Skykeepers (49 page)

Then she saw the note on his kitchen counter, and had her answer. In square, blocky letters, he’d written:
Rabbit is with me. Either all will be well . . . or it won’t. If not, please remember the good stuff, and tell Tomas that he couldn’t have changed this. In the end, what is meant to be will be.

Sasha’s blood chilled as she remembered the voice she’d heard in her dream, the cry for help that had awakened her. It hadn’t been Michael, she realized with a sudden, sinking burst of clarity. It’d been Rabbit. He’d been the one to call for help, because Michael was already unconscious, or worse. Anger flared, but she checked it and got her ass moving.

Clutching the note, she burst out of the suite and bolted for the main room. Making a beeline for where Strike, Leah, and Jox were just emerging from the royal wing, she shoved the note in Strike’s hand and blurted, “We need to find Michael and Rabbit,
now
!”

But Strike couldn’t find Michael with ’port lock, and a search of the immediate mansion and cottages didn’t turn them up. The magi and
winikin
gathered under the ceiba tree, trying to figure a next move. Panic gripped Sasha at the thought that the missing man had left the warded canyon and been grabbed by the Xibalbans. Michael couldn’t give her the security and inner strength she needed, but she cared about him, damn it. She didn’t want to lose him. Not like this. Her mind flashing to the sight of a tattered skull atop a pyramid of rubble, she said raggedly, “I saw rock walls in my dream. A ruin . . .”

A coyote howled near the back of the canyon, an almost human-timbred wail that drew her attention. She saw a smudge of smoke rising into the afternoon sky. “There!” she said, pointing. “They’re in the pueblo.”

After a mad scramble for first-aid kits and combat gear, Strike ’ported them all out to the pueblo, landing them on a ledge near the smoldering tree. The smell of blood hung heavy on the air, sharp and stagnant. Following the smell, or her instincts, or maybe both, she lunged for a nearby doorway—a round-cornered rectangle leading into darkness. She plunged through and skidded to a halt as her eyes took a second to adjust, another to process what she was seeing.

The small rectangular room was a charnel. Blood had saturated the sandy floor, then pooled and coagulated, bright with oxygen in places, dark with death in others. The liquid formed a single commingled pool beneath the two men who slumped shoulder-to-shoulder against the far wall, their legs stretched out before them, their heads lolled back to rest on the wall . . . and their slashed wrists turned up to the sky.

A hiss of air escaped from Sasha as her heart twisted in her chest. She was dimly aware of the others crowding into the doorway behind her, but her entire attention was focused on Michael and Rabbit. She crossed the room and dropped to her knees between the men—
the bodies
, her gut told her, because there was no way they could survive something like this. Their mingled blood soaked through her jeans to touch her skin, but she ignored the disquieting sensation as she touched Michael’s face, his chest, his throat. And felt nothing. Grief backed up in her chest, making it impossible to breathe. She leaned into him, opened her magic to him, trying to find music and hearing only emptiness. On the physical level, though, she thought she felt a faint flutter. A heartbeat . . . maybe? Yes, there it was. “He’s alive!”

“They both are,” Strike said. He was crouched down beside Rabbit. “I’ve got a pulse.” But his grim expression said,
They’d need a miracle to pull through
.

A miracle. “I’ll heal them,” she said as the others crowded into the circular room. “I made my plants grow earlier this morning; I’m getting better with
ch’ul
. If we link up, I can feed them our energy; I can do it.” But even as she made the promise to herself, to the others, doubts crowded in on her. She’d never found Rabbit’s
ch’ul
music, and Michael’s song didn’t always behave the way she expected it to. Yes, she could channel energy into them, but her gut said it would just pour right out again unless she could find their songs. Regardless, she fixed Strike with a look. “I have to try.”

“I know you do.” Strike hesitated. “I’ll ’port us to the temple, and we’ll carry them down to the tomb. You’ll need extra power, and that’s the strongest power sink we’ve found yet.” He paused, expression darkening. “Besides, we’ll need to be there in a couple of hours for the solstice ritual . . . and we’re going to need a sacrifice.”

