Skykeepers

are linked, not just as two people who probably should have been destined mates, but through the opposition of our magics. I don’t know whether he’s planning on turning me or sacrificing me outright, but either way, he’s looking for some serious power.”

He fell silent then. There were other details, things he could fill later. But that was the bulk of things.

After a moment, Sasha said softly, “Is the Other gone now?”

“Contained. Not gone. But I have an idea about getting rid of it, or at least the connection to the silver magic.”

“The scorpion spell,” Rabbit said. “The one from the tomb.”

Michael zeroed in on him. “Has Anna looked at the photos you took?”

“Yeah.” The young man nodded. “She even did a rough translation that makes it look as though it’ll break the most recently formed magical connection.” His teeth flashed. “In my case, the hellmagic connection. In yours . . . maybe the muk connection? Or did that come before the Nightkeeper magic?”

That was a hell of a thought. “I’m a Nightkeeper first and foremost,” Michael said firmly. “How bad is the spell?”

“Nasty,” Strike said. “It requires pulque and a particularly debilitating near-death experience to get into the in-between, which is a barren plain on our side of the entrance to Xibalba. Once you’re there, you’ve got to find the Scorpion River, which is the first challenge the dead need to overcome to enter Xibalba. They cross over. You go for a swim.”

A heavy weight pressed on Michael’s gut. “Then what?”

“Another near death. If you’re lucky, that purifies your soul, breaks the magic connection and you come back.” Strike didn’t continue with the “if you’re not lucky” corollary, but it was a given. You don’t come back at all.

But what other choice did he have? Michael thought. He couldn’t go on the way he was. “It’s worth a try. When can we start?” But something changed in the air, kicking against his warrior’s mark. A flash in his peripheral vision brought his attention around to the kitchen. Tomas stood, white faced, looking like he might puke at any second. “What’s wrong?”

“Can we . . .” The winikin swallowed hard. “We need to talk. In private. Now.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

There had been too many years of friction for Michael to snap to attention at Tomas’s order. And he’d kept himself hidden for too long, lied to his teammates too much. He shook his head. “No more secrets.”

Tomas glanced at the others, stricken. His voice broke to a whisper. “I can’t. I made a vow.”

“I didn’t,” Michael said. “And since I’m guessing whatever you promised to keep secret has major implications for what’s been going on in my damn life, you didn’t have the right to make the vow in the first place.”

“It shouldn’t have mattered,” the winikin rasped. “No winikin of the stone bloodline has ever seen two in a single lifetime. There was one in our parents’ generation; there shouldn’t be another in this one.”

“Tomas,” Jox said in a forbidding voice, in full-on royal winikin mode. “What the hell are you talking about? And don’t give me any shit about vows. Get your head out of your ass, man. The situations have changed. The rules have changed. If there’s a secret talent passing through the stone bloodline, then fucking spill it.”

Tomas glared at Michael. “You should’ve told me you’d been recruited to black ops.”

“Why?” Michael snapped. “So you could feel like less of a failure?”

With a look at Jox, then the others, Tomas exhaled. His shoulders slumped. Then, finally, he said, “No, godsdamn it. So I could’ve explained what the hell was going on inside your head, and kept you from making the biggest fucking mistake of this war.” The winikin’s voice dropped to a hiss. “You’re a Mictlan; it’s your talent, jerkwad. The name doesn’t just mean the lowest level of hell; it’s what we call a mage who wields the muk magic. It’s a very rare, very secret talent that’s sent by the gods only in times of absolute need.”

“The red-robes and Ambrose both mentioned the ‘mick,’ ” Michael rasped. “They were saying

‘Mictlan.’ ”

“As for why I’m the only one who knows about it,” Tomas continued, his voice rising a little in defensive- ness, “each winikin of the stone bloodline knew about it, but was sworn to silence. The Mictlan himself is magically bound to maintain his silence on all matters pertaining to the talent, even to the point of lying to his king and family. There’s no talent mark for the same reason. It’s an avowed secret.” He paused. “The king’s winikin was the only one outside the bloodline who would’ve known.”

His voice got smaller. “I guess it didn’t get passed along.”

Jox shook his head. “There were things I wouldn’t have learned until Strike took the scepter. Which — hello?—means you should’ve told me yourself, when we reunited.”

“I didn’t think it was necessary. Michael couldn’t even summon fireballs. He was a tech salesman, for gods’ sake. I didn’t think there was any chance he’d become a Mictlan.”

“Which is what, exactly?” Michael said between his teeth.

Tomas looked at him. Looked away. Muttered, “An assassin.”

Michael’s breath exploded from him. “No. Absolutely not. Been there, done that, and I want out.”

The winikin ignored him and continued, “The Mictlan is a special kind of assassin who works not for his king or the other magi, but for the gods themselves.” The winikin paused, face going drawn.

“Because murder is one of the few truly damning sins, and the use of muk carries its own risk, the Mictlan is charged with making a single cold-blooded hit, using the muk. That’s why it’s such a secret; the target isn’t necessarily one of the enemy. Sometimes it’s one of us, someone the gods consider a mortal danger. The gods choose the target and show it to the Mictlan in a vision, usually in a mirror or pool of water. But it’s just a single hit. I’ve never heard of anyone using the muk as fighting magic.”

“Well, thanks to our complete and utter lack of communication, I now hold that dubious distinction,” Michael said in a voice almost completely devoid of emotion, coming from a heart that felt like it had gone to stone. “I killed the red-robe back in Florida using the muk, and today I capped, what, a couple of dozen Xibalbans with it. Shit.”

“Those shouldn’t count against your soul,” Tomas said, his words tripping one over the next as he started to babble in frantic release. “They were battle kills, not cold blood.” He paused, grimacing. “I don’t know how the earlier kills will affect the balance. They were part of a war, but didn’t occur during a battle.”

And not all of them had been part of a war, Michael thought, but didn’t say because it wouldn’t change the new reality of things, which was that his brief ray of hope was gone. “I can’t break the muk bond, can I?” he said hollowly. “I’ve got to keep the magic and wait for my target.” There was no question that he could do the job. Gods knew he’d done it too many times before. But he wanted to be done with it, wanted a life, damn it. He wanted to be the hero he’d thought he could be going into the FBI.

Tomas nodded. “If the gods have put a Mictlan among us, then they think there’s a need for you. I can teach you how to control your talent, but I can’t let you break the bond.”

You don’t get to make that call , Michael thought, but didn’t bother because this wasn’t about him and Tomas. It was about the gods needing something from him. He’d gone willingly into Bryson’s employ. Could he really refuse to do the same job for the gods themselves? Maybe. But if they demanded that he kill one of the Nightkeepers . . . Yeah, he could see himself refusing that. “Have any previous Mictlan refused the