After Sasha left, Michael sat naked on the edge of the mattress for a long time. Not because he was aimless, but because he was fighting for fucking control of his head.
He didn’t know if Rabbit’s mental blocks and his own control were failing in the face of the increase in magic that came with the solstice, or if there was something else going on, but he’d barely hung on to himself as Sasha faced him down, almost didn’t remember what he’d said. He’d known only that he needed to get her out of there, fast.
The old barriers had reared up, not letting him tell her what was happening, leaving her to think he didn’t care. Then again, some of what she’d said was right on the mark—he hadn’t fought for her, didn’t intend to. He’d tried fighting with Tomas and that had never made a damn bit of difference. He’d argued with Esmee when she’d left him in the middle of his programming, trying hold on to the one familiar thing he’d had in a shifting life. He’d fought the Other and barely drew a stalemate, one that had needed to be renegotiated over and over again. Same with the women after Esmee. He’d learned the lesson often and well: He could kick ass, but if he couldn’t throw a punch it wasn’t worth having the fight. It just made everyone involved miserable, and didn’t change the outcome one iota.
The knowledge burned within him, dark and resentful. Get a grip, he told himself, finally rousing from his fugue, only to realize it was later than he’d thought, nearly late morning. “Get off your lazy, fucked-up ass,” he growled, but didn’t move right away. He was dizzy and disoriented. And this didn’t feel like the Other’s work. It felt like something else entirely.
He needed to eat, that was all. He was strung up, depressed, and dumped. He needed coffee. He needed a kick in the ass.
Dragging himself to his feet, he headed for the bathroom. And froze just inside the door at the sight of the face that looked back at him from the mirror.
It wasn’t him. It was Rabbit, in full-on sneer mode, his eyes hard and wild.
Rabbit, he thought, his heart clutching. No. Oh, gods, no.
The target will reveal itself when it’s time, Tomas had said. When that happens, the clock starts ticking. You’ll have nine hours to make the kill.
Unbidden, unwanted, the Other slipped into him, chilling his heart to stone. Under the influence of his alter ego, Michael checked the time automatically, methodically, like the executioner he was. It was just past eleven a.m. He had until eight that night to take out his target. And his right forearm bore a faint shadow: that of a hollow-eyed skull.
But even as his body went through the motions, his mind rattled inside his skull.
Rabbit. Shit. Sullen, pain-in-the-ass Rabbit, a loose cannon who was potentially more powerful than the rest of them put together, and who’d helped save Michael’s sanity when he otherwise would’ve come undone for good. Sure, the kid—man, whatever—had the potential to torpedo the end-time war. But by the same token, he was just as likely to save them all in a flash of unintentional genius.
He was dangerous. He was powerful. And he was one of the last of the Nightkeepers. For the first time, Michael understood his uncle’s choice, truly understood it.
“No,” he grated, forcing the Other aside. “I won’t do it. I fucking won’t do it.”
No matter what Rabbit had done in the past or what his bloodlines suggested he might do in the future, he was trying to figure his shit out. He’d started growing up at school, started taking responsibility for himself, for his magic. He and Myrinne were trying to make it work. Why, when the kid seemed to be pulling his shit together, would the gods decide he needed to die? Or was the vision even from the gods at all? The skyroad was demolished, their lines of communication cut. Where the hell was this coming from? Was it the gods or the Banol Kax? How the hell could he be sure?
The decision ached within him, alongside the hollowness that came from knowing that Sasha was gone, that in the end they hadn’t been able to make it work after all. His head spun; his stomach hurt. He couldn’t stop thinking of Rabbit’s power, and his talent for inadvertently destroying almost everything he touched. Scarred-Jaguar hadn’t meant to destroy the Nightkeepers; he’d meant to save them. If he’d been assassinated, there would be hundreds of magi now, an army of them. It was his uncle’s sin, his bloodline’s burden.
Shit, what was right and what was wrong?
