Strike, Nate, and Alexis materialized in the sunken main room of the mansion, which was a wide expanse of wood, chrome, and glass furnished with fat clubfooted couches and chairs. In the center of the space the royal winikin, Jox, had cleared a landing pad after the third coffee table had bitten the dust following Strike’s ’port magic, which typically returned him home a foot or two up in the air.

The three of them landed with a jolt, and Alexis sagged against Nate. He propped her up by looping an arm around her waist, and tried to throttle the anger that rode him hard, the sharp pissed-offedness that she’d been in the line of fire. He might not want to be mated to her, but he didn’t want anything bad to happen to her, either.

“I’ll take her.” Izzy stepped in and practically dragged Alexis away from him, glaring daggers, like he’d been the one to put her in danger.

He held up both hands in mock surrender. “By all means.”

Carlos was there too, he saw, and Jox: three winikin to look after the three returning Nightkeepers. Each of them wore the aj-winikin glyph, which roughly translated to I am your servant, along with small bloodline glyphs, one for each living member of the Nightkeeper bloodline they served. Jox was the only surviving winikin with two bloodline members to protect: Strike and his sister, Anna. Carlos wore two different glyphs: the coyote for Sven, who had been his original charge, and the hawk for Nate, who had become Carlos’s problem by default.

Nate waved off his winikin when Carlos showed signs of hovering. “I’m fine.”

“You need to eat something,” Carlos countered, “or you’ll fall over.” Magic was a huge energy sink; in the aftermath of major spell casting, the magi needed to pack in some serious calories and rest, not necessarily in that order.

“Fine. Whatever.” Nate focused on Strike. “We need to bring the others up to speed on what just happened.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” The king strode off, firing orders as he went. “You round them up while I get Leah. Meet me back here in five, so we can discuss what just went down.”

We’ve got company, Nate thought. That was what’d gone down.

The Nightkeepers were no longer the only magi on the block. The new guy had mad skills and looked like he’d been practicing way longer than the seven months or so the Nightkeepers had been reunited. And what was with him wearing a red forearm mark and trying to get at the lost artifacts? All high on the not-good scale.

But on the upside, the score was even. The bad guy had Mrs. Hopkins’s artifact, but the Nightkeepers had the Ixchel statuette, thanks to Alexis.

He glanced over and saw her sitting at the end of one of the big sofas in the main room while her winikin fussed. Alexis was pale and looked shaky around the edges. Her blue eyes were huge in her face, and her full lower lip was caught between her teeth as though she were trying not to let it tremble. Her fancy suit might’ve been all curves and attitude when she’d put it on that morning, but it was a writeoff now, torn and soiled, one sleeve hanging by a thread to reveal the bloodstained white shirt beneath.

Close to six feet even without her heels, Alexis was rawboned and muscular, and far smarter than she gave herself credit for most days. Except for days like today, when she’d put herself in danger with no backup, and then cut off communication. Irritation rose at the thought. He was pissed that she’d ignored her messages, pissed that she’d gone all snotty on him when he’d mentioned it.

As though she sensed the impending lecture, she pushed herself to her feet, waved Izzy off, and headed for the residential wing, where most of the Nightkeepers lived in a series of three-room suites running off a main hallway. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” she said in his direction. Tugging her torn blazer sleeve down, she glanced at the injury she’d gotten in the firefight. “I’ll clean up and grab some calories. Izzy can collect the winikin. You want to get the others?”

“Sure. That’ll be fine,” Nate gritted, doing his damnedest to keep his tone even when all he wanted to do was grab her and shake her. Nightkeepers healed fast in general, even quicker when they were jacked into the barrier or doing magic, but he hated the sight of the bullet crease and her bare, torn feet.

He should’ve gotten to her faster, he thought as he watched her walk away, hating the way her normally long, aggressive strides had been cut down by the slash of a glass cut across one of her heels. He almost hadn’t gotten there in time. Thing was, they’d tried to get there sooner, but Strike damn well hadn’t been able to lock onto her. For the king to ’port, he needed to picture a destination in his mind, either a place or a person. They didn’t fully understand the limits of his talent—like so much of the Nightkeepers’ magic and prophecies, crucial information had been lost over time—but the general rule seemed to be that Strike could latch onto anyone as long as they weren’t underground . . . or dead.

