Granted, on the surface everything looked pretty good. Patience and Brandt were the perfect couple, and their twins didn’t seem to miss not having other kids around. The boys played with each other under the watchful eyes of the
winikin
, or tagged after Rabbit, who had the rep of a delinquent but seemed to get a kick out of the twins. Of the others, Alexis and Nate were a couple, though they didn’t spend much time together outside of the bedroom, and Michael and Jade’s romance had fizzled out around the one-month mark, right about the time he discovered a knack for casting force fields. Sven was . . . well, he was Sven. He hung loose, seeming even more chilled out after his young
winikin
went back to college. Even Red-Boar, whom Leah tagged as living on the manic-depressive side of life, seemed to have settled into the teaching role pretty well.
But beneath the surface, she didn’t like how Rabbit spent so much time alone, and how the others treated him differently, not because he was younger, but because he was half-human, and didn’t have his mark. She didn’t like seeing Patience and Brandt with their heads together, shutting out the rest of the world—and not in a
we’re deeply in love
way, but in a
we’re making plans that don’t include you
way. She didn’t like that Nate spent a big chunk of his time on the computer, trading e-mails with his business partners and working on something about a Viking sex goddess, or that Michael got a dozen cell calls a day and always took them behind closed doors.
They trained hard; she’d give them that, though it wasn’t like Jox or Red-Boar would’ve tolerated anything less. In the mornings Jox did a sort of Nightkeepers for Dummies, which was a blinding speed-sampling of their history, starting with Atlantis—and boy, had that made Leah’s cop side cringe—and running through to the present, along with a short version of the
Popol Vuh
creation myth and a dizzying number of prophecies, some coming from the earliest Nightkeepers, others supposedly from the gods themselves.
In the afternoons, the trainees met up with Red-Boar in the steel-sided training building, which was almost always either too hot or too cold. There, they worked on basic barrier spells like shielding and wielding fire. Of the trainees, only Rabbit could reliably make fire, and Michael showed a talent for shields. Patience got pretty good at the invisibility thing—which was the freakiest by far, in Leah’s opinion—and even figured out that she could occasionally throw her talent to distant objects or people, especially if her husband was boosting her with his power. Which was all well and good, but Leah didn’t see how most of the things they were doing—with the exception of Jox’s late-afternoon lessons on the firing range—were preparing them to fight.
Worse, she was pretty sure the others felt the same way. They were taking their classes, finishing their home-work, and otherwise doing their own things. And that was
not
a good recipe for teamwork.
Maybe she noticed it because she was an outsider, maybe because Connie had exposed the members of the MDPD to a wide range of touchy-feely exercises designed to build their team spirit. Or whatever. But while the cops had universally mocked Connie’s team-building crapola, as far as Leah could tell, the MDPD had been one big, happy, tolerant family compared to the Nightkeepers. And that was bad. They—and that would be the whole-wide-world ‘‘they’’—needed the magi working together, or very bad things were going to happen. Leah believed that, even if she didn’t totally understand it.
A week before the Venus conjunction, she decided she’d had enough of the bullshit, enough of Strike locking himself away and pretending Jox and Red-Boar were a fine substitute for leadership.
So she sucked it up and went to find Jox.
The
winikin
was in his quarters near the royal suite, and answered the door barefoot, in jeans and a T-shirt, and carrying a book about miniature roses. His expression went cool when he saw her standing there. ‘‘Is there something I can help you with, Detective?’’
You can get your thumb out of your ass and take a good look around,
she thought, but didn’t figure that would get her very far. So instead she said, ‘‘Yeah. I need you to help me arrange a party.’’
Strike’s eyes were nearly crossed, and he was pretty sure he’d put a permanent kink in his neck from sitting at the long archive tables in front of a messy stack of books. Unfortunately, the Mac Pluses that’d held the computerized files had shit the bed long ago, leaving him working with some sort of perverse index-card system.
He’d been going through the cards for weeks now, one by one, searching the short annotations and pulling likely-sounding journals, translations, whatever, hoping for a clue, any clue that would help them understand why Leah had shown powers at the solstice and again at the aphelion, but had lost every hint of magic since. He’d also take something about how to track a
makol
when there wasn’t an
itza’at
seer handy.
