Nightkeepers (31 page)

Which just added more weight to his growing conviction—concern? —that the gods had plans for her. What was he supposed to do with that? ‘‘Have you ever done anything like that before?’’

She shook her head, then lifted one shoulder in a sort of no-yes-maybe answer. ‘‘Yesterday morning I went to turn my coffeemaker on and fried its circuits instead, but that was probably just a coincidence.’’

Or not,
he thought. If she’d retained some sort of magic from her experience at the intersection, it would stand to reason that she’d be more likely to be able to tap the power during a conjunction. Which meant . . .

Hell, he didn’t know what it meant.

Waving to a couple of poolside chairs, he said, ‘‘We should sit. This could take a while.’’

‘‘Apparently I’ve got time,’’ she muttered as she sat. ‘‘I called in this morning to put in for leave, and Connie—my boss—said I should take as long as I needed.’’

‘‘Ouch.’’

‘‘Yeah. I can’t blame her, really. I’ve been skirting the line ever since Matty was murdered.’’ Her eyes went hard. ‘‘I’m not staying away, though. Not if I can help get the bastard who did it. Which brings us back to you. Start talking. Who are the 2012ers, how does the Calendar Killer fit into this, and why . . . why did you guys kill Vince? He was a friend.’’

‘‘He was a
makol
.’’

‘‘He was a computer programmer.’’

‘‘The two are not mutually exclusive. Look . . .’’ Strike spun his chair so he was facing her, their knees almost bumping, and when her eyes went wide and she started looking for the nearest exit, he took her hands, telling himself it was only for reassurance, only an effort to keep her in place long enough to get the full story. ‘‘It’s an understatement to say this is complicated. I’m going to have to ask you to believe that I’m one of the good guys. I know you have absolutely no reason to trust me—hell, you’ve got every reason
not
to—but I’m asking you to give me a chance. Please.’’

‘‘I shouldn’t,’’ she said softly. But she didn’t pull her hands away. ‘‘I should’ve left last night, should’ve run screaming, but there are things going on that I can’t explain. Things that don’t fall under the heading of ‘standard police procedure.’ ’’

‘‘Yes.’’ He resisted the urge to hold her hands tighter, to move closer. Her skin was soft and smooth beneath his fingers, with the hardness of bone and strength beneath. ‘‘I’ll explain what I can.’’ Which they both knew wasn’t the same as explaining everything.

‘‘You made me think I dreamed you.’’ Her accusation went so much deeper than just the forgetting spell. ‘‘If that’s not a lie of omission, I don’t know what is. And what’s worse, there’s a big part of me that
wants
to trust you.’’

‘‘Then do it,’’ he urged.

‘‘I’m not sure I can.’’ Her tone lost some of its edge, making her sound unutterably weary. ‘‘You made me forget us making love. I’m not going to play the forced-seduction card, because I know damn well I was a willing participant, and I appreciate the whole saving-my-life thing, but it doesn’t seem like you want to be with me. More like you’re trying to get the hell away.’’ She paused. ‘‘What exactly do you want from me?’’

Nothing,
he wanted to say.
Everything. Damn it.
‘‘I don’t know,’’ he said finally, which was also the truth. ‘‘What do you want from me?’’

‘‘An explanation,’’ she said softly. ‘‘I want to know who killed Matty, and why.’’

Which put them right back at odds, making him think she had her own reasons for not wanting to pick up where they’d left off the other night. He should’ve been relieved that she hadn’t forced him to talk about what was—and wasn’t—between them. Instead, he was irritated.

Which just proved how screwed-up he was these days.

‘‘I’ll give you as much as I can,’’ he said. ‘‘But I need some context. Tell me about these Calendar murders.’’ When she scowled, looking ready to refuse, he squeezed her hands. ‘‘Trust me.’’

Suddenly, it was very important that she do just that.

‘‘Okay,’’ she finally said, but he wasn’t sure whether she was agreeing to trust him, or only to describe the murders. Then she started talking about a serial killer who preyed at the solstice and equinox, and within a few sentences he knew they were onto something. She must’ve seen it on his face, because she broke off. ‘‘The killer’s signature means something to you.’’

Choosing his words carefully, he said, ‘‘The equinox and solstice are the times of highest magical activity, the times the barrier between worlds is thinnest. If I were trying to use human sacrifice to jump-start the barrier back into action, those are the days I’d pick for the bloodletting.’’

