Spellfire Page 6

  Oh, hell, no. A foul taste soured the back of Rabbit’s throat. “What if I refuse?”

  “Then I’ll end it myself.” The old man’s expression didn’t change, like he was talking about supersizing his number three combo, not murdering his own son. “If we can’t use you, we’re sure as shit not going to let the Banol Kax have you.”

  “Jesus.” For all that he’d remembered his old man as a colossal dick, the reality—if you could call a guy back from the dead “reality”—was so much worse.

  “Think about it,” Red-Boar advised. “But don’t take too fucking long.” Glancing back at the ruin, he raised his voice and called, “I’m ready to leave.”

  Moments later, Anna stepped out and headed in their direction. Strike must’ve taken the others back, leaving her to transport the stragglers. She didn’t ask how it had gone. Instead, she held out her hands. “Link up, and let’s get out of here.”

  “He’s staying,” Red-Boar said flatly.

  “Dez said not to let him out of my sight.”

  “And I’m saying you’re going to.” The old man’s mouth thinned to a grim line. “The spell won’t work if his heart isn’t in it, and he needs to make his own choice. Besides, I found him once, I can find him again.” His eyes went to Rabbit. “And the second time won’t be a rescue mission. Understand?”

  “Loud and clear.” Asshole.

  Anna’s vivid blue eyes gained wary shadows. “Rabbit . . .” She trailed off, shook her head. “I don’t know what to say to you anymore. I don’t know how to make things better, or even if I should try.”

  In a way, that stung worse than all of Red-Boar’s threats and insults put together. Among the magi, Anna was Switzerland. Years as a researcher and university prof had given her the patience of . . . well, something really freaking patient. So for her not to know how to deal with him . . . yeah. That pretty much summed it up.

  Before, he had been the Master of Disaster, always starting with more or less the right intentions but winding up blowing shit up anyway. Now, though, the others didn’t even trust his intentions. Hell, he wasn’t sure he trusted them himself.

  He took a big step back, away from Anna and Red-Boar. “He’s right. I need to think.” Not about whether he was committed to the Nightkeepers’ cause, but whether he could fight effectively—or at all—with his old man up his ass.

  “First you need to get some rest and heal up.” Her nose wrinkled. “And take a shower. Not in that order.”

  Now she was being more herself, reminding him of a bossy big sister. But while that brought a wistful tug, it didn’t change anything. “Go on without me. I’ll hike in later.” Probably.

  She hesitated a long moment, seeming unperturbed when Red-Boar started muttering under his breath. Finally, though, she nodded. “Okay, I guess. But Rabbit?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t disappoint yourself.”

  Her quiet command stuck with him long after she and his old man disappeared in a hand clap of inrushing air. More, really, than any of what Red-Boar had told him in between the four-letter words, because he’d spent most of his life trying to live down to his father’s opinion. Now, though, it was just him, the badlands, and a whole lot of empty scenery stretching on as far as he could see. Hell, the fact that he could see more than a few feet in front of him without coming up against a rock wall should be enough. Breathing fresh air should be enough. Having a choice—any choice—should be enough.

  It was, too. He was grateful for his freedom, grateful that he’d gotten a chance to kill Phee, grateful that he’d gotten to see Myr, no matter how much it had hurt to watch her walk away. And he wanted to think that if the gods were asking him to swear himself to any of the others—or, shit, all of them—he would’ve sucked it up and done it. Red-Boar, though, would be all over him, telling him when to eat, when to sleep, when to shit . . . and what to do with the powers of crossover magic.

  Fuck me, Rabbit thought when that one put a quiver of “so there you have it” in his gut. Because when he came down to it, he didn’t trust his father any more than he trusted himself. Less, in fact. Which under the circumstances left him up shit’s creek and paddling with his damn hands. The thought had him scowling down at the baked ground near his feet.

  He jolted as a winged shadow glided past.

