Skykeepers

carried with the Nightkeepers while they searched for the place that would become their home. The ashes gave the site an artificial power boost that was weaker than that found at the true sites in the Mayan territories, but was better than nothing. The chamber was full of robed figures, and Sasha had to push back a shimmer of fear at the sight of two in bloodred.

One of the red-robed figures turned toward her, and she nearly fell back, losing the face to the memory of Iago’s red-robes. But when he pushed back his hood, she recognized Strike, who she’d come to like, if from a distance, over the past two weeks. He’d proven to be an odd combination of mage king and normal beer-drinking, football-watching guy next door. In a way, all of the Nightkeepers were combinations of their former and present selves. As for her . . . well, they’d see, wouldn’t they?

Wearing a thin strand of jade beads around his forehead instead of the elaborate headdress and dangling celts of the traditional regalia, the Nightkeepers’ king looked every inch the leader, but his eyes were kind and concerned. “Are you ready for this?”

Sasha lifted her chin, drawing strength from the knowledge that Michael was right behind her.

“Apparently I was born for this.”

“Then let’s get started.” Strike gestured for the others to take their positions.

The magi formed a circle in the center of the room, sitting cross-legged, knee-to-knee. Strike and Leah, in the red robes of the royals, sat with their backs to the chac-mool altar. Patience and Brandt took their places on one side of the royal couple, Nate and Alexis on the other. The setup emphasized the linked power of the three mated pairs, united in love and magic. The four unmated singles completed the circle: Jade next to Michael, then Sasha, with Sven on her other side. It was a small circle. Anna and Rabbit, who Sasha hadn’t officially met yet, had stayed in Texas. Even if they’d been there, though, Sasha thought the ghosts in the room still would’ve outnumbered the living by a large margin. The copan-scented air all but reverberated with the memory of the hundreds of ceremonies that had taken place there, the new lives celebrated, new pair-bonds sealed, and the funeral rites that had passed the fallen on to their death challenges.

A cool breeze stirred the hair at Sasha’s nape, though there was no open window, no source for the chill that walked down her spine.

When the magi were seated, the door opened and the winikin filed in ceremonially, and handed each of the magi a stone bowl holding a folded bit of parchment, an ear of maize, and a small cup of chorote. Normally, the ceremony would’ve involved a simple bloodletting and burning of the blood-

soaked parchment. The other items were part of the effort to help Sasha invoke her bloodline nahwal.

The actual details had been largely Jox’s idea, based on Sasha’s obvious affinity for maize and cacao.

Once the winikin had dispensed the ritual items, they filed out, remaining silent. At the door, though, Jox turned back and sent Sasha a wink that warmed her. The kind, clever winikin had become her bedrock, proving to be the sort of man—and the father—she’d often wished Ambrose had been.

When the winikin were gone, Strike pulled a carved stone knife from his belt and used it to cut his palms. The others did the same, except for Leah, who used a modern combat knife, as befitted her human status, and Sasha, who didn’t have a knife because they were bloodline specific. Until they knew what bloodline she belonged to—assuming the ritual went as they hoped—she was weaponless.

“Here.” Michael palmed his knife from his ankle sheath, and passed it to her unblooded.

“Thanks.” Sasha took the blade, which was warm from his body, making the transfer both intimate and faintly erotic. Or was that the effect of the copan smoke, and the memories it invoked? Either way, she felt somehow both steadier and more unsettled with him beside her, with his knife in her hand. Focus, she told herself, and cut her palms with two long, shallow slashes, managing not to think of the past as she did so.

She hissed out a long breath that started as pain and ended as something else when the magic trickled into her, kindling a red-gold hum at the base of her brain, one she remembered from the night of her rescue, though it felt different now, less edgy and more welcoming. The hum—which was how the others consistently spoke of the magic—had seemed a rattle before. Now it was more of a river’s babble, or the basis of a song.

It was odd how many things made her think of music these days, when she’d never before been musically inclined, and couldn’t carry a tune if her life depended on it. But recently as she’d tended her struggling cacao seedlings out in Jox’s greenhouse, she’d caught herself humming softly, a faintly martial beat that echoed in her skull. Even as she thought about it, the hum twined itself around that marching beat, matching the tempo of her pulse.

Unsure whether that was part of the magic or not, she passed the knife back to Michael, bracing herself against the kick of heat brought by the touch of his fingers on hers as he took the blade. He didn’t acknowledge the unintentional caress, though; he seemed almost ferociously intent on his actions as he cut his own palms. Around the circle, the magi held their bleeding hands over the ceremonial bowls, letting their blood soak into the parchment held within, turning it dark in the dim light. Using a small torch that was passed hand-to-hand, they each lit the parchment, which sputtered and then caught fire, releasing magic in the burning of blood. Then, deviating from tradition, they each reached for and drank the chorote, which tasted like very thin, very cheap instant hot chocolate, only with a chewiness that was more unexpected than actually unpleasant. The taste made Sasha think of the village near Ambrose’s temple, and the kind strangers who’d let her hang around while her father lost himself in his dreams and work. And eventually, in his madness.

Sven made a face and said, “Urk.” The rest got their drinks down without complaint.

After the chorote, they each picked up their ear of maize and passed it through the smudgy smoke that came from the slow-burning parchment. That part of things had been adapted from an old birthing ritual, when a new baby’s umbilical blood had been collected on parchment and burned, and maize seeds were passed through the smoke and then planted. According to the ritual, children who ate maize plants grown from their own blood-spelled seeds were stronger, healthier, and smarter. The magi were hoping the act itself would strengthen them for the ceremony. Afterward, Jox and Sasha would plant the seeds and integrate the grown maize into the Nightkeepers’ diets, on the theory that they needed every bit of power they could get these days.

Sasha leaned in and inhaled the pungent smoke. She felt as if she were floating out of her body, though at the same time she could feel the press of the stone floor beneath her. Which made sense, because for this ritual, her spirit would enter the barrier while her body remained behind. The idea of being disconnected like that brought a thrum of fear, but she pushed it aside, telling herself that she’d trained for this. Whether she liked it or not, she’d been born for it.

“Link up,” Strike ordered, and the magi joined hands, one to the next, sharing blood magic. The hum notched higher, becoming music inside Sasha’s head: not just the martial theme now, but a twinkling, twining blend of sound. Strike said a short, guttural spell, and the torches went out, leaving the magi in darkness broken only by the cool moonlight coming from above through the glass ceiling.

Tipping her head back, she looked up at the full moon. She held Michael’s hand on one side, Sven’s on the other, and felt their power flow into her, and hers into them. She could feel the differences in the two men through the blood-link. Sven’s touch seemed to bring a whisper of strings and rippling harp tones. Michael’s touch didn’t seem associated with any particular piece of the music flowing through her. Maybe the martial theme she kept hearing was her brain’s way of interpreting his power?

Unable to answer that question, even for herself, Sasha braced herself for her first jack-in.

“In we go,” Strike said. Taking Leah’s hand, he sealed the circle. Then, leaning on the power brought by the love between the three couples and the teamwork that bound the others, the Nightkeepers said in unison,“Pasaj och.” And jacked in.

Sasha thought of a nahwal, holding an image culled from a dozen descriptions fixed at the forefront of her mind, hoping against hope that it would cause the barrier transition to bring her to her bloodline nahwal, in a manner analogous to Strike’s ’port targeting. That was the theory, anyway.

There was a moment of dizzying nausea, of extreme disorientation. The world went gray-green and she