Free Nightkeepers by Jessica Andersen Page B

jaguars.’’ Red-Boar shoved away from the kitchen table and headed for his room, snapping, ‘‘Find us a charter. I want to be on the ground in Mexico before he does something else stupid.’’
    Rabbit jumped up from the table and put himself between his father and the door. ‘‘I’m coming with you.’’
    ‘‘No fucking way.’’
    ‘‘But I can help.’’
    Red-Boar snorted. ‘‘How?’’
    The teen flushed. ‘‘Jack me in and I’ll show you.’’
    ‘‘Not happening. Stay here.’’ Red-Boar pushed past his son. ‘‘And don’t fuck anything up while we’re gone.’’
    Rabbit took a step after him, fists clenched.
    Jox crossed to the teen. He didn’t touch him because he knew the boy didn’t like to be touched, but he said, ‘‘Stay here and chill. Once we know what’s up, I’ll talk to him.’’
    ‘‘I didn’t ask to be a half-blood.’’ Rabbit’s voice shook. ‘‘That was his call.’’
    ‘‘I know.’’ Jox clasped the boy’s shoulder. ‘‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.’’
    Rabbit shrugged him off. ‘‘Not your fault he’s a prick.’’
    Maybe, maybe not. A winikin was supposed to guide his Nightkeeper as well as protect him. Red-Boar might not’ve been Jox’s blood-bound charge, but he’d become his responsibility by default. Jox had done his best, but that hadn’t been good enough; Red-Boar’s scars ran too deep, leaving the winikin once again in the position of trying to save the son when the father put himself beyond salvation.
    ‘‘I’ll talk to him,’’ Jox repeated. ‘‘If it comes to it, Strike will probably agree to jack you in without his consent.’’
    ‘‘But I won’t get a bloodline mark if he doesn’t accept me as his own.’’ Rabbit’s voice went rough—with anger, maybe, or tears. Or both. ‘‘No bloodline mark means no talent mark. No magic. What’s the point?’’
    ‘‘We’ll figure something out.’’ Jox gripped the boy’s shoulder again, and this time didn’t let himself be shaken off. ‘‘I promise.’’
    ‘‘Whatever.’’ Rabbit shrugged and turned away. He headed for his room and slammed the door. Moments later, the rhythmic thump of bass vibrated through the floorboards.
    Jox let out a breath, knowing that Rabbit was so not a complication he needed right now. He hated what had just happened, but Strike needed him, and the king’s son was his first responsibility.
    Grabbing the phone, Jox stabbed a few buttons and hit up the slightly disreputable pilot for hire he’d put on speed dial, just in case. A good winikin —or, for that matter, a fuckup winikin who occasionally got a few things right—knew to have contingency plans for just about anything.
    The line went live and a thick voice growled, ‘‘This had better be goddamned good.’’
    ‘‘Five grand if you get us to Cancún before dawn,’’ Jox said, skipping the pleasantries.
    There was a moment of silence, then, ‘‘It’ll be an extra ten if you’re carrying illegals.’’
    ‘‘No illegals, just two passengers, but time is critical. Family emergency.’’
    ‘‘My ass.’’ But the pilot didn’t press. ‘‘How soon can you be at the airport?’’
    ‘‘An hour.’’
    ‘‘See you there.’’ The line went dead.
    Jox headed for his room to grab the essentials, but he paused at the kitchen doorway and looked back, not just at the kitchen and attached sitting area, but at the big picture window and the warehouse beyond, where towering stacks of pallets held his fertilizers and feed, soil and seed.
    Winikin weren’t precogs, but something told him he wouldn’t be back.
    Rabbit watched his old man and Jox leave, waiting until the brake lights on Jox’s Jeep flashed at the end of the sloped driveway and the vehicle pulled out into traffic and accelerated away. Then he waited another five minutes to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything worth coming back for.
    Then he got on the phone and called a few people, who