all that was really visible was a wainscoted wall and a mantelpiece sporting family photos—including one Brandt recognized as having been taken the last time the boys had been at Skywatch, with the whole family in the frame—along with a couple of trophies and Hannah’s trademark bric-a-brac, heavy on the lavender.

Braden was still talking, going on about a bake sale table with huge brownies and the mean lady who had been taking the money, when there was a scuffling noise in the background, then the
thud-thud-thud
of footsteps.

“Got ’im,” Harry’s voice said from off camera. “Did-ja tell them about the booth?”

“I was waiting for you,” Braden said with an eye roll, but then grinned maniacally into the camera. “Like he said, there was a booth at the fair, from the human society. They were doing a ’doption drive!”

“Ahem,” said another voice, interrupting. Braden looked up and shifted aside, and Jox came into view. The former head
winikin
looked good, wearing a long-sleeved green polo, a green baseball hat made to look like a dinosaur’s head, complete with fierce eyes and cloth fangs coming down off the bill, and a shit-eating grin that didn’t look anything like the tense, stressed expression he used to sport 24-7. There were shadows there, yeah—hell, they all had shadows these days. But there was an evil sort of pleasure, too.

Jox leaned in to the camera and said in a stage whisper, “In case you’re wondering, that would be ‘humane society.’ And you can probably guess the rest. For the record, Hannah was the one who caved.”

“Baloney!” An elegant, purple-manicured hand came into the screen and poked him in the shoulder. “You were just as bad as the boys, with the big sad eyes and the ‘we’ll take good care of him’!”

“Uh-oh,” Patience said, covering her mouth with her free hand. “They didn’t.”

Jox disappeared as Harry and Braden both came back into view, hauling between them the squirming body of a half-grown black dog. It looked to be about the size of a cocker spaniel, but had the wiry hair of a schnauzer. Or maybe a Brillo pad. Its feet were fuzzy, its head triangular, and its belly was unappealingly naked.

“They did,” Brandt confirmed.

Harry, who was in charge of the front end, had been holding the pup’s muzzle shut. Now he let go, and the animal let loose with a string of half-hysterical yips, while thrashing its head side-to-side in an effort to lick Harry. Or maybe consume him.

Probably lick, Brandt decided. Jox and Hannah might’ve succumbed to puppy breath, but only if they thought it was safe.

And, what the hell. It seemed like they had a dog, like it or not.

Not that he had anything against the critters. He’d just figured it would be more of a family decision, maybe even a way for them to celebrate all being back together. Not to mention that he’d been envisioning something more along the lines of a Rottweiler.

“I was going to talk to you about getting them a dachshund,” Patience said mournfully.

Brandt’s opinion of the black mutt notched up significantly.

“We were gonna call him Wolfie,” Harry chirped, “but the first day he was here, when we went to buy him a collar and stuff, he got out of his cage, broke Hannah’s big bowl and the purple vase Jox got her for her birthday, ate the garbage out of the kitchen, puked under the dining table and then chewed up Jox’s boots.”

“Only one,” Braden said defensively, hauling the pup into his arms in an awkward hug that left its face smooshed off to one side and one ragged ear sticking straight up. The puppy didn’t look like it cared, though. In fact, it looked like it was having the time of its little life. Either that, or its doggy smile meant it was planning to eat the computer next.

“Jox can’t wear only one shoe,” Harry said with a serious tone of “duh” in his voice. “Anyway, after that, Jox said we should name him after Unc’ Rabbit.”

Now it was Brandt’s turn to say, “Oh, no, they didn’t.” But there was a laugh in his voice.

After Red-Boar’s death, Rabbit had lived with them and had become the boys’ favorite playmate. And to everyone’s surprise, he had taken to them in return. He’d played with them, hung out with them, told them all the old stories, and become their unofficial uncle. So for Harry and Braden to name their puppy after him was a sign of love. For Jox, it was more along the lines of passive-aggressive revenge. And more apropos than ever, now, though the
winikin
wouldn’t know it.

Brandt paused the video and glanced at his wife. “Well,” he said, torn between amusement and horror. “That was unexpected.”

