Skykeepers

by Jessica Andersen

  Rabbit felt Iago’s startled delight and roared a denial, but it was already too late. The enemy mage had grabbed onto the connection, followed it to its source. Howling despair and the knowledge that he’d fucked up again, Rabbit flung himself back into his own body, hoping to hell he got there ahead of Iago.

  The tomb of the First Father

  Relief and excitement flared as Sasha felt the magic connect. “He’s coming back,” she said, leaning into Michael’s solid strength as he fed her power through their linked hands, their magic connecting despite the muk and the madness.

  Michael continued to give her—and the rest of the room—a rundown on what had happened at the river, how Lucius had helped him, then been swept downstream, and how he’d come upon Rabbit and taken back the Mictlan talent and muk link in exchange for Rabbit’s life.

  Emotion surged through her and she tightened her grip on his hand, trying to tell him how she felt through their linked magic, even as she poured their linked energy into the healing connection she’d finally—finally—formed with Rabbit when she’d looked deep inside him, beneath the hellmagic that blocked her perceptions, and found his song—a soft tenor aria, haunting in its refrain.

  “She’s got him!” Michael said, triumphant. Then he said something more, and Strike answered, but Sasha suddenly couldn’t follow, couldn’t react, couldn’t do anything as dark, oily brown magic surrounded her, latched onto her. “Michael!” she tried to scream, but all that came out was a whisper.

  She was conscious of him turning, though everything was suddenly happening in slow motion. Rabbit’s eyes opened, full of fear, and his mouth worked as he shouted a warning of some sort. But she couldn’t follow any of it as Iago’s oily magic flowed through her, into her, and he looked out through her eyes, saw the scene, and locked onto it for a ’port.

  Magic rattled off-key, air exploded outward, and the big redheaded mage appeared in the center of the room, balanced atop the inner coffin that lay within the open sarcophagus. Jade, holding a scroll clutched to her chest, reeled back, eyes going wide and scared.

  Strike shouted something and the others scrambled to take defensive positions, pulling their weapons as they scattered. Michael roared and lunged to his feet, shoving Sasha behind him as he cast a thick shield. Rabbit bellowed and threw fire, the shock wave practically flattening everyone in the chamber. The bright light blinded Sasha as magic sparked. Michael called something that cut off midword.

  The world came back into focus around her, but it made no sense. Iago and Michael were both gone. Jade was screaming, her hands streaming blood. “Iago took the library scroll!” she cried, face etched with anguish. “And he’s got Michael!”

  Sasha moved toward her, throat closing in horror, but then hellmagic sparked again, harsh and discordant, and hard, hurting hands grabbed her from behind.

  She screamed, drove an elbow back and tried to twist away but from her captor, but couldn’t. She cried out and struggled, looked back to see Iago’s emerald green eyes. Eyes out of her nightmares. The mage grinned. The oily brown magic cycled up, and Sasha’s world went gray-green with ’port magic and grief. “Michael!” she screamed into the void. “Help me!”

  There was no answer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Paxil Mountain Somewhere in the highlands of the former Mayan and Aztec territories

  The world took shape around Sasha, gray and fuzzy at first, bringing the echoes and shuffling sounds of movement within a high stone chamber. Next, she recognized the stretched, bound, hanging feeling, the strain in her shoulders and hips that had been all too familiar during her captivity. Crucifixion. Her soul shuddered in horror, but this was no time to pretend she was somewhere else and wait for rescue. She was one of the rescuers now.

  Opening her eyes, she found herself almost back where she began—strung up on a heavy wooden cruciform, bound at the wrists and ankles. But this time, she stood on a raised dais beside a second crucifix, where Michael was tied, spread-armed and furious. She met his eyes, and a quiver ran through her at the intensity she saw in him. The shimmer might have been nerves, might’ve been desire—she felt both as she looked at him and the solstice magic burned within her. More, he seemed to be conveying a message, one that reached inside her and made her yearn, made her hope.

