Nightkeepers

by Jessica Andersen

  ‘‘Thanks.’’ Strike paused. ‘‘I guess I’ve got a date in Denver, then.’’ Not like he was going to make an appointment. Nathan Blackhawk was in for a surprise.

  ‘‘Make sure that’s where you go.’’ Jox fixed him with a look. ‘‘No detours.’’

  ‘‘Shit.’’ Strike scowled at his winikin. ‘‘You sure you’re not an itza’at?’’

  ‘‘Doesn’t take a seer to know you’ve got a woman on your mind, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out which one. Remember, ‘The king’s duty is to the gods above all others, then to his people; all else comes after,’ ’’ the winikin said, quoting from the writs. He paused, then said, ‘‘Red-Boar and I talked about this some. His theory is that the dreams came from the barrier as it was reactivating. In the last few months before a mage hits puberty, the hormones go totally wonky. Since you didn’t get your talent mark back when you were a teenager, there’s a good chance all those hormones got packed into a few weeks once Zipacna’s sacrifices thinned the barrier enough that the magic started to leak through.’’

  ‘‘I’ve heard Red-Boar’s wet-dream theory,’’ Strike muttered. ‘‘That’s not what it was.’’

  ‘‘You’ve always had a thing for blue-eyed blondes with a bit of an edge to them. Is there any wonder that’s what your subconscious fixed on?’’

  ‘‘I didn’t see just any blue-eyed blonde. I saw Leah.’’

  ‘‘The mind can play tricks.’’ The winikin laid a hand on his shoulder, a fatherly gesture that irked the shit right out of him. ‘‘Five of the survivors are female, including the twins.’’

  Strike gritted his teeth. ‘‘Matchmaking, Jox?’’

  The winikin didn’t bother looking ashamed. ‘‘Matebonded Nightkeepers are stronger together than they are apart. You’d serve your people better to choose one of your own kind.’’

  Thoroughly annoyed, and halfway wishing his father had been a dogcatcher or something, Strike pushed himself to his feet. ‘‘I’ll call you from Denver.’’

  Nathan Blackhawk scowled as he scanned his laptop screen. Handheld computer sales were up, indicating that the gamers had latched on to the upgraded pod, which gave players near VR quality control over their characters. Problem was, the games themselves weren’t showing the same spike, whereas his competitors’ products were flying off the shelves.

  ‘‘Goddamn violent-ass kids,’’ he muttered under his breath, spinning in his chair and glaring at his office walls, which were painted the same glossy black as his furniture. ‘‘They’d rather blow shit up than use their brains.’’

  It didn’t escape him that he’d been exactly that sort of kid until a stint in juvie and a social worker who hadn’t taken ‘‘fuck off and die’’ as an answer had set him more or less straight. But it probably served him right for thinking he could change the thought process of an entire generation with the physics of extreme sports and a handful of quest sagas that contained far more actual history than your average LOTR rip-off.

  It’d taken balls—and admittedly a bit of bloodless disregard—to leave the software company that’d given him his start, promoting him to developer despite his lack of a formal degree. It’d taken even more testicular fortitude to hire a bunch of nobodies like himself and call the whole mess a software gaming company, but he’d made it work; for the first three years Hawk Enterprises had made obscene amounts of money selling the same sort of bloodthirsty pap the rest of the industry spewed out. When Nathan had started tweaking things a year ago, though, sales hadn’t kept up, and now the frigging profit-and-loss charts were looking grim.

  ‘‘Hey, boss?’’ A quick knock on the door frame followed Denjie’s hail. Before Nathan could answer—or not—the sandy-haired programmer, rotund and wearing tight black jeans, an obscene concert T-shirt, and electric blue-framed glasses, stuck his head through the door.

  Nate held up a hand before Den could start. ‘‘I know, I know. I’ll have a decision for you on the new blood’n’ -guts slasherfest by this afternoon.’’

  The programmer drew himself up to his full five-seven. ‘‘If you’re referring to EmoPunk III, then I’m not sure why there’s any question in your puny excuse for a brain. EP3 is going to be a freakin’ best seller.’’

  ‘‘It’s also freakin’ nasty, and guaranteed to curdle the gray matter of anyone stupid enough to play it.’’