After responding to Nate’s emergency call, the king had wrestled with the teleport magic for nearly twenty agonizing minutes. Meanwhile, Nate had called Alexis’s cell, called Skywatch, called the auction house, trying to get through to her or, failing that, trying to get a damned picture of the estate that Strike could use to ’port. In the end Alexis had somehow made the connection herself, calling out for help at the last possible moment. Nate had heard her whisper in his mind, both a shock and a relief. She wasn’t a ’path, but the sheer volume of magic going down around her must’ve powered the mental shout that’d echoed through the barrier strongly enough that he’d caught it and been able to tell Strike where to look.

Lucky, Nate thought, scowling. Goddamned lucky. He knew he should let it go, that it was over, she was back safely, and it wouldn’t happen again. They knew what they were up against now—or if not what, precisely, they at least knew that there was an enemy mage out there, tracking them. Anticipating them. Trying to scoop them on the statuettes, probably because he was either looking to fulfill the seven-demon cycle himself, or to prevent the Nightkeepers from stopping it. And that would be a serious problem, because if the cycle ran through, bringing all seven demons across the barrier to complete the tasks assigned to them by legend, the Nightkeepers were screwed.

The sound of a sliding glass door broke into Nate’s mental churning, and he looked up to see Rabbit coming in from the pool area. The teen was wearing a hoodie with the hood up and the arms cut off, paired with jeans that hung low off his ass, serving mostly to hold the business end of his iPod. Just turned eighteen, Rabbit was the youngest of the magi, the half-blood son of Red-Boar, who had been the last Nightkeeper survivor of the solstice massacre of ’84, when Strike’s father had led the Nightkeepers to the intersection, compelled by a vision that said he could avert the end-time by sealing the barrier. Instead, he’d led his people into genocide. Red-Boar had survived the battle at the intersection, and had later joined up with Jox, who was raising Strike and his sister, Anna. It hadn’t been until the previous year that Jox had admitted there were other Nightkeepers living in secret with their winikin—or, in Nate’s case, without them.

Rumor had it that Red-Boar had sired Rabbit while on walkabout in south-central Mexico or Guatemala or something like that. Nate had heard different versions, different explanations of who the kid’s mother had been, and why the teen had some scary-strong powers that didn’t always act like the legends said Nightkeeper magic should.

Seeing that Nate was staring at him, Rabbit stopped dead, shoved his hands in his pockets, and scowled. “What’s your problem?”

Having learned it was safer to ignore the kid’s ’tude when possible, Nate said, “You hear about the meeting yet?”

“I was out at the—” The kid broke off and shrugged. “No. So?”

In other words, he’d sneaked out to the Pueblo ruins at the back of the box canyon again. Nobody knew exactly what he did up in the sprawling collection of rooms, kivas, and burial chambers, but most of the residents of Skywatch gave Rabbit a wide berth anyway. He wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy.

“Confab in the big room, five minutes,” Nate said. “You want to help me round up the others?”

For a second Rabbit looked as if he were going to tell Nate to go to hell. But surprisingly, he nodded. “I’ll check the firing range; you hit the rec area and the training hall.”

He was gone before Nate could ask. Not that he was going to—he didn’t really want to know what was going on in Rabbit’s head. Always one to walk on the moody, broody side of life, the kid had gotten even stranger in the months since his father had died during the equinox battle. It wasn’t like father and son had gotten along all that well, either—they’d struck sparks off each other like nobody’s business, and as far as Nate could tell, Red-Boar’d pretty much hated the kid’s guts.

Then again, who was he to criticize a father-son relationship? Nate thought as he headed for the rec room, which was located past the kitchen and down a short hall toward the forty-car garage. It wasn’t like he had any experience in the area. Besides, he wasn’t part of the whole Nightkeepers-as-family movement that Strike, Leah, and the winikin—and Alexis, to a degree—kept harping on. As far as he was concerned, the current residents of Skywatch were nothing more than twenty or so people who’d grown up separately, weren’t related by blood, and had their own lives outside of the whole Nightkeeper thing. They might be a team out of necessity when it came to the end-time stuff, sure, but that didn’t make them inseparable, didn’t make them a family. If Rabbit wanted to march to his own backbeat, Nate wasn’t going to get in his way. He understood privacy and the need for freedom.

