Skykeepers (51 page)

Rabbit was halfway back into his body when he’d felt Iago grab onto his consciousness and follow, still trying to piggyback his way into the sarcophagus room, the bastard. More, through the psychic link, Rabbit could see inside the Xibalban’s mind and know his plans; that knowledge chilled him to the marrow with its scope and possibilities.
No!
Rabbit’s consciousness hung within the barrier’s energy flow as he fought the Xibalban’s hold, trying to find his way back to the in-between, to the gray-green mist of the barrier, hell, anywhere but back to the tomb of the First Father.

You can’t win
, Iago mocked him, giving him a shove back toward his body.
You’d be better off conserving your strength to fight me when we get there
.

And the damn thing was, he was right. Rabbit’s strength was failing; his
body
was failing. Should he just let go of that connection? No, he couldn’t die now. He had to get back to the others and tell them what Iago was planning, had to get back to Myrinne and tell her he was sorry for being a dick, that she could have all the time and space she needed, even if it killed him to back off. Michael had turned away from the gods by refusing to kill him. He had to be worthy of that sacrifice. And somehow, though gods only knew how, he needed to break this ungodly link he shared with Iago. It left him too vulnerable.

But how the hell was he supposed to do that? The river had washed him clean of the extra hellmagic Iago had loaded him down with, but it hadn’t broken his connection to the hellmagic. What would?

Not a fucking thing
, the Xibalban answered inside him, warning Rabbit that his mental shields were for shit, that the rest of his magic was falling down around his ears. His powers were crumbling, kaleidoscoping inward, along with his consciousness. Still struggling, he resisted the forces urging him back to himself, thinking that if he could stay out of his body, he could strand them both in the barrier, or the in-between.

Then he heard sudden music, a marching backbeat overlaid with electric guitar, and Sasha’s voice was inside his head, impossibly strong as she called,
Get your ass back here, Rabbit. We need you!
Then she somehow grabbed onto him, latching her energy to his and pulling him home to his human shell.

Rabbit felt Iago’s startled delight and roared a denial, but it was already too late. The enemy mage had grabbed onto the connection, followed it to its source. Howling despair and the knowledge that he’d fucked up again, Rabbit flung himself back into his own body, hoping to hell he got there ahead of Iago.

Relief and excitement flared as Sasha felt the magic connect. “He’s coming back,” she said, leaning into Michael’s solid strength as he fed her power through their linked hands, their magic connecting despite the
muk
and the madness.

Michael continued to give her—and the rest of the room—a rundown on what had happened at the river, how Lucius had helped him, then been swept downstream, and how he’d come upon Rabbit and taken back the Mictlan talent and
muk
link in exchange for Rabbit’s life.

Emotion surged through her and she tightened her grip on his hand, trying to tell him how she felt through their linked magic, even as she poured their linked energy into the healing connection she’d finally—finally—formed with Rabbit when she’d looked deep inside him, beneath the hellmagic that blocked her perceptions, and found his song—a soft tenor aria, haunting in its refrain.

“She’s got him!” Michael said, triumphant. Then he said something more, and Strike answered, but Sasha suddenly couldn’t follow, couldn’t react, couldn’t do anything as dark, oily brown magic surrounded her, latched onto her. “Michael!” she tried to scream, but all that came out was a whisper.

She was conscious of him turning, though everything was suddenly happening in slow motion. Rabbit’s eyes opened, full of fear, and his mouth worked as he shouted a warning of some sort. But she couldn’t follow any of it as Iago’s oily magic flowed through her, into her, and he looked out through her eyes, saw the scene, and locked onto it for a ’port.

Magic rattled off-key, air exploded outward, and the big redheaded mage appeared in the center of the room, balanced atop the inner coffin that lay within the open sarcophagus. Jade, holding a scroll clutched to her chest, reeled back, eyes going wide and scared.

Strike shouted something and the others scrambled to take defensive positions, pulling their weapons as they scattered. Michael roared and lunged to his feet, shoving Sasha behind him as he cast a thick shield. Rabbit bellowed and threw fire, the shock wave practically flattening everyone in the chamber. The bright light blinded Sasha as magic sparked. Michael called something that cut off midword.

