‘‘Ask your first question,’’ it said in a toneless voice that seemed to be made of two voices, one high, one low, speaking in synchrony.
Oh, holy freak show, Leah thought, gripping Strike’s hand even tighter than before. Drawing strength from that solid contact, she took a deep breath and said, ‘‘What is the nature of my magical power?’’
Strike, Red-Boar, and Jox had confabbed on the question, going for something broad enough to get more than a yes/no answer, yet specific enough to give them something they could use. In theory, anyway.
The nahwal tilted its head and was silent for nearly a minute, unmoving, as though carrying on an inner dialogue. Then it said to Leah, ‘‘You are the light half of the god Kulkulkan. Your brother was to be the darkness. Together, you were to be the Godkeeper, able to wield the might to oppose the crocodile lord.’’
Shock hammered through Leah. Grief. She tightened her fingers on Strike’s hand, where their cut palms channeled his power into her. Kulkulkan is a dual god, Strike said through the blood link. Light and dark halves. Since you’re human, you can’t take all his powers. He must’ve tried to split himself into two blood-linked humans—you and your brother—figuring to unite you into a single Godkeeper.
But how is that possible when Matty died long before the barrier reactivated? Leah shot back, head spinning. And where does that leave me now?
‘‘Will you ask your second question?’’ the nahwal queried.
Leah thought fast. ‘‘How can I bring the darkness into myself and become the Godkeeper alone?’’
‘‘You cannot,’’ the creature replied in its two-toned voice.
Shit. Ask where the god is now, Strike prompted.
When Leah parroted the question, the nahwal replied, ‘‘Kulkulkan’s link to you keeps him trapped between heaven and earth, within the skyroad. There, his energy fades.’’
Which is why my powers are getting weaker over time rather than stronger, she thought. But that doesn’t tell us how to fix it, and I’m out of questions.
‘‘I’m not,’’ Strike said aloud, dropping her hand and breaking the blood connection before she could protest, before she could remind him that he wasn’t supposed to burn his three questions on her.
The nahwal turned its attention to him. ‘‘Will you ask your first question, son of the jaguar kings?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ Strike said. ‘‘Why do I wear the flying-serpent glyph?’’
‘‘It represents the darkness of Kulkulkan, the war god aspect.’’
‘‘Then I am to take her brother’s place?’’
The nahwal shook its head. ‘‘No. You are a male Nightkeeper, and carry too much darkness already. If you undergo the transition, you will become a makol with the power of a god. Undefeatable evil.’’
Leah gasped and moved forward, but Strike warned her back with a look.
‘‘Will you ask your final question, son of the jaguar kings?’’ the nahwal inquired in its flat, two-tonal voice.
‘‘How can the god be returned to the sky without harm to Leah?’’
‘‘It cannot.’’ For a moment, Leah thought that was all it was going to say, that it would leave them with even more questions than before. But then it continued, ‘‘The woman must die before the equinox. If she does, the god’s link to earth will be severed and Kulkulkan will return to the sky. If she remains alive at the equinox and the god has not been fully brought to earth, then both the woman and the god will die, and the god’s death will destroy the skyroad. There will be no more Godkeepers, no more help from the sky. The enemy will bring the end-time, opposed only by you and your Nightkeepers . . . and you will fail without the power of the gods.’’
That two-toned pronouncement hung for a moment in terrible silence. Then the nahwal took a step back and started going gray-green and thinning to mist. ‘‘Your questions are done.’’ Its voice grew fainter. ‘‘Gods be with you, son. . . .’’
Then silence.
Leah couldn’t tell if it’d faded out before saying ‘‘of the jaguar kings,’’ or if it’d meant to say ‘‘son.’’ A glance up at Strike told her he didn’t know, either.
Silence reigned as the mists came together again in the wake of the nahwal’s exit.
Then Strike said, ‘‘Leah.’’ Just her name, as though there were nothing else to say. And maybe there wasn’t. They’d gotten the answers they’d come for.
Unfortunately, the answers they’d gotten sucked.
