‘‘I can’t tell if the damn skull is grinning or screaming. ’’ He hunkered down in his desk chair until he was eye level with his laptop screen, but all that did was give him a crick in his neck. Sometimes being tall sucked.

Thanks to fifteen hundred years’ worth of tropical weather at the ruins of Chichén Itzá, the Mayan glyphwork was badly eroded. If he adjusted the contrast, he could distinguish what looked like a skull carved inside the outline of a jellyfish, but that could make it any one of twenty-plus glyphs he’d accumulated for his thesis on the end-time prophecy, depending on what the damned skull was doing. Digital comparison to other symbols in the text had allowed him to narrow his options down to grinning or screaming. If the skull was grinning, he’d found himself an ode to Jaguar-Paw Skull, the fourteenth ruler of the ancient Mayan city. Boo-ring.

But if it was screaming . . . if it was screaming, he was looking at something seriously important, a discovery that could blow the lid off the prevailing theories on the end-time. If the skull was screaming, then the zero date on the Mayan Long Count calendar wasn’t a metaphor for social change at all. It was a prophecy, just like the doomsday nuts kept saying. A warning.

Game over.

His boss, top Mayanist Anna Catori, didn’t believe the world would end on the day the backward-counting calendar zeroed out. She and the rest of the naysayers chose to ignore the modern astronomers who’d discovered that the zero date on the Long Count calendar was the same exact day the earth would pass through the precise center of the Milky Way galaxy while in conjunction with the sun and moon.

Half the astrophysicists Lucius had interviewed said there was a good chance that the earth’s magnetic poles would flip abruptly on that day, making north become south and south, north. The other half said that was bullshit. There seemed to be a general consensus, though, that the sun-moon-earth conjunction in the galactic center was likely to spark the sort of sunspot activity that hadn’t been seen in twenty-six thousand or so years, since the last time there was a meta-conjunction like this one.

Oh, and by the way, twenty-six thousand years ago, the magnetic poles had flipped, and the earth had actually owned an ozone layer capable of protecting it from the sunspots.

The question was, how much of this had the ancient Maya known, and—and here was where Anna kept accusing Lucius of straying over into the tinfoil-hat zone— what was with the handful of inscriptions he’d found that mentioned the Nightkeepers, a secret sect of warrior-priests supposedly sworn to protect the earth when the zero date came?

Ergo, the screaming skulls.

Excitement buzzed through his veins, alongside the caffeine from the six-pack of Mountain Dew he’d downed since midnight. With T minus six weeks and counting to his thesis defense, he needed one more find, one last bit of oomph to put him over the top and counteract his less than stellar disciplinary record at UT. This could be it.

‘‘Come on, baby. Scream for me.’’ He clicked a few keys on his laptop and swapped the colors over to a deep, vibrant purple, which he’d found sometimes popped details the other views washed out.

The result was a purple jellyfish containing a lavender skull that looked like it was snickering at him.

‘‘Son of a bitch.’’ He pushed away from the desk and scrubbed his hands over his eyes, which burned with fatigue and too many hours at the computer. When he blinked against the sting, he saw his favorite skeptic standing in the doorway to his tiny office.

Anna was a dark-haired beauty in her late thirties, lovely and sad-looking, with the most gorgeous blue eyes he’d ever seen in his life. She was wearing jeans and a clingy blue shirt a shade darker than her eyes, with the sleeves rolled up over the forearm tattoos she didn’t like to talk about. One was a perfect representation of the Mayan balam glyph, representing the sacred jaguar, the other the ju glyph of royalty. Together, they were dead sexy, at least as far as Lucius was concerned.

When she didn’t move from the doorway, didn’t say anything, he started to think he was having a waking fantasy, the kind where she’d glide across the room, haul him down to the desk, and make love to him amidst his thesis notes.

Then she scowled. ‘‘Don’t you ever sleep?’’

Not a dream, then. Bummer.

Lucius glanced at his watch. Three fifteen. Over the past few months he’d been sleeping less and less, kept awake by dark dreams and a strange, growing restlessness. ‘‘What makes you think I’m not just getting a really early start on tomorrow?’’

She pointed to the line of empties on his desk. ‘‘I count six dead soldiers, and you’re wearing yesterday’s clothes.’’ She paused, her expression softening. ‘‘Go home and sleep, Lucius. I don’t want to see you back here before noon. You’re no good to me if you burn out before the ink dries on your doctorate.’’

