“Just fine, thanks,” she purred, and had the pleasure of watching his eyes go hot at her tone, and all that it implied.
She didn’t get a chance to say more, because Strike came into the room then, looking strung out, and said without preamble: “Last night, Anna came around long enough to say: ‘He hides in the darkness, but must come into the light to act. Stop him and fulfill the prophecies, or Vucub will reign.’ Then she lapsed fully unconscious.”
The warm fizz in Reese’s blood flattened out as a murmur of surprise and dismay went around the room. “Oh,” she said softly, heart aching.
“Hell,” Dez bit out, voice sharp. When she glanced at him, he shook his head. “Poor Anna.” But her instincts tugged, because that hadn’t sounded like sympathy. Or was she overanalyzing again, looking for reasons not to commit?
She shook her head, trying to dismiss the Fallonesque logic.
Lucius was talking now, referring to notes written in his crabbed scrawl, which was practically hieroglyphics in its own right. “Breaking down Anna’s message, which we have to assume is legit, given her powers, I would say that ‘he’ refers to Iago. Then the mention of darkness could mean that he’s hiding in the dark aspect of the barrier. That would explain why we can’t find him on this plane—he’s hiding between the planes, at the border of the underworld. He’ll have to come out, though, to detonate the compass weapon during the solstice.” He paused. “As for Vucub, who is also called Lord Vulture, he’s supposed to preside over the twilight that follows the apocalypse, when day and night are no longer separated.”
“Like a nuclear winter,” Nate said. He glanced sharply at Dez. “The aftermath of the serpents′ weapon, maybe?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to Lucius. “She mentioned prophecies, plural. Which ones are in play at the moment?”
“I’m working on it, but I—”
Sirens blared, cutting him off. Reese jolted to her feet along with the others, though Michael said, “It’s probably just another false alarm.”
Then the intercom crackled and Tomas’s voice reported: “Long-range cameras show an old pickup truck headed our way. Single occupant, nothing on the magic sensors.”
Up until a few days ago, the very rare random stranger who had showed up at the front gate had gotten one or two people responding—no, we’re not hiring; no, this isn’t a celebrity retreat; yes, we can hook you up with directions and a couple of gallons of gas. Now, all of the Nightkeepers, winikin, and humans headed out the front door, armed and dangerous. Dez and Reese hit the exit together near the front of the pack and moved out across the front of the mansion, staying off the main walkway, closer to the building where landscaping provided some cover. The other warriors, sorting into their mated pairs, did the same.
Through the wrought-iron gate, Reese saw the pickup—windshield cracked, paint color obscured by dust—roll to a stop. “It doesn’t feel right,” she murmured.
The truck door swung open and the driver got out of his vehicle—more like collapsed out of it—and went down on his face. He lay in the dirt, motionless.
“The monitors are picking up trace readings of magic,” Tomas reported, voice coming from Reese’s armband, and those around her. The information argued against this being a lost-in-the-desert thing.
“Everyone shield up,” Strike said. “Nate, you man the ward—let us through, but close it after. Michael, once we’re out, get a shield around the truck and the guy.”
“Stay close,” Dez said to Reese. Pulse thudding in her ears, she pulled her .38 and put herself right beside him, angled so his gun hand was free. He cast a crackling lightning shield around the two of them just as Nate dropped the ward magic.
“Go!” someone shouted, and they were hustling out to surround the truck and its driver as the air hummed with additional shield magic. For a second, everything seemed very surreal, like she’d been dropped into a movie—not the filming, but the movie itself, where she was living and breathing action scenes that didn’t quite jibe with real life. Then things snapped back into focus as Strike crouched down beside the unconscious man, who was sprawled on his stomach, his hands outstretched toward Skywatch.
The king grabbed the guy by his dirty, torn shirt, and rolled him over. And Reese gaped, blood icing at the sight of a swollen and disfigured face, misaligned jaw . . . and a six-clawed scar slashing across his face.
It was Keban.
“Son of a bitch.” Dez crossed to the winikin, dropped down beside him. There was no danger this time; the bastard was truly out cold. More, he’d had the shit kicked out of him. His wrists and ankles were raw and his forearms scored with deep, weeping burns. His face was gray, his breathing labored and shallow. But when Dez spoke, his eyelids flickered, then cracked, and his pale blue eyes fixed on Dez with dull recognition and more sanity than he had seen there in a long time. Maybe ever.
Fuck me was Dez’s first thought, followed by Why now? Not just because they needed to assume that Iago had thrown the winikin at them, but because of how it was going to look if the whole truth came out now. Our timing really does suck, he thought, glancing at Reese to find her staring with worried eyes that asked if he was okay. He wasn’t, but not for the reasons she thought. When he looked at Keban, he didn’t feel his childhood fear, teenaged rage, or the bone-deep hatred of his adult self. He didn’t feel pity or grief, either. He felt . . . numb. Because nothing good was going to come of this.
After shooting Reese what he hoped was a reassuring look, he leaned over Keban, aware that Strike and the others had stayed back to let him have first crack. All except for Sasha, who was crouched down on the winikin’s other side, sending healing magic into him. From the looks of him, that was the only thing keeping him conscious.
Leaning in closer, Dez grated, “Did Iago send you?”
The winikin’s lower lip was split nearly to his chin. The scab cracked and bled as he said, “Not . . . sent. Escaped. Need to . . . warn you . . .” His head lolled, his muscles going limp as he lapsed closer and closer to unconsciousness.
“Can you bring him back?” he asked Sasha, but she shook her head.
“I’m doing my best, but he’s in tough shape. Iago really did a number on him.” Her eyes were shadowed and Michael had moved up behind her in support, reminding Dez that she, too, had been Iago’s prisoner, and for far longer than the winikin.
Keban’s lips moved, shaping words without sound.
Dez leaned in. “Say that again.”
The winikin coughed. “He and his army are in a mountain temple that hides in the dark barrier except on the cardinal days.” Barely whispering now, he added, “You’ve got to stop him. He’s going to use the serpent staff to make himself king.”
Adrenaline hammered through Dez, not just because he’d just been outed, but because if Iago succeeded, they were beyond fucked. “He’s not a serpent.”
“He is. He’s—” His eyes rolled suddenly back and his body shuddered . . . and went still.
“Keban.” Dez grabbed him, shook him. “Keban!” But the winikin was gone, his face lax, the scars pale slashes against gray skin. In death, he looked small, battered, and used up.
“Dez?” Reese’s quiet voice brought his head up, but he couldn’t read her expression. Wasn’t sure he dared. “What’s going on? What was he talking about?”
Strike was on one side of her, Leah on the other, with the rest of the magi fanned out on either side, the winikin behind them. And suddenly it wasn’t about him and Reese being a pair of outsiders who were loners otherwise, but knew they could rely on each other. Now she had some serious backup, and it wasn’t coming from him.