Nightkeepers notfp-1

by Jessica Andersen

  At least they had some weapons training now, he supposed. Jox had brought the newbies to the range every day and gotten them up to speed on the MACs, along with a few different types of handguns and a sniper rifle or two. Jade-tips wouldn’t substitute for hard-core magic, but given that magic was in short supply at the moment, he’d take what he could get.

  Which brought him circling back to Leah. Granted, just about every thought train he possessed eventually came back around to her these days. She was under his skin, in his blood. He knew where she was every minute of every day, both from gut-check awareness and from daily reports. Which was how he knew she’d practically been living on the gun range, and had gotten the makol-banishment spell from Jox.

  It didn’t take much of a leap to figure out that she intended to be part of things when he teleported the Nightkeepers—all whopping ten of them—to the sacred chamber to meet the makol on the night of the autumnal equinox. What she didn’t know was that he had no intention of letting that happen. Unless there was a very good reason to include her in the attack—like she suddenly developed more power than the rest of them put together— she was going to become very good friends with a basement storage locker that night. He couldn’t afford the distraction of protecting her while trying to keep the others under control, finding the makol, blocking the intersection to keep the Banol Kax where they belonged . . .

  Gods. It was too much even to think about.

  And he’d just read the same page three times and didn’t have a frigging clue what it said.

  ‘‘Shit.’’ He slapped shut a binder-bound translation of a 1550s journal written by a missionary with a seriously antinative streak and shoved it aside. The binder slid into a teetering stack of accordion-folded charcoal rubbings, and before he could react, the whole mess went over the side of the table and hit the floor with a papery crash.

  Knowing Jox would kick his ass if he’d buffed details off the rubbings, Strike cursed. Then, also knowing his increasingly unstable temper wouldn’t do a damn thing to speed things up or make them better, he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and let out a long sigh. ‘‘This sucks.’’

  ‘‘So take a break,’’ Leah said from the doorway.

  Going very still, Strike opened his eyes and looked over at her. She’d had a bunch of her clothes and stuff shipped from Miami and was wearing hip-hanging cutoffs and a belly-baring tank, and he wanted nothing more than to rub his cheek across the strip of taut, creamy flesh exposed between them.

  Horns locked within him, tightening his muscles and sending his pulse up a notch. ‘‘You shouldn’t be here.’’

  ‘‘Don’t worry; I’m leaving. But I’m taking you with me.’’ She crossed the distance separating them, skirting the piles of books and notes as she came, and grabbed his hand. Gave it a tug. ‘‘Come on. And don’t stress; we won’t be alone.’’

  He resisted for about a nanosecond, then let her pull him up out of the chair and away from the archives. Once they were in the hallway, he tugged his hand from hers. It was hard enough being near her, feeling her body heat and letting the light, fresh scent of her seep into him—soap and woman, with an undertone of something sharper, gun oil, maybe, or determination.

  They walked through the mansion side by side, a little awkward with each other. Trying to ignore the sexual tension that snapped in the air and dug deep within his gut, Strike said, ‘‘You’ve got something on Zipacna?’’ But he didn’t think that was it; her energy was different than that, more relaxed, though maybe a shade wary.

  She shook her head. ‘‘I’m declaring a moratorium on that stuff for the next few hours, at least until the party is over.’’

  ‘‘Party?’’ he asked, but the moment she got him through the sliders near the pool, his senses perked up at the smell of smoke and sauce. Hel-lo, barbecue.

  He heard shouts and good-natured catcalls coming from the direction of the big steel building that had replaced the Great Hall.

  Leah said, ‘‘Your gods—the gods, whatever—can’t expect us to keep going forever without cutting loose a little, right? Well, consider yourself cut loose for the rest of today. You need a break. We all do. And I think you need to do some reconnecting.’’

  He barely heard her as he pushed ahead, drawn by the sounds and smells.

