On the upside, the Nightkeepers still had the star demon hidden away . . . and Rabbit had discovered that there were five artifacts, not four. There was one more out there, in play. But that was where the “more bad” came in. “I couldn’t figure out what the fifth artifact looks like or where it’s hidden,” Rabbit had said, “because there’s another problem. Iago isn’t the dominant personality anymore; the demon soul of Moctezuma is in control now, and Iago’s brain is seriously fucked up. I couldn’t get anything other than what was floating at the top of his sicko soup.” He had paused, a muscle at the corner of his jaw pulsing. “He’s the one who has been taking the villagers. He’s figured out how to turn them all makol, not just the evilest of them. He’s got a fucking army brewing—hundreds, maybe thousands.” Including men, women, children . . . and Rabbit’s friends.
As for the rest, Rabbit had gotten hints about the solstice and a dark lord, but no specifics on who, what, or how to stop it.
Based on the new information, the Nightkeepers were scrambling to put together new recons, new strategies. Sasha was doing some healing work on Sven, who had turned quiet and strange since his inexplicable collapse and equally inexplicable reawakening the next day. Rabbit and Myrinne had gone back down south to keep looking for Iago’s base camp. Reese had gone off with Jade, Natalie, and Lucius to try to figure out what the fifth artifact could be, where it might be hidden, and—
Shit, Dez thought, disgusted. Meditate already. He would’ve skipped the routine, but he knew all too well how easy it was to start the downward slide. A missed prayer or a momentary grab for power weren’t deadly in isolation, but for him they could be as dangerous as a dry drunk’s first sip.
Staring at the wall, he drew a deep, incense-laden breath and blanked his mind. Then he relaxed his scalp, his face, his sinuses and jaw, working his way down, feeling the bumps and bruises, the psychic stink that came from having grappled with Iago.
Those reminders of the fight brought a thick stir of anger. The Xibalban had gotten the two-faced mask. More, he had almost killed Reese. Damn it, Dez thought, he should’ve tried harder to chase her off, should’ve found a way to send her back to Denver, even if the knowledge that she had a guy waiting for her made him want to put his fist through something. It would be better to have her safe in the arms of another man than risking herself with the Nightkeepers.
When a molar creaked, he made himself relax his jaw.
She wasn’t as fast as he was, didn’t heal like he did, didn’t have shield magic or lightning. Worse, she was still stupid-brave. She might think she had grown up and slowed down, but she was wrong. She would still be the first one through any door if he didn’t push her out of the way. Seeing her locked inside Iago’s shield had just about killed him, as had watching the makol squadron advance on her.
Blank wall. Blank mind. Drift. Breathe.
This so wasn’t working. He really, really sucked at this.
A knock at his apartment door had him lunging to his feet. “Thank Christ.” It wasn’t until he had his hand on the doorknob that he realized the thrum of his blood wasn’t just coming from relief. The knock had been the syncopated four-tap that had been his and Reese’s old signal for: It’s me. All clear.
Except nothing was clear. He knew that for damn sure the moment he opened the door.
She was wearing dark jeans and a stretchy top that clung to her breasts and had desire hammering through him, racing on the afterburn of magic. He wanted to touch her, kiss her, back her up against the far wall and imprint his body on hers. Electric heat flared at the thought, saying yes, this is right, this is what was meant to happen, with a certainty as incontrovertible as the writs themselves. But back in the day, he’d thought the same about buying her that ring because he wanted to get laid, hadn’t he?
Knowing that he couldn’t trust his motives when it came to her, he made himself step out into the hall and let the door swing shut behind him. “Hey. Everything okay?”
She met his eyes, looking thoughtful and seeming oblivious to the ozone crackle that heated the air around them. “I was thinking . . . Skywatch is at the middle of the compass cross made by the other locations, right? So where better to hide the fifth artifact than inside the Nightkeepers’ center of ops?”
