Skykeepers (43 page)

“I felt it,” Sasha said softly. “I didn’t know what it was, but I felt it. It was . . . seductive.”

Their whole relationship was tangled in the silver
muk
, Michael thought. The question was whether they untangle it far enough to find something that was theirs alone.

Actually, the question was whether they’d get that chance.

“I don’t know much more about the
muk
for certain,” he continued, “but I have a feeling it’s attracted to Sasha’s
ch’ulel
talent, that it wants to . . . cancel her out.” He met her eyes, didn’t look away. “I told you guys that Iago was looking for one of us, back during Sasha’s initial rescue. I also told you that he dismissed me as a lightweight, but that was when I had the Other fully blocked. What I didn’t—couldn’t—tell you was that after Sasha and I made love”—he put it out there, staking his claim, as Strike had wanted him to do weeks ago—“and the Other came through, bringing the
muk
with it, Iago seemed to recognize me. He said I was the one he was looking for, and that Sasha was going to trigger some sort of transition. He implied that after that, I would come to him on my own. And then yesterday the red-robe said they’d come for both of us. I think that’s confirmation that she and I are linked, not just as two people who probably should have been destined mates, but through the opposition of our magics. I don’t know whether he’s planning on turning me or sacrificing me outright, but either way, he’s looking for some serious power.”

He fell silent then. There were other details, things he could fill later. But that was the bulk of things.

After a moment, Sasha said softly, “Is the Other gone now?”

“Contained. Not gone. But I have an idea about getting rid of it, or at least the connection to the silver magic.”

“The scorpion spell,” Rabbit said. “The one from the tomb.”

Michael zeroed in on him. “Has Anna looked at the photos you took?”

“Yeah.” The young man nodded. “She even did a rough translation that makes it look as though it’ll break the most recently formed magical connection.” His teeth flashed. “In my case, the hellmagic connection. In yours . . . maybe the
muk
connection? Or did that come before the Nightkeeper magic?”

That was a hell of a thought. “I’m a Nightkeeper first and foremost,” Michael said firmly. “How bad is the spell?”

“Nasty,” Strike said. “It requires
pulque
and a particularly debilitating near-death experience to get into the in-between, which is a barren plain on our side of the entrance to Xibalba. Once you’re there, you’ve got to find the Scorpion River, which is the first challenge the dead need to overcome to enter Xibalba. They cross over. You go for a swim.”

A heavy weight pressed on Michael’s gut. “Then what?”

“Another near death. If you’re lucky, that purifies your soul, breaks the magic connection and you come back.” Strike didn’t continue with the “if you’re not lucky” corollary, but it was a given.
You don’t come back at all.

But what other choice did he have? Michael thought. He couldn’t go on the way he was. “It’s worth a try. When can we start?” But something changed in the air, kicking against his warrior’s mark. A flash in his peripheral vision brought his attention around to the kitchen. Tomas stood, white faced, looking like he might puke at any second. “What’s wrong?”

“Can we . . .” The
winikin
swallowed hard. “We need to talk. In private.
Now
.”

There had been too many years of friction for Michael to snap to attention at Tomas’s order. And he’d kept himself hidden for too long, lied to his teammates too much. He shook his head. “No more secrets.”

Tomas glanced at the others, stricken. His voice broke to a whisper. “I
can’t
. I made a vow.”

“I didn’t,” Michael said. “And since I’m guessing whatever you promised to keep secret has major implications for what’s been going on in
my
damn life, you didn’t have the right to make the vow in the first place.”

“It shouldn’t have mattered,” the
winikin
rasped. “No
winikin
of the stone bloodline has ever seen two in a single lifetime. There was one in our parents’ generation; there shouldn’t be another in this one.”

“Tomas,” Jox said in a forbidding voice, in full-on royal
winikin
mode. “What the hell are you talking about? And don’t give me any shit about vows. Get your head out of your ass, man. The situations have changed. The
rules
have changed. If there’s a secret talent passing through the stone bloodline, then fucking spill it.”

Tomas glared at Michael. “You should’ve told me you’d been recruited to black ops.”

“Why?” Michael snapped. “So you could feel like less of a failure?”

