Instead, he heard a crackle of brush up ahead.
Adrenaline sizzled and he went on alert. Had Iago returned? He reached for his armband, but didn’t hit the panic button. After a moment, his hand fell away as a simple, gut-deep urge swept through him: Kill the enemy. It was more impulse than words, an imperative that came with the thought of the green-eyed ajaw-makol . But on another level, something inside him said, Search. Search and find. Complete. Up ahead.
Lowering his head and baring his teeth, Sven stalked stiff-legged through the cacao grove. Something cracked behind him and he whipped around with a growl, but there was nothing there. Then a low whine came from the bushes nearby, and he froze in place, held motionless while something inside him crowed: Found!
As he stood, staring, a huge dog slunk out from between two trees.
Not a dog, he realized. A coyote. This was the big sucker Dez had seen, the one that had torn a makol’s face off, then disappeared. It pricked its ears, sat on its massive haunches, and looked at him, head cocked, as if it were waiting for him to do something. But what?
He moved in, doing his best Dog Whisperer impression, and—
“Now!” a voice shouted from behind him.
And all hell broke loose.
Sven howled as shield magic slammed into place surrounding him. A second spell pinned the coyote, which writhed and screamed, snapping at the invisible force. Adrenaline hammered, an atavistic surge that said: fight, flee, survive! Then he was suddenly seeing through the coyote’s eyes. He smelled the magi, sensed their power, fought for freedom. He snarled and snapped, struggling to escape. Escape!
Terror lashed through him as big, hulking shadows drew close and unintelligible voices yammered orders. Then a noose dropped around his neck, and was cranked tight from the far end of a long pole. He gagged and clawed at it, trying to find words, magic, logic, anything. Something stung his thigh, bringing warm lassitude.
Then darkness.
For the next immeasurable period—maybe hours, maybe days—Sven faded in and out, aware of being strapped down, the sting of palm cuts, the shadows bending over him as he writhed and howled, his system hammering with the fear of being trapped. Then another sting would send him under. As he faded he heard them talking. Sometimes he understood the words. Other times he didn’t.
“. . . halfway bonded to his familiar. Carlos said he never showed any of the usual signs, that he didn’t start to suspect it until just . . .”
“. . . big son of a bitch. Must’ve been descended from the coyote bloodline’s breeding stock. We thought they all died in the massacre, but I guess a few made it out. This one must’ve come looking for him, probably bit him to start the bonding . . .”
“. . . a tricky one. Try it again, this time with . . .”
“. . . much tranq can we keep on board without risking one or both of them? I don’t want to . . .”
“. . . think we have it this time. Everybody link up.”
He felt hands take his, felt healing warmth spread through him like sunlight. Felt something shift inside him, realigning and forming new connections, blocking others. Something stung his forearm.
Then, finally, the clouds lifted from his brain. He blinked, surprised to find himself staring at the sky, which was reddish with dawn. Skylight, his brain supplied, the word feeling slightly foreign, like he was relearning his native language.
Details came next: He was in the sacred chamber at the center of the mansion. And unless he was way off, he was strapped to the chac-mool like a damned sacrifice. Which was probably what he deserved, given what he’d been up to over the past few months. He hadn’t even been aware of sneaking out at night, but that was what he had been doing—sleepwalking, trying to tame the big coyote’s feral ass using tips from reality TV. What the hell had he been thinking?
He hadn’t been, at least not the way he normally did. And now he knew why. Familiar. The word whispered through him, reminding him of the flashes, the snatches of conversation. Yeah, that played. The coyotes were one of the few bloodlines that could bond directly with their totem animals, the magic offered to a select few who were trained from birth to handle the blood-bound connection. He remembered Carlos trying to get him to help train a litter of ranch dogs, remembered the winikin’s quiet disappointment that Sven preferred dogfish over actual dogs. But now . . .
Now, everything was different.
He could tell simply by stretching his senses that the coyote lay nearby with its head in its paws, thinking that one of the humans had smelly feet, and food would be good soon. Sven could feel its light mental touch almost as an extension of his own mind, its thoughts shifted toward human patterns now, where before the connection had skewed his mental patterns toward canine: feral, untrusting, and reactive.
“He’s awake,” Jade said. Her face swam into view from beyond his right shoulder. “Hey there. How are you feeling?”
He woofed at her. Then he grinned through his stiff-feeling face at her look of absolute horror. “Sorry,” he said, voice rough from disuse. “I couldn’t help it.”
“Ohh,” she growled, flushing. “I could just . . . Urgh!” She stalked off.
“A little help with the straps, here? I promise I won’t bite. And I’ve had my shots. At least I think I have.”
“I’d say we should leave you here,” Lucius said, hobbling into view on a single crutch, which he balanced on as he went to work on the straps that held Sven down on the altar. “But you’d just have your furry friend chew you out, right?” His expression said that he was asking about more than just a little jaw power.
“Yeah. I get what happened. I feel like an idiot for not seeing it sooner.”
“You weren’t yourself. You were sharing the coyote’s perceptions and instincts, and those instincts said to stay the hell out of sight. Now that you’re in control of the bond, it should work the other way around.”
