Skykeepers Read online

  The king had declared that since the two of them had already proven that their magics were compatible, Michael would be the one to act as her main point of contact during the bloodline ceremony. Michael had argued—rather unflatteringly—against the plan, but had been overruled. The others would all be involved in the spell; she’d need all the power she could get, given that she was attempting a cardinal-day ritual on a noncardi nal day, one that wasn’t a solstice or equinox.

  Michael would be her main point of contact, his power the conduit through which she would enter the barrier and gain her bloodline mark. More, they were hoping the additions they’d made to the traditional ritual would enable her to summon her bloodline nahwal. Assuming that Ambrose’s knowledge had been integrated into the nahwal, it might be able to tell her how to find the library.

  That was the theory, anyway. And it all hinged on her ability to lean on Michael, his ability to boost her magic. But what if they’d lost that capacity?

  She’d barely seen him since that afternoon out at the firing range, but she’d been acutely, achingly aware of him. That was her problem, she knew, her stupidity. But she wouldn’t let herself dwell on it. Of all the things she’d taken away with her from the year of captivity with Iago, she’d gained a hard-edged practicality, and the ability to slap a lid on her emotions when she needed to. She didn’t fall into fantasies of her old life anymore, didn’t let herself dream of a man who’d made it clear he didn’t want to be right for her, despite the apparent signs suggesting that the gods intended otherwise, or had at one point. For all they knew, Iago’s destruction of the skyroad had disrupted the gods’ plans on earth, and her and Michael’s destined pairing had been collateral damage.

  A brisk knock sounded on the door of her suite, peremptory and forceful. Michael. Despite her best efforts to shield her heart, heat gathered in her core, alongside the nerves. “It’s open.”

  He pushed the door inward, but didn’t step over the threshold. Instead, he stayed in the hall, framed in the doorway. He was wearing the same battle armor and fighting clothes he’d had on the first time she’d seen him, along with a floor-length black robe that had long, pointed sleeves and a line of black beadwork around its edges. He looked dark, sexy, and mysterious, and every inch the warrior-priest. Damn him.

  “It’s time,” he said. “You ready?”

  She took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah.” She stood, instinctively smoothing down the set of black-on-black combat clothes she wore along with a robe that was similar to Michael’s in style, but in fabric that was the deep blue of a novitiate rather than the black of a mage. Jox had pulled the clothes from storage, where they had been locked since the massacre. She hadn’t asked who they’d belonged to, hadn’t wanted to know then. But now she found herself wondering who had worn the gear before her. Which made her think of the mother she’d never known. Who had she been? What had she been like? Why hadn’t she left Skywatch with Ambrose? Had losing her broken him, or had he been broken before that?

  There were too many questions with too few answers, on too many levels, leaving Sasha feeling lost and cut adrift. Then again, she was quickly realizing she wasn’t that far behind the other magi in that regard. They had all come late to the magic, and were struggling in the absence of a solid knowledge base. And they were counting on her to fix that.

  She hoped to hell she didn’t let them down.

  She crossed the room to face Michael. His eyes were dark with emotion, with secrets, but he didn’t share either with her. Instead, he took her hand, lifted it to his lips, and pressed a kiss to her palm. “I’ll be right there with you. We all will.”

  Shit, she thought. Leave it to him to be sweet when she needed it most. Bastard.

  Fear of failure crowded close around her: fear of failing herself, failing her new friends, failing Michael . . . hell, even failing Ambrose more than she already had. Her feelings toward him remained complex, but they were softening some as she became more and more a part of Skywatch and began to understand that the writs guiding the Nightkeepers weren’t the same as the mores of modern humanity. The magi lived primarily for their responsibilities to the magic and the war, meaning that sometimes personal desire had to take a backseat to necessity.

  But still, that didn’t excuse what Ambrose had done during that last solstice ceremony she’d been with him. The memories of that terrifying night had crowded far too close as she’d prepared for the bloodline ritual.

