If it didn’t, they were screwed.
Leah was running out of time. Through her weak link to the golden light of the god she could feel the alignment coming to bear, feel the power opening up, blooming within her, but she couldn’t do a damn thing with it. All the training, all the spells . . . useless.
She wasn’t a Nightkeeper. Never would be. And Strike hadn’t come for her. Did he think she was dead already? Worse, had something happened to him? Fear crushed down on defeat, adding to the sense of suffocation that was growing ever more intense with each second.
Jox’s words spooled through her head in a depressing loop.
Self-sacrifice isn’t a sin . . . it’s the ultimate way . . . to honor the gods.
Was that what it was going to come down to? She cast around the chamber for a weapon, but saw only the screaming skulls and dying gods carved on the walls, and braziers that gave off red-hued
copan
smoke. She needed a knife, or preferably a gun. Quicker that way.
The thought twisted her belly with fear and despair.
Strike, where are you?
A noise from the chamber entrance had her whipping her head from the altar surface, her heart jolting with the crazy thought that he’d locked on and come for her. But no, it was Zipacna who strode through the door, followed by a second green-eyed
makol
she recognized as the mimic in its baseline form. Both were wearing flowing robes the same gray-green color as the barrier mists.
Zipacna palmed a long, wickedly curved black knife from the belt knotted at his waist, and raised an eyebrow. ‘‘Last chance. You accept the spell and you’ll live beyond tonight.’’
‘‘As a
makol
? No way.’’
‘‘Your loss.’’ He flipped the knife, caught it by the blade, and didn’t even wince when it cut deep and blood flowed. Glancing at his watch—a jarringly normal action— he said, ‘‘You’ve got forty-two minutes left. Any last words?’’
‘‘Yeah. ‘Fuck’ and ‘you.’ ’’
He waved his bleeding hand at her. ‘‘Tell it to someone who cares. Like your brother.’’
‘‘Leave him out of this.’’ Rage guttered low in her stomach, battling out the fear.
‘‘Why?’’ He grinned, baiting her while the mimic leaned against the wall and watched them with an eerie lack of expression. ‘‘What are you going to do about it, cop?’’
The sluggish swirl of power shone hotter, brighter in her mind’s eye, and she felt something stir. A faint tingle started in her fingertips and ran up the insides of her arms, tightening the skin across her breasts and pressing urgently at the center of her chest. But when she tried to use the magic, nothing happened.
The bastard chuckled, moving closer and leaning over her, so she could feel the inhuman chill of him, feel the tickle of his breath on her skin. ‘‘See?’’ he murmured. ‘‘You can’t do a damn thing to me. I am
ajaw-makol
. I’m untouchable.’’
She whimpered and stretched, trying to get away from him, but hit the ends of her shackles too quickly.
Clearly enjoying her fear, he chuckled and swiped his tongue along her cheek to the edge of her ear.
Anger flared. Revulsion. And somehow the two together were enough to put her over. She felt a click, felt a door open inside her soul. Golden power flared within her, exploding in a starburst as she touched Kulkulkan’s power. She sensed the god trapped within the skyroad, felt his power and anger, his blinding wish to be free.
Tapping that power, opening herself to it, she locked onto the spell Strike had used the first moment she met him, and shouted,
‘‘Torotobik!’’
Her shackles detonated, freeing her and driving Zipacna back with a shout. Adrenaline flaring hard and hot, she didn’t stop to think or plan. She lunged forward, grabbed the black knife from his hand, and plunged it to the hilt in his left eye, until she felt bone grate.
Roaring, Zipacna reeled to the side, pawing at the protruding haft as blood and clear fluid poured down his face. ‘‘Get her!’’
But shock slowed the mimic’s reactions. She charged him, slammed her foot into the side of his knee, and sent him flying. Then she turned back for Zipacna, intending to finish him, finish them both—only to see him puff out in a cloud of purple-black.
The mimic roared and charged her, and she turned and fled. Bolting through the door into the sand-floored tunnel leading to the sunken river, she ran in search of Zipacna. She had less than forty minutes to make sure neither of them lived past the equinox.
Strike peered through a leafy rain forest curtain, his body humming with the need to move, and move fast. ‘‘Come on, come on,’’ he chanted under his breath.
‘‘What are you waiting for?’’ Behind him, Red-Boar and Anna crouched in silence. The west-side team of Nate, Alexis, Michael, and Jade were waiting nearer the tunnel entrance, preparing to attack.