Sticking his head through the door of the room they called entertainment central, he saw two of his teammates locked in simulated battle, courtesy of the top-of-the line gaming console Jox had installed a few months earlier. “Hey, you two,” Nate said. “Meeting in the main room, two minutes.”

“Give us ten,” Coyote-Seven said without turning around, his attention glued to the TV, his fingers flying over a gaming console as he navigated his way through the third level of EmoPunk II.

Lanky and athletic, with his bloodline and so-far unidentified talent marks bared by a sleeveless black tee, and his long blond hair caught back in a stubby ponytail, Sven was their resident burnout, taking nothing and nobody seriously. As Nate watched, Sven’s computer-generated character took out a pair of overinked street thugs with a series of ninja chops and a kick in the ’nads that had all three of the flesh-and-blooders in the room wincing.

The computerized image shifted as Sven sent his character inside a nearby warehouse. It was dark inside, but a busted-out window in the back let in a ray of light to shine on a guy wearing a medallion that wouldn’t figure in until level five, when it’d be vital. Nate wasn’t sure if the other two knew that, but he did, because he’d helped write the game.

“Gotta get me some of that.” Sven sent his character in a headlong charge for the medallion, missed seeing the bad guy in the shadows, and was dead two seconds later. “Shit!”

“Sucker.” Sitting beside Sven, Michael Stone worked his gaming console with the finesse of a pro. His strategizing wasn’t bad, either, Nate thought. Michael had let Sven charge in blindly and distract the bad guys while he sneaked around and lifted the medallion, then boogied out the back like a good little thief.

Dark and intense and a shade too slick in Nate’s opinion, Michael spoke infrequently, but when he did, his words were exactly right, as though he calculated each sentence, polished each syllable to perfection. His dark eyes held secrets, and when his phone chirped—which it did frequently—he took the calls in private, often well into the night.

The two Nightkeepers in the rec room were diametric opposites: Michael had hidden depths; Sven had no depth whatsoever. Yet somehow they’d become best buds over the past few months, seeming content to shut themselves up in Skywatch while the others tried to find a workable balance between the magi they were supposed to become and the people they’d been before the Nightkeepers’ magical barrier reactivated.

“Let’s go,” Nate said, his voice going sharp when neither of the other guys looked away from the TV screen. “We’ve got a problem. You can rot your brains later.” Just because Hawk Enterprises produced the EmoPunk games didn’t mean he thought they were any good.

Nate had kept the connection to the video games on the down-low—not because he minded them knowing about the EPs, but because he didn’t want any of them stumbling onto his connection to the Viking Warrior games.

Or, more accurately, Alexis’s connection to them and, through them, to him.

It was bad enough that she’d admitted to having envisioned his medallion a few times in the weeks before they’d met. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to know he’d created her spitting image more than four years ago, and that his buddies had joked that he was saving himself for Hera.

“We can’t stop now. He’s on a roll,” Sven protested. Michael didn’t say anything, just kept playing.

Annoyed, Nate reached down and killed the power strip just inside the door, flatlining everything. When Sven yelped, Nate growled, “Cut the shit. What’re you trying to do, oust Rabbit as the local juvenile delinquent?”

Sven sneered. “Takes one to know one. At least I haven’t done time.”

But Michael elbowed him hard. “Shut it.” He tossed the console aside and rose, squaring off opposite Nate, his dark eyes assessing. “Thought you were going after one of the statues?”

“Found a body instead. Then it got weird.”

Ignoring Michael’s raised brow and Sven’s “No way!” Nate turned and headed for the main room, figuring that’d get them moving.

He was right. Michael and Sven trailed after him and joined the growing group in the sunken main room of the mansion. By the time Nate had scored some leftover homemade pizza from the kitchen, which was on the other side of a breakfast bar separating it from the main room, the residents of Skywatch had gathered for the meeting.

Of the eleven Nightkeepers who’d fought together during the equinox battle, Red-Boar was dead, Brandt and Patience White-Eagle were off dealing with the sale of their house in Philly, and Strike’s sister, Anna, had returned home to the “real” world, refusing to fully commit to a life she’d rejected years ago. That left seven Nightkeepers at Skywatch, along with seven winikin, plus the twin White-Eagle toddlers, Harry and Braden, and Strike’s mate, Leah, who was fully human, yet a Godkeeper at the same time.