“No!” Sasha said sharply. “Not them. One of the Xibalbans. With Michael and me both in the tomb, you can set the ambush, just like we planned. When Iago comes for us, you’ll get your sacrifice.”

“If Iago doesn’t come, we’ll still need someone,” Strike reminded her.

“Maybe this was meant,” Jox said quietly from behind the king, where he stood holding a first-aid kit that wouldn’t even begin to address the problems confronting them. The others were ranged behind him, Nightkeepers and
winikin
alike. Anna was weeping silently, her eyes fixed on Rabbit. Tomas stood grim and stone-faced, but when Sasha met his eyes she saw real grief beneath, and thought she could almost hear him whisper, “Please,” though his lips didn’t move.

She nodded, resolve hardening within her. “Fine. Zap us to the tomb. But I want your word that you won’t sacrifice them until I agree there’s nothing more I can do.” When he said nothing, she held out her bloodied hand. “Swear it.”

They traded stares for several heartbeats, and in his expression she saw the war she was just beginning to understand would be a part of her life from now on, the struggle to choose between destiny and desire, between duty and emotion, friendship . . . and love. Then, finally, he nodded. “Their lives are yours.”

Which wasn’t what she’d asked for. But there was no way she was letting either of them die. Rabbit was too special to go out like this, and Michael . . . well, he might not have been ready to fight for her, but she was sure as hell going to fight for him, because if he died, she suspected a piece of her would die along with him, whether either of them liked it or not.

The creature that lived in the Scorpion River was easily three times the size of a normal
boluntiku
, and had a whiplike tail that broke from the water to curl up and over its back, scorpionlike. As he ran down the ferry dock toward the creature, Michael let rip with twin salvos from his autopistols.

The jade-tipped bullets passed right through the damn thing.

“Shit!” He’d forgotten that part, how jade-tips could kill the magic-sniffing, hellborn creatures, but only when they were in their solid form—which they usually took only right before making contact with their prey.

The muddy brown water churned, boiling up from below to erupt in foul-smelling belches within the va porish creature, which rose above him, screaming its soul-curdling battle cry as it took a swipe at him, turning solid in the last second before it made contact. Michael stood his ground, letting rip with his pistols, then dropping flat to the dock. The
boluntiku
’s long, curving claws whipped over the top of him as the creature jerked back and screamed in outraged pain. He rose up and tried for another salvo, then heard Lucius’s shout of, “Down!”

Too late, he saw the wicked whip of the ’
tiku
’s tail slashing through the air toward him. Then a heavy weight hit him, knocking him down and to one side as Lucius, body-slammed him to safety.

The creature’s tail crashed into the place where the man had just been. The stone dock shuddered beneath the force of the blow.

“Thanks,” Michael said raggedly, his ribs aching from the tackle. He dragged himself up, slapped fresh cartridges in the pistols, and snapped, “Get your ass in the water and do your best to almost drown while you’re saying the spell.” He rattled off a two-line prayer in badly accented Maya. “It might do something about that
makol
problem of yours. I’ll hold off the ’
tiku
until you’re out of sight.”

Michael knew that he’d been meant to find the other man, that their meeting had been far from a coincidence. He had to help the human, had to give him a chance to break the
makol
’s hold on him, and maybe even make it back to the Nightkeepers, back to Jade. Which meant distracting the giant
boluntiku
long enough for Lucius to get out into the strong current at the center of the river. When Lucius hesitated, Michael shoved him. “Go!

The human clapped him on the shoulder. “See you on the outside.” Then he ran across the dock at an angle away from the ’
tiku
and jumped as far out into the center as he could. There was a huge splash when he landed, then ripples going to nothing.

The lava creature reared back and turned toward the sound, hissing.

“No, you bastard!” Michael waved to get the thing’s attention. “I’m the one you want. Fight me!” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Lucius’s head breaking the surface, only to sink below again. Then the river whipped him around a corner, and the human was lost to sight.