  ‘‘Which is why it’s going to outsell the shit out of your pathetic Viking Warrior franchise, and do double the numbers of all the celebrity skateboarder VRs combined. But that’s not why I’m in here.’’ Den hooked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘‘Guy’s here to see you.’’

  Nate frowned. ‘‘What guy?’’

  ‘‘Dunno. Dark hair, cool tats. He buzzed from downstairs, said he had an appointment. I put him in the conference room.’’

  ‘‘I don’t have any—’’ Nate broke off as Den ducked out again, clearly not giving a shit whether or not the guy’s story was true. ‘‘Damn it.’’

  Nate knew he really ought to get a receptionist, someone who’d help him organize things and run interference. But he’d never bothered, mostly because their games were sold under the aegis of a bigger company, which meant that Hawk Enterprises flew pretty far under the radars of most gaming crazies, leaving them relatively unmolested.

  That, and the fact that he liked to do things his way, all the way.

  The bad news was that the lack of a receptionist meant he was sometimes ambushed by ambitious low-level developers, along with the occasional wacko who wanted to meet Hera, the stacked blond heroine from the Viking Warrior games. Not to mention that he got to personally field the weird-ass phone calls, like the one he’d gotten the week before from some guy who claimed to have information about Nate’s parents. Yeah, like he’d never heard that one before.

  The good news about having no receptionist, though, was that it left him free to ignore people until they went away. He seriously considered doing exactly that with the guy in the conference room, but since his other options seemed limited to P&L statements or going over the EP3 projections again, he climbed to his feet and headed for the conference room.

  The offices of Hawk Enterprises took up the front quarter of a warehouse, with the rest of the building left open for real-time modeling of X-stunts using VR suits and the semipermanent half-pipes and ramps they’d built with some of the early money. At the moment, most of the pending projects were either in the conception phase or final testing, so the stunt area was deserted. That was a relief, because it could get damn loud back there when the adrenaline junkies got the music blasting and started trying to outdo one another.

  Bypassing the break room—no way he was offering his uninvited guest coffee until he knew what the guy wanted—Nate headed down a short corridor to the conference room.

  Whereas the developers had each done up their own offices—ranging from Nate’s all-black to Glitch’s ode to Battlestar Galactica—the conference room looked pretty normal. The same could not be said for the man who stood staring through the floor-length windows overlooking the half-pipe in the warehouse beyond. He was six-five if he was an inch, with long black hair dropping to his massive shoulders and features that looked like they belonged in Viking Warrior 5: Odin’s Return. He was wearing black cargo pants, scarred lace-up boots, and a wide webbed utility belt, with a white button-down shirt that saved the look from being straight out of military-surplus -goes-Goth. Barely.

  The stranger turned and took a long look that made Nate feel as though he were being judged, or maybe weighed. ‘‘You’re Nathan Blackhawk,’’ the guy said. It wasn’t a question.

  ‘‘And you’re trespassing,’’ Nate replied, more or less pleasantly. ‘‘Lucky for you I’m in a good mood. You’ve got five minutes.’’

  ‘‘That’ll do.’’ The stranger shot his cuffs, unbuttoned one, and bared his right forearm to reveal four black-ink tattoos: a stylized leopard’s head of some sort, along with three unfamiliar symbols that stirred
something deep inside Nate.

  ‘‘Nice ink,’’ he said casually, wondering if he should call Denjie in, or maybe the cops. This guy was registering pretty high on the freak-o-meter.

  ‘‘Ever seen anything like it?’’

  ‘‘Should I have?’’

  ‘‘Where’d you get the chain?’’ the stranger asked, jerking his chin at Nate’s chest. ‘‘The hawk medallion.’’

  ‘‘None of your goddamn business,’’ Nate said, trying to keep it on the level, though the pucker factor was rising quickly. ‘‘You’re down to four minutes and you’re bugging me. I’d suggest you state your business or go away.’’

  ‘‘I need to talk to you about your parents.’’

  The single sentence, the dream of so many kids in the foster system, shot through him on a sizzle of anger. He pointed to the door. ‘‘Get. Out.’’

  ‘‘Or not.’’ The stranger moved suddenly, grabbing Nate’s wrist.