  Knowing it was all too easy to confuse lust and desire when there was magic in the air, she looked away, studying the situation. The dais on which they were bound stood at the center of a conical stone cavern. The cavern’s inner walls looked like they might mirror the shape of the mountain’s exterior; they were carved and painted in places, though she couldn’t make out the designs in the torchlight. The quasi-natural temple had probably started as a dead volcano that had been hollowed out by hand in ancient times. The interior was torchlit and spiced with unfamiliar ritual incense. Opposite the dais sat two elaborately carved thrones, one larger than the other, both of ancient design and bearing the sunburst symbol of the Aztec calendar. Tubs of soil sat on either side of the thrones, and her mind stuttered to see the familiar leaves of cacao and maize. But if this truly was Paxil Mountain, the legendary source of the vital foods, she supposed it made sense. Eight red-robed Xibalbans were ranged around the space, several clustered near what looked like a tunnel mouth leading to the outside, another couple near a prefab steel structure built up against one wall, and one each on either side of the paired thrones. One of the thrones was undoubtedly for Iago, she thought. But who was the other one for?

  “Welcome to Paxil Mountain,” she said hollowly, because despite the Nightkeepers’ best efforts, she and Michael had wound up exactly where the Xibalban had intended all along.

  “How are you set for magic?” Michael asked quietly.

  A quick test run had her cursing. The solstice magic gathered within her, lit her up, made her feel powerful. But when she tried to shape the magic into a spell, it turned formless and slipped away. Keeping her voice to the same low, private murmur as his, she said, “I can feel it, but I can’t do anything with it.” She didn’t look at him, was trying hard not to.

  “Same here. Either there’s a ward spell going, or it’s because this is a ritual site. Most spells failed down in the tunnels beneath Chichén Itzá, too.” He paused. “What’s wrong?”

  That startled a laugh out of her, but she stifled the knee-jerk smart-ass response and shook her head. “Later.”

  “Now,” he countered. “Look at me.”

  She lifted her chin and met his eyes, knowing he would see the turmoil in hers. “You almost died back there.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry for putting you through that. I’ll explain it all later.” His tone said much later, but rather than an evasion, it felt like a promise. As did his direct, penetrating stare as he said, “You fought for me, kept me alive long enough to come back. I owe you for that. I hope that, going forward, you’ll let me fight for you.”

  “I don’t think we’re going to have a choice on that one,” she said, once again scanning the room, trying to figure contingencies. There was only one way in or out, it seemed, which could get tricky. Whoever held the tunnel controlled the situation. She continued, thinking aloud: “If we can get out of the bonds and past the ward, we still have to find the library scroll and get our asses out of here. But if we have to fight, you’d be the guy I’d choose to have my back.”

  “I’m not talking about fighting at your side, though I’ll be there, no questions asked.” Warned by something in his voice, she looked back at him and found his expression intent, his eyes heating. “What I’m saying is that I’m ready to fight with you. Against you. For you. Whatever you want to call it. You were right when you said I didn’t fight hard enough to find a way for us to be together, and then to keep us together. But it wasn’t because I didn’t care enough or didn’t want you enough. It was because I didn’t think I could possibly win.”

  Faint warmth kindled despite the situation. “And now?”

  “I still don’t know
if I can win, but I damn well want a chance to fight, because I don’t want to do this without you. Even when we’re at opposite poles and don’t make a damn bit of sense together, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be with. You’re stuck in my head, my heart, and my damned, beat-up soul. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you there, and to have you in my life and in my bed.”

  That was the starkest, most nakedly honest thing he’d ever said to her; the words cut through her wary reserve and nestled deep inside her, curling around the part of her that said he could be redeemed, that in many ways he already was. “Michael, I—”

  “How touching,” a mocking voice broke in, jolting her with fear and memory, closely followed by a slash of rage and hatred as Iago moved around from behind the cruciforms into her line of sight. He wore black combat clothes that closely mimicked those of the Nightkeepers; he could’ve passed except for the red hellmark on his forearm and the cold cruelty that shone in his emerald green eyes. “Touching . . . and borderline sickening, really. Not that it’ll matter either way in a few minutes.”