Which, as far as Nate was concerned, went to prove that the prophecies didn’t always get it right. The legends said the Godkeepers would arise at the end of the age, when the Nightkeepers needed them to guard the barrier. So far, though, only the one god had made it through the barrier to possess a female, and it’d bound with Leah, in a process that had nearly cost the ex-cop her life and resulted in an incomplete possession. Even when Strike and Leah had attempted to form a Nightkeeper-Godkeeper mated blood link during the winter solstice, they hadn’t been able to call the plumed snake god, Kulkulkan, and had commanded only a fraction of the god’s powers. In addition to—or perhaps because of—that failure, no god had sought to come through the barrier, even though the Nightkeepers had enacted the transition ritual in the sacred chamber. They had offered up Patience as a potential Godkeeper on the theory that she was already mated to a Nightkeeper, forming the strong bond required to support the powers of a Godkeeper. But that hadn’t worked, leaving them scrambling to find the demon prophecies in the hopes that the starscript writings would give them the information and spells they would need to keep Camazotz’s minions in hell, where they belonged.

While they waited for the king, Nate gnawed on his pizza and looked around the room, and he felt the stir of unease that’d become all too familiar in recent weeks. Only a few days earlier he’d finally been able to identify the problem: The Nightkeepers were stagnating.

They had fallen into their patterns so quickly—too quickly. Jade—quiet and pretty, with dark hair and green eyes, an ex-therapist who’d turned out to be their resident bookworm—spent her time in the archives, cataloging the huge volume of material collected by their ancestors, only a small fraction of which was actually proving useful. Michael and Sven were clearly marking time, though Nate had no clue what either of them was waiting for. The two absent Nightkeepers, dark-haired, businesslike Brandt and his pretty blond wife, Patience, were pretending for their kids’ sake that they were a normal family. Nate was running his company by remote while trying to figure out how to juggle the next four years of his life . . . and Alexis was transplanting her rarified Newport existence to the compound piece by piece, while doing her damnedest to keep a 5.0 GPA in a world that wasn’t keeping score the way she wanted it to.

That was largely her winikin’s influence, he figured. Izzy was a formidable woman in a tiny package, and he could easily picture her pushing Alexis throughout her life. He’d seen it himself—the unsubtle mentions of the power of the smoke bloodline and the importance of royal advisers, along with a few equally unsubtle mentions of the hawk bloodline and its unsuitability, whatever that meant.

Nate hadn’t asked, hadn’t cared. As far as he was concerned, the past didn’t matter worth shit. History didn’t automatically repeat itself, and he damn well got to choose his own path. Which meant no patterns, no stagnation. It was time to shake things up a little, he thought. But just then Alexis stepped through the residential hallway door, drawing his attention whether he liked it or not. She carried the heavy-looking, battle-scarred metal suitcase with ease, moving with the grace of a fighter as she set the case on an end table near the big sofa in the center of the room.

She’d cleaned up and changed into at-home jeans and a soft blue-gray shirt almost the same color as her eyes. Her multitoned golden hair spilled to her shoulders in waves that made him remember how the strands had felt between his fingers and against his skin, and that flash of sensory memory had his body hardening. He would’ve cursed out loud at the involuntary reaction, but forced himself to stifle the response. He couldn’t afford to let her know—to let any of them know—that he still wanted her, no matter how badly matched they might be. She’d bought into the Nightkeeper ways so deeply that he suspected that a large part of her desire for him came from the portents that they were meant for each other rather than from actual volition. Or maybe lust and fate were all mixed up inside her, some of it real, some of it created by the situation.

Regardless, he wanted nothing to do with a relationship built on destiny and bullshit, and she believed too deeply for it to be anything else. So why the hell couldn’t he get her out of his head? Even now, five months after they’d stopped sleeping together, he still woke thinking of her, tasting her on his lips, and feeling vague surprise when he rolled over and she wasn’t there.

Blame it on Hera, he thought, and looked away from Alexis as Strike appeared from the direction of the royal quarters.

