Skykeepers

bounced me out of Michael’s head.” Which probably explained why she couldn’t find Rabbit’s or Michael’s ch’ul song. They were blocked by hellmagic . . . or whatever it was that Michael had inside him. Gods.

“We should get out of here,” Nate said urgently. “If Iago figures out that Michael’s down, he might try again.”

“I think we can take that as a given,” Strike said, expression grim. “He’ll want to get his hands on . .

. whatever that was. We can’t let that happen.” But he didn’t jump to the uplink. Just stood there, staring down at Michael as if trying to figure out what to do with him.

At that moment, Sasha was afraid of Michael. But she was also afraid for him. The silver magic and the thing inside him weren’t the man she knew. Was there any way to separate them once again?

“We’re taking him with us,” she said firmly.

Strike’s expression went to that of the king, the man who sometimes had to make terrible decisions for the greater good. “He killed the red-robe during your rescue from the Survivor2012 compound. It wasn’t Iago, after all. It was Michael.”

“I didn’t know.” Yet she met her brother’s eyes, jaguar stubbornness rising up inside her as she tipped up her chin. “Killing in battle isn’t wrong.”

“But he lied about it, and gods know what else. And according to his own story—if we pick through the lies—he did it through the guy’s shield. If he can do that, he can get through the wards we’ve got on the storeroom.” He paused, dropping his voice. “I can’t have him inside Skywatch without some sort of guarantee. I can’t.”

“I’ll stay with him,” she said immediately. “He won’t kill me. Not even at his worst.”

Strike shook his head, but more in indecision than negation. “We don’t know that we’ve seen him at his worst.”

“We don’t know what we’re seeing,” she countered, desperation increasing as the seconds slipped beneath her skin, and her warrior’s mark warned that they were running out of time. “And you can’t tell me you’re willing to sacrifice one of your own without knowing for sure.”

“Is he one of mine?” Strike asked. “That wasn’t Nightkeeper magic.”

“It wasn’t Xibalban, either,” Rabbit put in. “It was more like . . . I don’t know, a mix of the two.”

He paused. “Strong as anything too. If we can figure out how to use it . . .” He trailed off in the face of the king’s glare

“I can’t risk it.” Strike shook his head. “He could take us out from the inside.”

“I’ll vouch for him,” Sasha said, feeling the moment slipping away. “I’ll blood-bind myself to him.

Whatever you want.” Give him to me.

“I won’t let you endanger yourself for a guy who’s treated you like he has,” Strike snapped, sounding more like a big brother than a king. “He’s done nothing to earn your loyalty or affection.

He’s a godsdamned walking dysfunction!”

“I’m not talking about him and me,” she countered quickly, though it wasn’t entirely accurate. “But you have to admit that this explains a whole lot of how he treated me. He was trying to keep me from getting caught up in whatever he’s going through.” Which sent her thoughts down a road they were probably better off not traveling, because whether or not he’d been doing what he thought was right in that regard, the fact was, he’d lied to her. He’d lied to all of them. Was her defense of him now just another brand of clinging?

“And you want to solve that by binding yourself to him?” Strike said. “He’d be pissed. And so would I.”

“I—” Sasha broke off, caught in her own logic. “Shit.”

“We need to make a decision,” Nate urged. The other magi were ranged around the argument, facing out, ready to defend if—or rather when—Iago sent reinforcements. “We need to get Sasha back behind the ward. He wants her by the solstice, and time is running out.”

“He wants Michael too,” she argued desperately. “You can’t leave him here. You can’t.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Strike said, his voice flat with grief.

Sasha’s soul shuddered at the implication. “Don’t. I’m begging you.”

“I’ve got to do what’s best for all of us,” he said, back in king mode. “I’ve got to follow the writs.”

“Except when it suits you,” she threw back at him, anger kicking against what she was coming to recognize as the innate stubbornness of a jaguar. “Then you rewrite. Well, then—”

“I can help him,” Rabbit broke in. He’d crouched down, was touching Michael’s wrist, his eyes gleaming with magic. When they both looked at him, he said, “He’s got some sort of blockade in his head. It’s busted, but I think . . . no, I know I can fix it.”

Strike considered the offer for the longest five seconds of Sasha’s life. “Can you guarantee that it’ll stay in place?”

She saw the lie form in the young mage’s eyes, saw it drain away as he shook his head. “No. No guarantees. But I promise I’ll do my best.”

Steeling herself, Sasha crouched down beside Rabbit and took Michael’s hand. She didn’t feel the ugly rage or the tempting silver magic now; she felt the man beneath. The one who’d rescued her, who’d made love to her. “Please, brother. Please give us a chance to figure out what this is, who he is.” And whether there’s any hope for the two of us.

As Strike wavered, a faint rattle touched the air.

“Time’s up,” Nate warned. He waved the others to link up, leaving a gap in the uplink, where Sasha hadn’t left Michael’s side, hadn’t let go of him.

Logic and heartache told her to let Strike decide, that she didn’t owe Michael anything. Her magic and heart, though, told her to hold on to him and never let go.

“Shit,” Strike said. He reached down, grabbed her free hand, and brought up the ‘port magic.

As they slid sideways into the teleport, she heard Iago’s roar of rage, his shout of, “Mictlan!” Then he was gone, the temple was gone, and they were back home.

And now, she knew, things were going to get complicated.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN December 15 Three years, six days to the zero date Skywatch

Michael swam back up through the fog of unconsciousness, and was vaguely surprised to find himself back at Skywatch. And alive. Given those two things, though, and what he remembered of the Xibalban ambush and his use of the muk, he wasn’t at all surprised to find himself locked in one of the storerooms.

The hand holding his, though, was unexpected. As was his sense that Sasha was nearby. He wouldn’t have expected her to want to get within a mile of him after what had happened.

He squeezed experimentally. “Hey.” His voice was rough and drowsy. “I didn’t think—” Realizing that it wasn’t Sasha’s hand he was holding, he broke off, eyes flying open to glare at the young man sitting beside his cot. “What the fuck?”

Rabbit scowled and broke the grip. “You’re welcome, asshole. If I hadn’t put your brain back together, you’d be a guest at Chez Xibalba right now. Or maybe Mictlan.” He paused, eyes going speculative. “Did my old man put those blocks in? That’s some seriously high-tech shit you’ve got going on in your head.”

It took Michael a few seconds to figure out what he was talking about, another few to check his own brain and realize he was alone. The Other was gone. More, it was gone gone. There was no hint of its presence, no dark pressure anywhere. He felt like he had before he’d undergone his talent ceremony, with the critical difference that he remembered everything about his alter ego, and what it had done.

Rabbit had bent his mind, resurrecting, not the dam and sluiceways Michael had constructed on his own, but rather the conditioning Dr. Horn had used to erase his other self from his conscious mind.