Spellfire

by Jessica Andersen

  Or part of it, anyway.

  “I snuck in,” she admitted. “I’m a Mayan studies—”

  “Well, shit. You’re one of them.” His eyes hardened and he raked her head to toe with a withering look. “Those big blues aren’t going to get you anywhere with the militia, lady. You should get the hell out of here while you still can.”

  Australian, she thought. A pissed-off Aussie, and one who wasn’t making much sense. “Wait. What?”

  “They’re shooting looters on sight, you know.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Seriously, what the hell? These people are being slammed with a disease that wipes their minds and turns them into vicious, greedy shells that can’t live off anything other than human flesh. So we restrain them, tie them, gag them, whatever it takes to keep them from chewing on us, each other, even themselves while we try everything we can think of to cure them. Only it doesn’t work, so they starve to death . . . and in those last few seconds before they die, you can see their souls come back into their eyes. And they die screaming, not because of the fear or the pain, but because they suddenly realize what they’ve become.”

  Stomach knotting—she had seen that exact look, time and again, right after she struck the fatal blow—she held up a hand. “Look, I—”

  He took a step toward her, seeming to loom, though they weren’t far off in height. “And you people sneak in as slick as you please, figuring this is your chance to do some digging without bothering with permits, or maybe pop the locks on some of the tunnels and pull down a carving or two.” He made a disgusted noise. “You’re just as bad as the docs who come down here just to get data for some paper they’re planning on jamming through the review process, not giving a shit about the actual patients they’re supposed to be treating.”

  She agreed wholeheartedly. Or at least she would if she could get a word in edgewise. “If you’d—”

  “Maybe you’re not even here to steal. Maybe you’re doing legit research and think that because you’ve got a grant application or a paper or whatever due, it shouldn’t matter that the site is on lockdown, the whole region quarantined. Hell, if you can bribe your way in, you’ll have the whole place to yourself—no paperwork, no bullshit. What could be better than . . . shit. This is ridiculous.” He finally ground to a halt, glaring at her while one hand drifted to his belt, making her wonder if he had a pistol tucked behind him, if he was pissed enough to use it on her.

  Hopefully not. She could shield herself, yes, or ’port away. Or even drop him where he stood with a sleep spell. She didn’t want to, though.

  So she stayed put, heart drumming lightly against her ribs, though she kept her voice steady as she said, “Is it my turn yet?” At his grudging nod, she continued, “Look, I swear on the deity or family member of your choice that I’m not a looter. Hell, I’ve turned in a dozen or more tomb robbers who’ve tried to sell me antiquities over the years. Hate ’em.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “For real?”

  “I collect really bad fakes, but not the legit stuff. Never, ever.” She paused, exhaling when she saw that he might not have softened, but at least he was listening. “The only thing I’m guilty of is sneaking through the quarantine to get some one-on-one time with the carvings. And I get why that probably seems really, really tacky to you, but it’s not like that.” She started to hold out her hands in a gesture of innocence, then remembered there was probably blood on them. She clasped them together instead, and said, “We’re on the same team here, Doc. I’m just trying to help.”

  “How so?” He didn’t look convinced, but he was staying put, even easing back a little, putting distance between them and decreasing the loom factor.

  “When I was here a few years ago doing fieldwork, I noticed a badly degraded stone panel inside one of the temples. I thought I saw something on it about a strange disease, a plague that swept through the kingdoms and turned brother against brother and father against son. At the time I thought it was a metaphor for a civil war or something, but when the outbreak started”—she shrugged—“I figured it was worth checking out.”

  One eyebrow went up and his accent thickened slightly with disbelief. “So you got across the border somehow even though they’ve closed it to tourists, made it through the quarantine and onto the site here, to . . . what, see if this carving mentioned a cure?”

  “Is that any dumber than electroshock therapy or partial drowning, trying to get the infected people to ‘snap out of it’?” Which, hadn’t been part of the official international response, but rumors said that both of those things—and worse—had been tried in the highland villages.

  Granted, the near-drowning thing hadn’t been the worst idea, as it came straight from the ancient Nightkeepers’ practices. She didn’t mention that part, though, because she wanted to come off as a dedicated, potentially foolhardy Mayanist, not a doomsday-nut wack-job.

  He tilted his head, considering. “You can really read the hieroglyphs?”

  “I’ve spent my whole life studying them.” Which was true. She had bolted for college without looking back, swearing she was going to make herself into something far more normal than she’d ever had a chance to be—because normal was safe, normal didn’t wake up in the middle of the night hearing screams and seeing flames and blood. But no matter how hard she had tried to get away from the Mayan stuff she had been raised on, it was no use. That was where her talents and interest lay, what her soul kept bringing her back to. So she had studied the culture and the glyphs, and made herself as normal as she could. For a while, anyway.

  “Prove it.” He waved around them. “Translate something. And no bullshit, because I’ll know if you’re lying.”

  That had to be a bluff, of course, but she nodded anyway, because if she wanted to get information out of him, he was going to have to trust her, at least a little.

