Still, when she turned to wave Strike in, she wasn’t sure she liked his wary expression, or the way he closed the door at his back, as though he didn’t want anyone listening in.
“You’re coming to New Orleans?” she asked, hoping it was that simple—and that much of an opportunity.
“Nope, sorry.” Strike exhaled, looked around her carefully decorated room and shifting inside his T-
shirt like he wasn’t feeling right inside his own skin. “I want you and Nate to take Rabbit with you.”
Squelching her knee-jerk no way in hell, Alexis went with a neutral hum while she processed the info and came up with only one good conclusion. “You want him out of the way.”
Strike shook his head. “He’s getting squirrelly and needs to get the hell out of the compound. That’s all.”
“No, it’s not.” Alexis kicked her feet up on the soft gray ottoman she’d bought to match the sofa, and folded her hands across her chest, thinking. “Given what happened today it’s not a good time to be sending anyone who doesn’t absolutely need to be off property, so there’s a reason you want Rabbit gone.” She sucked in a breath as she made an intuitive leap she was pretty sure was right.
“Something’s wrong with Patience and Brandt?”
Of all the current Nightkeepers, Patience and Brandt White-Eagle were special thrice over: once because they’d found each other long before the barrier reactivated, meeting in Mexico on the night of the spring solstice, and waking up together the following morning wearing their marks; a second time because they’d defied the teachings of their winikin by getting married and having kids; and a third time because those kids were twins, which were sacred to the Nightkeepers because of their abilities to boost each other’s powers. The kids, Harry and Braden, hadn’t been put through any of the ceremonies yet, in order to protect them from being detected by magic seekers, but they lived at Skywatch among the bound Nightkeepers, watched over by Patience and Brandt’s winikin, Hannah and Wood, when Patience and Brandt were unavailable. Which they’d been more and more lately, Alexis had noticed, as though they were drawing away from the Nightkeepers—or each other—and didn’t want anyone else to know.
“Wow,” Strike said, shaking his head. “You got there fast.” But he didn’t deny that it was because of problems with Patience and Brandt, who had become Rabbit’s main support system after Red-
Boar’s death. Instead the king went very serious and said, “I need you to keep Rabbit out of the way, and I need you to keep him safe.”
The teen was important to Strike; they’d grown up together, albeit separated by fifteen or so years, and Alexis had a feeling Strike and Jox had picked up most of the slack Red-Boar had left in the way of nonparenting. Which meant that the request was a sign of trust. She tipped her head. “Are you asking the same of Nate?”
“I’m putting him on notice,” Strike replied, making it clear he didn’t intend to ask Nate for a damn thing.
Alexis knew she should’ve regretted the low-grade animosity that existed between the two men, but she didn’t because it only helped her cause, and it wasn’t like Nate wanted to be part of the inner circle. As far as she could tell, he didn’t even want to be part of the outer circle. “I’m honored by your trust,” she said carefully, “but are you sure it’s a good idea to put him in the middle of all the New Orleans occult stuff?” She wasn’t sure how the half-blood teen’s magic worked—none of them were, except that it didn’t always behave the same as Nightkeeper magic.
Strike sent her a long, considering look, then shook his head. “Damned if I know the right answer to that.” He paused. “What I’m about to tell you comes in the strictest confidence, understand?”
Startled, she set aside Jade’s report. “Of course.”
“I’m pretty sure Rabbit’s mother was a member of the Order of Xibalba.”
Whatever Alexis had expected him to say, it sure as hell wasn’t that. She looked down at the thin report Jade had slapped together on a group of magi that wasn’t supposed to exist anymore, then back up at her king. “Holy shit.”
He grimaced. “Yeah. Pretty much.”
Alexis wanted to say holy shit again, but didn’t figure it’d add to the convo, so she stayed silent, trying to process that new info. Finally she said, “I take it you got that from Red-Boar?” She didn’t think being half-Xibalban was something Rabbit would’ve kept to himself if he’d known.