At the thought, silver muk flared within him, buzzing death in his veins, whispering secrets and threats in the Other’s voice. And, as his alter ego flowed back into him from nowhere and everywhere at once, Michael knew what he had to do. Lurching to his feet, he pulled on his combat clothes, locked and loaded his pistols, scrawled a quick note that he left propped in his bachelor-bare kitchen. Then he left his suite. And went in search of his final target.
PART V
WINTER SOLSTICE
The longest night of the year.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
December 21 Winter solstice Three years until the zero date Skywatch
Michael knocked hard on Rabbit’s door, then jiggled the handle, cursing to find the damned thing locked. He was about five seconds from kicking it in when he heard the lock click. A slow second later, the door swung open a few inches. Rabbit scowled at him through the gap. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a few days; his eyes were red rimmed. “It’s not time for the meeting yet.”
“Come on. I need your help.” Michael turned and strode off, figuring sheer bloody curiosity would get Rabbit moving. Any rational person would’ve asked for an explanation before taking off with the compound’s resident hit man, but this was Rabbit they were talking about.
Sure enough, by the time Michael had gotten halfway around to the garage, the teen was slouching along at his heels, eventually asking, “Where are we going?”
“You still keep a stash of pulque up at the pueblo?”
Rabbit nodded. “It’s been up there since I started school, but I don’t think the shit goes bad. Doesn’t go really good, either, but doesn’t go bad.”
“Then that’s where we’re going.”
They snagged one of the Jeeps and they bounced their way along the track that led out past the firing range to the back of the box canyon, where a nearly vertical, cliff-clinging path led up to an intricate, multilevel group of native ruins that the ancient Puebloans had built into and out of the cliff itself. Many of the small spaces had collapsed over time, but some were still sturdy enough, and Rabbit had staked out a couple of them for his own. In the months between when Rabbit’s father died and when he met Myrinne, it had been more or less common knowledge that he’d spent most of his free time alone up there, getting stoned on peyote and pulque, and zoning out on his iPod.
Now his stash was covered with dust and looked like it’d been worried at by a creature or two. But it didn’t take him long to unearth a couple of tightly stoppered clay jugs. He held them out to Michael. “Not sure of the vintage, and it tastes like shit. But it’ll get you hammered almost instantly. No doubt about that.” He paused. “You and Sasha have a fight?”
Michael narrowed his eyes. “How did you know?” Mind-benders weren’t supposed to be able to pick up on thoughts without physical contact, but the rules of magic didn’t always apply to half-bloods.
“Saw her stomping past the cottage. Made a leap. Not sure what Strike’ll think of your getting hammered right before the solstice.” Rabbit lifted a shoulder, not looking particularly upset. “Might be fun to watch, though, so have at it. I’ll even let you drive home.”
“Fuck you. We’re not here to get drunk. Or not entirely.” Michael palmed his knife from his belt and held it for a moment, testing its weight as the Mictlan roared and the silver muk flared through him. Then he flipped the knife and offered it to Rabbit, blade-first. “Cut me.”
The young man’s eyes flashed with understanding, followed by reluctant respect. “Son of a bitch. You crazy bastard—you’re trying the scorpion spell on the sly.” He paused. “You must really love her.”
&nbs
p; “Why’s that?”
“You’re going against a direct order from the king just so you can wear the jun tan before the solstice. If you’re aiming for the big gesture, that’s a good one.”
Michael hesitated, realizing that on one level, Rabbit was right. If he broke his connection to the muk, he would be able to take Sasha as his mate. She’d like that, he thought, knowing the symbol would matter to her. Except that she’d dumped him, hadn’t she?
At the thought, the Other—or should he call it the Mictlan?—stirred, too close to the surface of his mind. Oddly, though, it wasn’t trying to stop him from casting the scorpion spell, and it wasn’t trying to take over and force him to kill Rabbit.
The Mictlan is just a talent, he realized. It’s up to me whether I use it. Unlike the Other, which had been created to be partially autonomous, using his body to do the job it had been programmed to do, the Mictlan talent came with the gods’ gift to mankind: that of free will.