The world came back into focus around her, but it made no sense. Iago and Michael were both gone. Jade was screaming, her hands streaming blood. “Iago took the library scroll!” she cried, face etched with anguish. “And he’s got Michael!”

Sasha moved toward her, throat closing in horror, but then hellmagic sparked again, harsh and discordant, and hard, hurting hands grabbed her from behind.

She screamed, drove an elbow back and tried to twist away but from her captor, but couldn’t. She cried out and struggled, looked back to see Iago’s emerald green eyes. Eyes out of her nightmares. The mage grinned. The oily brown magic cycled up, and Sasha’s world went gray-green with ’port magic and grief. “Michael!” she screamed into the void. “Help me!”

There was no answer.

The world took shape around Sasha, gray and fuzzy at first, bringing the echoes and shuffling sounds of movement within a high stone chamber. Next, she recognized the stretched, bound, hanging feeling, the strain in her shoulders and hips that had been all too familiar during her captivity.
Crucifixion
. Her soul shuddered in horror, but this was no time to pretend she was somewhere else and wait for rescue. She was one of the rescuers now.

Opening her eyes, she found herself almost back where she began—strung up on a heavy wooden cruciform, bound at the wrists and ankles. But this time, she stood on a raised dais beside a second crucifix, where Michael was tied, spread-armed and furious. She met his eyes, and a quiver ran through her at the intensity she saw in him. The shimmer might have been nerves, might’ve been desire—she felt both as she looked at him and the solstice magic burned within her. More, he seemed to be conveying a message, one that reached inside her and made her yearn, made her hope.

Knowing it was all too easy to confuse lust and desire when there was magic in the air, she looked away, studying the situation. The dais on which they were bound stood at the center of a conical stone cavern. The cavern’s inner walls looked like they might mirror the shape of the mountain’s exterior; they were carved and painted in places, though she couldn’t make out the designs in the torchlight. The quasi-natural temple had probably started as a dead volcano that had been hollowed out by hand in ancient times. The interior was torchlit and spiced with unfamiliar ritual incense. Opposite the dais sat two elaborately carved thrones, one larger than the other, both of ancient design and bearing the sunburst symbol of the Aztec calendar. Tubs of soil sat on either side of the thrones, and her mind stuttered to see the familiar leaves of cacao and maize. But if this truly was Paxil Mountain, the legendary source of the vital foods, she supposed it made sense. Eight red-robed Xibalbans were ranged around the space, several clustered near what looked like a tunnel mouth leading to the outside, another couple near a prefab steel structure built up against one wall, and one each on either side of the paired thrones. One of the thrones was undoubtedly for Iago, she thought. But who was the other one for?

“Welcome to Paxil Mountain,” she said hollowly, because despite the Nightkeepers’ best efforts, she and Michael had wound up exactly where the Xibalban had intended all along.

“How are you set for magic?” Michael asked quietly.

A quick test run had her cursing. The solstice magic gathered within her, lit her up, made her feel powerful. But when she tried to shape the magic into a spell, it turned formless and slipped away. Keeping her voice to the same low, private murmur as his, she said, “I can feel it, but I can’t do anything with it.” She didn’t look at him, was trying hard not to.

“Same here. Either there’s a ward spell going, or it’s because this is a ritual site. Most spells failed down in the tunnels beneath Chichén Itzá, too.” He paused. “What’s wrong?”

That startled a laugh out of her, but she stifled the knee-jerk smart-ass response and shook her head. “Later.”

“Now,” he countered. “Look at me.”

She lifted her chin and met his eyes, knowing he would see the turmoil in hers. “You almost died back there.”

“I know, and I’m sorry for putting you through that. I’ll explain it all later.” His tone said
much later
, but rather than an evasion, it felt like a promise. As did his direct, penetrating stare as he said, “You fought for me, kept me alive long enough to come back. I owe you for that. I hope that, going forward, you’ll let me fight for you.”

