Magic Unchained

by Jessica Andersen

  “Alone.” Lora’s pointed look went to the darkness beyond the floodlights.

  “What? Oh.” A faint flush touched Cara’s cheeks, though she hoped it was hidden by the dimness. Then again, she had also hoped that the others wouldn’t have noticed her furry shadow. “Mac won’t bother anyone. He’s just playing bodyguard.” And only because Sven was feeling guilty.

  “If you say so.” Lora started back toward the training hall. “Do whatever you want. I’m just the messenger.” Duty done, she turned and headed up the stairs. Swinging the door open to emit a blast of noise and movement, she stepped through and was immediately swallowed up in the party.

  As the door thunked shut, cutting off the clamor, thunder growled low on the horizon, followed by a soft whine from closer by.

  Cara glanced over to where a pair of eyes glowed from the shadows. “You heard her.” Actually, she wasn’t sure how much the coyote actually understood of human speech when Sven wasn’t around. Sometimes it seemed like he looked straight into her and understood everything she was thinking or feeling, and then other times the information seemed to go right past him, unacknowledged. Kind of like a human male, really, when she thought about it, only this one had fangs and claws and would offer her a hell of a backup if she ran into trouble, no questions asked.

  She had gotten used to having him around over the past few days, she realized with a sudden pang. Having him there made her feel safer… and it let her know that Sven was still around. And she shouldn’t need either of those things. She could take care of herself, damn it. An apology didn’t change anything, and neither did a kiss.

  The coyote gave a soft whuff and advanced a step, so the light picked out the shape of his angular head and thick, furry ruff. His eyes seemed to plead with her not to send him away, but she needed to make the break and stick to it. She couldn’t let herself halfway depend on Sven and his familiar; it would hurt too much when they next took off.

  So, even though Mac was giving her puppy-dog eyes, she pointed toward the main mansion and said, “Go on, Mac. Go back to him.”

  His ears went flat; his eyes practically welled up.

  Steeling herself, she shook her head. “No, Mac. You can’t follow me around anymore. Go on. Git.”

  Hanging his head, he went a few steps, then paused and turned back. When she just kept pointing, he whined low in his throat, sounding like she was breaking his heart. But he slunk out of the light and down the pathway toward the mansion. Watching him go emptied her out and made her feel like total crap. But at the same time there was also an odd, hollow sense of satisfaction.

  She could take care of herself, damn it, and she could handle whatever Zane wanted to throw at her. Maybe she couldn’t give him what he wanted on a personal level, but they both wanted the same thing when it came to the war. They would make it work somehow.

  The weather was closing in fast, drawing the air tightly around her as she headed for the training grounds. The lights were off, the only illumination the unearthly luminance of the storm, until she dug out a small key-chain flashlight from her pocket and flicked it on. The feeble beam didn’t do much more than glint off a shiny bit of sand here and there along the path, making her wish for her night-vision goggles, but she knew the way and could make out the irregular shadows of fake temples and pyramids in the middle distance.

  The rising breeze tugged at her hair and clothing as she continued onward, drawing her nine-millimeter in what had become a habit over the past few days. Don’t go anywhere alone without carrying your weapon, she’d been telling her people. And I’m not talking about in its holster. Now, without Mac ghosting at her heels, she took her own advice and kept her eyes moving, her senses sharp, though she wasn’t getting any bad vibes as she reached the edges of the training grounds. At least, not like she had right before the funeral. But the thought of the funeral brought a kick of instinct, because it had been stormy then too, and the demon creatures had come from fire and lightning. What if there was a connection? Could a storm weaken the barrier?

  A scuff of movement to her right caught her attention, coming from a narrow alley between two low-slung temple-size buildings. Stopping just short of the main pyramid, she swung around. “Zane? Is that you?” The wind picked up suddenly, carrying a splat of raindrops that hit with staccato force, soaking through her shirt in an instant. “Ugh. Can we get inside somewhere?”

