She heard Lucius’s uneven steps out in the hallway. “It’s Anna,” she called in scant warning, hurting for him. “She’s—”
“Oh, gods.” His voice was low and broken, as if he wasn’t all that surprised. He stood for a half second in the doorway, then limped to let himself down on Anna’s other side, his leg sticking out at an awkward angle as he wedged himself behind her, up against the altar, so he could support her upper body while Reese kept the pressure on.
“We found her quickly,” she said, but almost couldn’t hear herself over the thunder of her pulse. Then she realized the thundering noise was the sound of boots on tile. The others were coming. Natalie was the first one through the door; she gave a low cry and went pasty when she got a look at the scene. Several other
winikin
were right behind her; their faces mirrored her shock.
“Make a hole,” a voice barked, and JT came through carrying a medic’s duffel. He took one look, dumped the bag, and started yanking out IV materials. “What the hell happened? There wasn’t a damned thing on the monitors. Nothing got in or out of here.”
“She was holding the knife when I got here,” Reese said.
“The solstice must’ve triggered something inside her,” Lucius said raggedly. “But she should be healing. Why the hell isn’t she healing?”
Without warning, Anna’s eyes flew open and she gasped—a long, sucked-in breath that arched her body, tipping her head back and raising her chest until she was supporting herself on her ass and the crown of her head.
“She’s seizing!” JT went for the IV line with a loaded syringe.
Lucius grabbed his arm. “No, wait. Look!”
Anna’s mouth worked and her head lolled wildly, but then her movements smoothed out as she scanned the room . . . and locked on to Reese. Suddenly, her hands twisted in Reese’s, reversing their grip until she wasn’t holding pressure on Anna’s wrists anymore—the other woman was holding hers. Instinct told her to wrestle free, but she made herself stay put and meet Anna’s eyes, which were clear now, with none of the fog that had clouded them for more than a year. But at the same time they were vacant and uncomprehending. Which made it doubly eerie when she said, voice cracking, “The serpent staff cannot be wielded without balance—without it, the temple will become a doorway without a door and the vulture will be set free. You must stop the serpent prince from tipping the balance !” Then, like a switch had been thrown, the fog snapped back. She shuddered and let go of Reese’s hands.
“Move.” JT shouldered her aside and got to work, issuing low orders to Lucius—
hold this; press here
—but to Reese those were peripheral inputs that barely dented the spinning whirl inside her, the shock and horror as the pieces once again rearranged themselves, this time forming a compass within a circle, with the black opposite red, yellow opposing white, and green lightning at the center.
They fit together. They balanced. And if any one piece was taken away, the outer shell fell apart, releasing the lightning in a terrible explosion of nuclear proportions . . . and bringing Lord Vulture’s twilight.
Iago would have no compunction against activating all five of the artifacts. But if it came to it, Dez—the man he was now—may try to leave one of the pieces out of the puzzle, needing to prove to both of them that he was a better man than before. And then . . .
boom
. She looked at Lucius, heart racing. “I have to talk to Dez. I think he’s going to kill us by trying to do the right thing.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Coatepec Mountain
I’m here. Come and get me . . . get me . . .
The whispers echoed in Dez’s head, getting louder every foot the Nightkeepers fought toward the temple, hacking through the
makol
lines. It wasn’t just the one voice now—there were three others, quieter whispers that pulled at him, seesawing him from honor and balance to upheaval and revolution.
Lightning crackled around him, deflecting buzz blades, bullets, and whatever the fuck else the
makol
were throwing at him. He killed when he had to, knocked down where he could, aware that the other Nightkeepers were doing the same, though it was a bloody, thankless task. Yanking off the amulets turned out to disable but not kill them, and when they went down, the others turned on their fallen comrades and ripped them to shreds. So the magi were knocking the villagers down, over and over again, hoping they would find an answer in the temple, where Iago was casting the spells to activate the staff. Dez could feel the pulsing, hissing magic that was both dark and light, and pure serpent. If he didn’t get in there soon and stop Iago, they were fucked.
