Jessica Andersen - Skykeepers

Something kindled in the hopelessness of Rabbit’s eyes. “Love helps us break the patterns.”

That rocked Michael back on his heels, slammed through him with an energy that felt like magic itself. Why had it taken a punk kid to point that out? Because damned if he wasn’t right. It was a small sample size, granted, but what if it held true? The Nightkeepers’ magic was inextricably intertwined with the man-woman connection of sex, of love. What if—maybe because theirs was such a small group, maybe because of another, higher layer of destiny—love sometimes trumped the prophecies and the signs?

The thought was humbling. Terrifying. Exciting.

Or it’s bullshit , logic said. The kid wants to believe he and his first real girlfriend are supposed to be together forever, and you want an excuse to think you can win Sasha back, even though nothing’s changed inside you. Which was true, Michael supposed. The Mictlan’s target bond had been broken, but he was still connected to the muk , still had the dubious talent and the Other within him. Damn it.

“Look,” he said, fixing Rabbit with a don’t mess with me glare, “I can’t promise you that things are going to work out with you and Myrinne, and you’d damn well better not hinge your good behavior on it. Be a man and do your best. That’s all any of us can ask of you.”

Rabbit seemed to consider that for a moment. Then his shoulders squared and he nodded. “I’m working on it.”

“Keep working.” Michael clapped the teen on the shoulder. “Now, let’s go find our bodies.” And hope to hell they’re still alive for us to come back to.

The tomb of the First Father Wrung out from dividing her energies between the two injured men, Sasha felt Michael’s energy flow dip alarmingly, spike, and dip again, and knew this was the moment she’d been dreading, the moment he hit the end of his reserves and her strength was no longer enough to keep his heart going, his blood flowing through his veins. Refusing to give up, to give in, she gripped his limp hand and flung the last of her fading strength toward the place where she could feel his energy draining. Calling to the others, she said, “Help me. I need more!”

Strike looked over from the nearly open coffin and shook his head, expression drawn. “There isn’t any more, Sasha.” He paused. “I’m sorry. It’s almost time.”

She felt her fingers go numb, and thought she’d gripped Michael’s hand too tight. Then she heard a thrumming, electric chord and realized it was the other way around. She froze, afraid to hope as she looked down at Michael. His eyes were open. “Oh,” she breathed. “You’re back.”

She was peripherally aware of Strike’s amazement, of the others gathering around, but she was caught up in Michael, and in his energy, which was alive and vibrant, and calling to hers, drawing it inward. Almost too late she felt the silver muk reach out to her, felt it begin to drain her. She cut the connection fast, but felt the ache of loss left behind. “It didn’t work.”

The forest of his eyes went to dusk. “It did and it didn’t. Rabbit—” He broke off, glancing at the teen. “Oh, shit. He was right behind me.”

Rabbit’s body was still lying there, but he’d gone gray. And in Sasha’s grasp, his hand was cold as death.

Somewhere in the barrier Rabbit was halfway back into his body when he’d felt Iago grab onto his consciousness and follow, still trying to piggyback his way into the sarcophagus room, the bastard. More, through the psychic link, Rabbit could see inside the Xibalban’s mind and know his plans; that knowledge chilled him to the marrow with its scope and possibilities. No! Rabbit’s consciousness hung within the barrier’s energy flow as he fought the Xibalban’s hold, trying to find his way back to the in-between, to the gray-green mist of the barrier, hell, anywhere but back to the tomb of the First Father.

You can’t win , Iago mocked him, giving him a shove back toward his body. You’d be better off conserving your strength to fight me when we get there .

And the damn thing was, he was right. Rabbit’s strength was failing; his body was failing. Should he just let go of that connection? No, he couldn’t die now. He had to get back to the others and tell them what Iago was planning, had to get back to Myrinne and tell her he was sorry for being a dick, that she could have all the time and space she needed, even if it killed him to back off. Michael had turned away from the gods by refusing to kill him. He had to be worthy of that sacrifice. And somehow, though gods only knew how, he needed to break this ungodly link he shared with Iago. It left him too vulnerable.

But how the hell was he supposed to do that? The river had washed him clean of the extra hellmagic Iago had loaded him down with, but it hadn’t broken his connection to the hellmagic. What would?

Not a fucking thing , the Xibalban answered inside him, warning Rabbit that his mental shields were for shit, that the rest of his magic was falling down around his ears. His powers were crumbling, kaleidoscoping inward, along with his consciousness. Still struggling, he resisted the forces urging him back to himself, thinking that if he could stay out of his body, he could strand them both in the barrier, or the in-between.

Then he heard sudden music, a marching backbeat overlaid with electric guitar, and Sasha’s voice was inside his head, impossibly strong as she called, Get your ass back here, Rabbit. We need you!

Then she somehow grabbed onto him, latching her energy to his and pulling him home to his human shell.

Rabbit felt Iago’s startled delight and roared a denial, but it was already too late. The enemy mage had grabbed onto the connection, followed it to its source. Howling despair and the knowledge that he’d fucked up again, Rabbit flung himself back into his own body, hoping to hell he got there ahead of Iago.

The tomb of the First Father Relief and excitement flared as Sasha felt the magic connect. “He’s coming back,” she said, leaning into Michael’s solid strength as he fed her power through their linked hands, their magic connecting despite the muk and the madness.

Michael continued to give her—and the rest of the room—a rundown on what had happened at the river, how Lucius had helped him, then been swept downstream, and how he’d come upon Rabbit and taken back the Mictlan talent and muk link in exchange for Rabbit’s life.

Emotion surged through her and she tightened her grip on his hand, trying to tell him how she felt through their linked magic, even as she poured their linked energy into the healing connection she’d finally—finally—formed with Rabbit when she’d looked deep inside him, beneath the hellmagic that blocked her perceptions, and found his song—a soft tenor aria, haunting in its refrain.

“She’s got him!” Michael said, triumphant. Then he said something more, and Strike answered, but Sasha suddenly couldn’t follow, couldn’t react, couldn’t do anything as dark, oily brown magic surrounded her, latched onto her. “Michael!” she tried to scream, but all that came out was a whisper.

She was conscious of him turning, though everything was suddenly happening in slow motion.

Rabbit’s eyes opened, full of fear, and his mouth worked as he shouted a warning of some sort. But she couldn’t follow any of it as Iago’s oily magic flowed through her, into her, and he looked out through her eyes, saw the scene, and locked onto it for a ’port.

Magic rattled off-key, air exploded outward, and the big redheaded mage appeared in the center of the room, balanced atop the inner coffin that lay within the open sarcophagus. Jade, holding a scroll clutched to her chest, reeled back, eyes going wide and scared.