enough to send that letter and track down the artifacts he wanted. Now, though, he stared past Dez’s shoulder, twisting his fingers in the filthy cloth wrappings, and mumbling to himself, looking more pitiful than rational.
Dez’s rage didn’t quite die, but it sure as hell faltered.
Up close, the man inside the glowing cage was a deflated, deranged version of the beast he had seen in his nightmares, year after year, until new demons took his place. He didn’t look like the ruthless bastard who had dragged Dez to dozens of crumbling ruins as a kid and turned him loose with a knife and orders to find the temple’s sacred chamber, make his sacrifice, and “for fuck’s sake, get it right.” And he didn’t look like the man who had whipped him bloody each time he failed.
Instead, he looked old, sad, and defeated. And nothing like the man Dez had primed himself to kill.
“Shit.” He scowled through the bars at his captive. “Now what?” His prior self would have stuck stubbornly to the original plan. The better man he was trying to be thought it might be safe to bring him back to Skywatch, after all. If he was this far gone, not even Rabbit would be able to get at the truth that needed to stay hidden.
Still looking off to the side, as if unable to meet his eyes, Keban held out the wrapped bundle and mumbled unintelligibly.
Dez hesitated. Then, dampening the shield spell so it wouldn’t fry either of them, he moved in closer. “You want me to take it?”
The winikin jerked his chin in what might have been a nod, and went to work on the rotting cloth. Within moments, he had unwrapped a fist-sized chunk of white crystal carved into a head. The face was Mayan, the accoutrements those of a god with matching “T” shapes inscribed on both cheeks.
Dez didn’t recognize the god or the glyph, but something inside him gave a liquid tug of longing. It wasn’t the same as the way the black idol made him feel—this was softer and more grounded, almost sexual—but the two sensations were definitely in the same ballpark. This was another piece of the puzzle, no question about it.
He held out a hand, careful to stay on his side of the shield spell. “Give it to me.”
Keban offered the bust, hands shaking and then sagging as he lost strength. Dez reached for the carving, stepping forward automatically to catch it before it fell.
The moment he made contact, power flashed through him, paralyzing him momentarily.
And in that terrible, vulnerable second, Keban’s eyes focused and his fingers clamped on Dez’s wrist to yank him closer. The winikin’s eyes flashed cruelly, and he was utterly focused and in control as he held up his free hand and blew a puff of white powder through the latticework of the lightning shield.
Dez yanked away as the fine particles peppered his face. “Son of a—” Pain lashed through him, starting at his nose and mouth and then racing through his body. His muscles seized up, his senses overloaded, and he doubled over in agony.
Gods! He fought for control, but crashed to the ground instead. The white god’s head rolled away from his spasming fingers and electricity arced through him as his powers raged, veering and colliding. The shield spell shorted out, freeing Keban, who looked straight and strong, and nothing like the broken old man he had pretended to be.
He moved to stand over Dez. Pulling a wide-barreled gun from the small of his back, he shook his head, expression terrifyingly blank. “You couldn’t just meet me during the fucking solstice, could you? You had to try and be the noble motherfucking Triad mage. Well, this’ll slow you down a little.” He took aim at Dez’s kneecap.
Fuck! Dez rolled as automatic gunfire split the air. Through the haze of pain and the spinning disorientation that had come from the drugged powder, it took him a second to realize that the barrage hadn’t come from the winikin’s gun. It had been one of the MAC-10s the magi used for jade-tip combat.
Backup! Dez hadn’t wanted it, didn’t know how they had found him . . . but he was damn glad for the help as the autopistol chattered again.
Cursing, Keban grabbed the god’s head and dove through a doorway as bullets chewed into the thousand- year-old masonry.
Lurching to his feet, Dez shouted, “Don’t let him get away!” He stumbled after the winikin, trying to summon his warrior’s magic as he ran, but got sparks instead of a shield or lightning. He couldn’t sense Keban’s heat signature, but he could feel the tug of the white statue’s magic, headed toward the Hubble Site at the edge of the Aztec Ruin. Pulling a small flashlight from his heavy jacket, he flicked it on. “This way!” Ducking, he veered into a tunnel he had scouted earlier.
A single set of bootfalls pounded behind him, closing the gap as he burst out of the tunnel into the open space separating the North Ruin and the Hubble Site. But Keban wasn’t headed for the second ruin. He’d made it to his vehicle.
Dez skidded to a stop, swearing over the roar of an engine as rear lights bounced hard and disappeared in a cloud of dust.
“Son of a bitch.” He spun toward his backup, aiming the flashlight. “We have to—” He broke off, the air jamming his lungs when he saw, not a Nightkeeper, but a stranger. A woman.
And a hell of a woman, at that.
The dark-haired beauty was fully decked out for a Nightkeeper op in black Kevlar-impregnated combat pants cut trim across her waist and hips; a tight black thermal shirt under body armor that didn’t entirely camouflage her curves; a weapons belt loaded with guns, jade-tipped ammo, and a good-sized combat knife; and a gleaming black-and-chrome communications band around her upper arm that was part tech-ware, part magic.
The look packed a hell of punch, as did the shock of suddenly acquiring a new teammate, but then she took another step and her face caught the light.
And time. Fucking. Stopped.
Familiar amber-whiskey eyes framed in long, dark lashes turned a face he had labeled simply “beautiful” into something else entirely. Suddenly he saw the high cheekbones he had once ascribed to suburban royalty, the pert nose and dented chin that he’d called pixieish when he wanted to tease, and the elegantly curved mouth he had no right to dream about.
“Reese,” he whispered, heart stuttering. Logic said that he was either hallucinating or flat on his ass unconscious, because there was no way in hell Reese Montana would be wearing Nightkeeper gear and looking to back his ass up. She hated him, had cut him off, and with damn good reason.
Yet there she was. Which meant this had to be a dream. But in his dreams her hair was its natural blue- black, not a warm copper-streaked brunette. And in his dreams, she was looking at him the way she used to, before the storm and the star demon, and his mad slide into darkness. Not glaring at him like he was something she’d found stuck on the bottom of one of her silver-toed boots.
“Reese?” Shock seemed to have reduced him to that one syllable as it started connecting that this might not be a hallucination, after all.
“Guess they were right. You’re not dead.” She shoved her spare autopistol against his chest and stalked past him, headed for the second ruin. Over her shoulder, she shot, “I’m going after the winikin. And I’m not waiting for you.”
Keban. The god’s head. Oh, shit.
His warrior?s talent took over, getting his feet moving while his brain tried to catch up. Being a Nightkeeper was all about priorities, and the winikin was getting away with the statue, so he did his damnedest to focus as he followed her to a thin stand of trees beyond the ruins, where she had stashed her vehicle. But he stuttered to a halt at the edge of the clearing at the sight of her ride.
She was driving an unassuming Jeep Compass with a generic silver exterior that gave zero indication of the rabid, snorting horses under the hood, and the other mods that had been retrofitted. He knew about them because he’d done some of the work himself.
Jesus, gods. She was wearing combat clothes and driving the newest and fastest of the Nightkeepers’ cars. If he could’ve crafted a wet dream, that would be it, except for the part where she despised him. Because for all that he had remade himself, he was still the guy who had broken her heart, and worse.
“Get in,” she snapped, slinging herself into the driver?s side.
The engine roared like a racecar as he took shotgun and strapped himself in. He stared across at her. “Holy shit . . . Reese?”
“Not now.” She hit the gas and aimed for the road.
But as the acceleration punched him back in his seat, he pointed northwest. “He’s headed that way.” When