  When they rounded the corner of the mansion, he saw the Nightkeepers and winikin all gathered beneath the ceiba tree in front of the big steel building. They’d dragged out folding tables and chairs and fired up a pair of big gas grills Strike didn’t recognize. Jox was manning one of the grills, Woody the other, while Hannah and Izzy chopped veggies and readied burgers, wings, and dogs. Red-Boar and the remaining winikin sat nearby at one of the picnic tables. Most of the trainees were in the middle of a touch-football game, while off to the side Jade sat apart, watching the twins sneak up on a lizard that was sunning itself on a flat rock.

  They were all contained within the ash shadow of where the old Great Hall had been.

  Before, when the Nightkeepers and their winikin had gathered in the compound for the four cardinal days, the Great Hall had been jammed with tables. Friends and families—and occasionally rivals and enemies—had packed in elbow-to-elbow for the rituals, and the hard partying that followed.

  Now the tables formed a tiny cluster at one end of the ash shadow, and the football game ranged the length of the empty space.

  ‘‘There are so damn few of us,’’ Strike rasped, stopping to stare at the pitiful handful of magi. ‘‘We’ve lost before we even get started.’’

  ‘‘That’s probably true,’’ Leah said conversationally. ‘‘Unless you get your flipping head out of your ass.’’

  It took a second for that to sink in. Another for him to believe she’d said it. His too-ready temper flared, fueled by his frustration with the situation, with her. He raised an eyebrow in warning. ‘‘Excuse me?’’

  They had stopped at the edge of the ash-grayed footprint of the Great Hall, out of earshot of the football game and picnic tables. The others glanced over, then away. All but Jox, who stared down at the grill.

  Which meant the winikin had been in on whatever was going on, Strike realized. He’d been ambushed. The knowledge didn’t do a damn thing to sweeten his mood.

  Either unaware of his temper or figuring it was his to deal with—probably the latter—Leah said, ‘‘Look, I know I’m not a Nightkeeper—trust me, that’s been made crystal clear. But the thing is, I didn’t ask to come here; you brought me. Your gods brought me. Whatever. So I’m going to tell it how I see it.’’ She paused, her voice softening a notch. ‘‘You and Jox and Red-Boar got tossed headfirst into a hell of a situation; I get that. But I think they’re dealing with it by leaning way too hard on traditions that just aren’t relevant anymore . . . and you’re dealing with it by not dealing.’’

  ‘‘I don’t think you’re in a position to lecture,’’ Strike said through gritted teeth. ‘‘As you’ve pointed out, you’re not one of us.’’ Which was mean, but she had him feeling mean. Did she think he liked spending fourteen hours a day locked in the archive? He was doing it for her, damn it. For all of them.

  Something flickered in her eyes—hurt, maybe, or an anger that echoed his own—but she kept her tone reasonable when she said, ‘‘All the others were raised, to some degree or another, within the Nightkeeper culture. I’m an outsider. I can see stuff you can’t. Besides, in case you hadn’t noticed, things aren’t happening exactly the way the stories say they should. You’ve got a human who seems to have a god’s powers, but only when the barrier is at its thinnest, a half-blood with wild talent but no mark, and a full-blood with a mark but no apparent talent. Not to mention that you’re dealing with a bunch of trainees who grew up in the modern world and have opinions of their own.’’ She paused. ‘‘Seems to me that it’s time to make some changes.’’

  He hated being ambushed, but had to admit she might have a point. Temper leveling slightly, he said, ‘‘Like what?’
’

  She waved to the barbecuers. ‘‘Did it occur to you to ask why the winikin are cooking while the Nightkeepers screw around?’’

  ‘‘Because—’’ He stopped himself.

  ‘‘Right. Because they’re winikin. Am I the only one here who has a problem with that?’’

  He cut her a frustrated look. ‘‘This is a monarchy, not a commune, and the hierarchy exists for a reason. The Nightkeepers need to conserve their energy for the magic. For fighting.’’

  ‘‘But there’s not much magic going on at the moment, and even less fighting.’’

  ‘‘Don’t start,’’ he warned. He gestured to the field, where the football game was more a mess of arms and legs than a coordinated strategy. ‘‘Do they look like they’re ready to fight?’’

