Demonkeepers (25 page)

He kept glancing over at her as he drove. She was partway curled on her side facing him, with one hand under her cheek, the other fisted loosely in her lap. Her forearm marks were a dark contrast to her pale skin; he wanted to kiss her there, wanted to kiss her all over, until she felt desired. Cherished.

Let her sleep
, he told himself.
There’s time yet.

But how much time? They were down to less than four days to the solstice. If the
Banol Kax
managed to put Akhenaton into the sun god’s place, there was no telling what would happen. Would the pharaoh come after his ancient enemies once again? For all they knew, Skywatch would be a damned crater by the twenty-second, unless he found a way to get his ass back in the library to pull out the info they so badly needed. But, short of offering himself up for a soul sacrifice and hoping to hell his body would become the receptacle for a true Prophet, he didn’t know what he could do to help. More, he and Jade were bringing back news of Anna’s defection, which was going to have ripples beyond the cow Strike was going to have. But at the same time, Lucius couldn’t help wondering whether Anna might not have a point. The Nightkeepers needed a super-Prophet but didn’t have one. They needed Godkeepers, a seer, the library . . . hell, more manpower. None of those things seemed imminent. Some didn’t even seem possible.

“The magic has to be the answer, for my part of things, at least,” he said, thinking aloud as the miles unfolded beneath the Jeep’s off- road treads. “I’m human, so therefore shouldn’t have magic, but Cizin was attracted to me. There had to have been nastier dudes than me on campus, and they would’ve been an easier sell on the
ajaw-makol
possession. So why me?” It was tempting to think that there was some reason the demon had been able to reach through the barrier and influence him the way it had. Although the Nightkeepers guarded their bloodlines and had strict mores against producing half-bloods, the fact that those mores even existed suggested there had been some strays over the years. So he supposed it was possible he could have a Nightkeeper descendant way back . . . but that didn’t play, given that his only real connection to Nightkeeper magic had been through the slave mark. Glancing at his forearm, he suppressed a shudder at the thought that he could just as easily be part Xibalban. Regardless, the library spell was Nightkeeper magic, suggesting that he could access either light or dark magic. “But how the hell am I supposed to do that?”

A mildly irritated
beep-beep
from his left warned him that he’d better concentrate on driving; he’d gotten so caught up in his thought process that he’d wandered into the fast lane. A pickup truck zoomed past going a solid ninety, and pulled away, leaving him alone to wander the lanes. Startled from his mull-and-ponder, Lucius realized that he’d gotten farther than he’d thought; the city and suburbs were gone, leaving him on a long, straight stretch of highway with not much to see in all directions. It was also later than he’d realized; the orange sun was dying behind scrub-covered, rolling hill silhouettes. A few more miles down the road, when he passed a small sign for lodging, he pulled off the highway and followed three more arrowed signs that claimed to be leading him to the Weeping Willow Inn. It was farther off the highway than he really wanted to be, but just as he was getting ready to turn back, he saw the turnoff leading to the inn.

The place had probably been a working ranch in the past; the driveway wound through the middle of sparsely covered grassland. Lucius didn’t see any livestock, though, and the lane was marked off with neat split-rail fencing rather than the more common barbed wire or electric used for working rangeland. That and the relative newness of the signage kept him from turning around, thinking the place would probably be way too sketchy for an overnight. Then he topped a low hill, got a look at the Weeping Willow Inn, and let the Jeep roll to a stop, not because the inn was sketchy at all, but because it wasn’t.

Nestled in a small, scrub- furred valley, a half dozen bunkhouselike cottages were scattered behind a main ranch house that was fronted by a wide, welcoming porch. In the fading light, he saw that all of the buildings were done in earth-toned clapboards and rough-cut wood, and dressed up with fanciful touches of gingerbread molding that gave the buildings a distinctively feminine air. Window boxes and whiskey barrels bloomed with flowers, and stones marked winding paths from each cottage to the main house, which a discreet sign identified as both the office and the kitchen. Two vehicles sat in a fenced-off parking area: a dusty SUV with a cargo clamshell strapped to its roof, and a pickup with WEEPING WILLOW INN painted on the side.
So there’s probably room for us
, he thought wryly. More, he liked the cottage idea. He’d dealt with the high-rise hotel the night before, but even leaving the balcony door open to its screen hadn’t totally taken away his sense of being boxed in. He’d sleep better in a place like this.

