Nightkeepers

Strike ducked and started running for the leafy tree line, bellowing, ‘‘Take cover!’’

His pulse pounded and adrenaline hammered through his system alongside power and rage as the entrenched makol blasted away with a combination of green fireballs and M-16s. The Nightkeepers bolted for cover as Michael threw up a shield spell that blocked the first volley.

Strike dove behind a low, partially crumbled wall carved with what looked like the flying-serpent glyph he wore on his arm. ‘‘Over here!’’

The others scrambled in behind him and hunched down as a second salvo whistled over their heads and smashed into the rock wall mere feet from their position.

‘‘I’ll get their heads down.’’ Red-Boar angled his autopistol up and over the wall and started firing off short bursts designed to keep the makol pinned. Grim faced and resolute, he looked every inch the soldier he’d once been.

Risking a look around the wall, Strike took stock. There were probably fifty of them, their green eyes glowing in the fading light. The good news was that they’d be easy to contain in the cave mouth.

The bad news was that he needed to get the hell past them.

‘‘We need to draw them out,’’ he said, hunkering back down behind the wall. ‘‘How about this?’’ He grabbed a stick, swiped a layer of leaves away, and started drawing a rough approximation of their positions in the moist earth of the rain forest floor. ‘‘The makol are fierce as hell and hard to kill, but they’re not that smart. I say four or five of us work our way around to here’’—he marked a spot on the east side of the cave mouth—‘‘and make it look like our flank is exposed.’’

Red-Boar fired and grunted in satisfaction when there was a cry of pain from the other side of the clearing. Then he glanced at the diagram. ‘‘Not much of a shot from there, for either side.’’

‘‘Granted,’’ Strike said, ‘‘but I’m counting on that. I need to draw them out, get them away from the tunnel while the rest of us sneak through on the other side and attack from the rear.’’

‘‘Too simple,’’ Red-Boar said dismissively.

‘‘But it’s relatively low-risk, and we don’t have time for anything fancy,’’ Strike countered. ‘‘I want Patience, Brandt, Sven, and Rabbit on the east side, drawing them out. Brandt, you’re in charge. Nate, you take Alexis, Michael, and Jade to the west, and see if you can get in behind them. Red-Boar, Anna, and I will use the distraction to get into that tunnel.’’

Red-Boar looked back at him. ‘‘You want me with you?’’

‘‘No, but you’re the best power boost I’ve got.’’ Strike hated splitting his forces, but he didn’t have time to waste battling the makol, and he couldn’t risk them following. He needed a clear shot at the chamber. And Leah.

Even now, he could feel the stars coming into alignment. He needed to save Leah, save the god—the fear and the mad fury of it pounded in his veins, making him feel larger than himself, and powerful with it.

‘‘Any questions?’’ He got head shakes and resolution all around, and nodded with grim satisfaction. ‘‘Good. Once the rest of you have taken care of these bastards, follow us down into the tunnel. We’re going to need you.’’

With that, he pulled his autopistols and the others did the same, and they split up, moving in opposite directions to flank the makol, and hoping to hell the plan worked.

If it didn’t, they were screwed.

Leah was running out of time. Through her weak link to the golden light of the god she could feel the alignment coming to bear, feel the power opening up, blooming within her, but she couldn’t do a damn thing with it. All the training, all the spells . . . useless.

She wasn’t a Nightkeeper. Never would be. And Strike hadn’t come for her. Did he think she was dead already? Worse, had something happened to him? Fear crushed down on defeat, adding to the sense of suffocation that was growing ever more intense with each second.

Jox’s words spooled through her head in a depressing loop. Self-sacrifice isn’t a sin . . . it’s the ultimate way . . . to honor the gods.

Was that what it was going to come down to? She cast around the chamber for a weapon, but saw only the screaming skulls and dying gods carved on the walls, and braziers that gave off red-hued copan smoke. She needed a knife, or preferably a gun. Quicker that way.

The thought twisted her belly with fear and despair. Strike, where are you?

A noise from the chamber entrance had her whipping her head from the altar surface, her heart jolting with the crazy thought that he’d locked on and come for her. But no, it was Zipacna who strode through the door, followed by a second green-eyed makol she recognized as the mimic in its baseline form. Both were wearing flowing robes the same gray-green color as the barrier mists.

Zipacna palmed a long, wickedly curved black knife from the belt knotted at his waist, and raised an eyebrow. ‘‘Last chance. You accept the spell and you’ll live beyond tonight.’’

‘‘As a makol? No way.’’

‘‘Your loss.’’ He flipped the knife, caught it by the blade, and didn’t even wince when it cut deep and blood flowed. Glancing at his watch—a jarringly normal action— he said, ‘‘You’ve got forty-two minutes left. Any last words?’’

‘‘Yeah. ‘Fuck’ and ‘you.’ ’’

He waved his bleeding hand at her. ‘‘Tell it to someone who cares. Like your brother.’’

‘‘Leave him out of this.’’ Rage guttered low in her stomach, battling out the fear.

‘‘Why?’’ He grinned, baiting her while the mimic leaned against the wall and watched them with an eerie lack of expression. ‘‘What are you going to do about it, cop?’’

The sluggish swirl of power shone hotter, brighter in her mind’s eye, and she felt something stir. A faint tingle