  “What’s wrong?” Michael asked, watching her carefully. When she didn’t answer right away, he let go of her hand, but didn’t move away. “You can talk to me.”

  Then why can’t you talk to me? she nearly asked, but knew there was no point. She should wave him off, say she was fine. But instead she found herself answering. “I left Ambrose because he almost killed me.”

  Michael went very still, his eyes intent on hers. “Tell me.”

  It was easier than she would have thought to get started, even though she’d never told the story to another living soul. Only she and Ambrose had known what happened that night. “It was the winter solstice when I was almost eighteen. He . . .” She faltered, remembering the fear and pain, and the crushing sense of betrayal. “It was one of his bad times. Knowing what I know now, he must not have realized the barrier was sealed, the magic non-functional. Every cardinal day during my childhood, we blooded our palms and enacted the proper rituals. When I was thirteen, right after I hit puberty in earnest, he put me through the talent ceremony, then got pissed when it didn’t work. After that, I balked, and started trying to talk him into getting help.” She paused, her lips twitching without humor. “I thought maybe he’d get better if I proved to him that the Nightkeepers didn’t exist. It didn’t work.”

  “Your bloodline must be a stubborn one.”

  She snorted, and her chest loosened with the realization that Ambrose really was in her past. The knowledge made it easier to go on. “That last time, he didn’t give me a choice. He locked us both in the ritual chamber, which wasn’t unusual. But this time . . .” She faltered. Okay, maybe it wasn’t easy after all. “He held me down and tied my wrists and ankles.” She flashed on a circular room with torches and incense, and a wooden cross in the center of the floor. No, she thought, wrong ceremony . That was Iago, not Ambrose. “He must’ve figured if a little blood was good, lots would be better, because he opened my wrists and let me bleed out into a bowl filled with oil. The last thing I remember was the smell of my own blood burning.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Michael grated. His body had gone hard and tight, his face to stone.

  She didn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t. “I don’t know if he meant to sacrifice me and lost his nerve, or if it was a bloodletting that got out of hand. I woke up in the hospital, where everyone acted like I had tried to kill myself. Because, of course, that was what he’d told them.”

  At the time, she’d felt pathetic. Now, she just felt . . . tired. Drained.

  She’d known how much that past ceremony had been overshadowing her preparation for today’s ritual. What she hadn’t realized was that telling Michael about it would ease the tension. Or not ease, she realized as he muttered a vile curse. Instead it seemed that he’d taken her tension into himself. His body was rigid, his expression locked. And the anger she’d glimpsed before was full-force in his eyes.

  Her transient sense of peace quickly became a hard fist of nerves. “Michael?”

  He closed his eyes, as though he didn’t want her to see what was inside him as he said, “I wish the bastard weren’t dead. Because then I could kill him for you.”

  Sasha took a step back before she was aware of moving.

  She should be horrified, she knew, and part of her was. More, she was scared by the intensity of his words, the dead-flat delivery that suggested he meant every word, and was fully capable of carrying out the threat without hesitation. The rational part of her said she should close the door between them and call one of the other magi for help. Mayb
e all of them.

  Another part of her, though, saw that he’d gone very pale, that he didn’t look like himself anymore. His high cheekbones stood out in stark relief, and the dark shadows of his sunken eyes looked like sockets. She could have been staring at a skull for all the life she saw in him at that moment. The memory of what Ambrose had done to her, so close to the surface of her mind, told her to get the hell away from Michael, that he wasn’t the man she’d thought him. But the stronger woman, the one who was increasingly coming out in her at Skywatch, had her standing her ground and reaching out to him.

  He flinched. “Don’t touch me.” But his voice sounded desperate, as though he longed for her touch.

  So she ignored the mad anger in his eyes, in his face, and closed the gap between them, and framed his haggard face between her palms. “He’s gone,” she said simply. “He can’t hurt me anymore.”

  “But I can,” he rasped. It sounded more like a plea than a warning, and he dropped his forehead to hers.

