“Your father came back three years later. I had taken Strike and Anna down to Chichén Itzá for the cardinal day—with Red-Boar gone, it was up to them to try the magic. We were just coming out of the tunnel when he stepped out of the rain forest. I pulled a gun on him,” Jox said matter-of-factly. “I’d been carrying a piece the whole time he was gone, afraid that he’d show up and go after one of the kids instead of just me. But he didn’t try to hurt us. He put his hands in the air. A few seconds later, you came out of the underbrush and stood beside him. I looked at you for a moment and you looked back, and I put the gun away.” The winikin paused. “He never apologized, and I never asked him to, just like I never asked him where he’d been or what he’d been doing.”
Rabbit’s throat had gone dry. “You let him come back because of me?”
“Because of you . . . and because it was bad enough living through what happened at Skywatch. He was the only one who survived being ambushed by the Banol Kax at the intersection. I had to believe the gods kept him alive for a reason.”
“Do you still believe that?”
Jox sent Rabbit a long look. “I do. I hope you’ll do your best to prove me right.”
“I . . . Shit.” When his chest got tight and funny at the idea that his old man might have lived solely so he could be born, and the pressure that idea put on him, Rabbit grabbed his box. “Weren’t we supposed to be schlepping this crap somewhere?”
“That was the general theory.” Jox seemed willing to let the topic drop. But as they were heading along what Rabbit had started to think of as the Hall of Ghosts, the winikin said, “The only time he ever mentioned those missing years, he said something about a village called Ox Ajal, up in the highlands.” Jox looked sidelong at Rabbit. “But keep in mind that sometimes when you go looking for answers, you don’t get the ones you’re expecting, or particularly want.”
Rabbit lifted a shoulder. “Nah. I appreciate your telling me about the old man. It . . . it helps to know it wasn’t just me, you know?” It wasn’t an evasion, precisely. But he still felt like shit, given how cool Jox had been to him just now, and what he’d revealed about the past.
“After what’s been going on with Jade’s mother and the nahwal, I think most of us are thinking about our families, particularly our mothers. But do me a favor and keep it in perspective, okay?
You’re doing a good job building your own life. Don’t fuck it up trying to prove something to a dead man.”
Rabbit didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing. Part of him knew Jox was right, that he should let it go and concentrate on his role within the magi. He was making headway finally, and it felt good. But he already knew what Myrinne was going to say, because he was thinking it: The name of the village—his mother’s village?—couldn’t be a coincidence.
In the old tongue, ox ajal meant “thrice manifested,” and its strange, double-skull glyph was used to represent the Triad.
June 21 Summer solstice Two years and six months to the zero date After the grueling winikin-led practice finally ended at midafternoon the day before the solstice, Jade had dragged herself to her suite, curled up in her bed, and pulled the covers over her head to shut out the rest of the world. She had slept a solid ten hours and awoke well past midnight; the sky was dark and lovely beyond the balcony, with a sliver of moon providing pale blue light. She felt good; heck, she felt better than good, riding on the early buzz of barrier magic that would build exponentially in the hours leading up to the solstice. Driven by the magic-wrought urgency, she showered and dressed in jeans, a tight black tee, and her boots. It wasn’t until she was pulling on a long-sleeved shirt against the cool night air that she acknowledged she was headed outside. To Lucius. They hadn’t spoken more than a few words to each other in the past three days, but although the whirlwind of game practice, rescue plans, and magical preparations had left her with little in the way of time or energy, she’d never stopped being aware of him on an intimate, visceral level.
Don’t be an Edda , she told herself, but the warning fell flat because she might be a mage, but on another level she was only human. And having spent the past two days watching Lucius practice the gracefully violent moves of the ancient ball game . . . wow. Just wow.