With a look at Jox, then the others, Tomas exhaled. His shoulders slumped. Then, finally, he said, “No, godsdamn it. So I could’ve explained what the hell was going on inside your head, and kept you from making the biggest fucking mistake of this war.” The
winikin
’s voice dropped to a hiss. “You’re a Mictlan; it’s your talent, jerkwad. The name doesn’t just mean the lowest level of hell; it’s what we call a mage who wields the
muk
magic. It’s a very rare, very secret talent that’s sent by the gods only in times of absolute need.”

“The red-robes and Ambrose both mentioned the ‘mick,’ ” Michael rasped. “They were saying ‘Mictlan.’ ”

“As for why I’m the only one who knows about it,” Tomas continued, his voice rising a little in defensive-ness, “each
winikin
of the stone bloodline knew about it, but was sworn to silence. The Mictlan himself is magically bound to maintain his silence on all matters pertaining to the talent, even to the point of lying to his king and family. There’s no talent mark for the same reason. It’s an avowed secret.” He paused. “The king’s
winikin
was the only one outside the bloodline who would’ve known.” His voice got smaller. “I guess it didn’t get passed along.”

Jox shook his head. “There were things I wouldn’t have learned until Strike took the scepter. Which—hello?—means you should’ve told me yourself, when we reunited.”

“I didn’t think it was necessary. Michael couldn’t even summon fireballs. He was a tech salesman, for gods’ sake. I didn’t think there was any chance he’d become a Mictlan.”

“Which is what, exactly?” Michael said between his teeth.

Tomas looked at him. Looked away. Muttered, “An assassin.”

Michael’s breath exploded from him. “No. Absolutely not. Been there, done that, and I want
out
.”

The
winikin
ignored him and continued, “The Mictlan is a special kind of assassin who works not for his king or the other magi, but for the gods themselves.” The
winikin
paused, face going drawn. “Because murder is one of the few truly damning sins, and the use of
muk
carries its own risk, the Mictlan is charged with making a single cold-blooded hit, using the
muk
. That’s why it’s such a secret; the target isn’t necessarily one of the enemy. Sometimes it’s one of us, someone the gods consider a mortal danger. The gods choose the target and show it to the Mictlan in a vision, usually in a mirror or pool of water. But it’s just a single hit. I’ve never heard of anyone using the
muk
as fighting magic.”

“Well, thanks to our complete and utter lack of communication, I now hold that dubious distinction,” Michael said in a voice almost completely devoid of emotion, coming from a heart that felt like it had gone to stone. “I killed the red-robe back in Florida using the
muk
, and today I capped, what, a couple of dozen Xibalbans with it. Shit.”

“Those shouldn’t count against your soul,” Tomas said, his words tripping one over the next as he started to babble in frantic release. “They were battle kills, not cold blood.” He paused, grimacing. “I don’t know how the earlier kills will affect the balance. They were part of a war, but didn’t occur during a battle.”

And not all of them had been part of a war, Michael thought, but didn’t say because it wouldn’t change the new reality of things, which was that his brief ray of hope was gone. “I can’t break the
muk
bond, can I?” he said hollowly. “I’ve got to keep the magic and wait for my target.” There was no question that he could do the job. Gods knew he’d done it too many times before. But he wanted to be done with it, wanted a
life
, damn it. He wanted to be the hero he’d thought he could be going into the FBI.

Tomas nodded. “If the gods have put a Mictlan among us, then they think there’s a need for you. I can teach you how to control your talent, but I can’t let you break the bond.”

You don’t get to make that call
, Michael thought, but didn’t bother because this wasn’t about him and Tomas. It was about the gods needing something from him. He’d gone willingly into Bryson’s employ. Could he really refuse to do the same job for the gods themselves? Maybe. But if they demanded that he kill one of the Nightkeepers . . . Yeah, he could see himself refusing that. “Have any previous Mictlan refused the charge?”

“Three of them. They all committed suicide rather than accept their targets.” Tomas paused. “The first was supposed to kill Akhenaton, the second Cortés.”