That so wasn’t where his brain had been that it took him a second to reorient, another to see that she might very well have nailed it. Because the pattern fit. The logic played. And he was damn grateful to have something else to focus on other than the heat that burned inside him.
Maybe keeping her close wasn’t so self-indulgent after all.
He grinned fiercely. “I always said you were more than a pretty face.” Keep it light, he told himself when his blood continued to hum in his veins and his body attuned itself to hers.
She stuck out her tongue at him, then lifted a flashlight. “Want to do some exploring?”
Caution said he shouldn’t go off alone with her, not now when he was running so hot. But, damn it, this was their search and the compass artifacts were the responsibility of the serpent bloodline. And he might be tempted, but he was in control. He could handle himself. So, deciding caution could go fuck itself, he ducked back inside his apartment and grabbed his jacket. “Lead the way,” he said.
But as they headed off, he couldn’t help wondering where the slippery slide began. And how far he could let it go before there was too much momentum to stop.
Reese filled Dez in as he steered the Jeep along the looping trail that followed the perimeter of the box canyon. “The center of the compass is associated with the color green, and with—get this—lightning.” When he shot her a look, she nodded. “I shit you not. The Hopi medicine wheel has a similar color arrangement, except that they connect the green center with their end-time prophecy, which says that the savior will return to save them. He’s supposed to be a big, white-skinned god who wears a red cape and appears following a series of signs that include multiple earthquakes.” Like the ones that had hit the previous year, courtesy of the earthquake demon, Cabrakan.
As they climbed out of the Jeep at the back of the canyon, he pointed out, “Only the royal bloodline wears red for ceremonies, which suggests that Strike is the guy they’re looking for. Maybe it’s his job to destroy the weapon.” His tone was matter-of-fact, his expression anything but.
The intensity of his gaze, like the heat that had kindled in his eyes as they had stood together in the hallway, sent a shiver down the back of her neck and kicked her instincts into overdrive. Since their return to Skywatch, he had seemed . . . different somehow. He was darker and more closed off than he had been, yet at the same time she had caught him watching her possessively, with a feral, predatory gleam in his eyes. She wasn’t afraid of him—she wouldn’t have come out here alone with him if she had been. But the fragile trust that had started growing between them while they staked out the ice cave had disappeared, as had any easiness between them. Maybe encouraging him to return to Skywatch had been a mistake, after all. Or maybe you’re overanalyzing, she thought sourly.
He looked up at the cliff face, to the triple row of dark openings that led into a small Puebloan ruin. “Why are we starting here?”
“Since the other artifacts were all hidden at local native sites, I called down to Rabbit, who knows these ruins better than anyone. He was pretty sure that a few of the rooms have zigzag decorations suggesting serpent worship.” She paused. “Granted, the compass points aren’t exact, so the fifth artifact could be hidden in one of the main Chacoan ruins. Heck, given that Keban told you there were only two hidden artifacts left—the god’s head and the two-faced mask—number five may be in a museum somewhere. And there’s no guarantee you’ll be able to sense it . . . But we’ve got to start somewhere.”
An hour later, though, they were forced to admit defeat. The zigzags may or may not be snakes, but the surrounding stones were solid, with no evidence of anything being hidden there.
“It was worth a try,” Dez said
as he parked the Jeep back in its spot near the training hall, which was a short walk from the mansion. “Tomorrow we can start checking the Chacoan sites—Pueblo Bonito and whatnot.”
The sun was setting, the sky going from salmon to bloodred as it filtered through the high canopy of the huge ceiba tree that had magically grown from the ashes of the winikin and children who had died in the Solstice Massacre. A grove of leafy cacao trees spread out beneath the bigger tree, forming a magical, out-of-place mini-rain-forest ecosystem that flourished between the training hall and the mansion.
Reese hopped out of the Jeep and walked partway to the picnic area near the cacao, her mental wheels still turning. “How about planting some of those magic sensors around the Chacoan ruins? That way we’ll know if Iago ’ports in to dig something up.”
“We’ll have to check if there are any left. Last I knew, Rabbit had set up most of them in the highlands.”