‘‘Did you?’’ Her eyes held his, unwavering.

‘‘No.’’ He projected everything he could into the word, wanting—needing—her to believe him. To believe
in
him. ‘‘Our magic is mostly autosacrifice. Self-bloodletting. It’s very rare for one Nightkeeper to blood another.’’ He leaned in so their faces were very close together when he said, ‘‘We’re the good guys, Leah. My father sacrificed almost our entire race to close the barrier. We were waiting for the end date to pass so we could finally live our lives. No way any of us did what you’re describing.’’

‘‘Then who did?’’

‘‘Zipacna,’’ Strike said, and there was no doubt in his mind. ‘‘Either the barrier thinned enough that one of the
Banol Kax
reached through to him, or he found one of the lost spells and made contact from this side.’’

‘‘You said Vince was a
makol
, too,’’ Leah said, ‘‘but he hated Survivor2012. He was convinced they killed Matty—heck, it was his idea to crash that party. And you said before that the
makol
ritual only works on evil-minded people, or someone who accepts evil in exchange for power. So how could he be—’’ She broke off. Then she scrubbed both hands across her face and halfway screamed, ‘‘Aah!’’

‘‘What?’’

She dropped her hands and looked at him, shaking her head, eyes bleak. ‘‘This is . . . ridiculous. I can’t even believe I’m treating this discussion like it’s real. Do you ever listen to yourself and think that what you’re saying sounds completely insane? Like you should be waiting for the mother ship?’’

‘‘This is religion, not an alien abduction.’’

‘‘Depending on who you talk to, there’s not much difference.’’

‘‘Then why are you still here?’’

‘‘Because of the dreams,’’ she said, avoiding his eyes a little, her color riding high, making him very aware of the curve of her jaw, the long line of her neck. ‘‘And because Matty . . .’’ She faltered. ‘‘I need to know why he picked Matty.’’

But the
ajaw-makol
hadn’t just picked her brother, Strike realized suddenly. Zipacna had brought her to the sacred chamber at the solstice. Vince had drawn her back into the Survivor2012 compound when Red-Boar’s mind-bending had told her to leave it alone. Itchy had held her prisoner in her own house, no doubt under his master’s orders.

When he put those things together, it started to look like her brother hadn’t been the main target of any of this. She was.

But why?

As Strike had done the first time they met, he took her right hand and turned it palm up. He traced his thumb across a small square of puckered, roughened skin on her inner forearm. ‘‘Tell me about this scar.’’

She looked away. ‘‘It’s nothing. I don’t even remember getting it.’’

‘‘Leah,’’ he said quietly.

That brought her eyes back to him, but she shook her head. ‘‘Please. Tell me about Zipacna.’’

He knew he should push. Instead, he said, ‘‘In the Nightkeepers’ pantheon, he’s a vicious, vindictive piece of work with a taste for blood and the ability to appear as a winged crocodile. His father is one of the rulers of Xibalba, which gives him a power boost.’’

‘‘I meant the guy in Miami.’’

‘‘I know.’’ Carter’s report on the leader of Survivor 2012 had included a few grainy, overenlarged photos and a sketchy history that went a whopping six years back. ‘‘You probably know way more about him than I do.’’

‘‘In other words, almost nothing,’’ Leah said grimly. ‘‘What I want to know is whether he killed my brother and Nick. Whether Vince died because of what Zipacna made him.’’

Strike nodded slowly. ‘‘My gut says yes to all three.’’

‘‘I hear a ‘but’ in your voice.’’

‘‘That would be the part where I say, ‘but I can’t let you go after him.’ ’’

She pulled her hands away, eyes going hard. ‘‘Sorry, Ace. You have no right to tell me what I can and can’t do.’’

Yeah, but I have a couple of overflow storage lockers in the basement that’d keep you out of trouble,
he thought. He didn’t say that, though, because for one, he didn’t want to turn this into a battle . . . and for another, he figured he should probably hold the lockup idea in reserve, just in case. So instead he said, ‘‘This is bigger than both of us, and I think you know it, or at least suspect that it might be.’’

‘‘You really, truly think the world is going to end,’’ she said softly. It wasn’t a question.

