Nightkeepers

make sense.’’

The winikin shifted from one foot to the other, as though he needed to be somewhere else, or really wished he did. ‘‘It’s a long story.’’

‘‘Summarize.’’

He sighed. ‘‘Twenty-four years ago, Strike and Anna’s father had a vision that said he could prevent the end- time by bringing together all of the Nightkeepers for an attack on their enemies, the Banol Kax.’’

When he paused, she said, ‘‘They all died.’’ At his sharp look, she lifted a shoulder. ‘‘He mentioned it. Besides, it’s a hell of a big house for, what, a dozen people, most of whom are under the age of twenty-five? And it’s been gutted recently. Doesn’t take a cop to do the math and figure out that something big and bad— Oh.’’ She broke off, wincing when her mental connect-the-dots reached the center of the spiral. ‘‘His parents.’’

‘‘All of their parents, and the rest of the children, gone.’’ He snapped his fingers, though his expression robbed the gesture of any play. ‘‘Just like that. We are all that remains.’’

And the winikin had saved Strike and raised him, Leah realized. That was the dynamic. They might be master and servant on the one hand, but they were parent and grown child on the other. Complicated, like everything else she’d suddenly dropped ass-first into.

‘‘You want more, you’ll have to ask him yourself,’’ Jox said, turning away, and this time she knew he wouldn’t come back if she called his name.

So instead she said softly, ‘‘Why does he live in the pool house?’’

He paused and half turned, so he was in profile to her. ‘‘When Scarred-Jaguar led his attack on the intersection, we thought we were safe here, the winikin and the children.’’ He paused, and there was exquisite pain etched in the lines of his face when he said, ‘‘We were wrong. I got Strike and Anna to the royal family’s safe room and we waited it out.’’ He lifted a shoulder. ‘‘Strike recovered okay, more or less, but Anna . . . didn’t. She left for college and never looked back.’’

Leah didn’t know what to say. She looked around the suite, which was pleasant, but sterile. Impersonal. ‘‘This was where his parents lived.’’ It wasn’t a question.

‘‘Their things are in storage. I’m hoping—’’ Jox broke off. ‘‘Never mind.’’

Tell me, she wanted to say. I want to know everything. I need to figure out what’s real and what isn’t, and how I fit into this. You’re worried about him; I can tell. But why? Is it just me or is there something else? But she didn’t have the right to ask, because this wasn’t her world. Despite what had happened between her and Strike, he wasn’t hers. Not really.

So she didn’t ask. Instead, she reached into her back pocket and withdrew the oilskin packet. It still glowed red, though the luminescence was muted, as though the power had dimmed. She held it out. ‘‘Here. He should have this.’’

Jox looked at her for a long moment, measuring her. Then he nodded. ‘‘Thank you.’’ Taking the packet, he tipped his head in an almost-bow.

Before he could leave, she said, ‘‘Wait, please. Last question, I promise.’’ Even though there seemed to be no end to the questions.

‘‘What,’’ he said, tone resigned.

‘‘What are they?’’ she said. ‘‘What does Nightkeeper mean?’’ It wasn’t the most important question, but suddenly it was critical for her to know the answer.

‘‘The Mayan shaman-priests who oversaw the calendars were called the Daykeepers, because they protected the smaller prophecies and kept the calendars moving from one day to the next. Strike’s ancestors watched over the nights and kept the Banol Kax from coming through the barrier between the planes. That was their job, is their job,’’ he corrected himself, then said, ‘‘Strike and the others are the last of the Nightkeepers.’’ He paused. ‘‘Do yourself a favor and remember that you’re not one of them.’’

Strike woke late afternoon, groggy as hell. But once he was oriented, he couldn’t keep down the buzz of knowing Leah was nearby. He shouldn’t want her, couldn’t have her, but his body didn’t seem to give a crap about any of that.

Changing into jeans and a ratty Metallica T-shirt, he made tracks for the kitchen and did a postmagic calorie replacement by chugging a half gallon of OJ straight from the jug—with a quick look to make sure Jox couldn’t see him and bitch about backwash—and chowing a package of provolone that was probably intended for dinner.

Once the first pangs had passed and he could focus better, he noticed the oilskin packet propped up against the saltshaker. Which meant he wasn’t going directly to Leah. He had another stop to make first.

He slid the packet across the marble countertop so it rested directly in front of him. Then, slowly, half-afraid of what he might—or might not—see, he untied the string and pried up a corner of the oilskin. The first layer gave way to a second, then a third before he uncovered the makol’s treasure.

And a treasure it was. ‘‘Holy shit.’’ He’d had a hunch based on the glow, but seeing it for real . . . that was different.

The piece of fig bark was the size of two hands held side by side, and was covered with the smallest, most intricate glyphwork he’d ever seen. He didn’t have a clue what it said, but he could feel the latent power humming through his fingertips, and it was the red of the royal Nightkeepers, not the purple-green of the makol.

‘‘Thank you, Father,’’ he whispered. Then, refolding the protective covering, he tucked the packet inside his T- shirt, next to his skin, and went in search of Red-Boar.

He found the older Nightkeeper in his cottage, sitting at the kitchen table in his brown penitent’s robes with a Coke in one hand and a hunk of cheddar in the other.

The moment Strike’s foot hit the kitchen tile, Red-Boar scowled and snapped, ‘‘Why did you do it? Why did you abandon your people and go after the woman? What the hell were you thinking?’’

Snagging a Coke for himself—like the OJ hadn’t spiked enough sugar into his system—Strike dragged out a chair