Part 24 (2/2)

”Jesus.” Dez stared at the king as the sharp sounds broke through his dark roil of emotion: regret, remorse, anger, grief. Reese would hate him for knocking her out and locking her up, but what other choice had she left him? He'd been telling the truth, d.a.m.n it. Maybe not all of it, but the part that he'd left out hadn't hurt anyone but her, and he hadn't dared risk having her destabilize an already fragile team. Especially not when parts of it were getting shakier by the second.

”Sorry.” Strike straightened painfully, waving off Leah when she tried to help, though softening it with a quiet, ”I'm good.” That was an overstatement, though; he was gray and peaked, and his combat gear hung on him even with extra holes punched.

Dez was painfully aware that a couple of the others were thinking the same thing he was: If it came to it, Strike could very well die today, by his hand. There had been no more messages, no miracle cure from Lucius. The prophecies stood, the danger clear and present : The king had to make the ultimate sacrifice and the last serpent needed to take out his adversary and become king.

As if sensing his thoughts, Strike limped over to him, Leah hovering at his elbow. The king's eyes were still the same vivid cobalt blue, his hair black and thick, tied back at his nape. But beneath the jawline beard, his face was gaunt and drawn. When he reached Dez, he held out a hand. ”Whatever happens today is on the G.o.ds, Mendez. Not you.”

Aware that the others were watching, Dez inclined his head in a shallow bow. ”If we go down, we go down fighting . . . Sire.” He'd never called Strike that before, probably never would again. But in that moment, it felt right. Then he took the king's hand, aligning palm to palm, and, going on instinct, opened himself wide, trying to pump energy into the other man, shoring him up as he had learned to do with Reese.

For a moment, he made the connection: The king's eyes widened and color stained his throat. ”Don't drain yourself on my account.”

”I'm good.” In fact, he was better than good-the power flowed around him like blood, thick and warm. It coalesced, pulsed, surged. And then suddenly it was rus.h.i.+ng away from him, flaring outward as if magnetized to a distant point, and ”good” went to ”oh, s.h.i.+t” in an instant. His magic was wild, crazed, jacked on the solstice rush. d.a.m.n it. He yanked away from Strike, trying desperately to rein in the power that poured through him, strange and sinuous.

The king pointed. ”Look!”

A section of air near the mountain's peak s.h.i.+mmered and dark magic hissed as, with a whoomp that sent Sven's familiar scattering, the serpent temple appeared, its snake-carved pillars and open-roofed structure completely enclosed within a s.h.i.+eld that had a strange, pearlescent sheen. The moment it was fully in place, the energy flow cut out and Dez sagged, suddenly drained. s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+ts.h.i.+ts.h.i.+t. ”What the f.u.c.k was that?”

”I'm guessing it was you summoning the serpent temple,” Leah said drily. But her eyes telegraphed a silent thanks for the color in Strike's face, and the fact that he looked like he might be able to fire a weapon without the recoil flattening him.

”We're still ten minutes from the three-hour window,” Michael reported. He tossed Dez a pair of binoculars. ”And check it out. I don't think they were ready for the big reveal.”

The scene jumped into focus: a robed shadow knelt within the s.h.i.+eld while the green-eyed villagers scrambled to surround the temple, their weapons at rest position, deactivated. ”f.u.c.k the recon,” Dez said, making the call. ”We hit them now.”

As the others sprang into action, digging into the crates for guns and ammo rather than computers and tactical equipment, Strike said in an undertone, ”You know this is either a brilliant tactical move, or suicide.”

”Story of my life,” Dez said, telling himself that bad timing was his and Reese's thing, not his alone. But as his team formed up around him, he heard something that chilled his blood and made him wonder whether his tactical move wasn't entirely self-serving. It was a soft, feminine whisper at the back of his brain that said: I'm here.

Skywatch Anna, for f.u.c.k's sake, get up! The mental snarl cut through the fog, harsh and familiar, yet so out of place that it jolted her to a semblance of focus, bringing a flash of hard gray eyes and anger.

”You're dead,” she whispered. She felt her face move, but didn't hear any sound.

You'll be dead, too, if you don't get moving and open your G.o.dsd.a.m.ned eyes.

”There's nothing but the fog.”

Those aren't the eyes I'm talking about and you d.a.m.n well know it.

Her heart shuddered. ”I can't.”

You have to. He needs you to wake the h.e.l.l up and open your f.u.c.king eyes.

She knew who ”he” was. Brother. The one who sat beside her, sad and silent, looking like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Because he did. ”I can't.” This time the whisper came with a breathy sound. Her own voice. She heard the noise on the air, felt the vibrations in her throat. And part of her despaired, because the fog was safe and familiar. It didn't take anything from her or force anything on her. It didn't show her tunnels and flames, didn't make her die over and over again in her dreams, didn't- They need you.

She didn't want to be needed, not that way. She wanted her little house in the suburbs, her office at the university, her students, her husband, a baby . . .

Bulls.h.i.+t, he snapped, plucking the thoughts from her mind. You just don't want to face the truth. A pause. Why am I even bothering? You always were such a girl.

”Screw you.”

There was no answer, the voice was gone, lost again in the beckoning fog. Her anger, though, didn't go with it. The burn stayed inside her, refusing to let her slide back into the grayness of her own mind. And along with it came whispers, not in his voice, but in the thought-images and sensory memories of a thousand lifetimes, a hundred thousand visions. Get up, they said. You have power-use it! Help him, or you both will die.

