Saamal said something more, and Cheech translated: “You were one of those sons?”
“No.” Hell, no. “I came later.”
“Did he find what he was looking for?”
Rabbit shook his head. “He knew they were dead. He just didn’t want to believe it.”
The elder spread his hands and looked to the sky, and for the first time since their arrival, Rabbit felt a shimmer in the barrier. It wasn’t magic, though, or at least not the kind he was looking for. It was the gentle warmth that came from Saamal’s prayer.
When the elder finished and returned his attention to Rabbit, his eyes were sad. He said something, and Cheech translated: “He said they were twins.”
And therefore so much more valuable than their younger half brother, Rabbit knew. Anger kindled, bringing a whiff of smoke that he tamped down even before Myrinne touched his arm in warning. Coiled way too tight, he paced away a few steps, fisting his hands so tightly that his fingernails dug in and drew blood.
Dial it down, he told himself. It wasn’t Saamal’s fault that Red-Boar hadn’t left a forwarding addy, or that Rabbit had gotten his hopes up.
“Down the mountain, in the village, they say the people of Oc Ajal worship Xibalba,” Myrinne said. “Is this true?”
Cheech shot her a look, but translated her question and Saamal’s response: “This is true, but not the way I think you mean it. We worship the gods of Xibalba, the Banol Kax, but we do not revere darkness or evil deeds.”
Rabbit’s head came up. “How is that possible? Xibalba is the underworld.”
“But not as the Christians perceive it, as a place of hellfire and damnation. To my ancestors and my people, the sky and underworld are simply the residences of the gods. Some of them oversee positive things, such as science, medicine, and justice; others negative things like cruelty, greed, and addiction. Most, though, are a mix of dark and light, just as we are.” Saamal paused. “Xibalba is where the dead are challenged, yes, but it is not perdition. It is simply another plane, one that balances the sky.”
“But the—” Rabbit broke off, not wanting to reveal how much he knew about Xibalba—as in “been there, got the tee.” Instead, he opened his mind to the elder’s and skimmed off what he could about the religion of Oc Ajal, which proved to be almost identical to that of the Nightkeepers, except turned upside down.
In other words, the trip was a bust. The villagers might worship the gods of Xibalba, but they weren’t members of the Order of Xibalba. He hadn’t found his mother’s village, and he hadn’t found new allies for the magi. Please hang up and try your call again.
Shaken and more let down than he wanted to admit, Rabbit said woodenly, “Thank you for answering my questions.”
Cheech translated the elder’s response as “Good luck,” but Rabbit was pretty sure the literal word-for-word was more along the lines of “May the future go well for you.”
We can only hope. He sketched a wave to the old man and turned away, tugging Myrinne with him. Cheech followed a moment later.
They were at the archway when Saamal called, “An. Tool!”
“That is so not my name,” Rabbit grumbled, but he turned back. “What?”
He didn’t follow the elder’s quick words, so cocked his head back for Cheech, who said, “He says the peccary is a fine animal—clever, fierce, protective, and ambitious. But it was a rabbit that helped the Hero Twins save their father from the underworld.”
Rabbit’s throat closed, but he managed to get out, “I know the story.”
It had been one of Harry’s and Braden’s favorites. He had a sudden memory of sitting in the pool house with them, telling them that very part of the story— the savior-rabbit part—while Patience leaned in the doorway and watched her sons with a small, soft smile. The expression on her face, a mixture of love and contentment somehow coexisting with fierce possessiveness, had reached inside Rabbit and imprinted itself within him.
Nobody had ever looked at him that way, not before or since. And maybe he’d been fooling himself coming out to Oc Ajal, trying to pretend he was looking for allies when what he’d really wanted was to see if there was someone up here who could look at him like that.
Shit. Like father, like son, he was searching for something that was long dead.
Swallowing heavily, he jammed his hands in his pockets and headed for the archway, closing off his mental air locks as he walked.
Behind him, Cheech started in on Myrinne about the ride home, and she squeaked an indignant protest and geared up to haggle.
Without looking back, Rabbit said, “We’ll pay. Just get us down as fast as you can without killing anyone.”
He didn’t care what it cost. He just wanted to go home.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Cancún, Mexico
The sky was bloodred with the sunset as Patience and Brandt left El Rey and headed back into town. They didn’t speak as they walked. He held her hand, their fingers twined together like a promise. And although he knew he couldn’t keep that promise, he couldn’t make himself let go.
Because this was their spot.
Over the past couple of years, he had put his boots on the ground at hundreds of sites south of the U.S. border. He’d fought the Xibalbans in the Yucatán and Honduras. He’d let blood in Guatemala. He’d climbed sacred temples in Belize. And throughout the former Mayan territories, he’d patrolled the ruins, both continuing the search for a new skyroad and shoring up weak spots in the barrier as 2012 approached.
He’d breathed the air of rain forests, cloud forests, ancient mountain strongholds, modern cities and towns. Zap him into an empty warehouse with no contact with the outside world, and he could tell if he was in a former Mayan city-state, because all those places felt a little bit the same to him . . . except for this small section of Cancún.