  There was another scuffling noise, this one coming from the other side. Heart suddenly thudding, she spun toward it. “Damn it—”

  A heavy weight slammed into her, drove her sideways, and sent her crashing into the pyramid stairs. She screamed as she hit and skidded down, scrabbling for purchase as she lost her grip on her gun, her flashlight, everything but the sudden fear that slashed through her.

  Her attacker—heavy and human-shaped, though she couldn’t see in the darkness whether he was a man, a makol, or something else—pinned her against the sharp-edged staircase. “No,” she cried. “Help me! Help!”

  She went for her panic button, but he jammed a knee on her forearm and tore her wristband off. Seconds later, something sharp pricked the back of her thigh, followed by the burning rush of an injection. She twisted and surged, but couldn’t break free, couldn’t get leverage, couldn’t do anything but scream, “No!”

  The wind whipped to an answering howl and a splash of cold, stinging rain.

  Disbelief ripped through her. Panic filled the empty spaces and overflowed, then went swimmy as the world fogged. She didn’t know whether it was a drug or a spell, but as she slipped under, she caught a glimpse of a hand and sleeve, the edge of a face, and not only saw the darkness of normal human eyes, but recognized them too. It wasn’t any demon. It was—

  Darkness.

  The storm hit hard and fast, going from the moan of wind to a machine-gun fusillade against the windows of Sven’s suite just as he finished packing—one knapsack, no bullshit, as usual.

  “Shit.” He scowled at the moisture-pelted night beyond the glass, but didn’t have anybody to blame but himself that he was about to get his ass soaked on his way out to the winikin’s hall. He’d been stalling, alternating between the struggle to come up with a good way to tell Cara he was leaving… and the suspicion that she wouldn’t give a damn. And that, too, wasn’t anybody’s fault but his own. So he dragged out an old, battered slicker that had migrated to the back of his closet, and headed into the storm.

  It was pitch dark beyond the lighted pathway, which went slick and slippery under his boots as he fought his way into the teeth of the wind, feeling like he was reliving one of a hundred sea squalls, though this one on solid ground. When he reached the winikin’s hall, lightning flashed for a long three-count, showing him that the cacao grove was lying almost flat beneath the pounding rain, while the branches of the ceiba tree whipped the air above as if trying to protect the precious crop. The rain hammered down onto the steel panels of the training hall with a din that drowned out everything else.

  The party was still going—he saw the door open and close, flashing orange-yellow light from within as two figures staggered down the stairs, holding each other up and laughing into the rain. Sven had seen them around but didn’t know their names. They quit laughing when he approached and ducked under the overhang that sheltered the doorway.

  “This is a Nightkeeper-free zone,” one slurred, gesturing with a beer bottle that was down to the watery dregs, yet still managed to slosh onto his buddy. “Piss off.”

  “Shut it,” his slightly more sober friend advised, then blinked rapidly, trying to focus his reddened eyes on Sven. “C’n I help you?”

  “You shut it,” Beer Bottle said, elbowing Blinker. “We don’ have to help ’im.”

  “I’m juss bein’ polite.” Blink, blink. “Nothin’ wrong with that, izzere?”

  “Absolutely not,” Sven said. “Could you tell Cara I’d like to talk to her out here?” Then, not wanting anybody to get the wrong idea, he tacked on, “I have a message fo
r her.” Which he did, sort of.

  Beer Bottle sneered. “Whassa matter? You don’t want to go inside?”

  “Do you blame me?”

  The sneer flattened, then got a little confused. “Well… no.”

  “I don’t want to make trouble; I just need to talk to Cara. Please.”

  Blink, blink. “She’s not in there.”

  “She’s not—” Sven let out a breath. “Where did she go?”

  “Dunno. Saw her leave, though.” Blinker did the blinkety-blink thing, then added helpfully, “It was a while ago.”

  “Did you— You know what? Never mind. Thanks.”

  Beer Bottle scowled and jabbed an elbow at Blinker. “I tol’ you not to help him.”

  “Nothin’ wrong with bein’ polite.” And they were off again, wobbling around the same conversational circuit as Sven popped his hood and jogged back out into the rain, leaving them to it.

