On the Hunt

"Will do."



JT cut the call, rubbing his chest, where regret ached. Shit, he hated the idea of blasting an actual temple, rather than just an ichor-encrusted cave—ancestor worship was hardwired into his DNA, he supposed. But he'd been searching for the bat-demons' sacred sites, had even talked the council into letting Natalie's team stay in the hopes that their fancy equipment would lead them to pay dirt. And it apparently had, only he hadn't been there to manage the fall out.



Some fucking protector he'd turned out to be.



That failure, too, was probably hardwired. Despite two tours in the Middle East, he knew too damn well that—in this war, at least—his people weren't supposed to be the frontliners. His job was defense and mop-up.



"Shit." He scrubbed his hands over his face, suddenly feeling his age. He wasn't near village-elder territory yet, but his body sure felt that way all of a sudden. "Get some shut-eye," he told himself. "The perimeter's secure."



As secure as he could make it, anyway, given that the' zotz suddenly weren't playing by the old rules, the ones that said they came through the barrier only two at a time, and stuck together once they were out of the underworld. Which meant . . . Hell, he didn't know what it meant. But it wasn't good.



Knowing he should hit the couch, he headed for the bedroom instead. He stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching the gentle rise and fall of Natalie's chest and seeing the stark white of the gauze four-byfours he'd taped to her arm.



He shouldn't have admitted that he'd lied about the breakup. As miserable as he'd been for the past seventy-two hours, the situation hadn't changed. He couldn't leave the dark, dangerous slice of forest that had become his responsibility . . . and he couldn't let her stay. She was too perceptive, too foolishly brave. Too much of a fighter.



"What am I going to do with you?" he said softly. It was rhetorical, of course. There was only one thing he could do: make her leave. But first he would watch over her, and make sure she slept safely.



Cursing himself for not being strong enough to walk away now, just as he hadn't been man enough to stick around after he'd cut her loose, he lay down beside her. She'd be asleep until midmorning at the earliest, and didn't ever need to know they had spent one last night together.



Her body heat seeped into him, filling some of the empty places and easing the aches. He knew it made him a selfish bastard to take the comfort that he wouldn't have taken—or given—if she were awake. But right then he couldn't make himself care. He needed this. He needed her.



Rolling onto his side, he propped himself up on an elbow and let himself look at her, let himself believe that she was there again, one last time. Tomorrow, he would convince her that the ' zotz had been a nightmare. Then he would drive her back to civilization, where she would get the news that he'd pulled strings to get her permits revoked . . . and that he'd started the process a month ago. She would hate him for that. And she would leave.



Tonight, though . . . tonight he could reach over and brush at a smudge on her cheek. He could feel the softness of her skin, the warmth of her breath, and—



She turned her face into his hand and gave a soft sigh. JT froze, a bolt of sensation ripping through him when she shifted and rolled over to curl into him, murmuring something soft and sweet.



There was no way she could be waking up this soon.



Except that she was.



Her eyes fluttered open, their depths blurry and vulnerable as they sought his. The air took on a strange humming note, one that resonated deep within his chest and kindled a sizzle of desire he had no business feeling.



"Natalie," he said in a rasp that broke partway. "There was an—" Accident, he should have said, but couldn't stick to the lie. "Ah, hell," he whispered.



He would have taken the kiss, but she reached up as he leaned down, so they met halfway. As their lips touched, the strange vibration in the air changed pitch, lowering until it seemed to hum deep in his diaphragm, emptying his chest and knotting his gut.



When her lips parted, he tasted a freshness that chased away old betrayals. And when their tongues touched, a roaring, possessive heat seared through him.



He wanted to take her, wanted to protect her. Wanted to mark her as his own for tonight, even knowing he would have to drive her away tomorrow.



He rose over her, pinned her without breaking the kiss. He growled when she twined her arms around his neck to hold him close, and sizzling energy raced through him, coming from the relief of having her safe, the adrenaline from fighting the ' zotz, and three miserable fucking days spent in the forest trying to forget about her.



He tasted her, touched her, crushed her against him, and nearly came when she pulled the bedclothes away and looped a leg around his hips.



Gods, he thought. He didn't say the word, though, couldn't let her suspect the deeply buried part of himself that didn't follow the rules and religions of normal humans. So instead he kissed her hard and pressed against her, trying to surround and protect her from everything but himself.



