Dawnkeepers

by Jessica Andersen

  “Think it through,” Nate said, picking his words carefully. “Be rational.”

  The king bared his teeth. “Fuck rationality. I want him back where he belongs, where he should’ve been all along.”

  “Wait,” said a soft voice, one that didn’t belong to any of the compound’s residents. The girl, who was in her late teens, dark-haired and pretty, and equally as rough-looking as Rabbit, if not more so, pushed ahead and put herself in front of the king. “When he knew he was going to pass out before you guys got to us, he gave me a message for you.” She paused. “You’re Strike-out, right?”

  Pain flashed on the king’s face, along with wary hope at her use of Rabbit’s old, jeering nickname for him. “Yeah.”

  “He told me to give you this.” She pulled a knife, but before anybody could take her down and protect their king, she flipped it in a practiced move and held it out to Strike, haft-first.

  There was a ripple of surprise from the gathered crowd, one that mimicked the clutch in Nate’s gut when he recognized the knife they’d lost to Iago back in Boston. Which meant Rabbit, at least, had been in contact with the Xibalban.

  It also meant they had the Volatile’s prophecy back in their hands.

  “Thank you.” Strike accepted the knife without comment or ceremony, and Nate had to force himself not to snatch it from him. As before, the knife called to him, made him want to touch it, to hold it.

  The girl continued, “I’m also supposed to tell you to lock us both up and ward the shit out of the room, and that he’ll explain the rest when he wakes up.”

  Which was so not good news, Nate knew, because it meant Rabbit believed the Nightkeepers had something to fear from him or the girl, or both. Shit.

  Strike’s expression went bleak, and he had to clear his throat before he said, “Was there anything else?”

  She nodded. “I’m supposed to tell Jox not to burn the eggs.”

  Both the king and his winikin relaxed at that, letting Nate know that it was a safe word or something, a cue that the message was genuine and unforced. “Okay,” Strike finally said. “Okay. We do what Myrinne says.”

  The girl looked startled. “How’d you know my name?”

  “Lucky guess. Come on.” The king led the way, with Jox at his side and Leah shepherding the girl. Myrinne. As he strode through the main door, the king called, “I want all magic users downstairs near the storerooms in five minutes to help me set the wards.” Which was something of a relief, because it meant he was taking Rabbit’s warning to heart and setting some serious magic.

  Nate stayed back until Alexis joined him, and had a feeling his own expression mirrored the worry on her face. “What do you think?” he asked.

  She glanced at the starscape overhead, which was dimmed some by the front lights of Skywatch. “I think it’s going to be a long night. What do you think?”

  “That we’re going to run out of storerooms if this keeps up.” They’d wound up locking Lucius back down in the room he’d occupied his first couple of days at Skywatch, on the theory that the single room was easier to ward, and the sturdy walls and the lack of windows made physical locks more practical and efficient.

  She nodded. “Won’t argue with you on that.”

  “That’s a first.”

  “Not my fault you’ve got warped ideas of logic.” But she held out a hand to him. “Come on, royal adviser. We’ve got some work to do.”

  Surprisingly, though, once they had the wards up and the royal council had convened in the kitchen over chips and salsa, the king didn’t fight them on the idea of major security measures.

  “Look,” he finally said, “I’m not stupid. We’ve already had a taste of what happened when Iago got someone inside, and for crap’s sake, I’m one of the few people here old enough to remember the massacre. It’s not like I’m looking to throw the doors open and invite what-the-fuck inside.”

  But he was still reacting as much with emotion as logic, and history said that when the jaguar kings started thinking like men and fathers rather than kings, bad things happened. Nate might not buy into the whole cycle-of-time thing, but he believed in basic psychology, which said that Strike needed their help. The fact that Nate and Alexis were pretty united in their recommendations was a huge swing in their favor, forcing Strike to finally agree—albeit reluctantly—to having Jox set up additional surveillance in each of the storerooms. Granted, the motion detectors and infrareds couldn’t detect ’port magic—and it wasn’t yet clear whether Rabbit had added that to his arsenal too, though how’d he get home otherwise?—but the gadgets couldn’t be influenced by a mind-bender, either.