  He was just about to head back to the mansion, thinking he’d missed her, when a faint tickle hit the edge of his mind, a pulse of agitation. “Mac?” He stopped in his tracks and opened his mind to their bond.

  Instantly, thought-glyphs seared themselves across his mind, seeming ten feet high and glowing red-hot: Emergency! Come now! Danger! Comenowcome!

  Gut knotting even as his body spun toward the signal, which was coming from the firing range, he sent back: What? Who?

  Followfollowfollow! was paired with a glimpse of the main pyramid of the proving grounds.

  I’m coming! Catching that Mac was poised to bolt after something—or someone—Sven sent an emphatic: NO. Wait. Then he put his head down and booked it, adrenaline shrilling through his body as his warrior’s talent came online, juicing his magic and getting him ready to fight. A foxfire spell lit the night around him, though he didn’t remember calling it. Was it more of those demon creatures? Something worse? He wasn’t getting images from Mac anymore, just fury.

  When he reached the ruins, he caught sight of Mac’s bristling silhouette up ahead and swerved in that direction, skidding in a patch of mud and nearly going down. He kept going, though, racing toward where the big coyote was standing splay-legged with his head down, as if guarding something—or someone.

  “I’m here,” he called over the growl of thunder. “What’s wrong?”

  There was no answer from the coyote. When Sven reached him, the foxfire spread out to shed bright white light on the scene. The rain had plastered Mac’s fur to his body, making the coyote look lean and lethal. His eyes were slitted against the sideways-whipping wind, and a growl grated at the back of his throat.

  The big animal was staring down at a churned-up section of ground that was going rapidly smooth under the pelting hammer of rain. But as Sven hunkered down, he shifted slightly and the foxfire glinted off something metallic being shielded by the big coyote’s bulk.

  “What have you got there?” Sven leaned in, reached for it… and froze for a second at the sight of a torn, muddy piece of desert-camo cloth snagged on a winikin’s wristband. It had the initials CL etched inside.

  Ice sluiced through his veins. Cara!

  Mac’s eyes met his and a wash of guilt poured through their bond, along with two piteous thought-glyphs: Gone! Hurt!

  Sven’s body kicked into action while his mind screamed inside. He went for his armband, slapping the alarm and the all-transmit in the same move. “Mayday, mayday!” he said, raising his voice above the thunder and rain. “There’s been—” He broke off because there was no signal light, no whooping alarm. The storm was screwing with the transmission.

  No. Not now. Fuck! He hit the buttons again, then the reset, saw the readout lights flicker but didn’t get a damn thing.

  He was cut off.

  Mac whined urgently, his thought-glyphs becoming a jumble of distress and, Come on, this way! as he circled the scene of the attack, his paws turning dark with mud.

  Sven hesitated. Protocol and the good of the many said he should go back for his teammates, that it was too big a risk. But Mac’s thought-stream filled with the need to hurry, follow, run—along with the smell of fear and blood.

  Cara. Her name lashed through him on the next bolt of lightning, driving him to his feet as Mac spun and bolted into the night.

  “Godsdamn it, wait!” Sven took two steps after him, then saw in the next flash that the coyote had paused at the edge of the pyramid, eyes wide and wild, lips drawn back in a snarl. There were no glyphs to his thoughts now; there was only instinct and the pounding need to chase, find, protect.

  Then Mac whirled and galloped off, disappearing into the night and the storm.

  Cursing, Sven plunged after him. And as he ran into the teeth of the wind and rain, he hoped to hell they weren’t already too late.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Cara awoke to a bone-numbing chill that was so intense that she didn’t remember ever not being cold, as if the sensation had lived in her marrow forever.

  On some level she knew that was crap, that she’d been warm before, that she’d been many, many other things. But as she swam up through the layers of unconsciousness that flowed like water and clung like mud, she knew only the cold. It bit into her, locked onto her, and made her want to sink back down to where she didn’t care that she was freezing, didn’t care about anything.

  Screw that, said some stubborn core within her. Stop whining and get your ass moving. Something bad had happened; she knew that much. But what? How? Wake up and figure it out!

