Free Storm Kissed by Jessica Andersen

mental ward. Apparently not anymore.
    Below the photo, the letter finished:
    We’re not sure why Dez didn’t tell us what was going on or ask for backup. Pride, maybe, or something in the letter. But we do know one thing for certain: We need him back. The winter solstice marks the one-year threshold, and the magi must be at their strongest. More, we need to figure out what Keban is up to. He clearly knows things we don’t—and his history and mental state make him dangerous.
    So that’s what we want from you, Ms. Montana. Find Dez, find Keban, and figure out what the hell is going on there, in the order of your choice. After that, if you’re willing to stay, we’ll sic you on Iago. The patterns of his recent attacks are . . . baffling. Maybe you’ll see something we’re missing.
    I hope you’ll take the job, both for Dez’s sake and because it’s the right thing to do. But if that isn’t incentive enough, then how about this: It’ll give you a chance to get back at the man who destroyed the life you could have had with Dez back in Denver.
    Think about it. And when you’ve decided, dial 1313. We’ll be waiting.
    —Strike
    Reese lowered the letter and numbly stared out the window, at scenery that warned her that she was badly out of her element.
    “Damn it,” she whispered, glancing once more at the picture of Keban.
    This was seriously and completely nuts, and it would be insane to even consider taking the job. But she was considering it, for all the reasons Strike had listed.
    Damn the mind-bender for getting inside her head and figuring out which buttons to push. And damn her for being unable to resist the thrill of the hunt or be content with a safe, predictable life. More, she couldn’t ignore the pressure that fisted beneath her heart as Strike’s words circled in her head . . . He’s not that guy anymore . . . It was a curse . . . back to his old self . . .
    In the weeks after Dez’s death—supposed death?—she had been buried in memories of the young man she had loved. The old Dez had driven her crazy with his stubbornness, but despite his protectiveness he’d never tried to box her in. The gang task force had been her thing, but he’d always had her back. He had nagged her into her GED, and had brought her chocolate and information, knowing they were neck-and-neck in her universe. And when the nights got cold and too dark, he had told her stories about magical warriors who could move things with their minds and hear each other′s thoughts, and who drew their greatest powers from love.
    Back to his old self . . . a Triad mage . . . incredibly powerful.
    “Bullshit.” She lurched to her feet, stomach knotting. The ache wasn’t quite hunger, but it was safer to call it that, so she headed for the kitchen, figuring the apartment looked lived-in enough that it ought to have some staples, even if it was just a guest suite . . . or a prison cell with better-than-average amenities. That thought brought a shudder, but the moment she got the fridge open, both the queasiness and her appetite disappeared— boom , gone.
    Oh. Shit.
    She stood there for a long moment in the cold wash of air, shivering as she stared at the items that were clustered together on the top shelf, as if tossed back in after a snack: horseradish mustard, olive loaf, grape jelly, and pumpernickel bread. Four cans of Mountain Dew were racked in the door.
    A low moan broke from her as her heart took up a heavy thud-thud beat in her ears. Nobody could come up with that combination accidentally, and there was only one person on the planet who would do it on purpose.
    Dez.
    Her hand trembled on the refrigerator door. There was no way in hell that this was his suite. It was too bland, too impersonal. There were no high-tech toys, no expensive clothes, no glitter and gloss, no leather or other indulgences. But there was pumpernickel, olive loaf, and the grossest condiment pairing known to mankind.
    He’s not that guy anymore.
    Throat