After the first few times one of the winikin had demonstrated a move to have Lucius not only pick it up immediately, but sometimes even improve upon it with his greater mass and strength, his ability to instinctively shift his center of gravity lower to get a knee or a hip under the heavy ball to keep it aloft or in play, Jox had called him on it, and he’d admitted to having played some pickup games while out in the field, albeit with the smaller, lighter balls used in the modern era. It had startled Jade—and, she suspected, some of the others—to realize that the game was still played as pure entertainment among the Mayan villages, and not just as the tourist-focused reenactments they had found on YouTube.
Indeed, it seemed to Jade like an unfortunate statement on humanity that the ball game, which had religion at its center, had survived the conquistadors while the Mayan writing system and codices were systematically destroyed as heathen tools. The game itself had evolved over time, but its core was largely unchanged, and Lucius’s experience with the moves put him at a substantial advantage.
Watching him move lightly over the ground, completely at home in his body, entirely in control of his movements and reflexes, Jade had found herself brutally aroused despite her fatigue. Now, with the fatigue gone, the arousal remained, a sharp ache that drove her out of the mansion in search of Lucius.
She found him sitting atop one of the ball court walls, staring into the night.
She climbed up the steep stone staircase and sat beside him, so their arms brushed lightly as their legs dangled over the sheer twenty- foot drop of one of two parallel stone walls. To her right, she could just make out the moon shadow of the high-set stone ring that was the game’s ultimate goal.
From down below, it had looked impossibly small in relation to the size of the game ball. From up atop the wall, it still looked damn tiny. No wonder there was also a point system of body hits and out-
of-bounds penalties; the hoop seemed an impossible target.
Without preamble, he held out his right hand and flipped his palm up to reveal the quatrefoil hellmark, which looked black in the moonlight, though she knew it was the bloodred of dark magic.
“Do you think it’s possible that I’m part Xibalban?”
“You—Oh.” She rocked back in startlement and fumbled for a few seconds, trying to redirect her brain from the sex buzz in the air to his question.
“Is that an ‘oh’ as in, ‘I’m thinking,’ or as in, ‘Where the fuck are my jade-tips’ ? ”
“That was ‘oh’ as in, ‘I’d like to say you’re crazy, but it would explain a few things.’ More than a few.” She paused, thinking that, unfortunately, it wasn’t the dumbest thing she’d heard lately. “One of the questions we’ve had about you from the beginning is: Why you? Why did the makol reach through the barrier to you, when you’re a fundamentally decent guy? Impulsive, maybe. Stubborn, definitely.
Occasionally self-serving, check. But on balance, there never seemed a compelling reason why a demon would go after you, and more, why you’d be susceptible to it. What if the connection and susceptibility come from a few drops of Xibalban blood, but your makeup, your essential you ness, runs counter to the darkness? That could explain why the makol was able to come through the barrier into you, but couldn’t integrate your soul with its own . . . thus making it possible for you to survive the Prophet’s spell.”
Instead of looking appeased by the thought that his inner good guy had saved his life, he seemed pensive. “That would imply that I’ve got a part in the gods’ plan. That they intended for me to go through everything I’ve been through. For me to do the things I’ve done.” He scrubbed both hands over his face. “Hell, I just don’t know. I can’t think about it anymore or I’ll drive myself up a wall.”