  “You won’t,” she said, not sure where the certainty came from, not sure she could trust it. “Not today. Today you’re going to watch over me. You’re going to protect me.”

  A long shudder racked his body and something shifted in the air around them, a sense of some watching presence leaving, though not going far. She didn’t track the sensation, focusing instead on Michael, who raised his hands and gripped her wrists where she still cupped his stubbled jaw in her palms. Instead of pushing her away, as she half expected him to do, he held her in place. They stood a moment, their foreheads pressed together, leaning on each other. And she felt, for those brief few seconds, the same connection she’d found with him in the sacred chamber—a sense of being whole. Being home.

  Unfortunately, she knew it wouldn’t last long. Whatever was within him, whatever was between them, it was far from resolved.

  With a final squeeze of her wrists, he broke the almost-embrace and stepped away. His eyes, when they met hers, were back to those of the man she knew, clear and very serious. “The next time you see me like that, promise me you’ll run away.”

  She lifted her chin. “No.” Tell me what’s going on, she wanted to scream, but didn’t bother, because she knew he wouldn’t. “Promise me you’ll talk to someone. If not me, then Jade. Or Tomas.”

  His eyes flickered with an emotion she couldn’t define. “I can’t,” he said softly, but his words were laced with regret.

  “Then we’re at an impasse.” Making herself be strong and stand apart when she wanted to cling, or maybe shake him until his teeth rattled and she knocked loose some damned sense from his stubborn skull, she shrugged her blue robe tighter around her, smoothing the heavy fabric. “Come on. Let’s do this.”

  Without waiting for his answer, she swept out of her suite and headed for the sacred room where the ritual would take place.

  The bigger spells and important ceremonies had previously been held in the altar room beneath Chichén Itzá, but with the secret tunnels beneath the ancient city now gone, and no luck so far in identifying another intersection, the magi were left with the smaller ritual room at Skywatch, a temple typically used for weddings, funerals, and naming ceremonies. Now, out of necessity, it was being pressed into service for heavier-duty magic.

  Sasha hesitated at the entrance to the circular room, where torches lit the carved walls and the chac-mool altar, and soft curls of copan-scented smoke curled from stone braziers. The scene was like a pastiche of memories, combining the filter-blurred sensory images of the torture she’d endured at Iago’s hands with the hotter, more immediate memories of being with Michael. Or with the other version of Michael—the edgier, sharper one she’d dreamed of the night before.

  He touched her arm. “You okay?”

  Shifting away so his hand fell to his side, she nodded. “I will be.”

  The large, man-shaped chac-mool sat at one point of the compass, and torches were affixed at the others. The altar itself was set atop a large slab of cement that was tinted the red-gold of the Nightkeepers and the gods. Jox had told her that the cement had been mixed with the ashes of hundreds of magi, carried with the Nightkeepers while they searched for the place that would become their home. The ashes gave the site an artificial power boost that was weaker than that found at the true sites in the Mayan territories, but was better than nothing. The chamber was full of robed figures, and Sasha had to push back a shimmer of fear at the sight of two in bloodred.

  One of the red-robed figures turned toward her, and she nearly fell back, losing the face to the memory of Iago’s red-robes. But when he pushed back his hood, she recognized Strike, who she’d come to like, if from a distance, over the past two weeks. He’d proven to be an odd combination of mage king and normal beer-drinking, football-watching guy next door. In a way, all of the Nightkeepers were combinations of their former and present selves. As for her . . . well, they’d see, wouldn’t they?

  Wearing a thin strand of jade beads around his forehead instead of the elaborate headdress and dangling celts of the traditional regalia, the Nightkeepers’ king looked every inch the leader, but his eyes were kind and concerned. “Are you ready for this?”

  Sasha lifted her chin, drawing strength from the knowledge that Michael was right behind her. “Apparently I was born for this.”

  “Then let’s get started.” Strike gestured for the others to take their positions.

