Blood Spells

by Jessica Andersen

  “What the—” Brandt broke off as the remaining firebird locked its glowing gold eyes on his. Oh, shit.

  He held his ground as the thing plummeted straight toward him, but he bared his teeth at the sky. No, damn you. I don’t want—

  The ghost veered at the last millisecond. And slammed into Rabbit.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The firebird felt like a godsdamned fifty-caliber round going in.

  “Fuck.” Rabbit staggered back against his nahwal’s grip as pain howled through his body, starting at the point of impact and searing outward, then reversing course and arrowing to his head and heart, the two seats of a mage’s power.

  The white-hot energy poured into his heart unchecked, where it became Nightkeeper magic, red-gold and awesome in its intensity. But in his head . . . gods. Pain lanced through his skull, incredible pressure building to flash point in an instant when the flow of magic crashed into an immovable mental barrier.

  It can’t get through the blocks. Fuck. He’d installed the barriers on Strike’s orders, to ensure that he wouldn’t burn shit down or climb inside someone else’s mind unless he frigging meant to. The blocks slowed him down, forced him to think stuff through before lashing out. Which was a good thing, usually. Now, though, the barricades went from benefit to liability in a flash.

  The magic roiled within his conscious mind, knocking loose a spate of recent memories: flickering candles, a huge house in flames, a knife that dripped onto Myrinne’s fixed, staring eyes. . . . He cursed viciously, rejecting the vision images that had haunted him ever since he’d let her talk him into the scrying spell and gotten nightmares instead of answers.

  He wouldn’t hurt her, couldn’t. He loved her, even if the gods hadn’t yet tagged them with their mated marks. She was on his side; she believed in him more than anyone else did, some days more than even he did. Hell, she was the one who’d guessed he would be chosen, the one who believed he could handle the magic.

  So let’s do this.

  Steeling himself against the pressure and pain, centering himself within the deep-down excitement of so much fucking power, he focused on the outer layer of mental blocks, the ones that kept him from using his mind-bending on others. Whispering a short counterspell, he visualized the protective shields as a solar array, row upon row of high-tech panels that folded up, accordioning smaller and smaller until they finally disappeared.

  The invading magic rushed inward the moment the mental barrier was down, swamping him with a tornado of memories that flashed and collided, flaring bright in his mind’s eye for a second before disappearing.

  In one of them, he was in a crowd of bare-chested, loincloth-wearing men and women who danced in front of a new-looking Mayan pyramid. In another, he lay bound to a stone altar as a hawk-nosed priest wearing an elaborate bone, feather, and jade head-dress lifted a stone knife above him. In the next, he stood in the hallway of an earlier version of Skywatch, laughing as three kids raced past him, chasing a half-grown puppy that looked more like a coyote than a dog.

  Rabbit hadn’t danced that dance, been that sacrificial victim, or watched those kids chase a coy-dog through Skywatch, but those experiences were suddenly inside him, along with thousands of others that beckoned for him to accept the power he was being offered by a god that had picked him, not one of the others.

  The Triad magic. Holy. Fucking. Shit.

  Before, it had been a fantasy, the subject of more than a few “wouldn’t it be cool if I got picked so I could kick some major ass” convos late at night. Now, though . . . now it was very real.

  Rabbit’s heart hammered off-rhythm as the magic slammed into the second set of mental filters, the ones that blocked his talents of pyro- and telekinesis. Working faster now, he pulled down the blockade. More magic flowed into him; more memories raced past, going too fast for him to glimpse his ancestors’ pasts.

  Then the power hit the final layer of shielding: a thick blockade made of repeating geodesic panels, each marked with a bloodred quatrefoil glyph like the one he wore on his inner right forearm. The symbol belonged to the Nightkeepers’ enemies, the Order of Xibalba. His mother’s people. It was the sign of the dark hellmagic.

  Of all the blocks, this was the one he relied on the most. When it was in place, the darkness couldn’t reach him; the Xibalbans’ leader, Iago, couldn’t touch him.

  But neither could the Triad magic.

  Oh, fuck. Now what? Rabbit’s mind raced as bloody tears hazed his vision red.

