Skykeepers (52 page)

“I can damn well try.” Concentrating on her fledgling
ch’ulel
skills, trying to block out the knowledge that this could be one of her last acts on earth, she opened herself to the song. She found it, touched it, tried to follow it to its source, but the thread was tenuous and inconstant. Still, she channeled
ch’ul
to the point of mental contact, giving up her own because she wasn’t linked to any other source.

The
makol
’s head jerked in response—apparently she wasn’t so much on the stealthy side. It narrowed its eyes at her, but it seemed more amused than annoyed when it said, “Your human isn’t here, Nightkeeper. He’s in the in-between.”

No, he’s not
, Sasha thought, but apparently the
makol
couldn’t tell that Lucius had made it back. Maybe because the link connecting him to the
makol
had been severed in the Scorpion River? That would be a lucky break. Or the work of the gods. Hope spurted, and she sent even more
ch’ul
along Lucius’s song. The moment she did, the
makol
went suddenly rigid, its eyes flickering, going from luminous to normal and back.

“Got him,” Michael said on a quiet hiss of triumph. Standing some distance away, the red-robed guards were oblivious.

“Almost.” Sasha concentrated as the eyes did their trick. Luminous. Hazel. Luminous. Then they finally stayed hazel. Lucius’s expression animated, becoming that of a human who was wretched and disoriented, but determined to break through. He shuddered for a moment, caught in transition, unable to speak.

“Hurry,” Michael ordered. “Get the guards.”

Lucius nodded raggedly and lurched toward the red-robes, pulling the
makol
’s long, wickedly sharp combat knife from his belt. He was low on stealth, though; one of the red-robes turned and spotted him. Shouting a warning, the
pilli
went for his weapon. Lucius suddenly accelerated to an inhuman blur, swiping the knife across the first guard’s throat, then jamming it to the hilt in the second man’s chest.

Retrieving his weapon, he returned to Michael and Sasha, flowing across the space with the
makol
’s lethal grace. But his eyes remained human. He’d regained full control of his body, and apparently commanded the
makol
’s strength and coordination, as well.

He cut down Sasha first, slashing through the ties binding her ankles first, then her wrists. As he turned away, she dropped to the dais and nearly went down in a heap when her rubbery legs gave way. But she braced herself and stayed up by force of will, while Lucius cut Michael down.

“Damn glad to have you back.” Michael gripped the other man’s shoulder briefly, then turned and held out a hand to Sasha. “Come on. We’ve got to move. If we can get the scroll and get down that tunnel to open air, Strike should be able to get ’port lock on the three of us.” They dropped down from the dais and headed for the prefab building, where Iago and the red-robes had gone. But Lucius warned, “N-not the tunnel.” He stuttered slightly as his speech centers came back online. “It’s wired to blow. Motion sensors and C-4. Iago doesn’t want the Nightkeepers disturbing another of his rituals.”

Sasha shuddered as claustrophobia had the walls suddenly seeming very near, but Michael said only, “We need to get that scroll first. Then we’ll worry about an exit strategy.”

They crept up beside the steel structure. One door was barred and padlocked on the outside; the other was cracked partway open, its padlock hanging unlatched, the bar swung off to the side. Michael took the open side, Sasha the closed side, with Lucius behind her, breathing down her neck. She felt the seconds ticking away like the throb of her pulse. The murmur of voices came from within; footsteps approached the door.

A sudden flare of Nightkeeper magic lit Sasha up, startling a gasp from her. She met Michael’s eyes from his position on the other side of the door, saw his confusion. Then the stone surface beneath them gave a convulsive jerk, nearly flinging her off her feet. A deep throated rumble sounded from the entrance tunnel, and a huge gout of dust spewed from the tunnel mouth.

Sasha’s throat locked. “No,” she whispered. She would have screamed, would have run to the tunnel mouth, but her warrior’s talent locked her in place, and Lucius’s hand fell on her shoulder, gripping tightly.

So she held her position, tears leaking down her cheeks as the door swung open. Iago’s voice came clear as he boasted, “I made sure of it—put the ’port image into the kid’s mind before I kicked him back to the others. He would’ve landed them right outside the tunnel mouth. From there, they would’ve walked right into the tripline.”

