A red-gold flame flared to life, warming his palm and lighting the room.
A shadow moved over by the first row of bookcases, and the girl stepped into the bloodred light.
She wasn’t smiling, but her eyes were clear and unafraid as they met his. “Nice trick.”
The red firelight faded the bruise to a faint smudge and sharpened the contrast between her pale complexion and her straight black hair, dark lips, and dark blue eyes. She was wearing low-rider jeans and a tight hoodie that’d been cropped off just above her waistband to show a strip of flat stomach and a starburst tattoo centered on her navel. She was lean hipped, slight, and tough-looking. And, Rabbit realized with a start, she was gorgeous. Somehow he’d missed that earlier, or maybe he’d gotten it but hadn’t quite grasped the actual degree of her hotness. He’d been mostly focused on the shiner and the slump of her shoulders, the whipped-dog air he knew all too well from back in high school, when he’d been the daily target of three of the biggest bullies in town. He’d recognized the victim in her because like knew like. Now, though, she was straight shouldered, with her chin up and her eyes assessing, as though she were measuring him, trying to figure him out. She didn’t look put off by the magic, but didn’t look impressed, which meant that either she’d seen real magic before, or she’d seen so much of the fake stuff that she was automatically assuming the fireball was an illusion.
Rabbit had been prepared for the victim. He wasn’t so ready for the girl who faced him now, unafraid. He was even less ready when she withdrew the carved obsidian knife from the back pocket of her hip-hugging jeans and balanced the blade on her palm. “You want this?”
Power sang in the air and made him think about being a hero, about proving that he wasn’t as much of a fuckup as everyone thought. He nodded, his throat going dry. “Yeah. I want it.”
She nodded, and her expression firmed. “Take me with you, and you can have whatever you want.”
Nate hung on to the door handle in the backseat as their cabbie—a twentysomething who was thrilled with his “follow that car” fare—gleefully chased the dark sedan carrying Mistress Truth along the twisty streets of the Quarter. Eventually the sedan pulled up in front of the closed, locked entrance of an aboveground cemetery. Nate and Alexis’s driver parked a block over and down, looking sorry that the ride was over.
“Let me guess,” Alexis muttered. “She picked the location.”
“She doesn’t seem the sort to miss the opportunity for some drama,” Nate agreed as he paid the driver, adding a twenty so the guy would wait.
They got out of the cab and worked their way back, making like tourists by holding hands and gawking at the carved marble pillars and ornate iron grillwork of the fence surrounding the cemetery, even though it was late and the area wasn’t exactly a primo stop on the haunted walking tours.
As they neared the cemetery the sedan rolled past, heading back uptown.
“Think it’s headed out to get our Xibalban?” Nate said, more thinking aloud than really asking.
“He can ’port,” Alexis said with a bit of duh in her voice.
Nate would’ve argued that Strike didn’t ’port everywhere he wanted to go, but didn’t bother because he didn’t want to buy into the fight. And yeah, he knew damn well it wasn’t really a fight that was looking to spark between them, not this close to the eclipse. The electricity that pulsed on the night air was way more sex than anger, or maybe a mix of the two. Part of him was annoyed that his body had no problem buying into the destined-mates thing. The rest of him didn’t give a crap about that, just wanted her against him, underneath him. And she was feeling it too. He could see it in the pink blush that crept up her long throat and high-boned cheeks when he caught her looking, and when they brushed up against each other as they walked, still holding hands.
“It’s a one-way trip,” she said, and it took him a few seconds to realize she wasn’t talking about the two of them; she was talking about Mistress Truth and the limo, and she had a point. The sedan’s departure suggested that whoever hired it didn’t expect the wannabe witch to need a ride home.
“Come on.” He sped up, and they came into sight of the cemetery entrance just as the witch’s purple-jacketed figure disappeared through the arched gateway.
Nate and Alexis followed. The cemetery gate opened onto a main drag paved in pressed white gravel, with offshoots leading away at right angles, intersected by narrower pathways running parallel to the main drag, creating a regular gridwork of roads crisscrossing around straight rows of monuments and elevated crypts, all built well above normal flood height. There’d no doubt been some serious posthurricane rebuilding necessary, but in the moonlit darkness Nate saw no sign of the destruction or repairs. The cemetery looked secure in the silence. Peaceful. For now, anyway.