  The battle rage of Nate’s youth rose fast and hard, and he twisted away and swung a punch. The stranger dodged, got his wrist again, and barked out a word.

  And everything went gray-green.

  Nate howled and flailed, and suddenly they were outside on the warehouse roof. Scratch that; they were five feet above the warehouse roof for a second before they fell, slamming down in a heap. The stranger recovered first, mostly because Nate felt like he was about to barf up a lung. The guy dragged Nate up, got him halfway over the edge of the roof, and held him there by the front of his shirt. ‘‘Are you ready to listen to me yet?’’

  Nate didn’t answer. He gaped. ‘‘How . . . what . . . ?’’ The stranger nodded, cobalt blue eyes gleaming with satisfaction and something else, something that glittered gold for a moment, then was gone. He reached into the breast pocket of his button-down shirt, withdrew a card, and tucked it into Nate’s shirt pocket. ‘‘Call this number when you’re ready to hear what I have to say. Better yet, just show up at that address. We’ll explain, and we’ll show you how to use the power that’s in your blood.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Bad luck, you losing your protector so young. We’ve got someone lined up for you, a man named Carlos. He’ll get you up to speed.’’

  ‘‘Screw you,’’ Nate snapped. ‘‘I have a business to run.’’

  Okay, so maybe that was just about the dumbest possible response to being teleported and hung halfway off the side of his own roof, but he was pretty rattled.

  ‘‘Your games won’t matter worth shit four years from now unless you help us out.’’ The stranger cocked his head. ‘‘You want to save the world? You’re not going to do it with history lectures disguised as video games.’’

  ‘‘And I suppose you’re going to tell me how I am?’’

  ‘‘You bet your ass.’’ The stranger tapped the card. ‘‘Call me.’’ Then he pulled Nate in, away from the edge, and sent him stumbling across the roof.

  When Nate turned back, the other man was gone.

  Exhausted and nursing the beginnings of a hell of a postmagic hangover—though the shock value had been way worth it—Strike headed for the parking lot outside Blackhawk’s converted warehouse, where he’d parked the lame-ass minivan he’d rented rather than risking a series of teleports he was nowhere near ready to navigate.

  He was getting better at ’porting, which required him to picture either a person or a place as a destination. If he thought of a person, the travel thread would appear and take him to their location. If he thought of a place, the thread took him there. He could zap someplace he’d never been based on a photo, but had to be careful about being seen. More, he had to be absolutely certain that he pictured his destination accurately, or he could get his ass stuck halfway between, or worse. Ergo, he was being stingy with his teleports . . . except that the stunt he’d just pulled with Blackhawk, thinking ‘‘roof’’ and getting there, suggested the power stretched farther than any of them suspected.

  He wasn’t ready to see how far he could push it, though. Thus, the minivan. Once he was in the car, he phoned home.

  Jox picked up the call on the fourth ring, and after they’d done the hey, how are you thing, asked, ‘‘How’d it go with Blackhawk?’’

  ‘‘We’ll see. He’s going to be tough. Wanted nothing to do with me at first.’’ Strike popped on his cell phone’s headset, cranked the engine, and headed for his next appointment, which was in a seriously seedy part of the city.

  Carter had finally tracked down the last winikin, servant to the serpent bloodline . . . in a mental institution. Through him, the investigator had managed to find the grown Nightkeeper child, also in Denver. The coincidence of two survivors both winding up in the same city had given Strike a bad vibe, as had Snake Mendez himself when he’d gotten the guy on the phone.

  Seriously bad vibes. Like pack a MAC and some jade-tips bad. Which might’ve had something to do with Carter’s mentioning an outstanding arrest warrant for assault and battery.

  ‘‘You change his mind?’’ Jox asked about Blackhawk.

  ‘‘Either that or I scared the ever-living shit out of him,’’ Strike admitted. ‘‘I sort of zapped him onto the roof and dangled him over the side.’’

  ‘‘Don’t worry, he’ll show. The hawk bloodline has too much magic and ego for him to blow it off.’’ The doorbell chimed in the background, and Jox said, ‘‘Hang on; someone’s here. Let me just—’’ He broke off, and then said, ‘‘Hannah.’’

  And the line went dead.

