Skykeepers

“Welcome to Paxil Mountain,” she said hollowly, because despite the Nightkeepers’ best efforts, she and Michael had wound up exactly where the Xibalban had intended all along.

“How are you set for magic?” Michael asked quietly.

A quick test run had her cursing. The solstice magic gathered within her, lit her up, made her feel powerful. But when she tried to shape the magic into a spell, it turned formless and slipped away.

Keeping her voice to the same low, private murmur as his, she said, “I can feel it, but I can’t do anything with it.” She didn’t look at him, was trying hard not to.

“Same here. Either there’s a ward spell going, or it’s because this is a ritual site. Most spells failed down in the tunnels beneath Chichen Itza, too.” He paused. “What’s wrong?”

That startled a laugh out of her, but she stifled the knee-jerk smart-ass response and shook her head.

“Later.”

“Now,” he countered. “Look at me.”

She lifted her chin and met his eyes, knowing he would see the turmoil in hers. “You almost died back there.”

“I know, and I’m sorry for putting you through that. I’ll explain it all later.” His tone said much later, but rather than an evasion, it felt like a promise. As did his direct, penetrating stare as he said, “You fought for me, kept me alive long enough to come back. I owe you for that. I hope that, going forward, you’ll let me fight for you.”

“I don’t think we’re going to have a choice on that one,” she said, once again scanning the room, trying to figure contingencies. There was only one way in or out, it seemed, which could get tricky.

Whoever held the tunnel controlled the situation. She continued, thinking aloud: “If we can get out of the bonds and past the ward, we still have to find the library scroll and get our asses out of here. But if we have to fight, you’d be the guy I’d choose to have my back.”

“I’m not talking about fighting at your side, though I’ll be there, no questions asked.” Warned by something in his voice, she looked back at him and found his expression intent, his eyes heating.

“What I’m saying is that I’m ready to fight with you. Against you. For you. Whatever you want to call it. You were right when you said I didn’t fight hard enough to find a way for us to be together, and then to keep us together. But it wasn’t because I didn’t care enough or didn’t want you enough. It was because I didn’t think I could possibly win.”

Faint warmth kindled despite the situation. “And now?”

“I still don’t know if I can win, but I damn well want a chance to fight, because I don’t want to do this without you. Even when we’re at opposite poles and don’t make a damn bit of sense together, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be with. You’re stuck in my head, my heart, and my damned, beat-up soul. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you there, and to have you in my life and in my bed.”

That was the starkest, most nakedly honest thing he’d ever said to her; the words cut through her wary reserve and nestled deep inside her, curling around the part of her that said he could be redeemed, that in many ways he already was. “Michael, I—”

“How touching,” a mocking voice broke in, jolting her with fear and memory, closely followed by a slash of rage and hatred as Iago moved around from behind the cruciforms into her line of sight. He wore black combat clothes that closely mimicked those of the Nightkeepers; he could’ve passed except for the red hellmark on his forearm and the cold cruelty that shone in his emerald green eyes.

“Touching . . . and borderline sickening, really. Not that it’ll matter either way in a few minutes.”

Sasha’s breath caught when Iago casually drew the stolen library scroll out from behind his back, where he’d tucked it in his belt. He held it by one end and tapped it against his opposite palm in a hypnotic rhythm that demanded her attention as a familiar brown-haired man moved up behind him.

Lucius’s eyes glowed the luminous green of a makol’s.

Iago stepped closer to Sasha, glancing between her Michael. “To sacrifice the ch’ulel and Mictlan, together, during the triad threshold. Amazing. The power is going to be . . . incalculable.”

“Good,” Michael said, his voice a dangerous purr. “That should give me plenty to work with when I take you out.”

Iago shrugged. “Big talk for a guy who’s racked and tied.”

“So untie me. I’ll fight you fair.”

Iago ignored that offer and leaned in, so his face was very near Sasha’s when he breathed, “You and he are explosive together, muk and ch’ul, matter and antimatter. Your dual sacrifice will give me enough magic not only to call the Prophet, but also to raise the last true emperor of the Aztec.”

Anticipation lit his face with unholy glee. “Imagine it . . . Moctezuma himself as an ajaw- makol, at my right hand as we complete the conquest begun five hundred years ago.” He turned away, gesturing for the makol and two of the red-robes to stay behind. “Watch them while the rest of us prepare.

We’ve got ten minutes until the solstice enters its peak. We’ll be back in five.”

Sasha’s breath escaped her in a hiss of dismay. So soon.

As Iago strode off, the red-robes and the makol took up guard positions on the dais. The red-robes gave the makol a wide berth, standing far away. The makol, though, took up its guard post very near Sasha; it stood looking at her with a faintly superior sneer on its otherwise expressionless face, its eyes glittering luminous green. Incongruously, though, Sasha caught a thread of music coming from it, borne on the magic of the coming solstice.

She turned her head so the makol couldn’t see her mouth as she whispered, “Lucius is in there. And whatever sort of ward Iago’s got fouling our magic, either the makol is standing inside it, or ch’ul is immune . . . because I’ve got his song. It’s faint, but it’s there.”

“Son of a bitch,” Michael whispered back with fierce satisfaction. “He made it out of the river.” He paused. “Can you feed him ch’ul without the makol figuring out what’s going on?”

“I can damn well try.” Concentrating on her fledgling ch’ulel skills, trying to block out the knowledge that this could be one of her last acts on earth, she opened herself to the song. She found it, touched it, tried to follow it to its source, but the thread was tenuous and inconstant. Still, she channeled ch’ul to the point of mental contact, giving up her own because she wasn’t linked to any other source.

Th e makol’s head jerked in response—apparently she wasn’t so much on the stealthy side. It narrowed its eyes at her, but it seemed more amused than annoyed when it said, “Your human isn’t here, Nightkeeper. He’s in the in-between.”

No, he’s not , Sasha thought, but apparently the makol couldn’t tell that Lucius had made it back.

Maybe because the link connecting him to the makol had been severed in the Scorpion River? That would be a lucky break. Or the work of the gods. Hope spurted, and she sent even more ch’ul along Lucius’s song. The moment she did, the makol went suddenly rigid, its eyes flickering, going from luminous to normal and back.

“Got him,” Michael said on a quiet hiss of triumph. Standing some distance away, the red-robed guards were oblivious.

“Almost.” Sasha concentrated as the eyes did their trick. Luminous. Hazel. Luminous. Then they finally stayed hazel. Lucius’s expression animated, becoming that of a human who was wretched and disoriented, but determined to break through. He shuddered for a moment, caught in transition, unable to speak.

“Hurry,” Michael ordered. “Get the guards.”

Lucius nodded raggedly and lurched toward the red-robes, pulling the makol’s long, wickedly sharp combat knife from his belt. He was low on stealth, though; one of the red-robes turned and spotted him. Shouting a warning, the pilli went for his weapon. Lucius suddenly accelerated to an inhuman blur, swiping the knife across the first guard’s throat, then jamming it to the hilt in the