Jox closed his eyes. He’d found the twins.
Thank the gods.
‘‘Where are they?’’
‘‘Dead.’’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Strike navigated the minivan through a twisty series of increasingly narrow streets made narrower by strategic piles of trash. The slow summer dusk had caught up with him, and he flicked on the rental’s headlights. The yellow beams picked out the last landmark he’d been given— the freshly burned-out shell of an apartment building, with the busted-out windows and debris that went with such an event.
According to Carter, the fire had broken out the night of the solstice. Strike hoped to hell that was a coincidence.
The buildings on either side didn’t look much better than the torched wreck. Their windows were blank, broken, or boarded up—sometimes a mix of all three— indicating that they were empty . . . or at least not occupied by tenants of the paying variety.
Strike parked nose-out in case he had to make a quick exit, and made sure the night dwellers got a look at the autopistol when he climbed out of the mom-mobile. He set the alarm, and the minivan gave an ineffective-sounding
beep-beep
and blinked its lights twice, like an obedient poodle sit-staying in the middle of a minefield. The lights did that delayed-off thing, lighting Strike’s way to what used to be the front door of the burned-out wreck.
When he heard the slide of footsteps and the clink of metal-on-metal behind him, he said, ‘‘You don’t want to mess with me. It’s been a long damn day and I just want to do my business and get out of here.’’
He didn’t expect a response, so it was a surprise when a shadow detached itself from a doorway and sauntered toward him. It was even more of a surprise to see that it was a woman, and a hell of a sexy one at that.
She was long and lean, her face sharp enough to be interesting instead of pretty. Her hair was blue-black and slicked away from her face, and she wore a white halter top along with tight black leather pants and tall boots, an outfit that would’ve gotten her in trouble in this sort of neighborhood if she hadn’t accessorized it with a Beretta nine-millimeter on one side and a cute little .22 chick gun on the other.
By the time she reached him the minivan headlights had clicked off. In the reflected moonlight, he saw her tilt her head and give him an up-and-down. ‘‘What sort of business?’’
‘‘My own.’’
‘‘Try again.’’
‘‘Don’t have to.’’
He thought she’d insist. Instead, she curved her lips in a sweet smile and melted back into the darkness, until all that was left of her was a faint, mocking chuckle. ‘‘Well, then, Strike. Have at it.’’
Which meant either she worked for Snake Mendez, or she was prescient. With the general dearth of actual magic among humankind, Strike was betting on the former as he headed into the damaged building, kicking in the door when the knob jammed.
It wasn’t like he was going for stealth. He just wanted the meeting over with.
Cinders crunched underfoot when he strode into the building, damning himself for a fool for not having brought the basics, like night-vision goggles or—duh— a flashlight.
‘‘Sloppy,’’ he said to himself, and halfway thought of trying a quick light spell. But although teleporting came naturally, he’d been struggling with some of the other basics and didn’t want to risk a misfire. So he worked by moonlight, moving farther into the building, trying to make out the shapes of what had once been walls and doorways.
‘‘You Strike?’’ a deep voice said without warning, seeming to come from all around him.
Strike raised the MAC, though there was nothing to shoot at but dark and more dark. ‘‘You’re a hard guy to track down, Mendez.’’
‘‘A smart man would’ve taken the hint.’’
A roadside flare hissed to cherry red life, sputtering as it was tossed in a spinning arc. It landed on a pile of fire debris off to Strike’s right, bathing the scene in an eerie red glow. In the blood-colored illumination, a tall figure materialized out of the shadows, staying close to what looked like a door, or maybe a busted-out window. An escape route. Which made sense, given that Mendez had a warrant outstanding on him.
‘‘I need you to come back to New Mexico with me,’’ Strike said. He lowered the pistol. ‘‘I can tell you about your family.’’
‘‘I know everything I need to know.’’ But Mendez moved forward into the light. The flare showed a big, towering man with a shaved-bald head, sharp features, and pale, intelligent eyes. None of that was a surprise— all of the Nightkeepers were larger than average and practically oozed charisma. The other man’s loose gray long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans, and skids weren’t surprising, either, though they were tamer than Strike would’ve expected, given the setting. What was surprising were the tattoos, both because the narrow cuffs of arcane symbols at his wrists were vaguely familiar, and because it was one of the rules the
winikin
had been charged with upholding: The young Nightkeepers weren’t supposed to mark their skin. The skin was sacred to the gods, as was blood.
