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. Sh
e’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 knife 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.
A dark-haired man stood over him, heavily muscled, barefoot and bare chested, wearing loose black pants fastened at the ankles with intricate twists of red twine. His eyes were a bright, luminous green, one darker than the other, and he had a flying crocodile inked across his right pec. The air around him was shadowed a dark purple-black and radiated with hatred. Malice.
Lucius opened his mouth to beg for help, for mercy, but he wasn’t sure he even formed words through the taste of evil and the stink of despair. He was suddenly very afraid he was going to die.
Worse, he was afraid he might not.
Strike dropped back into his earthly body with a flash of pain that he welcomed because it meant he was still alive. He blinked and felt his eyelids grate, shifted and felt his joints pop, and didn’t care because the first thing he saw was Leah on the other side of the chac-mool, blinking her cornflower blue eyes in confusion, and then, when the memories caught up, making a little, ‘‘Oh,’’ of despair.
‘‘We’ll figure something out,’’ he said quickly. ‘‘I promise.’’
But they both knew he hadn’t promised to keep her safe, or even alive. Things had gotten seriously complicated way fast. The Nightkeepers couldn’t lose the skyroad or Kulkulkan. But at the same time, he couldn’t lose Leah.
Her expression went wistful. ‘‘Yeah,’’ she said, responding to what he hadn’t said, rather than what he had. ‘‘I know.’’
He wanted to say something but didn’t know what or how, so he stayed silent, and in the next moment Red-Boar exhaled and stirred, and the blue-robed trainees did the same as they all jacked out simultaneously. Strike felt the power surge, felt the echoed satisfaction of a job well-done, and knew that the talent ceremony had gone well.
Thank the gods for small favors.
Letting go of Leah’s hands, Strike pushed away from the altar and headed for the door, intending to warn Jox that he was about five minutes away from a kitchen stampede. He was halfway there when a woman’s scream echoed in his head. ‘‘Help him!’’
The cry was followed by a mental picture that flashed along the link of a shared bloodline, powered by the magic of an itza’at seer. Anna! Strike thought on a spike of adrenaline and bloodline power.
The image she sent was that of a young man curled up and clutching his bleeding hand to his chest as his eyes started to glow green. A dark figure stood over him. Zipacna.
Rage flared, and Strike didn’t stop to think or ask questions, didn’t care that his legs were numb and his head pounding with a postmagic hangover, that he might not have the power to ’port accurately. He grabbed Leah with one hand and Red-Boar with the other. ‘‘Hang on!’’
He leaned on the older Nightkeeper for a boost, fixing the transmitted image in his mind.
And zapped.
One minute Leah was getting her bearings in the sacred chamber at Skywatch, trying to deal with the nahwal ’s morbid information dump. Then Strike grabbed her, the world lurched, and the next thing she knew she was in some sort of student apartment, standing in a combined kitchen/living room full of yard-sale furniture and clutter.
And Zipacna was there.
He stood near where the kitchen tile began, his mismatched eyes glowing pure emerald green as he crouched over a young man who lay in a fetal ball, unmoving. The ajaw-makol was wearing loose black pants and held a bloody steak knife in one hand. The creature snapped his head up when the Nightkeepers appeared, and he bared his teeth in a hiss. Then his eyes fixed on Leah and the hiss became a smile.
Rage flared through her, hard and hot and pure, and she lunged at him, screaming an incoherent battle cry. She was dimly aware that Strike shouted for her to stop and Red-Boar cursed and made a grab for her, but neither of them mattered just then. What mattered was the bastard who’d
killed her brother, her friends.
Surprise was on her side. She slammed into Zipacna, burying her shoulder in his gut and using the momentum to drive them both away from the young man. They went stumbling into the kitchen and slammed into the stove, which clattered a metallic protest. The ajaw-makol roared and pushed away, reversing their momentum and sending Leah flying across the small space to smash into the opposite cabinets.
Without the benefit of jade-tips to slow him down, she went for the kitchen sink, which was full of nasty-ass dirty dishes. Grabbing a knife, she lunged under his swing and stabbed up, going for his heart. The weapon bit through flesh and grated on bone, and blood flowed over her hand, looking darker than it should have.
Zipacna stiffened and roared with pain. ‘‘Bitch!’’
Quicker than human reactions, he grabbed her and spun her, whipping her arm up behind her back and getting his own knife across her throat, pressing hard enough to have her freezing in place.
‘‘I thought we were friends,’’ he said softly in her ear. Only it wasn’t Zipacna’s voice anymore.
It was Vince’s.
Shock hammered through Leah. Betrayal. ‘‘Vince, no!’’
Red-Boar’s expression went dark, and he hissed, ‘‘Mimic,’’ like it was the lowest form of life imaginable.
‘‘No shape-shifting necessary,’’ the ajaw-makol said in Vince’s voice. ‘‘She was perfectly willing to believe a wig and colored contacts, even when I was only human. Never even thought to check with his coworkers that Vince Rincon was a real person, just glommed on when I said I’d known her brother, and thought the wicked cult members had killed him.’’
Leah nearly broke at the realization he’d played her all along. She’d been so pitifully willing to go along with the illusion, so grateful for some sort of support that she hadn’t looked hard enough at the source. ‘‘Why?’’ she said, her voice a broken whisper. ‘‘Why me?’’
‘‘Because twenty-four years ago the gods marked you and your brother as their own,’’ he said, leaning so close that his hot breath feathered against her cheek. ‘‘Matthew’s blood started the process. Yours will finish it.’’
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