from Myrinne.
Probing the idea like an aching tooth, he rose and padded to the chair by the door, where someone had left him clean clothes. He reached for them automatically, but then hesitated at the sight of a familiar pair of jeans, his backup combat boots with the knotted laces and scarred toes, and a black cartoon tee he’d bought off CafePress.
He hadn’t thought much about his stuff while he’d been strung up in that cave—it was just stuff, after all— but the clothes hammered things home.
Christ. What a fucking difference a day could make.
Twenty-four hours ago, he’d been a beaten animal, practically inhuman, living only to kill his tormentor. Back then, if a big-assed foam finger had come down out of the sky and a booming voice had told him he was going to get another chance, he would’ve said it would be enough to kill Phee and do something to balance the scales. Now, though, surrounded by the trappings of civilization, he was coming back to himself—or maybe, hopefully, a better version of the fuckup he’d been. He wanted the chance to prove that to the others, to himself . . . and he’d give anything to be able to make some real restitution. Even promise himself to his old man.
As if on cue, magic sparked, a heavy fist banged on the door and Michael’s voice said, “You up? It’s time.”
A chill walked down Rabbit’s spine, but he shook it off, dredged up a shadow of his old swagger and called, “Give me a minute to get dressed. Unless you’re planning a cavity search?”
“Been there, done that.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Just get your ass dressed.” But there was a thread of amusement in the ex-assassin’s voice that said he, at least, might be willing to give Rabbit one last chance.
Then again, Michael knew better than most just how bad a guy could get under the influence of the dark magic.
But any optimism that might’ve brought died off a few minutes later when Rabbit found himself following Michael to the last fucking place he would’ve chosen for a meeting, the last fucking place he would’ve chosen to be, period: the sacred chamber at the center of Skywatch.
He hesitated in the doorway, becoming the sudden focus of way too many eyes as a couple of dozen team members—Nightkeeper, winikin and human alike—all looked at him as if to say “Hey, asshole, remember what happened the last time you were here?”
Myrinne stood at the edge of the crowd. She had one foot out the far door and looked as trapped as he felt, but she was there. He wasn’t sure what that meant, didn’t know what he wanted it to mean.
He nodded to her as he stepped into the open center of the room. The gesture was for all of them, though, including Red-Boar, who stood front and center before the chac-mool altar. Carved of red-tinged limestone and mortared in place with the ashes of generations past, the statue was a human figure, reclining with its body forming a zigzag shape and its blank-eyed face turned toward him, like it, too, was saying, “Hey, asshole . . .”
Yeah, he remembered what he’d done here, in this room. How the fuck could any of them think he would forget?
The glass ceiling had been replaced, and the floor, walls and altar all looked pristine. Still, though, he saw the scene as it had been, with blood everywhere and Myrinne’s torn body folded up against the foot of the chac- mool. He hadn’t struck the blow that had hurt her—that had been the demons—but he might as well have, because she had taken a blow meant for him. After everything he’d done to her, she’d saved his ass.
Christ, Myr, I’m sorry. He tried to send the words to her, but she was blocking the one-way magical link that had connected them the day before. Which left him standing there, wishing to hell he could warp time and go back to knock the shit out of himself before he fucked up things between them, before he fucked her up.
Only she didn’t look fucked up. She looked fierce and competent in dark jeans and a black tee, and at his glance, she stepped all the way in the room and glared at him, as if to say “I’m not afraid of you.”
“You come here freely to take the Boar Oath?” Red-Boar asked, eyes glittering as he put himself in Rabbit’s line of sight. He was wearing a worn brown robe, tied with a rope. It probably should’ve made him look like Obi Wan, but instead brought memories of him spending most days stoned and pissed off, and not much use to anyone, especially himself. Now, though, his voice was clear and strong as he added, “Once you’ve taken the oath, you’ll be bound to obey three orders given by the eldest of the boar bloodline. Me.”
“They’ll be my orders,” Dez said with a warning look at Red-Boar.
The brown-robed mage tipped his head. “Of course.”
Rabbit swallowed hard, though, because even if the content originated with Dez, he’d still be bound to his old man. But it had to be done. He crossed to the altar, squared off opposite his father, and said, “I’m in.”
“We’ll see.” Red-Boar pulled a stone knife from where it had been tucked into a twisted knot in the rope belt. Rabbit recognized the blade—he’d inherited it from his father and carried it into battle for years before leaving it behind at Skywatch when Phee took him. The sight of the knife back in his old man’s fist dug at him, but he supposed it was fitting.
Sunlight glinted on the blade as the old man lifted it to the sky, where the sun shone through the glass ceiling. Then, in a move so quick it felt like that of a predator snatching up its prey, killing it before it even knew it was in trouble, Red-Boar grabbed Rabbit’s wrist and yanked his hand palm up. The knife flashed down and cut deep.
Rabbit hissed, but the feeling of being palm-cut was familiar, almost cleansing after so damn long. He was more aware of his old man’s hard, hot grip than the pain as blood pooled in his cupped palms, then spilled over and splashed on the stones of the sacred chamber.
Magic gathered around them, sparking red and gold, and filling the air with an expectant hum as Red-Boar yanked him close, eyes going narrow. “Listen up, and listen good. This isn’t like any oath you’ve taken before. It’s not some weak-assed compulsion spell; it’s the real deal. If you break your word, you break your connection to the boar bloodline, understand? So be really fucking sure.”
“What do you care if the bloodline rejects me?” Rabbit said, voice low enough that only the closest onlookers would hear. “You never wanted to accept me in the first place.”
“This isn’t about what I want. It’s about saving the godsdamned world.”
“So what are you waiting for?”
Glaring, Red-Boar reached into his robe and withdrew a familiar leather pouch. It was worked with crimson and gold threads that twined together to outline the boar bloodline’s glyph, along with the sigils of the warrior and the mind-bender, just like the marks on the old man’s wrist. They were his damned ashes. Rabbit should know; he was the one who’d filled the bag and ritually sealed it into a hollow at the base of the altar. His eyes went to the spot, where now there was a darker smear of new, damp mortar, and his gut tightened.
He wasn’t just going to be swearing on his own blood. He was going to be using his father’s ashes.
“Pretty fucked up, huh?” Red-Boar looked at the bag for a moment, then said, “Hold out your hands.”
Rabbit reached his bloody fingers to take the bag, but instead of handing it over, Red-Boar upended the thing and dumped its contents. The ashes were gray and crumbly, and the whole mess hit Rabbit’s palms and poofed up in his face as he drew in a startled breath. And sucked up his father’s remains.
There were exclamations from the others, a couple of gags and lots of shifting feet, but Rabbit forced himself to hold it together as a dark taste hit his sinuses and the back of his throat, making him want to cough. His palms burned where the ashes mixed with his blood, and strange magic ate into him like acid, roughening his voice when he grated, “Get on with it.”
Red-Boar tucked the empty leather pouch into his robe, used the knife to slash his own palms, and then took both of Rabbit’s hands in his, letting their blood mingle. And, whether or not the old man liked that they were related, the blood-link formed instantly. Red-Boar’s power poured into Rabbit and flared through his veins, until he could feel the old bastard in every damn corner of his being. It was the first time he and his old man had linked up, the first time he’d felt the extra resonance that came from shared DNA. Which was ironic, really, considering that his old man was dead and he didn’t have magic of his own anymore.
“Concentrate on your bloodline mark and repeat after me.” Red-Boar rattled off a spell in the old tongue, one that Rabbit normally wouldn’t have been able to remember, never mind repeat. But somehow the words translated themselves in his head, grabbing on to him, burning themselves into his mind: “. . . by my own blood