Strike lifted a shoulder. “Let’s just say he didn’t deny it when I asked him directly. I think that was the main reason he didn’t want to induct Rabbit into the magic, why he didn’t want him trained as a Nightkeeper.”
“And why Rabbit’s magic is different, and sometimes dangerous.” Alexis thought it through, nodding. “Yeah, it plays. That’d explain why things have been weird for Rabbit during the ceremonies.” The first time she and the other new Nightkeepers had gone into the barrier, instead of them all transferring together like they should have, the trainees had gone one place within the gray-
green nothingness, while Strike and Red-Boar had each been sent elsewhere. The second time, Red-
Boar had been forced to use extra magic to keep them together.
“It could also explain why he’s got more power than he should,” Strike said, referring to the fact that Rabbit wore the pyrokine’s mark and could call fire, but also showed hints of telekinetic talents, in that he could unlock doors with a touch.
“I’m not sure I like how this sounds,” Alexis said quietly, thinking of the enemy mage’s powers, and how easily he’d wielded far more strength than she’d ever come close to touching. “You think the Xibalbans’ magic is stronger than ours.”
“Or Rabbit’s a special case.” Strike spread his hands. “Nobody knows. Besides, it’s just a theory.”
But the way he said it made her think it was more than that.
“Damn.” She sat for a second, then frowned. “If that’s the case, why put Rabbit out in the field with us, especially given that this Xibalban—if that’s what he is—is after the artifacts too? Isn’t that taking a needless risk?”
“Not needless. Calculated.”
She froze at the possibilities . . . and the complications. “You want to see what happens if we put Rabbit and the new guy in the same room?”
Strike gave a yes-no wiggle of his hand. “Hopefully nothing’s going to happen. Best-case scenario, this Mistress Truth character sells you the knife with zero issues and you get your asses back here.
Meanwhile I’ll be having a little sit-down with Patience and Brandt, and make sure that what’s going on with them doesn’t turn into a thing.”
Alexis didn’t ask, didn’t really want to know. She’d prefer to go on thinking that Patience and Brandt had the perfect marriage, the perfect love affair, because if the two of them, who fit together like halves of a whole, couldn’t make it work, what kind of a chance did anyone else have? So she focused on the fact that Strike was in her sitting room, offering her a chance to prove herself. She wasn’t going to screw it up. “I’ll do my best to keep him safe, best-case or worst-case, Nochem.”
He winced at the honorific for king in the old language—he was still settling into his title, just as the rest of them were still getting used to being part of a monarchy. But instead of telling her not to call him that, which was his usual response when one of them nochem ed him, he said, “Rabbit’s a good kid who’s had some tough breaks. Use him if you can; protect him either way. To be honest, I’d rather keep him here, but he’s eighteen and itching for a fight. If I don’t send him somewhere soon I’m afraid he’s going to go looking for action on his own, and I can guarantee he’ll get into trouble if that happens.” He paused. “Take care of him for me, okay?”
Alexis nodded. “I will.” They shook on it and he headed for the door. But as the panel swung shut behind him, she couldn’t help thinking that she might’ve just agreed to way more than she was sure she could deliver.
After his disaster
of a thesis defense—and the way he’d gone after Anna in the aftermath—Lucius went for a walk, trying to burn off the restless, edgy anger that’d been dogging him for weeks now, maybe longer. By the time he looped back to the art history building, he was calm enough to feel seriously ashamed.
His father had been right all along: He was a loser. It’d just taken him longer than the rest of them to figure it out. But what else could he call himself when he’d singlehandedly torpedoed the degree he’d spent the last five—okay, closer to six—years working toward? Anna had flat-out told him not to mention the Nightkeepers, and what’d he done? He’d gotten in the Dragon Lady’s face over it, even knowing—when apparently Anna hadn’t— that Desiree was in full-on woman-scorned mode, with Anna as the target. Worse, he’d compounded that monumental screwup by striking out at Anna. They might not be as close these days as they had been before, but that was no excuse. He’d been embarrassed and ashamed, and he’d lashed out.