“You mean I won’t wake up trying to lick my own balls anymore?” But where before the jokes had been a natural part of his hang-loose flow, now they felt forced.
“Here. Let’s get you up.”
Most of the other magi were in the sacred chamber, watching him as he sat up and let his legs dangle over the edge of the altar. Carlos wasn’t there, though, which brought a thump of disappointment. Making himself ignore the feeling of being a damned zoo exhibit, he rubbed his chest where he had bruised himself struggling against his bonds, then his wrists, where the ties had chafed. He glanced at the red marks. Then he stopped and took a second, longer look. The warrior′s mark and the translocator′s talent glyph that meant he could move small things from point A to point B with his mind looked the same as before. But his bloodline mark was different now: it was enclosed in a circle with two domino-type dots in the upper right, indicating the number “two.”
He was twice a coyote. Once for himself, once for the creature that was now inextricably linked to him.
He tuned in on the animal’s low-grade thought stream, something about jackrabbits, smelly feet, and the coyote’s contentment at having finally soldered the necessary connection with its Man. Beneath that was a solid, ineffable core of determination: the coyote would kill for its Man, die for him. It would be his weapon, his companion, his eyes and ears.
And this was going to take some serious getting used to.
Picking up on his sudden emotional surge, the coyote lifted its head and whined softly.
“Sorry, Mac,” he said. “I didn’t know what the hell was going on. I wish for both our sakes I had caught on quicker.”
“Mac.” Lucius nodded. “From chaamac. Coyote. Good name.”
“Actually, I was going for the CSI: New York character. It’s got Gary Sinese’s eyes.”
Michael snorted, but then did a double take. “You know what? You’re right. Weird.”
Sven pushed himself off the altar and stood, feeling far more balanced than he would have expected. “Mac isn’t the only one I owe an apology to. I owe all of you one,
and to the winikin and whoever I’m missing. I knew something wasn’t right, but I didn’t deal with it. I just . . . I don’t know. Did an ostrich.” He inhaled deeply, feeling the blood in his veins, the magic at his fingertips. “But that’s over, starting right now. I feel clearer and stronger than I have in . . . hell. Months. Years.”
Maybe ever. Had he been seeking his familiar all this time? He thought he might have been, because he felt suddenly centered and strong. He had a feeling he wouldn’t have any more problems targeting his translocations, no more wet-firecracker fireballs, no more questioning whether he was really a warrior or not. Now, there wasn’t a shred of doubt in his mind that he could—and would—kick some major ass. He could feel the latent power stirring in his blood, so much stronger than ever before.
Mac got up and heeled up against his side, Sinese eyes hard and businesslike. Sven dropped a hand to the top of his familiar’s head, felt the stiff, bristly fur, and the click of connection that said: finally. And he looked at Strike. “Send me south, to the latest village that was hit. Maybe we’ll be able to find something the rest of you missed.”
It was time for him to stop fucking around and get to work.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
December 18
Solstice minus three days
By day three of Reese’s magic-accelerated convalescence, she wanted to be free from the fuzzy bubble of lassitude that had lingered in the wake of the makol bite, out of her suite, and far away from Dez.
It shouldn’t have been easy to live with him. They had spent five years together, more than ten apart, and they had become completely new people during that decade. But somehow none of that had mattered the first morning, when she had woken up beside him and felt his heartbeat as her own. And it hadn’t mattered over the following three days, as he calmly but firmly refused to be fired as her nurse, remaining immovable as granite when she tried to get him to leave her alone to be her cranky bitch self—she didn’t do sick well—in peace. Instead, he had stayed with her, hung out with her, and brought her revoltingly balanced meals, each time holding her dessert hostage until she had eaten what he considered an acceptable amount of the salad, stir fry, or whatever.
The food wasn’t bad—quite the opposite, in fact—but the principle of it galled her. She was a grown-up. She would eat her damned dessert first if she wanted to. Yet even that pique had a hard time holding out against him as the first day turned into the second, then the third, and she was forced to admit, inwardly at least, that it wasn’t so much about the past anymore, not really. She liked the man he was today. More, she was coming to trust him, because her gut said he was what she saw in front of her. He was solid and real. More, he was powerful, yet he was willing to be part of the team rather than its leader. A new man, just as Strike had called him.
During the day, he mostly acted as her data-crunching assistant, making library runs, phone calls, and whatever else she needed. There was still a hard edge in the “fuck the world, I’ll do it my way” attitude he brought to every task, and the way his voice lowered an octave when her contacts gave him static. But then each night he lay beside her, holding her hand and channeling his warmth into her, healing her. Caring for her.
Something had changed between them since the makol attack, as if the blood-link he’d used to save her had connected them more permanently. She saw it in his eyes, felt it in the way the way the air sparked when they were near each other. Yet although they slept together each night, they hadn’t even kissed . . . which had her alternating between frustration and relief. Part of it was her injuries, she knew. But as the days passed and she caught a heated glance with no follow-up, or found herself reaching out to him but pulling back before she made contact, she realized it was more than that. It was . . . everything.
