He hugged her and whispered in her ear, ‘‘Thank you.’’
Then he let her go and turned to Red-Boar. ‘‘Who am I?’’
Red-Boar met Strike’s glare. ‘‘There can be no love in war. Your father is still an idiot, even in death.’’
Strike crossed to him. Got in his face. Growled, ‘‘Who. Am. I?’’
The standoff lasted five seconds, maybe ten. Then Red-Boar broke and looked away. ‘‘You are my king.’’ He scored his tongue, spat the offering, and added, ‘‘Gods help us all.’’
‘‘The spell you pulled from the grad student’s head,’’ Strike said. ‘‘Give it to me.’’
‘‘I can’t,’’ Red-Boar said, holding up a hand as Strike bristled. ‘‘Not won’t, I can’t. He didn’t finish translating all of it.’’
‘‘Damn it!’’ Strike spun away, fury and futility railing at him. He looked to the others. ‘‘Jade?’’
She shook her head. ‘‘I couldn’t find it.’’
There had to be a way, Strike knew. And not just because he wanted there to be—because it didn’t make any sense for the gods to bring him and Leah this far only to have them fail now.
Which meant he had to have faith, he thought, turning to face his people. His Nightkeepers. ‘‘Load up on live ammo and get your body armor. We’re going to kick some Banol Kax ass and get Leah back.’’
And after that, he was going to fucking wing it.
Five minutes later, the Nightkeepers were assembled, bristling with guns and knives. Red-Boar was blank-visaged and ready to kill. Rabbit stood at his side, vibrating with energy, his eyes alight with excitement. Anna looked ill, as though she’d rather be anywhere else just then, but Strike couldn’t leave her behind when their shared ancestry meant she could boost his power. And the trainees . . . Hell, he thought with a little kick beneath his heart, they look like a team.
Alexis and Nate might have broken up in the wake of the talent ceremony, but they stood shoulder-to-shoulder now, stern-faced, nerves evident only in the tap of his fingers against a gun butt, and her slight shift from one foot to the other. Brandt and Patience were a unit, Michael and Jade looked ready enough, though Jade would serve only to boost her former lover’s shield magic, and Sven was pale but resolute, his hair slicked back, his features sharper than Strike had thought them.
Three months earlier they’d been normal people, CEOs and screwups, therapists and number crunchers. Now they were magi. They were the Nightkeepers.
And, he thought with a sick churning in his gut, they were mortal. Which had been an unacknowledged sticking point for him, one of the reasons he’d held himself away from them for as long as possible. He hadn’t just been fighting for his old life, or for the promise of a new one with Leah. He’d been fighting not to care about his teammates, or, failing that, struggling not to have to lead them into battle.
His father had led his family and friends to their deaths. What if he did the same? What if the greatest sacrifice was the remainder of the Nightkeepers? What then?
‘‘Then we go out fighting,’’ he said aloud, and crossed to them, the scepter magic still churning in his blood, keeping the turbines revving high. ‘‘Join up and hang on,’’ he ordered, and when they linked hands, the power nearly took off the top of his head.
He leaned on it, pictured the Yucatán rain forest, and the clearing outside the hidden tunnel leading to the sacred chamber, and zapped.
The moment they blinked in, a group of makol massed in the tunnel mouth opened fire.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Strike ducked and started running for the leafy tree line, bellowing, ‘‘Take cover!’’
His pulse pounded and adrenaline hammered through his system alongside power and rage as the entrenched makol blasted away with a combination of green fireballs and M-16s. The Nightkeepers bolted for cover as Michael threw up a shield spell that blocked the first volley.
Strike dove behind a low, partially crumbled wall carved with what looked like the flying-serpent glyph he wore on his arm. ‘‘Over here!’’
The others scrambled in behind him and hunched down as a second salvo whistled over their heads and smashed into the rock wall mere feet from their position.
‘‘I’ll get their heads down.’’ Red-Boar angled his autopistol up and over the wall and started firing off short bursts designed to keep the makol pinned. Grim faced and resolute, he looked every inch the soldier he’d once been.
Risking a look around the wall, Strike took stock. There were probably fifty of them, their green eyes glowing in the fading light. The good news was that they’d be easy to contain in the cave mouth.
The bad news was that he needed to get the hell past them.
‘‘We need to draw them out,’’ he said, hunkering back down behind the wall. ‘‘How about this?’’ He grabbed a stick, swiped a layer of leaves away, and started drawing a rough approximation of their positions in the moist earth of the rain forest floor. ‘‘The makol are fierce as hell and hard to kill, but they’re not that smart. I say four or five of us work our way around to here’’—he marked a spot on the east side of the cave mouth—‘‘and make it look like our flank is exposed.’’
Red-Boar fired and grunted in satisfaction when there was a cry of pain from the other side of the clearing. Then he glanced at the diagram. ‘‘Not much of a shot from there, for either side.’’
‘‘Granted,’’ Strike said, ‘‘but I’m counting on that. I need to draw them out, get them away from the tunnel while the rest of us sneak through on the other side and attack from the rear.’’
‘‘Too simple,’’ Red-Boar said dismissively.
‘‘But it’s relatively low-risk, and we don’t have time for anything fancy,’’ Strike countered. ‘‘I want Patience, Brandt, Sven, and Rabbit on the east side, drawing them out. Brandt, you’re in charge. Nate, you take Alexis, Michael, and Jade to the west, and see if you can get in behind them. Red-Boar, Anna, and I will use the distraction to get into that tunnel.’’
Red-Boar looked back at him. ‘‘You want me with you?’’
‘‘No, but you’re the best power boost I’ve got.’’ Strike hated splitting his forces, but he didn’t have time to waste battling the makol, and he couldn’t risk them following. He needed a clear shot at the chamber. And Leah.
Even now, he could feel the stars coming into alignment. He needed to save Leah, save the god—the fear and the mad fury of it pounded in his veins, making him feel larger than himself, and powerful with it.
‘‘Any questions?’’ He got head shakes and resolution all around, and nodded with grim satisfaction. ‘‘Good. Once the rest of you have taken care of these bastards, follow us down into the tunnel. We’re going to need you.’’
With that, he pulled his autopistols and the others did the same, and they split up, moving in opposite directions to flank the makol, and hoping to hell the plan worked.
If it didn’t, they were screwed.
Leah was running out of time. Through her weak link to the golden light of the god she could feel the alignment coming to bear, feel the power opening up, blooming within her, but she couldn’t do a damn thing with it. All the training, all the spells . . . useless.
She wasn’t a Nightkeeper. Never would be. And Strike hadn’t come for her. Did he think she was dead already? Worse, had something happened to him? Fear crushed down on defeat, adding to the sense of suffocation that was growing ever more intense with each second.