Nightkeepers

just in time to see the makol breaking ranks and bolting for the tunnel, charging toward the position held by Nate, Alexis, Michael, and Jade.

‘‘Nate, incoming!’’ Brandt shouted, and started running after the makol, with Patience, Rabbit, and Sven on his heels.

But the makol charged right past the other Nightkeepers and down the tunnel.

‘‘Get them!’’ Nate shouted, bursting from cover with his team behind him. ‘‘Don’t let them reach the chamber! We’ll take care of these guys and catch up.’’ He dropped beside one of the downed makol and dispatched it in a flash of purple light. ‘‘Go!’’

Rabbit bolted down the tunnel, skidding on the loose sand beneath his feet, firing jade-tips as he ran. He heard Brandt call his name but didn’t stop.

His old man was down there.

Seeing one of the bastards up ahead, he put on the afterburners and hauled ass. He wound up in a wider section of the tunnel, where three others joined in.

There was no sign of the makol. Shit!

Brandt, Patience, and Sven burst into the chamber moments later, sliding to a stop when they saw Rabbit. Nate and the others weren’t far behind.

‘‘I lost them,’’ Rabbit reported. ‘‘We’ll have to—’’ He broke off as sudden sweat popped out all over his body, and he started shivering. The world hazed red and orange with flame, and a rushing noise started low, at the very edge of his hearing.

‘‘What’s wrong?’’ he heard Patience say, but the words sounded like they were coming from far away. He couldn’t feel the hand she put on his shoulder, couldn’t feel the stone beneath his feet, couldn’t feel anything except the heat—the terrible, awful heat that crisped his skin and made him feel flayed alive.

‘‘Something’s coming,’’ he whispered, hunching over as the rushing noise rose up through the octaves, higher and higher until he jammed his hands over his ears to stop himself from screaming.

Then he was screaming, they all were, because the heat in his body was suddenly everywhere, searing their hands and faces and driving them deeper into the cave. The sandy floor went scorched black, then melted to liquid, and then warmed further to molten orange-red. Then that orange-red liquid lurched up from the floor of the cave, elongating and stretching, taking shape as a faceless scaled creature that was almost entirely made of teeth and claws, and didn’t so much as flinch when Michael unloaded an entire clip of jade-tips right into it. Or rather through it.

‘‘Boluntiku!’’ Rabbit screamed, and turned to run.

The thing hesitated at his shout. Locked on.

And followed.

Strike edged around the doorway leading to the sacred chamber and bit back a vicious curse when he saw Leah shackled to the altar, saw Zipacna standing over her, and saw the blood—so much blood, too much blood. She saw him and her eyes filled as she strained toward him. ‘‘Strike! Help!’’

He didn’t think. He reacted.

Roaring, he stepped into the chamber with his finger nailed to the trigger of the autopistol. The MAC-10 chattered, sending a hail of jade-tips into the bastard.

Zipacna straightened, screaming with pain as he staggered away from Leah, his body jerking with the bullet impacts. But Strike didn’t care—he kept advancing, kept firing as the rage inside him turned to something else, something hard and hot and possessive. ‘‘Get away from her. She’s mine!’’

The ajaw-makol fell against the wall, motionless, though not dead.

‘‘Cover him!’’ Strike tossed Anna one of his pistols and lunged across the room. When he reached the altar, his heart stopped in his chest and everything inside him went cold.

Leah’s wrists bore crisscrossed cuts, and blood flowed into the shallow channels grooved onto the altar, running downward by gravity flow and collecting in the sacred bowl at the altar’s front, where a charred twist of parchment burned purple-black, its magic fueled by the power of her blood.

Tears glistened in her eyes. ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ she whispered. ‘‘I got free, but when I tried to kill him he caught me again. I grabbed his knife, but . . . I’m sorry. So sorry.’’

‘‘No,’’ he said, leaning in and gathering her against him. He pressed his cheek to hers, and shuddered at the cool feel of her skin, the limpness of her body, which made it seem that she was already gone.

Her breathing was growing more and more shallow. He felt the god’s power growing within her, felt the bonds of the skyroad falling away as Leah died and the creator prepared to return to the sky.

When he pulled away, her eyes fixed on him. ‘‘Zipacna? ’’

‘‘He’s yours,’’ Strike said, voice rough with emotion. ‘‘He always was.’’ He unlocked her bonds with a touch and scooped her up off the altar, leaking her all the power he could spare, trying to heal her, to keep her heart going.

He propped her up near the makol and pressed a knife into her hand. ‘‘Take him.’’

Bolstered by his strength, and by the revenge that had carried her so long, she grasped the knife and bent over the ajaw-makol, getting his heart out, but faltering over his head.

‘‘I’ll help.’’ To Strike’s surprise, Anna moved in and finished the job, then linked hands with Leah for the spell. When they reached the end, Zipacna’s body disappeared in a flash of purple-green light. The Anna stood, wiping her hands on her bloodstained pants. ‘‘I’ll watch the tunnel.’’

She headed out of the chamber, leaving Strike and Leah alone.

Only they weren’t alone at all, he realized when a howling wind whipped through the chamber, and the skulls