Wood splintered and cracked, the panel shuddered. It would’ve been very satisfying to kick it open, but it opened in, so that would’ve been more work than necessary. Instead, she tried the knob, jiggled it, put her shoulder into it, and got the door open. Stepping out, she exhaled a quiet, “Yes!”
“Freeze!” a man’s voice bellowed, and a big figure lurched into view two doors down, pointing a machine pistol at her.
“Shit!” Fight response flaring, she flattened and ducked back into the room, whipping up the .44, all too aware she had loaded only four rounds. Scenarios flared—the compound under siege with her unaware, makol in the hallways . . . but a makol wouldn’t have yelled for her to freeze. And that was Lucius standing there, crutch under one arm, MAC-10 in the other.
His expression quickly ran from determination to surprise, and from there to confusion. He let his weapon sag. “Reese? What the hell’s going on?”
“Long story.” She lunged back to her feet. “Are they gone yet?”
“Maybe ten minutes ago.” Confusion turned to alarm. “What’s wrong?”
“I need to talk to Strike.” She hesitated for a second, unnerved to find that a piece of her still didn’t want to blow the whistle on Dez, still wanted to think he was telling the truth. But the outrage was too much—the story came out of her in a clipped précis, like one she would have given to the task force. She finished with, “So I need you to put me on a tight band transmission to Strike or Leah. Or failing that, anyone but Dez. They should still be doing recon. We’ve got time.”
But Lucius sagged back against the wall, his face draining of color. “They skipped recon and attacked when Dez’s magic pulled the temple out of the dark barrier ahead of schedule. Right after that, the satellite cut out. I’ve got no ears, no way to transmit.”
“He cut the feed?” Even as the knots in her stomach tightened, a dumb-assed part of her kept saying, Maybe he’s not doing what you think. “We need to get it back up.”
“I thought it was barrier interference. The closer we get to the end date, the wonkier the atmosphere gets during the cardinal days. If he cut it, though, there are a couple of other things I could try.”
“Let’s go.” Shoving the .44 into her waistband at the small of her back, where it pressed awkwardly into her spine, she headed down the hallway toward the great room. Her thoughts churned as a ragged pattern assembled itself in her head. “I bet he meant for me to stay asleep longer than I did, long enough so it wouldn’t matter. Maybe the blood-link warned me that he was making his move, woke me up early.” She was going full steam now, pieces falling into place slightly askew. “I bet he sensed that I was coming around and knew he had to move his timetable up. So he—”
“Wait.” Lucius caught her arm and swung her around in the archway leading to the main mansion. “Stop. Back up. What blood-link?”
“We don’t have time for this.” She tugged at his arm.
He didn’t budge. More, his normally easygoing demeanor had hardened and a glint had entered his eyes. “Yes we do. It’s important. Start talking.”
She didn’t want to think about it, because the link, too, was a lie. But she trusted Lucius. “It started when I was bitten by the makol.” She quickly described the thin trickle of energy that had fitfully connected them ever since their blood and energies had mingled. “And when we . . .” She faltered as a stab of grief ripped through her.
Lucius finished for her. “And when you make love, sometimes it seems that you can feel what he’s feeling and see the world through his eyes.”
Hating how the reminder brought a prickle of tears and made her yearn, she snapped, “Like I said, a blood-link.”
But his eyes had taken on a strange glint. “A blood-link comes from shared DNA—siblings, parents and children, that sort of thing. What you’re talking about is the early stages of the jun tan connection. The mated bond.”
“Bullshit.” The word burst out of her.
“Not bullshit. Jun tan.” He tapped his wrist, where he wore the curving glyph. “And, especially when it’s newly formed, the bond won’t activate unless the two of you are open to each other, not holding anything back. Which means he was telling the truth about why he locked you up.”
Shock took her breath and she sagged against the nearest wall. “You’re kidding.” Her heart leaped at the possibility, but twisted as she warned herself not to talk herself into believing what she wanted to. “The spirit guide said we weren’t meant to be mates.”
“Looks like you’re falling in love with each other anyway.”