  ‘‘And whose fault is that?’’ she demanded. ‘‘If this is a monarchy, then the king’s son needs to give some serious thought to stepping up and taking over rather than hiding in the library.’’

  ‘‘I—’’ He broke off, practically choking on a quick flash of rage. He wanted to grab her, shake her, shout at her. Who did she think she was, talking to him like that, making it sound like he was shirking his duty, when all he’d ever been was duty? Every decision he’d made since the summer solstice had been for the Nightkeepers, for mankind, though he’d get no thanks from that corner. Humans were—and had always been—narrow and self-absorbed, too caught up in their small little lives to see—

  Whoa. Strike reined himself in, fighting back the anger as best he could. His body hummed with rage, with bloodlust and deep disillusionment. He wanted to run and howl, wanted to fly, though that wasn’t one of his talents. He wanted to take Leah, to possess her, absorb her very being into himself until he was complete.

  And none of those were his emotions, he realized with a start. They were coming from a hard, hot place at the back of his skull, along with a pounding pressure that felt like hate. Like darkness.

  Holy shit, what was going on with him?

  ‘‘In order to fight,’’ Leah continued, unaware of his inner turmoil, ‘‘they’re going to need to feel like a unified force. And every team needs a leader. Trust me, cops are about as independent a bunch as you’ll find, but we need to know there’s someone calling the shots. The trainees need that from you. The winikin keep telling them that you’re in charge, that the king has the final say, but they barely know you. You’ve left the training to Jox and Red-Boar, and you spend practically all your time in the archive. How can you possibly run this show if you don’t know the strengths and weaknesses of your people?’’

  They were standing outside, yet he felt as though walls were closing in around him, suffocating him until he could barely breathe. The darkness rose up, threatening to swamp him, to take him over and leave nothing but rage and frustration.

  Part of him feared it was makol magic that had somehow slipped through the wards surrounding the compound. But it didn’t feel like evil; it felt like anger, like the need for freedom.

  And it was that last piece of the emotions, that need to escape, that made him think it wasn’t coming from an outside source at all. It was inside him—his anger, his frustration . . . and his desire to run away.

  The question had dogged him for weeks now. What sort of a king could he possibly make when he didn’t really want to be king at all?

  ‘‘Grub’s on!’’ Jox called, his voice tinny with distance, providing a much-needed distraction.

  The football game broke up and the trainees headed for the tables, pushing and shoving one another, and cursing good-naturedly about the game as they loaded their plates and grabbed drinks from a couple of coolers nearby. Strike saw a few curious glances shot his way, but nobody shouted for him to hurry his ass up so they could eat.

  Instead, they started without him, which proved Leah’s point. While he’d been wrestling with his own demons, he’d lost track of what the others needed. Not only was he not their leader, he wasn’t even part of their gang.

  ‘‘Damn,’’ he said, which seemed to sum things up.

  She took his hand and tugged him toward the barbecue. ‘‘It’s fixable.’’

  Is it? he thought, but didn’t say. Instead, he allowed himself to be led to the small barbecue, where he made a concerted effort to engage with the other magi, putting faces and impressions to Jox’s and Red-Boar’s reports, and trying to channel what he remembered of his father’s public persona, which was all he knew of how a king should act.

  But as the night wore on and beer and wine flowed, and Jox even broke out the potent ceremonial pulque— one shot each, no more—and everyone else relaxed, Strike grew increasingly tense while he fought the red haze that threatened to coat his mind with anger, hatred, and vicious sexual frustration. A single thought kept pounding through his skull, chasing itself around in endless circles.

  How in the hell was he supposed to lead the Nightkeepers when he couldn’t even manage what was inside his own head?

  As dinner and dessert wound down, Leah got more and more keyed up.

  She’d gone into alligator-infested waters after bodies the gators considered theirs. She’d faced down gang-bangers. She’d been shot in the leg and kept up the foot chase. Hell, she’d escaped being a human sacrifice in an ancient Mayan temple. There was no reason for her to be nervous about what she had planned next.