  The last time he’d probed Iago’s mind, a week ago, the Xibalban had still been comatose, his soul deadlocked with that of the powerful demon he’d summoned and then lost control of. Which meant it should be safe to drop the hell-block to let the Triad magic through.

  It was a risk, but a calculated one. And Kinich Ahau had chosen him. The swirling memories—and the Triad power—could be his. Excitement sizzled, driving him on.

  He could do this. For the Nightkeepers. For himself. The prophecy was clear: If the Nightkeepers didn’t call the Triad, the Banol Kax would have the upper hand next week, when the solstice-eclipse destabilized the barrier enough for the dark lords to punch through. The good guys needed the magic, and he could bring it to them.

  Heart hammering, Rabbit whispered the counterspell that made the final blockade fold in on itself and disappear. He braced for the magic to rush into the center of his psyche, for the Triad spell to flood him with souls, spells, and incalculable power.

  Instead, the hell-link slammed open and dark magic spewed into him, brown and oily, rattling like a damned striking snake.

  Fuck! Rabbit made a grab for the doorway, but an alien force locked onto him, digging sharp claws into his consciousness and paralyzing his thoughts.

  He flashed briefly on a fluorescent-lit cinder block room seen through half-open eyes. He recognized the view Iago saw in his comatose daze, recognized the bastard’s semiconscious mental pattern. And in the half second it took Rabbit to make those connections, Iago’s power made a connection of its own: straight to the Triad magic.

  No! Rabbit screamed the word, but no sound came out; no warning reached the others. They didn’t have a clue that things had just gone way fucking wrong, didn’t know he needed help. He was on his own, fighting desperately to get free as ropes of twisted darkness twined around the Triad power and began pulling it back through the hell-link into Iago.

  Echoes of rage flashed through Rabbit’s consciousness as his ancestors’ ghosts were pulled along with the Triad magic. Panic slashed. Impotence. He had to do something, but he couldn’t get away from Iago, couldn’t overpower him, couldn’t—

  Make a new fucking block, idiot. He didn’t know if the order came from an ancestor or from inside himself, but he latched on to it with desperate terror. Summoning every ounce of magic he had left, he cast the spell, pouring himself into the high-tech portal that shimmered into being, open at first, then irising shut around the dark magic, pinching and then severing the greasy tendrils. Adrenaline surged as the Xibalban’s grip faltered. It was working! It was—

  New tendrils spewed through the opening, latched onto the doorway, and ripped it from its mental moorings.

  No!

  The Triad magic poured into Iago and the green-eyed darkness within him. Rabbit saw it, felt it, through their mind-link. And he got it.

  Oh, holy shit. Iago was using the Triad magic to gain control over the demon king, Moctezuma.

  Fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuckfuckfuck. For a paralyzed, pussy-assed second Rabbit couldn’t think, couldn’t react, couldn’t do anything.

  Then, deep inside him, a spark of fire magic kindled. It was his first and strongest talent, the one he’d done the most damage with. Now it took on a mind of its own, growing from an ember to a blaze, then to a conflagration. The flames seared him, tore at him, then curled into an alien shape, something he hadn’t conjured, didn’t control.

  Oh, gods. Oh, shit. It was the firebird.

  The sun god’s emissary shriek
ed a shrill battle cry within Rabbit’s mind, trailing flames from its wings as it attacked Iago’s mind-link, tearing at the dark magic with its beak and talons.

  As it did so, it summoned the Triad magic. The power leaped out of Iago and funneled back up the hell-link to pour into the firebird, which began to glow and pulse with the recaptured energy.

  No! Iago’s rage flared through Rabbit, edged with the luminous green of demon vision. Tentacles of greasy brown magic lashed the god-ghost, only to wither and die when they made contact. The firebird’s body shone brilliantly, going almost pure white as the last of the Triad magic left Iago.

  With a trumpeting battle cry, the firebird launched itself out of the hell-link, which collapsed behind it, cutting off the telepathic connection without warning.

  Agony slashed through Rabbit’s skull as Iago’s claws tore out of his consciousness, but that pain was welcome. The pain racing from his head and heart, outward, and then in again to concentrate in his chest, wasn’t.

