Only he wasn’t seeing the carnage through Iago’s eyes.
“Let me go!” he shouted, railing against the nightmare’s grip as his vision went bouncy with forced motion. But the words came out in a stranger’s voice, in a stranger’s language, shocking Rabbit into the realization that he was seeing things through Saamal’s eyes, experiencing the attack through his perceptions.
Four makol dragged the village elder to the fire pit at the center of the village, pulled him spread-
eagled, and dumped him on the coals from the morning’s cooking fire.
He screamed as the hot embers burned through his tunic and into his skin, then again when the makol lifted the heavy mortar stones from the corn-grinding stations and dropped them onto his hands and feet, pinning him in place. But those physical agonies were far eclipsed by the agony of knowing that he’d failed his people, failed his gods. Failed his destiny.
Movement flashed in his peripheral vision as the soldiers’ leader, wearing the blue demon mask and a red-feathered cloak, moved into his line of sight and lifted a carved ceremonial knife—
“Rabbit!” The sound of his name in Myrinne’s voice was followed by a jolt of chu’ul magic, a lifeline that lassoed his consciousness and dragged him out of Saamal’s head, out of the nightmare.
He came awake screaming, “No!”
He lay spread-eagled, but his hands and feet were suddenly free of the crushing weight of the mortar stones, his back unburned.
Heart hammering, he lunged upright, saw a flash of blue and red, and hurled himself at the makol leader. He hit the bastard hard; they went down in a tangle, smashed into something wooden and sharp-cornered that didn’t jibe with the fire-pit image that was locked in his brain, and landed on a hard, flat surface that wasn’t highland dirt.
As Rabbit grappled with the disconnect, his enemy flipped him onto his back. And sat on him.
The familiarity of a move that had ended untold wrestling matches during Rabbit’s youth—and the sudden lack of oxygen as all the air left his lungs under pressure from two-hundred-plus pounds of Nightkeeper—cracked the barrier between nightmare and reality and brought him slamming back into himself. He lay still for a moment, gasping through sinuses that were full of the stink of smoke, charred flesh, and blood.
Strike’s face swam into view, looking concerned as hell.
Rabbit managed to get out a word: “Uncle.”
The king’s expression eased some, though it stayed worried as he shifted his weight off Rabbit’s torso and rose to crouch over him. “What the hell happened? That was no dream. We had to send Sasha in after you.”
Vision clearing as oxygen scrubbed away the last lingering shreds of confusion, Rabbit saw that most of the magi and several winikin were crowded into his and Myrinne’s bedroom.
Urgency beat through him with the cadence of running feet and the screams of the hunted as he blurted, “We have to get our asses to Oc Ajal, right fucking now.”
A strangled, startled noise came from Jox.
Strike turned on him. “You know what he’s talking about?”
“Not exactly.” But the winikin’s face flushed.
“We’re wasting time,” Rabbit interrupted. He held out his hand to Strike. “I’ll show you.” When Strike hesitated, he pressed, “No tricks, no lies. I promise.”
“Which means you’ve tricked and/or lied to me recently.” The king’s expression darkened, but he reached out and took his hand.
“You need to see this.” Through the touch link, Rabbit sent a compressed thought stream straight into Strike’s head.
He started with Myrinne pointing out that his old man wouldn’t have slept with the enemy and suggesting that his mother’s people might be a different sect of the Xibalbans, that they might be potential allies. Then he showed Strike how Jox had dropped the name of the village, moved on to his and Myrinne’s visit to the village and the whole-lot-of-nothing they had found. He finished with the images of the burning village, the bodies, and the village elder spread out for sacrifice in the central fire pit that symbolized the entrance to the underworld.
When the download ended, Strike blinked at Rabbit for a few seconds. Then his features flooded with a rage so profound that Rabbit flinched away from him, ducking a little.
Strike’s voice went deadly cold. “I’m not going to punch you out. I’m tempted as all hell, but I want you awake for this . . . and I want you to remember, every fucking second, that whatever happened in that village was your fault.”
“Hey!” Myrinne got right in his face, eyes flashing. “Back off. He was trying to do the right thing.”
“Oh? And what’s your excuse?” But then Strike held up a hand. “Fuck it. Later.” Refocusing on Rabbit, he grated, “That dream punched through the compound’s wards, but it wasn’t Iago sending it.
How could you see all that through the old man’s eyes?”
“How can I do half of what I do?” Rabbit said, voice raw. “I’m a freak.” His stomach churned on a sharp-edged mix of grief and anger, coated over with a huge, crushing load of guilt—because, godsdamn it, Strike was right. Iago must’ve found out about the village from being inside his head.
But why bother to send the makol? There hadn’t been anything in the village worth the effort.
Unless there had been, and he’d missed it.
Shit. Making himself meet Strike’s glare, he said, “Are we going or not?”
“We’re going. Let’s hope to hell it was just a nightmare.” But Strike’s expression suggested that he didn’t think they were going to get so lucky.
Rabbit didn’t hold out much hope either.
“It could be a trap,” Michael pointed out. “We can’t be the only ones thinking in terms of using something—or some one—as bait.”
“Then we spring the trap,” Strike said, expression grim. “And we give Iago hell.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Oc Ajal, Mexico It wasn’t a trap. In fact, by the time the Nightkeepers ’ported in, wearing full battle gear and armed to the teeth, there was no sign of the makol. But it wasn’t a false alarm either.
The village didn’t just look as bad as Rabbit had feared; it looked worse.
All but two of the pole buildings had collapsed to smoldering cinders of wood and flesh, and the stench of charred meat permeated the air. The village was silent save for the sputter of smoke and ash.
Even the surrounding forest seemed to have been struck dumb by the slaughter. And there, in the center of it all, Saamal lay splayed out in the fire pit with his hands and feet weighted by millstones, his head lolling on one of the large rocks that had probably been used for seating, and his chest laid open, ghastly and broken-ribbed where the makol leader had ripped out his heart.
Myrinne made a sound of distress and moved closer to Rabbit’s side. Strike hadn’t suggested leaving her behind; he was punishing both of them.
Michael, Sasha, and Sven moved off to secure the perimeter and search the forest, while Patience, Brandt, Lucius, Leah, and Jade headed off to search the few buildings that remained intact.
Strike started toward Saamal’s body, gesturing to Rabbit and Myrinne without looking at them.
“Come on.”
Rabbit wished he could overload to numbness, as he had done when he’d stumbled over his father’s body lying in the tunnels beneath Chichén Itzá. Instead, he remained painfully aware of the sound of Myrinne’s quiet sniffles, and the heavy weight of grief and guilt that pressed on him, making it hard to breathe.