“Fuck. Me,” Rabbit said.
He turned away from Saamal, trying to stem the tide of grief, guilt, and anger. He’d found the right village, after all, but he hadn’t realized it. How had the old man tricked him? How—shit. It didn’t matter now, did it?
“You were right,” Strike said, his tone indecipherable. “They were dark magi. They’ve been hiding up here all this time.”
“Until I led Iago straight to them,” Rabbit said bitterly. “They must’ve deserted from the Order of Xibalba and broken their links to the magic.”
“Then who cast the cloaking spell?” Strike asked.
“I don’t know. But why else would their marks be black if they weren’t deserters?”
“You’ve got it backwards,” said a rasping voice, coming from behind Rabbit.
The only one back there was Saamal.
Blood draining from his head, leaving him woozy, Rabbit turned and looked down at the body. Oh, holy hell. The spell had worked, after all.
The elder’s eyes were lit with a parody of life. His body remained pale and motionless, his chest open and full of congealed blood, but the pumping throb of oily brown magic had returned his soul to his body.
But any victory Rabbit might have felt deflated at the sight of the terrible pain and soul-deep loss that clouded the elder’s eyes. His soul might have returned to his body, but no amount of magic could undo the villagers’ murders and the destruction of Oc Ajal.
Rabbit’s chest suddenly felt as hollow as the empty splay of Saamal’s ribs. He was aware of the others gathering close, of Myrinne gripping his shoulder in support, but those inputs were peripheral.
He sank to his knees beside the dead man, started to roll the nearest mortar stone off him, only to stop when he realized that the stones were woven into the reanimation spell, that they were part of what was keeping him alive.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the words emerging through lips that felt numb and strange, like they weren’t part of him anymore. “I didn’t mean to tell Iago where—” He broke off. “Wait. You speak English?”
Saamal’s eyes narrowed. “That’s what you want to know right now?”
“Christ, Rabbit.” Strike crouched down in the elder’s line of sight. “I’m Striking-Jaguar.” He paused a beat, testing.
The elder glanced at Strike’s forearm, then at the edge of the circular hunab ku visible beneath the sleeve of his dark tee, which marked him as the Nightkeepers’ king. “Names aren’t important right now, nor is rank. What matters now is that you listen to me, and believe what your ancestors would not. That is why I called the young crossover here.” His eyes went to Rabbit. “And used the last of my power to keep my soul tethered beyond its mortality.”
“Crossover? Oh, you mean half blood.” Actually, Rabbit decided he liked “crossover” better.
“Because I can use light and dark magic.” When the elder nodded shallowly, he pressed, “If you know who and what I am, then tell me about my mother. Who was she?” Oh, gods. His eyes tractor-beamed to the woman with the grindstone. “Was she here? Did the makol kill her? And why didn’t you tell me who you were?” His voice rose, edging toward his boyhood tenor. “We could’ve brought you in, could’ve protected—” Strike cut him off. “Let him talk. I’m guessing his clock is ticking.”
“That is true, jaguar king. My time on this plane is limited.” The elder closed his eyes, as if composing himself. When he opened them again, some of the grief and pain was blocked behind a warrior’s focus. To Rabbit, he said, “I did not reveal myself to you because my people are your enemies, and vice versa. Or rather, we were your enemies. This village housed the last members of the true Order of Xibalba, users of dark magic and guardians of the sky barrier on behalf of the dark gods.”
Rabbit didn’t care about sides right now—he wanted to know what happened when Red-Boar visited the village, damn it. But he held himself in check as the elder described how the members of the order were the Nightkeepers’ opposites, dedicated to preventing what they called the “sky demons” from tearing through the barrier and overrunning the earth plane during the end time.
Strike said bluntly, “No offense, but since there’s no fucking way you’re converting us, we don’t need a philosophy lesson except and unless it pertains to what we’re dealing with right now. Tell me about Iago. He’s one of yours, isn’t he? Or he was.” The king was strung tight, his expression flat and unreadable.
“His father, Werigo, was one of us, yes.” The elder’s voice was thinning, but when Michael started forward, the old man shook his head. “No, muk wielder, no power on this plane can keep me soul-
tethered after this spell runs out. Once I’m done, I’m done.”
“So talk fast,” Strike ordered.
Rabbit glared at him, but didn’t waste time picking the fight. It was coming, though.
“Werigo became devoted to an offshoot sect of the order, one that was destroyed long ago because its goals diverged from those of the true Order of Xibalba. The members of the sect believed that our mandate wasn’t to secure the barrier against the sky demons; it was to rule the earth ourselves.”
“Who wants to bet this sect spun off to live with the Aztecs?” Lucius murmured.
“Just so,” Saamal agreed. “Although the sect itself was destroyed during the conquest, its last leader —the Aztec god-king Moctezuma—hid key codices and ceremonial objects. Twenty-six years ago, acting on a dream he claimed was a vision from Moctezuma himself, Werigo dug up the cache and began subverting members of the true order over to his cause.” A pause. “The dream came a few months before the magic ceased working.”
Rabbit glanced at Strike. The king wasn’t telegraphing shit, but it couldn’t be a coincidence that Werigo’s prophetic dream had coincided with the ones that had set Strike’s father on the road to the Solstice Massacre.
“Werigo was a hard, harsh man before the dreams,” the elder continued. “He was the elder son of our leader, but when our father died, I—the second son—was made ruler instead of him. That festered.
In the end, Werigo and his sons left the old village along with ten others. Anticipating that he would come after us when he grew strong enough—looking to take prisoners, sacrifices, and converts, much as the god-kings of old used to do—I relocated the village, and we learned to hide our true natures.”
Saamal paused. “He and his followers grew even harder and harsher, and became fanatically convinced that it was their duty to reincarnate Moctezuma and complete the Aztec conquest. They found us one solstice, and attacked. They killed everyone they could find, murdering the men, women, and even children who had been their friends and family. Only a dozen of us survived. . . . Eventually, we came here. To Oc Ajal.”
Where they were safe, Rabbit thought hollowly, until I showed up.
As if he had heard the thought, Saamal zeroed in on him. “Werigo could have found us if he had truly looked. Since so long had passed, we thought he had decided we weren’t important. We became so wrapped up in our own preparations for the end time that we were taken by surprise when his soldiers appeared today. We had grown soft and sloppy, and because of that, we lost the war before we even got a chance to fight. So now it’s up to you.”
“Do you mean the Nightkeepers, or me, specifically?” Rabbit almost whispered the words. He didn’t bother correcting the elder’s assumption that Werigo had been behind the attack. Father or son, it didn’t seem important just then.
“The Nightkeepers serve the wrong gods. You are the crossover; you stand in both the light and shadows.” The elder’s voice sank to a windy sigh. “Three women went with Werigo when he left; two others were captured later. Your mother must have been one of them. I’m sorry, but I don’t know which one.”