Nightkeepers

by Jessica Andersen

  Closing her eyes against the painful glare from outside, she sucked in a deep breath, trying to settle the heaves. That was when she smelled blood. Lots of it.

  Opening her eyes, she blinked to clear the spots that danced before her. Then she realized the spots were real—spatters of blood on the stone floor she’d been lying on, and on the carved walls nearby. Even some on a small pile of camping equipment tucked into a corner, behind a statue she thought she recognized as the goddess Ixchel. They were in a temple of some sort, she realized, though she didn’t remember finding a temple. Come to think of it, she didn’t remember anything after she’d ducked into a low-hanging cave mouth in pursuit of—

  Everything froze within her.

  ‘‘I saw a nahwal,’’ she whispered. ‘‘I followed him.’’

  ‘‘Hold your arms over your head,’’ Red-Boar ordered, ignoring her. When she did as she was told, he moved away from her and started tearing strips from a man’s checkered shirt. It was Ledbetter’s, she realized. They were at his campsite. But what—

  ‘‘Here.’’ Red-Boar took the hands she’d crossed over her head, bringing them down to eye level. ‘‘This is going to hurt.’’

  ‘‘What?’’ She didn’t get it at first, but the moment she thought about it, really thought about it, she knew what she’d done. ‘‘Oh, no. I didn’t. Please tell me I didn’t.’’

  She yanked her hands away from him and looked at her wrists. Bad idea. Gaping slashes crisscrossed the skin between her hands and her marks, leaking blood. ‘‘I didn’t,’’ she whispered. But she had.

  Wrist cutting was the most extreme form of autosacrifice practiced by the ancient Nightkeepers, one intended to bring a warrior as close to death as possible, in the hopes that he—or she—would return with a message from the gods. That assumed, of course, that he or she didn’t die from loss of blood.

  Red-Boar took her hands and began to bind her wounds with the makeshift bandages. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

  ‘‘How bad is it?’’ Anna asked through dry-feeling lips.

  ‘‘Ugly but surface on the left, deeper on the right. You got a vein on that side.’’ He finished tying off the second set of bandages, then crossed her arms over her chest with her hands just beneath her chin, and used a loop of cloth to form a makeshift sling that went behind her neck and connected one hand to the other, allowing her some freedom of motion while keeping her wrists higher than her heart.

  His dark eyes locked on her with unfamiliar intensity. ‘‘Call your brother.’’

  Strike could zap to their position and bring them home. They’d planned for him to do just that twelve hours from now.

  Which would be too late.

  Anna closed her eyes and concentrated, but got nothing. She shook her throbbing head as ravenous hunger surged alongside the nausea. ‘‘I’m tapped out.’’ She’d used up her magical energies, but doing what? She’d sacrificed herself for a message; that much was clear. But she didn’t remember getting a message, didn’t remember anything after she’d run into the cave after the nahwal.

  ‘‘The satellite phone’s no good—I’m not sure if it’s the signal, the battery, the system, or what.’’ His throat worked when he swallowed. He locked eyes with her. ‘‘Can you walk?’’

  She shook her head. ‘‘You go. You’ll get to satellite range or another phone faster if I’m not with you.’’

  ‘‘No way,’’ he said flatly. ‘‘Not after what just happened. The . . . thing you saw, whatever it was, could come back.’’

  She shivered at the thought, and at the strange sense of longing it brought. Would that be so bad? something whispered inside her. Gray-green lassitude stole over her, making her want to lie down and nap. Dream.

  ‘‘Anna!’’ Red-Boar shook her, snapping her back to painful reality. ‘‘Can. You. Walk?’’

  She whimpered, wanting to sleep, but nodded jerkily. ‘‘I’ll try.’’

  ‘‘Good enough.’’ He combined the contents of both their packs, jettisoning all but the absolute necessities, then shouldered his bag along with Ledbetter’s duffel. At her look, he shook his head. ‘‘I didn’t shake out his underwear, but nothing jumped out at me.’’ He looked around at the temple they were in. ‘‘This isn’t the temple we’re looking for. The information Strike wants may have died with Ledbetter.’’

  Or else it’s inside me. Anna frowned, trying to find a message amid the mush her brain had become. She got a faint sense of copan and grief, but nothing more. And she was tired. So very tired.

