Final Prophecy 04: Demonkeepers

by Jessica Andersen

  “Myrinne.” Even after almost a year, he still loved saying her name, loved knowing he had that right. She’d been wearing his promise ring for the past five months. It wasn’t an engagement, and it wasn’t the jun tan, damn it, but it was important to him, a symbol that he loved her, and that she knew and accepted it.

  She raised her other eyebrow to join the first. “Was that a ‘yes, everything’s okay,’ or ‘no, everything’s unexpectedly gone to shit’?”

  He snorted. “I always expect things to go to shit. Nothing unexpected there.”

  “And now he’s evading the question,” she said, as though to the world at large, though she pitched her sexy contralto voice so it was just between the two of them, not the foot traffic. “Spill it, lover.”

  “There’s no problem,” he said, realizing it was true. “Nothing to spill.” He was the one seeing complications where they didn’t need to exist. Stretching out and hiding the wince when his sore muscles protested, he snagged her hand and pulled her to him.

  Laughing, she let herself overbalance and fall against him, so they wound up sprawled together, with her partway in his lap, partway on the cement lip where he’d been sitting. Shifting her with an easy strength that’d seemed to come more and more naturally as time passed, he arranged them more comfortably, so she was sitting in his lap, curled against his chest.

  At her prickliest last fall, she never would’ve allowed the public display. Since the winter solstice, though, when he’d nearly killed himself trying to lose the hellmark so they could form the jun tan bond, she’d been more openly affectionate. Now she curled against him and tucked her head beneath his chin so he could lean on her, and she on him. Her hair smelled of patchouli and vanilla, two scents she was particularly partial to. If he wanted to, he could probably remember what they symbolized in the pseudo-occult structure she’d been raised within. For the moment, though, he just let himself breathe her in, feeling his muscles uncoil one after another, until he was looser and warmer than before, though he hadn’t really been aware of being tight or cold.

  Maybe cuddling his girlfriend in the middle of campus shouldn’t have made him feel like da man, but he hadn’t gotten to practice that sort of thing in high school. He was making up for lost time.

  She snaked her arms around his waist and snuggled in closer, pressing her cheek to his chest with her face tipped up to his. Her eyes drifted shut, letting him know she was listening to his heartbeat, as she often did, as though she feared that one day it would simply stop. And it would, he supposed. But not for a very, very long time, after they’d both lived out their full lives together. He hoped.

  “I’ve made a decision,” he said, realizing that really, he’d made it a while ago. It was just taking some time for the rest of him to catch up.

  “Hm?” she said, her voice drowsy, as though she were on the verge of falling asleep, curled up against him in the cool orange sunlight that made the world’s palette strange and dim.

  “I’m going to try to find my mother.”

  Myrinne didn’t say anything when he dropped that, to him, bombshell. But a slow, sweet smile curved her lips, and her arms tightened around his waist. And as the warmth of her body, her existence, seeped into Rabbit’s aching self and made everything seem better, he knew he’d finally made a good decision. He just hoped to hell he could see it through.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Skywatch

  The morning after Shandi upended Jade’s childhood dreams of the parents she’d never known, Jade took the new information straight to the king, who called an all-hands-on-deck meeting to discuss the new info and what—if anything—it might mean in terms of accessing the library. Which meant that Jade was yet again going to be the focus of attention, when she would far rather have sat in the back and blended.

  Intellectually, she knew it shouldn’t matter that she was fifty percent star blood. She wore the mark of a harvester, had the talent of one, and there was no shame in either of those things. Similarly, it wasn’t critical that her parents hadn’t been the people she’d imagined them to be. That didn’t change who she was or what she could do. But as she headed for the great room, the churning in her stomach warned her that the prior night’s crying jag might have left her scratchy eyed and headachy, but it had been far from cathartic.