Her mouth went dry. “No.” The whisper wasn’t a denial of her feelings, but of the hope that suddenly swept through her. “Oh, God.” Could it be true? She pressed a hand to her suddenly jittery stomach as her mind skipped around, thoughts jumbling into a mishmash of yearning and regret. “He’s a Triad mage,” she said, heart beginning to pound with excitement even as her practical side poked at the gaps in the pattern. “He could’ve manipulated the magic.”
“Not this kind of magic,” Lucius said with quiet assurance. “The jun tan doesn’t answer to anything but true emotion.”
“But I . . .” She didn’t know what she wanted to say, didn’t know how she felt, but as the new information sank in and the pattern rearranged itself into something that fit perfectly, she heard his parting words whisper in her heart. Maybe we missed our chance.
She must have looked suddenly panicked, because Lucius’s expression took on a tinge of empathy. “It’s early yet. If this isn’t what you want—”
“I need to talk to him,” she interrupted, her heart suddenly beating hard and fast in her ears. “I need him to know . . . No. Wait.” No distractions. Let him keep his mind on the fight. But what if he didn’t make it through? What if he died with her angry words and his quiet despair the last thing between them? He dies, we all die, logic said, because without the serpent king to stop him, Lord Vulture would arise.
“Come on.” Lucius steered her through the archway and onto the upper landing of the great room. “Let’s get some brownies and try the satellite feed again, and when that doesn’t work, I’ll introduce you to the suckfest called ‘stuck at home, waiting for news.’ ”
Reese let out a shuddering breath as they turned for the kitchen. “Okay. Deal.” She glanced over at him. “Fair warning. I’m not very good at waiting.”
“There’s a shock. I—” He broke off as his crutch slipped out from underneath him, then hissed as the move jarred his bad leg. Reese grabbed his arm, steadying him as she looked down, expecting to find spilled water, maybe a leak.
Except it wasn’t water. It was blood.
She hissed as all of her quick fears about makol in the compound came racing back. Yanking the .44 and going into survival mode, she said in a low voice, “Check on the others. If they’re okay, have them get armed and get out here.”
“Oh, shit,” he said, face going stark. “This isn’t good.” But as Reese moved away, she heard him activate his armband, heard a reassuringly calm answer from one of the winikin, elsewhere in the compound.
The blood started thinly—a few gravitational drops near the archway leading to the royal quarters, a couple of smears tracking to a nearby hallway. Then it got heavier as it turned down another hall and started weaving, then turned to bloody scuff marks as it turned through the doorway leading to the sacred chamber. Pulse hammering, she tucked herself beside the door, crouched, and took a look around the edge, staying low. Then she froze for a second, mind refusing to process the horror-movie scene.
Anna lay motionless near the altar, wearing blood-soaked pajamas. More of the red liquid was splashed on the altar, the floor, the curving walls, even the glass ceiling, creating reddish patches on the floor where the sun shone through. She was alone. There was no makol, and the ceremonial knife clutched in her hand, the vivid slashes on her wrists, said there never had been.
“Jesus.” Reese was up and into the room in a flash, jamming the .44 i
n her belt as she dropped down beside the motionless woman. The cuts were fresh and running, showing a sluggish pulse. Reese’s stomach grew queasy as the salty tang of blood invaded her lungs, her sinuses, but she grabbed the other woman’s wrists, gripped tightly, and lifted her arms above the level of her heart. Her blood was warm and wet, sticky in spots.
She heard Lucius’s uneven steps out in the hallway. “It’s Anna,” she called in scant warning, hurting for him. “She’s—”
“Oh, gods.” His voice was low and broken, as if he wasn’t all that surprised. He stood for a half second in the doorway, then limped to let himself down on Anna’s other side, his leg sticking out at an awkward angle as he wedged himself behind her, up against the altar, so he could support her upper body while Reese kept the pressure on.
“We found her quickly,” she said, but almost couldn’t hear herself over the thunder of her pulse. Then she realized the thundering noise was the sound of boots on tile. The others were coming. Natalie was the first one through the door; she gave a low cry and went pasty when she got a look at the scene. Several other winikin were right behind her; their faces mirrored her shock.