  They were standing in an open courtyard enclosed by lines of rubble where walls had once been. There, generations of ancient Mayan kings had erected row after row of stelae—stone pillars carved with hieroglyphs that recorded major events. Births, deaths, marriages, wars, all the news that had been fit to chisel was there.

  Nearest them were three stelae; two were crumbled and fallen, but one still stood, tall and pale, its white limestone worn from wind and blackened with acid rain. The glyphs seemed legible enough, though, so she headed for it, aware of him trailing too close, like he thought she might make a break for it.

  She wouldn’t, of course, not unless things turned hairy. But as she got up close and personal, she hesitated, recognizing the stelae too late and wondering if this was the gods at work or just a coincidence.

  “Oh,” she breathed, tracing her fingertips along a glyph panel that wasn’t like any of the others. For one, it was in better shape, preserved by the remnants of a spell that sent shimmering tingles up her arm. And for another, it told a story . . . and gave a warning. One that her father had ignored.

  She blew out a shaky breath. What has happened before will happen again . . .

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s just . . .” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

  “Can’t you translate it?”

  “That won’t be a problem.” In fact, she knew the story by heart, though she hadn’t consciously thought of it in nearly three decades. Not since her father’s advisers had tried to use it to talk him out of his plan to attack the demons on their own turf, at the intersection beneath Chichén Itzá.

  “That’s enough!” he thundered, and shook off her mother’s restraining hand. “The next person who quotes the writs or an old legend at me better have something new to add to the discussion, because by the gods I’m getting sick of repeating myself.” He glared around the royal suite, eyes skipping past where Anna had shrunk back in the hallway, out of sight.

  That was all she got, just a flash, there and gone in an instant. But it was a real memory, one that imprinted itself on all of her senses, so much so that for a mo
ment she could hear the rumble of her father’s voice, feel the nap of the hallway runner beneath her Reeboks and smell the faintest hint of lemon furniture polish.

  But when she blinked she found herself in the here and now, with her parents long gone, her boots planted on limestone dust, and the doctor regarding her with a glint of challenge in eyes that, up close, were a mix of green and brown rather than real hazel.

  It was ironic, really, that this man, this human, would be the one to shake loose a memory of those last few days when all her spells had failed. Not that the memory in question would do a damn thing to help her summon the visions, but still.

  Letting out a long, slow breath that didn’t ease the tightness in her chest, she said, “Okay, here goes. You see this one?” She touched a glyph that showed a peccary with curlicue tusks beside the line-and-dot notation for a number. “It refers to King Ten-Boar. This one means there was a war or a fight, but this symbol over it means it had gone on for a very long time. And this one . . .”

  Realizing that he probably didn’t care about the exact translation of each glyph and phoneme—and that she was stalling—she shrugged. “Basically, it says that King Ten-Boar had a dream he claimed the gods had sent him, telling him how he could defeat his enemies once and for all. His advisers tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t budge. Instead, he ordered his entire army to march, leaving the women and children behind to guard the city.” Her voice went flat, her insides hollow. “The dream was a lie, or maybe just wishful thinking. Either way, Ten-Boar’s enemies ambushed him, slaughtered his troops and then marched on the city and imprisoned everyone there. Some they used as sacrifices, others as slaves.”

  She had dragged her fingertips along the glyphs as she’d told the story, not as it was written—in an ancient, stilted style—but as she had heard it too many times in the days leading up to the massacre. Now, her fingers rested on the last glyph in the string. Worn almost indecipherable, she knew what it was without squinting, as her fingers found the familiar sockets and gaping mouth.

  It was the screaming skull, the symbol for the end-time war. A warning to those who, a thousand years later, would do their damnedest to hold the barrier when the zero date came.

  What are you trying to tell me? Something? Nothing? What?

  There was no answer from the gods, though.

  He was watching her intently. “It bothers you. It happened centuries ago, but it still bothers you to put yourself in their places and think of what it must’ve been like.”

  She shifted, glancing toward where part of the tent city was just visible beyond the ruins, fenced off and plastered with KEEP OUT signs in three languages, along with biohazard symbols and a spray-painted skull and crossbones. “It bothers me to see what’s happening to their descendants right now, and to know that none of us are safe.”

  “So you snuck down here, thinking maybe you could help.” The suspicion had leached from his expression.

  She shrugged. “It seemed worth a shot.”

  “Any luck?”

  “No. But I’m not giving up.” She didn’t dare, with the countdown ticking toward its end.

  “You’re staying in the area?”

  “Pretty close,” she said, deliberately vague. “I’ll keep out of the hot zone, though.” More or less. Then, remembering her plan to gather intel, she said, “What’s it like in there?”

  He grimaced. “Brutal. Frustrating. Heartbreaking.” Seeming to catch himself wanting to say more, he drew back and stuck his hands in his pockets as he looked out over the rows of crumbling stelae. “We can’t even figure out how the disease really works. Part of it acts like a normal virus, like the flu bug or whatever. Or maybe rabies is a better comparison, since it’s transmitted through saliva bites, rapes, that sort of thing.” He shot her an uncomfortable look. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Though it was nice to be treated like a woman rather than a warrior for a change. Which made her, just for a second, wonder how he saw her. With her hair pulled back in a practical ponytail, zero makeup and field clothes that had seen better days—

  Doesn’t matter. Get your intel and get out. She didn’t have time to pretend she was normal, didn’t even really have the time she had taken for this trip.