"But I found—"

‘‘Go.’’ She crossed the room, pulled him out of his chair, and shoved him toward the door. ‘‘It’ll still be here in a few hours. One nice thing about the study of an ancient civilization is that life-threatening emergencies are rare.’’

The sentiment was so un-Anna-like that he paused. ‘‘Is everything okay?’’

She avoided his eyes. ‘‘Everything’s fine. I want to get a jump on things before the grant vultures descend this afternoon.’’

‘‘Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Anna.’’ Talk to me, he wanted to say. Tell me what’s wrong. I’ll listen; I want to help. But he didn’t go there, because she’d already let him know in so many little ways that she was flattered, but not interested in a student nearly ten years her junior. Rumor said her marriage to Dick Catori of the economics department was on shaky ground, but she left that at the door. At least, she usually did. Tonight, she seemed to waver, seemed to lean toward him for half a second.

Then she straightened and shook her head. ‘‘It’s nothing you can help me with.’’

‘‘Try me.’’

Her eyes softened to the you’re so cute look he hated like poison, and she nudged him toward the door. ‘‘It’s not your fight. Go home.’’

Lucius didn’t like the thought of her sleeping at the lab because things had gotten bad with the Dick, but he’d just look like an idiot if he invited her to his place, a shared apartment furnished in Early Roach, so he said, ‘‘Call me if you change your mind.’’

‘‘I will,’’ she said, but they both knew she wouldn’t.

‘‘See you in a few hours.’’

‘‘Not before noon, or I’m docking your stipend.’’ He shot her a grin. ‘‘Can’t threaten me. Half of nothing’s still nothing.’’ But the moment the door swung shut at his back, his smile faded.

What was going on? She’d been distracted lately, worried by more than just the grant committee. A bubble of anger worked its way through his normal calm. If the Dick was giving her grief, he’d . . .

You’ll do what, he thought bitterly, tell on him?

Lucius was two inches taller and a good fifty pounds lighter than his younger brothers and his father, who were all cut in the Hunt mold of dark, handsome, and built. Lucius looked more like his mother and sister, and while light and willowy was gorgeous on them, he looked more wussy than willowy, and doubted Anna’s ex-linebacker husband would be impressed.

He’d have to try another angle, then. So, think, he told himself as he crossed the narrow bridge at the front of the art history building. What does Anna need?

The question bumped against the twitchiness deep inside him, and he glanced up at the waning moon overhead. He could swear he felt the night in his bones, a subsonic itch that added to the restlessness.

His mother used to say he should’ve been born in another time, when he could’ve lived the quests he read about and played on VR games. But neither books nor games were enough, had never been enough. He wanted to do something, be something more than a scrawny glyph geek who was constantly getting himself in trouble more through accident than design.

Going on instinct, he doubled back, circling the outer edge of the dark, seventies-style building until he reached the window of Anna’s first-floor office. The window was closed but the room was fully lit. Trusting that the darkness at his back would shield him from view, he squelched the guilt and peeked in.

He saw his laptop open on the desk, with the monitor switched to a deep crimson that really popped the line of glyphwork he’d been working on. The red showed the skull screaming, clear as day. But that wasn’t what had Lucius freezing in place.

It was the sight of Anna, slumped in her desk chair with her eyes closed and blood trickling from the corner of her mouth.

Leah awoke midafternoon, with a serious crick in her neck from having slept on a MAC-10 autopistol and a profound wish that she’d open her eyes and find that the last few weeks—hell, the last year and a half—had been a really twisted dream.

But when she did the eyes-open thing and found herself in a sumptuous bedroom with tall ceilings, thick carpets and drapes, and a faintly impersonal Native American- themed decor that practically screamed ‘‘high-end hotel,’’ she had a strong feeling the weirdness was just beginning.

As the events of the night before came clearer in her mind, she was sure of only one thing: She was way out of her jurisdiction.

The red-rock canyon walls visible beyond the wide bedroom windows suggested the Southwest, and what she now remembered of the explanation Strike had given her in the Mayan temple—after they’d had total-stranger sex—suggested she’d stumbled into a cosmic-level battle that went well beyond the MDPD.

It should’ve been utterly ridiculous even to consider that any of what she’d seen—or thought she’d seen— was real. But what was the alternative? Hallucination? Insanity? It felt way too real, and her online searches on the Survivor2012 doctrine had made it sound like an awful lot of experts—including real scientists, not just doomsday nuts—agreed that something wonky was going to happen at the end of 2012. And if she believed the Maya had predicted the zero date a few thousand years ago, was it such a stretch to believe that there was a religious component to it all?

