Skykeepers

heard additional bootsteps in an intersecting hallway. “I’ll meet you there.”

He keyed off without waiting for Strike’s response, as his talent warned that he’d better get his ass moving. Dousing the chameleon shield, in case the approaching group included the Xibalbans’ magic sniffers, he moved out, tacking roughly westward through the labyrinth. Soon, the prefab steel-and-

drywall construction gave way once again to stones that hummed with old magic. When he reached the place Leah had described as hiding the Nightkeeper-origin secret chamber, he trailed his fingers along the wall, searching for a pressure pad or something that would indicate the location of the hidden doorway. He didn’t— Ah! There.

He pressed the faint indentation. After a short pause, there was a grating noise and a section of the wall slid aside. Torches flared, lighting a circular stone chamber and providing a familiar ambience.

Intricately carved walls arched overhead in a series of concentric rings, forming a circular temple reminiscent of the one that had housed the intersection beneath Chichen Itza. In this sacred chamber, though, the ritualistic carvings showed a young goddess with vertical lines that looked like tears bisecting her eyes and cheeks. Her hair, worn in a high topknot, cascaded down around her like silk from an ear of corn, identifying her as the maize goddess, bringer of life and health. Which was just wrong in a place like this. How had Rincon gotten hold of such a powerful shrine?

Doesn’t matter, he told himself. Just be glad it’s here . Because sure as shit the stones held a ton of residual power; the moment he stepped inside the space, red-gold Nightkeeper magic hummed resonantly beneath his skin. And that was just the one of the one-two magical punch. Two was a hard flare of heat that his body translated instantly into a burn of lust. Sex magic, he thought, gritting his teeth as the stone doorway slid shut at his back, closing him in with the buzzing, tempting power, and the woman who’d become his personal quest to do something good for a change. Shit.

Not that he had anything against sex—far from it—but this wasn’t the time or place for him to put his impulse control to the test.

Swallowing hard, he keyed on his mike and grated, “I’m here. Where are you guys?”

“On our way,” Strike reported tersely, a burst of gunfire sounding in the background. “Might take us some time, though. We’ve got company.”

“Shit. Do you want me to—”

“Stay put,” Strike ordered. “Guard Sasha. We’ll get there as soon as we can.”

“Will do,” Michael said, but the line had already gone dead.

Forcing himself not to think about where his hands were landing, he lowered her gently to the floor, propping her up against the wall opposite the doorway. The automatic torches were apparently loaded with incense; the room was filling with the spicy smell of copan, the Nightkeepers’ sacred incense.

The scent ratcheted his magic higher, which was going to be a problem. He needed to tamp it down if he wanted to avoid the Xibalbans’ magic sniffers.

He started by squelching the sexual buzz with a couple of breathing exercises and thinking of hockey— colder than baseball, he figured, so better for the job. Unfortunately, once the buzz of sex magic was down to a manageable level, he became all too aware of another power source in the room: the bespelled woman. Power limned Sasha’s motionless form, trailing red-gold sparkles across her high cheekbones and accenting the soft curves of her breasts and hips, the long lines of her limbs.

His blood thudded in his veins; his body felt hard and heavy. He told himself to look away, but couldn’t. Told himself to swear he wouldn’t touch her, but he couldn’t do that, either.

What he could do—what he had to do—was kill the sleep spell and take his chances.

Sasha woke quickly, with none of the disorientation that had become so familiar over the past year.

The first thing she saw was the curving wall of a flame-lit circular chamber, where mad shadows danced on carved stone. That should’ve brought instant panic. Except it wasn’t panic she felt as she stared at the gorgeous stranger who’d grabbed her from the hallway. He stood across the circular room in a fighter’s ready stance, with his feet set parallel directly below his wide shoulders, his big, capable hands hooked into his weapons belt, looking very male, very dangerous.

She should be afraid. He was armed, and she had a feeling that whatever his hand-to-hand training had been, it went well beyond her own. But fear was far from her first response as their gazes connected. Instead, something shifted inside her, warming her core, tightening her skin, sensitizing her body.

An impossible whisper said that the resemblance was no coincidence, that this was the man she’d imagined in the depths of her despair, the man whose image had carried her through countless interrogations. And now he’d come for her. What took you so long? she almost said. Instead, she shook herself inwardly, reminding herself that she’d sworn off making assumptions without proof.

When he didn’t say anything, just stood there watching her steadily, his dark green eyes unreadable, she said, “Where are we?”

“Still in Iago’s compound. Working on changing that.” His short, clipped answers gave away little, yet his voice skimmed along her skin, sounding far more intimate than it should have.

“How’d you put me out like that? Drugs? Vulcan neck pinch?”

“Magic.”

Whoa. Wack-job alert , she thought, forcibly reminded that he’d flat-out claimed to be a Nightkeeper mage. She blew out a breath as the greedy churn in her stomach shifted to a twist of disquiet. “No, really. I’m serious.”

“Trust me, so am I.”

“Shit.” She looked away, trying not to let the disappointment feel deeply personal. “You’re one of them. A doomsdayer. Part of this . . . sick-assed war game Iago’s playing.”

“I wish it were a game,” he said. “It’d make all our lives a whole hell of a lot easier. Unfortunately, the end-time is very real. Iago and the Xibalbans are real, as are the Nightkeepers, the Banol Kax, the prophecies, and the coming war.” He watched her as he spoke, as if checking to see how much she already knew. Apparently finding what he’d hoped for, he nodded fractionally, broke from the ready stance, and crossed the room to lean down and offer her his hand. “I’m Michael Stone. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

Sasha took his hand and let him pull her to her feet, his grip warm and reassuring. She was dimly aware that the cut on her palm had almost healed, that he seemed to have a matching slice—or maybe a scar?—on his own. The raised ridges rubbed one against the other, sparking excitement deep within her.

Exhaling a deep breath in an effort to smooth out the jagged edges of an attraction that made no sense, she said, “I’m Sasha Ledbetter. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“We’ve been looking for you since late last year. We would’ve come for you sooner, but we couldn’t find Ia go’s base of ops. I’m sorry.”

On one level, the apology made her yearn. On another, it ticked her off. “We. You mean the Nightkeepers?” The word conjured bedtime stories of warrior heroes, fearsome monsters, and love affairs that changed the world. And there had been a time in her life that she’d imagined herself a Nightkeeper, dreaming of fantastic magical powers, supernatural enemies, and the darkly handsome mage gods-destined to be her mate. But as Ambrose lost his grip on sanity, he’d increasingly claimed the stories were real, until the day he’d taken it too far. The memory brought a twist of nausea. “Let me guess . . . you want me because of my connection to Ambrose, and the library he supposedly hid.”

He didn’t bother denying it. “That’s part of it.”

“What’s the other part?”

“We don’t just need the library, Sasha. We need you. If Ambrose was one of us, then you have power. You’re already showing signs of it.”

“Bullshit,” she said flatly. “If I’m showing signs of anything, it’s being held hostage for a year.”

Except that most of those symptoms were gone, weren’t they? What sort of hypothesis fit with that evidence?