“Yes, it was.” She paused, lips turning up with wry acceptance. “Apparently we’ve got one more dependent to add to the list.”

“Yeah.” He kissed her cheek, tucked her tighter against his side, and tapped the touchpad to unpause things. And, as the video kept going with the boys talking over each other in an effort to describe their efforts to housebreak the new puppy, he inwardly promised the true gods that he was going to do his absolute best to honor his creators and ancestors, fight the enemy, defend the barrier, the earth and mankind . . . and protect his family. Which apparently now included a terminally destructive mutt named Rabbit.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Quarantine camp
Chichén Itzá, Mexico

“Only a couple have left so far, both older, more traditional
winikin
who just couldn’t give up on their gods.” Anna tugged at the edge of the teddy bear blanket, though it wasn’t really wrinkled. She needed to do something, make some sort of contact, yet she didn’t feel like she had the right to hold Rosa’s hand, given that she’d ’ported straight into her room in the middle of the night.

Not that the little girl minded. She was still unconscious and nonresponsive. Waiting for a miracle.

In the soft bluish glow of Anna’s foxfire spell, the child’s face was soft and sweet, yet it carried a trace of hidden mischief that promised a bright and lively little girl, if only she could fight off the virus.

Guilt tugged. “We’re going to do it,” Anna said, keeping her voice down so nobody out in the hall would hear her. “We’re going to renounce the imposters and promise ourselves to the ancestors’ gods, right at Coatepec Mountain, where the bad guys are going to come through the barrier. And then . . . well, I guess we’ll pray for a miracle.” There was a chance—backed up by a couple of papyri—that once they were free of the
kohan
, the true gods would be able to help them.

Maybe. Possibly.

“I know I should be back in the library right now, working on more translations or helping Leah keep up morale, but I just . . . I needed some peace.”

It probably should’ve seemed strange that she would find her peace here, in the middle of illness and death. But it was partly her fault that Rosa was here, and it helped to sit at her bedside, helped to be able to whisper, “I’m going to protect you. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you’re okay after all this.” One way or another. “I’m going to—”

A muffled exchange reached her through the door, bringing her to her feet. She doused the foxfire and ramped up her magic, but her gut—those instincts the warriors swore by—told her not to ’port away this time. Her pulse kicked up a notch. Had her magic sensed danger on the other side of that door? Were the
xombis
mobilizing now that the time was near?

With sudden energy sizzling along her skin, she cast a chameleon spell and stepped into the corner on the other side of the door, where the deepest shadows would be cast by the small camp lantern. Right now, it sat unlit on the cardboard box that had been set up as a nightstand, attesting that the little girl had become a favorite of more than a few staffers.

In a flash, Anna had cataloged the contents of the room and their potential as a distraction or a weapon, and where before the thought process had so often felt awkward and ill-fitting, now it came naturally. And, as the hallway conversation cut out and the doorknob turned, she braced to defend the defenseless.

She didn’t know if the intruder was
xombi
,
makol
, human or what, but it wasn’t getting past her without a fight.

Hidden behind the chameleon shield, she bared her teeth as the door swung open and a small flashlight beam cut into the room, swept it in a casual look-see, and then fixed on the small bump beneath the teddy bears. The door swung shut and the beam headed for the bed . . . and in its reflected light, Anna saw a camp shirt rolled up over strong, tanned forearms, and a body that was sturdy and compact, and moved with an unswerving determination that said “Everything’s okay. I’m here.”

She relaxed and blew out a silent breath. She knew that shirt, knew that arm and that way of moving.
Ah
, she thought.
David
. She didn’t know why she was surprised, why he hadn’t been her first thought when she’d heard the voices out in the hallway. Or maybe he had been and she hadn’t let herself go there. Because now her pulse was drumming with a different sort of adrenaline.

She had seen him a couple of times in the past week, keeping up her pretense of being in the area while deflecting his curiosity. They had also exchanged a half dozen or so e-mails, notes that had started as quick updates on Rosa’s condition and had evolved to snippets of each of their days, with Anna telling half-truths that fit into the life she was supposed to be living, while he talked about being frustrated by the virus, the politics, the buzz about the coming doomsday. And eventually about himself, too. She now knew he’d been divorced for ten years, loved his work, and wasn’t looking to change his lifestyle. She also knew he still wondered about the scars on her wrists and the way Rosa had stopped talking after she’d passed along her message, but he didn’t ask about it. In fact, he didn’t ask anything, really. He just shared himself, slowly and cautiously, but with a quiet openness that drew her in.

