Nightkeepers

someone, probably this Zipacna—not a very creative name, by the way—managed to reactivate the gateway, probably through some large-scale blood sacrifices. ’’

Leah jammed her fingertips into her temples when her spinning head threatened to float off her shoulders. ‘‘Which leaves it up to you to save the world.’’

‘‘Right,’’ he said again, and looked at her. ‘‘You’re not buying it.’’

‘‘Unfortunately, I think you are.’’ She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to slow the spins, trying not to freak right the hell out and start screaming. ‘‘And here I was last night thinking you were a fantasy, and how that was better than your being a doomsday nut.’’

‘‘Last night?’’

She realized her mistake too late, and backpedaled. ‘‘I meant just now.’’

‘‘No, you didn’t. Which means you dreamed about me.’’

Everything inside her went still. ‘‘Why do you say that?’’

Heat kindled in his dark blue eyes. ‘‘Because I sure as hell dreamed of you. Which means this isn’t a ‘wrong place, wrong time’ thing, or an accident. We were meant to meet. We were meant to be together like we were just now.’’ He held out a hand. ‘‘Give me your right wrist.’’

Resisting the urge to stick her hands behind her back, she did as he asked. ‘‘No ink.’’

‘‘What happened here?’’ His thumb lightly brushed over a lighter, roughly circular patch on her forearm.

‘‘Old scar.’’ She withdrew her arm. ‘‘No biggie. Don’t even remember how I got it.’’ Feeling trapped, she looked around the room, focusing on the doorway, which was still tightly shut. ‘‘Please tell me you know how to get us out of here.’’

He raised one dark eyebrow, but said only, ‘‘Will you do something for me first?’’

Keeping her distance, she said, ‘‘Depends.’’

‘‘It’s nothing bad. Trust me.’’ He bent and scooped the black stone knife from the floor. Offered it to her. ‘‘Take this.’’

She held up both hands. ‘‘I’m so not cutting you.’’ And none of this was real. It was all a dream. It had to be.

He flipped the knife one-handed, so he was holding on to the blade, then closed his fingers over the sharp edge, cutting himself.

‘‘Don’t!’’ She lurched forward, only to stop dead when he flipped the knife again and offered it to her haft-first, seeming unconcerned by the blood oozing from between his fingers.

‘‘Your turn.’’

The walls of unreality closed in on her, and her laugh came out tinged with hysteria. ‘‘I’m not cutting myself. No freaking way. Zipacna already . . .’’ Her words died as she glanced down at her upper arm and saw slices in the fabric of her soggy shirt, but none in the skin beneath. ‘‘What the . . . ?’’ She pawed at the shirt, pulling it down over her shoulder to see the spot where she’d been badly cut no more than an hour ago.

Instead of gashes there were three parallel scars, thin with age.

The blood drained from her head and her gut clenched with fear and denial. Her voice went thin. ‘‘There’s no such thing as magic.’’

‘‘Then this won’t work.’’ He held out the knife. ‘‘Just deep enough to draw blood.’’

She stared at the knife, hearing Zipacna’s voice in her head. Accept the power; take a master inside you. But this guy wasn’t Zipacna. He claimed he was going to track the bastard down. The enemy of her enemy was her friend, right?

Ignoring the little voice inside her that said, Not necessarily , compelled by an urge she didn’t recognize, couldn’t name, she took the knife and dragged the tip across her palm. It didn’t hurt as much as she’d expected, but the chamber took a long, lazy spin around her as blood welled up, the droplets dark red against her skin. ‘‘What now?’’

‘‘Repeat after me.’’ He slowly recited a string of words, pausing after each one and waiting while she parsed them out syllable by syllable. As she did, the air seemed to thicken around her, and the room spins upped their revs.

When he fell silent, she looked at him. ‘‘That’s it?’’

He shook his head. ‘‘Now say, ‘Pasaj och.’ ’’

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and steeled herself. ‘‘Pasaj och!’’

Nothing happened.

She waited. Still nothing.

Letting out a long, shuddering breath, she opened her eyes. The room had stopped spinning, and the wary hope that’d briefly gathered on Strike’s face had fallen away to a bleakness so terrible she almost wished she’d felt something. But she shook her head. ‘‘Sorry . . . does that mean I’m right and there’s no such thing as magic?’’

‘‘No,’’ he said softly, and crossed to take the knife from her. ‘‘It means I failed.’’ He took her hand and pressed their bleeding palms together, bringing a spark of connection and a hint of sadness. ‘‘It means this isn’t your fight.’’

‘‘Bull,’’ she said quickly, though the word came out slightly slurred as a gray curtain descended over her. ‘‘Zipacna is mine. He killed Matty and Nick. He—’’

‘‘Hush,’’ Strike whispered. ‘‘Sleep.’’ He said a few more words in that strange language and gray mist surrounded her, cushioned her.