The shadows lengthened further. The air chilled. The park cleared.
Dez tugged his fleece-lined cap down over his smoothly bald scalp and turned up the collar of the heavy desert-camo jacket he’d bought from an army surplus store, along with night-vision goggles and a KA-BAR knife. He should’ve gone with the lined pants too. He might still be in New Mex, but he was practically on top of the Colorado border, and the sharp wind smelled of snow. Not to mention that serpents didn’t do too well in the cold, and the main effect of the Triad magic—aside from saddling him with a now-decamped spirit guide and some nasty dreams—had been to skew many of his senses closer to those of his bloodline totem.
The Triad magic had affected each of the chosen magi differently: It had given detail-oriented Brandt a mental filing system that contained all of his ancestors’ spells and talents, yet the same spell had nearly killed Strike’s sister, Anna. It wasn’t clear whether that was because she lacked the warrior′s mark, because she had forsaken the Nightkeepers to live out in the human world, or what, but she had suffered a hell of a cranial bleed. She was up and moving now, and the doctors said her scans were within normal limits, but still she ghosted from day to day, silent and foggy-eyed.
Seeing her around Skywatch had hammered home to Dez that he was seriously fucking lucky. The Triad magic hadn’t just picked him; it had saved him, given him a second chance. And in the process, it had sleeked him down and enhanced his existing magic. Like a serpent, he used all of his senses, analyzing scent signatures by both smell and taste, and detecting minute changes in body heat. Not to mention that his warrior′s talent gave him the sharpened reflexes and strategic thinking of a killing machine, and the lightning magic gave him some serious shock-and-awe. The three together made him a formidable weapon, and he was determined to be the best damned soldier he could be. He couldn’t undo the past, but since waking up from the Triad transition, he had thrown himself into the Nightkeepers’ war, taking his own ego out of the equation and doing whatever he was damn well told.
That is, until last week when he got Keban’s strangely formal note—his fucking marching orders: Prepare yourself—and the rest of the magi—to meet me at noon on the day of the solstice. Bring the black artifact. I’ll gather the others that have been found, and on the proper days I will find the two that remain hidden. I will contact you with instructions when the time comes. Be ready.
Bull-fucking-shit to that. Anntah had made it clear during Dez’s mental Roto-Rootering that Keban had some of his rhetoric right, but he didn’t speak for the serpent bloodline. He was sick and damaged. More, he knew far more than a winikin should about the magic, which made him dangerous. So Dez was prepared, all right . . . prepared to kill Keban and destroy the artifacts. And if there was some grim satisfaction in the chore, he figured he could live with that. He’d never claimed to be a frigging saint.
A trickle of dislodged rocks interrupted his train of thought and brought his head up. The sound was followed by the faint tread of footsteps coming not from the path, but from the back country on the other side of the park.
Heat flared as his warrior′s talent came on line, sharpening his reflexes and bringing his fighting magic close to the surface. He bared his teeth when he caught the faintly sour smell he had been trailing for days. His enemy had arrived, and for once he was a step ahead of the bastard rather than chasing behind.
Easing from the cold passageway into the warmer air outside, he let his magic ramp up, the fine electrical currents making him acutely aware of each neuron and synapse. The sun was gone, the sky a clear, darkening blue going scalloped pink at the edges as he slipped from one shadow-shrouded doorway to the next, working his way through the interconnected chambers of the labyrinthine ruin. The small, furtive noises he was tracking headed for the northernmost point of the ruin, where eight-foot-high stone walls outlined a huge circular chamber.
Dez wedged himself into the shadowy juncture where an intersecting wall ran into the curve of the room’s outer edge and a small window gave him a decent view of the inner courtyard. Moments later, Keban came into view. And even though Dez had braced himself to see the winikin again—and to kill him—the sight of the hunched-over body and scarred face shot his pulse into the stratosphere. In an instant, he flashed back on that night in the storm, and the look on the bastard’s face as he had pressed the star demon into Dez’s bleeding palms.
His final slide had started at that moment. The bad shit that followed had come from inside him, it was true, but Keban had set it free.
