Skykeepers

back!” He took a couple of steps toward the kid, then stopped dead when he felt the temptation of hellmagic and saw the dark, oily shadows clinging to the young man’s skin and clothes, making him look like he was lying beneath a blanket of darkness. “Aw, hell,” Michael said, softer now. “What happened to you? What did you do?”

“Iago.” The word was cracked, barely audible, forced through stiff lips. “He was trying to piggyback on the scorpion spell. When I blocked him, he slapped a second hellmagic connection on me. . . .” Rabbit’s voice petered out, his eyes rolling back in his head.

“Damn it.” Michael crouched down beside him, saw that his clothing was dry. The kid hadn’t made it into the river. Iago had wrapped him in layer upon layer of hellmagic and dropped him in the in-

between to die. The realization brought a glimmer of hope, and Michael reached out to shake the teen.

But then he hesitated, something deep inside warning that he shouldn’t touch the darkness. He’d severed his connection to the muk power, but the penchants of his bloodline remained. Instinct warned that if he touched the hellmagic, it would render him vulnerable to the darkness once again. And did he dare return to the river? The spell hadn’t said anything about touching the powerful waters twice.

One swim breaks the bond; a second forms it anew. The whisper came in the multitonal voice of his ancestral nahwal. Michael didn’t for a second think he’d imagined it. He wanted to rail at the nahwal, wanted to shout at the deaf gods, at the fates. But he knew that wouldn’t do a damn bit of good, so he gritted his teeth and crouched down beside his teammate.

“Come on, Rabbit,” he said, hoping he wasn’t too far gone to hear. “You’ve got to get up. It’s just a few steps to the river.”

But the younger mage didn’t respond. And as Michael watched, the dark haze around Rabbit thickened, and his breathing stuttered.

“Godsdamn it.” Michael hesitated. He couldn’t just leave Rabbit. He wouldn’t. He’d made his choice already. Steeling himself against the slick, oily feel of the mucilaginous film coating the teen, he got one arm under the kid’s shoulders, the other beneath his knees, and stood, lifting Rabbit with a groan of effort and heading toward the river. Everywhere he touched the teen, the darkness stuck and clung to his own skin. Every step he took toward the river put him another step back toward connecting with the muk power. He could feel the temptation, see the glitter of silver at the edges of his vision.

It was the curse of his bloodline.

Then he reached the edge and stepped into the Scorpion River, carrying Rabbit with him. He threw back his head and howled as the water washed part of the darkness out of Rabbit and into him, returning the Mictlan bond and his connection to the muk, though not the target mark. Gravity increased a thousandfold, the weight of his other self dragging him down, making his bones ache, making his soul cry out in pain.

Rabbit spasmed and jerked awake, thrashing. Michael lost his grip, regained it, and dragged the younger man to the surface. Then, realizing he still had to complete the spell, he shoved Rabbit’s head under, reciting the second half of the spell as he did so.

Rabbit thrashed. Convulsed. Went still.

As life drained from the young man, Michael knew what it felt like to be a murderer. But then he pulled the young man up and out, and dragged him onto the beach. He got Rabbit on his side, got the water out. Started with artificial resps.

Rabbit came around almost immediately, and grabbed for him, latching on hard, his fingernails drawing blood.

For a second, they were linked by blood and darkness, and Rabbit’s mind-bending talent. In a flash, Michael saw what Rabbit saw, knew what Rabbit knew. He felt the rage and despair of screwing up almost everything he touched, the hope that had come with finding Myrinne, the determination to turn himself around, make himself a man worthy of a mate. He felt Rabbit’s insecurity, his fears when it came to protecting Myrinne, keeping her happy, and understanding what she wanted and needed from him. He felt those same emotions echo from his own soul, where Rabbit was seeing his and Sasha’s problems firsthand. More, he felt the younger mage’s slashing sense of betrayal at seeing his own face in the mirror and grasping the enormity of Michael’s decision, the risks he ran by refusing his target.

Then it was done. The reciprocal link blinked out of existence as though it had never been, and Michael and Rabbit sagged into each other.

“Why me?” The younger man’s voice was rough and rusty, his eyes anguished. “Why did the gods want you to kill me?”

Michael shook his head. “No clue. Maybe they’re wrong.” But a shiver touched the back of his neck as he wondered whether that was what his uncle had thought: No fucking way I’m killing the king. The gods got it wrong.

“What if they aren’t?” Rabbit said, echoing his thoughts.

“You’d godsdamned better make sure they are,” Michael growled, knowing Rabbit needed to hear it, that he needed to say it. “I’ll buy into the structure of the legends, but I think the details are damn well mutable. Strike was supposed to kill Leah and now she’s his queen. The prophecies made it sound like the Volatile was a danger to us, but Nate’s an asset, not a danger. You see where I’m going with this?”

Something kindled in the hopelessness of Rabbit’s eyes. “Love helps us break the patterns.”

That rocked Michael back on his heels, slammed through him with an energy that felt like magic itself. Why had it taken a punk kid to point that out? Because damned if he wasn’t right. It was a small sample size, granted, but what if it held true? The Nightkeepers’ magic was inextricably intertwined with the man-woman connection of sex, of love. What if—maybe because theirs was such a small group, maybe because of another, higher layer of destiny—love sometimes trumped the prophecies and the signs?

The thought was humbling. Terrifying. Exciting.

Or it’s bullshit , logic said. The kid wants to believe he and his first real girlfriend are supposed to be together forever, and you want an excuse to think you can win Sasha back, even though nothing’s changed inside you. Which was true, Michael supposed. The Mictlan’s target bond had been broken, but he was still connected to the muk, still had the dubious talent and the Other within him. Damn it.

“Look,” he said, fixing Rabbit with a don’t mess with me glare, “I can’t promise you that things are going to work out with you and Myrinne, and you’d damn well better not hinge your good behavior on it. Be a man and do your best. That’s all any of us can ask of you.”

Rabbit seemed to consider that for a moment. Then his shoulders squared and he nodded. “I’m working on it.”

“Keep working.” Michael clapped the teen on the shoulder. “Now, let’s go find our bodies.” And hope to hell they’re still alive for us to come back to.

The tomb of the First Father Wrung out from dividing her energies between the two injured men, Sasha felt Michael’s energy flow dip alarmingly, spike, and dip again, and knew this was the moment she’d been dreading, the moment he hit the end of his reserves and her strength was no longer enough to keep his heart going, his blood flowing through his veins. Refusing to give up, to give in, she gripped his limp hand and flung the last of her fading strength toward the place where she could feel his energy draining. Calling to the others, she said, “Help me. I need more!”

Strike looked over from the nearly open coffin and shook his head, expression drawn. “There isn’t any more, Sasha.” He paused. “I’m sorry. It’s almost time.”

She felt her fingers go numb, and thought she’d gripped Michael’s hand too tight. Then she heard a thrumming, electric chord and realized it was the other way around. She froze, afraid to hope as she looked down at Michael. His eyes were open. “Oh,” she breathed. “You’re back.”

She was peripherally aware of Strike’s amazement, of the others gathering around, but she was caught up in Michael, and in his energy, which was alive and vibrant, and calling to hers, drawing it inward. Almost too late she felt the silver muk reach out to her, felt it begin to drain her. She cut the connection fast, but felt the ache of loss left behind. “It didn’t work.”

The forest of his eyes went to dusk. “It did and it didn’t. Rabbit—” He broke off, glancing at the teen. “Oh,