though. And with it, she sent a small inner plea: Please, gods, let it work for me.
She needed this. They all did.
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, braced herself, and whispered, “Tas teen k’aas wayak.” It literally meant, “Bring me the nightmare.”
And for the first time in her life, the magic came on command.
A yellow glow flared around her—or maybe it was inside her, painting her corneas from within. It was the same color as the crystal skull, glittering and gleaming with patterns of light through a gemstone. She was somehow unsurprised to feel the hard bumps of the amulet clutched in one hand, though she didn’t remember reaching for it. Her heart hammered fast and furious, and she was suddenly drenched in a cold sweat that was equal parts flop and fear.
When nothing more happened, leaving her vision clouded with yellow, she sent a plea into the sky. Show me, she urged. Show me what they need to know. This was about the magi and the war, not about her. Never about her. Please, gods. Through lips that felt like they belonged to someone else, she said again, “Tas teen k’aas wayak.”
There was another, brighter flash, one that blanked her outer vision entirely, leaving her lost in a world of amber refractions. The world seemed to shift around her for a second, as if the entire space-time continuum had hiccuped. And then, incredibly, a voice emerged from the glowing yellow kaleidoscope—no, many voices, all speaking as one, saying in her mind, Return the Father to earth. His job there is not yet done.
Shock raced through her. “What?” This was no vision. It was a message from beyond the barrier!
But as quickly as it had come, the yellow light faded and then disappeared, leaving her sitting there with both hands—fully healed now, thanks to the magic—wrapped around the crystal skull.
Her mind raced. Whose father? Probably not her own, as that had been an unfamiliar voice, not that of her own ancestral nahwal. But what other father… Oh, gods. Her throat tightened as a possibility occurred, one so huge that it was terrifying.
There was one man who had been known by many as “Father”: the sole Nightkeeper mage to survive the first massacre. He had led the dozen or so surviving children out of Egypt along with the loyal servants that had saved the children’s lives—captured Sumerian slaves whom he later enspelled to create the winikin. When they arrived in their new home—Mesoamerica—he had codified the Nightkeepers’ way of life into the writs, and he had written down everything he knew about their history and, more important, the prophecies governing the end- time.
The Nightkeepers had existed for many millennia before his birth… but he had made them what they were today.
Anna stared up at the sky, heart lifting with joy. “Thank you,” she whispered.
It wasn’t a vision or a foretelling, but she had gotten exactly what she asked for: information that would help the magi. Because unless she was way off base, the Nightkeepers had just been charged with the First Father’s resurrection.
CHAPTER EIGHT
September 15
Six days to the equinox; three months and
six days to doomsday
Skywatch
“Team one is in position,” Cara said, just loud enough that her throat mike could transmit the info to the other three team leaders—Natalie, JT, and Lora—who would sound off when they reached their positions at strategic spots around the Nightkeepers’ training ground. The faux ruin was made of cement blocks, rebar, and concrete, but otherwise mimicked a Mayan ruin, complete with a huge central pyramid with interior chambers and booby traps, and smaller pyramids, temples, and dwellings set on causeways that radiated out from the pyramid. Splashes of paint bore witness to earlier training runs, while chunks of blasted cement and char marked the few times the magi had gone at it for real. Today was a mix of the two, part paintball, part real magic. And, gods willing, the winikin would pull it off.
Her four teams had scattered from the designated drop point the moment the indicator light went green, indicating the start of the training run. Now, crouched in along the base of a dusty, irregular wall and wearing the urban desert camo of the modern human military, Cara and the seven other members of her team blended—she hoped—with the midafternoon shadows.
“Team three is in position,” JT reported. His voice was all business: clipped, efficient, precise, and with none of his off-duty ’tude. Cara didn’t know how much of his good behavior came from his days in the military and how much was Natalie’s doing, but so far, so good, and she was hoping against hope the other rebels would take his lead. Because there was more than just bragging rights riding on this particular training run.
Way more.
In the four days since Aaron’s funeral, there hadn’t been any more attacks. The mood inside the compound might’ve been better if there had been, though, because at least then there would’ve been an enemy to fight. Instead, the investigation had stalled and a few of the Nightkeepers—including the king himself—had been looking sideways at the winikin, as if thinking they knew more than they were telling. Not to mention that several of the winikin who had received their bloodline marks had become withdrawn, while others had gotten surly. Then there was Anna’s message indicating that the Nightkeepers were supposed to resurrect the First Father, who had been responsible for creating the winikin in the first place. Although Lucius and the brain trust hadn’t yet figured out how that was supposed to happen, the magi were acting like the Father’s return would be the answer to their prayers. And morale among the winikin had started seriously circling the bowl.
Fortunately, Dez—to give credit where due—had not only seen the problem, he’d come up with a damn good solution in the form of a Nightkeepers-versus-winikin training challenge: If the winikin—working in their own teams rather than the usual Nightkeeper-led groups—could infiltrate the Nightkeeper-guarded main pyramid, retrieve a hidden artifact, and get it to a designated rendezvous point for pickup, the king would think about making the winikin-only teams permanent.
It wasn’t a promise, but it had sure as heck fired up most of the winikin. As for the holdouts—Sebastian and several of his cronies—well, Cara and Zane were keeping a sharp eye on them.
Unfortunately, she also felt the need to keep a sharp eye on Zane too. She’d been getting a weird vibe off him over the past few days, and although she hadn’t expected things to be normal between them after what happened, this felt like something else. Or else she was projecting, trying to distract herself from the knowledge that Sven was still in the compound and didn’t show any signs of taking off. And when he wasn’t in her peripheral vision, Mac was.
“Team four is in position,” Lora reported. Her appointment as a team leader had gotten some grumbles after the way she froze up under fire the other day, but Zane was convinced that the responsibility would be the kick in the ass she needed to make her step up, and Cara had let him have that one.
“Team two is in the backup position,” Natalie’s voice said suddenly in her ear. “There are three heat signatures near the primary position, nothing on visual.”
“Copy that,” Cara said, forcing her brain back on track.
The heat signatures meant either Alexis or Michael was there casting a cloaking shield, or Patience was using her talent of invisibility to hide the ambush. But as part of prepping for the “us versus them” training run, the winikin had pooled their observations on the magi, and they had come up with a few workarounds that could— maybe, hopefully—help even the playing field. The heat- and infrared-sensitive goggles they were wearing were just one of many tricks they had up their camo-colored sleeves.
Their sniper was another.
“Zane?” she said into her mike. “How does it look?”