Iago descended the three short steps, with the red-robes a few feet behind him. Michael attacked in silence, eyes lethal, tackling the Xibalban waist-high and driving him away from the door. Sasha leaped up and slammed the door on the red-robes, flipping the bar into place.

Michael and Iago struggled for possession of the library scroll. Michael landed a heavy punch with a meaty thud and Iago went limp, dazed. Roaring triumph, Michael grabbed the scroll and lunged to his feet. But before Sasha could race to join him, hard hands clamped on her and spun her around in a vicious choke hold. She gurgled and scraped at her captor’s forearm, but the bloody furrows she created healed almost immediately.
Lucius!
she thought.
Godsdamn
makol
just won’t pick a side!
But behind the frustration, fear flared hard and hot. The emotion brought a kick of solstice magic, but the power stayed ill-defined. She couldn’t call a shield or fireball, couldn’t do anything useful. But she could and did feel the distant touch of Nightkeeper magic, coming from outside the mountain.

Relief was a hard, hot wash. At least some of the others were still alive—gods willing, all of them were.

The
makol
breathed against her neck. Holding her tightly, its skin and breath disconcertingly cool, the creature switched the choke hold for the sharp edge of its combat knife, digging it into her throat hard enough to bring blood.

“You’re dead. You’re all dead.” Michael’s eyes were those of the killer, but Sasha wasn’t afraid. Instead, her heart leaped gladly and her blood raced with red-gold battle magic

“Take her.” The
makol
handed off Sasha to two of the red-robes, one of whom dug an autopistol into her left kidney, prodding her around to face Iago. Michael was shoved around similarly, though he cursed and struggled despite the pistols.

Iago checked his watch, then the sky. “It’s time. Fuck the crucifixes; get them over to the thrones.”

In under a minute, Sasha found herself kneeling in front of the larger throne with a pistol to her head. Michael knelt beside her, blood running from a split lip earned in his struggles, eyes anguished when they met hers. She thought she saw a flash of silver, and whispered, “Use the
muk
.”

“I can’t. He’s blocking it.”

Damn
.

Using a ceremonial knife made of cloudy gray stone, Iago cut himself deeply, digging until blood poured from his hands and tongue. The
makol
did the same with its combat knife. Eyes glowing green, all signs of Lucius banished, the demon stood opposite Michael and began an ancient chant—the transition spell that would call a
makol
from the lowest level of Xibalba. Meanwhile, Iago faced Sasha, unfurled the library scroll, and began reading from it.

When Iago paused and closed in on her, Sasha surged up, only to be slammed back down by the red-robes who held her still. She screamed as Iago sliced through her stretchy black combat shirt, then traced a line just below her ribs, where the eviscerating slash would allow her killer to pull her heart from her body in one yank. Hatred and anger wrapped around her; she leaned on them rather than letting the fear inside her.

Iago stepped back and continued to read from the library scroll as, beside him, Lucius read the
makol
-summoning spell, calling the soul of Moctezuma into Michael. Magic gathered, both dark and light, Nightkeeper and Xibalban. The magic, formerly direction-less, began to take terrible shape. Images flashed across Sasha’s inner eye: herself blank eyed and soulless, sitting in a featureless ten-by-ten cell, channeling information from the library into a voice-activated digital recorder; Michael, with his gorgeous bedroom eyes gone luminous green as he sat enthroned, his body under Moctezuma’s control. She quailed inwardly, making a desperate grab for the magic; to her surprise, she felt a touch of
ch’ul
and caught a soft rustle. Glancing over as Iago recited the spell, she looked toward the planters only a few feet away. In them, maize and cacao plants undulated gently, though there was no breeze.

She breathed a prayer and sent them energy, having some thought of the plants bowing down to grab her red-robed captors. The maize and cacao responded, but the small amount of growth she managed to trigger wasn’t going to do her any good.

Then Iago shouted the final words of the spell, raised his ceremonial knife, and advanced on Sasha, while the red-robes held her tightly.

The
makol
, too, advanced, knife raised. Only it didn’t go for Michael. Still green eyed, still in
makol
form, it turned and buried its knife in Iago’s chest. There was a moment of frozen shock as, grinning horribly, the
makol
said, “Compliments of the
Banol Kax
, human. My masters bid you remember who rules you in this war. They do not wish to lose Moctezuma’s service in Mictlan. And they want to talk to you.”