In fact, the inn was pretty much perfect . . . if he’d been planning a honeymoon. It was way more intimate than he’d been expecting, though. The generic hotel room they’d stayed in the prior night had been a way station. This was more like a spot for lovers. The man he’d been before would’ve rocked a place like this, buying into the kitsch in the hopes that the ambience would make up for his own shortcomings. The man he’d grown into since leaving UT told himself to do a one-eighty and find a Motel 6. A woman couldn’t possibly misinterpret a Motel 6.

At the sound of a soft sigh, he looked over at Jade. She’d tucked her other hand beneath her cheek and was trying to snuggle into the hard foam seat, her neck crooking in a position that had to be getting uncomfortable.
She’s tired
, he told himself. Not to mention that he was tired too, or at least sick of driving. He wanted some downtime, some space to reset his brain. And the pretty little cottages made him think of Skywatch.

“Fine. The Weeping Willow Inn it is.” He eased his foot off the brake and let the Jeep coast down the hill toward the parking area. As he did so, he was aware of a low-grade churning of nerves, one warning him that he was making a mistake. He ignored it, though. He had enough troubles already; he didn’t need to borrow more.

“Don’t freak,” Lucius’s now- familiar raspy voice said. “It’s on the nightstand.”

Exhaling a long, relieved breath, she opened her eyes to mock-glare at him. “Way to give me heart failure.” Then her eyes widened as she caught her first glimpse of their surroundings.

She had assumed he would’ve checked them into another no-tell motel while she’d been sleeping off her postmagic crash, but the rough- finished wood beams and pristine white plaster of the bedroom she found herself in were a far cry from the average offering of a highwayside chain. The sky was the blue-black of nightfall, visible through a pair of French doors and framed by gauzy white curtains that were repeated in the filmy swags that roped the huge canopy bed. A bedside lamp was on, sending soft light through a cut-glass dome to gleam on the yellow quartz skull, which sat safely on the nightstand, its chain neatly coiled beside it. The bedclothes were white; the whole room was white, except where splashes of violet and navy blue were picked out in framed watercolors on the walls and boxy accent pillows on the long couch along one wall. An open door offered a glimpse into a bathroom done in navy tile with violet edging and pristine white towels, with a Jacuzzi-jet tub big enough for two.

Lucius stood in a wood-framed doorway; beyond him she glimpsed a sitting area of natural wood and emerald green, but it was only a glimpse before her eyes locked onto him. Arms folded, he leaned against the door frame, watching her with a familiar intensity that sent shimmers of heat washing through her in an instant, and took her straight back to the kiss they had shared in Rabbit’s sublet. That might have been hours ago, but as their eyes met it might have been no more than a few minutes. She was instantly back there, with need coursing through her body alongside a poignant ache beneath her heart.

His gesture encompassed the room. “Not bad, huh?”

“Nicer than last night’s generica America, by a long shot.” It was a room made for romance. For love. It had probably been his only non-truck-stop option for a hundred miles, she told herself. The choice had been expediency, not seduction. Unfortunately, she had started the evening already halfway seduced, though that had been her own doing—and the magic.

“We’re at an inn called the Weeping Willow,” he said by way of explanation. “Willow is our proprietress. The weeping, I gather, occurred when her fiancé died in Vietnam. Her parents both passed soon after, leaving her family money from oil rights, along with the ranch, which she turned into an inn because she likes having the occasional guest.” He paused, the corners of his mouth kicking upward. “Or so I learned after I made the mistake of commenting to the lady checking me in that there aren’t many weeping willows out in west Texas.”

“Ah,” Jade said, matching his smile. “I take it the lady behind the desk was Willow?”

“Got it in one. It’s just her, a road- tripping family in the cottage closest to the house, and us out here on the edge of it all.” His gesture encompassed what she imagined was a whole lot of nothingness in the night beyond the French doors. “And yes, I set the motion detectors around our perimeter and made it clear to Willow that she shouldn’t come knocking.”