“There she goes,” he said as their quarry stopped at an angel-topped crypt, fiddled with the lock for a moment, and then stepped inside. “Wonder if that’s the family home?”
“I think—” Alexis broke off as the air suddenly rang with the rattle of foreign magic, and they heard the pop of displaced air from up ahead. “Come on!”
Nate wanted to grab her and shove her in a crypt until it was all over, but she wasn’t his to protect, and she was a good jump ahead of him. Adrenaline flared and he started after her, pulling the nine-
millimeter he’d checked with his luggage and hoped he wouldn’t need. “Wait up,” he hissed. “Wait for—” But they were already too late. A dark shadow passed through the crypt entrance well ahead of them. A second later the witch screamed, the sound high and terrified, followed by a masculine roar of anger, then another scream, cutting off to a gurgling rattle.
“Shit!” Nate put his head down and ran, pushing past Alexis and barreling into the crypt.
The big redhead had the witch up against the back wall of the crypt, holding her off her feet by her throat. He had a stone knife in his other hand, its tip against her temple.
It was a stone knife, yes, and it was Mayan. Maybe even Nightkeeper. But it wasn’t the stone knife.
The witch had switched blades, Nate realized, and the big guy was pissed. “Drop it!” he ordered, leveling the nine-millimeter. “These are jade tipped.” He didn’t fire, though, because ricochet would be a bitch in the stone chamber.
The witch’s eyes locked onto him, relief warring with terror as her mouth pulled back in a voiceless plea for help. The enemy mage ignored the threat and dug the knife in a little, until a drop of blood welled and tracked down Mistress Truth’s temple. “Where’s the real knife? Back at the shop?”
She shook her head wildly, then nodded, spraying tears, spittle, and terror.
“Drop her now!” Nate shouted, sidestepping so he had half a prayer of nailing the redhead without killing the witch too.
The mage looked at him, disgusted. “For fuck’s sake, you could’ve taken the damn thing earlier.
That’s always been the problem with you people. Too many fucking rules.”
Magic clapped, brown smoke detonated, and mage and witch disappeared. Nate stood for a second, stunned. There had been no rattle of gathering magic, no pop of displaced air, yet his gut told him that they hadn’t gone invisible or anything like that. The redhead had ’ported back to the shop.
Back to where Rabbit was waiting, jacked up on magic and angst.
“Come on!” Nate grabbed Alexis’s hand and practically dragged her out of the crypt to their cab.
They piled in and he told the cabbie to take them back to the tea shop ASAP, while she whipped out her cell and speed-dialed Rabbit’s phone, punching it to speaker.
After five rings it kicked to voice mail, and Rabbit’s recorded voice said, “I’m not here.”
Then the line went dead. There was no beep, no nothing. Only silence.
Rabbit thought he was handling the negotiations pretty well. After a flash of panicked certainty that he was going to fuck this up the way he’d always fucked up pretty much anything else i
mportant he’d ever tried to do, he forced himself to slow down and focus. Think.
He’d let the girl—she’d said her name was Myrinne—keep the knife. Okay, actually she’d refused to hand it over, but he hadn’t pressed. He had, however, insisted that they get their asses out of the tea shop. Myrinne hadn’t argued; she’d just put her hand in his and let him lead her through the streets of her own neighborhood, looking for someplace loud and crowded. As they walked, she told him a bit about the other guy who’d wanted the knife, namely that he called himself Iago, and had actually identified himself as Xibalban, and promised to share his magic with the witch in exchange for the knife.
“He’ll kill her,” Rabbit said.
Myrinne said nothing, just pointed to a pizza joint across the street. “Let’s go in there. It’s usually pretty quiet this time of night.”
Quiet was an understatement, Rabbit decided. The place was empty except for the guy behind the counter. Rabbit snagged a table in the corner and put his back to the wall, feeling nerves and power vibrating through him. When the guy headed toward them with menus, Rabbit ordered a couple of Cokes and told him they’d need a while.