  After that, they waited to hear back from Leah, who had taken Myrinne to the kitchen for some food with a side of interrogation, or Anna, who’d taken the knife so she could translate the normal script as well as the starscript.

  Leah arrived first. “Iago has had him for just over a week,” she announced without preamble, then went on to sketch out a summary of the teens’ imprisonment, and what little Myrinne knew about the Xibalban, which wasn’t anything they hadn’t already figured out.

  While she was talking, Strike rose and started pacing the length of the royal suite’s sitting area. By the time she was finished, he looked like he wanted to put his fist—or a fireball—through the wall. He held himself back, but Nate almost wished he’d let fly and burn off some of the emotion before it made him do something stupid.

  “Gods damn it,” the king finally said. “We should’ve fucking gone after Iago weeks ago.”

  “We couldn’t find him,” Leah pointed out, “just like we couldn’t find Rabbit.”

  That brought Alexis’s head up. “Can you lock onto Rabbit now?” she asked the king.

  He stopped pacing for a second, then frowned and shook his head. “No. I can’t. Which means we were right; Iago knows how to make people invisible to ’port magic. He must’ve blocked Rabbit’s ’port lock right there at the museum, then let him go—I don’t know . . . so he could watch him, maybe. Wait until he got into enough trouble that he needed rescuing, and might be desperate enough, lonely enough to join Iago’s team.” His voice went ragged when he said, “Did you see the kid’s arm? He’s wearing the goddamned hellmouth.” He stopped, facing a wall, but instead of putting his fist through it, he leaned his forehead against the painted plaster and said in a low, hollow voice, repeating what Leah had just told them, “Iago was going to sacrifice them, during the equinox. Another two days and he would’ve been dead.”

  “He made it out,” Alexis started to say, but Nate waved her quiet, and she was surprised enough that she actually shut up.

  Knowing he’d have to apologize for—or pay for—that one later, Nate rose and crossed to Strike. Pitching his voice so the others couldn’t hear, he said, “With all due respect, Nochem, get a fucking grip.”

  Strike stiffened, pulled away from the wall, and turned to glare. “Excuse me?”

  Ignoring a sudden memory of being hung off the side of a warehouse roof, Nate stared him down. “You want to be upset, do it on your own time. Right now we need you in the king zone.” He paused. “Don’t make me quote the writs at you.” The king’s writ, which set out the priorities of the ruling Nightkeeper, was unfortunately apt under the circumstances, a reminder that the king looked to the gods and his people first, followed by mankind and the end-time war. His own desires as a husband, father, and friend were way down on the list.

  Strike’s lips twitched. “Bet that’d hurt you far more than it’d hurt me.” But he inhaled a long breath and visibly centered himself. By the time he’d exhaled, he nodded to Nate. “Okay. Sorry. And thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. Seriously.”

  They rejoined the others, and Nate tried not to see Leah’s quiet nod or Alexis’s covert thumbs-up. He didn’t want to be good at this advisory crap, godsdamn it.

  “You guys ready for me?” a quiet voice asked from the doorway. Nate looked up to see Anna holding the Volatile’s
knife balanced in her palm, crossing her sacrificial scar.

  A hush took hold of the room.

  “What have you got for us?” Strike asked, waving her in.

  She set the knife on the coffee table and took one of the empty armchairs, leaning forward at the edge of the chair so she could point to a line of text inscribed at the base of the handle portion of the carved knife, which had been formed from a single piece of obsidian and polished to a deep black shine. “See this here? It’s a regular, nonstarscript inscription.” Tracing the fluid beauty of the Mayan glyphs, she translated, “‘The Volatile challenges the sky.’”