“Make a hole,” a voice barked, and JT came through carrying a medic’s duffel. He took one look, dumped the bag, and started yanking out IV materials. “What the hell happened? There wasn’t a damned thing on the monitors. Nothing got in or out of here.”
“She was holding the knife when I got here,” Reese said.
“The solstice must’ve triggered something inside her,” Lucius said raggedly. “But she should be healing. Why the hell isn’t she healing?”
Without warning, Anna’s eyes flew open and she gasped—a long, sucked-in breath that arched her body, tipping her head back and raising her chest until she was supporting herself on her ass and the crown of her head.
“She’s seizing!” JT went for the IV line with a loaded syringe.
Lucius grabbed his arm. “No, wait. Look!”
Anna’s mouth worked and her head lolled wildly, but then her movements smoothed out as she scanned the room . . . and locked on to Reese. Suddenly, her hands twisted in Reese’s, reversing their grip until she wasn’t holding pressure on Anna’s wrists anymore—the other woman was holding hers. Instinct told her to wrestle free, but she made herself stay put and meet Anna’s eyes, which were clear now, with none of the fog that had clouded them for more than a year. But at the same time they were vacant and uncomprehending. Which made it doubly eerie when she said, voice cracking, “The serpent staff cannot be wielded without balance—without it, the temple will become a doorway without a door and the vulture will be set free. You must stop the serpent prince from tipping the balance !” Then, like a switch had been thrown, the fog snapped back. She shuddered and let go of Reese’s hands.
“Move.” JT shouldered her aside and got to work, issuing low orders to Lucius—hold this; press here—but to Reese those were peripheral inputs that barely dented the spinning whirl inside her, the shock and horror as the pieces once again rearranged themselves, this time forming a compass within a circle, with the black opposite red, yellow opposing white, and green lightning at the center.
They fit together. They balanced. And if any one piece was taken away, the outer shell fell apart, releasing the lightning in a terrible explosion of nuclear proportions . . . and bringing Lord Vulture’s twilight.
Iago would have no compunction against activating all five of the artifacts. But if it came to it, Dez—the man he was now—may try to leave one of the pieces out of the puzzle, needing to prove to both of them that he was a better man than before. And then . . . boom. She looked at Lucius, heart racing. “I have to talk to Dez. I think he’s going to kill us by trying to do the right thing.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Coatepec Mountain
I’m here. Come and get me . . . get me . . . The whispers echoed in Dez’s head, getting louder every foot the Nightkeepers fought toward the temple, hacking through the makol lines. It wasn’t just the one voice now—there were three others, quieter whispers that pulled at him, seesawing him from honor and balance to upheaval and revolution.
Lightning crackled around him, deflecting buzz blades, bullets, and whatever the fuck else the makol were throwing at him. He killed when he had to, knocked down where he could, aware that the other Nightkeepers were doing the same, though it was a bloody, thankless task. Yanking off the amulets turned out to disable but not kill them, and when they went down, the others turned on their fallen comrades and ripped them to shreds. So the magi were knocking the villagers down, over and over again, hoping they would find an answer in the temple, where Iago was casting the spells to activate the staff. Dez could feel the pulsing, hissing magic that was both dark and light, and pure serpent. If he didn’t get in there soon and stop Iago, they were fucked.
Overhead, Nate’s hawk incarnation soared and wheeled alongside the sun god in its firebird form, the two of them acting as air support. Dez tapped his armband—the solstice had knocked out the long-range communication, but short-range still worked, sort of. Into the hissing static, he said, “Now!”
As one, the hawk and firebird wheeled and dove, accelerating to a blur and swooping across the battlefield, strafing a fiery path between the Nightkeepers and the scaly, pearl-colored shield that enclosed the temple. Makol went down in flames, screaming, and Dez plunged up the hill with several of the others at his heels. A few of the magi were already up there, working on the shield. As he ascended, the whispers got louder, more urgent. We’re here. Come and get us!
