window.
What. The. Fuck?
Once the idea took root, more pieces fell into place, in the sort of mental cascade that was usually a relief but in this case just freaked her out worse.
Strike and the larger members of his crew were all gorgeous, bigger and better than human norm. Much like Dez. Shit , she thought, pulse hammering thickly in her ears as she inwardly acknowledged that Dez could almost be related to the others. Or, if she wanted to go all the way into a bunch of bedtime stories that couldn’t possibly be true, they could all be members of an ancient race capable of channeling psi energy with their minds. A race whose members had lived alongside humanity for millennia, together yet apart, waiting for the day they would need to defend the earth plane from the rise of the underworld.
“Bullshit,” she whispered. But the pieces fit.
The smaller wedding guests, most of them a generation older, could have been the winikin , the hereditary protectors and tutors of the magi. And they had all been wearing long sleeves—possibly to cover the forearm glyph marks that denoted their bloodlines and abilities . . . like the ones Dez had been wearing when she had dragged him back to jail.
At the time, she had thought they were more tattoos, more signs that he was buying into his own hype. But what if they had been real? What if his magic had finally started working, after all?
Her blood ran simultaneously cold and hot as the pattern gelled into a theory that should have seemed impossible, but somehow didn’t.
Strike and the others—and Dez—could be Nightkeepers.
Holy. Crap.
She had been so sure that the stories he had told her to pass the time had been elaborate fairy tales, creative lies Keban had used to brainwash Dez for the first sixteen years of his life. Then, later, she had talked herself into believing that the things she thought she had seen during the storm had been a concussion-induced hallucination. Because there was no such thing as magic.
Except that Strike had materialized practically on top of her, and then freaking teleported her thousands of miles. Then some guy named Rabbit had interrogated her. Or, rather, he’d read her goddamned mind .
Teleporter. Mind-bender. Oh, holy shit.
This wasn’t part of a story, and it wasn’t a hallucination.
More pieces fell into place, forming connections that left her reeling as she reached the logical—or illogical?—conclusion. Because if the magic and the Nightkeepers were real, then there was a good chance that the other parts of the stories were true, too. Like how the magi were blood-bound to defend the barrier in the years leading up to the end date, when terrible demons would break through and fight to conscript mankind into a hellish army that would make war on the gods.
She was keenly aware that the end date was a little more than a year away, not just because of the connection to Dez, but because it had been impossible to avoid the movies and documentaries, and the news stories about the tinfoil-hat brigades digging into their bunkers and acting like they knew something the rest of the world didn’t. She had laughed all that off. Now she stared out the window at the back-ass end of a box canyon and wondered whether she’d been dead wrong.
Her knees went wobbly, and she dropped back down to the couch, mouth drying to dust like the desert outside. This wasn’t happening. She was still drugged, still hallucinating.
Right?
Closing her eyes, she pinched herself hard on the arm. “Okay, Reese. It’s time to wake up.” But when she opened her eyes the only difference was the presence of reddened fingernail marks on her arm, which stung.
She glanced at the “read me” pile on the coffee table.
Don’t do it.
But how could she not? Knowledge was power.
On the bottom was a blue binder, half full of pages, with its spine marked “Open log, reunion onward” and fluorescent green Post-its flagging a couple of spots. Sitting on top of the
What. The. Fuck?
Once the idea took root, more pieces fell into place, in the sort of mental cascade that was usually a relief but in this case just freaked her out worse.
Strike and the larger members of his crew were all gorgeous, bigger and better than human norm. Much like Dez. Shit , she thought, pulse hammering thickly in her ears as she inwardly acknowledged that Dez could almost be related to the others. Or, if she wanted to go all the way into a bunch of bedtime stories that couldn’t possibly be true, they could all be members of an ancient race capable of channeling psi energy with their minds. A race whose members had lived alongside humanity for millennia, together yet apart, waiting for the day they would need to defend the earth plane from the rise of the underworld.
“Bullshit,” she whispered. But the pieces fit.
The smaller wedding guests, most of them a generation older, could have been the winikin , the hereditary protectors and tutors of the magi. And they had all been wearing long sleeves—possibly to cover the forearm glyph marks that denoted their bloodlines and abilities . . . like the ones Dez had been wearing when she had dragged him back to jail.
At the time, she had thought they were more tattoos, more signs that he was buying into his own hype. But what if they had been real? What if his magic had finally started working, after all?
Her blood ran simultaneously cold and hot as the pattern gelled into a theory that should have seemed impossible, but somehow didn’t.
Strike and the others—and Dez—could be Nightkeepers.
Holy. Crap.
She had been so sure that the stories he had told her to pass the time had been elaborate fairy tales, creative lies Keban had used to brainwash Dez for the first sixteen years of his life. Then, later, she had talked herself into believing that the things she thought she had seen during the storm had been a concussion-induced hallucination. Because there was no such thing as magic.
Except that Strike had materialized practically on top of her, and then freaking teleported her thousands of miles. Then some guy named Rabbit had interrogated her. Or, rather, he’d read her goddamned mind .
Teleporter. Mind-bender. Oh, holy shit.
This wasn’t part of a story, and it wasn’t a hallucination.
More pieces fell into place, forming connections that left her reeling as she reached the logical—or illogical?—conclusion. Because if the magic and the Nightkeepers were real, then there was a good chance that the other parts of the stories were true, too. Like how the magi were blood-bound to defend the barrier in the years leading up to the end date, when terrible demons would break through and fight to conscript mankind into a hellish army that would make war on the gods.
She was keenly aware that the end date was a little more than a year away, not just because of the connection to Dez, but because it had been impossible to avoid the movies and documentaries, and the news stories about the tinfoil-hat brigades digging into their bunkers and acting like they knew something the rest of the world didn’t. She had laughed all that off. Now she stared out the window at the back-ass end of a box canyon and wondered whether she’d been dead wrong.
Her knees went wobbly, and she dropped back down to the couch, mouth drying to dust like the desert outside. This wasn’t happening. She was still drugged, still hallucinating.
Right?
Closing her eyes, she pinched herself hard on the arm. “Okay, Reese. It’s time to wake up.” But when she opened her eyes the only difference was the presence of reddened fingernail marks on her arm, which stung.
She glanced at the “read me” pile on the coffee table.
Don’t do it.
But how could she not? Knowledge was power.
On the bottom was a blue binder, half full of pages, with its spine marked “Open log, reunion onward” and fluorescent green Post-its flagging a couple of spots. Sitting on top of the
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