He never had.
Deep down inside, he knew that taking his rightful place meant the death of his dreams, the end of any hope of a life not ruled by tradition and the needs of others. He would cease being Strike and become the Nightkeepers’ king, putting them first
above all others except the gods.
Putting them above himself. Above Leah.
‘‘Gods,’’ he whispered, clenching his fists at his sides, not sure if it was a curse or a prayer.
As a child he’d hated the Banol Kax for their part in the massacre. As an adult, he’d realized his father had played an equal part in the deaths, and hadn’t understood how a rational man could’ve sacrificed an entire culture in an effort to save his own family.
Now, having known Leah and the promise of what they might’ve had together, Strike finally understood the temptation, the decision. But he couldn’t make the same choice.
He wasn’t his father.
‘‘Kuyubal-mak,’’ he said, tipping his head back and letting the words carry to the sky. ‘‘I forgive you.’’
A sudden wind blew up, sweeping across the box canyon and kicking up dust devils. The hum of power built to an audible whine, and the sun dimmed in the cloudless sky as though there were an eclipse, though none was scheduled.
Knowing it was time, knowing it was right, Strike drew his father’s knife from his belt and scored both of his palms, cutting deep so the blood flowed freely and dripped to the canyon floor at his feet.
Pain washed his vision red, but the smell of blood and its sacrifice to the gods sent the power soaring as he shouted his acceptance of the kingship, his accession to rulership of the Nightkeepers, the words coming from deep within him, some sort of bloodline memory he’d been unaware of until that moment as he roared, ‘‘Chumwan ti ajawlel!’’
A detonation blasted open the firmament in front of him, the plane of mankind splitting to reveal the gray-green barrier behind.
Crimson light burst from the tear, silhouetting a figure within.
Strike saw the wink of a bloodred ruby at the nahwal’s ear, and recognized it from before. Except its eyes weren’t flat black now.
They were cobalt blue, and shone with pride.
‘‘Father,’’ Strike whispered, going to his knees before the jaguar king.
‘‘Son,’’ the nahwal replied, not in the many-timbred voice it’d used before, but in the one he remembered from his childhood.
His father’s voice. The nahwal reached down. Gripped his shoulder. ‘‘Rise. A king bows only to the gods.’’
Strike stood, dimly aware that the Nightkeepers and winikin stayed kneeling behind him. The crimson light formed a royal red cloak that flared to the nahwal’s ankles, stirring in the wind that howled through the box canyon. Then the crimson light parted, revealing a spear of golden power.
The Manikin scepter.
Carved of ceiba wood and polished by the hands of a thousand kings, the scepter was actually a representation of the god Kauil, with his forehead pierced by an ax and one leg turned into a snake, wearing god markings on each of his biceps.
The nature of the god himself had long been lost to time, but the scepter represented divine kingship. The man who wielded the scepter wielded the might of the Nightkeepers.
Fingers trembling not with fear, but with awe, Strike reached out and gripped the polished idol, which remained within the barrier unless called upon for cermemonies of birth or marriage. Or ascension of a new king.
Racial memory told him the words should come in the old tongue, but this wasn’t the old days, wasn’t his father’s time, so he finished the spell in English, saying, ‘‘Before the god Kauil I take the scepter, I take the king’s duty and sacrifice, and vow to lead in defense against the end-time.’’ He paused, then said the three words that ended his old life and began a new one. ‘‘I am king.’’
Thunder clapped and red lightning split the darkened sky, and the wind whipped into a howl that stirred up the dust and spun the crimson light into a vortex. Within the funnel cloud, the nahwal started to lose its shape.
Strike strained toward it. ‘‘Father!’’
The last to disappear were its cobalt eyes, which shone with love and regret.
As the tear in the barrier snapped shut, the old king’s voice whispered, ‘‘I pray that you will do what I could not. Lead with your heart, but don’t follow it blindly.’’
Then it was gone. The air was clear, the sun shining down on them as though the freak storm had never been. Even the scepter was gone, sucked back into the barrier where its power resided.
But it had left its mark on Strike; not on his forearm, where the Nightkeepers’ glyphs went, but on his bicep, where the gods—and kings—were marked.