  Huge shivers clamped her muscles tight, and her chattering teeth nipped the tip of her tongue and drew blood. The sharp, bright pain brought her closer to consciousness, letting sounds penetrate from the outside world: She heard the roar of thunder above her, the splash of water all around her.

  For a second she was back on the Discovery, riding out a squall on the whale-watching boat that had been as much a home for her as she’d ever known. She imagined Captain Jack up in the wheelhouse and the passengers huddled inside over cocoa and barf bags, leaving her alone on the forward deck, leaning into the wind and rain as the deck surged beneath her feet. But then the image fragmented, because the air wasn’t salty or ocean clean; instead, her mouth was foul with sandy grit and a chemical aftertaste that brought back newer, far less pleasant memories.

  The desert. Skywatch. War games.

  Heartache.

  As reality returned with sledgehammer blows, she sucked in a breath that was a harsh sound over the other noises. Suddenly, she was sickeningly aware of all sorts of tactile sensations, none of them good: There was a solid surface beneath her, ties binding her in place at her chest, hips, wrists, and ankles. Terror lashed as it came back to her: the pyramid, the storm, a splash of rain.… And Zane coming for her with cold, determined eyes.

  Zane. Gods. That wasn’t him, couldn’t have been. It was a trick, a demon, magic. Only how was that possible? Her stomach lurched with the alternative: that he’d betrayed the winikin, the Nightkeepers. And her. Impossible, she thought, but she knew what she had seen. And now—

  “Shit, she’s waking up.” It was a woman’s voice, distorted by distance, echoes, and the noise of rippling water. A woman? Who? Why?

  “Good.” A man’s voice, familiar. Zane.

  Panic and fury slashed through Cara, breaking the last hold of whatever drug or spell they’d used. She wrenched open her eyes and blinked into a bright, harsh camp light that was hung on a folding pole very near her. It was a cave; that much she could tell from the echoes, though she couldn’t see beyond the lantern. Its glow showed only that she lay atop a flat stone altar that was on a sandy island in the center of a muddy subterranean pool. The rest of her surroundings was lost to the shadows. As her eyes adjusted, she saw down her body, where straps held her clamped to the altar. She couldn’t see the details, but she could guess what it looked like: waist-high and carved on the sides, a ritual piece of the Nightkeepers… or, worse, the Xibalbans.

  A moan bled from her lips, stirring movement from behind her,
a low masculine chuckle. Moments later, she heard splashes, and then Zane and Lora came around into her view. They were both wearing black on black, armed to the teeth and wearing ceremonial daggers, like they were magi themselves.

  “Lora.” Cara whispered the word, though there was little surprise in it. The signs had been there, she supposed. Or maybe her instincts had known all along that something wasn’t right. Dismissing the sharp-eyed ex-cop as the follower she’d always been, Cara focused on Zane and felt a sharp, painful twist beneath her heart, not from betrayal, but from self-disgust. She hadn’t seen it. How had she not seen it? There was derision in his face now, a mad gleam of triumph in dark blue eyes that she had thought carried the calm of a professional soldier, but instead had been hiding his true thoughts behind a terrifying level of control. “Why?” she asked, the word pulled from deep inside her. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because the gods chose me,” he said simply, and there was a fanatic’s belief behind the statement. “I knew they had chosen you too, but I was wrong about your purpose.” He glanced beyond the circle of lantern light, to the walls of the domed cave, where she could just barely make out huge four-legged shapes, giant cave paintings that ran around the perimeter, where the rock walls met the rippling water. His lips curved, though she didn’t know why. Then she saw that the water was higher than it had been only moments before, her island smaller.

  The lake was rising!

  A whimper caught in Cara’s throat as her mind flooded with horrified understanding. Sacrificial near-drowning was part of the magic—it was how the Nightkeepers connected with their gods during the cardinal days, a way for them to access their greatest powers. But there wouldn’t be any “near” about it for her—she was no mage, and this wasn’t one of the cardinal days. And, as in the paintball game, dead for a winikin was just dead.

  “It won’t be long now,” Lora said softly. Her gleaming eyes were locked on Zane, her lips parted in worship, or maybe hunger.