Which meant he owed her an apology, he thought as he crossed the cement bridge leading to the partially concealed main entrance of the art history building—a squat, dark concrete shape right out of the seventies. Her first-floor office was locked, which probably meant she’d gone home for the night.
He really didn’t want to put off the apology until tomorrow, though; he’d screwed up too badly. But was calling—or driving out to—her house any better? It was late, and he wasn’t the Dick’s favorite person to begin with, never mind him having been the one to drop the Desiree bomb. Which meant . . .
Hell, he didn’t know what it meant. He didn’t know what anything meant anymore. Things that used to make sense didn’t, and things that shouldn’t have made sense kept seeming like they did.
“Damn it,” he said, and headed for his small office because he couldn’t think of a better alternative.
When he got there he saw that the message light on the landline phone was blinking, which was weird.
Anybody who was anyone would’ve called his cell. Unless it was official university business, he thought, gut churning. That’d probably be done by landline, by some dean’s secretary deputized to tell him he was out on his ass.
Wishing he could pretend he hadn’t seen the blink, he hit the button, braced for the worst.
“Meet me in my office in fifteen minutes,” Desiree’s voice snapped. “And come alone.”
“Shit!” He checked the time stamp on the message and saw that he was already an hour late. It didn’t matter whether she’d called to kick him out or give him another chance; being late wasn’t going to help. When the boss called a meeting, you showed. Or at least made a good effort to show. Stomach clenching on too many awful possibilities to name, he headed for her corner office. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or bummed when he saw that her lights were still on, the door open.
He knocked on the doorframe, and the Dragon Lady— Dr. Soo , he corrected himself—looked up from her seat behind a wide desk. He couldn’t read her expression when she saw who it was. “Come on in.”
Her office was professionally done up in rich-looking blues and golds, accented with accessories that reflected her specialty of ancient Egyptian art. He wasn’t sure, but the delicate faience bowl set in a case just inside the door looked real. Not willing to chance knocking it over, he gave the thing a wide berth as he stepped over the threshold.
“Shut the door,” she ordered, returning her attention to her laptop computer screen. Her tone didn’t make it sound like she’d reconsidered her decision on his thesis—more like she was getting ready to kick him out. He was pretty sure she couldn’t do that without Anna’s okay . . . but then again, it was entirely possible that Anna had okayed it and hadn’t had the guts to tell him herself, he thought on a low burn of anger that was both foreign and tempting.
“Sit.” Again with the orders, but he wasn’t about to argue. At least not until she said she was kicking him out.
He took one of two chairs set opposite her desk, both of which were made of dark, carved wood and somehow managed to be big and imposing at the same time that they were delicate and feminine. The chair creaked under his weight; that was the only sound in the room for close to five minutes, as she kept reading and he sat in silence, partly because he wanted to wait her out, partly because flapping his trap had already gotten him in enough trouble that day.
Finally the Dragon Lady hit a couple of keys and pushed the laptop away, then looked him up and down and up again, until he started twitching under her scrutiny. Just when he was getting ready to break the silence, she said, “You know something, Lucius?” She tapped one high-gloss nail against her lower lip. “I like you.”
On a one-to-ten scale of what he’d expected to hear, that ranked about a minus fifty. “Excuse me?”
“I like you,” she repeated, “which is why I’m going to do something I almost never do. I’m going to give you another chance.”
If anyone else on the faculty had said that, he would’ve thanked the hell out of them, and then asked when they should reschedule his thesis defense. Given who he was talking to and what she’d been up to lately, his first and potentially suicidal response was, “What’s the catch?”
Something flashed in her eyes—irritation or amusement, or maybe a bit of both. “It’s not a catch; it’s an opportunity to expand on the work you’re already doing. If you pull it off, you’ll be making a hell of a name for yourself, and you’ll get your degree.” When he said nothing, simply waited, she leaned forward, giving him a glimpse of the steel in her eyes and the edge of a lacy bra beneath her camisole. “I want you to prove that the Nightkeepers are real.”