“Everybody here?” the Nightkeepers’ king asked as he scanned the bodies crowded into the sunken central room of the big mansion.

Leah was at his side. With her white-blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and covered with a ball cap, wearing jeans and a tight T-shirt, she looked like what she was: a normal, attractive woman in her early thirties. The glyphs on her inner right forearm, though, marked her as more than that. Far more. She wore the flying serpent, the royal ju and the jun tan “beloved” glyph, marking her in turn as a Godkeeper, a queen, and a mated woman. The glyphs were three of the most powerful symbols in the Nightkeepers’ arsenal, and by rights they shouldn’t have appeared on a human’s arm.

Then again, the crimson mark on the arm of the big redheaded guy who’d gone after Alexis suggested the Nightkeepers didn’t know everything there was to know about the forearm marks and their significance. The magi simply didn’t have nearly enough information. As usual, Nate thought, frowning at Alexis, who pointedly ignored him.

When the king saw that the Nightkeepers were all there, he nodded. “Good. Okay, here’s the deal. . . .”

He quickly outlined what Nate had seen in the old lady’s cottage, then described the attack on Alexis, ending with, “The way I see it, we’ve got a bunch of different issues here. We’ve got to figure out who this guy is and what he’s planning. Is he working alone? He doesn’t have the eyes of a makol, but what else could he be?”

“Maybe a leftover from Survivor2012?” Leah suggested, naming the makol-controlled human cult that had killed her brother, and had almost killed her in the search for more power, more control over the end-time.

“Maybe,” Strike said, “or maybe we’re dealing with something new.” He waved for Leah to continue. The ex-cop was hell on wheels both as an investigator and in terms of the cat herding required to keep the Nightkeepers more or less united as a fighting force when they hadn’t been raised and trained together, as they would have been had circumstances been different.

Although Strike and Leah weren’t married or even engaged in the traditional human sense, the gods had marked her as both Strike’s mate and the Nightkeepers’ queen. In his less charitable moments, Nate had wondered if that was the gods’ way of fulfilling their own prophecies by telling the two they were mated, whether they liked it or not. Granted, Strike had gone against the prophecies themselves to save her, and the love between them was pretty damn obvious just seeing them together. Nate just didn’t think the gods had the right to automatically translate that to a pair bond and an insta-queen, whether or not Leah was good at the job. It wasn’t like she’d really been given a choice in the matter.

“In terms of immediate goals,” Leah said, her voice cop-cool, “we need to recover the missing statue and get to the other five artifacts ahead of our competition, whatever he is.” She looked over at Jade. “Any more luck tracking the remaining pieces?”

The pretty, dark-haired archivist nodded. “I’ve got one more nailed down, and am chasing rumors on two others. The one I’m sure about is in New Orleans. We’ve got a meeting set up for tomorrow, and a verbal agreement that the current owner will ‘discuss’ a purchase with us. I think Alexis should go, since she’s our best negotiator.” Jade paused, glancing at Alexis. “Be warned: The owner calls herself Mistress Truth and runs a fortune-telling-slash-occult shop in the French Quarter. She thinks she’s got mad skills, and leans heavily on the woo-woo side of life.”

Nate thought that was a pretty ironic statement, coming from a woman who wore the scribe’s glyph that denoted her as the only one among the Nightkeepers capable of crafting new spells. Then again, Jade hadn’t actually produced a spell yet. For that matter, she avoided the magic as much as possible, spending most of her time in the archives.

But he locked onto the idea of Alexis doing the negotiations in person and outside the wards. He asked, “What sort of skills does our Mistress Truth think she has?”

Jade grimaced. “She claims she bought the artifact—a ceremonial knife carved out of obsidian—because it ‘called to her.’” The archivist emphasized the phrase with finger quotes. “And she thinks it’s been amplifying her ‘natural powers.’” Again with the finger quotes.

“What’s to say it doesn’t?” Nate asked.

It was Strike who answered. “Unless she’s got Nightkeeper blood, the artifact shouldn’t do diddly for her. Even if you buy into the existence of other types of magic, the relics and resonations of one belief system shouldn’t cross over to another.”

“‘Shouldn’t’ being the operative word there,” said Nate, and this time it was his turn to use finger quotes.