  ‘‘Anna.’’ Red-Boar shook her awake once again, his touch more gentle this time, his dark eyes worried. ‘‘Come on. We need to move.’’

  She nodded numbly and followed him out, followed him along the machete-hacked trail until her entire world was concentrated in the center of his back, where she fixed her eyes and forced herself to put one foot in front of the other. She stumbled and fell, but righted herself and forged on. Stumbled and fell again, and this time couldn’t get up.

  Sleep, the voices told her. Stay with us.

  Then strong arms gathered her up, lifting her. And the world slipped away.

  Leah was tucked in next to Strike on the sofa in the great room of the mansion, reading another of Ambrose Ledbetter’s journal articles on the Pyramid of Kulkulkan at Chichén Itzá, when the landline phone rang.

  ‘‘Jox?’’ Strike called in the direction of the kitchen.

  ‘‘Got it.’’

  Leah glanced over. ‘‘There’s a phone right beside you, you know. You could’ve answered.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, but that’s why I pay him the big bucks.’’ She snorted. ‘‘Please.’’ Jox might not be on her buddy list, but she wasn’t backing down on the winikin-are-people -too soapbox. Before she could say more, though, Jox stuck his head through the kitchen pass, his face sheet white. ‘‘Hit the speaker. We’ve got a problem.’’

  Strike cursed and twisted, grabbing for the phone. Rabbit, Patience, and Alexis appeared from the billiard room on the opposite side from the kitchen, drawn by the winikin’s shout. Strike punched the speakerphone and turned up the volume. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’

  There was a hiss of feedback, followed by a harsh breath and Red-Boar’s voice. ‘‘You’ve gotta lock on and get us out of here. She’s hurt bad.’’

  ‘‘On my way,’’ Strike said curtly, and the phone line went dead. His hand went to his hip and came up empty. ‘‘Fuck!’’

  ‘‘Use mine.’’ Rabbit pulled his knife and tossed it.

  Strike caught it on the fly, scored his palm until blood flowed free, closed his eyes . . .

  And disappeared.

  Strike blinked in a few feet up, moving fast, and smashed into the ground, churning up a good three-foot gouge in the soft loam before he stopped. Struggling to his feet, he fought to reorient. The rain forest was lush and green around him, and the air smelled of plants and warm earth and blood. He followed the latter scent and found Red-Boar crouched over something on the ground.

  Anna.

  Strike’s heart pounded up into his throat as he dropped down beside his sister. She was deathly pale, unmoving, and blood had soaked through a pair of makeshift bandages at her wrists.

  ‘‘Gods damn it!’’ Rage spiking through the fear, he spun on Red-Boar. ‘‘How could you let— Never mind.’’ He cut himself off. ‘‘We’ll deal with that later. Right now she needs a hospital.’’

  He closed his eyes and thought of white walls and the smell of disinfectant, and a bathroom, generic and empty, safe for them to zap into. Then he thought of Albuquerque, though he’d been there only once. He hoped like hell the two threads would combine into a single address.

  ‘‘You can’t make the jump blind,’’ Red-Boar said quickly. ‘‘Let’s take her to the compound. We can—’’

  ‘‘We can what?’’ Strike interrupted. ‘‘Call for an ambulance? Screw that. Even a helicopter would take too long.’’ He held out his hand, which st
ill leaked blood. ‘‘Either grab on and boost me, or stay here. Your choice.’’

  Red-Boar cursed, but he grabbed on and sent power to Strike. The boost clarified the yellow travel thread, though it still wasn’t as strong as he would’ve liked. No choice, though. He wasn’t even sure she was still breathing.

  ‘‘Gods help us all,’’ he muttered, grabbed on, and yanked.

  Silence echoed deafeningly in the great room at Skywatch.

  Jox glared at Leah as if all this were somehow her fault. Patience held on to Rabbit’s hand. Alexis had slipped out soon after Strike disappeared, probably to warn the others what was going down, and Leah stood there, waiting for the puff of displaced air that would signal their return. As she waited, she prayed.

  God, she thought, or gods—whatever—please let them make it back. Please let Anna be okay. And though she knew it was small and self-serving, Please let them figure out how to save me.

  ‘‘Come on,’’ Jox muttered under his breath. ‘‘Come on!’’

  There was no zap of displaced air. But the phone rang.