A chill reached up and grabbed Michael by the throat. “Fuck. Me.” His breath went thin in his lungs as he said, “And the third?”

“Your uncle. He was supposed to kill King Scarred-Jaguar. He killed himself instead. If he hadn’t . . .” The
winikin
trailed off, but the message was clear.

If Scarred-Jaguar had been assassinated, so many things might be different. The Solstice Massacre wouldn’t have happened. The Nightkeepers would have the numbers they needed for the end-time war, and the magi would’ve had an extra twenty-four years of looking for answers and coming up with a solid, workable strategy for confronting the Xibalbans and
Banol Kax
. And each of the residents of Skywatch would’ve had that time with their families, instead of being scattered, in hiding. Waiting.

Nausea spiraled through Michael. If he knew it would prevent hundreds or thousands of other deaths, could he kill one of his own in cold blood? Maybe not. But the Other could.

What if Sasha’s the target?
something whispered inside him.

“What if I refuse my target but don’t suicide?” Michael asked, not bothering to argue against his being a Mictlan. Hell, Iago had known it before he did. Once again, the bastard was ahead of them.

“The name Mictlan is not a misnomer. The moment your target is revealed, you have nine hours to complete the kill. At the end of the ninth hour, if you haven’t completed your assignment—whether because you suicided or simply ignored the call—your soul will be yanked directly to the lowest level of hell, where you will become a powerful
ajaw-makol
.”

The
ajaw-makol
were the most powerful of the demons capable of possessing a human—or Nightkeeper—host; they retained their mage powers and human knowledge, and were damnably difficult to kill. If Michael became one, the Nightkeepers were fucked.

“So let me get this straight,” Strike growled at Tomas. “You knew a talent like this runs in the stone bloodline and prevents its holder from discussing it openly, and you knew that large chunks of the normal information transfer hadn’t happened because of the Solstice Massacre . . . yet you never thought to mention this to me, or Jox, or, hell,
Michael
?”

The
winikin
shrank in on himself. “He’d become a salesman. And kind of a prick. How was I supposed to know it was all a front?”

Because you knew me
, Michael wanted to say.
You raised me. Couldn’t you see past the outside?

Strike transferred his attention to Michael. “Going forward, it looks like you’ve got two options.”

Michael nodded. “I can either use the scorpion spell to break my bond with the
muk
magic, and we take our chances with whatever comes from my not accepting the target . . . or I do the job I was born and trained for, and hope the kill doesn’t tip me to channeling hellmagic.” Which would be akin to having him become an
ajaw-makol
, except that he’d be allied to Iago rather than the
Banol Kax
. He held his king’s eyes, shaken by the thought that, in his uncle’s case, the king had
been
the target. Frustration welled up. Talk about shitty options. It’s enough to drive a guy—Michael broke off the thought, both because sanity had become a major focus the moment he’d learned of Sasha’s upbringing . . . and because he saw a connection he didn’t like one bit. A bolt of understanding hit him in the gut, and he glanced at Tomas. “That’s why the Stone males are all bachelors, suicides, or lovers, isn’t it? The bachelors and suicides are the ones with the mind-set—i.e., borderline sociopath, dissociative personality, whatever—to accept the Mictlan talent. The lovers don’t inherit the disorder; they carry on the bloodline.”

Tomas nodded slowly. “I’m sorry.”

“Shit,” Michael said hollowly as whatever small hope he’d briefly had of finding a way to have Sasha for his own died a painful death. He was a Mictlan, and a head case. Even if his target turned out to be someone he could see his way to killing—like Iago—and he went through with it, he’d still be a head case, still be half a killer, if not more. Or he could undergo the scorpion spell, break the
muk
connection, and go back to a seminormal life, one that might include Sasha. Only look what had happened with the others. Akhenaton. Cortés. Scarred-Jaguar. Three different powerful men. Three catastrophic massacres. Given the timing of things, he had to believe that whatever the gods had in mind for him, it’d be big. Like end-of-the-world big.

Could he live with that?

Damn it
, Michael thought, his chest echoing hollowly. It took him a moment to realize there was no dark anger inside him, that Rabbit’s work was holding. Thank the gods for that much, at least.