‘‘But religion isn’t the same as actual magic,’’ she said aloud. ‘‘An astronomical event isn’t the same as gods and demons battling for control of the earth.’’

In order for her to believe what Strike had told her about the Nightkeepers, she had to accept that the 2012 apocalypse was going to boil down to a battle between good and evil, and while that might make a hell of a movie, it didn’t do much for her in terms of common sense. She was a cop. A realist.

‘‘There’s no such thing as magic,’’ she said. But she didn’t sound convinced, even to her own ears, because if there was no such thing as magic, how did she explain all that she’d seen and done recently?

A tap on the door interrupted her thoughts, which was a relief, because they weren’t getting her anywhere. Scrambling out of the plush, king-size bed, she pulled on her bloodstained clothes and fastened her belt loosely enough that she could jam the MAC beneath it. Exiting the bedroom, she crossed an equally opulent sitting room, taking note of the attached kitchenette and a short hallway beyond, leading to what looked like a solarium and a few other closed doors.

Forget upscale hotel. Apparently she’d rated a small condo.

The main door to the suite was actually a set of double doors, both elaborately carved with the same sort of glyphs Strike wore on his arm. At the thought of the marks—and the man—Leah’s skin warmed, anger at his deception tangling with desire. The churned-up heat had her voice sharpening when she opened one of the doors. ‘‘Yes?’’

Jox stood there, his lived-in face tight with disapproval as he held out a small pile of clothing, with a pair of sneakers on top. ‘‘They’ll be too big for you.’’

She bristled to meet his ’tude. ‘‘Better than bloodstains. ’’ She took the clothes before he could snatch them back. And what the hell was his problem? It wasn’t like she’d asked to get herself dragged into this mess. She’d just been doing her job.

More or less.

He bowed stiffly. ‘‘Aj-winikin.’’ Then he turned on his heel and strode off, somehow making his faded jeans and long-sleeved shirt look like livery.

‘‘Wait,’’ she said quickly. She needed more info, needed to figure out if these people—these Nightkeepers—were the real deal, and if so, whether they were the good guys or the bad. She wanted to believe Strike, wanted to trust him. And that was a serious problem, because her track record really sucked in the picking-trustworthy-men-for-relationships department.

Jox turned back with a scowl. ‘‘What?’’

‘‘What is that?’’ Leah asked. ‘‘Aj-winikin. What does it mean?’’

‘‘It means, ‘I am your servant,’’’ Jox replied. ‘‘That’s what I am, a winikin. A servant.’’

She shook her head, not buying it. ‘‘That might be the translation, but you’re nobody’s servant. What does it really mean?’’

That got her a considering look. ‘‘The winikin look after . . . people like Strike and the others. When they’re children, we help raise them, teach them, guard them. When they’re grown we act as . . . I guess you’d say their conscience. We’re the little voices that sit on their shoulders and give advice when things are going to hell.’’

‘‘Like now?’’

‘‘You have no idea.’’

‘‘Dude.’’ She risked a smile. ‘‘I blew up my coffeemaker yesterday morning, got kidnapped in my own house, shot the bejesus out of an ex-snitch and couldn’t keep him down, and then got my butt teleported from Miami to canyon country. Oh, and I seem to have acquired a one-nighter I forgot about . . . and he’s some sort of king.’’ She paused. ‘‘I think I’ve got a pretty good idea.’’

‘‘You haven’t the faintest clue,’’ he said, but there was more pity than snark in his voice.

‘‘They’re the Nightkeepers,’’ she said. ‘‘They’re supposed to save the world.’’

His eyebrows lowered. ‘‘He told you?’’

‘‘Yes and no. He told me, but then he made me forget it. Other things back home made me wonder about the 2012 date, though.’’ Like a cult that didn’t act like a cult, and a friend of her brother’s who’d insisted she keep digging. Shoving aside the guilt and grief—for the moment, at least—she pantomimed typing. ‘‘I’m hell on wheels with Google. I started pulling up papers by an Anna Catori out at UT Austin, talking about how the end of the Mayan Long Count calendar doesn’t symbolize the end of the world; it’s just a metaphor for cyclical social change, sort of a cosmic reset button. But then there’s this guy Ledbetter, who seems to think that it predicts full-on armageddon. And I got to thinking . . . what if he’s the one who’s got it right?’’

‘‘Anna is Strike’s sister.’’