Overhead, Nate’s hawk incarnation soared and wheeled alongside the sun god in its firebird form, the two of them acting as air support. Dez tapped his armband—the solstice had knocked out the long-range communication, but short-range still worked, sort of. Into the hissing static, he said, “Now!”
As one, the hawk and firebird wheeled and dove, accelerating to a blur and swooping across the battlefield, strafing a fiery path between the Nightkeepers and the scaly, pearl-colored shield that enclosed the temple.
Makol
went down in flames, screaming, and Dez plunged up the hill with several of the others at his heels. A few of the magi were already up there, working on the shield. As he ascended, the whispers got louder, more urgent.
We’re here. Come and get us!
Up close, the temple was actually a series of archways leading from one to the next, undulating like a sea monster swimming through the earth. The floor was carved stone, the roof open to the sky. Iago stood inside, a dark, robed form kneeling before a curving, serpentine throne. On it, fitted into holders, rested the five puzzle pieces, the staff across the arms, the four compass artifacts set around the back piece of the throne, which fanned out like a green sunburst that ended in white, red, yellow, and black.
Come and take us. Bring your knife and come and fight for us!
The magi who had come up behind him turned back to cast a shield and defend the perimeter against the
makol
, buying him and the others already up there some space to work. Sven’s blond hair was streaked with ichor and blood ran from a cut on his cheek. The coyote stood at his side; for a second, the two of them seemed to blend together in Dez’s vision, until there was a single creature there. Then the moment passed. Beyond Sven, Rabbit had tears in his eyes, but he was holding the shield, napalming whichever of the villagers got too close. The others were all there, all accounted for, and they had a temple to breach. There was no sign of the tunnel entrances shown in the missionary’s journal. They would have to go through the shield.
Magic sizzled around Dez, edging higher as he approached the huge, arching shield, which was formed of pearly scales that overlapped in sinuous patterns of dark and light. Michael was trying to punch through using a thin stream of his deadly magic, with Strike and Leah standing beside him keeping watch.
“We’re not getting anywhere,” Strike reported as Dez came up beside him. The king was deathly pale, but he had fought with the others, grim-faced and determined, and the blood on him wasn’t his own.
He was running on magic and balls, Dez thought, and hoped it would be enough to see them all through the day intact. “Let me try,” he said, waving Michael back. “This is serpent magic.”
Leah said something, but her voice was drowned out by the coaxing whisper in Dez’s mind:
Kill your rival and take what is rightfully yours
.
Kill your rival . . . your rival . . . your rival.
And he got it. He freaking got it. Reese had been right when she said this solstice was all about the serpents.
“Son of a bitch,” he grated. “The prophecy wasn’t about a serpent killing a jaguar king . . . it was about two serpents fighting each other, one-on-one, one wielding light magic, one dark.” But when Leah’s eyes sparked with hope, he shook his head in warning. “It also says that the usurper who kills his rival will take the throne.”
Strike reached out and gripped his upper arm, right where the
hunab ku
would go. “Kill him, Mendez. No matter what happens after that, I want you involved, not him.” His eyes were bright cobalt chips in a pasty face.
Dez nodded. “I’ll kill him. But I’m not taking your job.”
“Let’s blow that shit up when we get there.”
“Deal.” Acting on instinct and the way the whispers kept focusing on his knife, Dez stripped off his armband, .44, autopistols, belt and clips, and tossed them aside, then looked down the Nightkeeper line. His team was holding back the
makol
with a combination of shield magic, fireballs, and jade-tipped ammo, fighting fiercely as warriors. As teammates and saviors. “Stay alive,” he ordered, then pointed to Strike. “And keep
him
alive.”
He didn’t know how the thirteenth prophecy fit in, but he knew the voices had gotten one thing right: This was his fight. It always had been. Blood pumping, he faced the glistening shield for a moment, then used his knife—his only remaining weapon—to slice his palms. The magic amped as he pressed his palms to the surface, which was glassy and smooth, and cool to the touch.
Ready or not, here I come, you bastard.