There hadn’t been a Zipacna sighting in nearly three weeks. Strike was guessing he’d gone to ground someplace with some serious power lines—one of the old ruins down south, maybe—and used them to construct a ward barrier. Which meant the bastard was functionally untouchable and free to work whatever magic he had at hand until the equinox, when it was a sure bet he’d be at the intersection, looking to bring a dark lord through.
Time was running out too fast. They had three weeks until the equinox, and it seemed highly doubtful the trainees would be ready. According to Jox and Red-Boar, most of the newbies—with the notable exception of Jade—had mastered the basic pretalent spells of jacking in and manipulating the barrier’s energy, but only Patience had shown any spark of breakthrough talent. And Rabbit, of course, but that was a whole ’nother can of worms. Which left them exactly where they’d been six weeks ago—with a group of untrained magi and no idea what they’d be able to do.
At least they had some weapons training now, he supposed. Jox had brought the newbies to the range every day and gotten them up to speed on the MACs, along with a few different types of handguns and a sniper rifle or two. Jade-tips wouldn’t substitute for hard-core magic, but given that magic was in short supply at the moment, he’d take what he could get.
Which brought him circling back to Leah. Granted, just about every thought train he possessed eventually came back around to her these days. She was under his skin, in his blood. He knew where she was every minute of every day, both from gut-check awareness and from daily reports. Which was how he knew she’d practically been living on the gun range, and had gotten the
makol
-banishment spell from Jox.
It didn’t take much of a leap to figure out that she intended to be part of things when he teleported the Nightkeepers—all whopping ten of them—to the sacred chamber to meet the
makol
on the night of the autumnal equinox. What she didn’t know was that he had no intention of letting that happen. Unless there was a very good reason to include her in the attack—like she suddenly developed more power than the rest of them put together— she was going to become very good friends with a basement storage locker that night. He couldn’t afford the distraction of protecting her while trying to keep the others under control, finding the
makol
, blocking the intersection to keep the
Banol Kax
where they belonged . . .
Gods. It was too much even to think about.
And he’d just read the same page three times and didn’t have a frigging clue what it said.
‘‘Shit.’’ He slapped shut a binder-bound translation of a 1550s journal written by a missionary with a seriously antinative streak and shoved it aside. The binder slid into a teetering stack of accordion-folded charcoal rubbings, and before he could react, the whole mess went over the side of the table and hit the floor with a papery crash.
Knowing Jox would kick his ass if he’d buffed details off the rubbings, Strike cursed. Then, also knowing his increasingly unstable temper wouldn’t do a damn thing to speed things up or make them better, he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and let out a long sigh. ‘‘This sucks.’’
‘‘So take a break,’’ Leah said from the doorway.
Going very still, Strike opened his eyes and looked over at her. She’d had a bunch of her clothes and stuff shipped from Miami and was wearing hip-hanging cutoffs and a belly-baring tank, and he wanted nothing more than to rub his cheek across the strip of taut, creamy flesh exposed between them.
Horns locked within him, tightening his muscles and sending his pulse up a notch. ‘‘You shouldn’t be here.’’
‘‘Don’t worry; I’m leaving. But I’m taking you with me.’’ She crossed the distance separating them, skirting the piles of books and notes as she came, and grabbed his hand. Gave it a tug. ‘‘Come on. And don’t stress; we won’t be alone.’’
He resisted for about a nanosecond, then let her pull him up out of the chair and away from the archives. Once they were in the hallway, he tugged his hand from hers. It was hard enough being near her, feeling her body heat and letting the light, fresh scent of her seep into him—soap and woman, with an undertone of something sharper, gun oil, maybe, or determination.
They walked through the mansion side by side, a little awkward with each other. Trying to ignore the sexual tension that snapped in the air and dug deep within his gut, Strike said, ‘‘You’ve got something on Zipacna?’’ But he didn’t think that was it; her energy was different than that, more relaxed, though maybe a shade wary.