  “Well, that’s not good news,” Alexis said, frowning. “If he’s going after the gods, then it’s a pretty good bet that he’s either one of the demons, or Xibalban. What confuses me is the apparent link with Ixchel and, by extension, with me.”

  Nate shot her a look. “We’re not handing you over to Iago, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you on that one.” But she’d paled, nonetheless.

  He leaned close and said under his breath, “The prophecies aren’t immutable. Strike and Leah proved that.” But he knew she was having trouble with the hypocrisy of believing they needed to follow the gods and prophecies, but choosing to disbelieve the one that specifically related to her.

  He, on the other hand, had no such issue. If the Volatile—whoever or whatever it was—wanted Alexis, it would have to go through him to get to her.

  “What about the starscript?” Strike asked.

  Anna shook her head. “That’s the strange thing. There wasn’t any.”

  Silence followed that pronouncement, formed of a combination of surprise and consternation. “That’s it?” Alexis said, looking shattered. “Nothing else? Nothing about Ixchel? The inscription on the statuette said Camazotz would succeed unless the Volatile is found. Does that mean we have to find and destroy the Volatile before the equinox? I hope not, because I don’t see it happening.”

  Nate cursed inwardly. “Maybe Rabbit will know something.”

  “He’s out cold,” Jox said, “and not likely to be coherent enough to answer questions until sometime tomorrow. Whatever happened to the poor kid, he’s used up.”

  Strike nodded. “Then that’s a wrap. We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning, unless anyone gets any brilliant ideas between now and then.”

  The members of the council disbanded and went their separate ways, Jox and Anna to their adjacent quarters in the royal wing, Nate and Alexis in the direction of the residences.

  When they got to the door that was the most direct route to the cottages, she paused. Normally—at least every night over the past week—they would’ve headed out to his cottage by tacit consent. Tonight she hung back.

  Because he’d been getting a slightly off vibe from her ever since the Volatile’s prophecy was read, Nate said, “No pressure, but you look like you could use the company.” Keep it light, he told himself. Don’t make it weird if the answer is no.

  But his gut went sour when he saw the answer in her eyes a few seconds before she shook her head and looked away. “I’m pretty tired.”

  They hadn’t taken a night off from each other since they’d started sleeping together again, and it was part of their unspoken agreement that they . . . well, didn’t speak about it. It seemed like the best way to have a more or less casual thing, given that they both lived in the compound and would continue to do so regardless of how things ended up between them. They were together when they wanted to be, apart when they wanted to be, and if it’d wound up that they wanted to be together more than they’d wanted to be apart, then that was another thing they were leaving unspoken. At least, they had up to that point.

  Tonight, though, Nate found he didn’t want to let it go and keep it casual. The confirmation that the Volatile was an enemy of the gods had shaken him as much as it’d affected her. He was churned up, pissed off with the situation, and with the gods-awful obscurity of it all. Why couldn’t the gods just tell them what the hell they were supposed to be doing? Yeah, fine, he knew all the rhetoric about the difference between the long, tenuous skyroad and the wide-open hellmouth. But it seemed like the gods had had ample time to get their messages through, and instead kept letting the supposed saviors of mankind get their asses kicked over and over again, setting them up for an impossible battle when the end-time came.

  But being pissed off at the gods wasn’t what Alexis needed from him right then; he could see it in her eyes, in the way she’d turned toward him, and how her face had gone a little wistful as she looked at him.

  Catching her hand when she would’ve headed toward the residential wing to spend the night alone, he said, “Then let me rephrase. I could use the company. And it doesn’t have to be anything more than that.” Though he’d like it to be; he wanted to hold her, to feel her curled up next to him and know that for tonight, at least, she was safe.

  She went still for a moment before she turned back to him, her eyes guarded. “Really. I don’t think it’s such a good idea.” She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, as though she were cold, or getting goose bumps. “I think I’ll just call it a night.”

  Because she looked like she needed it, he moved into her, wrapped his arms around her, and rested his cheek on hers. “Lexie, talk to me. I’ll listen.”

