his strength… and his love, though he didn’t have any right to offer it to her anymore.
She wasn’t responding. Dear gods, she wasn’t responding.
“Myrinne!” He dived through the link and into her mind, not looking for answers this time, but rather looking for her. But the place where she should have been echoed with emptiness. “Nooooo!” He howled the word within and without, roaring the denial of what he had done. His heart shuddered and threatened to stop entirely, and part of him thought that would be a relief. He couldn’t go on without her, couldn’t live knowing that he had killed her, that she had died with his accusations ringing in her ears.
Wait, said the pussy inside him, the smarter self that had believed in her all along. Wait. Don’t you see? There’s no such thing as coincidence.
“It’s all just the will of the gods,” he said, finishing the quote from the writs. “But what—”
Then he saw it. He fucking saw it.
And he knew what he had to do.
Sven was running through the forest, first on two legs and then on four, searching, always searching. Sharp frustration burned in his marrow. He wasn’t where he was supposed to be, but couldn’t find the way there. Where? He didn’t know, knew only that he was running out of time.
Up ahead, a break in the trees, a gleam of sunlight and stone, a burst of adrenaline. There! He charged along the path, burst into the clearing, saw the cave mouth, and—
Bright white flared across his senses and he staggered, banged into a carved stone wall, and leaned against it for support, chest heaving as his surroundings came clear. He was in the ball court at Skywatch, helping pack the last of the shield stones and fire-tipped rounds for the teleport to Guatemala.
And he’d blanked out for a minute there.
“You okay, man?”
Sven squinted, trying to place the winikin. “Yeah. I’m fine, Rog—Ritchie.” He stumbled over the name, though they’d been out humping equipment together for a couple of hours already. Meeting too many new people in three short days had his head feeling stuffed full. “Maybe dehydrated a little.”
“Here.” Ritchie tossed him a water bottle. “Don’t want you conking out on us in the middle of things.”
Sven caught it on the fly. Although he wasn’t exactly Mr. Popularity, some of the winikin—most of them, actually—seemed to be accepting his involvement. “Thanks.”
He drained the bottle and set it aside while he tried successfully to keep from puking, and unsuccessfully to keep from thinking about the vision, the dreams. He couldn’t not think about them, because the clock was ticking and his gut said that when they got to Che’en Yaaxil, he was going to recognize it, not just from the inside.
“Maybe you should chill until it’s time to leave,” Ritchie suggested. Which wouldn’t be long now. Unlike many of the Nightkeepers’ rituals, which happened either in the dark of night or at the exact moment of the equinox or solstice, the resurrection spell called for broad daylight. The winikin shouldered the last of the packs and started to head for the mansion, but then hesitated and turned back. “Do you want me—”
“I’ll be fine.” Sven waved him off. “You go ahead.” He was dealing, would keep dealing. “If you see Mac, point back this way and say, ‘Go to Sven,’ will you?” The coyote was out of range, and he was too light-headed to call him back.
“He’s right behind you.”
Sven froze. Then, trying not to let the other guy see him getting rattled, he glanced back over his shoulder to find Mac on his haunches nearby, with his head cocked in a Hello? Sitting right here, dude.
Which would’ve been fine… except the familiar bond was silent. There was none of the live-wire effect that told him Mac was nearby, and when Sven opened himself all the way up, he couldn’t hear the background chatter—typically a litany of warm sun, interesting smells, and itchy balls—that he usually tuned out.
He sent a thought-glyph: Speak?
Mac chuffed, still looking at him like he was an idiot.
What did we have for breakfast?
If the coyote could have furrowed his eyebrows, Mac would’ve been doing that and more. But there was no response… at least not one that Sven could hear.
The messages were getting out, but they weren’t coming in.
Oh, hell. This wasn’t good. Not good at all.
Ritchie took another step back toward him. “You’re not okay. I’m going to call Cara, and—”
“No, don’t. I’ll find her myself.”
The winikin’s eyes narrowed. “I think I should go with you.”
Sven dredged up a reassuring smile that felt more like a grimace. “It’ll be fine. Don’t stress.” And don’t start any rumors about how the boss’s boyfriend is off his game. That’s the last thing we need.
Actually, the rumor was the next-to-last thing they needed. Having him actually off his game was the last.
“If you’re sure…”
“Positive. Go on. Drop that off in the hall and then you’re off the clock until ’port time.”
Finally appeased—Sven hoped—Ritchie headed toward the mansion, casting a last look over his shoulder. When he was out of sight, Sven closed his eyes, summoned magic that felt far too sluggish for an equinox, and cast a shield around him and Mac.
It failed.
“Fuck me.” A big-ass pit opened up in his gut. He had known he was risking a backfire by staying put longer than his magic wanted him to, but he had counted on his warrior’s talent to keep things working until after the battle. And now… Shit. He didn’t know what the right answer was going to be. All he knew was that he couldn’t help lead the winikin into battle without his damn magic.
Tapping his armband for a private channel, he hit up Cara’s identifier. When she answered, he said, “Hey, where are you? I need a minute.”
“I’m in my suite. Everything okay?”
“Nothing we can’t deal with.” He hoped. He honestly didn’t know what he was going to say or what he hoped to get out of talking with her, only that he needed to see her, touch her. “I’ll be there in—”
A strident beep-beep-beep cut him off, coming from his armband, with deeper echoes sounding elsewhere throughout the compound, and then the emergency channel went live, and JT’s voice snapped, “We need serious help in the main mansion. Rabbit’s barricaded himself into the altar room with Myrinne’s body and the screaming skull. He says he’s going to use it to resurrect her!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Just do your thing; that’s all I’m asking,” Rabbit said to the screaming skull’s hollow-eyed, skeletal face. Desperation hammered at him, making his hands shake as he clasped the skull between his and Myrinne’s cut palms and whispered, “Pasaj och.”
He felt the burn of the barrier connection and saw the red-gold of Nightkeeper power, but other than that… nothing.
Sunlight poured through the glass-and-steel roof of the circular chamber at the center of the mansion, creating patches of light and dark on the carved stone walls. The ashes from countless Nightkeeper funerals had been used in the mortar and set beneath the chac-mool altar, skewing the magic heavily toward the light. Which was why he’d brought her here—he needed all the good-guy vibes he could get.
“Come on, come on!” he chanted. There had to be a way to invoke the resurrection spell without being down at the First Father’s cave, had to be. But how? He had shields on all the doors, but soon he would be surrounded, outnumbered. When that happened… Shit, he needed to think, think!
He had placed her on the altar, curled on her side with her hands beneath her cheek as if sleeping. Only she wasn’t. He couldn’t find a pulse, couldn’t sense her inside her own skull anymore. If she wasn’t already gone, she was so very close.
His heart pounded a sick rhythm in his chest. Sweating, shivering, he leaned over her. “Come on, sweetheart; stay with me. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I’ll make it up to you somehow; I promise. Just stay with
