Nightkeepers

boys. So few, Strike thought, but told himself it would be enough. It would have to be, because he had no other choice.

He never had.

Deep down inside, he knew that taking his rightful place meant the death of his dreams, the end of any hope of a life not ruled by tradition and the needs of others. He would cease being Strike and become the Nightkeepers’ king, putting them first above all others except the gods.

Putting them above himself. Above Leah.

‘‘Gods,’’ he whispered, clenching his fists at his sides, not sure if it was a curse or a prayer.

As a child he’d hated the Banol Kax for their part in the massacre. As an adult, he’d realized his father had played an equal part in the deaths, and hadn’t understood how a rational man could’ve sacrificed an entire culture in an effort to save his own family.

Now, having known Leah and the promise of what they might’ve had together, Strike finally understood the temptation, the decision. But he couldn’t make the same choice.

He wasn’t his father.

‘‘Kuyubal-mak,’’ he said, tipping his head back and letting the words carry to the sky. ‘‘I forgive you.’’

A sudden wind blew up, sweeping across the box canyon and kicking up dust devils. The hum of power built to an audible whine, and the sun dimmed in the cloudless sky as though there were an eclipse, though none was scheduled.

Knowing it was time, knowing it was right, Strike drew his father’s knife from his belt and scored both of his palms, cutting deep so the blood flowed freely and dripped to the canyon floor at his feet.

Pain washed his vision red, but the smell of blood and its sacrifice to the gods sent the power soaring as he shouted his acceptance of the kingship, his accession to rulership of the Nightkeepers, the words coming from deep within him, some sort of bloodline memory he’d been unaware of until that moment as he roared, ‘‘Chumwan ti ajawlel!’’

A detonation blasted open the firmament in front of him, the plane of mankind splitting to reveal the gray-green barrier behind. Crimson light burst from the tear, silhouetting a figure within.

Strike saw the wink of a bloodred ruby at the nahwal’s ear, and recognized it from before. Except its eyes weren’t flat black now.

They were cobalt blue, and shone with pride.

‘‘Father,’’ Strike whispered, going to his knees before the jaguar king.

‘‘Son,’’ the nahwal replied, not in the many-timbred voice it’d used before, but in the one he remembered from his childhood. His father’s voice. The nahwal reached down. Gripped his shoulder. ‘‘Rise. A king bows only to the gods.’’

Strike stood, dimly aware that the Nightkeepers and winikin stayed kneeling behind him. The crimson light formed a royal red cloak that flared to the nahwal’s ankles, stirring in the wind that howled through the box canyon. Then the crimson light parted, revealing a spear of golden power.

The Manikin scepter.

Carved of ceiba wood and polished by the hands of a thousand kings, the scepter was actually a representation of the god Kauil, with his forehead pierced by an ax and one leg turned into a snake, wearing god markings on each of his biceps.

The nature of the god himself had long been lost to time, but the scepter represented divine kingship. The man who wielded the scepter wielded the might of the Nightkeepers.

Fingers trembling not with fear, but with awe, Strike reached out and gripped the polished idol, which remained within the barrier unless called upon for cermemonies of birth or marriage. Or ascension of a new king.

Racial memory told him the words should come in the old tongue, but this wasn’t the old days, wasn’t his father’s time, so he finished the spell in English, saying, ‘‘Before the god Kauil I take the scepter, I take the king’s duty and sacrifice, and vow to lead in defense against the end-time.’’ He paused, then said the three words that ended his old life and began a new one. ‘‘I am king.’’

Thunder clapped and red lightning split the darkened sky, and the wind whipped into a howl that stirred up the dust and spun the crimson light into a vortex. Within the funnel cloud, the nahwal started to lose its shape.

Strike strained toward it. ‘‘Father!’’

The last to disappear were its cobalt eyes, which shone with love and regret.

As the tear in the barrier snapped shut, the old king’s voice whispered, ‘‘I pray that you will do what I could not. Lead with your heart, but don’t follow it blindly.’’

Then it was gone. The air was clear, the sun shining down on them as though the freak storm had never been. Even the scepter was gone, sucked back into the barrier where its power resided.

But it had left its mark on Strike; not on his forearm, where the Nightkeepers’ glyphs went, but on his bicep, where the gods—and kings—were marked.

He stared at the geometric glyph, and for the first time in a long, long time, his soul was silent. Gone was the confusion, the grief and resentment. In their place was icy determination.

He turned to the winikin. ‘‘Who am I?’’

Jox was the first to move. He stood and crossed to Strike, then pulled a knife from his pocket, flipped the blade open, and drew it sharply across his tongue, cutting deep. Blood flowed, dripped down his chin, and stained his teeth red when he said, ‘‘You are my king.’’ He bent his head and spat blood at Strike’s feet in the oldest of sacrifices, offering both blood and water. Then he looked up at Strike, uncertain. ‘‘If you’ll still have me.’’