  She leaned into him for a moment and drew a deep, shuddering breath. Then she pushed away from him and took a big step back. “Fine. You want the truth? Don’t say I didn’t try to avoid it. And it’s not a magic thing or an equinox thing. It’s a totally, depressingly human thing. A girlie-girl emotional thing. You sure you’re up for it?” She paused, waiting for him to beg off.

  He squared himself opposite her instead, as though they were getting ready to spar. Which was about what it felt like. His rational self was yelling for him to back off, to let things stay the way they were. But another side of him, the side that didn’t want to sleep alone—that side had him saying, “Lay it on me. I can take it.” He twitched a grin. “Hell, I’m dealing with being a royal adviser, which was one of the last possible things I ever wanted to be. If I can handle that, I can handle whatever’s bothering you. Maybe I can even help you fix it.”

  “Doubtful. At least, not the way you’re thinking.” She took a steadying breath. “I’m in love with you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Of all the things Nate had expected her to say, that wouldn’t have even made the list.

  I’m in love with you. The words rocketed around in his brain, bouncing off one another without making any real sense. Not just because he hadn’t expected to hear them from her, though he hadn’t, and not because he’d never realized she’d been headed in that direction, even though that was true too . . . but because he hadn’t heard those words strung together with that meaning and tossed in his direction before.

  Not ever.

  He had every reason now to believe that his parents had loved him, and no doubt they’d told his infant self so repeatedly. But he had no memory of those times, didn’t remember even a hint of his parents. His earliest memories were of foster homes stuffed with too many kids, run by adults who’d spent the foster stipends on themselves and left the kids to fend. Sure, there had been one or two good families, ones he would’ve stayed with if given the choice. But he’d been moved along instead, and the opportunities for “I love you” had dwindled with the years. It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d heard in juvie, wasn’t the sort of thing he’d wanted to hear in prison, where he’d learned more than he’d ever wanted to know about sex as a commodity. Since then he’d had a string of relationships, again growing fewer and farther between as the years went on and he’d poured himself into the business . . . and his obsession with his fantasy woman, Hera, who was nothing more than a two-dimensional, watered-down version of Alexis herself, whose face fell progressively as he just stood there, staring, vapor-locked by her declaration.

  Then she smiled, only it
was one of acceptance rather than hope. “Yeah. That’s about what I figured. You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  She turned and started walking, and he was so jammed up in his own head that she was most of the way to the residential wing before he unglued his feet from the damn floor and went after her. He caught her arm. “Alexis, wait.”

  She turned back and fisted her hands on her hips, and though there was hurt and resignation in her eyes, he didn’t see any tears, which made him feel both better and worse at the same time: better because he didn’t think he could’ve handled it if she cried; worse because it meant she’d expected exactly the reaction he’d given her.

  “It’s okay, Nate. My feelings, my problem.” There were tears in her voice, though, which made him feel like crap.

  “They’re not a problem,” he said, because that was the gods’ honest truth. “I just . . . I need time to process. I’ve never . . .” He fumbled the delivery, not sure he wanted her to know that the whole love thing was something he understood in theory, but not in practice or reality.

  “Like I said, it’s okay. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to hit my rooms and unwind. It’s been a hell of a day.”

  “Understatement of the year,” he said faintly, still not sure what he was supposed to do or say. He knew he’d blown the moment, but didn’t know how badly; knew he wanted to do better, but wasn’t sure how. “I just . . . I wasn’t thinking about love or forever. Once we took the gods and destiny and prophecy and all that shit out of the equation, there didn’t seem to be any reason for it, you know? We’re here for another four years, and either the world’s going to go on after that or it’s not. Either we’re going to have a future or we’re not, you know?”

  She swallowed, then nodded. “Yeah, I do know. Thing is, I’ve spent too long living in limbo, waiting to figure out who I am and what I’m supposed to be doing.”