“Thanks,” Michael said raggedly, his ribs aching from the tackle. He dragged himself up, slapped fresh cartridges in the pistols, and snapped, “Get your ass in the water and do your best to almost drown while you’re saying the spell.” He rattled off a two-line prayer in badly accented Maya. “It might do something about that makol problem of yours. I’ll hold off the ’ tiku until you’re out of sight.”
Michael knew that he’d been meant to find the other man, that their meeting had been far from a coincidence. He had to help the human, had to give him a chance to break the makol’s hold on him, and maybe even make it back to the Nightkeepers, back to Jade. Which meant distracting the giant boluntiku long enough for Lucius to get out into the strong current at the center of the river. When Lucius hesitated, Michael shoved him. “Go!
The human clapped him on the shoulder. “See you on the outside.” Then he ran across the dock at an angle away from the ’ tiku and jumped as far out into the center as he could. There was a huge splash when he landed, then ripples going to nothing.
The lava creature reared back and turned toward the sound, hissing.
“No, you bastard!” Michael waved to get the thing’s attention. “I’m the one you want. Fight me!”
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Lucius’s head breaking the surface, only to sink below again. Then the river whipped him around a corner, and the human was lost to sight.
“Gods go with you,” Michael muttered. Then, biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood in a quick and dirty autosacrifice, he summoned his shield magic . . . and got nothing. Not even a flicker of red-gold power responded to his call. Which meant he either unleashed the muk, taking the risk of tipping his soul so far that the river couldn’t save him . . . or he and Lucius both died.
“Shit,” he whispered, feeling the muk crowding the edges of his brain, his soul. Then, roaring a denial, he opened himself to the power and the Other’s memories. He smashed through the sluiceways and yanked down the dam, then hammered at the older, stronger bastions within him, destroying Rabbit’s work, and Horn’s. His divided brain shuddered under the impact of the Other’s thoughts and memories, and the oily whip of ancient magic. The muk surrounded him, took him over, while the Other howled in triumph. Michael’s vision went gray, but still he could see the boluntiku rearing up, towering over him.
His heart fought to reject the corrupting silver magic. And as it did, he was helpless. Powerless.
Then the boluntiku screamed as it attacked, going solid at the last possible second. Michael ducked the creature’s attack and spun aside, but could evade for only so long; he needed to attack. Knowing he lacked the power to fight the creature, heart breaking and soul crying out as he did so, he yielded himself to the Mictlan and its terrible weapon. Muk slammed into him, channeled through him, as, for the first time in his mage life, he called fireball magic and his warrior’s talent responded, not with a ball of fiery light, but with one of bright, brilliant silver. The flames seethed and grew in his hand as the boluntiku reoriented on him and closed in, drawing back its terrible claws for a killing swipe.
It swung, turning solid again. Michael threw, hurling the gleaming muk straight into its gaping maw. Howling, the ’ tiku snapped its jaws shut on the ball of anti- ch’ul. It paused for a second, then let out a another unearthly howl, this one of pain rather than rage. Head whipping from side to side, it roared and cycled from vapor to solid and back. The unearthly glow of molten orange lava dimmed and died as the creature solidified a final time. Its motions slowed, grew sporadic, then stopped. The thing grayed. Then it went limp and drooped, losing form and substance as it coalesced into the river.
Water splashed, then stilled, leaving Michael alone on the stone-and-bone dock. Only he wasn’t really alone. He was Michael. He was the Mictlan. He was the Other. And it was time.
Three strides carried him to the edge of the dock. A fourth sent him plunging into the water, which slapped at him with a cold shock, then swept him up and bore him into the current.
At first he paddled to stay afloat, angling his body, and started swimming for the shore. But then he stopped himself, knowing that wasn’t how the spell worked. One near-death experience had been required to get to the in-between; another was necessary for absolution. Near death within near death.
Double the sacrifice. So be it, he thought, whispering the second set of spell words and then letting himself go limp as the river churned around him.
The Other howled a warning and the muk rose up within him, but Michael held on to his control and forced his lungs to unlock, forced himself to inhale water rather than air. The brackish flow gushed down his throat and windpipe and he gagged, choking and spasming, spinning in the rapid current. The water slammed him into a rocky outcropping and the world went dim. Starbursts detonated behind his eyelids, and for a second he thought he heard music. Then it went away. Everything went away. As he passed from consciousness, pain ripped through his chest. Life drained from him; hope fled.
Despair welled up. He needed help, needed the gods. Needed Sasha. Please save me, he thought, sending the prayer into the brackish water around him. Please help me be worthy.
There was no answer except the darkness.
The tomb of the First Father Sasha bent over where Rabbit and Michael lay on the floor, desperate and exhausted. She had a hand on each of their chests, her palms leaking her blood onto them, her touch giving them healing power, though not enough of it. They were still alive, but that was about all she could claim. She couldn’t find their songs, couldn’t follow their ch’ul flow to where they had gone. She was acting as little more than a magical life-support system, bleeding power into them, only to have it drain away just as quickly.
She needed the miracle. She needed help. The ch’ulel was supposed to be able to heal. Why couldn’t she find the way to that piece of her talent? What was she missing? What wasn’t she doing right?
She was dimly aware of activity surrounding her in the temple room, where the others bent over the sarcophagus and spoke words of magic and reverence. She felt something deep inside her, a growing connection that brought more magic with each passing minute, though still not enough. It was the solstice, she realized. The stars and planets, the sun and moon were coming into position and the barrier was weakening.
Strike moved up beside her and dropped a hand to her shoulder. “We’re down to thirty minutes.”
The Prophet had to be created during the moment of true solstice, when the barrier was at its thinnest and a connection opened up, very briefly, very tenuously, to the place where the library had been sequestered. In the moments leading up to that, the Nightkeepers had to make their soul sacrifice.
Iago hadn’t shown up, hadn’t taken the bait. The only magic users available were the ones in the tomb.
Sasha stared down at her bloodstained hands and nodded shortly, in acknowledgment rather than agreement.
Strike tightened his fingers on her shoulder—in warning, in support, she didn’t know. Then he moved to rejoin the others clustered around the sarcophagus, where they labored to trip the remainder of the thirteen magically timed latches securing the lid in place.