  But the doc stayed silent, still looking off at the middle distance, where the Pyramid of Kulkulkan rose with its iconic silhouette. That was why he had come out here, she realized—he’d needed to get away from the tent city, away from the frustration of not being able to find a cure.

  You can’t cure it, she could have told him. All you can do is try to contain it. The humans were doing a good job of slowing the spread . . . which was helpful, because the fewer xombis there were, the weaker the demons’ reinforcements would be on the final day. And the better the humans’ chances for survival.

  The Nightkeepers and winikin would bear the brunt of the end-time war, but there would likely be human casualties, too. Maybe lots of them. Always before, Anna had told herself that even huge losses would be acceptable so long as mankind continued on. Now, though, she thought of the people she’d met over the years in what had become the hot zone, everyone from villagers in thatch huts to executives in high-rise penthouses, all vulnerable now. Some were probably already dead, others infected and dying.

  And standing against the demons’ vile disease were men like this one—tough and determined. And human.

  The doc shrugged and looked back at her, his expression tinged with grief and worry. “To be honest we’re running out of ideas. If your research turns up anything at all . . . well, I’d like to hear about it.”

  “You will.” And that was a promise. More, she would put Lucius and Natalie on it, and see what they could turn up in the archives. Granted, they’d been through it all before, trying to get ahead of the first outbreak, far up in the Mayan highlands. But maybe there was something else, some subtle hint that could help the humans fight the xombi virus.

  This time when he reached behind his back, she didn’t tense up. He came up with a battered wallet of leather-edged nylon, and from there produced a business card that he held out. “Call me and we’ll meet someplace safe.”

  It shouldn’t have felt like a big deal to take the card. She gave it a glance. “Well, then, Doctor Curtis.”

  “David. Or Dave.” He paused expectantly.

  “Anna Catori.” She rattled off her phone number, then opened her free hand to show that it was empty. “Sorry, didn’t bring a card.”

  His eyes locked on her palm, where the sacrificial cut had healed to its usual scar, but blood had dried to rusty streaks. “What’d you do there?”

  He reached out and caught her wrist before she could yank it back. And he stilled at the sight of her forearm—not the black glyph-marks of her bloodline and magic, which he would no doubt think were tattoos, but the raised white crisscrosses below.

  “I nicked myself on a rock,” she said, meeting his eyes and daring him to mention the scars. “It’s nothing.” Nothing she wanted to talk about. Nothing he could help with. “Just a scratch.”

  His eyes searched hers, but he said only, “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  He hesitated a long moment, then exhaled. “Well, call me if you find something. And be careful, will you? If the militia doesn’t shoot at you, then the real looters will.”

  She didn’t tell him she could take care of herself, or that they wouldn’t see her unless she allowed it. She just nodded. “I will.” But as she reclaimed her hand, she had a strong feeling that they had just agreed to far more than a phone call.

  He watched her go, no doubt trying to figure out how much of what she’d told him was a lie—which was all of it and none of it, really. Dez would be pleased. She hadn’t gotten anything out of Doctor Dave that they didn’t already know, but the possibility was there, and he was someone they could leak suggestions to, if anything came up.

  More, she had a feeling that meeting him had been important. Maybe
it hadn’t been gods-destined, but she had needed the reminder that the outbreak was affecting living, breathing people. Mothers, fathers, children, loved ones . . .

  “Hell,” she muttered under her breath as she headed down the raised stone sacbe that led toward the cenote, where she could use the small temple to shield her from view while she ’ported back to Skywatch.

  Her first stop was going to be the royal suite, to report back to Dez . . . but her second was going to be the library. She might not be able to summon the visions, but she was a researcher, a translator, and damn good at what she did. There had to be something more the humans could do to fight the xombi virus. And she was going to find it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  December 10

  Eleven days until the zero date

  Skywatch

  In the week and a half following Rabbit’s return, Myrinne met with him two, sometimes three times a day, first to figure out the limits of the shared magic, and then to train with him. Because, like it or not, she was the only one who could trigger his powers. There was no sign of his darker side . . . but the sex magic remained a problem. She had learned how to throttle it down, muting the raw lust with meditation, crystals and chants, but the urges remained. It was as if her body cared only that he had been her lover and not why that couldn’t happen anymore.

  He hadn’t been her first—there had been plenty of guys in the Quarter who’d been up for a no-harm-no-foul encounter, and her body had been one of the few things she had controlled back then. Rabbit had been the first who mattered, though . . . and he had been the first to totally consume her world, the first to break her heart. She kept that firmly in her mind as they trained, and did her damnedest not to touch him. The linked magic was bad enough. Physical contact was worse. And when it all got to be too much, she retreated to her quarters and hit the Internet, not to Web surf, but to help search for more information on the xombi virus and the crossover’s magic.