“I don’t think we’re going to have a choice on that one,” she said, once again scanning the room, trying to figure contingencies. There was only one way in or out, it seemed, which could get tricky. Whoever held the tunnel controlled the situation. She continued, thinking aloud: “If we can get out of the bonds and past the ward, we still have to find the library scroll and get our asses out of here. But if we have to fight, you’d be the guy I’d choose to have my back.”

“I’m not talking about fighting at your side, though I’ll be there, no questions asked.” Warned by something in his voice, she looked back at him and found his expression intent, his eyes heating. “What I’m saying is that I’m ready to fight with you. Against you. For you. Whatever you want to call it. You were right when you said I didn’t fight hard enough to find a way for us to be together, and then to keep us together. But it wasn’t because I didn’t care enough or didn’t want you enough. It was because I didn’t think I could possibly win.”

Faint warmth kindled despite the situation. “And now?”

“I still don’t know if I can win, but I damn well want a chance to fight, because I don’t want to do this without you. Even when we’re at opposite poles and don’t make a damn bit of sense together, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be with. You’re stuck in my head, my heart, and my damned, beat-up soul. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you there, and to have you in my life and in my bed.”

That was the starkest, most nakedly honest thing he’d ever said to her; the words cut through her wary reserve and nestled deep inside her, curling around the part of her that said he could be redeemed, that in many ways he already was. “Michael, I—”

“How touching,” a mocking voice broke in, jolting her with fear and memory, closely followed by a slash of rage and hatred as Iago moved around from behind the cruciforms into her line of sight. He wore black combat clothes that closely mimicked those of the Nightkeepers; he could’ve passed except for the red hellmark on his forearm and the cold cruelty that shone in his emerald green eyes. “Touching . . . and borderline sickening, really. Not that it’ll matter either way in a few minutes.”

Sasha’s breath caught when Iago casually drew the stolen library scroll out from behind his back, where he’d tucked it in his belt. He held it by one end and tapped it against his opposite palm in a hypnotic rhythm that demanded her attention as a familiar brown-haired man moved up behind him. Lucius’s eyes glowed the luminous green of a
makol
’s.

Iago stepped closer to Sasha, glancing between her Michael. “To sacrifice the
ch’ulel
and Mictlan, together, during the triad threshold. Amazing. The power is going to be . . . incalculable.”

“Good,” Michael said, his voice a dangerous purr. “That should give me plenty to work with when I take you out.”

Iago shrugged. “Big talk for a guy who’s racked and tied.”

“So untie me. I’ll fight you fair.”

Iago ignored that offer and leaned in, so his face was very near Sasha’s when he breathed, “You and he are explosive together,
muk
and
ch’ul
, matter and antimatter. Your dual sacrifice will give me enough magic not only to call the Prophet, but also to raise the last true emperor of the Aztec.” Anticipation lit his face with unholy glee. “Imagine it . . . Moctezuma himself as an
ajaw-makol
, at my right hand as we complete the conquest begun five hundred years ago.” He turned away, gesturing for the
makol
and two of the red-robes to stay behind. “Watch them while the rest of us prepare. We’ve got ten minutes until the solstice enters its peak. We’ll be back in five.”

Sasha’s breath escaped her in a hiss of dismay.
So soon
.

As Iago strode off, the red-robes and the
makol
took up guard positions on the dais. The red-robes gave the
makol
a wide berth, standing far away. The
makol
, though, took up its guard post very near Sasha; it stood looking at her with a faintly superior sneer on its otherwise expressionless face, its eyes glittering luminous green. Incongruously, though, Sasha caught a thread of music coming from it, borne on the magic of the coming solstice.

She turned her head so the
makol
couldn’t see her mouth as she whispered, “Lucius is in there. And whatever sort of ward Iago’s got fouling our magic, either the
makol
is standing inside it, or
ch’ul
is immune . . . because I’ve got his song. It’s faint, but it’s there.”

“Son of a bitch,” Michael whispered back with fierce satisfaction. “He made it out of the river.” He paused. “Can you feed him
ch’ul
without the
makol
figuring out what’s going on?”