On the other side of the shield, Iago knelt before the altar with his head bowed in prayer. He, too, was wearing only a knife. He didn’t seem to be paying any attention to the world beyond the temple—either he was too deep in the magic to notice that the Nightkeepers had made it through the
makol
defenses or he wasn’t concerned with them.
That’s what you get for sacrificing all your teammates
, Dez thought.
There’s nobody left to watch your back
. But then he winced when the concept hit too close. He hadn’t been letting thoughts of Reese distract him to this point, at least not that much. But as he summoned his magic now, her image formed in his mind—soft-eyed and drowsy as she had been the few precious mornings they had woken up in each other’s arms. As she came clear in his mind, the magic of love flowed through him. Because he did love her—maybe always had, on some level. But she didn’t trust him. He really had waited too long this time. He still needed to prove himself, though—to her, to himself, to the magi who had entrusted him with their oaths. So he focused, drawing on the magic of the Triad and the fealty oaths, and deep down inside to the core of his serpent self.
And then, holding her image fixed firmly in his mind, he let the magic flow out of him as he had done earlier with Strike, when he had inadvertently brought the temple out of hiding. Power crackled as it flowed into the shield, sending sparks arcing across its surface and warming it beneath his hands.
Yes!
the whispers rejoiced,
come!
But nothing else happened.
He dug deeper, poured more magic into the shield.
Warmth. Electricity. The glimmer of an image.
Reese.
He focused on her, saw her, felt her in his heart. And as he did, the shield magic softened and gave, letting him through. Because light magic burned brightest when it came from love, he realized.
As he passed into the shield, his magic went dead, utterly nullified by the spell—he felt it cut out, and had the strange sensation of his skull echoing as the background hums of power cut out. Not for long, though, because the moment he was through, he felt the power of the statuette, heard her voice, so much louder than the others.
I’ve always been yours. I’ve never turned away from you, never left you, never let you down.
With the words, a terrible urgency slammed into him—the need to touch the statue once more, hold her, have her. Before, he hadn’t been able to use her magic. Now, though—
No!
He tried to sweep away the temptation, but he’d never been good at clearing his mind, and now was no exception. So instead, he filled it with an image of Reese, sporting black leather and a .38, and ready to kick some ass.
Iago roared and exploded to his feet, crimson robe flowing around him as he put himself between Dez and the artifacts, whipped out a wickedly curved stone knife, and dropped into a fighter’s crouch. There was no hint of dark magic, save for the eerie green glow of his eyes. That was just fine with Dez, because he knew how to handle a knife.
Iago charged and Dez met the rush, dodged the knife swipe by dropping to his knees, and then surged up, leading with his skull and driving his head into his rival’s solar plexus. It was like headbutting granite, but the
makol
flew backward to slam into a pillar and slide down it, leaving a streak of blood that was very red on the white limestone. The
makol
twisted, watched the wound regenerate, and hissed in satisfaction.
Which so wasn’t fair. How come he got to keep some of his magic?
Cursing at the disadvantage, Dez reversed his grip and charged as Iago hurtled toward him. He ducked a chest-high stab and slashed upward. He felt the knife bite, heard Iago howl English curses mixed with ancient Aztec as fabric tore and the blade skidded across his abdomen. Dez yanked back, narrowly avoiding the bastard’s backswing. Blood splattered from Iago’s wound and he staggered. Seeing the opening, Dez lashed out a kick that connected with the Xibalban’s knife hand, sending the weapon flying.
Iago screeched and spun, not toward the knife, but toward the throne. The whispers gained sudden volume in Dez’s head—
Yesyesyes!
—as he lunged in pursuit, but Iago got there ahead of him, grabbed the serpent staff, and swung the three-foot-long snakes-haped stone artifact at his head like a fucking Louisville Slugger. Dez lunged forward, took the blow on his shoulder, and got inside Iago’s guard for another stab. The collision drove them back against the throne, and the second he made contact, the whispers became shouts. He blocked them out, but the split-second hesitation cost him as Iago rammed an elbow into the side of his head, dazing him.