Then a single shot rang out from the bushes on the east side of the tunnel mouth. Another. The
makol
started to shuffle and move, shifting to the side of the cave overhang.
Strike tensed. ‘‘Get ready.’’
Suddenly, Sven leaped out of the vegetation, stood at the edge of the clearing, and unloaded most of a MAC clip into the tunnel mouth. The
makol
scattered, then spun and returned fire as Sven bolted for cover. Mindless with the killing rage, and only as smart as the degree to which their human hosts had accepted the evil, the
makol
followed.
‘‘Go!’’ Strike lunged to his feet and pounded the short distance to the tunnel mouth, with Anna and Red-Boar right behind him.
A
makol
at the back of the pack turned and shouted in alarm, only to be cut down in a hail of jade-tips as Nate burst from the undergrowth nearby, with Alexis and Michael right behind him, Jade bringing up the rear.
‘‘Go!’’ Nate shouted. ‘‘We’ve got this.’’
Strike didn’t argue; he bolted for the tunnel, gaining the mouth and disappearing down the stone throat, leaving the sounds of battle behind. But as he pounded down the tunnel with Anna and Red-Boar on his heels, he knew they were cutting it way too close.
The equinox hummed in his bones, stronger than the song of the summer solstice had been, stronger than he’d expected, but still he couldn’t pinpoint Leah. He kept trying to throw her a travel thread, kept getting bounced by whatever sort of shielding was at work within the tunnels.
They reached the underground river after what felt like an eternity, turned, and booked it toward the chamber. As they passed an intersecting tunnel, Strike caught a hint of motion, a flash of luminous green, and flung himself to the side with a shout of,
‘‘Makol!’’
Anna hit the deck as the creature lunged. Red-Boar roared a battle cry, grabbed the thing by the throat, and brought his pistol to its forehead. Then he froze.
It was Leah.
‘‘No!’’ Strike shouted, hiis voice cracking on the word. ‘‘Don’t!’’
Red-Boar looked at him. Hesitated.
And Leah drove a black-handled knife into Red-Boar’s gut, yanked it out, and slashed his throat on the backhand. Blood spurted, geysering in an obscene arc as the Nightkeeper’s knees buckled.
Anna screamed and reached for him, cradling him in her arms as he fell.
Leah—or the thing that had been Leah—turned on Strike. Her eyes glowed scary strange, and her mouth was distorted in a rictus of bloodlust. But when he looked at her he felt nothing but revulsion. There was no connection. No love.
‘‘Gods help us,’’ Strike said as he raised his MAC.
And fired point-blank.
Anna screamed in horror. Leah’s head exploded and she went down in a heap. Ribs heaving, heart hammering inside his chest, Strike followed her down, unsheathing his knife. Working fast, telling himself not to look at her face, he cut her heart out, hacked off her head, and recited the banishment spell, sending the
makol
back to hell where it belonged.
When it was gone, Leah’s body went limp.
Strike stood, horror taking root when the corpse remained exactly as it was. ‘‘Please, gods,’’ he whispered. ‘‘Not like this. Please, not like this.’’ He’d been so sure it wasn’t her, so sure he was making the right call.
Then, finally, the body shimmered. Shifted. And changed into that of a skinny man wearing a fungus-colored robe and a tattoo of a winged crocodile. Then purple-green light flashed, and the thing was gone.
Strike’s bones went to water and he sagged in relief. ‘‘Thank you, Jesus. Gods. Whatever.’’ He exhaled, tried to get his breathing under control. ‘‘Shit. Oh, boy. Oh, shit. A mimic. It was a mimic.’’
‘‘How did you know?’’ Anna asked, her voice shaky.
‘‘I just knew. I had faith. I knew it wasn’t her.’’ Except for a few seconds when he’d thought he had it wrong, thought he’d bought into the thirteenth prophecy without even knowing it.
But the attack had not been without a sacrifice, he knew. He turned to see Anna crouched on the ground with Red-Boar sprawled across her lap, both of them covered in the blood that still pumped from the older man’s torn throat in slowing spurts driven by a faltering heart.
Sorrow cut through Strike, and he dropped to his knees beside the dying man. ‘‘Gods, no.’’
Red-Boar’s eyes flickered open and locked on even as the life faded. ‘‘Happy now, boy?’’