Wait it out, Dez told himself. Let him get the artifact first. He watched through slitted eyes as the winikin skimmed a hand over a section of the wall where the masons had worked a snakelike stripe of green stone into the red-rock background, then paused, lips moving as he read the shadowscript. After a moment, he turned and paced the diameter of the kiva three separate times, scuffing his feet when he hit the center. Then he stood in the place where his scuff marks intersected and started walking north, perpendicular to the plane of the setting sun. When he reached the wall, he dropped to his knees, pulled a folding shovel from his knapsack, screwed the pieces together, and started digging.
Almost, Dez thought, shifting restlessly in his hiding spot. A second later he realized that the twitchiness was more than his usual impatience—there was a new current humming in the air, an itchy heat that was familiar yet not. Magic, he thought, gut knotting on the realization. Shit. The buzz was coming from Keban, growing stronger the farther down he dug. It was from the artifact, a soft, insistent call that reached inside Dez, seeming to echo in his very DNA.
Block it out, he told himself, steeling himself against the siren song. He could handle it this time. He would have to handle it.
He started to sweat.
The winikin suddenly made a satisfied noise, ducked down and shoved his hands into the hollow he had carved alongside the wall. He came up with a bundle, started unwrapping a layer of rotting fabric, then paused and turned away to paw through his knapsack for something.
Digging his fingernails into his palms hard enough to draw blood, both as a crude sacrifice and to keep himself from doing something stupid, Dez called the magic for a shield spell, intending to turn it into a damned cage. Power raced in his veins as he spread his fingers and imagined the shield falling into place, but he didn’t trigger the spell. Wait for it, he told himself. Wait . . . for . . . it.
Keban straightened, holding a flashlight.
Now! Dez unleashed his shield spell at the same instant that Keban turned on the flashlight. There was a spark of electricity, a flare of magic.
And the world went nuts.
A fat spark shot from Keban to Dez and back. The winikin cried out and dropped the flashlight, but a flare of blue-white power suddenly engulfed Dez, lighting his surroundings and totally fucking the element of surprise. Keban spun, took one look at him, and bolted.
Damn it! Dez slammed his crackling shield around the other man. Not invisible like most of the warrior′s defensive spells, or concealing like the chameleon shields Michael or Alexis could call, Dez’s shield was like most of his magic: loud, unsubtle, and supercharged. It arced with blue-white electricity, forming a weblike cage that stopped bullets and buzz-swords, and could make like a Taser if he wanted it to. And hell, yeah, he wanted it to right now. He wanted the bastard to burn.
Keban skidded to a stop in the center of the magic, and turned back as Dez approached the cage. The blue-white light showed a face that sagged like wax around the scars, eyes that were sly and calculating, but didn’t track normally.
Nate’s illegal hack into the winikin’s psych ward records had revealed that Keban had suffered an acute psychotic break a few days after that night in the storm. He’d stayed put for a decade, then vanished the day of the Triad spell, which couldn’t have been a coincidence. He’d been rational enough to work out an escape, rational enough to send that letter and track down the artifacts he wanted. Now, though, he stared pas
t Dez’s shoulder, twisting his fingers in the filthy cloth wrappings, and mumbling to himself, looking more pitiful than rational.
Dez’s rage didn’t quite die, but it sure as hell faltered.
Up close, the man inside the glowing cage was a deflated, deranged version of the beast he had seen in his nightmares, year after year, until new demons took his place. He didn’t look like the ruthless bastard who had dragged Dez to dozens of crumbling ruins as a kid and turned him loose with a knife and orders to find the temple’s sacred chamber, make his sacrifice, and “for fuck’s sake, get it right.” And he didn’t look like the man who had whipped him bloody each time he failed.
Instead, he looked old, sad, and defeated. And nothing like the man Dez had primed himself to kill.
“Shit.” He scowled through the bars at his captive. “Now what?” His prior self would have stuck stubbornly to the original plan. The better man he was trying to be thought it might be safe to bring him back to Skywatch, after all. If he was this far gone, not even Rabbit would be able to get at the truth that needed to stay hidden.
