Now all she had to do was make sure they both got dead before the zero hour.
Strike knelt on the footprint mat in the sacred chamber that’d been his parents’, pressed his knife-scored hands to the chac-mool where he’d loved Leah the night before, and bowed his head in prayer.
A dull ache thumped at the back of his skull, drumming with his heartbeat. The barrier was thinning—he could feel it in the anger that curled inside him, dark and tempting, and in the heat that flowed in his blood.
‘‘Gods help me make the right choice,’’ he said, hoping like hell they were listening. ‘‘Help me to know the difference between what I want to do and what I ought to do.’’ Those were the right words, the proper ones. But they weren’t at all what was in his heart, and knowing it, knowing he was in serious trouble, he said, ‘‘Kulkulkan. Creator god. There’s got to be a way to save you both. Tell me how. I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.’’
For a moment there was nothing. Then there was a flicker in his peripheral vision. Another. His attention snapped to the obsidian mirror above the altar, where torchlight reflected in strange patterns. Stranger patterns, he realized, than they’d been making before.
‘‘Please,’’ he whispered, and felt the anger stir within him. The power.
The reflected flames stirred. Intertwined. Formed a shape, then a scene, and all of a sudden he was looking at the grad student’s apartment, only not as he’d seen it, but a scene from before his arrival, when the idiot was reading from the codex fragment, his lips moving with the ancient words.
Then the fire picture was gone, and the flames were only flames.
Strike blinked. Blinked again.
And got it. It was the damn transition spell.
‘‘It’s the same spell,’’ he said aloud. ‘‘The makol, the gods. Same transition spell.’’ That was why Leah had wound up hooked to Kulkulkan at the solstice—Zipacna had enacted the transition spell to make himself an ajaw-makol , and in doing so had opened not only the passage to Xibalba, but the skyroad as well.
It was the same. Fucking. Spell. What mattered was the orientation of the user, good versus evil. Only they didn’t have the spell, he realized. Lucius had burned it.
‘‘Damn it!’’ He slammed his palms on the altar and pushed away. Then he froze.
Maybe they did have the spell. Red-Boar had wiped the guy’s memories, which meant he’d experienced them. He’d heard the spell. Odds were, he’d filed it—the brain of a mind-bender was a strange, convoluted place.
Question was, would he give it up?
‘‘Only one way to find out.’’ Strike strode from the royal suite, combat boots thudding as the thick bedroom carpet gave way to the tiled hallway. He hesitated near the stairs going down to the basement, but knew he should stay the hell away from Leah just now. The Nightkeepers were leaving in an hour; they’d be back after the equinox. That’d be soon enough to let her out and try to make amends.
Gods willing.
His heart ached with what he’d been forced to do to her, and with the fear that there wouldn’t be an ‘‘after’’ for them. But he set all that aside—or tried to—burying it deep as he strode out the back to Red-Boar’s cottage and slammed through the door without knocking. ‘‘I need you to—’’
He broke off because Red-Boar wasn’t in his usual spot at the kitchen table. Rabbit sat there instead, his hoodie pulled way down, his shoulders hunched.
‘‘Where’s your father?’’
Rabbit didn’t answer immediately. When he did, his voice broke. ‘‘Kuyubal-mak.’’
Strike stiffened. ‘‘What did you do that needs forgiving? ’’
‘‘I unlocked the storeroom.’’
Everything inside Strike went cold, and he slapped at his back pocket reflexively, finding the padlock key still there. ‘‘How?’’
‘‘He told me not to tell you I can telekine, too.’’ The teen looked up at Strike, his hood falling back to reveal tear-reddened eyes. ‘‘He had me text her cell, too, and tell her to meet him up at Bonito. He said he didn’t want to do it here, after everything that’s already happened.’’
This time Strike didn’t try to fight the rage. ‘‘Do what?’’ he grated out, though he already knew.
Rabbit gulped miserably. ‘‘Kill her.’’
The landscape near Pueblo Bonito was harshly beautiful, and dotted with the remains of soaring stone buildings erected in the first millennium by the Chacoans. Like the Maya, they had been great astronomers and architects. And, like the Maya, theirs had been an incredibly complex civilization that had flourished for hundreds of years—and then vanished within a few decades.
Broken walls made of stone and wood speared up from the ground or crumbled down along cliffsides, and pteroglyphs paid homage to the sun and stars, and as Leah finally pulled up near the Bonito ruins, she felt what she thought was the hum of magic in the air.
She hoped to hell it was because if she had access to the magic as the equinox approached, her chances of killing the makol were that much better.
Although Pueblo Bonito was a national park, and had its own visitors’ center up the road, the ruin itself was deserted. Which she figured was a good thing—witnesses would be a problem with what she was going to have to do next.
Trying really hard to think of it as a tactical exercise rather than the suicide mission it needed to be, she loaded her weapons belt from the knapsack, racking the MACs she’d snagged from the armory and making sure her knives were close at hand for the head-and-heart deal. Then she sat for a second, knowing that once she got out of the Jeep there was no turning back.
Closing her eyes, she sought the mental ghosts that were her constant companions. Matty. Nick. The man she’d known as Vince was gone now, dispelled by the knowledge that he’d been part of Zipacna’s elaborate setup. But the thought of her parents joined the memories of her brother and partner. Strike was there, too, heat existing alongside grief. She knew he’d never forgive her for what she was about to do, but she couldn’t stand by and watch him gamble the world on the slim chance that his crazy plan would work. He risked dooming the world with his stubbornness, and she’d be damned if she let him do it.
‘‘This is the only way,’’ she said, her mouth gone dry with dread.
Then, knowing there was no place for second thoughts where she was going, she focused on the dead, on the ghosts. On the people Zipacna had killed, what he’d done to them. And though she had gotten the lightness of the god, she found her own anger within, and fanned it to a flame. When she was good and pissed, and carrying a cold, murderous rage that she hoped would see her through Zipacna’s extermination and then her own, she got out of the Jeep and slammed the door.
The ruins were spread out in front of her, several acres of walls and doorways, of square rooms and sunken circular kivas connected by mazelike passageways. There was no sign of life save for the cry of a hawk high above.
‘‘You want me to come and get you?’’ she muttered, pulling the MACs so she held one in each hand and felt like a serious badass. ‘‘Then you’ve got it, because ready or not, here I come.’’
She wasn’t wearing body armor and didn’t bother to stick to cover because she knew she had one advantage: Zipacna needed her alive through the equinox. She, on the other hand, needed his ass dead. Thinking herself on the better end of the deal—for the moment, anyway— she set out.
She was three steps from the Jeep when the echoing crack of a gunshot rang out. She heard the whine-thwap of the bullet hit, felt the slap of impact. Then blood bloomed low on her shoulder, just above her right breast. She screamed and grabbed for the wound as she dove for cover, slamming to the ground behind a low wall.