  Or so she kept telling herself. But she was getting a seriously weird vibe off Strike, one that had her thinking she should’ve waited on the second part of her scheme, the one Jox didn’t even know about. Problem was, they didn’t have the time to wait. A barbecue would get them only so far. They needed an identity, something to rally behind. Something that was theirs alone to protect.

  So she stood up and cleared her throat, and waited until she had everyone’s attention. Feeling like a total freak-show fraud to be telling a bunch of magicians how they should run their own universe, she said only, ‘‘I’d appreciate it if you’d all come out to the front of the house. I have something for you.’’

  For a few seconds nobody moved. Then Strike nodded and rose. ‘‘Lead on.’’

  His words were neutral, even encouraging, but his expression was closed and cool, like he thought she’d already done enough damage for one night. And maybe she had . . . but she’d never known how to quit while she was ahead. Why start now?

  So she led the way around the side of the mansion, conscious of Strike’s lethal warrior’s grace right behind her, the others following behind him, including the winikin , and even the sleepy-eyed twins, who tagged on either side of Rabbit, babbling in incomprehensible twinspeak.

  She stopped by the front door of the mansion, where she’d hung the polished brass plaque earlier in the day, still covered in brown paper wrapping.

  Sucking in a deep breath to settle her nerves—like that was going to happen—Leah said, ‘‘Some of you don’t think I belong here, that having me here breaks tradition.’’ She looked at Jox and Red-Boar, standing off to one side of the main crowd, and could all but hear them thinking, Yeah, so? ‘‘And maybe you’re right. I don’t have the same magic that you do, I wasn’t raised in your culture, and I’m not related by blood. But I am a trained cop, and a good one. I can shoot. I can fight. And I know, for better or worse, how to manipulate people.’’ That got her a few shuffles, and even some frowns. She held up a hand. ‘‘I’m giving you honesty here. And honestly, what I see is a bunch of strangers with similar goals. You’re not a unit yet. You’re not the team you’re going to need to be in order to fight whatever’s coming through at the equinox.’’

  She deliberately used ‘‘you’’ rather than ‘‘us’’ because she wanted them pulling together, and if uniting against her was what brought them into alignment, then so be it.

  ‘‘What do you suggest?’’ Strike asked, but she got the idea he was playing along so the others would think she had his support, not because she actually did.

  ‘‘Team Building 201,’’ Leah answere
d. ‘‘You need a name. Not you as a people, or your bloodlines,’’ she said quickly when the dirty looks started. ‘‘For this place.’’ Her gesture encompassed the mansion, the training compound, and the wide box canyon lost in the darkness. ‘‘For your home.’’

  ‘‘This isn’t—’’ Jox began, then broke off.

  ‘‘It wasn’t your home before,’’ she agreed. ‘‘It was a place where you gathered for feasts and training.’’ Personally, she thought it should’ve had a name back then, regardless. ‘‘But wake up. It’s a new day, and things are going to need to change. Starting now. So I’m giving this place a name.’’

  Without further ceremony, she ripped the paper free, baring the intricately engraved plaque.

  There was a collective indrawn breath, and in the moment of silence that followed, one of the twins laughed, the sound rising into the night high and sweet and pure.

  Finally, unable to stand it one second longer, Leah turned to Strike, who’d frozen and gone pale. ‘‘What do you think?’’

  I think you humble me, Strike thought, but he couldn’t get the words out. So he took her hand and held it while he stood and stared at the name she’d given the Night-keepers’ home.

  SKYWATCH.

  It was engraved in big letters above a line drawing of a ceiba tree, with three Mayan words inscribed below, the letters formed from the tree’s spreading root system.

  Skywatch. It clicked. It was right. The sky was the realm of the gods they served, the gods who’d charged them with watching over the barrier. More, waatch was the Mayan word for ‘‘soldier,’’ though she might not have known that. Or maybe she did, he thought, looking at the words carved below the tree of life.