It was a sobering reminder of the bigger picture. And the fact that they needed to find some answers, fast. “What about—” She broke off at a twig-snap. Her instincts flared. “Did you hear that?”
Still over by the Jeep, Dez looked over. “Hear what?”
She squinted through the half-light at the cacao grove, and raised her voice. “Is someone there?”
A shadow moved. Then luminous green flashed, followed by a high-pitched whine.
“Makol!” Reese spun and bolted, then screamed in pain when something slash-thudded into her shoulder. Another blow impacted low on her back, and then the creature was on top of her, tearing at her, growling vicious words in a language she didn’t know. She heard Dez’s furious bellow, saw a blast of lightning magic, felt the makol being ripped away and turned to ash. Then it was all pain and blackness. Then nothing at all.
“No!” Dez roared, dropping down beside her. “Reese!”
His shield sparked around them both as he dragged her up. He saw her blood, smelled it, felt it on his hands when he grabbed her and slung her over his shoulder, his heart pounding a sick litany of: Not Reese. Please no. Not Reese.
In the cacao grove, dark magic rattled and air whoomped with the sound of an outgoing ’port. Moments later, leaves parted and more makol poured through: men and women wearing the mix of loomed textiles and modern clothes favored by the highland Maya.
Pulse slamming, Dez reinforced the shit out of his shield and went for his armband, nailing the emergency alarms on every available channel. “We’ve got makol by the big training hall, repeat by the fucking training hall. Reese is hurt. I need Sasha here, now. And for fuck’s sake put somebody on the star demon. I think Iago’s here.” The magic of the outgoing teleport had felt different, bigger.
Then he spun as a big makol with a nose ring and the robes of a village shaman-priest came out of the trees and lunged, slashing. The buzz-sword bit into and through Dez’s shield. He felt the blow not just in his shield but in his body; pain roared in his shoulder and chest and he staggered back, went down. He landed hard and lost hold of Reese. And his godsdamned shield shorted out.
“Fuck!” He launched to his feet, putting himself in front of her as the big makol raised his buzz-sword for the killing blow. He tried to call his shield. Failed. Tried to call lightning. Failed. Went for his .44, but it was too late. The buzz-sword sliced the air and—
Foliage whipped suddenly as a furry grayish blur erupted from the cacao grove and leaped on the makol.
Dez froze for a split second, surprised as hell when the dog—wolf? coyote?—clamped its teeth on the shaman’s sword arm and twisted. Inertia spun them around, and then the huge canine was on top of the makol , snarling horribly as it tore out the demon’s throat and then bit down on its face with a terrible crunch.
More makol raced out of the grove and the big dog spun to face them with a chilling snarl, its jaws dripping blood and saliva. Then it leaped over the attackers, raced back into the cacao. And disappeared.
Whump! Air displaced as Strike and six more magi appeared in the middle of the fight. Immediately, they slammed shield magic into place and started blasting away. Rabbit and Michael were in front, wielding fire and muk. The deadly magical flows scythed through the bulk of the makol while the others napalmed with fireballs, then followed up with head-and-heart magic.
“Don’t let them at your shields,” Dez snapped. “One of them shorted mine out.” He couldn’t explain that. Couldn’t explain the coyote. Couldn’t explain how Iago had gotten inside the ward. Impossible, all of it.
Yet it had happened. And Reese had taken the brunt.
Fuck.
He dropped down beside her, gathered her up, cursed when he felt the feverish heat pouring off her body and heard the way her breath sobbed in her lungs, strange and rattling. “Sasha!” he called harshly. “Now. She took a buzz-sword blade to the shoulder.”
But Reese shook her head weakly and rasped, “The shoulder’s just a cut. That’s not . . .” She swallowed hard, then pushed up her sleeve and said faintly, “This is worse.”
Her right wrist was swollen and angry, the flesh dimpled in a semicircular bite that was blackened at the edges and wept clear fluid from the center. The sight sledgehammered Dez in the gut and chilled him down to his very soul. “Son of a bitch.”