The big man followed Strike’s gaze. His eyes flashed as he lifted his hands, crossing his wrists so the tattooed cuffs formed a world cross, the ancestor’s icon for the ceiba tree. ‘‘You don’t approve,
Nochem
?’’
The word for ‘‘leader’’ or ‘‘king’’ in the old tongue rocked Strike back. ‘‘You know?’’
‘‘What do you think?’’ Mendez uncrossed his wrists, shoved up a sleeve, and offered his forearm, holding it near the light so Strike could see the serpent bloodline glyph, along with the warrior and another, unfamiliar mark. ‘‘Kinda cool how it’s working now, after all these years.’’
Shock jolted through Strike. ‘‘How did—’’
‘‘The gods showed me the way.’’ Mendez snapped his fingers, and a green glow ignited from the tip of his index finger, curled up into the darkness, then guttered and winked out.
In its wake, magic rippled on the air. Power.
Impossible,
Strike thought. The
winikin
were sworn not to teach the magic outside the training compound. Yet Mendez knew the old language and the glyphs. If his
winikin
had broken those dicta, what others might he have ignored?
‘‘Let’s just say Louis pointed me in the right direction, ’’ Mendez said, as though Strike had spoken his thoughts. He shot his sleeves, so the marks were once again covered. ‘‘And don’t bother hauling him up on charges or anything. His sanity checked out a few years ago.’’ He circled a finger at his temple. ‘‘Last I knew, he was in the Parker House of Nuts.’’ He paused. ‘‘Dude was bonkers. Kept babbling on about the end of the world.’’
‘‘He was right,’’ Strike said.
‘‘I know.’’ Mendez grinned with zero humor. ‘‘Thing is, I don’t figure I owe humanity much of anything, and I sure as hell don’t owe you. Unless, of course, you’re offering something in return for my services.’’ Another snap, another flame, and though Strike could manage something similar, the color worried him.
Nightkeeper flame was yellow or red. Green and purple were the colors of the
Banol Kax
and the
makol
, but he didn’t get that sense off Mendez, either; it was as though he had dark tendencies, but hadn’t yet chosen a side.
Strike had a feeling that when he did, it was going to mean trouble. He didn’t really want this guy in the compound, but he didn’t want to fight him, either. And thirteen was their magic number. There had to be a way to make it fly, because he couldn’t walk away from one of the surviving Nightkeepers. ‘‘Come with me,’’ he said finally. ‘‘We’ll work something out.’’
Mendez snorted. ‘‘Here’s how it’s going to work. You take care of the cops and the ass-pain bounty hunter bitch they’ve got tracking me, and I’ll take a look at your setup. If I like what I see, I’ll stay and let you convince me to fight on your team. If not, I’ll give you a chance to buy the spellbook off me.’’
A nasty feeling twisted down Strike’s spine alongside a jolt of adrenaline. Did Mendez somehow have one of the lost spellbooks? How? That should’ve been impossible. ‘‘Where’s the book now?’’ he asked, as if he’d known about it all along.
‘‘Safe,’’ Mendez replied. ‘‘So why don’t you—’’
‘‘Sorry to interrupt,’’ a new, female voice said unexpectedly. ‘‘But I’m interrupting.’’ There was a
zap-hiss
, and an arc of blue light flared behind Mendez. The big man bowed, going rigid on a silent scream, and then collapsed.
‘‘Freeze!’’ Strike shouted, levering the MAC as a smaller figure crouched over Mendez’s prostrate form. When the figure shifted, he saw black leather and high boots, and recognized the hottie from the alley. ‘‘Back off before I put a round in you,’’ he said.
Dual clicks sounded next to his head, one in each ear, as two huge dudes came up behind him on damn silent feet with damn big guns. ‘‘Don’t be stupid,’’ Leftmost Dude said. ‘‘She doesn’t want to hurt you. Said you’re too pretty to mess up, and the car is a hoot.’’
Gods,
Strike thought on a groan.
Saved by a minivan.
‘‘Okay.’’ He held up the MAC and opened his fingers in the universal gesture of
no harm, no foul.
‘‘Maybe we can make a deal.’’
‘‘I’m the bounty hunter the cops have tracking Snake here,’’ the hottie said without looking up. ‘‘Trust me, with what they’re offering, you can’t afford me.’’