  She was still pissed that Shandi had let her believe a lie for so long, and borderline ashamed of what her mother had done. Who was to say that Vennie’s actions hadn’t played a part in what Lucius was dealing with now? Her death might have upset the balance or the mechanics of the Prophet’s spell somehow, or . . . Don’t, she told herself as she stepped through the arched doorway that opened from the mages’ wing to the great room. You’ll only make yourself crazy. So she pushed her emotions down deep and told herself not to dwell on the feelings. Just the facts, ma’am.

  She scanned the room in search of a seat—or at least that was what she told herself she was doing. But when her eyes immediately locked on Lucius and a flush heated her skin, the inner lie was obvious. She’d been looking for him, had needed to know he was there. Although things were far from settled between them, she knew he was on her side, in this at least.

  He looked well rested and less hollow- cheeked than the night before, and was wearing jeans, a navy rodeo-logo tee, and the heavy black boots he seemed to have started wearing in place of his former choice of rope sandals or skids. He was sitting down in the conversation pit with the magi; he’d saved her a seat beside him, like they used to do for each other, back before things got complicated between them. And although he’d been deep in conversation with Sasha, he turned to look at Jade as though he’d felt her eyes on him.

  When their gazes connected, the churning in her stomach went to flutters. Worse, she had to suppress an urge to tug at the too- large sweatshirt she was wearing over old, worn jeans and a loose tee. They were her comfort clothes, the ones she wore when she was tired, PMSing, or otherwise needed a proxied hug. It had been the only outfit she could stand to drag on that morning, but now she wished she’d dressed with more care . . . and then cursed herself for wishing. She wasn’t trying to impress him, damn it.

  Covering the scowl that threatened to form, she took the seat beside him on the theory that it was better to sit there than to have to explain why she didn’t. She kept a careful distance, though, and told herself that the soft flush of warmth that touched her skin was nothing more than body heat. Physics, not chemistry.

  Evidently seeing the dark circles beneath her heavier-than-usual makeup—and apparently not needing to keep his distance in order to maintain his sexual sanity, damn him—he frowned and leaned in to ask in a low rasp, “What’s wrong?”

  Nothing, she started to say, when the answer was really: Everything.

  Before she could answer, though, Strike and Leah came through the archway leading to the royal quarters, and the king did the okay, we’re all here; let’s get started thing. When the crowd settled, Strike said, “Before we talk about the possible scenarios for rescuing Kinich Ahau, Jade has some new info for us.” He gestured in her direction. “Go ahead. You’ve got the floor.”

  If she’d been a different person, she might have found a way to soften the delivery. Since she was who she was, though, she went with the naked truth. “We have good reason to believe that the dead woman in the library was my mother.”

  A ripple of shock ran through the room. Beside her, Lucius sucked in a breath. She could guess the questions that must be racing through his overactive brain. Are you sure? Why was she in there? What does it mean?

  “Shandi came to me last night . . .” she began, and repeated what she’d told Strike earlier. Shandi herself wasn’t available for questions, or even to nod encouragement; she had locked herself in her suite, pleading a headache. Wish I could’ve done that, Jade thought wistfully, as she finished, “So, for better or worse, it all fits. She would’ve had access to the Prophet’s spell via her bloodline. Thinking that she was supposed to b
e the last of the Prophets, she enacted the spell. But it misfired somehow, putting her in the same sort of position Lucius is in now.” She spread her hands. “I don’t know how this will help us, or even if it will. But I thought everyone should know.”

  There was a long moment of stunned—or perhaps merely thoughtful?—silence. Then Strike said, “Since she wrote about being able to enter the library twice, with the third time being the trap, she must’ve come back to this plane.” He glanced up to the breakfast bar to ask Jox, “You said you don’t remember seeing her in those last three days?”

  The royal winikin shook his head. “None of us did—at least, not that we can remember.” The other winikin made various apologetic motions as Jox continued. “Not to mention that Vennie wasn’t exactly subtle. If she was around, you knew it. And if she had discovered something that would’ve impacted the attack, she would’ve made sure everyone heard about it, and knew where it’d come from.” He tipped his head in Jade’s direction. “No offense.”

