Skykeepers

As if she’d said something aloud, Strike reached forward and gripped her shoulder, a steadying contact that telegraphed strength and solidity, and left her with the impression of a hug, an echo of the not-quite telepathy they shared through their sibling bond. He’d asked her once whether she wanted to talk about her and Michael’s nonrelationship, and when she’d answered something along the lines of, “Oh, hell, no,” he’d given her the space she’d needed. But it was nice that he’d asked.

Sooner than she would have expected, they emerged at the edge of the clearing, where shade-

dappled orange sunlight glinted down on the entrance to Ambrose’s temple. Cupping her hands around her mouth, Sasha called, “Ambrose? I need to talk to you.”

The only response was a monkey’s screech coming from far above. Unsurprised—she’d suspected all along that she would have to brave the temple—she started across the clearing with Michael at her side and the rest of her teammates at her back. As the magi passed through the arched doorway, the temperature dropped sharply while wan daylight gave way to shadows. Once Sasha’s eyes had adjusted, though, she realized the shadows were far less than they could’ve been—the corridor was lit by the sun itself, with rays bouncing off highly polished sections of rock that were angled to refract the glow farther into the temple than it would’ve gone otherwise. “I didn’t see the mirrors before.”

“Lucius noticed them; they’re set to show the starscript farther back,” Michael said. “Still, since we don’t need the script, let’s give ourselves an advantage.” He palmed a couple of glow sticks from his utility belt, handed her one, and cracked his own, shaking it to activate the glowing phosphorescence, which lit the scene an unearthly orange.

The small group moved along the tunnel, magic humming at a high background, there if they needed it. Sasha kept breathing, kept telling herself that every step inward they took was a good sign, a few feet closer to where she’d seen Ambrose’s skull. She led them around the edge of the pit trap and consciously braced herself as they moved deeper into the temple, but it was still a sick shock when they reached the caved-in section. The skull was back at Skywatch, but the tzomplanti where it had rested was still there. There was no sign of Ambrose’s demi- nahwal, though. Which meant . . . what?

Was she supposed to search the ruin, hoping to find something the others had missed?

Sweat prickled at her pores, sensitizing her skin to the brush of her clothes, the heavy chill of the air as she braced her hands on her hips and called out, “I’m here, Ambrose. I’m wearing my bloodline and talent marks, and the royal ju. I’m a mage, a Nightkeeper. I’ve done what you always wanted. Now it’s your turn to do what I want. Show yourself.”

Nothing happened.

Anger stirred as she palmed her knife and recut her palm, deep enough that blood flowed freely, dripping to the stone floor of the temple.

Heart tripping unevenly in her chest, Sasha closed her eyes and whispered, “Where are you? I’ve done what you wanted; I’ve become what you intended. But now I need your help. Do you hear me?”

She raised her voice, all but shouting, “I need you, godsdamn it. Why aren’t you ever around when I need you?”

A roaring whip of wind slashed through the tunnel, all but flattening the magi. Strike and the others were driven back, shouting. They took refuge a few feet deeper down the tunnel as the gale slammed into where the space dead-ended in rubble, flinging Sasha into the wall. Panic slashed through her, and she screamed and tried to protect her face and head as the howling wind peppered her with dirt and gravel from the cave-in.

“I’ve got you.” Michael grabbed her and turned them both toward the wall, using his body to protect her from the flying debris. She clung to him, burrowed into him. For a moment she thought it was going to be okay, that they’d gotten through the worst of it. Then thunder cracked in the tunnel, and an invisible grip picked them up and wrenched them both sideways, through a blur of gray-green barrier energy.

The world went black and they slammed down onto a hard, flat surface.

Suddenly, it got very quiet. And very dark.

Sasha lay still for a moment, pinned beneath his solidity and reassured by his steady heartbeat.

“You okay?”

“I was just about to ask you the same.”

“Then I guess that means we’re both fine. You have another glow stick?” They’d both lost theirs.