“Gods go with you,” Michael muttered. Then, biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood in a quick and dirty autosacrifice, he summoned his shield magic . . . and got nothing. Not even a flicker of red-gold power responded to his call. Which meant he either unleashed the
muk
, taking the risk of tipping his soul so far that the river couldn’t save him . . . or he and Lucius both died.

“
Shit
,” he whispered, feeling the
muk
crowding the edges of his brain, his soul. Then, roaring a denial, he opened himself to the power and the Other’s memories. He smashed through the sluiceways and yanked down the dam, then hammered at the older, stronger bastions within him, destroying Rabbit’s work, and Horn’s. His divided brain shuddered under the impact of the Other’s thoughts and memories, and the oily whip of ancient magic. The
muk
surrounded him, took him over, while the Other howled in triumph. Michael’s vision went gray, but still he could see the
boluntiku
rearing up, towering over him.

His heart fought to reject the corrupting silver magic. And as it did, he was helpless. Powerless.

Then the
boluntiku
screamed as it attacked, going solid at the last possible second. Michael ducked the creature’s attack and spun aside, but could evade for only so long; he needed to attack. Knowing he lacked the power to fight the creature, heart breaking and soul crying out as he did so, he yielded himself to the Mictlan and its terrible weapon.
Muk
slammed into him, channeled through him, as, for the first time in his mage life, he called fireball magic and his warrior’s talent responded, not with a ball of fiery light, but with one of bright, brilliant silver. The flames seethed and grew in his hand as the
boluntiku
reoriented on him and closed in, drawing back its terrible claws for a killing swipe.

It swung, turning solid again. Michael threw, hurling the gleaming
muk
straight into its gaping maw. Howling, the ’
tiku
snapped its jaws shut on the ball of anti-
ch’ul
. It paused for a second, then let out a another unearthly howl, this one of pain rather than rage. Head whipping from side to side, it roared and cycled from vapor to solid and back. The unearthly glow of molten orange lava dimmed and died as the creature solidified a final time. Its motions slowed, grew sporadic, then stopped. The thing grayed. Then it went limp and drooped, losing form and substance as it coalesced into the river.

Water splashed, then stilled, leaving Michael alone on the stone-and-bone dock. Only he wasn’t really alone. He was Michael. He was the Mictlan. He was the Other. And it was time.

Three strides carried him to the edge of the dock. A fourth sent him plunging into the water, which slapped at him with a cold shock, then swept him up and bore him into the current.

At first he paddled to stay afloat, angling his body, and started swimming for the shore. But then he stopped himself, knowing that wasn’t how the spell worked. One near-death experience had been required to get to the in-between; another was necessary for absolution. Near death within near death. Double the sacrifice.
So be it
, he thought, whispering the second set of spell words and then letting himself go limp as the river churned around him.

The Other howled a warning and the
muk
rose up within him, but Michael held on to his control and forced his lungs to unlock, forced himself to inhale water rather than air. The brackish flow gushed down his throat and windpipe and he gagged, choking and spasming, spinning in the rapid current. The water slammed him into a rocky outcropping and the world went dim. Starbursts detonated behind his eyelids, and for a second he thought he heard music. Then it went away. Everything went away. As he passed from consciousness, pain ripped through his chest. Life drained from him; hope fled.

Despair welled up. He needed help, needed the gods. Needed Sasha.
Please save me
, he thought, sending the prayer into the brackish water around him.
Please help me be worthy
.

There was no answer except the darkness.

Sasha bent over where Rabbit and Michael lay on the floor, desperate and exhausted. She had a hand on each of their chests, her palms leaking her blood onto them, her touch giving them healing power, though not enough of it. They were still alive, but that was about all she could claim. She couldn’t find their songs, couldn’t follow their
ch’ul
flow to where they had gone. She was acting as little more than a magical life-support system, bleeding power into them, only to have it drain away just as quickly. She needed the miracle. She needed help. The
ch’ulel
was supposed to be able to heal. Why couldn’t she find the way to that piece of her talent? What was she missing? What wasn’t she doing right?