She nodded, unable to speak past the lump of fear and grief that jammed her throat. She wished she could say she didn’t believe a word the nahwal had said, that there was no way she was buying into the idea that she had to die in order to prevent one of the Nightkeepers’ creator gods from being destroyed. But if the magic was real, how could she say the nahwal’s answers were lies?
Strike took her hand again, tugged her closer, and lifted his free hand to touch her, brushing the backs of his fingers across her cheek and down the side of her neck. Despair simmered just beneath the surface of his soul—she could feel it through the link, lending sharpness to the heat that built between them, quick and urgent as he leaned down and touched his lips to hers.
She hesitated a moment, feeling her heart bang against her ribs and thinking of all the reasons this wasn’t a good idea—her track record, his priorities, her vow to avenge Matty’s death, the whole greatest-sacrifice thing. But all those reasons lost to the one single thing that told her she should take this moment with him, the one thing that had her parting her lips beneath his and lifting her arms to twine them around his neck, holding on when desire built, sweeping her away.
Because as he kissed her, as they leaned into each other, she knew one thing for certain: If he was kissing her, then he thought there was no hope. She was already dead.
She whimpered a little without meaning to, and he drew away, looking fierce and every inch the leader, every bit the protector as he said, ‘‘We’ll find a way. I promise.’’
She buried her head in his chest, resting her cheek above his heart. ‘‘Take me back to Skywatch.’’
When Red-Boar triggered the talent ritual, Rabbit was the last to make it through into the barrier, dropping down to land on his ass in the mist, which swirled up around him in greasy puffs of greenish gray. The others had already formed a circle.
As Rabbit scrambled to his feet and limped to join the others—his foot had gone pins and needles for some reason—he saw something flash in his old man’s eyes. Most likely regret that he’d made it through. Well, screw him. It wasn’t like there was any question that he was going to get a talent mark—he already had his talent, didn’t he? He’d get the fire symbol. Patience would get air, symbolizing invisibility. And the others? Well, they’d see about that, wouldn’t they?
Taking his place between Sven and Michael, Rabbit smirked at the old man. ‘‘I’m here. The party can officially begin.’’
Then he realized it already had. The mists swirled and began to thicken behind each of the trainees. Moments later, the bloodline-bound nahwal appeared, one for each of the trainees, except for Rabbit, who would be repped by the old man whether either of them liked it or not.
Only there was one too many nahwal, Rabbit saw. Excitement spurted when he thought that maybe another bloodline—his mother’s?—was going to claim him.
Then the creature turned to Red-Boar and said in its fluting multitoned voice, ‘‘Where is she?’’
Rabbit hid the quick flare of disappointment. When the old man looked confused, he snapped, ‘‘It means Jade.’’
The nahwal turned toward him. ‘‘Why is she not here?’’
Rabbit said, ‘‘We left her behind. She hasn’t got any magic.’’
‘‘Of course she does.’’ The nahwal turned away and blinked its eyes. Moments later, Jade appeared in midair, screaming, and dropped a good six feet to land flat on her face.
There was a moist-sounding thud when she landed, and Rabbit winced in spite
of himself. ‘‘Ouch. That had to hurt.’’
‘‘Shut,’’ Red-Boar said tightly, ‘‘up.’’
‘‘What happened?’’ Jade pushed herself up, eyes wide and frightened. ‘‘I didn’t . . .’’ She looked at Red-Boar. ‘‘I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to—’’
‘‘It’s okay,’’ he interrupted. ‘‘You didn’t do anything wrong.’’ He nodded to the nahwal. ‘‘Your ancestors wanted you here.’’
She scrambled to her feet. Stared at the nahwal as it approached her. ‘‘But why?’’ Her voice squeaked on the question.
‘‘Because they need you,’’ the nahwal said. ‘‘We all do.’’ The creature gripped her right forearm. Lightning flashed and Jade went stiff, like she’d just been hit with the jolt. Then the nahwal faded—like poof, one minute it was there, the next gone—leaving Jade standing in the middle of the circle with a shocked look on her face and a new mark on her arm.