  Sasha’s breath caught when Iago casually drew the stolen library scroll out from behind his back, where he’d tucked it in his belt. He held it by one end and tapped it against his opposite palm in a hypnotic rhythm that demanded her attention as a familiar brown-haired man moved up behind him. Lucius’s eyes glowed the luminous green of a makol’s.

  Iago stepped closer to Sasha, glancing between her Michael. “To sacrifice the ch’ulel and Mictlan, together, during the triad threshold. Amazing. The power is going to be . . . incalculable.”

  “Good,” Michael said, his voice a dangerous purr. “That should give me plenty to work with when I take you out.”

  Iago shrugged. “Big talk for a guy who’s racked and tied.”

  “So untie me. I’ll fight you fair.”

  Iago ignored that offer and leaned in, so his face was very near Sasha’s when he breathed, “You and he are explosive together, muk and ch’ul, matter and antimatter. Your dual sacrifice will give me enough magic not only to call the Prophet, but also to raise the last true emperor of the Aztec.” Anticipation lit his face with unholy glee. “Imagine it . . . Moctezuma himself as an ajaw-makol, at my right hand as we complete the conquest begun five hundred years ago.” He turned away, gesturing for the makol and two of the red-robes to stay behind. “Watch them while the rest of us prepare. We’ve got ten minutes until the solstice enters its peak. We’ll be back in five.”

  Sasha’s breath escaped her in a hiss of dismay. So soon.

  As Iago strode off, the red-robes and the makol took up guard positions on the dais. The red-robes gave the makol a wide berth, standing far away. The makol, though, took up its guard post very near Sasha; it stood looking at her with a faintly superior sneer on its otherwise expressionless face, its eyes glittering luminous green. Incongruously, though, Sasha caught a thread of music coming from it, borne on the magic of the coming solstice.

  She turned her head so the makol couldn’t see her mouth as she whispered, “Lucius is in there. And whatever sort of ward Iago’s got fouling our magic, either the makol is standing inside it, or ch’ul is immune . . . because I’ve got his song. It’s faint, but it’s there.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Michael whispered back with fierce satisfaction. “He made it out of the river.” He paused. “Can you feed him ch’ul without the makol figuring out what’s going on?”

  “I can damn well try.” Concentrating on her fledgling ch’ulel skills, trying to block out the knowledge that this could be one of her last acts on earth, she opened herself to the song. She found it, touched it, tried to follow it to its source, but the thread was tenuous and inconstant. Still, she channeled ch’ul to the point of mental contact, giving up her own because she wasn’t linked to any other source.

  The makol’s head jerked in response—apparently she wasn’t so much on the stealthy side. It narrowed its eyes at her, but it seemed more amused than annoyed when it said, “Your human isn’t here, Nightkeeper. He’s in the in-between.”

  No, he’s not, Sasha thought, but apparently the makol couldn’t tell that Lucius had made it back. Maybe because the link connecting him to the makol had been severed in the Scorpion River? That would be a lucky break. Or the work of the gods. Hope spurted, and she sent even more ch’ul along Lucius’s song. The moment she did, the makol went suddenly rigid, its eyes flickering, going from luminous to normal and back.

  “Got him,” Michael said on a quiet hiss of triumph. Standing some distance away, the red-robed guards were oblivious.

  “Almost.” Sasha concentrated as the eyes did their trick. Luminous. Hazel. Luminous. Then they finally stayed hazel. Lucius’s expression animated, becoming that of a human who was wretched and disoriented, but determined to break through. He shuddered for a moment, caught in transition, unable to speak.

  “Hurry,” Michael ordered. “Get the guards.”

  Lucius nodded raggedly and lurched toward the red-robes, pulling the makol’s long, wickedly sharp combat knife from his belt. He was low on stealth, though; one of the red-robes turned and spotted him. Shouting a warning, the pilli went for his weapon. Lucius suddenly accelerated to an inhuman blur, swiping the knife across the first guard’s throat, then jamming it to the hilt in the second man’s chest.

  Retrieving his weapon, he returned to Michael and Sasha, flowing across the space with the makol’s lethal grace. But his eyes remained human. He’d regained full control of his body, and apparently commanded the makol ’s strength and coordination, as well.