/> “Newsflash: You’ve already done that.” What was more, his vibe had gone dark and sad, his expression closed. Which was high on the not good scale if openness was the key to his magic. Leave it alone, her cautious self said. You came looking for him, not the other way around . But there was another voice now, a stronger, more adventurous one that said, Do it. I dare you. Her heart hammered against her ribs as the moment gained meaning and importance. Then, taking the risk, the leap of faith, she shifted to straddle him suddenly, so they were aligned center-to-center in an instant. Heat fired in her blood. Magic. Desire. He went stiff and still and his hands came up to grip her hips. Before he could pull her close or push her away, she leaned in so her face was very close to his and their breath mingled as she asked, “Question is: Now that you’re up the wall, what are you going to do there?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Gods. Lucius’s blood drained from his head to his lap and he went hard at the spot where they were pressed together, where she rode him unexpectedly. He didn’t answer her with words, didn’t think he could form a coherent sentence as a roar of heat came close to obliterating the train of thought he’d been locked into for too long. Intellectually, he knew that the question wasn’t whether he had mageblood a few generations back; it was whether he would give in again to the weakness that had given the makol its toehold. But as Jade’s taste exploded across his senses and heat roared within him, he knew the answer wasn’t as simple as the instinctive hell, no inside him, because if he didn’t know what the chink in his armor looked or felt like, how could he be sure of staying strong? That was what had kept him studying the paintings and prophecies long into the night, looking for an answer. That and struggling with thoughts of Jade, and the knowledge that he couldn’t go to her until he had his fucking head screwed on right. Except he hadn’t gone to her; she’d come to him, propositioned him with the glitter of solstice magic in her eyes. And what the hell was he supposed to do about that?
She broke the kiss to whisper against his lips, “Stop brooding. It’s a cardinal day.”
Wry amusement had his mouth curving despite his mood. “That doesn’t exactly equate to party time around here. In fact, it seems like the perfect time to brood. We’re pinning everything on a damned ball game. If this doesn’t work, we’re screwed.”
“And your sitting out here alone is going to change that?” When he didn’t respond, she nodded as though he’d answered. “Exactly.” She took his hand in hers; their scars rubbed together in an inciting echo of being blood-linked. “This doesn’t have to be complicated. Right now, for today, it can just be about the solstice.”
Deep inside, he knew he shouldn’t let it be that easy. But at the same time, there was nothing easy about the electricity that crackled between them, nothing simple about the roar of heat and need that pounded through him, or the frustration that had ridden him for the past three days. But then, unbidden, his hand rose to cup her cheek. He felt the softness of her skin, saw the wary heat in her eye, and he was lost. “Fuck it. Happy summer to me.”
Throwing thought and caution aside with almost giddy relief, he kissed her, deep and dark, and he filled his palms with her curves. Her hands fisted in his hair and she whimpered at the back of her throat, her body molding to his, her breasts pressing against his chest. On a surge, he swung around and rose to his feet with her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck.
“Lucius!” She grabbed on convulsively.
“I’ve got you.” He carried her down the steep stairs like that, their mouths fused. The man he’d been wouldn’t have dared try it. The man he’d become reveled in how easy the move was for him now, just like the ball game had been. Whereas in the past he’d struggled with his own body, now he was in total control.
When they reached his cottage, he carried her across the TV room to the bedroom, this time cradled close to his heart. In some atavistic corner of himself, he was aware of the danger, but just then he didn’t care. It was the solstice, a time for sex and magic. He set her on her feet just inside the bedroom door, sliding her against him inch by torturous inch. In unspoken agreement they shed their clothing with glorious abandon, not stopping until they were both naked. The earth-toned light reflected from the ball game scene on the TV screen limned the dip of her waist, the curve of her breast, and the long lines of her arms and legs. He reached for her, thinking to carry her Rhett- like to the bed, but she held him off with an upraised hand. “Wait. Let me.”
Before the ridiculous image of her carrying him to the bed could form, she knelt down and closed her mouth over him almost in a single move. His vision grayed and he forgot what the hell he’d been thinking, damn near forgot his own name. All he could do was lock his knees, bury his hands in her hair, and hang on for the ride.
She drained him, left him weak legged and shuddering, wholly at her mercy. At some point they collapsed together on the bed with her astride him, driving him up again as he filled his hands, his mouth, with her breasts, her lips, her tongue. He talked to her, slipping from English to Yucatec and back, saying her name, lacing it with praise and pleas, urging her up and over, saying more perhaps than he’d said to anyone since he’d nearly lost the option to say anything ever again. She shuddered against him, small climaxes building to the whole, as she rode him, drove him onward, controlled him, until finally she clenched around him, shuddering, his name seeming ripped from her throat as she came.