She saw Brother 's face, still and cold, caught a gleam of luminous green, and her heart shuddered. To her surprise, that progressed to a full-body shudder, then a p.r.i.c.kling wash of sensation as long-unused neurons flared to life and she became cognizant of the s.p.a.ce around her. She was in a room-bedroom, her brain supplied-with things arranged on shelves and hung on the walls. Artifacts. Fakes. Cheap knockoffs. Just like she was a cheap knockoff of a true itza'at seer, unable to control the talents she didn't want. But one of the fakes caught her attention. The stone knife was unwieldy and poorly balanced, its hilt carved with gibberish glyphs from wildly different periods-she knew that because she knew the knife, had used it to open the occasional letter. But now she locked on it, and the building urgency inside her said: Yes.

She lurched to her feet, was up before she was aware of the effort it took, made it across the room in a stutter-step parody of walking on long-unused legs, and grabbed the knife from its little display stand. Without thinking or pausing, she drew the knife sharply across her right wrist. And power flared through her, bringing images of death.

In the next wing over, Reese awoke and blinked up at the ceiling, then around at her surroundings, aware of a deep pit in her stomach. Dez's bed. Dez's bedroom. No Dez. Memory returned like a knife through the heart. He had left her here, locked her in so she wouldn't warn the others.

”Son of a-” She cut herself off and launched off the bed, adrenaline clearing the last of the sleep spell. She slapped for her armband, but it was gone. A vague memory stirred of him searching her, disarming her. b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Moving too fast for all of the things he had said to her to catch up, too fast even for her gut instincts to find her, she flung herself into the suite's main room, cursing when she found the house phone gone, the intercom deactivated. No doubt he'd told Lucius and the winikin that she was working alone on a special project, and not to disturb her. That was what she would have done.

”d.a.m.n it!” She glared around at the austere apartment that lied as slickly as its occupant, making it look like he'd changed when, really, some of the glossy s.h.i.+ne had been rubbed off but the rest was the same. At the thought, her eyes went to the coffee table. Or, rather, to the small rectangular rug that lay beneath it.

It was the only rug in the suite, save for a s.h.a.ggy bath mat. And he was the same guy he'd always been.

Breathing a quick prayer to whatever ent.i.ty might be listening, she shoved the table and rug aside. Disappointment churned when all she found was more of the same hardwood that was everywhere else in the suite. But when she got down close and brushed her fingertips along the surface, she found the faint line of a seam.

”Didn't totally trust them, did you?” Or maybe he was hardwired to hide things. The thought brought a pang, but she ignored it.

A quick search uncovered a hidden pressure pad. She hit it, expecting it to pop up and reveal a lock. Instead, the larger panel loosened with zero fanfare. Apparently, he hadn't been that worried about his teammates . . . or else he had a.s.sumed he was far away from anyone who would know where to look.

Heart tapping, she used her nails to pry up the panel and reveal a small a.r.s.enal-MAC-10, a couple of decent .44s, a snub-nosed .22, and ammo all around. But that wasn't all; he'd also stashed some nuts and jerky . . . along with a couple of packages of peanut b.u.t.ter cups. She stared at them for a three-count while her instincts and the things he had whispered before leaving caught up with her-things about her proving that she didn't trust him, and how he couldn't let her distract him or the team with her suspicions.

If she took her emotions out of the equation, she thought those things fit the pattern and sounded like the truth. Only they weren't, because she had long ago learned that she had to listen to what Dez did, not what he said. So she chambered a few bullets in one of the .44s, and stood to take a bead on the door. Then she yelled, ”Fire in the hole!” and blasted two rounds through the lock.

Wood splintered and cracked, the panel shuddered. It would've been very satisfying to kick it open, but it opened in, so that would've been more work than necessary. Instead, she tried the k.n.o.b, jiggled it, put her shoulder into it, and got the door open. Stepping out, she exhaled a quiet, ”Yes!”

”Freeze!” a man's voice bellowed, and a big figure lurched into view two doors down, pointing a machine pistol at her.

”s.h.i.+t!” Fight response flaring, she flattened and ducked back into the room, whipping up the .44, all too aware she had loaded only four rounds. Scenarios flared-the compound under siege with her unaware, makol in the hallways . . . but a makol wouldn't have yelled for her to freeze. And that was Lucius standing there, crutch under one arm, MAC-10 in the other.

His expression quickly ran from determination to surprise, and from there to confusion. He let his weapon sag. ”Reese? What the h.e.l.l's going on?”

”Long story.” She lunged back to her feet. ”Are they gone yet?”

”Maybe ten minutes ago.” Confusion turned to alarm. ”What's wrong?”

”I need to talk to Strike.” She hesitated for a second, unnerved to find that a piece of her still didn't want to blow the whistle on Dez, still wanted to think he was telling the truth. But the outrage was too much-the story came out of her in a clipped precis, like one she would have given to the task force. She finished with, ”So I need you to put me on a tight band transmission to Strike or Leah. Or failing that, anyone but Dez. They should still be doing recon. We've got time.”

But Lucius sagged back against the wall, his face draining of color. ”They skipped recon and attacked when Dez's magic pulled the temple out of the dark barrier ahead of schedule. Right after that, the satellite cut out. I've got no ears, no way to transmit.”

”He cut the feed?” Even as the knots in her stomach tightened, a dumb-a.s.sed part of her kept saying, Maybe he's not doing what you think. ”We need to get it back up.”

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