  “None taken,” Jade said with absolute sincerity. “I am not my mother, and vice versa. Despite what the writs say about ‘what has happened before will happen again,’ I’m not the sort of person who acts on impulse. You can count on that.”

  “Flames and dead, staring eyes,” Lucius said abruptly, in a total non sequitur.

  A chill touched the back of Jade’s neck. She turned to him and found him gaunt faced, his expression turned inward. “What?”

  “It was in the middle of the journal, where the handwriting was really tough to read, and what I could read was all jumbled up; she kept talking about flames and dead, staring eyes. She used those same words over and over again. I was assuming she was dazed when she wrote it, maybe confused from the transition.” He paused, locking his eyes with hers. “What if she wasn’t confused? What if she saw exactly what she described?”

  Jade’s stomach headed for her toes. “Oh, gods.”

  Lucius continued. “I felt like I was only in the library for a couple of hours, but I lost most of a day out here. She was a full mage, so she was probably able to stay in there longer than me. Maybe she came out once to rest someplace safe, like you were saying, then went back in, maybe because she hadn’t found what she was looking for. By the time she found what she was looking for, came back out of the library, and headed for the mansion . . . What if she was already too late? What if Scarred-Jaguar’s attack—and the Solstice Massacre—was already over?”

  Flames and dead, staring eyes, Jade thought, and shuddered, her heart twisting in her chest.

  When Scarred-Jaguar led the magi to war, hundreds of children and their winikin had gathered in the big rec hall. That was where the Banol Kax had found them. And killed them. The next day, when Jox had emerged from hiding with Strike and Anna, he had found bodies everywhere: stacked in the rec hall, cut down mid-flight, some even dead in Jeeps headed away from the compound. Every Nightkeeper child over the age of three, and their attending winikin, had been killed, as had all the adults involved in the attack. Only the babies and their winikin had survived, a scant two dozen left to fight against the end-time war.

  “If she saw the bodies, she must have come back that night,” Jox said, his voice ragged, his eyes dark and hollow. “I burned the bodies the next day. I didn’t see Vennie.” He looked at Jade, stricken. “I would have seen her if she’d still been there. I would’ve stopped her from going back into the library.”

  Up at the breakfast bar, silent tears trickled down the cheeks of several of the winikin. They had survived because they had fled the scene with infant charges who had been too young to have forged their first connections to the magic, thus rendering them invisible to the minions of the Banol Kax. But whereas those children had all—with the exception of Strike and Anna—been too young to remember the carnage, the winikin didn’t have that luxury.

  It struck Jade suddenly that they were a week away from the massacre’s twenty-sixth anniversary.

  “She must’ve panicked,” Lucius said. “Maybe she ran back to wherever she’d been hiding and put herself into the library because it seemed safer there. Then, once she’d pulled herself together and tried to get out, she realized that she couldn’t.” He swallowed hard. It was one of the few outward signs of the revulsion Jade knew he had to be feeling. He’d been trapped in his own skull, and in the in-between. She could only imagine what he would do to avoid being trapped permanently in the barrier, library or no library. His voice rasped as he said, “Question is, if she came out of the library to rest, but nobody saw her, where was she?”

  Strike’s head came up. “You’re thinking she may have left some clues wherever she was hiding? Maybe something that could help you get back into the library?”

  “I’m not usually that lucky,” Lucius observed dryly, “but it’s a possibility.”

  “Too bad Rabbit offed the three-question nahwal ,” Brandt put in, earning him a sharp look from Patience.

  “I’ll ask Shandi,” Jade said. “Of all of us, she knew Vennie best. Maybe she’ll be able to guess where . . .” She trailed off as Brandt’s comment struck a chord, resonating against a connection that had almost, but not quite, formed in her brain the previous night. Something about the . . . “Oh,” she said dully. “Oh, gods. It was her. Vennie.”

  Beside her, Lucius stiffened. “Who? Where?”

