Demonkeepers n-4

by Jessica Andersen

  She was back in Lucius’s cottage, back in her own body.

  And thank the gods for that, she thought, blinking muzzily. She didn’t know how long she’d been out-of-body, or what time it was, though it was still full dark outside. The sense of emptiness in the room told her that Lucius wasn’t nearby. No doubt he’d made it back from the library and had gone to get Strike and the others, so they could wake her. Except that she’d awakened herself. She’d made it home.

  She lay blinking for a moment, then let out a long, exultant breath and sat partway up. “I did it.”

  She’d cast the “way” spell by herself, had rescued herself from the barrier. “I did it!”

  More, the magic was still inside her. It hadn’t stayed behind in the barrier. And it was showing her things. Where before the glyphs on the TV screen had only hinted at another layer of meaning, she now saw that the text string wasn’t illiterate gibberish at all, but a fragment of a spell . . . or rather a blessing, she realized, though she didn’t know what would have been blessed, or why.

  I’m a spell caster, she thought, using the alternate meaning of the scribe’s talent mark, the one that had never before felt accurate. Her throat tightened with the raw, ragged joy of it. Or if I’m not now, at least I’m heading in that direction. The nahwal had triggered her talent. It seemed that Lucius wasn’t the only one to get a jump start tonight.

  Still staring at the screen, as happy laughter bubbled up in her chest and stalled in her throat, she put down her hands, intending to push herself to her feet. Instead of finding the floor, though, she touched cold flesh.

  Letting out a shriek, she yanked her hand back and spun, her heart going leaden in her chest.

  “Lucius!”

  He lay where he’d been before. Even in the reddish brown light his skin was an unhealthy gray, his lips blue. For a long second, she didn’t think he was breathing at all. Then his chest lifted in a slow, sluggishly indrawn breath. After another agonizing wait, it dropped as he breathed out.

  “Lucius?” She reached out trembling fingers to check the pulse at his throat, steeling herself against the chill of his flesh. She couldn’t detect his heartbeat, but stemmed the rising panic. If his heart weren’t beating, he wouldn’t still be breathing . Instead of settling her, though, the thought brought images of animated corpses with glowing green eyes.

  No, she told herself harshly. The makol is gone. Lucius isn’t. I won’t let him be.

  Heart pounding, she scrabbled around, found the earpiece, and keyed it to transmit. “Hey, guys.

  Need some help in here.” Her voice was two octaves too high.

  “Are you okay?” Jox asked immediately, his voice full of a winikin’s concern.

  She tried to keep it factual, tried not to let her voice tremble. “Lucius is out and fading. I think we’re going to need Sasha, and maybe Rabbit.” Sasha could heal him. Rabbit, with his mind-bender’s talent, could follow where Lucius’s mind had gone. Maybe. Hopefully. Please, gods.

  There was a murmur of off- mike conversation, and then the winikin said, “Sit tight. Strike and the others are on their way.”

  “I’m on mike,” Strike broke in, the background sounds suggesting he was running. “Where is he stuck?” But they both knew he was really asking, Did he make it to the library?

  “I don’t know.” She sketched out a quick report of her and Lucius’s out- of-body jaunt to Xibalba.

  She’d tell the others about her solo trip to the barrier after she’d had a chance to think about it herself.

  By the writs, it was her right to keep her nahwal’s messages private, and she didn’t think her visit with the nahwal was relevant to the library. Beyond that, it had confused her. Some of what the nahwal had said made complete sense, and it seemed that the creature had given her the missing piece of her magic. But at the same time, some of what it had said jarred against Jade’s own instincts . . . although admittedly those instincts had been ingrained by Shandi, whose loyalty first and foremost was to the harvester bloodline, Jade had long ago decided, not necessarily to the needs and desires of her own charge. Which left her . . . where?

  Before she could even begin to answer that, Strike booted the cottage door open and strode through the kitchen with the others in his wake. Instinctively—she couldn’t have said why, or where the urge came from—Jade punched the remote to kill the image on the big TV, and clicked on the light beside the sofa instead. The others didn’t notice her actions or question them; they were intent on Lucius as, in a flash, the cottage went from being too empty to being too full, jammed with overlarge bodies, gleaming good looks, and expansive personalities.

