there wasn’t a decision to be made there. Sparks alone just weren’t enough, and—
Brush crackled, jolting her with brutal suddenness. She pulled her nine-mill and thumbed her wristband to arm the panic button, though she didn’t hit it yet. Heart drumming against her ribs, she moved off the path and angled toward where the noise had come from. “Hello?”
There was a jangle of discord in the air, a prickling awareness that said someone—or something—was out there.
It’s just a bird, she told herself. Or it could be Sasha or one of the others harvesting cacao for the upcoming equinox ritual. Maybe just someone going for a walk, like her, or continuing the search for the weak point in the barrier that had allowed the Banol Kax to send their creatures through.
Or it could be one of those creatures. Or worse.
Leveling the pistol, she swept the tree line. Not letting her voice shake, though it badly wanted to, she said, “You’ve got to the count of three before I call for backup and embarrass us both. One… two…”
There was a soft whuff. Then leaves moved, parted, and a pair of pale green eyes gleamed from the shadows.
“Oh. Christ, Mac.” She let her gun sag as adrenaline raced through her, threatening to turn her fight response into a full-on case of the shakes. “You scared the crap out of me.”
The big coyote whuffed again, using the low bark that always made her feel like she could almost understand him. Now, though, she didn’t need a translation to know what was going on. “He told you to watch out for me, didn’t he?”
Mac stepped out of the grove, looking at her with his ears and tail cocked hopefully, as if unsure of his welcome.
She exhaled a long, shuddering breath. Then she patted her thigh in invitation. “Come on, big guy. Let’s go kill some targets.”
He bounded over to her, barking with joy, and some of that good mood transmitted to her as she headed up the path with the big coyote at her side, anticipating going a few rounds with the simulator Michael had put together to teach the winikin how to shoot straight. Violence might not solve everything, but sometimes it was a damn good way to blow off steam. And gods knew she needed to clear her head enough so she could figure out how to deal with Zane, her father, the upcoming mock battle… and the part of her that was warning that sparks like the ones she and Sven made together didn’t come along every day, and she should grab them when and where she found them. Even if they weren’t planning on sticking around.
Coatepec Mountain
Mexico
Anna sat lotus-style in the temple at the top of the mountain, facing the huge chac-mool altar with her eyes closed, her dark, copper-burnished hair tied back in a knot at her nape, and her face tipped up to the sun. The sky was a clear, perfect blue, the air a soft seventy-five, and the birds were singing their little hearts out from the trees farther down the peak, near the excavation where she and several of the others were trying to figure out how, exactly, Coatepec Mountain would figure into the end-time war.
Around her at the points of a perfect equilateral triangle stood three ancient stone pillars carved to represent the balam, the jaguar that was her bloodline totem. Together, the pillars and altar outlined the place where a vital intersection—the Nightkeepers’ connection to the gods themselves—appeared during the solstices and equinoxes. But the equinox was still a week away, and today, save for her, the mountaintop was deserted. Strike and Sasha had ’ported north to Skywatch to huddle with Dez and the others over the latest attack, leaving Anna blessedly alone.
Gods. Finally.
Powerless to help the warriors with anything but teleportation, she had named herself the guardian of the intersection at Coatepec Mountain, and set out to uncover its secrets. So far, though, she hadn’t gotten very far. Maybe now, with her mind clear of background chatter, she would be able to sense something in the stones, some clue of how they were to be used, or when.
She picked up the knife she’d brought with her, suppressing a shudder. A brush of her fingertips found the ridged scars on her wrists, old and closed, though they ached with the beat of her heart as she set the knife point to one palm. “Please, gods,” she whispered, “let me help.”
There was no use asking them to help her—she hadn’t felt their presence in a long, long time. She didn’t know if they had given up on her because she had turned away from them too often, rejecting their gifts over and over again, or if she was the one blocking them, afraid that if she let one piece of the magic come, the rest of it would follow. It was probably a combination of the two, which might have been a relief if she’d had any ability to control it. But she didn’t; it was all in her head. Literally.
It was going to be up to the gods, and maybe—hopefully—a ritual that could convince her subconscious to release whatever hold it was keeping on her magic. She didn’t want to be a seer, didn’t even want to be a Nightkeeper. But when she weighed those desires against the end-time war, they lost out, big-time.
“Okay,” she murmured, not really sure if she was talking to herself or to the voice she sometimes heard inside her head—that of a ghost with unerring logic and a snarly attitude, both of which had transcended death. “Wish me luck.”
She didn’t hear anything, didn’t feel anything, but imagined him making a derisive face and telling her not to be a girl, and go ahead and cut already. So she did. Blood welled up and pain slashed through her, but it was familiar and cleansing, and it was terrifyingly easy to switch hands and cut her other palm, gripping the blood- slicked handle tightly.
There was no buzzing hum in the air, no sparkles of red-gold, no sign that the magic even cared that she was bleeding onto the packed earth as she dipped into the pocket of her bush pants and closed her fingers around the small, yellow quartz pendant she carried with her, partly as a talisman, partly as penance.
Anna had been two years away from the start of her training and decades away from receiving the skull from her mother when the king—her father—had declared war on the intersection beneath Chichen Itza, believing that sealing it would prevent the end-time war. Her mother, foreseeing the massacre and knowing that that was the true vision, had stood by her husband in public, but did three things in private: She tutored Strike and Anna’s winikin, Jox, on the use of the magical safe room hidden beneath the mansion’s library; she faked a stillbirth and sent the newborn—Sasha—far away where she might be safe… and she gave thirteen-year-old Anna her crystal skull.
Lifting it now, Anna let the silver chain run through her bloodstained fingers until the quartz carving dangled, then began to swing hypnotically. Its empty sockets stared at her, blinking from sunlight to shadow and back again as the carving twisted on its axis.
The skull had power, and she had the innate ability to use that power. There was no other way she could have seen the things she had seen during the massacre otherwise. But the experience had scarred her, changed her, and when the magic came back online for all the others two decades later, it hadn’t done so for her. Oh, she had moments here and there, but nothing consistent or controlled, and even those visions had fallen off over time. But the potential was there. She just had to break through the barriers inside her.
Hands shaking, she looped the chain around her neck. The skull settled between her breasts as she focused inward, hearing the beat of her heart and the rush of the blood in her veins, feeling the sting of sacrifice and the heavy weight of the pendant against her breastbone, and seeking the magic that had once come as naturally to her as flirting and laughing. All of which now seemed to belong to another lifetime. And, just as she couldn’t summon any interest in flirting or let free the easy laughter she had once loved, she couldn’t find the magic now.
Panic flickered at the edges of her mind, but she shoved it aside, because although this felt like every other time she had tried to summon a vision recently, this time she had something new to try: Lucius had given her a piece of notepaper he’d found sandwiched between two leaves of an ancient codex: notes on the vision-quest ceremony of an itza’at seer. The paper was modern, the pen blue ballpoint, the writing young and looping, and their best guess was that it had belonged to a girl who, at fifteen or sixteen, had just gotten the talent mark identifying her as an itza’at, and was embarking on a seer’s rigorous training. Though the spells were supposed to be memorized, never written down, this girl had sneaked notes.
Touching it, Anna pictured a dark-haired teen studying in the archive, sneaking furtive looks at her notes and, upon hearing the tread of adult footsteps, quickly hiding the paper. That was more imagination than vision,