Make that a long while.
Under the bright fluorescent lights, Myrinne’s shiner stood out loud and clear, angry and purple-
black, with spider tracks of broken veins edging the white of that eye.
Seeing that he was staring, she jerked her chin up and glared. “What’re you looking at?”
“Did the witch do it?” he asked, knowing they both knew exactly what he’d been looking at. “Is that why you want to come with me?”
At first he wasn’t sure she was going to answer, because she sort of locked up and hunched over, as though she weren’t sure how much to tell him. But then she said, “Yes, she clobbered me. But no, that’s not why I need you to take me with you. It’s because of the dreams.”
Something tickled the hairs at the back of Rabbit’s neck. “What—” He broke off as the door to the pizza joint slammed open, and a big biker-looking guy with reddish hair strode through, looking pissed. He was dragging Mistress Truth along behind him.
Adrenaline kicked Rabbit’s system even higher when he realized it was the Xibalban. Iago. Rabbit knew it like he knew his own name—not just from the description, but from the power that churned off the guy, murky brown and shit-strong.
Mistress Truth pointed at Myrinne. “That’s her. She must’ve stolen it!”
Heart hammering up into his throat, Rabbit scrambled up and shoved Myrinne behind him. “Out the back,” he snapped, pushing her in the direction of the door. “Hurry!” He didn’t wait to see if she’d followed orders; he was too busy scrambling to call the fire magic, a shield, telekinesis, whatever the hell magic he could get his hands on, because he had a feeling he was going to need all of it and more.
Panic kindled in his gut, alongside excitement and a whisper of, It’s about time.
“I don’t want any trouble in here,” the pizza guy snapped real quick. When nobody paid attention to him, he ducked down behind the counter and came up with a Louisville Slugger. He was halfway around the pass-through, weapon raised over his head, when Iago flicked the fingers of his free hand and said, “You’re leaving now.”
The guy got a blank look on his face, turned, and walked straight out the door. Rabbit froze too.
Holy shit. This guy had some serious magical ’nads. He wasn’t just a ’port; he could mind-bend too.
What the hell else could he do?
Rabbit had a feeling he was about to find out, because Iago was headed in his direction, moving fast.
“Take this,” Myrinne whispered, pressing something into Rabbit’s hand. The feel of the stone haft and a serious buzz of power told him it was the knife. Then he heard footsteps and the slam of the back door.
The enemy mage slowed and stopped, and opened his fingers so Mistress Truth dropped in a heap on the floor, weeping softly. The big guy smiled mockingly. “Don’t be a hero, kid. Hand it over and you’ll live to report back to your father.”
The taunt broke over Rabbit, chasing some of the terror with hurt, and the mixture of resentment and grief he couldn’t seem to get past no matter how hard he tried. He closed his fingers over the knife and felt the blade bite into his palm, felt the blood flow. “News flash, asshole: Living isn’t going to get me a convo with the old man. Dying will.”
The blood sacrifice jacked him in; he stuck the knife in his belt and felt the barrier connection flare through him, starting in his bones and radiating outward, buzzing in his skull.
“Don’t do it,” Iago warned.
Rabbit would’ve told him to go fuck himself, but he couldn’t find the words amidst the sudden spinning in his brain. Something was happening to him. A crazy pressure was crawling inside his skull, rooting around and taking him over, and then sudden rage poured through him, hot, angry joy, and the thrill of power. Burn them, something said deep inside him. Burn them all. He fought the impulse, but it quickly became a compulsion, an overwhelming need to destroy.
Blood riding high even as a small piece of him screamed, Stop! Rabbit clapped his palms together, dropped his head back, and shouted, “Kaak!”
The ancient word called the fire, called the gods, called a detonation that blasted through the room, laying waste to everything in its path. The front of the pizza joint blew outward in a hail of glass and superheated air. Flames lunged from Rabbit to the walls and ceiling.
Alarms wailed and people out on the street started screaming, shrill calls of, “Fire!” and, “Call nine-one-one!” and, “Hey, somebody’s in there!”
At the center of the conflagration, completely untouched by the fire, Iago held out a hand, baring his crimson-marked forearm. “Give me the knife.”
