Sven made a face and said, “Urk.” The rest got their drinks down without complaint.
After the chorote, they each picked up their ear of maize and passed it through the smudgy smoke that came from the slow-burning parchment. That part of things had been adapted from an old birthing ritual, when a new baby’s umbilical blood had been collected on parchment and burned, and maize seeds were passed through the smoke and then planted. According to the ritual, children who ate maize plants grown from their own blood-spelled seeds were stronger, healthier, and smarter. The magi were hoping the act itself would strengthen them for the ceremony. Afterward, Jox and Sasha would plant the seeds and integrate the grown maize into the Nightkeepers’ diets, on the theory that they needed every bit of power they could get these days.
Sasha leaned in and inhaled the pungent smoke. She felt as if she were floating out of her body, though at the same time she could feel the press of the stone floor beneath her. Which made sense, because for this ritual, her spirit would enter the barrier while her body remained behind. The idea of being disconnected like that brought a thrum of fear, but she pushed it aside, telling herself that she’d trained for this. Whether she liked it or not, she’d been born for it.
“Link up,” Strike ordered, and the magi joined hands, one to the next, sharing blood magic. The hum notched higher, becoming music inside Sasha’s head: not just the martial theme now, but a twinkling, twining blend of sound. Strike said a short, guttural spell, and the torches went out, leaving the magi in darkness broken only by the cool moonlight coming from above through the glass ceiling.
Tipping her head back, she looked up at the full moon. She held Michael’s hand on one side, Sven’s on the other, and felt their power flow into her, and hers into them. She could feel the differences in the two men through the blood-link. Sven’s touch seemed to bring a whisper of strings and rippling harp tones. Michael’s touch didn’t seem associated with any particular piece of the music flowing through her. Maybe the martial theme she kept hearing was her brain’s way of interpreting his power?
Unable to answer that question, even for herself, Sasha braced herself for her first jack-in.
“In we go,” Strike said. Taking Leah’s hand, he sealed the circle. Then, leaning on the power brought by the love between the three couples and the teamwork that bound the others, the Nightkeepers said in unison,“Pasaj och.” And jacked in.
Sasha thought of a nahwal, holding an image culled from a dozen descriptions fixed at the forefront of her mind, hoping against hope that it would cause the barrier transition to bring her to her bloodline nahwal, in a manner analogous to Strike’s ’port targeting. That was the theory, anyway.
There was a moment of dizzying nausea, of extreme disorientation. The world went gray-green and she had the sense of speeding without moving, of flying while staying still. Then she blinked into a universe of gray-green mist and sky, dropped a couple of inches, and landed on her feet, stumbling only slightly.
Fog rose to her knees, camouflaging a soft, yielding surface underfoot. Overhead hung clouds the same color as the mist that surrounded the small group of magi, who clustered together, still linked hand-to-hand. There was nothing in the mist as far as she could see, except—
Oh, holy hell, she thought, adrenaline spearing through her at the sight of a humanoid shadow approaching through the mist. She’d done it. She’d found her bloodline nahwal.
The shadow drew nearer, resolving itself into a human-shaped figure without nipples or genitalia, no hair or distinguishing features, only skin across bones, with black, pupilless eyes. The hum of red-gold magic at the back of Sasha’s skull trilled upward as though the magic were welcoming its own. “Ambrose?” she whispered.
Michael nudged her forward, whispering, “I’m right behind you.”
Setting her balance through force of will, Sasha lifted her chin and stepped forward to meet the nahwal. Then things got weird, because as it drew closer, she saw that it wore a single earring, a bloodred ruby that glowed dully in the strange gray-green light. The nahwal weren’t supposed to have any distinguishing marks aside from their bloodline glyphs. Except for one . . . and that wasn’t possible. She couldn’t be linked to the royal jaguar—
“Father,” Strike breathed, bringing her brain to a stuttering halt.
The nahwal didn’t acknowledge him; it kept advancing on Sasha, its black eyes fixed on her. Disbelief and panic collided inside her. She wanted to back away, wanted to run, but her feet wouldn’t move; they seemed stuck in place, glued by the clinging gray-green fog. She held out her hands in a stop gesture, as though that would deter the creature, even though she was the one who’d called it, who needed to speak with it.
