Nightkeepers

carpets and drapes, and a faintly impersonal Native American- themed decor that practically screamed ‘‘high-end hotel,’’ she had a strong feeling the weirdness was just beginning.

As the events of the night before came clearer in her mind, she was sure of only one thing: She was way out of her jurisdiction.

The red-rock canyon walls visible beyond the wide bedroom windows suggested the Southwest, and what she now remembered of the explanation Strike had given her in the Mayan temple—after they’d had total-stranger sex —suggested she’d stumbled into a cosmic-level battle that went well beyond the MDPD.

It should’ve been utterly ridiculous even to consider that any of what she’d seen—or thought she’d seen— was real. But what was the alternative? Hallucination? Insanity? It felt way too real, and her online searches on the Survivor2012 doctrine had made it sound like an awful lot of experts—including real scientists, not just doomsday nuts—agreed that something wonky was going to happen at the end of 2012. And if she believed the Maya had predicted the zero date a few thousand years ago, was it such a stretch to believe that there was a religious component to it all?

‘‘But religion isn’t the same as actual magic,’’ she said aloud. ‘‘An astronomical event isn’t the same as gods and demons battling for control of the earth.’’

In order for her to believe what Strike had told her about the Nightkeepers, she had to accept that the 2012 apocalypse was going to boil down to a battle between good and evil, and while that might make a hell of a movie, it didn’t do much for her in terms of common sense. She was a cop. A realist.

‘‘There’s no such thing as magic,’’ she said. But she didn’t sound convinced, even to her own ears, because if there was no such thing as magic, how did she explain all that she’d seen and done recently?

A tap on the door interrupted her thoughts, which was a relief, because they weren’t getting her anywhere. Scrambling out of the plush, king-size bed, she pulled on her bloodstained clothes and fastened her belt loosely enough that she could jam the MAC beneath it. Exiting the bedroom, she crossed an equally opulent sitting room, taking note of the attached kitchenette and a short hallway beyond, leading to what looked like a solarium and a few other closed doors.

Forget upscale hotel. Apparently she’d rated a small condo.

The main door to the suite was actually a set of double doors, both elaborately carved with the same sort of glyphs Strike wore on his arm. At the thought of the marks—and the man—Leah’s skin warmed, anger at his deception tangling with desire. The churned-up heat had her voice sharpening when she opened one of the doors. ‘‘Yes?’’

Jox stood there, his lived-in face tight with disapproval as he held out a small pile of clothing, with a pair of sneakers on top. ‘‘They’ll be too big for you.’’

She bristled to meet his ’tude. ‘‘Better than bloodstains. ’’ She took the clothes before he could snatch them back. And what the hell was his problem? It wasn’t like she’d asked to get herself dragged into this mess. She’d just been doing her job.

More or less.

He bowed stiffly. ‘‘Aj-winikin.’’ Then he turned on his heel and strode off, somehow making his faded jeans and long-sleeved shirt look like livery.

‘‘Wait,’’ she said quickly. She needed more info, needed to figure out if these people—these Nightkeepers— were the real deal, and if so, whether they were the good guys or the bad. She wanted to believe Strike, wanted to trust him. And that was a serious problem, because her track record really sucked in the picking-trustworthy-men- for-relationships department.

Jox turned back with a scowl. ‘‘What?’’

‘‘What is that?’’ Leah asked. ‘‘Aj-winikin. What does it mean?’’

‘‘It means, ‘I am your servant,’’’ Jox replied. ‘‘That’s what I am, a winikin. A servant.’’

She shook her head, not buying it. ‘‘That might be the translation, but you’re nobody’s servant. What does it really mean?’’

That got her a considering look. ‘‘The winikin look after . . . people like Strike and the others. When they’re children, we help raise them, teach them, guard them. When they’re grown we act as . . . I guess you’d say their conscience. We’re the little voices that sit on their shoulders and give advice when things are going to hell.’’

‘‘Like now?’’

‘‘You have no idea.’’

‘‘Dude.’’ She risked a smile. ‘‘I blew up my coffeemaker yesterday morning, got kidnapped in my own house, shot the bejesus out of an ex-snitch and couldn’t keep him down, and then got my butt teleported from Miami to canyon country. Oh, and I seem to have acquired a one-nighter I forgot about . . . and he’s some sort of king.’’ She paused. ‘‘I think I’ve got a pretty good idea.’’

‘‘You haven’t the faintest clue,’’ he said, but there was more pity than snark in his voice.

‘‘They’re the Nightkeepers,’’ she said. ‘‘They’re supposed to save the world.’’

His eyebrows lowered. ‘‘He told you?’’

‘‘Yes and no. He told me, but then he made me forget it. Other things back home made me wonder about the 2012 date, though.’’ Like a cult that didn’t act like a cult, and a friend of her brother’s who’d insisted she keep digging. Shoving aside the guilt and grief—for the moment, at least—she pantomimed typing. ‘‘I’m hell on wheels with Google. I started pulling up papers by an Anna Catori out at UT Austin, talking about how the end of the Mayan Long Count calendar doesn’t symbolize the end of the world; it’s just a metaphor for cyclical social change, sort of a cosmic reset button. But then there’s this guy Ledbetter, who seems to think that it predicts full-on armageddon. And I got to thinking . . . what if he’s the one who’s got it right?’’

‘‘Anna is Strike’s sister.’’

Hello, non sequitur. Whatever Leah might’ve expected Jox to say, that wasn’t it. But it was information. ‘‘And she doesn’t believe in any of . . . this?’’ She waved a hand around them both. ‘‘That doesn’t