Although the Nightkeepers’ lives were largely guided by their writs and responsibilities, and the prophecies handed down by the First Father and others like him, in the end, each of their actions came down to a personal decision. Ambrose had chosen to give up his life as a Nightkeeper to carry out the wishes of his sister, the queen. Michael’s parents had chosen to follow their king into battle. His uncle had chosen damnation rather than murder his king.
Now, Michael chose to try another path, one that might—just might—allow him to come out the other side whole. Because although he’d barely acknowledged the possibility, even inwardly, he couldn’t stop remembering how Jade had talked about Scorpion River having the ability to purify, to take away sin.
What if it could take from him, not just the muk, but the Other as well?
“You going to do this?” Rabbit said, breaking into Michael’s thoughts. He was trying to look cool, but jittered from one foot to the other, constantly in motion.
“Yeah,” Michael said. “I’m doing it.”
He sat, propping himself up against the wall and stretching his legs out in front of him. He was so mentally clamped-down that his only real thought about what he was about to do was a passing consideration that it was good there was sand underfoot, because it would soak up the majority of the blood. Hefting one of the jugs of pulque, he popped the top and took a swig. According to ancient Mayan law, anyone who’d had three shots of pulque should be considered a drunkard; four and he was criminally insane for an hour, at least. Ironic, really. The potent ceremonial beverage wouldn’t just anesthe tize him; it’d make him a little crazy, and help alter his consciousness so he could enter the in-between. Problem was, it would also lower his inhibitions, creating a window when the muk could take control. “If I try to hurt you, shut me down, okay?” he said, his words already slurring slightly under the effects of the pulque. “Think you can handle the spell?” he asked Rabbit as the world started to spin.
“Hell, yeah.”
“Promise me you won’t follow me. I’ll need you to go for help if this turns to shit.”
“Sure. Whatever.” Rabbit reached for the knife. “You ready?”
No, Michael thought, chugging again. But he said aloud, “Yeah.” He tipped the jug in a mocking salute. “Don’t fuck anything up, okay? If I make it back I’ll spot you for the spell, no matter what Strike says. Deal?”
“Deal. Here we go.” Rabbit began the chant they’d both memorized from Anna’s translation, the spell that would send Michael to the in-between.
Closing in on unconsciousness, Michael watched fuzz ily as the younger mage set the stone bloodline’s ceremonial knife against his wrist, below the stone and warrior glyphs, and swiped it in a clean arc that cut through tendons, arteries, and veins in a clean sweep. Pain flashed, like bright colors behind his eyelids. Michael took his final hit of pulque and started seeing double. He wanted to pass out, wanted to puke. Wanted to weep like a baby. Wanted to kill. He felt a pinch on his other wrist, one that was almost lost in the spin of alcohol. The Other came right through into the forefront of his consciousness, bringing the muk with it. Then the world shifted hard beneath him, shuddering, then going dim as the darkness sucked him under. The last thing he heard was Sasha’s voice whispering, We’re good.
Not yet he wasn’t. But maybe he would be soon.
The in-between
Lucius walked alone down a dirt path he’d walked before. The road stretched ahead and behind him, and carried the footprints of a thousand travelers before him, most barefoot or wearing rope sandals. There were no tire tracks, no hoofprints, shod or otherwise. Just footprints uncountable, silent ghosts of those who had gone before him. On either side of him, featureless gray-brown plains stretched to a limitless gray-brown horizon, a meeting between an unremarkable firmament and an unremarkable sky.
He didn’t know how long he’d been there; time had no meaning in a prison that might’ve been a construct of his own mind, might’ve been someplace else. He didn’t know. He’d lost contact with his body, lost contact with everything except the road that he trudged along, passing the occasional wizened, stunted tree and nothing else. Worse, his pockets were empty. Before, he’d been carrying the jade pebbles the Maya had buried with their dead, to pay their way across the dread river that wound its way throughout Xibalba. This time he hadn’t given himself the damned beads. Which meant . . . what? That Cizin planned to keep him trapped there forever?