  Michael and Sasha were on the king’s heels: He was dark and green-eyed, with jaw-length black hair, wide features, and a big fighter’s body that all but oozed pheromones; she was lean and lithe, with flyaway brunette curls and eyes the color of rich milk chocolate. They balanced each other perfectly. More, they were Jade’s closest friends at Skywatch. Under other circumstances, in another life, that might have been odd, given that Michael had been her lover for a time. But Jade was a pragmatist. Michael, though a death wielder and their resident mage-assassin, was a good man; and Sasha was a friend. They made it work. More, Sasha was a ch’ulel, a master of living energy, and Lucius badly needed an energy infusion. Jade was glad Strike had brought them both.

  Behind them came the two other mated mage- pairs in residence, bringing the exponential power boosts of their jun tan mated marks. Alexis led the way, a blond Amazon of a warrior whose ambition had gained her the position of king’s adviser, as her mother had been for Strike’s father. Nate was right behind her, not because he was secondary in their mated power structure, but because he didn’t feel any need to jockey for position, with her or with the others. He was the Volatile, a shape-shifter who could turn into a man-size hawk that featured prominently in some of the more obscure end-time prophecies. He was also a loner, brought into the Nightkeepers’ tightly knit group—and the royal council—by his and Alexis’s rock-solid love match.

  The couple following them, in contrast, was far from rock-solid, in Jade’s opinion, both professional and personal. Brown-haired, intense Brandt and blond karate instructor Patience had found each other, and the magic of love, more than three years before the barrier reactivated and they all learned they were the last of the Nightkeepers. But for all that they’d been married human-style for nearly five years now, and had twin sons together, they walked apart, not touching. Barely even looking at each other. The problems in their relationship had been going on for some time, but Jade was struck anew by the distance that gaped between two people who, on paper, at least, seemed as though they should be the perfect couple.

  Ghosting in behind them came Sven, the lone remaining Nightkeeper bachelor within the training compound. Loose limbed and all-American handsome, with a stubby blond ponytail and a seemingly endless supply of ass-hanging shorts and surf-shop T-shirts, he wore his I-don’t-take-anything-

  seriously attitude like a shield. Jade, though, saw beneath to a man who was deeply bothered that he’d failed the Nightkeepers several times when they’d needed him.

  Although simple math and the value added by matings between Nightkeepers would suggest she and Sven should try the couple thing, the suggestion had never been broached in her hearing. While she suspected that was largely because she lacked the warrior’s mark, she was grateful it had never come down to that for either of them. Duty would’ve demanded she at least try to make it work, and that would have been . . . uncomfortable. She liked Sven, but wasn’t attracted to him. She liked a man who made her laugh, one who made her think. One who challenged her, teased her, made her a little crazy.

  At the thought, she looked down at Lucius’s motionless form and heard a multitonal whisper in her mind: Don’t let yourself get distracted by the human . That wasn’t exactly what the nahwal had said; she wasn’t sure if it was her own reservations talking now, or something else. Still, though, she w
as acutely aware that Strike’s human mate, Leah, wasn’t there. For all that they loved each other fiercely, and he’d gone against the gods to claim her as his own, ever since the destruction of the skyroad had severed her Godkeeper connection, Leah had offered little in terms of magic.

  Leah wasn’t the only one missing, either, Jade realized with a kick of unease. Rabbit wasn’t there.

  Granted, Strike would’ve had to ’port out to UT for him, but still. Who better than a mind-bender to find a lost soul?

  “Let’s get him up on the couch,” Strike said, not really acknowledging Jade. He glanced at Sasha.

  “Unless you think we should haul him to the sacred chamber, or even down south to the tomb?”

  She shook her head. “Let’s see what we’re up against before we change too many things at once.

