Skykeepers

Out of nowhere, a harsh rattle of dark magic rose around them and a dozen red-robes materialized, surrounding him and Sasha, weapons pointing inward.

Howling incoherent rage, Michael slammed to a stop and went for his pistols, but his hands wouldn’t move; his body wouldn’t move from the neck down. Sasha, too, was frozen in place, her eyes wide and scared. One of the red-robes—average height and weight, with a bloody tear tattooed on his cheek—stepped forward, his lips drawn back in a sneer. “A nice trick, don’t you think?” He flicked his eyes between them, as if checking to make sure he had the right targets, then nodded his satisfaction and hit a button on his weapons belt. “Our master has plans for the two of you.”

Bullets and fireballs erupted along the perimeter of the red-robes’ circle as the other Nightkeepers let rip, but the attack spent itself on the Xibalbans’ shield. More teleport magic rattled, cycling up, no doubt called by whatever signal the red-robe had transmitted. Shit, they had a transporter who could move, not just things, but people.

Michael felt the rattle latch on and take hold of him and Sasha, and in his mind he caught a glimpse of a mountainous destination and the words “Paxil Mountain.” They were about to be dragged to the Xibalbans’ home base, into the hands of a man who could foul Strike’s ’port lock with a thought. Once they left the temple clearing, the Nightkeepers would be unable to find them.

If Michael had been alone, and in full control of his powers, Michael would’ve given himself for the chance to take out Iago’s army from within. But not with Sasha there. And not when he couldn’t be sure of himself. Because as the dark magic twined around him, the Other reappeared from wherever it had been hiding, drawn by the Xibalbans’ spell casting. A silvery fog covered Michael’s vision for a second. When it was gone, he was no longer himself. Or rather, he was both of his selves, Michael and the Other. Man and weapon. The violence within him hovered on a knife point, as though waiting for the last vestige of his self-control to snap, for him to give himself to the magic.

You said you’d die for her, the temptation seemed to whisper. What else would you do?

In that instant, the Xibalbans’ ’port magic grabbed onto them and yanked. With a roar, Michael slammed a shield around him and Sasha, cutting the ’port thread. Silver magic erupted, pouring through him, lighting him up. It was hot madness, pure temptation, and he gave in to it on a howl of mad fury and joy.

He caught Sasha against his chest, dropped the shield, and let rip with his true magic, the power the nahwal had warned would cost him his soul. He became the Other and the Other became him, and the resulting power was that of death.

Silver magic gushed from him, poured through him, became him. Ropy tendrils of the power spread out and curled around his enemies. Touched them. Took them.

One by one, the Xibalbans stiffened and cried out in horrible agony. The red-robe with the tattooed tear was first, his skin going gray as the silver magic latched on and seemed to suck the life from him.

He fell, turning to dust and char, the expression of absolute terror on his face crumbling as he disintegrated. Then the men on either side of him began to crumble, their screams twisting together in horrifying agony.

With each kill, Michael felt his power increase, his soul shuddering with the terrible weight of the deaths, even as the Other exulted and grew stronger. The robed bodies fell, turned to dust. The force holding him and Sasha captive winked out of existence as the red-robes ceased to exist, and the revving ’port magic cut out as Iago aborted his plan from afar.

But Michael didn’t stop. Couldn’t. The killing magic spread outward away from him, into the forest where their ambushers hid. Men screamed, then stopped abruptly.

Within a minute, all Michael could hear was the howling inside his own skull. It’s done , he told himself, not sure anymore which parts of him were Michael and which were the Other. Pull back! But the silver magic was within him, taking him over, more so than ever before. Mad, murderous rage rampaged through him, lighting him up and making him shudder with terrible glee.

Sasha put herself in front of him, grabbed him by his wrists. Her mouth worked, but he couldn’t hear her words over the roaring in his ears, one that sounded like drumbeats and screams, and the terrible song of war, of death. The death magic rose higher within him, focusing on her even as his soul howled denial. Her eyes went wide, her skin gray.

He was killing her. Dear gods, he was killing her.

“No!” Michael roared. Taking control with a desperate effort of will, he broke his grip and flung her aside, trying to get her as far away from him as he could, trying to get some distance, some room to . .

. what? What could he do to stop the upward spiral, cut the feed before he unleashed death on the Nightkeepers themselves?

Sasha stumbled and fell, weakened by his magic. The Other regained the upper hand, and advanced on her. Michael was dimly aware that the others crowded around him, that he was forging through their shields. A bullet plowed into his shoulder but didn’t slow him for an instant.

He was death. He was—

Death, he thought. Yes. He saw Tomas’s face in his mind’s eye, felt the winikin’s guilt, grief, and failure as his own, hated that he’d be breaking the promise he’d made. But what other choice did he have? Suicide was far better than this.

Lost in the thrill of slaughter, he tapped the death magic, let it spin up, spin through him. He fixed his eyes on Sasha, forced the words, his voice breaking with the effort of saying, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be the man who was meant to be yours.”

Then he jerked back away from her and turned the killing magic inward. At the last moment he was aware of Rabbit darting forward and grabbing onto him, getting in his face and yelling something. He caught the words “Mictlan” and “makol” but wasn’t tracking anymore, wasn’t processing. The darkness rose up to claim him. As it did, he was aware of another gripping his other arm, knew it was Sasha from the cool wash of her presence, the heat of lust.

Pure Xibalban magic came at him from one side, pure Nightkeeper from the other. They met in the middle of him, canceled each other out, and detonated to grayness. Then there was nothing. He was nothing. And that really sucked.

When Michael finally dropped, nobody caught him. He went down hard, unconscious, sprawled in the dirt.

A sob lodged in Sasha’s throat, but she didn’t go to him, didn’t touch him, because she didn’t want to ever again feel what she’d felt in him just now. The ugly, monstrous fury terrified her, made her want to puke. She hadn’t caught any of the images she suspected Rabbit had seen, but she’d felt the silver magic and heard the screams amidst the inner music he’d hidden from her, and that had been more than enough.

Over Michael’s body, she caught Rabbit’s eyes and saw her own horror reflected. The young mage flexed the hand he’d touched Michael with, as if surprised it was still attached to his body.

“What. The. Fuck?” The harsh, explosive question came from Strike. He glared from Rabbit to Sasha and back. “What did you two know about this? How’d you know how to shut him down like that?”

Rabbit, looking drawn around the edges, said, “Whatever that shit was that he was channeling, it kicked on my hellmagic. I was just using the mind-bend to try to turn him off.”

When Strike turned on her, Sasha shook her head and spread her hands to indicate bafflement. “I knew he was hiding something, but I didn’t have any idea it was . . . whatever that was.”

“You grabbed him.”

“That was instinct. I had some idea of diverting enough of his ch’ul to knock him out, but the second I touched him, he started pulling the energy from me.” Shaking inside now, she looked around at the others. “I felt like he was sucking the life out of me, and from all of you through me.” And when she’d tried to cut the flow, she’d managed to stop drawing from her teammates but hadn’t been able to sever the connection with Michael. He’d kept pulling her ch’ul, draining her, sapping her. Almost killing her. She shuddered, trying not to look at the dust piles inside the collapsed red robes. Trying not to think she could’ve been a dust pile of her own. “Lucky for me, Rabbit’s hellmagic repelled the ch’ul and