  Pulse bumping, he looked up, reached for the machine gun, found it gone and went for the knife instead. But it wasn’t a camazotz; it was an eagle—or maybe a falcon?—circling in for a lazy landing. The bird was a rich brown color, with golden eyes that fixed on him as it backwinged to perch on a jagged wall nearby. Up close it was a big bastard—way bigger than he wanted to tangle with—but it seemed to be content to sit up there and stare down at him like he was a rabbit of the ears-and-tail variety, and a good option for a snack.

  He didn’t know his raptors all that well, couldn’t tell if this one was a local resident or something more—eagles had been sacred to the ancient Maya, after all, symbolizing the freedom of the sky, the rising and setting of the sun, and even the start of a war. Which was all pretty damn relevant to the here and now, thankyouverymuch.

  “Got any advice?” he asked. Because if he couldn’t trust the gods, then who the hell could he trust?

  The bird just cocked its head to look at him out of one eye, then the other. Nate Blackhawk—the Nightkeepers’ hawk-shifter—had once told him that it was like seeing a different plane with each eye, then a third with both together. Rabbit didn’t know what the eagle was seeing now, though.

  “Anything?” he prodded.

  It looked away, fluffing its wings a little in a move he took to mean, Screw you, bub. I’m just an eagle. And besides, this is your call. Either you can handle your old man or you can’t. What’s it going to be?

  “It’s not about handling him. It’s a question of whether it’s a good idea to give him that kind of power. What if he goes off his fucking rocker and starts following his own agenda, using me as his weapon?” It wasn’t unthinkable—Dez’s winikin had tried to use him that way, convinced he was doing the gods’ work. And Red-Boar himself had tried to kill Strike’s human mate, Leah, thinking he knew the gods’ plan better than the rest of them.

  And your other option would be . . . ?

  “I could disappear, hole up underground somewhere that the blood-link can’t find me, and then . . . shit, I don’t know. Figure out a way to help the Nightkeepers from there, I guess. I’m supposed to be the crossover, right? If the gods want me to help, they’ll find a way to tell me how.”

  You’re reaching.

  He shot the bird a baleful look. “Oh, shut up.” But the eagle—or, rather, whatever inner voice he’d given to it—had a point. If he was going to do things differently this time, he didn’t get to pick the easy changes, even when the hard ones had the potential to suck donkey dick.

  Then the eagle gave an unearthly screech and launched itself into the air. It didn’t buzz him or look back or anything as it powered into the sky with steady sweeps of its wings. Still, though, it felt like the bird’s visit had been a sign. Even more so when it banked and headed for Skywatch.

  “Shit,” Rabbit muttered, knowing what the answer had to be.

  Sign or no sign, it hadn’t ever been a debate, really, because all the logic in the world couldn’t trump the one thing he’d left out of his inner argument: Myrinne was at Skywatch. And while she probably didn’t want his protection—probably didn’t even need it anymore—she was going to get it anyway.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  December 2

  Nineteen days until the zero date

  Skywatch

  The next morning, Rabbit woke groggy as hell, and blinked up at the ceiling. Which in itself was disconcerting after spending so long chained to a damn wall.

  The wall’s gone, he reminded himself, reorienting. Phee is dead and Myrinne is safe.

  And he was back at Skywatch.

  Granted, he’d spent the night in one of the basement
storerooms that had been retrofitted as a cell, with a narrow bunk, a squat-pot, and a small bookshelf stocked with a few dog-eared paperbacks, bottled water and a six-pack of energy bars. The door was locked and faint crinkle of magic said it was warded, too. Which meant that he was as much a prisoner here as he had been on the island . . . except that now he was a willing prisoner.

  By the time he’d hiked to Skywatch yesterday afternoon, he’d been shakier than he’d wanted to admit, knocked on his ass by the aftereffects of captivity, rescue, Red-Boar’s return, seeing Myrinne, finding out that she had his magic now . . . all of it. And after a shower—which had been a weird cross between orgasmic and something out of a sci-fi movie, with all the chrome and gadgets feeling unfamiliar and futuristic—he’d willingly crashed in the basement, knowing the others wouldn’t trust him until he’d made his vow to Red-Boar. And maybe not even then.