  Couch first, then triage, then we’ll make decisions about moving him.” Given that she was their resident healer it was logical for her to take command of the situation. But that didn’t stop resentment from kicking through Jade as the others crowded around Lucius’s motionless form, putting her on the outside of a solid wall of wide shoulders and too-perfect bodies.

  The men lifted Lucius onto the sofa, jostled him until he was wedged in place, then nearly mummified him with the quilt. Don’t trap him like that, Jade wanted to tell them. He’d hate it. But she stayed silent, feeling invisible and unimportant. This wasn’t about her; it was about the Nightkeepers doing what they could for Lucius. And even if the nahwal actually had unlocked some part of her talent, it wasn’t like she could rattle off a spell capable of bringing him back. For now, Lucius was better off with Strike and Sasha taking the lead, with the others lending power to them, and through them into Lucius.

  Feeling extraneous, Jade eased back farther.

  “Where are you going?” Strike asked. It took Jade a second to realize he was talking to her.

  “Sorry. Did you want me to stay for the uplink?”

  The king locked eyes with her, his expression unreadable. “Sex forges a connection within the magic. You’re his lover, which means you’re our best means of finding him.”

  “I’m not his—” She broke off the instinctive denial, because this wasn’t about the “L” word. And she couldn’t claim there wasn’t a connection. It didn’t make sense for her to argue on one hand that sex magic was just about the sex, then on the other hand claim that a magic bond between sex partners required an emotional bond that wasn’t relevant to her and Lucius.

  “You said you wanted to step up into the fight, even without the warrior’s mark. Well, here’s a chance for you to do exactly that.”

  Strike’s challenge hung on the air for a moment, seeming to suck all the oxygen from Jade’s lungs.

  She was acutely aware of the others watching her, waiting for her response. Part of her wanted to melt into the woodwork. Another wanted to cut and run. Instead, she took a deep breath and nodded. “Of course. I’m in.” She only hoped she was strong enough to make a difference . . . and that the Nightkeepers together could bring Lucius home.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The library During one of the many roundtable discussions about what might or might not happen once Lucius connected to the library, he remembered Sasha suggesting that even if he managed to make the connection, his energy reserves might be too limited to sustain it. The Nightkeepers had high metabolisms and huge appetites, both designed to feed the magic. He didn’t. And yeah, as he bent over the notebook he could feel the drain, knew he had to get himself back to Skywatch. Problem was, the notebook’s construction and the warning on the first page were its most coherent aspects. The text was a scant three pages of cramped writing done in a strange stream-of-consciousness style. Some of it made sense; most of it didn’t.

  Scrubbing the heel of his hand between his eyebrows in an effort to recenter his spinning brain, he went back to the beginning and started over.

  Within my bloodline—the keepers of the library’s secrets—they say that a powerful Prophet will arise as we get close to the end-time. This Prophet will be an outsider, one who has lost his way, but once he finds himself, finds his magic, he’ll have the power to avert a terrible tragedy. How could I not think the prophecy was talking about me? Ostracized from my bloodline, stripped of my powers, yet born for so much more than I had become, there couldn’t be anybody better for the job.

  Did this happen because of my pride? Because I wasn’t humble enough before the gods or the magic? Rather than dying and giving my people a Prophet, I’m stuck in here. I’ve got the answers, but no way to give them to those who once loved me.

  That all made sense to a point, Lucius supposed, but he could’ve used more context. Unfortunately, the next page and a half contained confusing rambles about flames and staring eyes. Then, finally, on the last written page, there was something useful.

  Therefore, as the last of my bloodline, the last keeper of the library’s secrets, I write this both fearing and hoping that nobody will ever read it. I hope that a true Prophet will arise at the end of the age, one who dies as is meant, leaving his body behind to transmit all that is hidden here. But I fear that this may not happen . . . and if you’re reading this, you’re like me. The gods didn’t take your soul during the spell, and they gave you only this small window into the library. To you, I write the following, some of which was known to my bloodline, some of which I’ve figured out here: The way-ya spell will get you back to your body from here, but only twice. If you enter the library a third time, you’re staying. Trust me—third time isn’t a charm in the library magic.