If only he had magic—
“Yeah?” he challenged himself aloud. “What would you do, seriously? What the hell would—”
A sonic boom interrupted him. The sky flashed blinding silver and the ground shuddered beneath his feet, sending his pulse jolting. Thunder? An explosion? He didn’t know. All he knew was that it was the first different thing that had happened since his arrival at . . . well, wherever the hell he was. The detonation wasn’t repeated, but a smudge of darkness gathered on the horizon, resolving itself into a structure of some sort. A destination.
Excitement jolted through Lucius alongside the suspicion that this was it—he was done; it was time to cross the river and enter the underworld proper. But anything was better than limbo, so he started jogging along the path, headed for the horizon shadow.
He ran past the same trees and scrub and endless gray-brown plains he’d been walking through, but the shadow drew closer, gained resolution, becoming an arched doorway made of stone and bone, guarding a ferry port that stretched out over a dark, ominous ribbon of water. It was the river, he knew, the entrance to Xibalba proper. The Scorpion River. And there, near the shoreline, lay a man-shaped lump. Lucius braced himself as he approached the figure, not sure what to expect. Whatever the hell he might’ve anticipated, though, it wasn’t one of the Nightkeepers.
“Holy shit. Michael?”
The big mage lay as still and gray as death, but at the sound of his name he twitched and cracked open an eye. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“That’s what I was about to ask you. What—” Lucius broke off as the water beyond the stone-and-bone dock started boiling fat white froth that turned molten orange as he watched. Moments later, an unearthly, fingernails-on-blackboard screech split the air, and a huge, sinuous creature reared out of the water, raked the air with a pair of six-clawed hands, and tipped back its spiked head to scream a challenge. For a second, it flared orange and hot, like the lava from which it drew its energy. Then it went insubstantial, puffing to vapor as it turned toward the riverbank, fixing its terrible attention on the two men. “Boluntiku!” Lucius shouted over the boil of magma-heated water. He grabbed Michael by his shirt and started dragging him away from the river.
“No.” The mage yanked away from him and lurched to his feet, staggering a moment before he found his center. “Don’t touch me.” Michael’s eyes were wild, and held a hard darkness Lucius hadn’t seen there before, along with a flash of otherworldly silver. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Lucius’s energy suddenly, inexplicably flagged. “What t
he hell is going on?”
“I’ve got to get in that river. It breaks the bonds of magic and purifies the soul.” Michael spun, going for the autopistols he wore on his belt. Cross-drawing the weapons, he let out a roar of challenge and bolted for the ferry landing.
“You suicidal bastard,” Lucius whispered. And ran after him.
Skywatch
Rabbit watched blood drip from Michael’s wrists, reddening his hands and soaking into the sandy surface of the pueblo floor. It’d been maybe five minutes since he’d passed out, but it seemed like it’d been an hour. A lifetime.
“Wait it out,” Rabbit told himself. “Don’t shit yourself now.” But it wasn’t easy sitting there, watching a guy die. Especially a guy like Michael, who’d always seemed larger-than-life, larger still because he’d been able to do what Rabbit wanted and needed to do—he’d managed to live with the darkness and make it work for him. Until now. Now he lay propped up against the rock wall with his eyes rolled back in his head, bleeding the fuck out as he risked his life to break the bond with the muk magic.
Michael’s pulse was shallow and he was barely breathing. Rabbit felt like his own systems were slowing down to match. He was cold and his energy was fading, and in the shadows inside the pueblo ruin, his skin looked gray. Hell, it felt gray. Then again, he’d been feeling gray overall lately.
Myrinne. He missed her, ached for her, and was trying really hard not to be pissed off at her. Their fight had been about something stupid—all their fights were pretty stupid—but this one had felt different when it ended, like it had really ended something. Afterward, she’d said everything was fine, but she’d stayed behind on campus, spending another week there, ostensibly to finish up an extra-credit project for one of her lab classes.
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