  Jox hesitated, and then hit the speakerphone. ‘‘Hello?’’

  ‘‘We’re in Albuquerque. At a hospital. I’m not sure which one.’’

  At the sound of Strike’s voice, Leah exhaled a long, shuddering breath of relief. They’d made it back to the U.S., at any rate. She didn’t want to think about how they’d gotten to the hospital, though, or she knew she’d get the shakes. He’d flipping jumped blind.

  ‘‘How’s Anna?’’ Jox’s voice broke.

  ‘‘They’re working on her now.’’ Strike’s voice dropped. ‘‘She sliced her wrists, nearly bled out before Red-Boar found her. He says she saw a nahwal, followed it into a temple, and cut herself.’’

  Jox’s eyes flicked to Leah. ‘‘What about Ledbetter?’’ ‘‘Dead. And apparently a Nightkeeper. I’ll explain when I get back.’’

  In the shocked silence that followed, Leah cleared her throat. ‘‘Do you want me to drive out?’’

  ‘‘No, stay put. Red-Boar’s already going to have to do some serious mind-scrubbing on our way out, and I don’t want to add any more brains to his list. Besides, it’s probably not a good idea for you to be out in the open right now.’’

  Because it was in the best interests of the ajaw-makol and the Banol Kax to keep her alive through the equinox, thus destroying both Kulkulkan and the skyroad.

  ‘‘Of course.’’ She paused, wanting to say something, but not sure what. So in the end, she went with a lame, ‘‘Take care.’’

  ‘‘You, too.’’ He paused. ‘‘Jox?’’

  ‘‘Still here.’’

  ‘‘Put Carter on Ambrose Ledbetter. I want to know who he was, where he came from, who he hung with. Everything.’’

  Jox stilled. ‘‘You think there are more survivors out there?’’

  ‘‘If we’re damn lucky.’’

  In the hospital, Anna survived and stabilized. But she didn’t wake up.

  Twelve hours passed, twenty-four. Seventy-two. The equinox approached and Strike didn’t leave her side. He sat in the private room he’d put on the Nightkeeper Fund’s credit card, registering her as Alexis Gray because Alexis didn’t have any family to notify and Anna did.

  Maybe—probably . . . okay, definitely—it was wrong to keep Anna’s husband out of the loop, but he’d be a complication they absolutely couldn’t afford. So it was just Strike watching over her, along with Red-Boar, who stayed nearby in case they needed his talent for damage control.

  The doctors came and went and shook their heads when all the tox screens came back negative, indicating that she hadn’t OD’d in addition to cutting her wrists, but not able to explain why she was still in a coma. They sent Strike sidelong glances and assured him that sometimes suicides fooled even their closest family members, that he shouldn’t blame himself. But they didn’t know the half of it.

  He’d sent her to find Ledbetter, knowing she wasn’t fully trained or in control of her own powers. He’d been so damned sure he was making the right call sending Red-Boar as backup, but the bastard had left her unprotected and she’d nearly died. Might still die, if they couldn’t figure out how to reach her. Each hour, he could feel her slipping farther into the mist. And each hour, he could feel the stars and planets aligning, moving closer to the equinox.

  In less than a day they would meet the ajaw-makol at the intersection. Jox assured him that the team would be ready. The question was, would their leader?

  Strike knew he had too many priorities, all of them vying for the top spot. Who was he, king or man? Lover or brother? Leader, savior, or just a guy with a business degree and some landscaping experience?

  Fuck, he didn’t know anymore. And he wasn’t figuring it out sitting here.

  He stood and crossed the room. Stuck his head out and snapped, ‘‘Get in here.’’

  Red-Boar obeyed without a word. His eyes were down, his expression set, and he wore a brown button-down shirt and matching ball cap he’d gotten from somewhere, making a nod at the penitent’s robes he’d hidden behind for so long.

  Strike was having none of it. Rage spiked through him at the realization that so much of what had gone wrong since the barrier reactivated—from the burning of Jox’s garden center to Anna’s condition now—were thanks to Red-Boar and his fucking indifference. Anger burned, hot and hard, and for a second, he wanted to grab the bastard, yank him into the barrier, and leave him there. Let the nahwal have him.

  Deep breath, he counseled himself, fighting the god’s anger alongside his own. Unfortunately, barriering Red-Boar wasn’t an option. Despite his questionable loyalties, the older Nightkeeper still had the best boosting skills among them.