‘‘I believe that the next few months are going to determine exactly that,’’ he said, going with a half-truth. Then he added, ‘‘The Nightkeepers believe the world exists in a series of repeating cycles, both spiritual and cosmic, all of which are going to intersect on the end date. The Great Conjunction is coming no matter what we do— that’s an astrological fact. It’s up to us to block the spiritual side of things. It’s what our ancestors lived for. What our parents died for.’’ He took a deep breath. Let it out. ‘‘I’m the king’s son, which means I have a responsibility to my people and what we’re bound to do over the next four-plus years. If I were just a man . . .’’

He leaned in and brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek, and his blood heated when she trembled at his touch.

‘‘Yeah, well . . .’’ She pulled away from him and stood, moving away a few feet so she could stare out across the compound, past the cottages and ball court to the pueblo-dotted canyon walls beyond, all of which were going purple-red with the approach of dusk. ‘‘Don’t think I’m staying away from Zipacna just because you’re hot.’’

His lips twitched. ‘‘Not even if I offer to be your sex slave?’’

‘‘
Are
you offering?’’

Shaking his head—and regretting the hell out of the necessity—he said, ‘‘I can’t.

‘‘Because I’m not a Nightkeeper.’’

‘‘Because we don’t know what you are yet.’’ Another half-truth. ‘‘I’m going to have to do some reading, see what I can figure out about your flying-knife trick, and why Zipacna seems to have targeted you specifically.’’ He rose and joined her, so they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, looking out at the dark shadows of the pueblo ruins—the remains of another people who had tracked time by the sun and stars, and believed in magic and the apocalypse.

‘‘What am I supposed to do now?’’ Her voice came out weary, wary, as though she acknowledged the need for protection but didn’t like it. ‘‘House arrest isn’t really my style.’’

‘‘Be a cop,’’ he said. ‘‘Find Zipacna. Make some calls, pull in some favors, do whatever it takes. You can lean on Carter for the legwork.’’

‘‘You’re not going to let me leave.’’

‘‘I think it’s safer if you stay,’’ he said, hoping she didn’t push him to lock her down.

‘‘And you think you’re not letting me near Zipacna.’’

‘‘Again, safer that way. I don’t want to see you get hurt.’’ Which was approximately the understatement of the decade. Having her this near had his blood humming in his veins, and having her bent on going after the
ajaw-makol
chilled him to the bone.

She glanced up at him, eyes shadowed. ‘‘This was a hell of a lot easier in the dreams.’’

‘‘Yeah.’’ He nodded, in that moment feeling as close to his father as he ever had. ‘‘Somehow it always is.’’

Jox had forgotten what it felt like to be around magi on the prowl. The house practically vibrated with the need for sex. Worse, it wasn’t the unfocused horniness of a bunch of teenaged kids—the newbies were in their twenties, and he’d eat his arm if there was a virgin among them. They knew what it felt like, knew what they wanted and where they wanted to get it.

And damned if the
winikin
couldn’t relate. Strike was wrong about a bunch of things—with the blond cop topping the list—but he might’ve been right in some of the things he’d said about Hannah.

Shit or get off the pot,
Jox thought to himself as he walked down the long marble hallway to the
winikin
’s wing around midnight. If the war was coming—hell, if the end of the world was coming—better to face it with a partner than not.

Right?

He fought the urge to tug at his jeans and T—or worse, beat a quick retreat to his quarters and change into a better shirt, maybe a nicer belt, and boots instead of sandals. But that would be stalling, and he was no wimp. ‘‘Besides,’’ he said under his breath as he reached her door, ‘‘it’s Hannah. You’ve known her forever.’’ Okay, so there was that twenty-four-year gap in the middle and all, but still.

Telling himself it’d be okay, he knocked on her door.

She answered immediately, as though she’d been waiting for him. She was wearing flowing drawstring pants of royal blue and a patterned teal-colored top, and had a scarf of the same material tied around her head, pirate-style. When she saw who it was, though, surprise flashed across her face. ‘‘Jox!’’

‘‘Expecting someone else?’’ He heard the faint bite in his tone and winced. ‘‘Sorry. Not my business.’’

‘‘No, it’s not. Can I help you with something?’’

‘‘I wanted . . .’’
you,
he should’ve said, but he was still fighting a losing battle against logic, against the part of him that said he needed to focus on his duties, now more than ever, since Strike seemed to be wobbling off course.

‘‘You wanted . . . ?’’ She wasn’t helping him out, and seemed faintly irritated that he was there at all, as though two weeks after their reunion was far too late for him to come knocking.