Blood Spells

hesitated, he pressed, “No tricks, no lies. I promise.”

“Which means you’ve tricked and/or lied to me recently.” The king’s expression darkened, but he reached out and took his hand.

“You need to see this.” Through the touch link, Rabbit sent a compressed thought stream straight into Strike’s head.

He started with Myrinne pointing out that his old man wouldn’t have slept with the enemy and suggesting that his mother’s people might be a different sect of the Xibalbans, that they might be potential allies. Then he showed Strike how Jox had dropped the name of the village, moved on to his and Myrinne’s visit to the village and the whole-lot-of-nothing they had found. He finished with the images of the burning village, the bodies, and the village elder spread out for sacrifice in the central fire pit that symbolized the entrance to the underworld.

When the download ended, Strike blinked at Rabbit for a few seconds. Then his features flooded with a rage so profound that Rabbit flinched away from him, ducking a little.

Strike’s voice went deadly cold. “I’m not going to punch you out. I’m tempted as all hell, but I want you awake for this . . . and I want you to remember, every fucking second, that whatever happened in that village was your fault.”

“Hey!” Myrinne got right in his face, eyes flashing. “Back off. He was trying to do the right thing.”

“Oh? And what’s your excuse?” But then Strike held up a hand. “Fuck it. Later.” Refocusing on Rabbit, he grated, “That dream punched through the compound’s wards, but it wasn’t Iago sending it.

How could you see all that through the old man’s eyes?”

“How can I do half of what I do?” Rabbit said, voice raw. “I’m a freak.” His stomach churned on a sharp- edged mix of grief and anger, coated over with a huge, crushing load of guilt—because, godsdamn it, Strike was right. Iago must’ve found out about the village from being inside his head.

But why bother to send the makol? There hadn’t been anything in the village worth the effort.

Unless there had been, and he’d missed it.

Shit. Making himself meet Strike’s glare, he said, “Are we going or not?”

“We’re going. Let’s hope to hell it was just a nightmare.” But Strike’s expression suggested that he didn’t think they were going to get so lucky.

Rabbit didn’t hold out much hope either.

“It could be a trap,” Michael pointed out. “We can’t be the only ones thinking in terms of using something— or some one—as bait.”

“Then we spring the trap,” Strike said, expression grim. “And we give Iago hell.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Oc Ajal, Mexico It wasn’t a trap. In fact, by the time the Nightkeepers ’ported in, wearing full battle gear and armed to the teeth, there was no sign of the makol. But it wasn’t a false alarm either.

The village didn’t just look as bad as Rabbit had feared; it looked worse.

All but two of the pole buildings had collapsed to smoldering cinders of wood and flesh, and the stench of charred meat permeated the air. The village was silent save for the sputter of smoke and ash.

Even the surrounding forest seemed to have been struck dumb by the slaughter. And there, in the center of it all, Saamal lay splayed out in the fire pit with his hands and feet weighted by millstones, his head lolling on one of the large rocks that had probably been used for seating, and his chest laid open, ghastly and broken-ribbed where the makol leader had ripped out his heart.

Myrinne made a sound of distress and moved closer to Rabbit’s side. Strike hadn’t suggested leaving her behind; he was punishing both of them.

Michael, Sasha, and Sven moved off to secure the perimeter and search the forest, while Patience, Brandt, Lucius, Leah, and Jade headed off to search the few buildings that remained intact.

Strike started toward Saamal’s body, gesturing to Rabbit and Myrinne without looking at them.

“Come on.”

Rabbit wished he could overload to numbness, as he had done when he’d stumbled over his father’s body lying in the tunnels beneath Chichen Itza. Instead, he remained painfully aware of the sound of Myrinne’s quiet sniffles, and the heavy weight of grief and guilt that pressed on him, making it hard to breathe.

Breathing got even more difficult when they got close enough to the corpse to catch the stink of blood, entrails, and fear. The funk made Rabbit’s skin itch. Flies had found the corpse; the rattle of their wings sounded like— Shit.

“Stay back,” he snapped. “The body is covered with dark magic.”

Strike, who had been reaching out to close the elder’s half-mast eyes in a gesture of respect, yanked his hand back, then scowled. “I don’t feel anything.”

For that matter, Rabbit hadn’t caught on until he was practically on top of the corpse. Concentrating on the faint rattle, he stretched out his hand to probe the spell. “It’s not the same as the stuff Iago uses,” he said after a moment. “It’s . . . I don’t know. Softer, maybe. More passive.”

“I thought Lucius said the thing on your head was supposed to block hellmagic.”

Startled by the reminder, Rabbit touched the circlet Lucius had given him just before they all left Skywatch. He’d forgotten he was wearing it, largely because the moment he’d put it on, light magic had flared and the stone had gone fluid and soft. When the magic faded, the crown had become a thin, flexible strand that was shaped perfectly for his skull and lay almost invisibly along his buzzed-down hairline.

“He said the circlet blocks mind-bending at a distance,” he said. “I can use my other talents, but Iago can’t get through to me as long as I’m wearing it.”

“We hope.”

“Yeah.” Rabbit stared down at the corpse. I’m so fucking sorry, he thought. I didn’t mean . . . Shit, this was no time for excuses. It was time to respect the dead. And, gods willing, avenge them.

The elder’s face was slack, his skin gray. But there was something strange about the body’s waxy stillness. Who had he been, really? He had denied using dark magic, but he had put himself inside Rabbit’s mind despite the protective wards around Skywatch, and now his corpse was enshrouded in power.

A quiver ran through Rabbit. Had the elder somehow left him a message using the dark magic?

“I need to take a closer look at the spell,” he said into the strained silence that surrounded the grisly scene.

He halfway expected the king to no-fucking-way him. But Strike just looked at him for a moment, expression unreadable. Then he nodded. “Go ahead. But be careful, and pull the hell out if it feels wrong.”

“Will do.” He glanced at Myrinne. “You’ll keep an eye on me?”

She smiled crookedly. “Always.”

But Rabbit didn’t tap into the strange-feeling dark magic right away. Instead, he took a deep breath and faced Strike squarely. “We were wrong to go behind your back, and we’re going to have to live with the consequences of that. But you’re wrong to put the rest of it on us. Iago sent the soldiers. He’s the enemy. Not Myrinne and me.”

A muscle pulsed at the corner of Strike’s jaw, but he said only, “You went looking for Xibalban magic in the highlands. You found it. Now fucking do something useful with it.”

Raw, hurting anger flared deep in Rabbit’s gut, but instead of lashing out, he tamped it down, nodded stiffly. “If that’s the way you want it.”

Taking a deep breath, he centered himself, making sure his magic was turned inward rather than outward, and he wouldn’t accidentally open the hell-link. Then he stretched out his hand and laid it flat on the outer edge of the dark magic that surrounded the elder.

Power, brownish and faintly greasy, prickled along his skin and rattled through his body . . . but it didn’t invade him, didn’t force its way inside and try to take over. It was just . . . magic.