Nightkeepers

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