Jessica Andersen - Storm Kissed

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.