“You—” he started in surprise, then broke off as he got it. She hadn’t tanked his defense to embarrass Anna. She’d done it because she’d wanted his research. Embarrassing Anna had been a side benefit.
Son of a bitch, he thought, not sure if he was disgusted or impressed, or a bit of both.
Legend had it that the Nightkeepers had lived with the Egyptians up until Akhenaton had gone monotheistic. If that particular legend were real, proving the existence of the Nightkeepers wouldn’t just blow the doors off the field of Mayan studies, it could rewrite a big chunk of Egyptology. And even better—as far as the Dragon Lady was concerned, no doubt—proving the Nightkeepers were real would invalidate a big chunk of Anna’s anti-end-time publications, putting a serious cramp in her forward momentum at the university, maybe even providing enough ammo to get her tenure pulled.
Bitch, Lucius thought, his anger cranking hard and hot. But beneath the anger was a stealthy slide of, Hmmm . . .
Anna had never supported his research on the Nightkeepers. Was she his priority, or was the research?
The Dragon Lady continued, “Tell Anna you need some time off to figure things out. I’ll fund your travel as necessary, and you’ll report directly to me.”
“I won’t do it,” he said, but it sounded weak even to him.
“There have to be things you’ve wanted to try, but couldn’t because she wouldn’t sign off on them, things you figured you’d do once you had your own grant money.” She paused. “What if you could do them now?”
I can’t, he repeated, only what came out of his mouth sounded an awful lot like, “I shouldn’t.”
“Come on; name it. If you had to pick one line of evidence to follow, and you had decent travel money, where would you go first . . . Belize?” That was where the Nightkeepers who’d survived Akhenaton’s religious “purification” had supposedly wound up, where they had—again supposedly—
hooked up with the Olmec, who had just begun to develop a cultural identity that would become, with the Nightkeepers’ help, the Mayan Empire.
In theory.
But Lucius shook his head. “No, actually. I’d start in Boston. There’s this girl—” He broke off, afraid that he’d come off sounding like an idiot, like he was crushing on someone he’d talked to on the phone for, like, twenty seconds, just long enough to take a message. A girl
who hadn’t returned any of his calls in the months since.
But Desiree—she’d gone from Dragon Lady to first name in his head all of a sudden—said only, “What about her?”
He let out the breath he hadn’t consciously known he’d been holding. Which made him he realize something else, too. He was actually considering taking her up on the offer.
It was disloyal as hell, yes, and he owed Anna better. But really, that low, mean voice inside him said, how much do you owe her? She’d shut him out, withdrawn, left him behind. It’d been her fault they’d had to reschedule his defense; if he’d turned in his thesis last fall, on schedule, he would’ve sailed through. But he’d been forced to reschedule because she’d done her little disappearing act, leaving for a few weeks at the start of the fall semester and returning a pale, strange version of herself.
If she’d stayed put and soldiered on, he’d have his Ph.D. and probably some new funding by now, enough to follow the clues that Anna pooh-poohed at best, derided at worst. She’d never wanted to even entertain the possibility that the Nightkeepers had existed, never mind discussing whether they still did, and what it might mean on the zero date. And it wasn’t just a closed discussion in her book; it’d never been a discussion at all. To her, the Nightkeepers were nothing more than a bedtime story.
But that doesn’t make it okay to go behind her back, he told himself, feeling as though there were two sets of feelings at war within his head: one that said he should trust that Anna would appeal Desiree’s ruling on his thesis, and another that said he hadn’t been able to trust Anna to do anything for him ever since she’d turned away from him, cut him adrift.
Rubbing a thumb across the raised knot of flesh on his opposite palm in a gesture that’d become habitual since he’d acquired the scar in a night of drunken stupidity, he told himself that friendships waxed and waned, that it was only natural for Anna to pull away from a relationship that’d perhaps gotten closer than she was comfortable with once she and the Dick had reconciled. The only relationship she really owed him was one of thesis adviser to student, and she’d never shirked that duty. Or had she? She’d steered him safely through his project, true, but had she kept him too safe?
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