The magi had been lucky so far—none of them had been bitten—but they all knew what it said in the library about makol bites: They had to act immediately. And even then, the odds weren’t good for a mage.
For a human, they were even worse.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Strike zapped the entire fighting force straight to the sacred chamber in the center of the mansion, both because Reese would need all the help she could get, and because it was a defensible position.
Michael and Nate each took a door and cast heavy shield magic, because until further notice, no place was safe.
Dez carried Reese to the big chac-mool altar, which was set in cement made from the ashes of long-ago Nightkeepers. He slid down so they were sitting together on the floor, with him leaning back against the altar and her cradled in his lap, her back to his front, so he could brace her and hold her injured arm steady.
She moaned weakly, drifting back to consciousness to ask, “What are you doing?”
“We need to cut you and get the poison out right away,” he whispered into her hair. It was the only way—it might be an old wives’ tale for snakebites, but when it came to magic, the old remedies worked best. “We’ll use a sleep spell. You won’t—”
“No,” she said. “No sleep spell.” She shuddered. “Hate ’em.” Her voice slurred, but her eyes were adamant.
He started to argue, but Sasha interrupted, saying, “I need her conscious. She has to say the spell.” The worry was plain in her face though: As a human, Reese didn’t have any magic. The spell might not have any power coming from her.
He met Sasha’s eyes, saw her agonized sympathy. “Don’t,” he rasped. Don’t say you’re sorry. Don’t look at me like that. “She can sense the magic,” he said almost desperately. “Not loud and clear, but she knows when I’m jacked in.” It was something he hadn’t let himself think about too closely, because it only added to the self-serving logic urging him to take her as his mate.
“Then link up with her,” Sasha ordered. “Gods know she’s going to need all the help we can give her.”
There was a commotion among the others, a flurry of phone and radio traffic. Dez caught the words “star demon” and “fucker got it” and his gut twisted with the knowledge that they were in deep, dark shit. Iago had at least four of the artifacts, might know where to find the fifth.
He cursed. They should have been safe inside the compound. What the hell had happened? How had the fuckers gotten in? He was furious—at Iago, at the whole fucking situation—but he shoved all that aside and bent over Reese. Her body was cooling from the spiked fever, but not in a good way. She was limp and clammy, her breathing labored. Her hand was swollen and hot, the blackness of the bite mark spreading along
the webwork pattern of her veins. Death follows quickly, the codices warned about makol bites. And he could practically see her fading, see the darkness overtaking her. A tsunami of emotion hammered through him—rage, regret, guilt, loss, grief—all the things he hadn’t fully felt when he lost her the first time. Back then, he’d been lost himself, and by the time he found his way out with the help of the Triad magic, it had been far too late for him to go after her. Now, though, he realized that he had kept her image inside him, and fought every skirmish with her locked in his heart, knowing she was out there in the world he was defending. He couldn’t lose that, couldn’t lose her.
He wanted to pray, but couldn’t find the inner stillness he needed. So as Sasha used her belt to set a tourniquet above Reese’s elbow, he pulled his knife and carved a jerky furrow in his palm, then hers. He clasped her hand, pressed his cheek to hers, and whispered, “Pasaj och.”
Magic flowed into him, but it weighed him down rather than lifting him up.
Sasha linked up on the other side, connecting her flow of life energy to Reese’s. “Okay,” the healer said, poising her knife over the bite mark. “On four. One, two . . .” She slashed on “three,” bringing a gout of watery black fluid, followed by blood.
Reese stiffened and gave a harsh, strangled cry. Pain radiated into Dez through the blood-link—it was dull and unfocused compared to what he was used to sensing from uplinks with the other magi, but it was there, damn it. Something was getting through. So as Sasha slashed again, making an X, he drew as much pain as he could out of the link and sent his own energy back through it. Come on, you bastard, he thought, not sure if he was talking to himself or the poison inside her. Come on!
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