Up close, the temple was actually a series of archways leading from one to the next, undulating like a sea monster swimming through the earth. The floor was carved stone, the roof open to the sky. Iago stood inside, a dark, robed form kneeling before a curving, serpentine throne. On it, fitted into holders, rested the five puzzle pieces, the staff across the arms, the four compass artifacts set around the back piece of the throne, which fanned out like a green sunburst that ended in white, red, yellow, and black.
Come and take us. Bring your knife and come and fight for us!
The magi who had come up behind him turned back to cast a shield and defend the perimeter against the makol, buying him and the others already up there some space to work. Sven’s blond hair was streaked with ichor and blood ran from a cut on his cheek. The coyote stood at his side; for a second, the two of them seemed to blend together in Dez’s vision, until there was a single creature there. Then the moment passed. Beyond Sven, Rabbit had tears in his eyes, but he was holding the shield, napalming whichever of the villagers got too close. The others were all there, all accounted for, and they had a temple to breach. There was no sign of the tunnel entrances shown in the missionary’s journal. They would have to go through the shield.
Magic sizzled around Dez, edging higher as he approached the huge, arching shield, which was formed of pearly scales that overlapped in sinuous patterns of dark and light. Michael was trying to punch through using a thin stream of his deadly magic, with Strike and Leah standing beside him keeping watch.
“We’re not getting anywhere,” Strike reported as Dez came up beside him. The king was deathly pale, but he had fought with the others, grim-faced and determined, and the blood on him wasn’t his own.
He was running on magic and balls, Dez thought, and hoped it would be enough to see them all through the day intact. “Let me try,” he said, waving Michael back. “This is serpent magic.”
Leah said something, but her voice was drowned out by the coaxing whisper in Dez’s mind: Kill your rival and take what is rightfully yours. Kill your rival . . . your rival . . . your rival. And he got it. He freaking got it. Reese had been right when she said this solstice was all about the serpents.
“Son of a bitch,” he grated. “The prophecy wasn’t about a serpent killing a jaguar king . . . it was about two serpents fighting each other, one-on-one, one wielding light magic, one dark.” But when Leah’s eyes sparked with hop
e, he shook his head in warning. “It also says that the usurper who kills his rival will take the throne.”
Strike reached out and gripped his upper arm, right where the hunab ku would go. “Kill him, Mendez. No matter what happens after that, I want you involved, not him.” His eyes were bright cobalt chips in a pasty face.
Dez nodded. “I’ll kill him. But I’m not taking your job.”
“Let’s blow that shit up when we get there.”
“Deal.” Acting on instinct and the way the whispers kept focusing on his knife, Dez stripped off his armband, .44, autopistols, belt and clips, and tossed them aside, then looked down the Nightkeeper line. His team was holding back the makol with a combination of shield magic, fireballs, and jade-tipped ammo, fighting fiercely as warriors. As teammates and saviors. “Stay alive,” he ordered, then pointed to Strike. “And keep him alive.”
He didn’t know how the thirteenth prophecy fit in, but he knew the voices had gotten one thing right: This was his fight. It always had been. Blood pumping, he faced the glistening shield for a moment, then used his knife—his only remaining weapon—to slice his palms. The magic amped as he pressed his palms to the surface, which was glassy and smooth, and cool to the touch. Ready or not, here I come, you bastard.
On the other side of the shield, Iago knelt before the altar with his head bowed in prayer. He, too, was wearing only a knife. He didn’t seem to be paying any attention to the world beyond the temple—either he was too deep in the magic to notice that the Nightkeepers had made it through the makol defenses or he wasn’t concerned with them.
That’s what you get for sacrificing all your teammates, Dez thought. There’s nobody left to watch your back. But then he winced when the concept hit too close. He hadn’t been letting thoughts of Reese distract him to this point, at least not that much. But as he summoned his magic now, her image formed in his mind—soft-eyed and drowsy as she had been the few precious mornings they had woken up in each other’s arms. As she came clear in his mind, the magic of love flowed through him. Because he did love her—maybe always had, on some level. But she didn’t trust him. He really had waited too long this time. He still needed to prove himself, though—to her, to himself, to the magi who had entrusted him with their oaths. So he focused, drawing on the magic of the Triad and the fealty oaths, and deep down inside to the core of his serpent self.
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