Skykeepers

shit. He was right behind me.”

Rabbit’s body was still lying there, but he’d gone gray. And in Sasha’s grasp, his hand was cold as death.

Somewhere in the barrier Rabbit was halfway back into his body when he’d felt Iago grab onto his consciousness and follow, still trying to piggyback his way into the sarcophagus room, the bastard. More, through the psychic link, Rabbit could see inside the Xibalban’s mind and know his plans; that knowledge chilled him to the marrow with its scope and possibilities. No! Rabbit’s consciousness hung within the barrier’s energy flow as he fought the Xibalban’s hold, trying to find his way back to the in-between, to the gray-green mist of the barrier, hell, anywhere but back to the tomb of the First Father.

You can’t win , Iago mocked him, giving him a shove back toward his body. You’d be better off conserving your strength to fight me when we get there.

And the damn thing was, he was right. Rabbit’s strength was failing; his body was failing. Should he just let go of that connection? No, he couldn’t die now. He had to get back to the others and tell them what Iago was planning, had to get back to Myrinne and tell her he was sorry for being a dick, that she could have all the time and space she needed, even if it killed him to back off. Michael had turned away from the gods by refusing to kill him. He had to be worthy of that sacrifice. And somehow, though gods only knew how, he needed to break this ungodly link he shared with Iago. It left him too vulnerable.

But how the hell was he supposed to do that? The river had washed him clean of the extra hellmagic Iago had loaded him down with, but it hadn’t broken his connection to the hellmagic. What would?

Not a fucking thing, the Xibalban answered inside him, warning Rabbit that his mental shields were for shit, that the rest of his magic was falling down around his ears. His powers were crumbling, kaleidoscoping inward, along with his consciousness. Still struggling, he resisted the forces urging him back to himself, thinking that if he could stay out of his body, he could strand them both in the barrier, or the in- between.

Then he heard sudden music, a marching backbeat overlaid with electric guitar, and Sasha’s voice was inside his head, impossibly strong as she called, Get your ass back here, Rabbit. We need you!

Then she somehow grabbed onto him, latching her energy to his and pulling him home to his human shell.

Rabbit felt Iago’s startled delight and roared a denial, but it was already too late. The enemy mage had grabbed onto the connection, followed it to its source. Howling despair and the knowledge that he’d fucked up again, Rabbit flung himself back into his own body, hoping to hell he got there ahead of Iago.

The tomb of the First Father Relief and excitement flared as Sasha felt the magic connect. “He’s coming back,” she said, leaning into Michael’s solid strength as he fed her power through their linked hands, their magic connecting despite the muk and the madness.

Michael continued to give her—and the rest of the room—a rundown on what had happened at the river, how Lucius had helped him, then been swept downstream, and how he’d come upon Rabbit and taken back the Mictlan talent and muk link in exchange for Rabbit’s life.

Emotion surged through her and she tightened her grip on his hand, trying to tell him how she felt through their linked magic, even as she poured their linked energy into the healing connection she’d finally—finally—formed with Rabbit when she’d looked deep inside him, beneath the hellmagic that blocked her perceptions, and found his song—a soft tenor aria, haunting in its refrain.

“She’s got him!” Michael said, triumphant. Then he said something more, and Strike answered, but Sasha suddenly couldn’t follow, couldn’t react, couldn’t do anything as dark, oily brown magic surrounded her, latched onto her. “Michael!” she tried to scream, but all that came out was a whisper.

She was conscious of him turning, though everything was suddenly happening in slow motion.

Rabbit’s eyes opened, full of fear, and his mouth worked as he shouted a warning of some sort. But she couldn’t follow any of it as Iago’s oily magic flowed through her, into her, and he looked out through her eyes, saw the scene, and locked onto it for a ’port.

Magic rattled off-key, air exploded outward, and the big redheaded mage appeared in the center of the room, balanced atop the inner coffin that lay within the open sarcophagus. Jade, holding a scroll clutched to her chest, reeled back, eyes going wide and scared.

Strike shouted something and the others scrambled to take defensive positions, pulling their weapons as they scattered. Michael roared and lunged to his feet, shoving Sasha behind him as he cast a thick shield. Rabbit bellowed and threw fire, the shock wave practically flattening everyone in the chamber. The bright light blinded Sasha as magic sparked. Michael called something that cut off midword.

The world came back into focus around her, but it made no sense. Iago and Michael were both gone.

Jade was screaming, her hands streaming blood. “Iago took the library scroll!” she cried, face etched with anguish. “And he’s got Michael!”

Sasha moved toward her, throat closing in horror, but then hellmagic sparked again, harsh and discordant, and hard, hurting hands grabbed her from behind.

She screamed, drove an elbow back and tried to twist away but from her captor, but couldn’t. She cried out and struggled, looked back to see Iago’s emerald green eyes. Eyes out of her nightmares. The mage grinned. The oily brown magic cycled up, and Sasha’s world went gray-green with ’port magic and grief. “Michael!” she screamed into the void. “Help me!”

There was no answer.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Paxil Mountain Somewhere in the highlands of the former Mayan and Aztec territories

The world took shape around Sasha, gray and fuzzy at first, bringing the echoes and shuffling sounds of movement within a high stone chamber. Next, she recognized the stretched, bound, hanging feeling, the strain in her shoulders and hips that had been all too familiar during her captivity. Crucifixion. Her soul shuddered in horror, but this was no time to pretend she was somewhere else and wait for rescue.

She was one of the rescuers now.

Opening her eyes, she found herself almost back where she began—strung up on a heavy wooden cruciform, bound at the wrists and ankles. But this time, she stood on a raised dais beside a second crucifix, where Michael was tied, spread-armed and furious. She met his eyes, and a quiver ran through her at the intensity she saw in him. The shimmer might have been nerves, might’ve been desire—she felt both as she looked at him and the solstice magic burned within her. More, he seemed to be conveying a message, one that reached inside her and made her yearn, made her hope.

Knowing it was all too easy to confuse lust and desire when there was magic in the air, she looked away, studying the situation. The dais on which they were bound stood at the center of a conical stone cavern. The cavern’s inner walls looked like they might mirror the shape of the mountain’s exterior; they were carved and painted in places, though she couldn’t make out the designs in the torchlight.

The quasi-natural temple had probably started as a dead volcano that had been hollowed out by hand in ancient times. The interior was torchlit and spiced with unfamiliar ritual incense. Opposite the dais sat two elaborately carved thrones, one larger than the other, both of ancient design and bearing the sunburst symbol of the Aztec calendar. Tubs of soil sat on either side of the thrones, and her mind stuttered to see the familiar leaves of cacao and maize. But if this truly was Paxil Mountain, the legendary source of the vital foods, she supposed it made sense. Eight red-robed Xibalbans were ranged around the space, several clustered near what looked like a tunnel mouth leading to the outside, another couple near a prefab steel structure built up against one wall, and one each on either side of the paired thrones. One of the thrones was undoubtedly for Iago, she thought. But who was the other one for?