He waved the others away. When they were clear of where he thought the shield would drop, he touched the magic, nudging a tendril of shield magic toward the spot he’d found. Moments later, the rubble reappeared.
Sven blinked. “Whoa. Cool.”
Michael touched one of the busted chunks of debris. It felt like rock. For all intents and purposes it was rock, though it was an illusion, too. Kind of like him. Quickly, he showed the others how to work the spell.
Strike grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good work.” He turned away and headed up the tunnel, calling, “Moving out.”
Michael fell into his place at the back of the line, keeping an iron grip on the Other, which—for the moment, anyway—had slipped back behind the dam, laughing softly at Michael’s belief that it could be contained. Go ahead and laugh, Michael shot after it. One of these days . . .
He trailed off, because he didn’t know what the hell to threaten the bastard with, given that the monster was part and parcel of himself.
When they reached the end of the tunnel, he was surprised to find that it was still daylight. It felt like they’d been underground forever, but in reality it’d been only a couple of hours . . . albeit a couple of hours during which a great many things had changed. At the thought, he fixed his eyes on Sasha, walking a few steps ahead of him.
As if aware of his gaze, Sasha glanced back as she stepped outside, into the orange-dappled sunlight. Her expression made him wonder what she saw in him in that moment, what she thought of him. “Sasha—” he began, then broke off when he saw movement beyond her, and his warrior’s talent sounded the alarm.
“Get down!” He lunged for her, knocked her to the ground, and covered her body with his own.
And all hell broke loose.
The air split with gunfire and a fat fireball of silver-brown Xibalban magic, sending the Nightkeepers diving for cover. The ambush was perfectly timed and stupidly simple, with the Xibalbans dug into positions around the temple mouth, hidden in the thick underbrush, where they could—and did—fire at will. The tree line afforded them access and visibility, the slight downgrade to the temple mouth giving them the advantage of higher ground.
Michael covered Sasha as the other Nightkeepers scattered in singles and pairs, taking cover and returning fire, using basic shield magic to block the incoming fusillade. Nate snapped orders on one side, Strike on the other. That was what the magi had trained for, what they were bred to do—fight the enemy rather than retreat. But something—instinct, maybe, or his warrior’s mark—told Michael that this time was different. This time they should get out while they still could.
Putting a strong shield around him and Sasha, he stood and pulled her to her feet. “We’ve got to get to Strike. Can you run?”
Strike and Leah were on the other side of the temple mouth, hidden behind a broken-off stela, in the shallow shelter offered by a niche in the green-covered temple wall. It was a distance of only fifty yards or so, but it looked like five times that when his shield wavered and a bullet pinged off the rock beside his head, warning that his magic wasn’t strong enough. Not for this. Blood wouldn’t help, he knew—her own shield magic was still too new to trust and he didn’t dare touch her for a sex magic boost. Gods, he thought in an almost-prayer he suspected would fall on deaf ears. Help me out here.
I’m trying to do the right thing. I swear it.
His shield settled fractionally. He figured that was as good as it was going to get. “Go!” he barked, sending her ahead of him and concentrating his shield around her, at the expense of his own protection. “Run!”
They lunged from concealment and raced across the open ground. Bullets and fire magic splattered around them, bouncing off the shield. Strike rose from concealment, shouting something Michael couldn’t hear over the roar of magic and gunfire and the pounding of his own heart in his ears, his boots on the ground. Almost there. Twenty-five yards. Twenty.
Out of nowhere, a harsh rattle of dark magic rose around them and a dozen red-robes materialized, surrounding him and Sasha, weapons pointing inward.
Howling incoherent rage, Michael slammed to a stop and went for his pistols, but his hands wouldn’t move; his body wouldn’t move from the neck down. Sasha, too, was frozen in place, her eyes wide and scared. One of the red-robes—average height and weight, with a bloody tear tattooed on his cheek—stepped forward, his lips drawn back in a sneer. “A nice trick, don’t you think?” He flicked his eyes between them, as if checking to make sure he had the right targets, then nodded his satisfaction and hit a button on his weapons belt. “Our master has plans for the two of you.”
Bullets and fireballs erupted along the perimeter of the red-robes’ circle as the other Nightkeepers let rip, but the attack spent itself on the Xibalbans’ shield. More teleport magic rattled, cycling up, no doubt called by whatever signal the red-robe had transmitted. Shit, they had a transporter who could move, not just things, but people.
Michael felt the rattle latch on and take hold of him and Sasha, and in his mind he caught a glimpse of a mountainous destination and the words “Paxil Mountain.” They were about to be dragged to the Xibalbans’ home base, into the hands of a man who could foul Strike’s ’port lock with a thought. Once they left the temple clearing, the Nightkeepers would be unable to find them.
If Michael had been alone, and in full control of his powers, Michael would’ve given himself for the chance to take out Iago’s army from within. But not with Sasha there. And not when he couldn’t be sure of himself. Because as the dark magic twined around him, the Other reappeared from wherever it had been hiding, drawn by the Xibalbans’ spell casting. A silvery fog covered Michael’s vision for a second. When it was gone, he was no longer himself. Or rather, he was both of his selves, Michael and the Other. Man and weapon. The violence within him hovered on a knife point, as though waiting for the last vestige of his self-control to snap, for him to give himself to the magic.
You said you’d die for her, the temptation seemed to whisper. What else would you do?
In that instant, the Xibalbans’ ’port magic grabbed onto them and yanked. With a roar, Michael slammed a shield around him and Sasha, cutting the ’port thread. Silver magic erupted, pouring through him, lighting him up. It was hot madness, pure temptation, and he gave in to it on a howl of mad fury and joy.
He caught Sasha against his chest, dropped the shield, and let rip with his true magic, the power the nahwal had warned would cost him his soul. He became the Other and the Other became him, and the resulting power was that of death.
Silver magic gushed from him, poured through him, became him. Ropy tendrils of the power spread out and curled around his enemies. Touched them. Took them.
One by one, the Xibalbans stiffened and cried out in horrible agony. The red-robe with the tattooed tear was first, his skin going gray as the silver magic latched on and seemed to suck the life from him.
He fell, turning to dust and char, the expression of absolute terror on his face crumbling as he disintegrated. Then the men on either side of him began to crumble, their screams twisting together in horrifying agony.
With each kill, Michael felt his power increase, his soul shuddering with the terrible weight of the deaths, even as the Other exulted and grew stronger. The robed bodies fell, turned to dust. The force holding him and Sasha captive winked out of existence as the red-robes ceased to exist, and the revving ’port magic cut out as Iago aborted his plan from afar.