‘‘Step off, old man.’’ But Strike choked on the words. He touched Red-Boar’s forehead, leaking him power, buffering the pain. ‘‘Safe journey,’’ he whispered. ‘‘Say hello to the king for me.’’
But Red-Boar shook his head ever so slightly. ‘‘You’re . . . king now.’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ Strike said. ‘‘I am.’’
As his life drained, Red-Boar murmured, ‘‘Forgive.’’ Then his breath faded and stopped, and his body went limp in Anna’s arms as she bent over him and wept, the soft sound lost beneath the burble of the underground river that flowed nearby.
Shit,
Strike thought.
Just shit.
The loss hurt keenly on too many levels to count, but they couldn’t stop to mourn. They’d already wasted too much time. The equinox was close now, very close.
‘‘Anna.’’ He touched her arm. ‘‘We’ve got to go.’’ She nodded miserably, shifted Red-Boar’s body to the side, and climbed to her feet, wiping her bloodstained hands on her blood-soaked pants. ‘‘We’ll come back for him. After.’’
‘‘Of course. He’s one of us.’’ Whatever he’d done, or hadn’t done, Red-Boar had been his own version of loyal. All else was washed clean by the sacrifice.
They tugged the corpse into an offshoot tunnel and made a stab at obscuring the tracks and bloodstains. And then they ran for their lives.
Crouching in the underbrush, fighting green fire with red, Rabbit felt as if he were burning up from the inside.
His mouth was parchment dry, and his eyelids rasped across his corneas without the benefit of moisture. His skin crinkled as he labored by rote: lifting his arms, holding his hands a few inches apart, concentrating until flame flared to life between them, and then pivoting and throwing to block the incoming green flame, so the two streams met in a brilliant blast of white.
His right shoulder hurt like hell. He was thirsty, hungry, and exhausted beyond all rationality, and his head felt like it was about to split open and spill his brains onto the rain forest floor. And he couldn’t have been happier.
With Patience and Brandt fighting together on his right and Sven on his left as they worked with the other team, squeezing the
makol
forces and picking off the bastards one by one, he was part of something. He belonged. Even better, he was good at something.
‘‘Hold on,’’ Brandt said. ‘‘What the hell are they doing?’’
It took Rabbit a few seconds to reorient, another to pop out from behind the crumbling wall he’d been hiding behind, to check out the scene.
Makol
parts were strewn across the clearing, most of them still moving, which was just beyond weird. But until the Nightkeepers got in there and did the head-and -heart thing, the creatures weren’t actually dead, just dismembered. Which was kind of cool.
What wasn’t cool was the way the dark-haired
makol
with the flying-croc tattoo and pointy teeth, who seemed to be in charge, had gathered the remaining dozen
makol
into a knot.
Then, without warning, a huge green fireball the size of a VW Bug erupted and screamed toward where Rabbit and the others were hiding.
‘‘Take cover!’’ Brandt shoved Rabbit off to one side, grabbed Patience, and dove in the other direction. Groggy from doing too much magic, Rabbit lay dazed.
The fireball hit right where he’d been and detonated, blasting heat and energy in all directions. The world went white and noise roared over him, flattening the rain forest and sending trees flying in a spray of wooden shrapnel.
When the echoes died away, Rabbit lay gasping, trying to figure out why he wasn’t mulch.
Then he felt the humming power of a shield spell a few inches away from his face and realized he was lying on someone’s foot. Craning his neck, he saw Sven lying nearby, looking dazed, but holding on to the shield spell he’d thrown over both of them.
‘‘Hey,’’ Rabbit said, breathing hard. ‘‘Thanks.’’
Sven nodded. ‘‘Yep.’’
And that was all that needed to be said. They were a team, after all.
They scrambled up, Rabbit and Sven from one side of the fireball crater, Brandt and Patience from the other, just in time to see the
makol
breaking ranks and bolting for the tunnel, charging toward the position held by Nate, Alexis, Michael, and Jade.
‘‘Nate,
incoming
!’’ Brandt shouted, and started running after the
makol
, with Patience, Rabbit, and Sven on his heels.
But the
makol
charged right past the other Nightkeepers and down the tunnel.
‘‘Get them!’’ Nate shouted, bursting from cover with his team behind him. ‘‘Don’t let them reach the chamber! We’ll take care of these guys and catch up.’’ He dropped beside one of the downed
makol
and dispatched it in a flash of purple light. ‘‘Go!’’