Jessica Andersen - Nightkeepers

The nature of the god himself had long been lost to time, but the scepter represented divine kingship. The man who wielded the scepter wielded the might of the Nightkeepers.

Fingers trembling not with fear, but with awe, Strike reached out and gripped the polished idol, which remained within the barrier unless called upon for cermemonies of birth or marriage. Or ascension of a new king.

Racial memory told him the words should come in the old tongue, but this wasn’t the old days, wasn’t his father’s time, so he finished the spell in English, saying, ‘‘Before the god Kauil I take the scepter, I take the king’s duty and sacrifice, and vow to lead in defense against the end-time.’’ He paused, then said the three words that ended his old life and began a new one. ‘‘I am king.’’

Thunder clapped and red lightning split the darkened sky, and the wind whipped into a howl that stirred up the dust and spun the crimson light into a vortex. Within the funnel cloud, the nahwal started to lose its shape.

Strike strained toward it. ‘‘Father!’’

The last to disappear were its cobalt eyes, which shone with love and regret.

As the tear in the barrier snapped shut, the old king’s voice whispered, ‘‘I pray that you will do what I could not. Lead with your heart, but don’t follow it blindly.’’

Then it was gone. The air was clear, the sun shining down on them as though the freak storm had never been. Even the scepter was gone, sucked back into the barrier where its power resided.

But it had left its mark on Strike; not on his forearm, where the Nightkeepers’ glyphs went, but on his bicep, where the gods—and kings—were marked.

He stared at the geometric glyph, and for the first time in a long, long time, his soul was silent. Gone was the confusion, the grief and resentment. In their place was icy determination.

He turned to the winikin . ‘‘Who am I?’’

Jox was the first to move. He stood and crossed to Strike, then pulled a knife from his pocket, flipped the blade open, and drew it sharply across his tongue, cutting deep. Blood flowed, dripped down his chin, and stained his teeth red when he said, ‘‘You are my king.’’ He bent his head and spat blood at Strike’s feet in the oldest of sacrifices, offering both blood and water. Then he looked up at Strike, uncertain. ‘‘If you’ll still have me.’’

Strike nodded. ‘‘I am your king. We’ll figure out the other shit later.’’

Jox bowed his head and returned to the other winikin , who repeated the process one by one.

Then Strike turned to the Nightkeepers. ‘‘If you accept me as your king, we’re going after Leah. She’s not your fight, she’s mine, but I’m asking for your help getting her back.’’

‘‘All due respect,’’ Sven said, looking eerily mature in combat clothes, with his hair slicked back in a stubby ponytail. ‘‘Saving Leah isn’t just your fight. She’s one of us, bloodline mark or no bloodline mark.’’

The others nodded, all except for Red-Boar, who growled, ‘‘And if you get her back? What then? She lives only to die at the equinox, taking the god with her?’’

‘‘I know how to bring the god through,’’ Strike said. ‘‘We’ll reunite Kulkulkan’s power on earth and use it to keep the Banol Kax from coming through the barrier.’’ Gods willing.

The older man’s eyes were dark and wary. ‘‘How can you be certain it’ll work?’’

‘‘I’m certain,’’ Strike said, holding his stare. ‘‘Trust me.’’

And there it was, the leap of faith he needed from them, from Anna and Red-Boar most of all. He needed them to believe.

Softly, he said to the Nightkeepers, ‘‘Who am I?’’

To his surprise, Rabbit came forward first, knelt, blooded himself, and spat in the dust. ‘‘You are my king.’’

A look of exquisite pain flashed across Red-Boar’s face at the obeisance. The older man hung back as the others stepped up, one by one, until he and Anna were the only ones left.

Anna approached but did not kneel and didn’t cut her tongue. Instead, she scored her palm and, when blood ran free, took Strike’s hand in hers. He felt the jolt of power, the bloodline connection and the love that hadn’t wavered despite their time apart. ‘‘You are my king,’’ she said, and leaned in and kissed his cheek.

He hugged her and whispered in her ear, ‘‘Thank you.’’

Then he let her go and turned to Red-Boar. ‘‘Who am I?’’

Red-Boar met Strike’s glare. ‘‘There can be no love in war. Your father is still an idiot, even in death.’’

Strike crossed to him. Got in his face. Growled, ‘‘Who. Am. I?’’

The standoff lasted five seconds, maybe ten. Then Red-Boar broke and looked away. ‘‘You are my king.’’ He scored his tongue, spat the offering, and added, ‘‘Gods help us all.’’

‘‘The spell you pulled from the grad student’s head,’’ Strike said. ‘‘Give it to me.’’

‘‘I can’t,’’ Red-Boar said, holding up a hand as Strike bristled. ‘‘Not won’t, I can’t. He didn’t finish translating all of it.’’

‘‘Damn it!’’ Strike spun away, fury and futility railing at him. He looked to the others. ‘‘Jade?’’

She shook her head. ‘‘I couldn’t find it.’’

There had to be a way, Strike knew. And not just because he wanted there to be—because it didn’t make any sense for the gods to bring him and Leah this far only to have them fail now.

Which meant he had to have faith, he thought, turning to face his people. His Nightkeepers. ‘‘Load up on live ammo and get your body armor. We’re going to kick some Banol Kax ass and get Leah back.’’

And after that, he was going to fucking wing it.

Five minutes later, the Nightkeepers were assembled, bristling with guns and knives. Red-Boar was blank-visaged and ready to kill. Rabbit stood at his side, vibrating with energy, his eyes alight with excitement. Anna looked ill, as though she’d rather be anywhere else just then, but Strike couldn’t leave her behind when their shared ancestry meant she could boost his power. And the trainees . . . Hell, he thought with a little kick beneath his heart, they look like a team .

Alexis and Nate might have broken up in the wake of the talent ceremony, but they stood shoulder-to-shoulder now, stern-faced, nerves evident only in the tap of his fingers against a gun butt, and her slight shift from one foot to the other. Brandt and Patience were a unit, Michael and Jade looked ready enough, though Jade would serve only to boost her former lover’s shield magic, and Sven was pale but resolute, his hair slicked back, his features sharper than Strike had thought them.

Three months earlier they’d been normal people, CEOs and screwups, therapists and number crunchers. Now they were magi. They were the Nightkeepers.

And, he thought with a sick churning in his gut, they were mortal. Which had been an unacknowledged sticking point for him, one of the reasons he’d held himself away from them for as long as possible. He hadn’t just been fighting for his old life, or for the promise of a new one with Leah. He’d been fighting not to care about his teammates, or, failing that, struggling not to have to lead them into battle.

His father had led his family and friends to their deaths. What if he did the same? What if the greatest sacrifice was the remainder of the Nightkeepers? What then?

‘‘Then we go out fighting,’’ he said aloud, and crossed to them, the scepter magic still churning in his blood, keeping the turbines revving high. ‘‘Join up and hang on,’’ he ordered, and when they linked hands, the power nearly took off the top of his head.