  The magi formed a circle in the center of the room, sitting cross-legged, knee-to-knee. Strike and Leah, in the red robes of the royals, sat with their backs to the chac-mool altar. Patience and Brandt took their places on one side of the royal couple, Nate and Alexis on the other. The setup emphasized the linked power of the three mated pairs, united in love and magic. The four unmated singles completed the circle: Jade next to Michael, then Sasha, with Sven on her other side. It was a small circle. Anna and Rabbit, who Sasha hadn’t officially met yet, had stayed in Texas. Even if they’d been there, though, Sasha thought the ghosts in the room still would’ve outnumbered the living by a large margin. The copan-scented air all but reverberated with the memory of the hundreds of ceremonies that had taken place there, the new lives celebrated, new pair-bonds sealed, and the funeral rites that had passed the fallen on to their death challenges.

  A cool breeze stirred the hair at Sasha’s nape, though there was no open window, no source for the chill that walked down her spine.

  When the magi were seated, the door opened and the winikin filed in ceremonially, and handed each of the magi a stone bowl holding a folded bit of parchment, an ear of maize, and a small cup of chorote. Normally, the ceremony would’ve involved a simple bloodletting and burning of the blood-soaked parchment. The other items were part of the effort to help Sasha invoke her bloodline nahwal. The actual details had been largely Jox’s idea, based on Sasha’s obvious affinity for maize and cacao. Once the winikin had dispensed the ritual items, they filed out, remaining silent. At the door, though, Jox turned back and sent Sasha a wink that warmed her. The kind, clever winikin had become her bedrock, proving to be the sort of man—and the father—she’d often wished Ambrose had been.

  When the winikin were gone, Strike pulled a carved stone knife from his belt and used it to cut his palms. The others did the same, except for Leah, who used a modern combat knife, as befitted her human status, and Sasha, who didn’t have a knife because they were bloodline specific. Until they knew what bloodline she belonged to—assuming the ritual went as they hoped—she was weaponless.

  “Here.” Michael palmed his knife from his ankle sheath, and passed it to her unblooded.

  “Thanks.” Sasha took the blade, which was warm from his body, making the transfer both intimate and faintly erotic. Or was that the effect of the copan smoke, and the memories it invoked? Either way, she felt somehow both steadier and more unsettled with him beside her, with his knife in her hand. Focus, she told herself, and cut her palms with two long, shallow slashes, managing not to think of the past as she did so.


  She hissed out a long breath that started as pain and ended as something else when the magic trickled into her, kindling a red-gold hum at the base of her brain, one she remembered from the night of her rescue, though it felt different now, less edgy and more welcoming. The hum—which was how the others consistently spoke of the magic—had seemed a rattle before. Now it was more of a river’s babble, or the basis of a song.

  It was odd how many things made her think of music these days, when she’d never before been musically inclined, and couldn’t carry a tune if her life depended on it. But recently as she’d tended her struggling cacao seedlings out in Jox’s greenhouse, she’d caught herself humming softly, a faintly martial beat that echoed in her skull. Even as she thought about it, the hum twined itself around that marching beat, matching the tempo of her pulse.

  Unsure whether that was part of the magic or not, she passed the knife back to Michael, bracing herself against the kick of heat brought by the touch of his fingers on hers as he took the blade. He didn’t acknowledge the unintentional caress, though; he seemed almost ferociously intent on his actions as he cut his own palms. Around the circle, the magi held their bleeding hands over the ceremonial bowls, letting their blood soak into the parchment held within, turning it dark in the dim light. Using a small torch that was passed hand-to-hand, they each lit the parchment, which sputtered and then caught fire, releasing magic in the burning of blood. Then, deviating from tradition, they each reached for and drank the chorote, which tasted like very thin, very cheap instant hot chocolate, only with a chewiness that was more unexpected than actually unpleasant. The taste made Sasha think of the village near Ambrose’s temple, and the kind strangers who’d let her hang around while her father lost himself in his dreams and work. And eventually, in his madness.