It halted when her hands were nearly touching its leathery, desiccated chest. And incredibly, horribly, it smiled—a too-human expression on an inhuman face. “Welcome home, child,” it said in a voice that was made up of several voices speaking in harmonious descant. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Tears burned her eyes and an unexpected sob welled up in her throat. “Where’s Ambrose?” she asked, knowing instinctively he wasn’t inside the creature she faced.
“His path led another way.” Reaching out a desiccated hand to her, the nahwal folded its fingers around her wrist; it said, “You are the second daughter of the jaguar king. Find yourself. Learn the magic that is in your blood. All else will follow from there.”
The world tilted beneath Sasha, though the barrier firmament itself didn’t move. Confusion battered her. Her eyes locked on the dual marks on the creature’s inner forearm, the jaguar and the royal ju, and her voice shook when she said, “Who are you?” Deep down inside, though, she knew. Maybe she’d always known, had struggled hardest against her destiny because she’d known it would take so much from her.
“I am yours. You are mine.” A strange burning sensation took root where the nahwal held her wrist. Moments later the burn faded, and the nahwal released her and started backing away, fading into the fog.
“Father!” Strike said.
This time the nahwal looked at him. “Take care of her as I did not.”
“Wait!” Remembering the plan, and what they’d hoped to learn from her nahwal, royal or not, Sasha surged forward, grabbing for the nahwal’s arm as it continued retreating. “Where is the library? Do you know where Ambrose hid the scroll?”
Michael shouted, “Don’t! Let go of it!” But his voice quavered strangely on the last few words.
Sasha turned back, only then realizing that the nahwal had continued retreating as she’d spoken, that it had pulled her away from the others, though she’d had no sensation of moving. She saw Michael’s mouth move, shaping words, but she couldn’t hear his voice, couldn’t hear anything over the sound of wind that suddenly arose from nowhere and everywhere at once. She tried to let go of the nahwal, but couldn’t, tried to yank away, but couldn’t do that either. Panic slashed through her as the scene wavered and started to fade. She screamed, scrabbling for purchase as she felt herself sliding sideways. She heard the music but didn’t know what to do with it, about it.
Michael shouted something and lunged for her, but he was too late. Just as his fingers brushed her arm, a giant force picked her up and yanked her through the gray-green nothingness.
“Help,” she cried. “Help me!”
The sense of movement accelerated and the wind whipped past her with howls louder than her own. Her forearm burned. Panic jammed her chest and her pulse thundered in her ears. Then, abruptly, the wind and movement cut out. The air went wet and warm, and she was surrounded by leaves. She hung in midair for a heartbeat before gravity reasserted itself and she slammed down, landing sprawled in a wet, leafy layer of rain forest debris.
She lay still for a second, gasping for breath. There was no magic in the air, no sign of the others. And even though she knew her body should still be back in the sacred chamber at Skywatch, she had to wonder, because what she was experiencing felt very, very
real. The soil beneath her felt real; the moist air smelled real, with the scent of green things and rot. She was in Mayan territory, she knew instinctively, recognizing the feel and smell from her childhood.
With the realization came a burst of excitement and understanding. She was in a vision showing her where the library scroll was hidden. She hoped.
Scrambling up, she stood, shaking. The heavy robe was far too hot, but she didn’t dare take it off, wasn’t exactly sure what it symbolized within the barrier—if she was even in the barrier now. She scanned the scene, saw trees and undergrowth, more trees and more undergrowth—a profusion of greenery and the occasional color-burst of flowers. Parrots called in the canopy, the melody soaring up over a background of monkey chatter. Familiarity settled around her as she caught the white flash of carved stone and recognized the entrance to Ambrose’s temple. She’d been right all along, she realized. The scroll had to be in there, somewhere. But where? How was she supposed to find it?
“By looking around, idiot,” she told herself. Trying to banish the memory of what had happened to her the last time she’d searched the temple, she inhaled a deep breath and headed for the faint trail.