The order grabbed onto Rabbit, dug into him. Give me the knife. The words twined around his soul, twisting and caressing and making him want to do exactly that. The knife, his instincts said, the knife, give him the knife. Just as he hadn’t wanted to call the fire, not really, he didn’t want to give up the knife. But to his horror, he saw his bloody hand stretch out, saw his fingers open to offer up the bloodstained blade.
He’s a mind-bender, he screamed inside his own skull. Fight it, fight! But he couldn’t. He could only stand there while Iago grabbed the knife, gave him a middle-fingered salute, and disappeared, taking Mistress Truth with him.
Then there was nothing but the fire, and the screaming inside Rabbit’s head as the world went dark, and he collapsed.
The door to the tea shop hung open. Nate was about to jump out of the cab, a really bad feeling knotting the pit of his stomach, when he smelled the smoke. That decided it for him. Lunging back into the taxi, he slammed the door and snapped, “We need to be where the fire is.”
“Will do!” the cabbie shouted, and floored it, lost in some sort of James Bond fantasy and unaware that the reality was so much worse.
Alexis’s expression tightened when a siren split the air, starting low and mournful and climbing to a shriek. “Damn it.”
“Call Strike,” Nate said. “We’re going to need a quick exit. And have him bring Patience.”
He took it as a bad sign that she didn’t argue the need for the emergency evac ’port, or for Patience’s talent of invisibility. Worse was the sight he caught when they rounded the next corner: glass blown out into the street, and most of a block aflame. “Shit.”
He was out of the cab before it stopped moving. Aware that Alexis was right behind him he spun and snapped, “Stay here, and this time I fucking mean it!”
She called his name as he turned away, but he didn’t look back. He headed straight into the flames, shouting, “Rabbit? Rabbit, goddamn it, answer me!”
There was no answer but the roar of fire. He sucked in another breath to try again, and pain seared his lungs, the foulness of smoky air grabbing on and doubling him over in a fit of coughing. He staggered onward, though, passing tables and chairs that had already bu
rned to skeletons, as though they’d been liberally dosed with napalm.
Goddamn it, he was going to be seriously pissed if he died saving the kid’s punk ass from fire he’d created himself and didn’t have the chops to control. “Rabbit!” he shouted, his voice breaking.
And thank the freaking gods he got an answer, more a groan than any words, but it’d do. Staying low and holding what was left of his shirt across his mouth, Nate headed that way, not bothering to test the floor or worry about the flaming timbers overhead, because if he didn’t move fast they were dead anyway.
“Keep talking!” he ordered, and heard another groan. Two more steps and his foot snagged on something and he went to his knees, kneeling atop a semiconscious Rabbit. “Got you,” Nate said, voice cracking on smoke. “I’ve got you.”
But who has me? he thought as he grabbed onto Rabbit’s hoodie and jeans and started dragging the kid in what he thought was the direction of the door. The answer was, Nobody. He’d have to make it on his own, like always. But the room was spinning and the floor was pitching beneath his feet as he staggered onward, dragging Rabbit’s limp body. He missed his next step and went down to his knees, then fell forward. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t even feel the fire anymore. The flames were cool, licking across his skin like a lover.
He saw her face in the flames, saw her reach through the madness to touch him. But instead of the soft love she had in her eyes when he imagined her time and again—Hera, Alexis, one and the same—
she looked terrified, resolute. And as she reached for him, someone else hurried past her and bent down to grab Rabbit. Then Nate felt the fantasy actually touch him, felt the jolt of contact, and he knew it wasn’t a dream at all. Alexis had come after him.
And there was a damn good chance she was going to die right along with him.
Fuck! He grabbed onto her wrist, used it as a lifeline, and pulled himself partway up. He was aware of Strike slinging Rabbit over his shoulder. Then the king turned back and went for Nate’s other side, so they were braced one against another, and it was all or nothing: Either all four of them made it out, or they died together, taking a quarter of the Nightkeepers’ strength with them. And destiny or not, Nate wasn’t letting that happen, wasn’t letting Alexis lose herself trying to save him, not ever.
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