“Yeah.” He rolled off her, fumbled for a moment, and was rewarded by a wan light that started pale yellow and brightened to orange. As it did, he cursed foully under his breath, because the light showed a dense pile of rubble and the smooth walls of the tunnel they’d been in moments before . . . except the orientation was wrong, and there was no tzomplanti. “We’re on the other fucking side of the cave-in.”

“Magic,” Sasha said simply. She pulled herself to her feet and dusted herself off, finding sore spots but no major injuries. “Maybe this is where we’re supposed to be,” she said, turning toward him.

“Maybe this is the way to the—” She broke off, horrified. “Behind you!”

But it was too late. The demi- nahwal swept its arm in a wide gesture, and an unseen force yanked Michael off his feet, slammed him into the wall, and held him suspended there, several feet off the ground. Michael cursed and cast top-level shield magic, slamming his spell against that of the demi- nahwal. The clash of power saved Michael from being crushed against the wall, but he couldn’t break free. The cords on the side of his neck stood out with the effort of holding magic against magic.

“Get moving,” he grated at Sasha. “What the hell are you waiting for?”

He wasn’t telling her to run away, though. Snapping to action, she closed on the demi- nahwal. The creature was wholly focused on Michael. Its lips were pulled back in a feral snarl that revealed sharply pointed teeth; its eyes gleamed with the same madness she’d seen in her vision. Palming her knife, partly for blood sacrifice, partly for defense, Sasha pricked her palm and called on the magic, the music. They came quickly in a thunder of drums, a complicated beat that folded back on itself and then raced ahead, making her think of running feet. “Ambrose,” she said softly. “It’s me. Sasha.”

The creature didn’t respond except to increase the pressure on Michael, who groaned and rolled his eyes in her direction, rasping, “Losing air here, babe.”

“Don’t call me babe.” Steeling herself, Sasha touched the nahwal’s arm, shuddering at the slippery texture of the shiny skin that was tightly stretched over wooden muscles and sinews. The drumbeats came faster, sounding like a monsoon hitting the roof of a canvas tent.

Magic, she thought, joy blooming as the ch’ul sang through her, sweeping her up. She rode the energy flow as it pulled her out of herself and into the man who’d been the only father she’d ever known, for better or worse.

Joy fled in an instant as madness surrounded her.

Anger. Rage. Insanity. The unsteady emotions spun around her in a chaos of rimshots and timpani slams, catching her up and sucking her into a forming vortex of drumbeats. She screamed and fought, flailing with insubstantial arms, trying to battle an enemy of sound. Instinctively she grabbed onto the magic and tried to control the drums, tried to slow their beat, to shape the music, control the ch’ul. But she couldn’t do it—maybe because he was too far gone in the madness, maybe because she wasn’t doing it right. She fought the noise-tide, struggling, screaming, but made no headway. Instead, she felt her grip on herself start to falter. Instinctively knowing she’d truly be lost if she gave up that connection, she focused on her own body, trying to find the feeling of the demi- nahwal’s hand beneath her arm.

“Ambrose!” she shouted, still lost somewhere within his energy. “It’s me, Sasha! Your princess.”

The din was incredible; she couldn’t even hear herself. Still, she tried again. “Ambrose? Where are you? Help me, damn it. You’re going to kill me!”

Her only answer was a vicious whip of mad joy, a chortle of glee that sounded all around her.

Panicking, she sought her own body, her own song, but she couldn’t hear it over all the rocketing drums. “Help!” she screamed. “Help me!”

Suddenly a silver gleam cracked through the whirl and wrapped around her. She screamed and struggled, but it yanked her through the drums and madness. She was still screaming when she slammed back into her own body and found herself in Michael’s arms. His eyes gleamed with silver magic and rage. Cursing, he pulled her away from the demi- nahwal, then backhanded the creature, driving it to its knees. Putting himself between them, he jerked the machete from its scabbard.