Rabbit couldn’t see it clearly, but it looked like a hand holding a pen.
She stared at it. Frowned. ‘‘I’m a scribe? Great.’’ She looked at Red-Boar and spread her hands. ‘‘Well, that was worth the trip. I can write stuff down.’’
‘‘Not stuff, daughter,’’ the nahwal’s voice corrected, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. ‘‘Spells. You, and you alone, can create new spells.’’
‘‘Oh!’’ Her face flooded with joy. Then she faded just like the nahwal had.
Without further delay, the other trainees turned to face their nahwal, who gripped their arms in benediction. Lightning flashed, huge zaps of green-white light that arced across the mist with blinding intensity, with glyph shadows contained within the light. Each of the new Nightkeepers got the warrior’s glyph that would confer added fighting power and strength, along with the heightened reflexes necessary for battle. Patience got invisibility, Sven got something Rabbit didn’t recognize, and three of the others had dark spots in the mists above them that suggested they might get other talents in the future.
Then thunder grumbled, lightning flashed again, and when Rabbit’s vision cleared, the other trainees were all gone. He and Red-Boar were the only ones left.
He closed the distance between them and held out his bare forearm. ‘‘What do you say, old man? It looks like put-up-or-shut-up time.’’
Something moved in his father’s eyes, and for a second Rabbit thought he was going to refuse. Then Red-Boar reached out and gripped Rabbit’s forearm. But instead of summoning the lightning, he said, ‘‘I accept this child as mine, as a son of the boar bloodline.’’
Shock hammered Rabbit alongside pain. He screamed and sagged in his father’s grip as lightning flashed and agony arced through him. Thunder raked the mist, making the moist firmament shudder, and then Rabbit was falling, collapsing.
The last thing he remembered was being caught in strong, black-robed arms as his father swept him up. And brought him home.
Anna writhed beneath her husband, digging her fingers into the thick, strong muscles of his back as he thrust into her and withdrew, thrust and withdrew.
The lights in the bedroom were off, but in the mad dash they’d made from the front door to the bedroom, shedding clothes as they went, they’d left the hall lights on. The illumination spilled in through the doorway, lighting one side of his face and leaving the other in shadow as he rose above her, his eyes open and fixed on hers.
She felt him in every fiber of her being—his thighs between hers, the faint rasp of masculine hair against her skin, the slide of his hard flesh within her. The scent of their lovemaking filled her, excitement riding high on a sense of, Christ, where has this been?
For far too long their lovemaking had been, if not routine, then certainly nothing special, undertaken as much on the calendar as anything, days counted forward from the little ‘‘p’’ she marked on the first day of her period each month. This was different, though. This reminded her of other times, better times, and as he hardened within her, swelling until she felt the good, tight stretch within, she saw in his eyes that he felt it, too, that it mattered to him. That she mattered.
Then he thrust deeper, higher, angling his hips so he pressed just right and sent her tumbling over the edge before she even knew she’d been close.
Anna gasped and arched against him as her inner muscles fisted, clenching and relaxing, and he cut loose with a roar. She barely heard him, though, because her orgasm had her in its grip, blinding her, deafening her as it spiraled higher and higher still, taking her farther and deeper than it should have.
Oh, crap, she thought as she slid down a slippery slope of consciousness. The stars. The barrier. Orgasm was a way to touch the heavens and speak to the gods, and as she crested, she felt the power thrum within her. She lost herself, lost touch with the here and now and went someplace else entirely.
She had a flash of the sight she’d long denied, and stiffened in shock. ‘‘Lucius!’’
‘‘What the fuck?’’ A sudden jolt jerked her back to reality, but by the time she realized the movement was her husband yanking away from her, it was too late.
She reached out to him. ‘‘Dick—’’
‘‘Your fucking grad student?’’ He pulled away, his face twisted. ‘‘How could you?’’
‘‘I didn’t,’’ she said. ‘‘I wouldn’t.’’ But she knew he’d see the long hours and her preoccupation as proof.