She got a double handful of his shirt—which was only fair, as he had both of his hands up hers—and twined her foot around the back of his calf, then used the leverage to roll them. Once on top, she rose over him for a long, lingering kiss that made his heart bump.



But then she pulled away, breathing hard, her eyes dark with arousal and confusion. "JT . . ."



She trailed off, eyes widening as memory returned. Her body stiffened against his. "What the hell was that thing?"



Damn it.



"It's okay," he said quickly. "You're safe here. They can't get over the wall." They couldn't fly until their wings regenerated, and he and the villagers never let them live that long.



And, shit, he was supposed to be telling her it was all a bad dream.



She nodded. "Okay." But she clearly wasn't. Her body trembled. Her mouth worked, but nothing came out as a tear broke free.



The sight twisted something tight inside him, which was a surprise.



On two continents' worth of war, he'd watched lovers grieve, family weep for family, friend for friend. He had sympathized, supported, done his best to avenge the deaths or prevent more killing. But he'd never before felt another person's tears as his own. Not this way.



"Don't cry. Please." He reached for her, but she scooted up on the bed and wrapped her arms around her knees.



Her face was pale, her eyes dark and wide, and her voice broke when she said, "Those things.



Jesus, they're real. They . . ." She dragged in a ragged, shallow breath. "The hair. And the smell.



And . . . Holy shit. Holy, holy shit." She stared at the bandage on her arm.



"Breathe," he said, pulling himself up so he was sitting next to her, both of them leaning back against the wall. His arm just grazed hers as she rocked. "Just keep breathing."



Sometimes that was the only thing to do. Keep going. Keep breathing. He'd figured that out the hard way.



Eventually, she started breathing more deeply, matching her rhythm to his, leaning on him a little, her skin warming against his. Finally, she let out a long, shuddering sigh, and said, "So . . . tell me about the bat-demons, chan camazotz."



Chan camazotz. An honorable title in the old trading language of the ancient Maya, bestowed by modern-day descendants who didn't—couldn't—understand the irony.



"How do you feel?" he asked, stalling.



She nodded, accepting the evasion. "Woozy. Scared. Freaked-out."



"Don't blame you." He levered himself off the bed. "Let me get you some water."



"Wait. My team. The temple . . ."



"Javier and the others are fine." He paused. "But the temple is gone. I'm sorry." War demands sacrifice, he thought, hating that the quote was so accurate, and that he couldn't get the damned writs out of his head no matter how many years he lived in the human world.



She lifted her hand to the locket she wore at her throat, in a habitual comfort-seeking gesture he wasn't even sure she was aware of. "Gone," she repeated tonelessly.



When she said nothing more, he headed for the kitchen. By the time he returned with a couple of water-filled tumblers, her color was better, her expression less haunted. He handed her one of the glasses and sat back down on the mattress, this time facing her. "Drink. you'll want to flush the rest of the drug out of your system."



That was a guess. He'd never seen anyone come around so quickly. Maybe the large number of zotz coming through the barrier had somehow diluted their individual potencies. Or perhaps the zotz that attacked her had already used up its venom out hunting.



Granted, there was a different, more complicated explanation, one that involved accelerated healing and strength, but that would've been the answer in another time and place. Not here and now. And not Natalie. No way.



She lifted the glass with a hand that still trembled faintly. But her voice was steady when she said, "Okay, JT. No bullshit. What are they? What's going on? And why are you really here? Is it because of them?"



He had told her the sanitized life story he'd told most of the locals and all of the outsiders who had passed through over the years: that he had finished his second tour of duty, made some money during the dotcom boom, and wandered until he found someplace he wanted to stay.



Which was all true. What he hadn't told her was why he'd been forced to put down roots in this particular chunk of forest.



He couldn't tell her all of it now, either. "I didn't come here because of the zotz, but yeah, they're why I stayed. They were . . ." He didn't like to remember it, even now. "Rez's people didn't have the weapons or training to handle them. They were trying to fight the zotz on their own, and losing." He paused. "I'm a soldier. That's all I know how to be."



Which was the truth, thanks to an educational system that had been "perfected" over thousands of years but didn't do dick to prepare a kid like him for life in the outside world. He'd thought escaping from the training compound would be the hardest part, but he'd been wrong. Acclimating had been an equal bitch, and he'd never really managed to integrate all the way.