Mendez groaned and sucked in a harsh, rattling breath. ‘‘Bitch.’’
‘‘Back atcha,’’ she said, and hit the button on her Taser, sending another fifty thousand volts or so shooting through his system.
When he was finished twitching, she gestured to her men. ‘‘Let’s get this meat loaded on the wagon and get the hell out of here.’’ She crossed to Strike, stopping just shy of him. ‘‘Can I give you a word of advice? Whatever you’re looking for, find an alternative. Snake here is . . .’’ She trailed off, as if searching for exactly the right word. ‘‘Let’s just say that of all the seriously screwed-up people I deal with on a daily basis, he is by far the most damaged. He’s like a rottweiler that had a really bad puppyhood . . . you can gentle it all you want, but when it comes down to it, the thing’s going to be just as likely to bite your arm off as wag its tail.’’
Strike looked down at the unconscious man. ‘‘Shit.’’
‘‘Couldn’t have said it better myself.’’ She turned away. ‘‘Stay cool, minivan man.’’
‘‘Wait!’’
She turned back. ‘‘What? You want to kiss him good-bye or something?’’
Despite everything, Strike found himself grinning, enjoying her. ‘‘No. Your name. For reasons I can’t even begin to decipher, I’d like to know your name.’’
She sketched a bow. ‘‘Reece Montana at your service. Now, bugger off.’’
And just like that, the bounty hunter—and the thirteenth Nightkeeper—were gone.
‘‘Well, shit,’’ Strike said, and headed back for the minivan. It was sitting right where he’d left it, and still had all four tires in good working order. He’d be paying to have the thing repainted to cover up a particularly creative suggestion spray-painted across the back door, but what the hell. It could’ve been worse, given the neighborhood.
He checked his voice mail once he was on the road, and found one from Jox. The message was a simple, ‘‘Call me,’’ but the
winikin
’s tone was off.
A bad feeling tightened Strike’s gut as he phoned home and punched it to speaker. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’ he said the moment Jox picked up.
‘‘Carter found the twins,’’ the
winikin
reported, his voice flat with grief. ‘‘They’re dead.’’
Strike yanked the wheel and sent the soccer-mobile screeching across the highway, ignoring the blare of horns behind him. When he was stopped at an angle across the breakdown lane, he slapped the minivan into park. Sat and breathed. ‘‘Gods
damn
it.’’
‘‘They were in New Jersey, headed along Skyline Drive the night of the solstice,’’ Jox said. ‘‘They went off the road near midnight.’’
Which probably meant the barrier had reached out to them just like it’d grabbed him, Strike thought. The twin link would’ve made them more susceptible to the lure, and more powerful once they were jacked in. But fucking bad luck—destiny, whatever—had put one of them behind the wheel next to a sheer drop at exactly the wrong moment. And now the Nightkeepers were down to eleven. Ten, if he counted out Mendez.
Heart heavy, Strike said something reassuring to Jox, who sounded like he was taking it way hard, and rang off. Cranking the minivan into drive, he pulled back into traffic and headed for the car rental place. Once he’d dropped off the keys, he found a secluded spot for the ’port magic. He didn’t particularly want to go back to the training compound, but he had a duty, damn it. It was like the king’s writ said: His first duty was to the gods and his people, then to mankind and his family. His own needs barely made the list.
Closing his eyes, he touched the barrier for a boost of power and imagined his mental turbines coming to life. Once he had enough magic to work with, he thought of home, and a yellow travel thread shimmered into existence in front of him. He reached out and touched it, felt the power sing through him. When it peaked, he sent himself into the thread, into the barrier.
There was a blur of gray-green, a gut wrench of sideways motion, then the jarring halt he didn’t think he’d ever get used to. Displaced air slammed away from him as he materialized a few inches off the ground, and he stumbled upon landing, windmilling his arms to keep his balance when he tripped over a hump of grass.
Except there shouldn’t have been any grass. For that matter, it was dark out, when New Mex would’ve still had light, and the air was moist and verdant rather than desert dry.
Ergo, he wasn’t in New Mex.
Heart hammering, Strike looked around. He’d zapped in at the front of a three-story house that towered over its ground-level neighbors on either side, which were nearly hidden behind tall, leafy hedges, as though the owner of the three-story liked privacy. The street out front was lined with palm trees, and the car parked by the front door had a sleek and somewhat dated silhouette.