Jade’s brain hadn’t yet gotten around to worrying about security. She was still stuck on the bedroom ambience and the man standing in her doorway. He’d showered and changed into a fresh tee and jeans; he was barefoot, his hair still slightly damp. She couldn’t decipher his expression, and badly wanted to. Although he was keeping the conversation light, there was nothing light in the hazel depths of his eyes or the hard, hungry set to his jaw.

“Well, then. Since you’ve taken care of the possibility of interruptions . . .” She let the comment trail off on a suggestive purr, acutely aware that she was wearing only her bra and panties beneath the bedclothes, which meant he’d already had his hands on her once that night. Her body tingled at the phantom memory, and in anticipation of what was to come. “I believe that earlier today, you voted for sooner rather than later?”

He hesitated longer than she would have expected. She said nothing, though, did nothing. Although she thought he was almost ready to embrace the magic, to open himself up to it and to her, she wasn’t going to trap or trick him into it. Finally, he exhaled a long, shuddering breath, crossed to her in three strides, and eased onto the bed beside her. “I can’t not do this,” he said in an undertone rasp, and she got the feeling he wasn’t totally talking to her. “I want this. I want
you
.”

The scent of sage and mint intensified as he kissed her openmouthed, with the blatant possessiveness that had sparked between them back in Rabbit’s sublet. She kissed him back, helpless to do otherwise, but deep down inside her, panic kindled at the realization that she didn’t know the rules anymore.

Her heart shuddered in her chest.
Be careful
, she told herself.
Be very careful.
Because the man kissing her now wasn’t the Lucius she’d come to know over the past week. Or rather, he was, but he was also the Lucius she’d known before, the one who had been so much more open with himself, and with her. The man kissing her now was the man she’d been with in the archive, the one who had sparked feelings strong enough to frighten her and make her shut him down. Back then, she’d shoved him into the friends-with-benefits zone, afraid that he might tempt her into the trap she had seen so often in her practice, the love that caused an otherwise strong, capable woman to disintegrate when her lover turned on her, spurned her.
He wouldn’t do that
, she told herself.
He’s different from the others. He’s Lucius
. But at the same time, she imagined Shandi’s voice—or was it the
nahwal
’s voice?—cautioning,
He’s just a man. He’ll distract you, weaken you, make you forget what’s important.

Which might be true . . . except that Jade was almost certain that
this
was the important part. She’d been wrong before when she’d said sex magic was about the act. It wasn’t about the sex, after all. It was all about finding the connection . . . and it was up to her to show Lucius how.

Drugged with desire, with the romance he’d brought her to, intentionally or not, she kicked free of the bedclothes and came back to him, pressing her near nudity to his fully clothed, fully aroused body. He groaned encouragement and cupped her ass, his fingers splaying wide beneath the lace of her panties as he urged her toward him, rolled partway over her, pinning her with his good, solid weight. Their legs wrapped together, threading in a four-way braid. Her feet rubbed against the strong, lean muscles of his calves, and she thrilled to the strength of every part of him.

Whispering his approval against her mouth, he dragged a hand up from her hip to her ribs, then higher, to shape the outside of one breast. Then he popped the clasp of her bra, freeing her to his touch. Arching into his hand, she grabbed the hem of his tee and pulled it up, rucking it high between their bodies, and then off over his head, so they were skin-to-skin.

“Lucius,” she said, his name a sigh. Then, so she couldn’t say anything more, she nipped his lower lip and slid into his kiss, moaning when it went suddenly dark and wild, matching what she’d felt before when she’d called her magic. She sensed the power hovering nearby, felt it flowing through her and reverberating with the burn of heat as he hooked a hand around the crook of her knee and drew her leg high against his hip. He surged against her, setting a rhythm that thrummed through her body and made her neurons sing,
Yes, oh, yes
. Or maybe those were her words, urging him on as they kissed and rocked together, rolling so he was fully above her, wholly pressing into her, holding her nearly helpless beneath his big bulk. He kissed her deeply, demanding a raw, primal response that she felt with her entire body.

He pulled away and looked down at her, his eyes dark and nearly wild. “You’re so godsdamned beautiful,” he rasped. It was the first time he’d said something like that to her, and the small compliment brought star-bursts to her bloodstream. Before she could say anything in return, though, he shifted to cup a breast in his wide, scarred palm and lowered his head to taste her, taking the tight, sensitive tip in his mouth. He worked one breast and then the other, concentrating on each action separately, with the intensity he brought to the things he deemed important.