‘‘So you’re just thinking about him while you’re fucking me? That’s supposed to make it better? Jesus, Anna.’’
She wanted to stay and explain, to try to fix what might be unfixable, but she couldn’t get that image out of her head. She’d seen Lucius sitting in his apartment, reading the codex fragment aloud. Reading the lost spell she’d only half translated but already knew to be powerful magic.
She had to get over there, had to stop him. Heart pounding, she leaped out of bed and scrabbled for her bra and panties. ‘‘I’ve got to go.’’
‘‘What?’’ Dick stared at her, dumbfounded. ‘‘You’re fucking kidding me!’’
She knew there was hurt beneath the bluster. She also knew this was quite possibly the moment that would define the rest of their marriage—or end it. But the text was her responsibility, as was Lucius.
‘‘I’m sorry.’’ She turned away from Dick, though her heart twisted. ‘‘I have to go.’’
He was stone silent, watching as she pulled on jeans and a shirt, shoved her feet into a pair of sneakers, and headed for the bedroom door. She wanted to stay, wanted to explain everything, but he wouldn’t believe her. Hell, she’d lived the first nineteen years of her life in the Nightkeepers’ world, and she barely believed the things she knew to be true. Dick would never get it.
So she took off, leaving him alone in the bedroom, knowing he probably wouldn’t be there when she got back.
Sitting in the kitchen of his apartment, Lucius stared down at his left hand, which clutched a serrated steak knife. He didn’t dare look at his other hand, or he might pass out. Jesus, what have I done?
Pain radiated up his right arm, stemming from where he’d clenched his fingers around his cut-open palm. Blood leaked from between his knuckles, dripping faster than seemed natural. It wasn’t the blood or the pain that had him panicked, though—it was the codex fragment.
He’d bled all over the thing.
Anna was going to kill him.
He didn’t remember deciphering any of it, but there were words rocketing around inside his brain, syllables he couldn’t quite catch but knew he should understand. The translation eluded him, dancing just beyond the reaches of his spinning mind.
Letting go of the knife, hearing it clatter to the floor, Lucius pressed the fingers of his good hand to his eyes in an effort to stop the pounding pulse behind them.
He sort of remembered deciphering the first couple of glyphs, but then something had happened and things had gone fuzzy for a while until he’d snapped back in and found himself sitting at the kitchen table with a steak knif
e stuck in his palm and half a pint of A-positive splattered on the stolen text.
Thinking to clean it off or something, he rose from the kitchen table and shambled across the room to the sink. He wadded up a couple of paper towels and pressed them against his cut palm, then wet a couple more of the towels and turned back to the table.
By the time he got there, he wasn’t carrying paper towels. Instead, he held one of his roommate’s froufrou scented candles and a box of matches.
Don’t do it . . . just don’t! he shouted inside his own skull as he watched his hands strike a match and light the candle. Don’t, please, no!
Without volition—his own, at least—Lucius touched the candle to the edge of the blood-soaked codex fragment. The flame licked at the dried bark, turning the edges brown and then black. A chant rose in his mind, overwhelming him, overpowering him until he said the words aloud, giving them shape and substance as the codex burned. He leaned forward and breathed in the smoke of burned blood and paper.
A ripping, tearing noise blotted out everything else, and a void appeared inside him, a sudden emptiness inside his soul, his being.
‘‘Crap!’’ He reeled and fell to his hands and knees, retching as glowing green foulness oozed from the tear inside him and began to fill the empty spot. Pain sliced through him, crippling him and driving him to the kitchen floor, where he curled himself into a ball of agony, with his knees pulled up tight beneath his chin. He threw back his head and howled, but he couldn’t tell if any noise actually came out, because it was lost amid the screams that seemed to come from his soul, from all around him.
There was a loud boom, a thundering noise he felt as a vibration rather than hearing as a sound, and suddenly he knew he wasn’t alone anymore. Something else lived inside him. He turned blind eyes upward, squinting in an effort to see through the darkness.
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