  No, he shouted inwardly, reaching for the firebird. Wait. I can—

  New pain cracked through his skull, a wordless lash of rejection that his heart translated as, You had your chance, half blood.

  Power thundered and the firebird disappeared, taking the Triad magic with it.

  And Rabbit was suddenly alone in his head once more.

  Gods! His eyes snapped open; his mouth worked with a silent scream as he returned to full consciousness, senses reeling. He was on his knees, clutching his nahwal’s hand, screaming aloud as a cloud of red-gold power erupted from his chest and the firebird took form once again, back-winging away from him, eyes blazing with rage.

  “Wait!” Heart hammering, he lunged for the apparition. “I can handle it. I can—”

  But it was too late. The firebird gave a trumpeting scream, locked on to the man beside him, and dove.

  It hit Brandt chest high. And disappeared.

  Oh, shit. That was the only thought Brandt could formulate as agony hammered into his chest and red-gold power poured liquid fire into his veins, bloating his head and heart.

  Oh, shit. He’d been nailed by a Triad ricochet.

  Oh, shit. It hurt.

  Oh, shit. What the hell was he supposed to do now? What—

  Power exploded at the place where he and his nahwal were joined, searing his hand and sending currents of fire racing up his arm. Pain lanced through his chest and his heart skipped a beat; he’d heard the expression before, but he hadn’t really understood the dissonance of the off-kilter thudda-thudda until then.

  Despair tore his soul as his nahwal moved, not away, but into him, aligning itself so its front was to his back. He felt the chill of its flesh, the flow of ichor beneath its skin as its form overlapped with his, suffusing him with a clammy chill and an awful sense of invasion.

  He heard Patience call his name in a raw, frantic voice. He wanted to reach for her, wanted to make everything better. But he couldn’t.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he rasped, the words setting his throat aflame. “I wish—” But he didn’t get to finish, because the Triad magic rose up like the cold, unforgiving water of an ice-fed river. And sucked him down.

  “Brandt!” The name tore from Patience’s throat as his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed into the fog.

  Yanking away from her nahwal, she dropped to her knees and scrambled to find him through blinding tears and the knee-deep mist. She found a leg first, followed it up to his armored torso and higher, to his throat, where she tried to find a pulse. Couldn’t.

  “He’s not dead. Not dead. Can’t be dead.” She repeated it over and over, babbling the words in a litany, petrified that if she stopped, he’d be dead. One dead, one mad, one survivor. Gods, let him be the survivor. Suddenly nothing else mattered.

  She fought the ground’s squishy roll as she hauled his upper body up across her knees, trying to get his head above the level of the mist. He was deadweight, limp and entirely unmoving, his skin cool and cast the same gray green as the world around them.

  But then she felt a flutter under her fingertips. Another. He had a pulse. And he was breathing, though the moves were weak. She shuddered with relief, ready to take whatever little she could get.

  “He’s not dead,” she said to the others, who had gathered close. Tears dripped from her face onto his, adding to the moisture of the mist, as she bent over him, touching his face, his neck, his damp hair.

  Rabbit had pulled Strike off to one side, and was telling him something in a low, broken voice. She caught Iago’s name, but couldn’t think about that right now. Her entire being, both woman and warrior, was focused on Brandt.

  He was alive, but only barely.

  “Wake up,” she whispered, taking his hand in hers and forming a blood-link. “Please wake up.” She opened herself to him, offering him all the magic and strength she had left to give.

  The connection formed on her end, but nothing happened on his.

  Sick nerves drilled through her. “He’s not responding.”

  “He is trapped inside the Triad magic,” a multitonal voice answered.

  Patience’s head jerked up. Her nahwal stood there staring down at her. It was the only one left; the other ancestral beings had disappeared.

  “Trapped how?” she demanded, heart thudding.

  “The Triad magic cannot speak to the eagle until he makes peace with his ancestors.” The nahwal seemed to be speaking from rote, its expression blank. But for a second she thought she caught a glimpse of something more.