  You’re here, so you probably figured out how to get in. Just in case, let me spell it out for you: It’s talent-specific, so you’re going to have to use your own magic to get back here. When you do, make sure you’re bringing the right questions, because you’ve only got one shot. Don’t screw it up, because I can only imagine that you’re it. You’re the last Prophet. The one who’s supposed to help save the world.

  Finally—and this isn’t about the library so much as what I’ve figured out sitting here dying, wishing I’d done things differently—magic isn’t what’s going to save the world. Love is. So find someone to love, and tell them so. Better yet, show them you love them by making them happy rather than miserable. Don’t be an idiot like I was.

  “Which in my experience is a total contradiction in terms,” Lucius muttered. In his experience, using the “L” word to a lover was the very definition of being idiotic. At least it was the way he did it.

  Granted, all the talk about bloodlines meant the journalist had been a Nightkeeper, and from what he’d seen the magi tended to do a good job in the couples department. Still, it seemed like an odd thing to say, even odder to write as the very last entry in the strange journal. “And who the hell wrote it, anyway?”

  His body jolted, lurched upright, and staggered back toward the stacks. “Whoa! Wait,” he said, “I didn’t mean—” But he broke off at the realization that he was far, far weaker than he’d comprehended. His legs shook and the stone walls blurred around him as he headed across the room, impelled by the magic. It was all he could do to stay on his feet, but he’d be damned if he crawled.

  By the time he reached the other end of the narrow stone room, he was breathing hard, nearly doubled over as he fought not to retch. Then he got a good look at what the magic had brought him to, and he froze inside and out.

  A woman’s corpse sat in the corner, wrapped in a yellow-edged green robe identical to the one he was wearing.

  He had his answer. He’d asked who wrote the journal . . . and the magic showed him. For half a second, the torch flames flickering on the body made it seem to move, even though he knew it wasn’t alive. It couldn’t be. Not looking like that. She wasn’t a mummy in the formal sense of embalming and wraps, but she was mummified all the same, with her skin tight and shiny, stretched over where flesh had wasted from bones. Honey-colored hair hung to her shoulders, and the bone structure of her face se
emed oddly elegant despite the hooked-nose, bared-teeth grotesquery of desiccation. The robe had ridden up over her forearm, baring three marks: those of the star bloodline, the warrior, and the jun tan.

  “Bingo,” Lucius slurred. “Now we know that the stars were the keepers of the library.” Which was only partially useful, given that none of the living Nightkeepers were members of the star bloodline.

  But it was information, and he’d always been a fan of info. And, dude, he was punchy. The torchlight seared his eyes, and the stones beneath his feet heaved like the deck of a fishing boat, with the same nausea-inducing consequences he’d suffered on his single lamented attempt at deep-sea fishing. “I’ve gotta get out of here.” He didn’t have the answers the Nightkeepers needed about the skyroad or the sun god, but his body was flat-out done. If he collapsed and passed out here, he would probably exhaust the last of his energy reserves while unconscious. And death in the barrier was death nonetheless, which meant it was time to go home.

  The journal had talked about the “way-ya” spell, not the way spell, which was what he’d been assuming he should use. “Way-ya” meant “home,” but could also mean “spirit” or “portal.” Similar but different. Chanting the word over and over in his thick-feeling head, he dragged himself back to the study area, with its carved medallions. His feet seemed very far away when he plonked them on the way symbol of the snaggle-toothed dragon. Wetting his gone-dry mouth, he croaked, “Way-ya.”

  Power instantly slammed into him, swept him up. Everything went dark, and the world around him spun hard and fast. He might’ve puked but wasn’t sure; he lost touch with his body, with his neurons —hell, with every part of himself. Terror slashed as he glimpsed a dusty, barren roadway that came from nowhere, led nowhere. The in- between. His own private hell. Adrenaline slashed, sweeping away the cobwebs. Screaming inwardly, he fought not to go there, fought to go anywhere but there, but how could he fight without power, without magic, without training?