  I’ll do whatever you want, he was trying to signal by being a good prisoner. You name it, you’ve got it. Anything was better than the chains and being utterly alone except when he was being beaten. And having an opportunity to kick some demon ass and help with the war . . . yeah. He’d do whatever it took. Even stay away from Myrinne.

  Probing the idea like an aching tooth, he rose and padded to the chair by the door, where someone had left him clean clothes. He reached for them automatically, but then hesitated at the sight of a familiar pair of jeans, his backup combat boots with the knotted laces and scarred toes, and a black cartoon tee he’d bought off CafePress.

  He hadn’t thought much about his stuff while he’d been strung up in that cave—it was just stuff, after all—but the clothes hammered things home.

  Christ. What a fucking difference a day could make.

  Twenty-four hours ago, he’d been a beaten animal, practically inhuman, living only to kill his tormentor. Back then, if a big-assed foam finger had come down out of the sky and a booming voice had told him he was going to get another chance, he would’ve said it would be enough to kill Phee and do something to balance the scales. Now, though, surrounded by the trappings of civilization, he was coming back to himself—or maybe, hopefully, a better version of the fuckup he’d been. He wanted the chance to prove that to the others, to himself . . . and he’d give anything to be able to make some real restitution. Even promise himself to his old man.

  As if on cue, magic sparked, a heavy fist banged on the door and Michael’s voice said, “You up? It’s time.”

  A chill walked down Rabbit’s spine, but he shook it off, dredged up a shadow of his old swagger and called, “Give me a minute to get dressed. Unless you’re planning a cavity search?”

  “Been there, done that.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Just get your ass dressed.” But there was a thread of amusement in the ex-assassin’s voice that said he, at least, might be willing to give Rabbit one last chance.

  Then again, Michael knew better than most just how bad a guy could get under the influence of the dark magic.

  But any optimism that might’ve brought died off a few minutes later when Rabbit found himself following Michael to the last fucking place he would’ve chosen for a meeting, the last fucking place he would’ve chosen to be, period: the sacred chamber at the center of Skywatch.

  He hesitated in the doorway, becoming the sudden focus of way too many eyes as a couple of dozen team members—Nightkeeper, winikin and human alike—all looked at him as if to say “Hey, asshole, remember what happened the last time you were here?”

  Myrinne stood at the edge of the crowd. She had one foot out the far door and looked as trapped as he felt, but she was there. He wasn’t sure what that meant, didn’t know what he wanted it to mean.

  He nodded to her as he stepped into the open center of the room. The gesture was for all of them, though, including Red-Boar, who stood front and center before the chac-mool altar. Carved of red-tinged limestone and mortared in place with the ashes of generations past, the statue was a human figure, reclining with its body forming a zigzag shape and its blank-eyed face turned toward him, like it, too, was saying, “Hey, asshole . . .”

  Yeah, he remembered what he’d done here, in this room. How the fuck could any of them think he would forget?

  The glass ceiling had been replaced, and the floor, walls and altar all looked pristine. Still, though, he saw the scene as it had been, with blood everywhere and Myrinne’s torn body folded up against the foot of the chac-mool. He hadn’t struck the blow that had hurt her—that had been the demons—but he might as well have, because she had taken a blow meant for him. After everything he’d done to her, she’d saved his ass.

  Christ, Myr, I’m sorry. He tried to send the words to her, but she was blocking the one-way magical link that had connected them the day before. Which left him standing there, wishing to hell he could warp time and go back to knock the shit out of himself before he fucked up things between them, before he fucked her up.

  Only she didn’t look fucked up. She looked fierce and competent in dark jeans and a black tee, and at his glance, she stepped all the way in the room and glared at him, as if to say “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “You come here freely to take the Boar Oath?” Red-Boar asked, eyes glittering as he put himself in Rabbit’s line of sight. He was wearing a worn brown robe, tied with a rope. It probably should’ve made him look like Obi Wan, but instead brought memories of him spending most days stoned and pissed off, and not much use to anyone, especially himself. Now, though, his voice was clear and strong as he added, “Once you’ve taken the oath, you’ll be bound to obey three orders given by the eldest of the boar bloodline. Me.”