“Yeah, well. I’m doing my best with what I’ve got.” Jade sounded more resigned than anything, and he couldn’t blame her. The Nightkeepers had taken a number of major knowledge hits during their history: In addition to the Egyptian massacre, the conquistadors had practically wiped out the Nightkeepers’ population and had burned all but a few of their texts in the 1530s, and then the Solstice Massacre in the early eighties had decimated the magi yet again, robbing them of most of their written and oral traditions, save for the creation stories passed down by the winikin. That left the Nightkeepers low on numbers, low on power, and limited in their understanding of what the magic could and couldn’t do. Not to mention clueless about who in the hell the guy with the red marks was or worked for.

Strike turned to Nate. “I want you to go to New Orleans with Alexis, as her backup.”

“Of course.” Nate ignored the sharp look she shot him at that. He couldn’t tell if she was pissed that he was going, surprised that he hadn’t argued, or what. If he’d learned anything from the day’s near disaster, though, it was that none of the Nightkeepers should be venturing out solo until they identified and neutralized the threat. Since he wasn’t about to trust Sven, Michael, or Rabbit to watch her back, and the king had bigger things to worry about, it fell to Nate to make the New Orleans trip. Simple math, nothing more.

Strike nodded. “Good, that’s settled.” He turned to Jade. “I want you to push hard on finding the other artifacts. You’ve got Carter helping you?”

Carter was a private investigator, a human Jox knew through a friend-of-a-friend sort of thing. The PI had come in handy before; he’d been the one who’d tracked down the scattered Nightkeepers, including Nate, and had aided Leah in the search for her brother’s killer, who had turned out to be an ajaw-makol, a head makol working on direct orders from the Banol Kax. Carter did his job without asking too many questions about his employers, which made him a serious asset, given that the last thing the Nightkeepers needed was to become a segment on 60 Minutes.

Jade nodded. “He’s working on one of the two threads I’m following. We’ve gotten one of the artifacts as far as London in the 1940s, but it’s not clear what happened to it during or after D-day.”

Which meant, Nate figured, it was equally likely that the thing had been blown to bits, or the Nazis had hidden it in a yet-undiscovered cache of antiquities. Bummer.

“Keep on it,” Strike said, “and while you’re at it, pull together whatever you’ve got on the Order of Xibalba.”

There was a beat of silence; then Jox snorted. “Please.” The royal winikin dropped down from the breakfast bar, where he and the other winikin had taken their customary positions watching over their charges. Jox was a small, fit man in his late fifties with longish gray-threaded hair that was caught back in a stubby ponytail. Wearing worn jeans, rope sandals, and a long-sleeved button-down, he exuded the frustrated amusement of a bewildered parent as he crossed to the edge of the sunken area and looked down at the king. “You’re kidding, right?”

Strike’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “Isn’t that approximately what I said to you when you handed me a list of names and told me that Anna and I weren’t the last of the bloodlines after all? Just because you’ve been told one thing your whole life doesn’t always mean it’s the gospel truth.”

Jox rolled his eyes. “The Xibalbans are a myth, a group of bogeymen we use to scare kids into behaving.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Strike said, and something in his voice suggested he knew something the others didn’t. He didn’t elaborate, though, saying only, “It won’t hurt to have Jade look into it.”

As if sensing a fight on the horizon, Leah interrupted. “I think now would be a good time for Alexis to show us the statuette she sacrificed a Beemer to save.”

That earned a sour look from Jox, who was clearly not pleased about the dead car. Knowing Alexis, Nate bet she hadn’t ponied up for the extra rental insurance, either.

Alexis leaned over to the suitcase, which was resting on one of the end tables that flanked the overstuffed sofas. She dialed in a combination and popped the locks open. Out of curiosity, Nate leaned in, trying to catch a glimpse. “You use the end-time?” It was an obvious guess, the date they’d all found themselves living for overnight: December 21, 2012.

“No.” She shifted aside and let him see: 6/21/84. The day of the Solstice Massacre.

“Feeling nostalgic?” he asked with a little too much edge.

“Bite me.” She sent him a sharp smile and turned her back on him.