  He cut down Sasha first, slashing through the ties binding her ankles first, then her wrists. As he turned away, she dropped to the dais and nearly went down in a heap when her rubbery legs gave way. But she braced herself and stayed up by force of will, while Lucius cut Michael down.

  “Damn glad to have you back.” Michael gripped the other man’s shoulder briefly, then turned and held out a hand to Sasha. “Come on. We’ve got to move. If we can get the scroll and get down that tunnel to open air, Strike should be able to get ’port lock on the three of us.” They dropped down from the dais and headed for the prefab building, where Iago and the red-robes had gone. But Lucius warned, “N-not the tunnel.” He stuttered slightly as his speech centers came back online. “It’s wired to blow. Motion sensors and C-4. Iago doesn’t want the Nightkeepers disturbing another of his rituals.”

  Sasha shuddered as claustrophobia had the walls suddenly seeming very near, but Michael said only, “We need to get that scroll first. Then we’ll worry about an exit strategy.”

  They crept up beside the steel structure. One door was barred and padlocked on the outside; the other was cracked partway open, its padlock hanging unlatched, the bar swung off to the side. Michael took the open side, Sasha the closed side, with Lucius behind her, breathing down her neck. She felt the seconds ticking away like the throb of her pulse. The murmur of voices came from within; footsteps approached the door.

  A sudden flare of Nightkeeper magic lit Sasha up, startling a gasp from her. She met Michael’s eyes from his position on the other side of the door, saw his confusion. Then the stone surface beneath them gave a convulsive jerk, nearly flinging her off her feet. A deep throated rumble sounded from the entrance tunnel, and a huge gout of dust spewed from the tunnel mouth.

  Sasha’s throat locked. “No,” she whispered. She would have screamed, would have run to the tunnel mouth, but her warrior’s talent locked her in place, and Lucius’s hand fell on her shoulder, gripping tightly.

  So she held her position, tears leaking down her cheeks as the door swung open. Iago’s voice came clear as he boasted, “I made sure of it—put the ’port image into the kid’s mind before I kicked him back to the others. He would’ve landed them right outside the tunnel mouth. From there, they would’ve walked right into the tripline.”

  Iago descended the three short steps, with the red-robes a few feet behind him. Michael attacked in silence, eyes lethal, tac
kling the Xibalban waist-high and driving him away from the door. Sasha leaped up and slammed the door on the red-robes, flipping the bar into place.

  Michael and Iago struggled for possession of the library scroll. Michael landed a heavy punch with a meaty thud and Iago went limp, dazed. Roaring triumph, Michael grabbed the scroll and lunged to his feet. But before Sasha could race to join him, hard hands clamped on her and spun her around in a vicious choke hold. She gurgled and scraped at her captor’s forearm, but the bloody furrows she created healed almost immediately. Lucius! she thought. Godsdamn makol just won’t pick a side! But behind the frustration, fear flared hard and hot. The emotion brought a kick of solstice magic, but the power stayed ill-defined. She couldn’t call a shield or fireball, couldn’t do anything useful. But she could and did feel the distant touch of Nightkeeper magic, coming from outside the mountain.

  Relief was a hard, hot wash. At least some of the others were still alive—gods willing, all of them were.

  The makol breathed against her neck. Holding her tightly, its skin and breath disconcertingly cool, the creature switched the choke hold for the sharp edge of its combat knife, digging it into her throat hard enough to bring blood.

  “You’re dead. You’re all dead.” Michael’s eyes were those of the killer, but Sasha wasn’t afraid. Instead, her heart leaped gladly and her blood raced with red-gold battle magic

  “Take her.” The makol handed off Sasha to two of the red-robes, one of whom dug an autopistol into her left kidney, prodding her around to face Iago. Michael was shoved around similarly, though he cursed and struggled despite the pistols.

  Iago checked his watch, then the sky. “It’s time. Fuck the crucifixes; get them over to the thrones.”

  In under a minute, Sasha found herself kneeling in front of the larger throne with a pistol to her head. Michael knelt beside her, blood running from a split lip earned in his struggles, eyes anguished when they met hers. She thought she saw a flash of silver, and whispered, “Use the muk.”