He stared at the geometric glyph, and for the first time in a long, long time, his soul was silent. Gone was the confusion, the grief and resentment. In their place was icy determination.
He turned to the winikin. ‘‘Who am I?’’
Jox was the first to move. He stood and crossed to Strike, then pulled a knife from his pocket, flipped the blade open, and drew it sharply across his tongue, cutting deep. Blood flowed, dripped down his chin, and stained his teeth red when he said,
‘‘You are my king.’’ He bent his head and spat blood at Strike’s feet in the oldest of sacrifices, offering both blood and water.
Then he looked up at Strike, uncertain. ‘‘If you’ll still have me.’’
Strike nodded. ‘‘I am your king. We’ll figure out the other shit later.’’
Jox bowed his head and returned to the other winikin, who repeated the process one by one.
Then Strike turned to the Nightkeepers. ‘‘If you accept me as your king, we’re going after Leah. She’s not your fight, she’s mine, but I’m asking for your help getting her back.’’
‘‘All due respect,’’ Sven said, looking eerily mature in combat clothes, with his hair slicked back in a stubby ponytail. ‘‘Saving Leah isn’t just your fight. She’s one of us, bloodline mark or no bloodline mark.’’
The others nodded, all except for Red-Boar, who growled, ‘‘And if you get her back? What then? She lives only to die at the equinox, taking the god with her?’’
‘‘I know how to bring the god through,’’ Strike said. ‘‘We’ll reunite Kulkulkan’s power on earth and use it to keep the Banol Kax from coming through the barrier.’’ Gods willing.
The older man’s eyes were dark and wary. ‘‘How can you be certain it’ll work?’’
‘‘I’m certain,’’ Strike said, holding his stare. ‘‘Trust me.’’
And there it was, the leap of faith he needed from them, from Anna and Red-Boar most of all. He needed them to believe.
Softly, he said to the Nightkeepers, ‘‘Who am I?’’
To his surprise, Rabbit came forward first, knelt, blooded himself, and spat in the dust. ‘‘You are my king.’’
A look of exquisite pain flashed across Red-Boar’s face at the obeisance. The older man hung back as the others stepped up, one by one, until he and Anna were the only ones left.
Anna approached but did not kneel and didn’t cut her tongue. Instead, she scored her palm and, when blood ran free, took Strike’s hand in hers. He felt the jolt of power, the bloodline connection and the love that hadn’t wavered despite their time apart. ‘‘You are my king,’’ she said, and leaned in and kissed his cheek.
He hugged her and whispered in her ear, ‘‘Thank you.’’
Then he let her go and turned to Red-Boar. ‘‘Who am I?’’
Red-Boar met Strike’s glare. ‘‘There can be no love in war. Your father is still an idiot, even in death.’’
Strike crossed to him. Got in his face. Growled, ‘‘Who. Am. I?’’
The standoff lasted five seconds, maybe ten. Then Red-Boar broke and looked away. ‘‘You are my king.’’ He scored his tongue, spat the offering, and added, ‘‘Gods help us all.’’
‘‘The spell
you pulled from the grad student’s head,’’ Strike said. ‘‘Give it to me.’’
‘‘I can’t,’’ Red-Boar said, holding up a hand as Strike bristled. ‘‘Not won’t, I can’t. He didn’t finish translating all of it.’’
‘‘Damn it!’’ Strike spun away, fury and futility railing at him. He looked to the others. ‘‘Jade?’’
She shook her head. ‘‘I couldn’t find it.’’
There had to be a way, Strike knew. And not just because he wanted there to be—because it didn’t make any sense for the gods to bring him and Leah this far only to have them fail now.
Which meant he had to have faith, he thought, turning to face his people. His Nightkeepers. ‘‘Load up on live ammo and get your body armor. We’re going to kick some Banol Kax ass and get Leah back.’’
And after that, he was going to fucking wing it.
Five minutes later, the Nightkeepers were assembled, bristling with guns and knives. Red-Boar was blank-visaged and ready to kill. Rabbit stood at his side, vibrating with energy, his eyes alight with excitement. Anna looked ill, as though she’d rather be anywhere else just then, but Strike couldn’t leave her behind when their shared ancestry meant she could boost his power.
