Rabbit’s throat closed. “I’m not sure I want to know more than that. We came . . . I came here looking for allies. I guess I’ve got my answer.”
“Indeed. Now I’ll give you three things you didn’t come looking for. A triad, if you will.” Saamal’s lips lifted fractionally, though the effort was grotesque against the sagging backdrop of pale skin and eyes that glossed over as the life-magic failed. “First, I give you a warning. The makol stole a sacred knife that belonged to our father—an ancient war trophy that Moctezuma himself was said to have used in the first fire ceremony.” Saamal’s voice was almost gone. “Second, I give you a gift, one that I was led to by a dream of my own. There’s an eccentric hidden beneath the center post of my house. It is yours. And third and last, I give you what has, for centuries, been a blessing among the members of the order. We say: ‘May the crossover bring balance to all things.’” Rabbit’s heart raced. There were a thousand things he wanted to ask the old man, and the sum total of them logjammed in his throat, leaving him silent save for the one thing he couldn’t go without saying. He bent over, leaning close to Saamal as he whispered, “I’m so sorry I led them here.”
The elder’s eyes were opaque in death, his skin sallow and sagging, but he managed a grotesque parody of a smile. “The gods choose the hour of our passing regardless of our actions. If they had wanted me to live, I would still be alive. They want me to begin my journey now, so off I go. Do not take the blame for what others and the gods have done. Instead, remember the strength of your name.
The rabbit not only saved the Hero Twins and their father; his is the shape of the shadow in the full moon.”
Rabbit’s throat went dry. “I know.” One night when he was just a kid, Red-Boar had taken him up on the roof of the shitty apartment where they’d been staying, and told him how the rabbit-shaped shadow had gotten onto the moon, implying that was the origin of Rabbit’s name. When Rabbit had asked later for a repeat performance, Red-Boar had claimed not to know what the fuck he was talking about.
The thing was . . . Jox hadn’t known the story either, and Lucius hadn’t been able to find it in the library. Ergo, it wasn’t Nightkeeper. Yet Red-Boar kept the name and passed on the story.
What the hell was he supposed to take from that?
“Find the eccentric,” Saamal pressed. “And find your true balance, even if your actions contradict the beliefs of those who love you.”
Rabbit didn’t make the promise. Instead he touched his forehead and the spot over his heart. “Have an interesting journey, old man.” The Xibalbans had believed that the nine levels of the underworld were a series of tests and competitions, and that a true warrior would fight his way all the way down to a seat at the ceremonial ball court of the dark lords—or, better yet, a player’s position.
“Same to you, young Rabbit.” Without ceremony or outward sign, the elder’s soul made the transition. The flaccid lips went still and the last of the dark magic slipped away, leaving Rabbit kneeling beside the elder’s corpse with his hand wet to the wrist with the old man’s blood.
He stayed there for a moment, feeling . . . nothing. He was numb. Exhausted. Confused.
“Hey.” Myrinne’s face came into view as she crouched down beside him. “You okay?”
“I’m . . .” He trailed off, then shook his head. “I have no clue how to answer that.”
She held out her hand. “Come on. Let’s go find whatever he left you. Assuming the makol didn’t get it.”
“Right. The gift. Door number two.” And shit, she was right. What if the makol had found it?
Relieved to have something— anything—concrete to focus on, he let her pull him up, and they headed for Saamal’s hut.
“Rabbit, wait,” Patience called. “Don’t go—” In there, she would have said, he realized the moment he crossed the threshold and his eyes adjusted to the light, if not to the sight confronting him. Oh, shit, he thought frantically, remembering too late the noises he’d heard coming from the building in his vision.
Myrinne turned away, gagging, but Rabbit made himself stand and look.
The woman hung limply, trussed to the center post. Based on her clothing, he thought she had been one of the ones who had been grinding corn when he and Myrinne had first visited. He couldn’t be sure from her face, though—not because the cloaking spell was gone, but because she had been horribly mutilated, sliced and slashed until the front of her body was more meat than skin. There was blood everywhere, and the air was thick with the smell of body fluids, death, and terrible fear.
Aware that the others stood there, some in the doorway, some just outside, he swallowed, trying to find some moisture to wet his mouth. “I heard her screaming. In the dream, she was still alive while they were— shit.”
He spun, got a hand over his mouth, and bolted. He made it to the edge of the forest, beyond the village circle and the stone archway. Then he puked violently into the undergrowth, retching until his stomach muscles hurt and tears streamed down his face. Then he stayed there, hunched over and clutching himself, for a long, long time.
When he heard someone come up behind him, he said, “That’s in my blood. It doesn’t matter if my mother followed Werigo willingly or if she was captured later. She was part of that. And my old man
—” He broke off on a dry heave that hurt like hell. “He stayed with them; he had to have stayed. He kept their name for me, he kept me, but he didn’t . . .” He trailed off. He didn’t want to snivel that his father hadn’t loved him, hadn’t liked him, had barely tolerated him most days. But still. “How does that make any sense? He was a Nightkeeper, for fuck’s sake! He was the Nightkeeper. How could he do that? And what the hell am I supposed to do about it? I don’t want to be a half blood. I don’t want to be the crossover, whatever the fuck that is. I just want to be a godsdamned mage.” He stood and turned, opening his arms for a hug, assuming it was Myrinne who had come after him.
But it wasn’t Myrinne. It was Strike.
“Shit.” He turned the arms-out move into a swipe at his tear-soaked face and puke-fouled mouth, then drew back, jamming his hands in his pockets. “Want to take a swing at me? Go ahead. I could use a good pounding right now. Might make me feel better about—” He broke off as a faint breeze stirred the air, bringing him the smell of blood and terror.
The image of the woman’s body hit him again, and his gorge rose. He fought it down this time, and lifted his chin in a dare. Tears sheened his vision, making the world shimmer. “Go ahead. What are you waiting for?”
Strike shook his head. “I didn’t come out here to pound on you. I came out to apologize. I’ve been acting like a dick and it’s not fair. What’s more, it meant you couldn’t talk to me about wanting to track down your mother.”
Rabbit swallowed hard, taking a second to process the apology. Which just made him feel more like shit. “I should’ve told you anyway. You wouldn’t have let me go, we wouldn’t be here now, and none of this—” He swallowed the heave, knowing it was his body’s way of wussing out of facing what he’d done. “None of this would’ve happened.”
“Or maybe it would’ve happened a different way. We can’t second-guess the gods—sky or Xibalban.” Strike paused, grimacing. “But I wish this had happened differently. I wish I’d handled it better, wish I’d handled you better.”