  “They’ll be my orders,” Dez said with a warning look at Red-Boar.

  The brown-robed mage tipped his head. “Of course.”

  Rabbit swallowed hard, though, because even if the content originated with Dez, he’d still be bound to his old man. But it had to be done. He crossed to the altar, squared off opposite his father, and said, “I’m in.”

  “We’ll see.” Red-Boar pulled a stone knife from where it had been tucked into a twisted knot in the rope belt. Rabbit recognized the blade—he’d inherited it from his father and carried it into battle for years before leaving it behind at Skywatch when Phee took him. The sight of the knife back in his old man’s fist dug at him, but he supposed it was fitting.

  Sunlight glinted on the blade as the old man lifted it to the sky, where the sun shone through the glass ceiling. Then, in a move so quick it felt like that of a predator snatching up its prey, killing it before it even knew it was in trouble, Red-Boar grabbed Rabbit’s wrist and yanked his hand palm up. The knife flashed down and cut deep.

  Rabbit hissed, but the feeling of being palm-cut was familiar, almost cleansing after so damn long. He was more aware of his old man’s hard, hot grip than the pain as blood pooled in his cupped palms, then spilled over and splashed on the stones of the sacred chamber.

  Magic gathered around them, sparking red and gold, and filling the air with an expectant hum as Red-Boar yanked him close, eyes going narrow. “Listen up, and listen good. This isn’t like any oath you’ve taken before. It’s not some weak-assed compulsion spell; it’s the real deal. If you break your word, you break your connection to the boar bloodline, understand? So be really fucking sure.”

  “What do you care if the bloodline rejects me?” Rabbit said, voice low enough that only the closest onlookers would hear. “You never wanted to accept me in the first place.”

  “This isn’t about what I want. It’s about saving the godsdamned world.”

  “So what are you waiting for?”

  Glaring, Red-Boar reached into his robe and withdrew a familiar leather pouch. It was worked with crimson and gold threads that twined together to outline the boar bloodline’s glyph, along with the sigils of the warrior and the mind-bender, just like the marks on the old man’s wrist. They were his damned ashes. Rabbit should know; he was the one who’d filled the bag and ritual
ly sealed it into a hollow at the base of the altar. His eyes went to the spot, where now there was a darker smear of new, damp mortar, and his gut tightened.

  He wasn’t just going to be swearing on his own blood. He was going to be using his father’s ashes.

  “Pretty fucked up, huh?” Red-Boar looked at the bag for a moment, then said, “Hold out your hands.”

  Rabbit reached his bloody fingers to take the bag, but instead of handing it over, Red-Boar upended the thing and dumped its contents. The ashes were gray and crumbly, and the whole mess hit Rabbit’s palms and poofed up in his face as he drew in a startled breath. And sucked up his father’s remains.

  There were exclamations from the others, a couple of gags and lots of shifting feet, but Rabbit forced himself to hold it together as a dark taste hit his sinuses and the back of his throat, making him want to cough. His palms burned where the ashes mixed with his blood, and strange magic ate into him like acid, roughening his voice when he grated, “Get on with it.”

  Red-Boar tucked the empty leather pouch into his robe, used the knife to slash his own palms, and then took both of Rabbit’s hands in his, letting their blood mingle. And, whether or not the old man liked that they were related, the blood-link formed instantly. Red-Boar’s power poured into Rabbit and flared through his veins, until he could feel the old bastard in every damn corner of his being. It was the first time he and his old man had linked up, the first time he’d felt the extra resonance that came from shared DNA. Which was ironic, really, considering that his old man was dead and he didn’t have magic of his own anymore.

  “Concentrate on your bloodline mark and repeat after me.” Red-Boar rattled off a spell in the old tongue, one that Rabbit normally wouldn’t have been able to remember, never mind repeat. But somehow the words translated themselves in his head, grabbing on to him, burning themselves into his mind: “. . . by my own blood and the bones of my ancestor, I swear to obey my Keeper’s three demands.” His stomach clutched but he said the words, putting himself under Red-Boar’s command. Making the old man his fucking Keeper.