Nate snorted, but didn’t regret the jibe, which had been as much a reality check as anything. The others might be buying into the What has happened before will happen again motto of the Nightkeeper legends, but he figured the history should stay where it belonged—in the past. The modern-day Nightkeepers, such as they were, would out of necessity be a new breed of magi. They didn’t need to learn about the past; they needed to forge their own futures. Screw the prophecies; screw destiny. As far as he was concerned, they should gather the artifacts, boost their powers as far as they could manage, and bust ass through the barrier to hit the Banol Kax on their home turf.

Not surprisingly, he was in the minority on that one.

“Et voilà,” Alexis murmured, and lifted the top of the case, revealing not one, but two artifacts.

A murmur of surprise rippled through the assembled Nightkeepers and winikin, and most of them leaned in to see. The first artifact was the statuette she’d been sent after; Nate recognized it from the auction catalog. The second was a flattened clay disk maybe eight inches in diameter, shaped to resemble a man’s face. The formed clay face was slack mouthed, and the man’s eyes were covered with the jade pebbles he would’ve needed on his journey through Xibalba. Holes pierced on either side showed where rope or sinew would have been threaded through, allowing the mask to be tied in place. Nate recognized it from what little reading he’d done on the Nightkeepers and the customs they’d shared with the ancient Maya. “It’s a death mask.”

It wasn’t just any death mask, either. The dead man had vaguely porcine features, with a flattened nose and the hint of tusks rather than teeth.

“Watch this,” Alexis said, and she rotated the disk one-eighty, so the peccary features were upside down. The action revealed a second set of eyes, nose, and mouth—another face hidden in the frown lines and shapes of the first. In the second incarnation, the pig-man was smiling and looked, if not happy, then at least at peace with himself and what had happened to cause his death.

It wasn’t a Mayan death mask, as the auction catalog had probably stated. It was Nightkeeper made, as proven by the mark of the boar in the lower corner, a match to the bloodline glyph on Rabbit’s arm.

“Nostalgic indeed,” Nate said, but this time he wasn’t teasing. Instead he felt a beat of grief for a lost comrade.

Red-Boar had been a prickly bastard, and he’d sucked as a role model and father, but he’d been one of the team. He’d been killed in the tunnels beneath Chichén Itzá, when one of the lesser makol had turned out to be a mimic, a shape-shifter capable of taking on other forms. The mimic had impersonated Leah and used the guise to slit Red-Boar’s throat.

“It spoke to me,” Alexis said of the mask. Looking at Jox, who was the unofficial arbiter of all purchases and decorating decisions around Skywatch, save for their personal quarters, she said, “I thought maybe we could hang it in here, or in the training hall, as a reminder. Sort of like having him looking down on us.”

Jox looked to Strike. “Cool by you?”

“It’s really Rabbit’s call,” the king answered.

The teen looked startled for a second, then thoughtful. Finally he nodded. “Yeah.” He stopped, cleared his throat. “Yeah, the old man’d get a kick out of that. Just . . . just make sure he can see the ceiba tree, okay? It was . . . it mattered to him.”

The tree in question, a big sucker nearly fifty feet high and about as wide, grew where the Nightkeepers’ Great Hall had stood before the massacre. In the aftermath of the attack, before he’d enacted the spell that’d banished the training compound from the face of the earth for more than two decades, Jox had piled the bodies in the Great Hall and set it ablaze as a funeral pyre. When Strike and Red-Boar had reversed the spell twenty-four years later, they’d found the ceiba tree rooted in the ashes of the fallen Nightkeepers. The tree, which the Maya and Nightkeepers had revered as the symbol of community, believing that the roots stretched to the underworld and that the branches held up the sky, was native to the Yucatán and Central America. It shouldn’t have been able to grow in the arid box canyon, and it sure as hell couldn’t have gotten so big in the time it had. But there it was.

And yeah, it mattered. Even to someone like Nate, who didn’t believe in looking back.

“The training hall it is, then,” Alexis said, looking pleased, as though she hadn’t been sure how her impulse buy was going to go over. Then she reached for the statuette. “Well, I guess I should introduce you to Ixchel. I sure hope she was worth—”

The moment she touched the statuette, she stiffened, her mouth opening in a round O of surprise.

“Alexis?” Nate’s gut tightened as magic danced across his skin. Before any of the others could react, he shot out a hand, intending to pull hers away from the statuette. But the moment he touched her his muscles locked.

And the world around him disappeared.