  The creature had spoken to her only twice before, and both messages had been frustratingly vague. She hadn’t made much of an effort to improve the connection through ancestor worship, preferring to focus on the living. Now that was coming back to bite her in the ass.

  It was too late to fix that now, though. All she could do was try to reach that spark of humanity, the hint that someone—someone—in there was trying to get through to her. “Please tell me how to help him,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “Please. I’ll do anything.” Almost.

  “You must help him become a Triad mage before the solstice-eclipse. The lost jaguar and the serpent have long, dangerous roads to travel, and he is the only one who can prevent Cabrakan from avenging his brother’s death at the hands of Kali’s children.”

  The nahwal took a step back, away from the group. Patience would have gone after the creature, but Brandt’s heavy body weighed her down. “What am I supposed to do?” Her voice broke. “Tell me.”

  “Take him home.” The nahwal’s form blurred as the gray-green mist closed around it. “Help him remember the debt he owes.” Another step.

  “Wait!” She stretched out her hand. “Don’t . . .” She trailed off as it vanished. Reeling, she looked up at her teammates, whose expressions ranged from concern to gray-faced shock. “What the hell is it talking about?”

  It was her nahwal, her message. But it was Strike who said in a ragged voice, “The lost jaguar and the serpent have to be Anna and Mendez. The other two firebirds must have gone to earth.” Which so wasn’t good news. Anna didn’t want anything to do with the Nightkeepers anymore, and Mendez was a rogue mage, a loose cannon who’d spent most of the past three years behind bars.

  “Why the hell would the god pick them?” Nate asked. “For that matter, why did it go for Brandt if he can’t complete the spell?” He locked on Patience, expression grim. “What debt was it talking about?”

  She wanted to weep and rage, wanted to curl in a ball and pretend the last ten minutes hadn’t happened. But that was the woman she had been, not the one she was now.

  Focus. Prioritize. Her warrior’s buffer might not be as strong as Brandt’s, but it would be strong enough. It would have to be. Calling on it to stem the panic and pump determination in its place, she tightened her grip on him. “I don’t know about any debt. But I’m damn well going to figure it out.”

  She had already been forced to say good-bye to her sons and winik
in. She wasn’t letting go of her husband without a fight.

  Skywatch

  The magi materialized in the sunken center of the mansion’s great room, in a big open space surrounded by wide, low-slung leather couches and ottomans. In the kitchen area that opened off the upper level of the two-level room, Jox, Leah, and Lucius were sitting at the marble-topped breakfast bar, waiting for news.

  They were up and moving before the ’port magic had cleared, but faltered when they saw that Michael and Nate were carrying Brandt’s motionless body between them.

  Jox headed for Patience. In his midsixties, fit, and trim, with long gray hair that he wore back in a Deadhead ponytail, the royal winikin was responsible for protecting and guiding several of the magi as well as running the day-to-day operations of the entire compound. Yet despite his already heavy workload, he had unofficially adopted Patience when her winikin, Hannah, had left with the twins.

  “What happened?” he demanded as he ran a quick vitals check on Brandt, who was deathly pale and cool to the touch, his lips dusky, almost blue.

  The walls of the high-ceilinged great room seemed to press in on her, but she fought the panic and made herself be strong, made her voice stay steady when she answered, “The god chose Rabbit first, but when the power flux woke Iago, the Triad magic bounced out of Rabbit and into Brandt. Now, according to my nahwal, he’s trapped in the spell because he can’t connect with his ancestors until I help him remember some debt he hasn’t repaid. If we can’t wake him before the solstice-eclipse, we’re screwed. And Anna and Mendez are Triad numbers two and three.” Like ripping off a wax strip, she said it all at once, quickly, to get the pain over with.

  Only this pain was just beginning, wasn’t it?

  “Gods.” Jox’s face lost all its color. “Anna.”

  “Yeah,” Strike grated. Leah stood beside him, gripping his upper arm in support. He said, “I’ll make the calls. We need to know if they’re—well. We need to know.”

  As Strike and Leah headed for the nearest phone, Jox pokered up and went into crisis-response mode, though Patience could see the effort it cost him.