  She closed her eyes, feeling idiotic as the pieces clicked together. She should have figured it out sooner, probably would have if she hadn’t been so focused on so many other things. “The other night, as you were being transported into the library, I was pulled along too, only I wound up in the barrier itself. I think the library magic must’ve weakened the barrier enough that my nahwal could call me through, and then boot me again when it was done with me.” She held up a hand when Lucius drew breath to interject. “I know, I should’ve said something sooner. And I would have if I thought it had anything to do with Kinich Ahau or the library. But I didn’t. Not until just now, when Brandt mentioned the nahwal . . . and I realized what had been bothering me since last night.” She paused, shaking her head as the impossible began to seem frighteningly possible. “The nahwal was acting very strangely. I didn’t understand it at the time. Now, though, I think I do.” She looked over at Strike. “It was acting like my mother.”

  Her thoughts raced as she tried to remember the exchange, word for word, gesture for gesture. She described how the nahwal had alternated from a normal form that had transmitted the “duty and diligence” tenets of the harvesters, to a more feminized version that had talked about Jade finding her own path and maximizing her strengths, even if they led her away from the harvesters’ paradigm. “It was just what I would expect Vennie to have said, based on what Shandi told me about her resenting the harvesters’ limitations. If I’d seen that sort of behavior in a patient, I would’ve taken a serious look at schizophrenia. But in a nahwal?” She turned her palms up. “I know that technically she shouldn’t play much of a part in the collective of the harvester nahwal, given that she’s a married-in, and her priorities weren’t aligned with theirs. She should be . . . outvoted, I guess you should say. Except she wasn’t. She was there.”

  The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became. And the more confused, not by the logic, but by her own response. She felt . . . numb.

  “It’s not out of the realm,” Strike allowed. “The jaguar nahwal wears Scarred-Jaguar’s earring and has some of his traits.” She noticed he didn’t say “my father,” and wondered why.

  Lucius said slowly, “What if the bloodline nahwal are morphing as the end-time gets nearer? The dominant personalities could be moving to the forefront and taking over because they’re stronger, have the closest ties to the survivors, or have the most pressing need to speak with their descendants.”

  Jade imagined more than a few of the others were thinking, Why her? Why not me? She didn’t have an answer for that one, except that maybe Vennie had urgently needed—wanted—to talk to her.


  Why did that feel like too little, too late? She’d never met her mother, didn’t have a relationship with her beyond shared DNA. But then again, if she couldn’t judge Vennie, who could? Shandi? The king?

  Suddenly Lucius sat up, his face reflecting a lightbulb moment. “What if the nahwal are gaining personal characteristics in preparation for the Triad spell?”

  The room went dead silent.

  Legend held that in times of the most acute need, the Nightkeepers would gain the ability to enact a spell that would call on the gods to choose three Nightkeeper magi: the Triad. Once chosen, the three would be given the ability to channel all of their ancestors, not just the wisdom contained within the nahwal, but also their personalities, and, most of all, their magical talents. In the space of a single spell, three of the Nightkeepers would become superbeings. But that was the good news. The bad news was that—historically, anyway—the Triad spell had an attrition rate of two-thirds.

  Only one Triad had been called previously, back at the end of the first millennium A.D., when a rogue group of Nightkeepers had splintered off, allied themselves with the king of a Mayan city-state that controlled a potent ceremonial site, and called six Banol Kax through the barrier to the Earth. The dark magi, who later took to calling themselves the Order of Xibalba, had wanted to control the empire; instead, unable to rein in the creatures they had summoned, they changed civilization forever. Modern archaeologists still puzzled over why the population of the Mayan empire had crashed abruptly in the late ninth century, with entire cities abandoned seemingly overnight. The theories usually touched on plague, drought, and warfare, with the artifactual evidence to back them up. But that told only a small part of the story; in the larger realm, each of those catastrophic breakdowns of civilization had been wrought by the six Banol Kax, which had run amok in Mesoamerica while the Nightkeepers fought to force them back to the underworld, where they belonged.