He followed her over, kept her going, grinding against her, pulsing into her as she said his name again, this time on a moan. Then on a whisper. Until, finally, she sagged against him, pressed her cheek to his, and went still. In fact, he was pretty sure the whole world went still for a long, drawn-out moment that laid him bare, stripped him raw. And in that moment, he thought that he would do anything to keep her with him, anything for her.
He lay there drained, reveling in the languor of an orgasm that had devastated him, seeming akin to an apocalypse in its own right. Unable to move, he lay sprawled and satiated while his senses spun and a faint breeze seemed to come from nowhere to tug at him.
It took him a few precious heartbeats to recognize the sensation through the postcoital haze. Then exultation slammed through him. Magic! It was there; he was there. He reached for it, grabbed on to it, opened himself to it—
And the world hazed luminous green around him.
“No!” He lunged upright, pawing at the night. “Godsdamn it, no!”
He saw Jade’s face swim into his vision, saw her mouth moving but couldn’t hear the words; he couldn’t hear anything over the hammer of his heartbeat. His vision flickered back to normal and the world lurched, or maybe he was the one moving. Jade’s voice cut in, soothing: “It’s okay, it’s—”
“It is godsdamned well not okay,” he snarled, then froze when the words came out instead of being trapped inside his skull, and he snapped back to awareness of his own body. The world solidified around him. “Fuck. Oh, fuck.” He doubled over, leaning against her. “I’m going to be sick.”
“Up,” she ordered. “Into the shower.”
“Yeah.” His voice was thick; his mouth tasted like shit. He staggered to the bathroom, got the shower on, and stuck his head under the fiery spray. Nauseated and shaking, he stayed under the stream, heat on max, until his skin was red and he was back under control.
Then he stayed another couple of minutes as his brain came back online and things started making sense, and not in a good way. He toweled off, found clean jeans and a tee waiting for him, and dragged them on, his heart pinching at the expectation of things to come.
Jade had gotten dressed and was waiting for him in the main room. She’d shut off the TV and turned on a light. When he appeared in the doorway, she looked up at him, her eyes huge in her face. “Why did you fight the magic?”
“I wasn’t fighting the magic. I was fighting the makol.”
She paled. “You weren’t.”
“Trust me, I’d know that green eye slime anywhere, an
ytime. The bastard is still inside me. If I hadn’t yanked myself out of there, I might have—” He broke off, had to swallow hard so he wouldn’t gag on his own bile. It was like before, only worse, because this time he’d thought he was finished being a slave. “I can’t go back there. I fucking won’t.”
She stood to face him. “You’re not going anywhere, Lucius. The makol is dead; its soul was destroyed during the spell, just like my sister’s was. There’s no way it’s still connected to you. It doesn’t exist anymore . If it did, you wouldn’t have been able to access the library even the first time.
Get it? The only place that demon still lives on is in your memories.”
He went very still. “You think I’m making this up?”
“I think . . .” She blew out a breath. “How about we sit down?”
Eyeing the sofa, he said softly, “Would you rather I lie down while you pull the chair around? I’ve told you I don’t want to be your patient, Jade. Don’t try to therapize me.”
“There’s no such word as ‘therapize.’ And another word for therapy is a two-way conversation, Lucius.” But the way she said his name, he knew she was thinking “asshole.”
Deciding she was probably right about that, he sat on the damn couch, and he didn’t move away when she sat beside him and took both of his hands in hers. In fact, he was tempted to lean into her, lean on her. He compromised by tipping his head to rest lightly atop hers. “The sex was fabulous.
Sorry about the postcoital girlie screaming.”
Her fingers tightened fractionally on his. “That was more than sex. And there’s no makol. Whatever you felt just now was your psyche’s way of warning you away from the powerlessness and lack of control that comes from caring for another person. You’re not afraid of the makol. You’re afraid of what’s happening between the two of us.”
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