Still looking off to the side, as if unable to meet his eyes, Keban held out the wrapped bundle and mumbled unintelligibly.
Dez hesitated. Then, dampening the shield spell so it wouldn’t fry either of them, he moved in closer. “You want me to take it?”
The winikin jerked his chin in what might have been a nod, and went to work on the rotting cloth. Within moments, he had unwrapped a fist-sized chunk of white crystal carved into a head. The face was Mayan, the accoutrements those of a god with matching “T” shapes inscribed on both cheeks.
Dez didn’t recognize the god or the glyph, but something inside him gave a liquid tug of longing. It wasn’t the same as the way the black idol made him feel—this was softer and more grounded, almost sexual—but the two sensations were definitely in the same ballpark. This was another piece of the puzzle, no question about it.
He held out a hand, careful to stay on his side of the shield spell. “Give it to me.”
Keban offered the bust, hands shaking and then sagging as he lost strength. Dez reached for the carving, stepping forward automatically to catch it before it fell.
The moment he made contact, power flashed through him, paralyzing him momentarily.
And in that terrible, vulnerable second, Keban’s eyes focused and his fingers clamped on Dez’s wrist to yank him closer. The winikin’s eyes flashed cruelly, and he was utterly focused and in control as he held up his free hand and blew a puff of white powder through the latticework of the lightning shield.
Dez yanked away as the fine particles peppered his face. “Son of a—” Pain lashed through him, starting at his nose and mouth and then racing through his body. His muscles seized up, his senses overloaded, and he doubled over in agony.
Gods! He fought for control, but crashed to the ground instead. The white god’s head rolled away from his spasming fingers and electricity arced through him as his powers raged, veering and colliding. The shield spell shorted out, freeing Keban, who looked straight and strong, and nothing like the broken old man he had pretended to be.
He moved to stand over Dez. Pulling a wide-barreled gun from the small of his back, he shook his head, expression terrifyingly blank. “You couldn’t just meet me during the fucking solstice, could you? You had to try and be the noble motherfucking Triad mage. Well, this’ll slow you down a little.” He took aim at Dez’s kneecap.
Fuck! Dez rolled as automatic gunfire split the air. Through the haze of pain and the spinning disorientation that had come from the drugged powder, it took him a second to realize that the barrage hadn’t come from the winikin’s gun. It had been one of the MAC-10s the magi used for jade-tip combat.
Backup! Dez hadn’t wanted it, didn’t know how they had found him . . . but he was damn glad for the help as the autopistol chattered again.
Cursing, Keban grabbed the god’s head and dove through a doorway as bullets chewed into the thousand-year-old masonry.
Lurching to his feet, Dez shouted, “Don’t let him get away!” He stumbled after the winikin, trying to summon his warrior’s magic as he ran, but got sparks instead of a shield or lightning. He couldn’t sense Keban’s heat signature, but he could feel the tug of the white statue’s magic, headed toward the Hubble Site at the edge of the Aztec Ruin. Pulling a small flashlight from his heavy jacket, he flicked it on. “This way!” Ducking, he veered into a tunnel he had scouted earlier.
A single set of bootfalls pounded behind him, closing the gap as he burst out of the tunnel into the open space separating the North Ruin and the Hubble Site. But Keban wasn’t headed for the second ruin. He’d made it to his vehicle.
Dez skidded to a stop, swearing over the roar of an engine as rear lights bounced hard and disappeared in a cloud of dust.
“Son of a bitch.” He spun toward his backup, aiming the flashlight. “We have to—” He broke off, the air jamming his lungs when he saw, not a Nightkeeper, but a stranger. A woman.
And a hell of a woman, at that.
The dark-haired beauty was fully decked out for a Nightkeeper op in black Kevlar-impregnated combat pants cut trim across her waist and hips; a tight black thermal shirt under body armor that didn’t entirely camouflage her curves; a weapons belt loaded with guns, jade-tipped ammo, and a good-sized combat knife; and a gleaming black-and-chrome communications band around her upper arm that was part tech-ware, part magic.