Here, the air danced across his skin as it did nowhere else. And here, he and Patience worked.
They had been back only once since becoming full-fledged magi, on a fact-finding trip that had turned into an unexpected second honeymoon, a seventy-two-hour sexual marathon that had wrung him out, lit him up, and left him hoping that they had made a breakthrough.
Unfortunately, once they were back at Skywatch, reality had returned and they had continued growing into their roles and away from their marriage. And no matter how hard they had tried to keep it together, the connection they had shared in El Rey had slipped away and disappeared.
Until now.
Technically, the day had been a bust. As Rabbit had reported, there was no sign of the doorway. There was also no hint of a concealment spell at the base of the main pyramid, at least not that he or Patience could detect. Jade would have the final say on that; her spell caster’s talent included the ability to sense and manipulate magic-hidden pathways. She and Lucius were off chasing down a lead on Cabrakan, but would be there the next morning to check for evidence of a concealment spell, when Strike did a ’port bounce through the Yucatán, gathering the scattered magi.
Which left Brandt and Patience alone for the night, in the place where they had begun, surrounded by air that danced across his skin and left him aching. The sizzle wasn’t one-sided either; he saw it reflected in the sidelong glances she shot him as they left the park, felt it when their bodies brushed as they walked side by side.
He knew it wasn’t fair for him to want her one moment and push her away the next. But he was having a hard time holding on to that logic now that they were in their own personal paradise, a place out of reality where they could steal a few hours of the past.
That was their mission, after all. Finding memories.
He paused outside the restaurant where he’d taken her for their first real date. “Can I buy you dinner?” It was a feeble joke; with access to a bankroll intended to fund an army, money was one of the few things the Nightkeepers didn’t need to stress about.
“Looks like it’s come up a few notches in the world.” What had been a midpriced joint offering
a tourist-friendly selection of Tex-Mex and burger-and-fries staples the first two times they’d been in town now offered Mayan-themed fine dining with handwoven tablecloths and a had Zagat review in the window. She slanted him a look. “Think we’re underdressed?”
His jeans and button-down were casual, his boots practical, his weapons concealed. She, too, was subtly prepared for action in cargo pants, lace-up shoes, and a tight tank that accented the strong lines of her arms and torso, the generous curves of her breasts. Over that, she wore a clingy blue shirt against the cooler air of the rainy-season night. It clung to the contours of her body and was very soft when it brushed against him.
“Let’s find out.”
He tried not to think it was destiny that there was a cancellation in an otherwise booked night, allowing them to slip right in. He wanted to deny that it was fate when they were led to a table for two by the window, in the same spot where they had sat during their first date, and overlooking the place where he’d been standing the very first time he saw her.
“Want to start with a bottle or two of tequila?” she asked, her eyes lighting with wry amusement.
He snorted. “Getting drunk’s not the worst idea you’ve ever had.”
They didn’t, though. Instead, they shared tamalon tutiwah—round, flat corn cakes with bean and pumpkin-seed filling poured into thirteen indentations evenly spaced around the circumference, representing the thirteen-month calendar of the Maya—followed by flavorful spiced snapper wrapped in banana leaves and baked in a clay pot. Dessert was fresh fruit swimming in lightly fermented pineapple juice, leaving them satisfied but not weighed down.
The conversation, too, stayed light, not because they were working to keep it that way, but because they just freaking clicked here.
They left the restaurant and headed toward the hotel with his arm across her shoulders, hers looped around his waist. “I wish—,” she began, but then broke off, shaking her head. “Never mind.”
“Yeah.” He tightened his arm in a half hug. “I know.” He wished too. He wished he knew why things seemed so different here than they did back at Skywatch, wished he knew what kept going wrong between them, and how to fix it. He paused, looking up at a storefront that looked familiar, yet not. “This was the bar I saw you coming out of.” Thanks to the etznab spell, the memory was fresh and new.
“Now it’s a souvenir shop.” A bell above the door tinkled as she pushed into the colorful, crammed space, tugging him along with her. “Come on. Let’s check it out.”
It was a night for bringing things full circle, after all.
They wandered through the shop, took turns trying on a blinged-out, green velveteen sombrero, and picked out a couple of hot sauces to add to Jox and Sasha’s collection.
As they headed to the counter, Patience paused at a display of brightly colored textiles, her face lighting as she touched a vivid purple scarf. “You go ahead. I’m going to look for—” She broke off, animation draining. “Never mind.”
Purple was Hannah’s favorite color, Brandt remembered with a dull twinge of regret, the kind he didn’t usually let himself feel. “You could get it anyway,” he said. “Save it for the day after.” That was what they used to call it, back when they still talked about being reunited with their sons and winikin on the day after the zero date.
Two years and four days. The number was never completely out of his mind, even when it was buried deep.
She turned away from the display. “If I went with that theory, the suite would already be crammed.”
“Yeah. Between birthdays and the wayeb festivals, it’s tempting to go a little crazy and fill the gap with stuff.” He didn’t bother pointing out that anything they bought now would be outgrown long before they saw the boys again. No need to twist that knife. He gestured with the hot sauces. “I’ll go pay out. Think about the scarf. She’ll always love purple.”