She’d gone barely three steps when something stirred in the middle growth to her right, bending leaves and branches.
Sasha froze, her heart pounding into her throat as she thought of jaguars and other jungle predators. Her hand slapped for her weapons belt, but it was empty. The magi traditionally wore only their knives into the bloodline ceremony, with the potential mage going unarmed.
Sticking to that particular tradition might have been a mistake.
The branches rustled again, the disturbance man-high, making her think of bandits, Iago, and the entity the others had seen in the so-called haunted temple. They’d described it as looking like a nahwal, but one that spoke with only a single voice, and walked the earth rather than the barrier. It had attacked Anna, nearly killed her. Was that what was coming for her? Sasha wondered. And if so, should she stay put, or run? The latter option wasn’t likely to gain her the answers she needed, but she was also all too aware of the danger she was in. And that she was alone.
For all that the lack of privacy had chafed at times over the past couple of weeks, she’d grown used to the sense of safety in numbers. Now, even that was gone.
Use the magic, she thought, knowing she should be able to do something with the red-gold hum that sounded within her. She managed to kindle a tiny fireball, and the success brought a buzz of magic and rightness, a click of connection within her own soul. This is me, she thought. This is who I am.
But the fireball was of little use there in the rain forest. Why was she there? What was she supposed to be doing? As a last-ditch effort, she tried to short-circuit the jack-in. “Way,” she whispered, which was the spell word that was supposed to take her back to her body. It didn’t work; she stayed where she was. But the flare of magic called something else.
A low, feral growl sounded from the undergrowth, sending her pulse into overdrive. A second growl answered the first. For a moment she couldn’t tell where the sounds had come from; they seemed to surround her. Then two dark shadows emerged from the undergrowth—big black canines that were rottweilerish in size and shape, but had long tails, and pure black coats that lacked the distinctive tan markings of the breed. They wore no collars, no means of restraint. And they stalked toward her, stiff legged and growling, with their heads low and the fur between their shoulder blades standing in menace.
Magic prickled across her skin, warning her that they weren’t just dogs. But what the hell were they?
Whatever they were, they were closing in on her, one from each side. Don’t turn your back on them, she told herself. Don’t panic; don’t run. But her heart hammered in her chest and adrenaline surged through her veins, making her want to flee and hide, to fight, to do anything other than stand her ground.
Then the branches and shadows moved again and a humanoid figure stepped out into the orange-dappled sunlight. As Sasha focused on the newcomer, her heart shuddered in her chest and a low moan escaped from her throat as she saw the creature Red-Boar had called the mad nahwal . . . and recognized it. The desiccated skin was that of a nahwal, but the creature wore bush clothing and a long gray ponytail tied back with a worn leather thong. And on its forearm was a wide, gnarled scar.
“Ambrose?” she said, her voice cracking to a whisper.
His path led him elsewhere, the jaguar king had said, and now she understood. He’d stayed in the place of his death, waiting. But for what?
She didn’t know if he was a ghost or a man, or something in between, stuck in the process of merging with the nahwal of his own bloodline. His eyes weren’t the flat matte black of a true nahwal . . . but as he advanced on her, she saw that they weren’t normal, either—they were glazed over with the look she’d seen only once or twice, when Ambrose had been in the throes of the worst and most violent of his psychotic episodes, when he’d grown violent and mean, and Pim and Sasha had gone to a hotel for a couple of days until he returned to himself.
Only Sasha didn’t see any hope of return in his eyes now. She saw only the madness, as though his death, and whatever had happened to freeze him in this halfway state, had stripped him of his better parts, leaving the insanity in control.
“Oh, Ambrose,” she breathed, fear and sorrow flaring to life within her even as she took a step back, away from the advancing demi-nahwal and his snarling black familiars.
There was no recognition in his face. He just kept coming in slow, measured treads as Sasha retreated, eventually backing into a tree. She pressed against it, pulse hammering with guilt as she thought that she’d brought him to this. Because she hadn’t believed. Gods.