Helpless to do otherwise, Jade arched into him, her mouth opening on a silent cry. She buried her hands in his hair, holding him there for a long, glorious moment. A faint warning sounded at the back of her consciousness, a spark of panic that kindled as heat and want flared through her and she lost track of herself. Her whole world concentrated itself down to Lucius, and the ways he was touching her, the things he was making her feel.

Was this, then, what other women found with their lovers? Was this the path to madness? If so, she needed to back off, gear down, let things level. But even as she was aware of the fear and the thought, both were lost to the pressure growing within her, the need to have her hands and mouth on every part of him, to make him feel the same obsessive need that gripped her. Before she could make the move, though, he moved to kiss his way down her body, leaving her no choice but to caress whatever part of him she could reach, and absorb the feelings detonating within. Pleasure slammed into her, through her, great waves of it building and growing, holding her hostage to each new sensation. Then he moved back up her body and she was surprised to realize that he was naked now, that they both were.

The glide of skin against skin was viciously erotic as he slid up her body to kiss her mouth once again. She tasted the faint salt from her own skin, the sharp tang of his arousal, and the combination of the two. Sinking into him, letting the rest of the world fall away, she gave herself over to the gossamer pleasure he’d brought her, and the sharp need to have him inside her. Wrapping her legs around him, she opened to him, shifting until they were almost, but not quite, joined male to female, hard to soft.

He went still above her, in her arms. But he didn’t thrust home. Instead he stayed there, poised and unmoving.

Jade opened her eyes to find him staring down at her, his hazel eyes hot and borderline wild. But when their gazes met, his expression eased. He touched her face, drawing a finger down her cheek to her chin, then tipping her mouth up to meet his in a kiss. When the kiss ended, he whispered, “There you are.”

Then, before she could respond—if she’d even known
how
to respond—he shifted, aligning their bodies more surely, leaned in to kiss her long and deep . . . and slid into her. And as he did so, she understood what he’d been waiting for. Not for her to give in or give up, but for her to return to him and be in the moment, with him. With them.

No longer lost in the layers of pleasure, she acutely felt his penetration, felt her inner channel stretching to accept him, tightening around him in a squeeze of welcome that wrung a groan from deep within his chest. The sound of it vibrated through her, making her neurons hum and spark, and making her intensely aware of his size within and without, and the carefully leashed strength that pulsed through him as he hooked his arms behind her, loosely gripped her shoulders, and used the leverage to hold her in place when he began to move.

She should protest, she knew, should assert herself as a partner in their sex, giving back equally rather than allowing herself to be dominated, pinned down,
taken
. And she
would
protest, she assured herself. In a minute. But one minute turned to several, then to time untold as he moved over her, inside her, giving her pleasure and taking it in return. Sweat slicked his spine and sides, causing her hands to slip as she touched him, stroked him, her hips pistoning in aching counterpoint to his strokes as heat built to a roar. His tempo increased; she clung to him, buried her face in the crook of his neck, and
took
. She wasn’t giving anymore, wasn’t thinking about his pleasure; she was beyond that, gone past herself to a mindless place that beat with an ungrammatical chant of, “More, harder, yes, oh, yes,
there
!” Gods. She didn’t know her own name, didn’t care about anything happening beyond the hard grasp of his arms and the expanding sphere of her own pleasure, which had gone sharp, growing teeth, needs, and demands. “Yes, like that.
Please
.”

She was begging and didn’t care. He was saying things too, but she could barely hear him over the hammering pounding of the blood in her veins and his body into hers, and the broken gasps of pleasure that streamed from her.
Ohyesohyesohyes!
Clinging to him, hanging on to him with the knowledge that she’d be lost if she let go, she cried out as the first orgasmic contraction seized her, making her whole body rigid and vising her inner muscles around his thick, heavy length.

He gave a guttural roar that brought her even higher as he thrust and thrust again. Then he seated himself to the hilt within her, pressing hard against her most sensitive spots within and without, bowed his head, and let himself go. His muscles locked rigor-tight as he bowed into her, held her against him, and shuddered his release. Hips flexing, he pressed himself into her harder still, once and again, in an automatic reflex that protracted the echoes of her pleasure.