It was a very different flirtation than any she’d ever had before, and she was all too aware that most of it was lies, at least on her part. David thought he was talking to an academic on sabbatical, a woman in search of meaning in the wake of a life-changing event. And gods, how she wished that she could’ve been that woman, that it could’ve been that simple.

It wasn’t, though. And she should go.

There wasn’t any danger here; exactly the opposite. She could leave, knowing that Rosa was almost as safe as she would’ve been under Nightkeeper watch. But as David sat in the chair she’d just vacated, not giving any indication that he’d noticed its butt-print warmth, she stayed put, looking at him. Spying on him, really. But this might be the last time she saw him, so she would let herself look her fill.

“See?” he said to the little girl, “I told you I’d be back. You ready to write her another little letter?”

A thrill raced through Anna. Did he mean her?

He dug in the pocket of his lab coat and came up with the little foldaway computer he used—a clever machine with a decent-sized keyboard and the ability to get a satellite uplink almost anywhere, at least according to him. He woke it up, tapped a few keys, and gave a little laugh. “It’s only been twelve hours since the last one. Too much, do you think?”

The thrill turned to giddy, excited warmth, though Anna told herself to take it down a notch. This wasn’t the time to be crushing on her human contact.

If not now, then when?
her inner voice of reason asked.

“Ah, heck,” David said, laughing at himself. “Nothing ventured and all that.” He patted the teddy bears near where Rosa’s hand would be. “I hope you’re taking notes, little one. You’ll need to know this stuff in another ten years or so. And don’t think it’s irrelevant because I’m, well, not as young as I was the first time around, or as young as you’re going to be when you start trying it out for yourself.” He looked down at the scant paunch that just barely overhung his belt, sat up straighter until it went away, and grinned. “Well, anyway. Love makes you goofy, no matter what age it hits.”

Anna’s breath whooshed out, loud enough that she was very glad the chameleon shield cloaked sounds as well as her image. Love? She had been thinking of it as a crush, infatuation, interest . . . but love?

Part of her backpedaled hard and fast, saying,
No way. This is just . . . I don’t know. A distraction. At most, it’s the potential for something more, something to look forward to.
But another part of her yearned toward the word, and toward the idea of a man who wanted her enough to suck in his gut and worry about how long it’d been since his last e-mail.

She stared, drinking him in as he said, “Ah, well. In for a peso, or however that goes,” and started typing out a message.

Her phone weighed suddenly very heavy in her pocket. When was the last time she’d been wanted? When was the last time she had wanted in return? When had she thought about loving and being loved, rather than about the war?

She didn’t remember . . . and she didn’t remember it feeling like this before.

With Dick, it had been more about being awed by his quick mind and caustic wit, and feeling so very
normal
when she was with him. Their love had evolved in a series of kite-flying dates—he designed and built them when he wasn’t being a brilliant economist—and their marriage had stayed solid for more than a decade. Eventually, though, infertility had undermined the foundation, boredom and lack of communication had knocked out more of the bricks, and his infidelity had eventually brought down the walls. Or maybe her being a Nightkeeper had more to do with it than she wanted to admit. She didn’t know anymore, wasn’t even sure she cared.

She had truly loved Dick while it lasted. But even back when she’d been falling for him, her feelings for him hadn’t been anything like this. They hadn’t hit her like a funnel cloud of champagne, surrounding her with fizzy, tickling bubbles and making her head spin. And they sure as heck hadn’t made her want to tell him the truth about her, about everything.

Don’t even think it
.

Maybe she was projecting. Maybe this was one of those, “I’m being deployed tomorrow, let’s shag,” impulses she’d heard about. Maybe when the day after tomorrow dawned—and, damn it, she would let herself believe there would
be
a day after tomorrow—she wouldn’t be dying to catch him alone and really touch him, more than just the casual brush of bodies in passing. It was so frustrating to feel that contact through the protective gear he still insisted she wear, even though the virus appeared to have entered stasis. She wanted to lose those layers, wanted his hands on her, his mouth on hers, and—

Down, girl
.

