Dawnkeepers

death hit Nate Blackhawk the moment he pushed open the door to the seashore cottage, letting him know why Edna Hopkins hadn’t answered his knock.

“Hell.” Mouth breathing, Nate crouched down, fumbled with his ankle holster, and pulled out a snub-nosed nine-millimeter loaded with jade-tipped bullets.

The jade would be overkill if he met up with bad news of the human variety, but the sacred stone was one of the few things that made a dent in the underworld nasties he’d gotten to know up close and personal over the past seven months, ever since his life had swerved off Reality Road and plunged into something that bore more than a passing resemblance to the quest fantasies he wrote for a living. Or what’d used to be his living.

“Mrs. Hopkins?” he called into the cottage. “It’s Nate Blackhawk; we spoke on the phone yesterday.

Are you okay?”

He didn’t expect an answer, didn’t get one.

There was a dead Christmas wreath hanging on the door, and jingle bells tinkled as he let the door swing shut at his back. The decoration was six weeks past its prime, suggesting that the old lady hadn’t been kidding when she’d said she was having trouble keeping up with her house, living alone.

The Cape Cod beachfront cottage was one level, maybe four or five rooms, tops, decorated right out of the Yankee Candle catalog, with an added dose of doilies. The place made Nate—at six-three, two hundred pounds, amber eyed, dark haired and sharp featured, wearing a black-on-black combination of Nightkeeper combat gear and don’t scare the old lady casual wear—feel seriously out of his element.

It wasn’t exactly the first place he’d look for an ancient Mayan artifact that’d been out of circulation for nearly eight decades, either, but this was where the trail had led.

“Mrs. Hopkins?” He moved across the main room to a short hallway, where the air was thicker.

“Edna?”

There was a bathroom on one side, followed by a closet and a neat-as-a-pin guest room done in Early Ruffle. On the opposite side was a single door, open just enough to show a slice of pale blue carpet and the edge of a lace-topped mahogany dresser. He used his toe to nudge open the door and then stepped inside, grimacing at the sight of a sunken-cheeked woman tucked into a queen-size adjustable bed, with a lace-trimmed quilt pulled up to her chin. Her eyes were closed, her skin gray, her face oddly peaceful. There was no blood, no sign of a struggle, but next to her sat a polished keepsake box Nate recognized from her description as the one that had held the small figurine she’d inherited from her grandmother, who’d gotten it from hers.

The box was open and empty, the statuette gone.

“Shit.” He felt a beat of grief for the seventy-something widow, along with a serious case of the oh, hells at the realization that the Banol Kax had known what the Nightkeepers were looking for, and had somehow gotten there first.

Or had they? he wondered, frowning at the neatly smoothed quilt, the carefully positioned body.

Th e Banol Kax and their blood-bound human emissaries, the makol, weren’t big on subtlety; he would’ve expected her to be hacked up pretty good if they’d been the ones to steal the statuette. But if not the demons, then who had offed the old lady and taken the artifact?

Not your problem, Nate told himself. You’re just the courier. But still, he stared down at the dead woman.

“I’m sorry,” he said to her. Less than twenty-four hours ago they’d spoken by phone about the statuette, and the things she could do with the money he’d offered for it. She’d wanted to move south, where it was warmer in winter, and go into assisted living, because her daughters had no time for her and even less inclination to get involved. Nate had figured he’d offer to help her with the move; he knew what it felt like to have nobody give a crap where you were or what you were doing. That wouldn’t be necessary now, though, because whoever had taken the statuette had taken her life with it.

Like that had been necessary. A low burn tightened his gut. Bastards, he thought. What harm would it’ve done to leave her alive?

He wanted to tell her that he’d get the shitheels who’d taken away the promise of a better life, but he wasn’t sure the sweet-seeming lady would care for the idea of revenge on her behalf, so in the end he said nothing. He just nodded to her, touched the hawk medallion he wore around his neck, and made a private promise to see justice done. Then he headed back the way he’d come, mentally tracking what he’d touched, wiping as needed, because there was no sense in being stupid when the cops had his prints on file.

He’d done his time and straightened out in the years since, but still.

Once he was outside and the jingle bells were quiet in their brown-needled wreath, he reholstered the nine-millimeter and headed for his rental. A few miles out of town he stopped at a pay phone that actually worked—the things were few and far between these days—and called in an anonymous 911.

As soon as he was back on the road, headed for the airport, he palmed his cell and speed-dialed the Nightkeeper’s training compound, Skywatch.

“Yes, sir,” answered his winikin, Carlos, proper as always.

Nate didn’t bother reminding his sort-of servant to do the first-name thing, because he knew it wouldn’t work. Most of the other Nightkeeper- winikin pairs were pretty informal with each other, having been together for decades. Nate, on the other hand, had lost his original winikin early on, winding up in human-style foster care instead. He’d grown up human, not having a clue about the magic in his blood until seven months earlier, when the Nightkeepers’ hereditary king, Striking-

Jaguar, had shown up at Hawk Enterprises, teleported him onto the roof, and dangled him over the side in order to get his attention, then promised to tell him about his parents. That’d been shock number one. Shock number two had come when Nate showed up at Skywatch and met fellow Nightkeeper trainee Alexis Gray . . . who was a pixel-perfect image of Hera, the sex-goddess Valkyrie Nate had written into five installments of his Viking Warrior vid games over the past four years. His friends had a running joke that Nate couldn’t keep a girlfriend because he was always comparing them to Hera, and maybe there’d been some truth to that. Meeting her in the flesh, so to speak, had blown him away.

Even better, Alexis had proven to be a woman of worth; he might give her grief about being a pampered princess and a goody-goody overachiever—both of which were true—but she was also tough and resourceful, and had a core of loyalty and integrity he had to admire, even if that sort of shit had never worked for him. But just because she was sexy as sin and a hell of a woman, and they’d hooked up for a few months during the worst of the hormone storms that’d come with getting their powers, didn’t mean they were foreordained to be mates. Nate didn’t believe in predestiny and crap like that . . . which was tantamount to blasphemy in his new life.

The Nightkeepers’ entire culture was based on fate and prophecy, but as far as Nate was concerned, destiny was just what lazy game developers pulled out of their asses when they couldn’t think of a better way to connect the dots. It was bullshit, right up there with magic swords and the ever-popular

“amulet to be named at a later date” that most epic fantasy writers used at one point or another to get themselves out of a jam.

Nate was willing to believe in the Nightkeepers’ magic because he’d experienced it firsthand, and he was willing to buy into the December 21, 2012, end date because it was based in scientific fact: The Great Conjunction was coming, and in the absence of an ozone layer, the Earth would be vulnerable to the sun flares and magnetic fluxes the eggheads were predicting. He was even willing to accept that there was a powerful barrier of psi energy separating the earth and the underworld, and that it thinned during major stellar events. Based on his recent experiences, he’d even stretch credulity and buy into the threat that the barrier would come crashing down on the 2012 end date, and that it was the Nightkeepers’ job to keep the demons on their side of the barrier when that happened.

He’d seen and done enough magic of his own to buy into those things. But there was no way in hell he was going to believe that the future was already written, that he’d known what his gods-intended mate would look like years before he’d met her in the flesh, that they were destined to fall in love because fate said they should. No frigging thanks. Having spent his first twenty years locked up, first in the foster system, then in juvie and the Greenville penitentiary, he was all about freedom and free will.

Carlos, on the other hand, was all about “the thirteenth Nightkeeper prophecy” this and “the seven demon prophecies” that, and practically worshiped the idea that time was cyclical, that what had happened before would happen again. According to legend, the winikin were the descendants of the captured