Jessica Andersen - Nightkeepers

‘‘Where’s your father?’’

Rabbit didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice broke. ‘‘Kuyubal-mak.’’

Strike stiffened. ‘‘What did you do that needs forgiving? ’’

‘‘I unlocked the storeroom.’’

Everything inside Strike went cold, and he slapped at his back pocket reflexively, finding the padlock key still there. ‘‘How?’’

‘‘He told me not to tell you I can telekine, too.’’ The teen looked up at Strike, his hood falling back to reveal tear-reddened eyes. ‘‘He had me text her cell, too, and tell her to meet him up at Bonito. He said he didn’t want to do it here, after everything that’s already happened.’’

This time Strike didn’t try to fight the rage. ‘‘Do what?’’ he grated out, though he already knew.

Rabbit gulped miserably. ‘‘Kill her.’’

The landscape near Pueblo Bonito was harshly beautiful, and dotted with the remains of soaring stone buildings erected in the first millennium by the Chacoans. Like the Maya, they had been great astronomers and architects. And, like the Maya, theirs had been an incredibly complex civilization that had flourished for hundreds of years—and then vanished within a few decades.

Broken walls made of stone and wood speared up from the ground or crumbled down along cliffsides, and pteroglyphs paid homage to the sun and stars, and as Leah finally pulled up near the Bonito ruins, she felt what she thought was the hum of magic in the air.

She hoped to hell it was because if she had access to the magic as the equinox approached, her chances of killing the makol were that much better.

Although Pueblo Bonito was a national park, and had its own visitors’ center up the road, the ruin itself was deserted. Which she figured was a good thing—witnesses would be a problem with what she was going to have to do next.

Trying really hard to think of it as a tactical exercise rather than the suicide mission it needed to be, she loaded her weapons belt from the knapsack, racking the MACs she’d snagged from the armory and making sure her knives were close at hand for the head-and-heart deal. Then she sat for a second, knowing that once she got out of the Jeep there was no turning back.

Closing her eyes, she sought the mental ghosts that were her constant companions. Matty. Nick. The man she’d known as Vince was gone now, dispelled by the knowledge that he’d been part of Zipacna’s elaborate setup. But the thought of her parents joined the memories of her brother and partner. Strike was there, too, heat existing alongside grief. She knew he’d never forgive her for what she was about to do, but she couldn’t stand by and watch him gamble the world on the slim chance that his crazy plan would work. He risked dooming the world with his stubbornness, and she’d be damned if she let him do it.

‘‘This is the only way,’’ she said, her mouth gone dry with dread.

Then, knowing there was no place for second thoughts where she was going, she focused on the dead, on the ghosts. On the people Zipacna had killed, what he’d done to them. And though she had gotten the lightness of the god, she found her own anger within, and fanned it to a flame. When she was good and pissed, and carrying a cold, murderous rage that she hoped would see her through Zipacna’s extermination and then her own, she got out of the Jeep and slammed the door.

The ruins were spread out in front of her, several acres of walls and doorways, of square rooms and sunken circular kivas connected by mazelike passageways. There was no sign of life save for the cry of a hawk high above.

‘‘You want me to come and get you?’’ she muttered, pulling the MACs so she held one in each hand and felt like a serious badass. ‘‘Then you’ve got it, because ready or not, here I come.’’

She wasn’t wearing body armor and didn’t bother to stick to cover because she knew she had one advantage: Zipacna needed her alive through the equinox. She, on the other hand, needed his ass dead. Thinking herself on the better end of the deal—for the moment, anyway— she set out.

She was three steps from the Jeep when the echoing crack of a gunshot rang out. She heard the whine- thwap of the bullet hit, felt the slap of impact. Then blood bloomed low on her shoulder, just above her right breast. She screamed and grabbed for the wound as she dove for cover, slamming to the ground behind a low wall.

Then she scrambled up, braced one of her pistols with her uninjured hand, and returned fire, aiming low near a crumbling wall where she saw a flash of motion, a swirl of brown cloth, and a familiar sharp-edged profile.

Not Zipacna, she realized. Red-Boar.

Betrayal roared up within her. The bastard had set her up, no doubt guessing what Strike meant to do and deciding it’d be better if she died sooner rather than later. Rage twisted through her—at Red-Boar for trying to kill her, at herself for not thinking clearly and guessing that the text message had been too conveniently timed. The rage bumped up against a building pressure at the back of her skull, and the contact sparked with golden light. With magic.

Her powers were definitely coming back online with the approach of the equinox, but they wouldn’t do her a damn bit of good under the circumstances. She couldn’t kill Red-Boar. Strike needed the older Nightkeeper, needed his power and his knowledge—probably more than he needed her, when she came down to it.

She had to get out of there, but she needed to leave the brown-robed bastard alive. Screaming a curse, she unloaded a full clip over Red-Boar’s head and started running back toward the Jeep. The text message had been a setup, which meant Zipacna wasn’t there, wasn’t looking for her. He was down south, preparing for the equinox. She needed to get to the airport, needed to—

Thunder boomed, and Zipacna appeared in front of her in a swirl of purple-black mist, flanked on either side by two other makol . They slammed to the ground between her and the Jeep. Heart lunging into her throat, Leah skidded to a stop and tried to backpedal. She turned the MACs on them but got only the click of empty chambers. Before she could grab a spare clip, before she could do anything but scream, Zipacna grabbed her. He grinned horribly, his mismatched eyes glowing green. ‘‘You shouldn’t have gone beyond the Nightkeepers’ wards if you didn’t want me to find you, baby.’’

"No!" she screamed, and turned one of the MACs on herself, knowing she couldn’t let herself be taken, couldn’t let them keep her alive through nightfall.

She pulled the trigger. Got a click. Still empty.

Red-Boar’s weapon chattered. Zipacna cursed and turned so the bullets plowed into his flesh rather than hers. He snapped, ‘‘Delay the Nightkeeper.’’ His men scattered, taking potshots toward Red-Boar as they ran.

Then Zipacna tightened his grip on Leah. Power surged around them.

And everything went purple-black.

‘‘No!’’ Strike landed running, heedless of the rattle of automatic weapons, his entire being focused on the sight of Leah covered in blood and struggling in the ajawmakol ’s grip as power whipped and the transport magic took hold. ‘‘NO!’’ he shouted, and flung himself toward their disappearing figures . . .

And landed on his face in the sand, his outstretched hands clutching nothing.

Bullets whined and automatic fire barked, the impact marks walking toward him as two lesser makol fired on him from the shelter of a small stone-walled room.

‘‘Stay down!’’ Red-Boar shouted, and lobbed a jade-packed grenade toward the makol ’s shelter. It detonated seconds later, and the gunfire ceased.

Strike didn’t stop to process. He was on his feet and in the room with the two bleeding, shrapnel-stung makol in an instant. He got one by the throat and the other by the scruff and smashed their heads together so hard their glowing green eyes winked out simultaneously. Then he got his knife off his belt and sank the blade in the first one’s chest, carving deep until he could shove his hand in there and rip out the fucker’s heart.