She shook her head. ‘‘I’m declaring a moratorium on that stuff for the next few hours, at least until the party is over.’’
‘‘Party?’’ he asked, but the moment she got him through the sliders near the pool, his senses perked up at the smell of smoke and sauce.
Hel-lo, barbecue
.
He heard shouts and good-natured catcalls coming from the direction of the big steel building that had replaced the Great Hall.
Leah said, ‘‘Your gods—
the
gods, whatever—can’t expect us to keep going forever without cutting loose a little, right? Well, consider yourself cut loose for the rest of today. You need a break. We all do. And I think you need to do some reconnecting.’’
He barely heard her as he pushed ahead, drawn by the sounds and smells.
When they rounded the corner of the mansion, he saw the Nightkeepers and
winikin
all gathered beneath the ceiba tree in front of the big steel building. They’d dragged out folding tables and chairs and fired up a pair of big gas grills Strike didn’t recognize. Jox was manning one of the grills, Woody the other, while Hannah and Izzy chopped veggies and readied burgers, wings, and dogs. Red-Boar and the remaining
winikin
sat nearby at one of the picnic tables. Most of the trainees were in the middle of a touch-football game, while off to the side Jade sat apart, watching the twins sneak up on a lizard that was sunning itself on a flat rock.
They were all contained within the ash shadow of where the old Great Hall had been.
Before, when the Nightkeepers and their
winikin
had gathered in the compound for the four cardinal days, the Great Hall had been jammed with tables. Friends and families—and occasionally rivals and enemies—had packed in elbow-to-elbow for the rituals, and the hard partying that followed.
Now the tables formed a tiny cluster at one end of the ash shadow, and the football game ranged the length of the empty space.
‘‘There are so damn few of us,’’ Strike rasped, stopping to stare at the pitiful handful of magi. ‘‘We’ve lost before we even get started.’’
‘‘That’s probably true,’’ Leah said conversationally. ‘‘Unless you get your flipping head out of your ass.’’
It took a second for that to sink in. Another for him to believe she’d said it. His too-ready temper flared, fueled by his frustration with the situation, with her. He raised an eyebrow in warning. ‘‘Excuse me?’’
They had stopped at the edge of the ash-grayed footprint of the Great Hall, out of earshot of the football game and picnic tables. The others glanced over, then away. All but Jox, who stared down at the grill.
Which meant the
winikin
had been in on whatever was going on, Strike realized. He’d been ambushed. The knowledge didn’t do a damn thing to sweeten his mood.
Either unaware of his temper or figuring it was his to deal with—probably the latter—Leah said, ‘‘Look, I know I’m not a Nightkeeper—trust me, that’s been made crystal clear. But the thing is, I didn’t ask to come here; you brought me. Your gods brought me. Whatever. So I’m going to tell it how I see it.’’ She paused, her voice softening a notch. ‘‘You and Jox and Red-Boar got tossed headfirst into a hell of a situation; I get that. But I think they’re dealing with it by leaning way too hard on traditions that just aren’t relevant anymore . . . and you’re dealing with it by not dealing.’’
‘‘I don’t think you’re in a position to lecture,’’ Strike said through gritted teeth. ‘‘As you’ve pointed out, you’re not one of us.’’ Which was mean, but she had him feeling mean. Did she think he liked spending fourteen hours a day locked in the archive? He was doing it for her, damn it. For all of them.
Something flickered in her eyes—hurt, maybe, or an anger that echoed his own—but she kept her tone reasonable when she said, ‘‘All the others were raised, to some degree or another, within the Nightkeeper culture. I’m an outsider. I can see stuff you can’t. Besides, in case you hadn’t noticed, things aren’t happening exactly the way the stories say they should. You’ve got a human who seems to have a god’s powers, but only when the barrier is at its thinnest, a half-blood with wild talent but no mark, and a full-blood with a mark but no apparent talent. Not to mention that you’re dealing with a bunch of trainees who grew up in the modern world and have opinions of their own.’’ She paused. ‘‘Seems to me that it’s time to make some changes.’’
He hated being ambushed, but had to admit she might have a point. Temper leveling slightly, he said, ‘‘Like what?’’