The look packed a hell of punch, as did the shock of suddenly acquiring a new teammate, but then she took another step and her face caught the light.
And time. Fucking. Stopped.
Familiar amber-whiskey eyes framed in long, dark lashes turned a face he had labeled simply “beautiful” into something else entirely. Suddenly he saw the high cheekbones he had once ascribed to suburban royalty, the pert nose and dented chin that he’d called pixieish when he wanted to tease, and the elegantly curved mouth he had no right to dream about.
“Reese,” he whispered, heart stuttering. Logic said that he was either hallucinating or flat on his ass unconscious, because there was no way in hell Reese Montana would be wearing Nightkeeper gear and looking to back his ass up. She hated him, had cut him off, and with damn good reason.
Yet there she was. Which meant this had to be a dream. But in his dreams her hair was its natural blue-black, not a warm copper-streaked brunette. And in his dreams, she was looking at him the way she used to, before the storm and the star demon, and his mad slide into darkness. Not glaring at him like he was something she’d found stuck on the bottom of one of her silver-toed boots.
“Reese?” Shock seemed to have reduced him to that one syllable as it started connecting that this might not be a hallucination, after all.
“Guess they were right. You’re not dead.” She shoved her spare autopistol against his chest and stalked past him, headed for the second ruin. Over her shoulder, she shot, “I’m going after the winikin. And I’m not waiting for you.”
Keban. The god’s head. Oh, shit.
His warrior′s talent took over, getting his feet moving while his brain tried to catch up. Being a Nightkeeper was all about priorities, and the winikin was getting away with the statue, so he did his damnedest to focus as he followed her to a thin stand of trees beyond the ruins, where she had stashed her vehicle. But he stuttered to a halt at the edge of the clearing at the sight of her ride.
She was driving an unassuming Jeep Compass with a generic silver exterior that gave zero indication of the rabid, snorting horses under the hood, and the other mods that had been retrofitted. He knew about them because he’d done some of the work himself.
Jesus, gods. She was wearing combat clothes and driving the newest and fastest of the Nightkeepers’ cars. If he could’ve crafted a wet dream, that would be it, except for the part where she despised him. Because for all that he had remade himself, he was still the guy who had broken her heart, and worse.
“Get in,” she snapped, sling
ing herself into the driver′s side.
The engine roared like a racecar as he took shotgun and strapped himself in. He stared across at her. “Holy shit . . . Reese?”
“Not now.” She hit the gas and aimed for the road.
But as the acceleration punched him back in his seat, he pointed northwest. “He’s headed that way.” When she narrowed her eyes, he added, “I can sense the carving.”
She nodded tightly, spun the wheel, and sent them overland.
The next few minutes passed in a shuddering blur as they chased the winikin along a series of fire access roads that eventually joined the main road, where Reese muscled the heavy vehicle onto the tarmac and accelerated, two-handing the steering wheel as the odometer edged past ninety.
Dez stared at her badass pixie profile, the hard line of her jaw. And wished to hell he could have a do-over. “You came after me.”
That was all he could think, that she had somehow figured out that he was alive, gone searching for him, and been recruited by the Nightkeepers. But why had she been looking? He would have thought she’d be glad to let him stay dead.
“I was hired to find you,” she corrected coolly, staring straight ahead and handling the dark curves with grim proficiency.
“Oh.” Which put a different spin on things. Due to the Triad magic, Strike wouldn’t have been able to find him with magic, so the king must’ve gone old-school and hired the only bounty hunter he’d ever met in person. Then, once he figured out that she and Dez had a history and she knew most of the Nightkeepers’ legends, he’d brought her into things all the damn way. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath.
“Wrong religion, Mendez. Or so I’m told.”
“Reese—” he began, but she cut him off.
“Are we gaining on him?”
Focus. Prioritize. “Yeah. Look for a right up ahead. He’s off the main road.” He didn’t know how he knew that.
She accelerated around the next turn. “Good. This baby will out off-road the crap out of his POS rental in a—shit!”
Storm Kissed Page 7