Iago went stark white, eyes rolling as he reeled back, grabbing at the knife. The
makol
closed in tighter, grabbed the haft, and started twisting and hacking. Blood sprayed a gory arc and Sasha screamed, as much in disbelief as in horror. Even as she did, though, she elbowed one of her captors in the gonads and dropped the other with a foot sweep. Bullets sprayed, but bounced harmlessly.

Michael, too, was moving. He took out his red-robes with a leg-sweep-punch combo, snagged one of the autopistols, and beckoned her. “Come on!”

Michael and Sasha broke for the thrones and took the high ground, leaping atop the stone seats and using the leverage to kick at the red-robes who tried to grab for them. Iago shouted something, his words lost to her beneath a rising buzz of magic. Sasha looked back, shocked that he was still alive.

“The spell has turned on him. He’s becoming an
ajaw-makol
,” Michael said. “He’s already got the healing power. Soon, the only way to kill him will be to cut off his head, hack out his heart, and recite the banishing spell.”

The red-robes opened fire, aiming low, trying to wound, not kill.

“Down!” Michael grabbed her and dragged her off the throne. He caught her against his strong, solid body and turned her toward the stone slab, shielding her, then fired off a quick burst with his captured autopistol, forcing the six remaining red-robes to take cover. Two were down already, not moving.

Sasha tried to feel grief, tried to find horror, and found only rage and emptiness. A need to stop the Xibalbans from doing to another what they had done to her, a drive to survive long enough to make a difference. In the end, this was the war.

Looking up at Michael, who was fierce and bloodied, she touched his cheek and said, “Can you call the
muk
now that we’re not on the dais?”

His eyes flared, but he bowed his head, pressed his brow to hers. “I don’t want to be the Other. Not ever again. It’s a monster.”

“Not a monster. A weapon. And it’s your talent; it’s not you.” She cupped his jaw in her bloodied hands and stared into his eyes, willing him to hear her, believe her. “I was wrong about that—dead wrong. Whether or not all your kills were in battle, they were part of a larger war, on the orders of your king. That is the Nightkeeper way. It doesn’t make you anything more than a mage who found his calling sooner than most of us. The magic is a tool; it’s not you. Just like my magic isn’t all me. I wield life but I think I’ve proven that doesn’t make me an angel, right?”

Air escaped from him in a hiss, but she saw a spark in the depths of him—rage going to power. “Depends on your definition of ‘angel,’ babe.” But there was such desperate need in him.

“I’m no angel,” she said firmly. “And you’re not a devil or a monster. Your talent is a tool from the gods, a weapon in the war. You’re not any of those things. You’re a man.” She paused, searching inside herself for hesitation, for reservation, and finding none when she said, “You’re
my
man.”

He held very still for a long, breathless moment. Then he touched his lips to hers, a brief, fleeting press that promised more than a thousand words.

In a single move of deadly elegance, he flowed to his feet and moved away from their shallow concealment, stepping out into the cross fire of his enemies. His hair was slicked back close to his skull, his black combat clothes torn and tattered as they clung to his fighter’s muscles. He spread his arms away from his body, indicating he was unarmed, or offering himself up as the sacrifice Iago had intended him to be. As he did, he called the
muk
. It gathered to him, clung to him, greasy and gray in her mind’s eye.

The red-robes let loose, firing low, still trying to preserve their sacrificial victim. The bullets sped inward in a deadly hail, only to reverse outward when Michael let loose the Mictlan’s power. It exploded from him in a thunderclap of gray death, taking the red-robes where they crouched, puffing them to dust in an instant.

It was over so quickly, there and gone in an instant, that Sasha blinked, tempted to think they had just left, or been ’ported away. But she saw the gray cast of death on Michael’s skin, saw the dark grief and guilt of the man, the cold satisfaction of the killer within.

He turned back to her and offered his hand. She took it without hesitation and rose to stand next to him, leaning into him in mute reassurance. He stared down at her, eyes dark, but finally calm, as though he’d gone beyond himself, or maybe found himself. “This is who and what I am.” His voice was a low rumble in his chest.