But as he moved past her, she gripped his biceps, digging in. “Wait.”
He paused. “Problem?”
“I didn’t know you thought about them like that.” Her expression hovered between wariness and confusion.
Although something deep down inside told him it was a bad idea, that given the uncertainty of the Triad magic, they should keep the status quo between them, he met her eyes and said, “There’s a midgrade book about coral reefs on the shelf near the door, packaged with a snorkel, mask, and fins. That would be for Harry, because he’d love the book so much that he’d want to get out in the water and see all the critters for real. I’d get Braden one of the make-your-own Mayan drum kits in the back. We could sneak in some history while putting it together, and he’d be into the potential for making noise.” He paused, throat thickening. “I miss them too.”
A single tear tracked down her cheek. “You never say anything.”
“Talking about it didn’t seem to help either of us. If anything, it made things worse.”
To his surprise, she nodded, accepting that. Or if not accepting it, then accepting that was the way he’d seen it. With a small, defiant chin tilt, she took the purple scarf off the display and headed for the checkout desk.
She didn’t say anything when he added the snorkeling gear and the drum kit to the pile on the counter.
In fact, neither of them said anything, really, as they left the store with their purchases and headed for the hotel. But he was entirely aware of her, of the way her body moved with a fighter’s economy of motion, but was still utterly feminine. The neon-lit darkness cast her face in light and shadow, making her look fierce and capable. Like a fitting mate to an eagle warrior. Like the woman he fell in love with, but had somehow lost along the way.
She glanced at him. “You’re staring.”
He should let it go. But he didn’t. “I wish I knew why we get along so much better here.”
Stopping, she turned to face him. “You know why. We both do. And we don’t have to talk about it. Truly.”
She was offering him an out. They could check into the hotel, go upstairs, and they would probably make love, because the two of them made sense together in El Rey.
But he didn’t want the out. Not tonight. “Things went to hell after I got my warrior’s talent.”
According to Woody, his eagle ancestors had been tough, loyal, and almost always brilliantly successful at their jobs, as long as they stuck within their skill sets of math and engineering. They had also been workaholics, and had the highest rate of broken matings among the magi, largely because their talents so often took over their lives.
“You’re not the only warrior in the family.”
“Your bloodline is different. It didn’t affect you the same way.”
It was the simplest answer. And although it wasn’t comfortable—none of this was—it made sense within the magic, and gave him reason to hope, deep down inside, that he’d be able to put his life back together once the war was over.
But Patience shook her head. “Unfortunately, there’s another explanation.” She paused. “Why else would we have been crazy about each other from the night we met, right up until our talent ceremonies?”
Brandt frowned, not seeing it . . . until he did.
Oh, holy crap. The bloodline marks they had both gotten on that first—and forgotten—night had formed their initial link with the barrier. Their talent ceremonies had formed the second link, bringing them into their full powers. And in between those two events . . .
“Bullshit.” He didn’t want to think their marriage had been nothing more than an extended case of pre-talent hornies.
“Is it? The timing fits.” Her expression was closed and sad. Resigned.
As part of their transition from childhood to full-fledged magehood, Nightkeeper youngsters experienced wild hormonal fluctuations in the weeks leading up to their talent ceremonies. Most of the current magi had gotten their bloodline marks as adults, followed two weeks later by their talent marks. During those two weeks, they had paired off in some serious sexual marathons, try
ing to burn off the horns.
All except for him and Patience, who had gotten a contact high off the others, but hadn’t really experienced the same sexual urges. Maybe because they’d been living with those urges for the the past four years and mistaking them for love?
No. Impossible. Closing the small distance between them, he took her hand in his, feeling the kick of warmth, the soft strength of her, and the faintest of tremors that told him she felt the heat too, despite all their problems.
Her eyes met his, darkening as he unbuttoned her cuff and pushed back her sleeve, trailing his fingers up the smooth skin of her inner wrist to touch the stark black jun tan glyph.
“This didn’t come from hormones, damn it.” His voice was low, rough. “It means that we’re gods-destined mates. It wasn’t a coincidence that we met on that beach, and it sure as shit wasn’t by accident that we found our way into that cave. The gods chose us for a reason; they put us together for a reason.”
“Maybe this is it.” Eyes shadowed, expression unreadable, she linked their fingers, stepped away, and tugged him in the direction of “their” hotel, where Jox had reserved them a room. “Come on. We’ve got a job to do.”
The hotel was way tackier than Brandt remembered. Way, way tackier.
The formerly understated mission style had been replaced with brightly patterned serapes, velveteen sombreros, and lacquered castanets tacked to the walls, along with drink advertisements and prominent signs pointing to the cantina, and some decent prints that leaned heavily on festival and mariachi themes.
It wasn’t until they got up to the desk and he saw a stand-up display of brochures that he realized the prints had something else in common: They all had brides and grooms in them. The place had been turned into a wedding factory.
“‘Mariachi wedding packages,’” Patience read, sliding him a look. “Seriously?”
Her expression invited him to lighten things back up. More, it practically begged him to. I’m trying to be strong, her look said. Help me out.
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