Skykeepers (47 page)

I can relate to that
. Settling down beside the raised bed, leaning against the sturdy masonry that made up its sides, she folded her arms atop the moist, fertile soil and dropped her forehead to her glyph-marked forearm.

She felt hollow and very alone. She was surrounded by family, by people who cared for her, who would endanger themselves to save her. Once, she would’ve thought that would be more than enough for her. Now, having experienced the heights that she and Michael could achieve together, and glimpsed what she thought was his true self, the man she wanted for her own, she couldn’t be satisfied with mere support. She wanted more.

She wanted the magic, damn it.

A tear slid free, then another, though she didn’t give in to the sobs that would have liked to come. After a while, when the few tears had dried on her face, she became aware of movement nearby—a leafy brush, a rustling breeze in the closed space. Magic prickled across her nape, and she caught a wisp of song, though the radio was off.

She lifted her head. And froze at the sight of the young, strong plants surrounding her. Where just a few minutes earlier the cacao seedlings had been thin and borderline sickly, now they were thick and dark green, and several inches taller than before.

“Magic,” she whispered, realizing she’d made them grow, given them life. But if so, why did she feel so damned empty? She ached with lethargy, felt drained. Sighing, she pressed her head back down onto her forearms. Then, feeling safe and warm, and surrounded by the innocent love of growing things, though not of the man she wanted, she slept.

After Sasha left, Michael sat naked on the edge of the mattress for a long time. Not because he was aimless, but because he was fighting for fucking control of his head.

He didn’t know if Rabbit’s mental blocks and his own control were failing in the face of the increase in magic that came with the solstice, or if there was something else going on, but he’d barely hung on to himself as Sasha faced him down, almost didn’t remember what he’d said. He’d known only that he needed to get her out of there, fast.

The old barriers had reared up, not letting him tell her what was happening, leaving her to think he didn’t care. Then again, some of what she’d said was right on the mark—he hadn’t fought for her, didn’t intend to. He’d tried fighting with Tomas and that had never made a damn bit of difference. He’d argued with Esmee when she’d left him in the middle of his programming, trying hold on to the one familiar thing he’d had in a shifting life. He’d fought the Other and barely drew a stalemate, one that had needed to be renegotiated over and over again. Same with the women after Esmee. He’d learned the lesson often and well: He could kick ass, but if he couldn’t throw a punch it wasn’t worth having the fight. It just made everyone involved miserable, and didn’t change the outcome one iota.

The knowledge burned within him, dark and resentful.
Get a grip
, he told himself, finally rousing from his fugue, only to realize it was later than he’d thought, nearly late morning. “Get off your lazy, fucked-up ass,” he growled, but didn’t move right away. He was dizzy and disoriented. And this didn’t feel like the Other’s work. It felt like something else entirely.

He needed to eat, that was all. He was strung up, depressed, and dumped. He needed coffee. He needed a kick in the ass.

Dragging himself to his feet, he headed for the bathroom. And froze just inside the door at the sight of the face that looked back at him from the mirror.

It wasn’t him. It was Rabbit, in full-on sneer mode, his eyes hard and wild.

Rabbit
, he thought, his heart clutching.
No. Oh, gods, no
.

The target will reveal itself when it’s time
, Tomas had said.
When that happens, the clock starts ticking. You’ll have nine hours to make the kill
.

Unbidden, unwanted, the Other slipped into him, chilling his heart to stone. Under the influence of his alter ego, Michael checked the time automatically, methodically, like the executioner he was. It was just past eleven a.m. He had until eight that night to take out his target. And his right forearm bore a faint shadow: that of a hollow-eyed skull.

But even as his body went through the motions, his mind rattled inside his skull.

Rabbit.
Shit
. Sullen, pain-in-the-ass Rabbit, a loose cannon who was potentially more powerful than the rest of them put together, and who’d helped save Michael’s sanity when he otherwise would’ve come undone for good. Sure, the kid—man, whatever—had the potential to torpedo the end-time war. But by the same token, he was just as likely to save them all in a flash of unintentional genius.

He was dangerous. He was powerful. And he was one of the last of the Nightkeepers. For the first time, Michael understood his uncle’s choice, truly understood it.

“No,” he grated, forcing the Other aside. “I won’t do it. I fucking won’t do it.”

No matter what Rabbit had done in the past or what his bloodlines suggested he might do in the future, he was trying to figure his shit out. He’d started growing up at school, started taking responsibility for himself, for his magic. He and Myrinne were trying to make it work. Why, when the kid seemed to be pulling his shit together, would the gods decide he needed to die? Or was the vision even from the gods at all? The skyroad was demolished, their lines of communication cut. Where the hell was this coming from? Was it the gods or the
Banol Kax
? How the hell could he be sure?

The decision ached within him, alongside the hollowness that came from knowing that Sasha was gone, that in the end they hadn’t been able to make it work after all. His head spun; his stomach hurt. He couldn’t stop thinking of Rabbit’s power, and his talent for inadvertently destroying almost everything he touched. Scarred-Jaguar hadn’t meant to destroy the Nightkeepers; he’d meant to save them. If he’d been assassinated, there would be hundreds of magi now, an army of them. It was his uncle’s sin, his bloodline’s burden.

Shit, what was right and what was wrong?

At the thought, silver
muk
flared within him, buzzing death in his veins, whispering secrets and threats in the Other’s voice. And, as his alter ego flowed back into him from nowhere and everywhere at once, Michael knew what he had to do. Lurching to his feet, he pulled on his combat clothes, locked and loaded his pistols, scrawled a quick note that he left propped in his bachelor-bare kitchen. Then he left his suite. And went in search of his final target.

