Rabbit came around almost immediately, and grabbed for him, latching on hard, his fingernails drawing blood.
For a second, they were linked by blood and darkness, and Rabbit’s mind-bending talent. In a flash, Michael saw what Rabbit saw, knew what Rabbit knew. He felt the rage and despair of screwing up almost everything he touched, the hope that had come with finding Myrinne, the determination to turn himself around, make himself a man worthy of a mate. He felt Rabbit’s insecurity, his fears when it came to protecting Myrinne, keeping her happy, and understanding what she wanted and needed from him. He felt those same emotions echo from his own soul, where Rabbit was seeing his and Sasha’s problems firsthand. More, he felt the younger mage’s slashing sense of betrayal at seeing his own face in the mirror and grasping the enormity of Michael’s decision, the risks he ran by refusing his target.
Then it was done. The reciprocal link blinked out of existence as though it had never been, and Michael and Rabbit sagged into each other.
“Why me?” The younger man’s voice was rough and rusty, his eyes anguished. “Why did the gods want you to kill me?”
Michael shook his head. “No clue. Maybe they’re wrong.” But a shiver touched the back of his neck as he wondered whether that was what his uncle had thought: No fucking way I’m killing the king. The gods got it wrong.
“What if they aren’t?” Rabbit said, echoing his thoughts.
“You’d godsdamned better make sure they are,” Michael growled, knowing Rabbit needed to hear it, that he needed to say it. “I’ll buy into the structure of the legends, but I think the details are damn well mutable. Strike was supposed to kill Leah and now she’s his queen. The prophecies made it sound like the Volatile was a danger to us, but Nate’s an asset, not a danger. You see where I’m going with this?”
Something kindled in the hopelessness of Rabbit’s eyes. “Love helps us break the patterns.”
That rocked Michael back on his heels, slammed through him with an energy that felt like magic itself. Why had it taken a punk kid to point that out? Because damned if he wasn’t right. It was a small sample size, granted, but what if it held true? The Nightkeepers’ magic was inextricably intertwined with the man-woman connection of sex, of love. What if—maybe because theirs was such a small group, maybe because of another, higher layer of destiny—love sometimes trumped the prophecies and the signs?
The thought was humbling. Terrifying. Exciting.
Or it’s bullshit , logic said. The kid wants to believe he and his first real girlfriend are supposed to be together forever, and you want an excuse to think you can win Sasha back, even though nothing’s changed inside you. Which was true, Michael supposed. The Mictlan’s target bond had been broken, but he was still connected to the muk, still had the dubious talent and the Other within him. Damn it.
“Look,” he said, fixing Rabbit with a don’t mess with me glare, “I can’t promise you that things are going to work out with you and Myrinne, and you’d damn well better not hinge your good behavior on it. Be a man and do your best. That’s all any of us can ask of you.”
Rabbit seemed to consider that for a moment. Then his shoulders squared and he nodded. “I’m working on it.”
“Keep working.” Michael clapped the teen on the shoulder. “Now, let’s go find our bodies.” And hope to hell they’re still alive for us to come back to.
The tomb of the First Father Wrung out from dividing her energies between the two injured men, Sasha felt Michael’s energy flow dip alarmingly, spike, and dip again, and knew this was the moment she’d been dreading, the moment he hit the end of his reserves and her strength was no longer enough to keep his heart going, his blood flowing through his veins. Refusing to give up, to give in, she gripped his limp hand and flung the last of her fading strength toward the place where she could feel his energy draining. Calling to the others, she said, “Help me. I need more!”
Strike looked over from the nearly open coffin and shook his head, expression drawn. “There isn’t any more, Sasha.” He paused. “I’m sorry. It’s almost time.”
She felt her fingers go numb, and thought she’d gripped Michael’s hand too tight. Then she heard a thrumming, electric chord and realized it was the other way around. She froze, afraid to hope as she looked down at Michael. His eyes were open. “Oh,” she breathed. “You’re back.”
She was peripherally aware of Strike’s amazement, of the others gathering around, but she was caught up in Michael, and in his energy, which was alive and vibrant, and calling to hers, drawing it inward. Almost too late she felt the silver muk reach out to her, felt it begin to drain her. She cut the connection fast, but felt the ache of loss left behind. “It didn’t work.”
The forest of his eyes went to dusk. “It did and it didn’t. Rabbit—” He broke off, glancing at the teen. “Oh, shit. He was right behind me.”
Rabbit’s body was still lying there, but he’d gone gray. And in Sasha’s grasp, his hand was cold as death.
Somewhere in the barrier Rabbit was halfway back into his body when he’d felt Iago grab onto his consciousness and follow, still trying to piggyback his way into the sarcophagus room, the bastard. More, through the psychic link, Rabbit could see inside the Xibalban’s mind and know his plans; that knowledge chilled him to the marrow with its scope and possibilities. No! Rabbit’s consciousness hung within the barrier’s energy flow as he fought the Xibalban’s hold, trying to find his way back to the in-between, to the gray-green mist of the barrier, hell, anywhere but back to the tomb of the First Father.
You can’t win , Iago mocked him, giving him a shove back toward his body. You’d be better off conserving your strength to fight me when we get there.
And the damn thing was, he was right. Rabbit’s strength was failing; his body was failing. Should he just let go of that connection? No, he couldn’t die now. He had to get back to the others and tell them what Iago was planning, had to get back to Myrinne and tell her he was sorry for being a dick, that she could have all the time and space she needed, even if it killed him to back off. Michael had turned away from the gods by refusing to kill him. He had to be worthy of that sacrifice. And somehow, though gods only knew how, he needed to break this ungodly link he shared with Iago. It left him too vulnerable.
But how the hell was he supposed to do that? The river had washed him clean of the extra hellmagic Iago had loaded him down with, but it hadn’t broken his connection to the hellmagic. What would?
Not a fucking thing, the Xibalban answered inside him, warning Rabbit that his mental shields were for shit, that the rest of his magic was falling down around his ears. His powers were crumbling, kaleidoscoping inward, along with his consciousness. Still struggling, he resisted the forces urging him back to himself, thinking that if he could stay out of his body, he could strand them both in the barrier, or the in-between.
Then he heard sudden music, a marching backbeat overlaid with electric guitar, and Sasha’s voice was inside his head, impossibly strong as she called, Get your ass back here, Rabbit. We need you!
Then she somehow grabbed onto him, latching her energy to his and pulling him home to his human shell.
Rabbit felt Iago’s startled delight and roared a denial, but it was already too late. The enemy mage had grabbed onto the connection, followed it to its source. Howling despair and the knowledge that he’d fucked up again, Rabbit flung himself back into his own body, hoping to hell he got there ahead of Iago.