And the trainees . . . Hell, he thought with a little kick beneath his heart, they look like a team.
Alexis and Nate might have broken up in the wake of the talent ceremony, but they stood shoulder-to-shoulder now, stern-faced, nerves evident only in the tap of his fingers against a gun butt, and her slight shift from one foot to the other. Brandt and Patience were a unit, Michael and Jade looked ready enough, though Jade would serve only to boost her former lover’s shield magic, and Sven was pale but resolute, his hair slicked back, his features sharper than Strike had thought them.
Three months earlier they’d been normal people, CEOs and screwups, therapists and number crunchers. Now they were magi. They were the Nightkeepers.
And, he thought with a sick churning in his gut, they were mortal. Which had been an unacknowledged sticking point for him, one of the reasons he’d held himself away from them for as long as possible. He hadn’t just been fighting for his old life, or for the promise of a new one with Leah. He’d been fighting not to care about his teammates, or, failing that, struggling not to have to lead them into battle.
His father had led his family and friends to their deaths. What if he did the same? What if the greatest sacrifice was the remainder of the Nightkeepers? What then?
‘‘Then we go out fighting,’’ he said aloud, and crossed to them, the scepter magic still churning in his blood, keeping the
turbines revving high. ‘‘Join up and hang on,’’ he ordered, and when they linked hands, the power nearly took off the top of his head.
He leaned on it, pictured the Yucatán rain forest, and the clearing outside the hidden tunnel leading to the sacred chamber, and zapped.
The moment they blinked in, a group of makol massed in the tunnel mouth opened fire.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Strike ducked and started running for the leafy tree line, bellowing, ‘‘Take cover!’’
His pulse pounded and adrenaline hammered through his system alongside power and rage as the entrenched makol blasted away with a combination of green fireballs and M-16s. The Nightkeepers bolted for cover as Michael threw up a shield spell that blocked the first volley.
Strike dove behind a low, partially crumbled wall carved with what looked like the flying-serpent glyph he wore on his arm.
‘‘Over here!’’
The others scrambled in behind him and hunched down as a second salvo whistled over their heads and smashed into the rock wall mere feet from their position.
‘‘I’ll get their heads down.’’ Red-Boar angled his autopistol up and over the wall and started firing off short bursts designed to keep the makol pinned. Grim faced and resolute, he looked every inch the soldier he’d once been.
Risking a look around the wall, Strike took stock. There were probably fifty of them, their green eyes glowing in the fading light. The good news was that they’d be easy to contain in the cave mouth.
The bad news was that he needed to get the hell past them.
‘‘We need to draw them out,’’ he said, hunkering back down behind the wall. ‘‘How about this?’’ He grabbed a stick, swiped a layer of leaves away, and started drawing a rough approximation of their positions in the moist earth of the rain forest floor. ‘‘The makol are fierce as hell and hard to kill, but they’re not that smart. I say four or five of us work our way around to here’’—he marked a spot on the east side of the cave mouth—‘‘and make it look like our flank is exposed.’’
Red-Boar fired and grunted in satisfaction when there was a cry of pain from the other side of the clearing. Then he glanced at the diagram. ‘‘Not much of a shot from there, for either side.’’
‘‘Granted,’’ Strike said, ‘‘but I’m counting on that. I need to draw them out, get them away from the tunnel while the rest of us sneak through on the other side and attack from the rear.’’
‘‘Too simple,’’ Red-Boar said dismissively.
‘‘But it’s relatively low-risk, and we don’t have time for anything fancy,’’ Strike countered. ‘‘I want Patience, Brandt, Sven, and Rabbit on the east side, drawing them out. Brandt, you’re in charge. Nate, you take Alexis, Michael, and Jade to the west, and see if you can get in behind them. Red-Boar, Anna, and I will use the distraction to get into that tunnel.’’
Red-Boar looked back at him. ‘‘You want me with you?’’
‘‘No, but you’re the best power boost I’ve got.’’ Strike hated splitting his forces, but he didn’t have time to waste battling the makol, and he couldn’t risk them following. He needed a clear shot at the chamber. And Leah.