WINTER SOLSTICE

Michael knocked hard on Rabbit’s door, then jiggled the handle, cursing to find the damned thing locked. He was about five seconds from kicking it in when he heard the lock click. A slow second later, the door swung open a few inches. Rabbit scowled at him through the gap. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a few days; his eyes were red rimmed. “It’s not time for the meeting yet.”

“Come on. I need your help.” Michael turned and strode off, figuring sheer bloody curiosity would get Rabbit moving. Any rational person would’ve asked for an explanation before taking off with the compound’s resident hit man, but this was Rabbit they were talking about.

Sure enough, by the time Michael had gotten halfway around to the garage, the teen was slouching along at his heels, eventually asking, “Where are we going?”

“You still keep a stash of
pulque
up at the pueblo?”

Rabbit nodded. “It’s been up there since I started school, but I don’t think the shit goes bad. Doesn’t go really good, either, but doesn’t go bad.”

“Then that’s where we’re going.”

They snagged one of the Jeeps and they bounced their way along the track that led out past the firing range to the back of the box canyon, where a nearly vertical, cliff-clinging path led up to an intricate, multilevel group of native ruins that the ancient Puebloans had built into and out of the cliff itself. Many of the small spaces had collapsed over time, but some were still sturdy enough, and Rabbit had staked out a couple of them for his own. In the months between when Rabbit’s father died and when he met Myrinne, it had been more or less common knowledge that he’d spent most of his free time alone up there, getting stoned on peyote and
pulque
, and zoning out on his iPod.

Now his stash was covered with dust and looked like it’d been worried at by a creature or two. But it didn’t take him long to unearth a couple of tightly stoppered clay jugs. He held them out to Michael. “Not sure of the vintage, and it tastes like shit. But it’ll get you hammered almost instantly. No doubt about that.” He paused. “You and Sasha have a fight?”

Michael narrowed his eyes. “How did you know?” Mind-benders weren’t supposed to be able to pick up on thoughts without physical contact, but the rules of magic didn’t always apply to half-bloods.

“Saw her stomping past the cottage. Made a leap. Not sure what Strike’ll think of your getting hammered right before the solstice.” Rabbit lifted a shoulder, not looking particularly upset. “Might be fun to watch, though, so have at it. I’ll even let you drive home.”

“Fuck you. We’re not here to get drunk. Or not entirely.” Michael palmed his knife from his belt and held it for a moment, testing its weight as the Mictlan roared and the silver
muk
flared through him. Then he flipped the knife and offered it to Rabbit, blade-first. “Cut me.”

The young man’s eyes flashed with understanding, followed by reluctant respect. “Son of a bitch. You crazy bastard—you’re trying the scorpion spell on the sly.” He paused. “You must really love her.”

“Why’s that?”

“You’re going against a direct order from the king just so you can wear the
jun tan
before the solstice. If you’re aiming for the big gesture, that’s a good one.”

Michael hesitated, realizing that on one level, Rabbit was right. If he broke his connection to the
muk
, he would be able to take Sasha as his mate.
She’d like that
, he thought, knowing the symbol would matter to her. Except that she’d dumped him, hadn’t she?

At the thought, the Other—or should he call it the Mictlan?—stirred, too close to the surface of his mind. Oddly, though, it wasn’t trying to stop him from casting the scorpion spell, and it wasn’t trying to take over and force him to kill Rabbit.

The Mictlan is just a talent
, he realized.
It’s up to me whether I use it
. Unlike the Other, which had been created to be partially autonomous, using his body to do the job it had been programmed to do, the Mictlan talent came with the gods’ gift to mankind: that of free will.

Although the Nightkeepers’ lives were largely guided by their writs and responsibilities, and the prophecies handed down by the First Father and others like him, in the end, each of their actions came down to a personal decision. Ambrose had chosen to give up his life as a Nightkeeper to carry out the wishes of his sister, the queen. Michael’s parents had chosen to follow their king into battle. His uncle had chosen damnation rather than murder his king.

Now, Michael chose to try another path, one that might—just might—allow him to come out the other side whole. Because although he’d barely acknowledged the possibility, even inwardly, he couldn’t stop remembering how Jade had talked about Scorpion River having the ability to purify, to take away sin.

What if it could take from him, not just the
muk
, but the Other as well?

“You going to do this?” Rabbit said, breaking into Michael’s thoughts. He was trying to look cool, but jittered from one foot to the other, constantly in motion.

“Yeah,” Michael said. “I’m doing it.”

He sat, propping himself up against the wall and stretching his legs out in front of him. He was so mentally clamped-down that his only real thought about what he was about to do was a passing consideration that it was good there was sand underfoot, because it would soak up the majority of the blood. Hefting one of the jugs of
pulque
, he popped the top and took a swig. According to ancient Mayan law, anyone who’d had three shots of
pulque
should be considered a drunkard; four and he was criminally insane for an hour, at least. Ironic, really. The potent ceremonial beverage wouldn’t just anesthe tize him; it’d make him a little crazy, and help alter his consciousness so he could enter the in-between. Problem was, it would also lower his inhibitions, creating a window when the
muk
could take control. “If I try to hurt you, shut me down, okay?” he said, his words already slurring slightly under the effects of the
pulque
. “Think you can handle the spell?” he asked Rabbit as the world started to spin.

“Hell, yeah.”

“Promise me you won’t follow me. I’ll need you to go for help if this turns to shit.”