“Ambrose,” she said, forcing the word from between dry lips. “It’s me, Sasha. Your princess.” That was what he had called her in his good moments. His princess. She’d never before thought it’d been anything but a nickname. “I need to talk to you about the library. I need you to tell me where you hid the scroll.”
He hesitated, and for a second she thought she saw the man she’d known in the eyes of the creature that faced her. Then that blink was gone and the demi-nahwal lunged at her, reached for her with fingers gone to claws, its mouth splitting in a multitonal scream of mad rage, baring pointed fangs.
“No!” Panic slashed through her and she broke. Spinning, she bolted, breath locking in her lungs as she ran for her life. Moments later, the snarling familiars lunged in pursuit.
Michael cursed and flailed against the wind and the darkness that gripped him, holding him suspended in the middle of nothingness. He twisted against the invisible force, howling with rage, with the need to get to Sasha, to protect her. As she’d been sucked into the mist he’d followed her and grabbed on tight, refusing to let go, but it hadn’t mattered. She’d been yanked away from his grip, and he’d wound up someplace black and empty, a space without light, without time.
“Sasha!” he shouted into the nothingness, and got no echoes in return.
Magic swirled around him, harder and hotter than it should have been. He grabbed onto it, threw himself into it, only then realizing that the power glinted silver in the blackness; the sluice gates had cracked and the Other was nearly loose within him, brought to the fore by the combined magic of the Nightkeepers and the lure of the blood-link with Sasha.
“No,” he grated. “Get back, damn it. She’s not yours!”
She’s not yours either, the Other said in the deadly inner tones he hadn’t heard in a long time. She’s ours.
In an instant, Michael was plunged into a vision, into a memory that wasn’t his own.
Three years in Bryson’s employ, two dozen confirmed kills, and twice that in completed missions, and the Other’s existence had come down to a single syringe. The creature within Michael had seen its own destruction in Dr. Horn’s eyes.
“It won’t hurt,” Bryson had said as they’d stripped the Other of its weapons,
its passports. Its reason for existing. “You won’t remember a thing.” But by “you” he’d meant Michael, not the Other. Because the Other would soon cease to exist, blanked forever by the same cocktail of drugs and hypnosis that had so cleanly separated it from the Michael personality, creating two halves: one a murderer, one a man.
“No,” the Other howled, straining against the binding restraints as Horn approached. “No!”
The syringe descended and the world went black.
“No!” Michael shouted, fighting the darkness, fighting the end of himself. Instinctively, not sure who he was, which part of himself, he tipped back his head and shouted, “Pasaj och!”
He was already jacked in, but now another layer of magic slammed into him, around him. The world exploded around him, detonating with Nightkeeper magic, forcing the Other out of his consciousness, out of his head. He leaned on the red-gold magic, opened himself to it, choosing life over death. This time, at least.
“Gods help us,” he yelled into the darkness. “She needs me!”
The world exploded around him again, and he blinked out of the darkness and into the light. Back on earth, or a vision version of it. He materialized within the glare of the reddish orange sun, surrounded by thin white clouds. The earth was green below him. Very far below him. The canopy of a rain forest was broken here and there by the tops of pyramid ruins.
Oh, shit, he thought as panic spiked. He’d blinked in way too fucking high.
For a split second, he hovered. Then, howling, he fell. Air whipped past him as he tumbled, spinning, cursing up a storm, like that was going to help a godsdamned thing. Air screamed in his ears and the ground lunged up to meet him at an impossible speed. He was going to die, he realized with fatalistic certainty. That was what the Other’s vision had been trying to tell him. It hadn’t been a threat. It’d been a warning.
He couldn’t fly, couldn’t ’port, couldn’t do godsdamned anything but shield, and—
Shit, he realized. That’s it! A shield. Almost too late, fighting the wall of air that pushed against him at terminal velocity, he contorted and yanked his knife from his ankle sheath. Slashing both palms, he called up the red-gold Nightkeeper magic and threw the strongest, most yielding shield he could manage, casting it in a sphere around his body.
Skykeepers Page 20