  Jox saw her through the wiggly glass panel beside the front door—just a glimpse, then gone as she reached for the doorbell and rang it a second time. It might’ve been anyone—anyone female, at least—but he knew it was her. Maybe it was the way she moved, maybe the bright colors she was wearing—strong purples and reds and greens. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. But there wasn’t an iota of doubt in his brain. Hannah had come.

  So why, exactly, was he still standing there like he’d grown roots?

  ‘‘No real reason,’’ he muttered, and forced his feet to unstick. He crossed the foyer and opened the door as she was aiming for doorbell ring number three. ‘‘Why are you ringing?’’ Jox said. ‘‘This is your home as much as—’’

  He broke off as she turned to him, and he saw that the jade green scarf she wore tied around her head was more necessity than fashion statement, dipping across her forehead at an angle and covering her left eye and ear. From beneath the lower edge of the scarf, parallel scars trailed across her cheek and the side of her neck. Six of them.

  ‘‘Hullo, Jox,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Hannah.’’ Those damn roots were at it again; he couldn’t move. He told himself to just step up, and hug her, for gods’ sake. They’d been friends. Hell, he’d kissed her. Twenty-four years ago, but it still counted, right?

  Only that’d been before. After, they’d said that night, and dared to make plans. Except now it was after, and nothing had gone as they’d hoped. He wanted to say he was sorry, wanted to tell her he still sometimes dreamed about that night, when he’d heard her scream and ran the other way. He wanted to let her know that he’d cried when he’d realized she’d made it out with the baby. He wanted to tell her that he’d carried her address with him for nearly a decade before finally acknowledging that he was never going to call. But the roots had spread up to his tongue, and he couldn’t get the words out. Just stood there staring like a moron.

  Her good eye, which had been soft and hopeful when he’d opened the door, slowly darkened with disappointment. Her lips turned down, farther on one side than the other because of the scars. She glanced back toward the parking area, like she might head back to her car and take off, but then she squared her shoulders beneath her brightly printed floral shirt and stared him down. ‘‘Awful, isn’t it?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ he said, but it came out too weak. ‘‘Hannah, no. Never.’’ He moved toward her, but it was too late.

  She stepped back on the pretext of bending to pick up her duffel—it wa
s black with turquoise and pink flowers—and slung the strap over her shoulder. ‘‘Where to?’’

  ‘‘You’re the first to arrive,’’ he said, finally getting his tongue unglued from the roof of his mouth. ‘‘Where’s . . . I guess calling her ‘the baby’ doesn’t work anymore.’’

  That got a smile out of her. ‘‘She’d kick your butt for trying. My Patience teaches martial arts. She’s a real warrior.’’

  ‘‘Now that’s good news. Where is she?’’

  ‘‘She’ll be here.’’ Hannah sagged a little under the weight of the duffel, but when he moved to take it she shook her head. ‘‘I’m fine. Just point me to a bedroom and I’ll unload.’’

  He waved to the mansion at large. ‘‘Take your pick. We stripped the rooms and redid the walls and floors, so you’ve got your choice between drywall and carpet or drywall and hardwood, but you can tap the fund for paint and whatever. Just grab a room and have at it.’’

  ‘‘Are you in your father’s quarters?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, I . . . yeah.’’ It’d been beyond difficult to move into the three-room apartment, but it made the most sense, given its proximity to the royal suite. Of course, that was before Strike moved into the pool house, unable to stay in his parents’ quarters—or anywhere else in the mansion, for that matter. Which had made Jox’s room choice sort of pointless.

  Hannah gave an of course you did nod. ‘‘Then I’ll take one of the singles in the winikin’s wing.’’

  ‘‘You don’t have to,’’ he protested. ‘‘There’s room for all of us in the main building.’’

  ‘‘It wouldn’t feel right. You, of all people, should know that.’’

  ‘‘What’s that supposed to mean?’’

  ‘‘Nothing bad.’’ She closed the distance between them and lifted a hand to cup his cheek. She smiled at him, and the expression was a touch sad, but it stripped away the years and the scars, and he could see the girl he’d known. ‘‘Only that your sense of propriety was too bone-deep to have changed, even after all this time.’’ Without waiting for an answer, she brushed past him and headed for the hall leading to the winikin’s wing.