Before that long-ago night in the storm, when she had been nineteen and love blind, she had resented the way he kept telling her to wait until they had a better place, better jobs, assured safety. Back then she had believed utterly that if he had wanted her—really wanted her—he would’ve taken her, no matter what. Now, though, she was starting to see his side. Because how could she and Dez devote time and energy to each other when they needed to be focusing on finding the fifth artifact and the location where the weapon was to be detonated? The Nightkeepers’ mission was too important.
You’re rationalizing. He’d go for it if he really wanted to, and so would you. Which means you don’t really trust him yet . . . and something’s holding him back.
“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, and made herself get back to work, hammering away at her laptop. Dez was down south for a few hours, seeing if he could pick up a faint trail that Sven’s coyote had found and then lost. “It might be something,” he had said, “might be nothing.” But Strike had figured it was worth checking out, because they were low on leads and running out of time. Meanwhile, she was working her ass off on locating the fifth artifact or, failing that, some clue to where Iago might have stashed Keban, the artifacts, and the makol army. “Come on,” she urged under her breath as she scanned down the e-mail responses she’d gotten to her various queries. “Give me something here. We need a damned break.”
Her heart gave a little shimmy when she saw a familiar e-mail address with the Denver PD′s tag. She hesitated for a long moment before clicking it open and reading the message. Then she reread it, heart sinking because it was a break, all right, but not a good one: Iago had the fifth artifact.
“Damn, damn, damn.” She hit up Dez’s cell with a text: Two-headed snake staff stolen from private collection three hours ago. All info is being suppressed in media, but the file is waiting for me in Denver.
That was the small bright spot in what was otherwise shitty news: She had an excuse to get out of her suite and back into the field, because her PD contact had insisted that she pick up the file in person. She thought that the familiar sights and sounds of uptown would be a welcome change, for a few hours, at least. And it would give her a break from Dez, a chance to clear her head.
Or so she thought, until ten minutes after she sent the text when he strode into her suite. They were arguing by the eleven-minute mark, when he announced that he was going with her.
“What part of ‘familiar face’ and ‘parole violation’ are you not getting?” She glared at him, mentally calling him six kinds of stubborn. “You should stay the hell out of the city.”
“And you should stay the hell in bed.” He glared back, standing too close, wearing desert-camo pants and a tight brown shirt. Among the magi, brown was the color of penitence. He had told her that he wore it as a reminder to stay humble, be a good soldier, follow orders. Apparently that didn’t apply when she was the one giving the orders.
“I told you,” she said through gritted teeth, “Lucchesi will only give me the file in person.” Let me go. I need the space.
“And Lucchesi is . . . ?”
“Fifty-something and happily married. I’ve consulted on a few of his cases, made some suggestions.” No, he’s not the guy. And what do you care, anyway?
“You could get the report through other channels.”
“Not this fast.” I know how to do my damn job.
His eyes flared, warning that his temper was doing a not-very-slow burn. “Iago has to know who you are by now. You’re not safe out there on your own.”
“I’ll take Michael. He scary enough for you?”
“We go together, or you don’t go.”
“You don’t—” She bit off the snap. “Look. I get that you’re worried about me. I even like it a little. But only a little.” She indicated with her thumb and forefinger. “A very little.”
He caught her hand, held it. “Reese, please. Be reasonable.”
She damned the tingles, snatched her hand back. “I am. Eminently. But since you don’t seem able to comprehend that having your parole-jumping ass with me in Denver would be a far bigger risk than me going with a death-wielder with a clean record, how about we get a
royal ruling on it?” He was oath bound to follow Strike’s orders, right?
Dez’s teeth flashed. “Deal.”
Three hours later, she was gritting her jaw as she waited in the great room for her traveling companion-slash-bodyguard. And she was cursing herself for having forgotten that the Nightkeepers were, at their hearts, incorrigible matchmakers. Hell, Strike had even warned her of it himself. “Shit,” she muttered, disgusted.
But that wasn’t what had her crossing to the main kitchen to filch one of Sasha’s killer brownies for a much-needed chocolate hit. No, that would be the fact that she and Dez were headed back to Denver . . . and Luc wanted to meet in the burned-out shell of an old and familiar haunt.
Warehouse Seventeen
Denver
In some ways, Seventeen looked better than Reese remembered, in other ways worse. Structurally, it seemed pretty sound; the charred mess didn’t seem ready to collapse on her and Dez as they loosened a couple of sheets of plywood and slipped inside, avoiding their old routes by unspoken consent. As far as the rest of it went, though . . . the place was an echoing ghost of its former self.
With the main gang focus shifting northward and some state money up for grabs, an investment group had started reclaiming the warehouses a few years ago. The debris had been cleared, along with the firedamaged catwalks, lofts, and other inner structures; the roof and walls had been reinforced with thick steel columns and replacement panels; and a premature stab had been made at repainting. Then the economic crash had taken the investors and grant money down with it and the project had been abandoned, leaving Seventeen to sit empty and echoing, the hopeful paint job fading from whitewash to a dingy, graffiti-splashed yellow.
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