  That didn’t mean Strike had to put up with the other shit, though.

  So when the door closed behind the older man, he said, low and controlled, ‘‘Enough. I’ve had enough of the martyr shit, enough of the Yoda routine, and especially enough of the ‘watch out for Red-Boar, he’s got PTSD and doesn’t always react normally’ crap.’’

  The other man’s head came up. His dark eyes locked onto Strike’s, and in their depths he saw something he never expected to see. He saw anger. Hatred. Rage. ‘‘Watch your step, boy.’’

  Strike almost retreated, but knew he couldn’t afford to, knew this had been coming for a long time. He kept his voice level. ‘‘I am my father’s son.’’

  Red-Boar bared his teeth. ‘‘That doesn’t make you king.’’

  ‘‘What, you think you should be in charge because you’ve got seniority?’’ Following Red-Boar’s glance, he said, ‘‘Or Anna?’’ He locked eyes with his onetime mentor, still fighting the urge to flatten the bastard, to cow him, to make him admit—

  ‘‘Admit what?’’ Red-Boar said, picking up on the thought because they were so close. ‘‘That you’re the king? Not until you fucking act like it. Not until you accept the Manikin scepter and say the words. Until then, you’re just Scarred-Jaguar’s son, as far as I’m concerned. A weak, whiny little boy who hid underground with his sister and their babysitter while the rest of us fought.’’

  ‘‘I was a child,’’ Strike gritted, chest tightening on a hard, hot ball of grief, of denial.

  ‘‘You were a prince,’’ Red-Boar countered, as though that made all the difference in the world. ‘‘If you want to be king—and I’m thinking that’s a big ‘if’—then stop screwing around, stop letting other people tell you what to do, and make some godsdamned decisions!’’

  They were very close together, arguing low-voiced so it wouldn’t carry out into the hall. Strike was hyperaware of Anna lying there, motionless save for the regular rise and fall of her chest. The doctors said they couldn’t do anything more. Red-Boar said he couldn’t do anything, period. Now, Strike wondered if that was the truth.

  ‘‘Wake her up,’’ he said. ‘‘Now.’’

  Something flashed in the other man’s eyes—surprise, maybe, or fear. But he shook his head.
‘‘I can’t.’’

  ‘‘Can’t or won’t?’’

  ‘‘Can’t,’’ he insisted. ‘‘Not here, anyway. Not even I can fog that many memories.’’

  ‘‘Then start fogging the ones you need to, because we’re leaving in five minutes.’’

  ‘‘But—’’

  ‘‘You want me to start making some fucking decisions? ’’ Strike leaned in, lowering his voice to a hiss. ‘‘Consider this one made. You’ve got five minutes to work your magic, mind-bender. Either the doctors and nurses think she’s being discharged and there aren’t any problems, or I’m leaving you in the barrier. Got it?’’

  Red-Boar didn’t say a word. But damned if he didn’t do exactly as Strike had ordered. He made a circuit of the hospital floor, shaking hands and touching shoulders, spending the most time on Anna’s doctors and the nurses running the computers.

  When he returned, he nodded. ‘‘It’s done. Everyone here thinks she was discharged to a rehab facility. Anyone coming on later will get the same info from the computers.’’

  ‘‘Good. We’re out of here. I called Jox to give him the heads-up.’’ Strike lifted Anna, cradling her against his chest. Then he touched Red-Boar, completing the circuit. He was pissed enough, the route to Skywatch familiar enough, and Leah’s pull strong enough that he didn’t need a blood sacrifice to power the three-person transport—he was already there. All he had to do was close his eyes, find the thread, and yank.

  The great room materialized around them, the floor slapping against the soles of his boots. He staggered and nearly went down, and then Jox was there, shoving a shoulder into his armpit to get him stabilized.

  They were all there, Strike saw as his vision cleared. The winikin. The Nightkeepers. And Leah. His people. His responsibility.

  ‘‘I’ve got her,’’ the winikin murmured, taking Anna’s limp form with surprising ease, given that she was a full head taller than he and probably close to the same weight. He bent close and murmured, ‘‘Poor child.’’ The endearment should’ve seemed ridiculous given that she was closing in on forty, but somehow it was exactly right.