She blew out a steadying breath as her pulse thudded in her ears. Maybe in forty-eight hours, with the world’s problems solved and her whole life opening back up in front of her, she would look at him and see just a guy who appeared to own three shirts, one pair of shoes, and no comb.

She didn’t think so, though. And for right now, when she needed to believe in so many new, scary things, she would give herself permission to believe in this one, too.

“Too much?” he asked, tipping the small display toward Rosa. “Yeah. I thought so.” He tapped a key, muttering, “Delete, delete, delete,” under his breath.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Anna said softly. It didn’t matter that he was thinking about her, writing to her; he didn’t know she was there, and would certainly be acting differently if he did.

She should go.

And she would. In a minute. Right now, though, she couldn’t pull her eyes from the intense concentration in his face as he typed one-handed, or the way his other hand rested on the teddy bear blanket, including Rosa in the moment. The camp light cast strange shadows, making him look larger than himself, larger even than the room itself.

“How about this?” He tipped the screen again. “I think that’s better. Don’t you?”

Rosa didn’t answer, but the image of the two of them together engraved itself on her mind, looking somehow both fragile and rock solid, and so very worth saving.

Just go,
she told herself.
You can see them both later. Maybe. Hopefully
.

When the thought threatened to depress the shit out of her, she closed her eyes and made the ’port. And as the magic closed around her and yanked her from the room, she told herself not to think about the two people she was leaving behind, not to hash over something that shouldn’t be—couldn’t be—her main concern.

Still, once she was back at Skywatch, alone in her suite, she checked her phone every thirty seconds or so until David’s e-mail came through. When it did, the ringtone made her jump and sent her pulse into overdrive.

Her hand shook a little as she hit the key to bring up the message, and she made herself look away for a moment, partly to prove that she could, and partly to enjoy the anticipation. It was real.
He
was real, and he was interested in her for real.

Finally, she blew out a breath and let herself look.

Dear Anna,

I hope this message finds you away from the doomsday craziness, perhaps even back in the States. Not that I want you gone, but I’d rather have you safe, even if it means I won’t have my favorite translator to call on, at least not in person. At least not right now. Granted, we’re safe here inside the zone, but the crowds are growing and small riots have already broken out beyond the perimeter. I’ve been out to tend some of the wounded, and I don’t want to see you among them. Please don’t make me.

Ah, I’m messing this up, aren’t I? I don’t mean to be a downer, or to order you around. Blame it on the hours, I guess, or the frustration of knowing that although the virus has stalled, it did it on its own terms, and could, for all I know, kick back on at a moment’s notice. I hate that we’re not making any progress in curing it. Rosa is here with me right now, but there’s been no change. We’re just sitting here, waiting it out. But for how long? Will tomorrow really be the turning point? As much as I’ve tried to level off the doomsday rumors, it’s hard not to think that the tide is poised to turn. I just hope—pray, though I wouldn’t know what god or gods to pray to under the circumstances—that if things do turn around tomorrow, they turn in our favor.

Blah, blah, blah, me, me, me. Like I said, I don’t mean to be a downer. So how about I move the heck on, and tell you something you don’t know, giving you one of the little vignettes we have begun to trade, which I look forward to more than you can know. You have started to show me a little of your life, and I respect you more with each small insight. I hope the same is true in reverse. Since I last wrote about my childhood, now I’ll give you a snippet of the present instead. Or, rather, the present I’d like to return to, for a day. A week. A month. However long I can manage.

Which is the long way of saying that I’m attaching a picture of my cabin back home, where I go on the rare occasion that I can pull myself away from work. It’s small and basic—in fact, the amenities aren’t much better than here at the quarantine camp, come to think of it—but the views make me glad to be alive. I don’t know that I could live there full time, at least not at this point in my life—I need fast food and a challenge—but it helps me get through the dark times—like now—knowing that when they’re over, I can go there and just
be.