Even now, he could feel the stars coming into alignment. He needed to save Leah, save the god—the fear and the mad fury of it pounded in his veins, making him feel larger than himself, and powerful with it.
‘‘Any questions?’’ He got head shakes and resolution all around, and nodded with grim satisfaction. ‘‘Good. Once the rest of you have taken care of these bastards, follow us down into the tunnel. We’re going to need you.’’
With that, he pulled his autopistols and the others did the same, and they split up, moving in opposite directions to flank the makol, and hoping to hell the plan worked.
If it didn’t, they were screwed.
Leah was running out of time. Through her weak link to the golden light of the god she could feel the alignment coming to bear, feel the power opening up, blooming within her, but she couldn’t do a damn thing with it. All the training, all the spells . . .
useless.
She wasn’t a Nightkeeper. Never would be. And Strike hadn’t come for her. Did he think she was dead already? Worse, had something happened to him? Fear crushed down on defeat, adding to the sense of suffocation that was growing ever more intense with each second.
Jox’s words spooled through her head in a depressing loop. Self-sacrifice isn’t a sin . . . it’s the ultimate way . . . to honor the gods.
Was that what it was going to come down to? She cast around the chamber for a weapon, but saw only the screaming skulls and dying gods carved on the walls, and braziers that gave off red-hued copan smoke. She needed a knife, or preferably a gun. Quicker that way.
The thought twisted her belly with fear and despair. Strike, where are you?
A noise from the chamber entrance had her whipping her head from the altar surface, her heart jolting with the crazy thought that he’d locked on and come for her. But no, it was Zipacna who strode through the door, followed by a second green-eyed makol she recognized as the mimic in its baseline form. Both were wearing flowing robes the same gray-green color as the barrier mists.
Zipacna palmed a long, wickedly curved black knife from the belt knotted at his waist, and raised an eyebrow. ‘‘Last chance.
You accept the spell
and you’ll live beyond tonight.’’
‘‘As a makol? No way.’’
‘‘Your loss.’’ He flipped the knife, caught it by the blade, and didn’t even wince when it cut deep and blood flowed. Glancing at his watch—a jarringly normal action— he said, ‘‘You’ve got forty-two minutes left. Any last words?’’
‘‘Yeah. ‘Fuck’ and ‘you.’ ’’
He waved his bleeding hand at her. ‘‘Tell it to someone who cares. Like your brother.’’
‘‘Leave him out of this.’’ Rage guttered low in her stomach, battling out the fear.
‘‘Why?’’ He grinned, baiting her while the mimic leaned against the wall and watched them with an eerie lack of expression.
‘‘What are you going to do about it, cop?’’
The sluggish swirl of power shone hotter, brighter in her mind’s eye, and she felt something stir. A faint tingle started in her fingertips and ran up the insides of her arms, tightening the skin across her breasts and pressing urgently at the center of her chest. But when she tried to use the magic, nothing happened.
The bastard chuckled, moving closer and leaning over her, so she could feel the inhuman chill of him, feel the tickle of his breath on her skin. ‘‘See?’’ he murmured. ‘‘You can’t do a damn thing to me. I am ajaw-makol. I’m untouchable.’’
She whimpered and stretched, trying to get away from him, but hit the ends of her shackles too quickly.
Clearly enjoying her fear, he chuckled and swiped his tongue along her cheek to the edge of her ear.
Anger flared. Revulsion. And somehow the two together were enough to put her over. She felt a click, felt a door open inside her soul. Golden power flared within her, exploding in a starburst as she touched Kulkulkan’s power. She sensed the god trapped within the skyroad, felt his power and anger, his blinding wish to be free.
Tapping that power, opening herself to it, she locked onto the spell Strike had used the first moment she met him, and shouted,
‘‘Torotobik!’’
Her shackles detonated, freeing her and driving Zipacna back with a shout. Adrenaline flaring hard and hot, she didn’t stop to think or plan. She lunged forward, grabbed the black knife from his hand, and plunged it to the hilt in his left eye, until she felt bone grate.
Jessica Andersen - Final Prophecy 01 - Nightkeepers (2008) Page 43