Hello, non sequitur. Whatever Leah might’ve expected Jox to say, that wasn’t it. But it was information. ‘‘And she doesn’t believe in any of . . . this?’’ She waved a hand around them both. ‘‘That doesn’t make sense.’’

The winikin shifted from one foot to the other, as though he needed to be somewhere else, or really wished he did. ‘‘It’s a long story.’’

‘‘Summarize.’’

He sighed. ‘‘Twenty-four years ago, Strike and Anna’s father had a vision that said he could prevent the end-time by bringing together all of the Nightkeepers for an attack on their enemies, the Banol Kax.’’

When he paused, she said, ‘‘They all died.’’ At his sharp look, she lifted a shoulder. ‘‘He mentioned it. Besides, it’s a hell of a big house for, what, a dozen people, most of whom are under the age of twenty-five? And it’s been gutted recently. Doesn’t take a cop to do the math and figure out that something big and bad— Oh.’’ She broke off, wincing when her mental connect-the-dots reached the center of the spiral. ‘‘His parents.’’

‘‘All of their parents, and the rest of the children, gone.’’ He snapped his fingers, though his expression robbed the gesture of any play. ‘‘Just like that. We are all that remains.’’

And the winikin had saved Strike and raised him, Leah realized. That was the dynamic. They might be master and servant on the one hand, but they were parent and grown child on the other. Complicated, like everything else she’d suddenly dropped ass-first into.

‘‘You want more, you’ll have to ask him yourself,’’ Jox said, turning away, and this time she knew he wouldn’t come back if she called his name.

So instead she said softly, ‘‘Why does he live in the pool house?’’

He paused and half turned, so he was in profile to her. ‘‘When Scarred-Jaguar led his attack on the intersection, we thought we were safe here, the winikin and the children.’’ He paused, and there was exquisite pain etched in the lines of his face when he said, ‘‘We were wrong. I got Strike and Anna to the royal family’s safe room and we waited it out.’’ He lifted a shoulder. ‘‘Strike recovered okay, more or less, but Anna . . . didn’t. She left for college and never looked back.’’

Leah didn’t know what to say. She looked around the suite, which was pleasant, but sterile. Impersonal. ‘‘This was where his parents lived.’’ It wasn’t a question.

‘‘Their things are in storage. I’m hoping—’’ Jox broke off. ‘‘Never mind.’’

Tell me, she wanted to say. I want to know everything. I need to figure out what’s real and what isn’t, and how I fit into this. You’re worried about him; I can tell. But why? Is it just me or is there something else? But she didn’t have the right to ask, because this wasn’t her world. Despite what had happened between her and Strike, he wasn’t hers. Not really.

So she didn’t ask. Instead, she reached into her back pocket and withdrew the oilskin packet. It still glowed red, though the luminescence was muted, as though the power had dimmed. She held it out. ‘‘Here. He should have this.’’

Jox looked at her for a long moment, measuring her. Then he nodded. ‘‘Thank you.’’ Taking the packet, he tipped his head in an almost-bow.

Before he could leave, she said, ‘‘Wait, please. Last question, I promise.’’ Even though there seemed to be no end to the questions.

‘‘What,’’ he said, tone resigned.

‘‘What are they?’’ she said. ‘‘What does Nightkeeper mean?’’ It wasn’t the most important question, but suddenly it was critical for her to know the answer.

‘‘The Mayan shaman-priests who oversaw the calendars were called the Daykeepers, because they protected the smaller prophecies and kept the calendars moving from one day to the next. Strike’s ancestors watched over the nights and kept the Banol Kax from coming through the barrier between the planes. That was their job, is their job,’’ he corrected himself, then said, ‘‘Strike and the others are the last of the Nightkeepers.’’ He paused. ‘‘Do yourself a favor and remember that you’re not one of them.’’

Strike woke late afternoon, groggy as hell. But once he was oriented, he couldn’t keep down the buzz of knowing Leah was nearby. He shouldn’t want her, couldn’t have her, but his body didn’t seem to give a crap about any of that.

Changing into jeans and a ratty Metallica T-shirt, he made tracks for the kitchen and did a postmagic calorie replacement by chugging a half gallon of OJ straight from the jug—with a quick look to make sure Jox couldn’t see him and bitch about backwash—and chowing a package of provolone that was probably intended for dinner.

Once the first pangs had passed and he could focus better, he noticed the oilskin packet propped up against the saltshaker. Which meant he wasn’t going directly to Leah. He had another stop to make first.

He slid the packet across the marble countertop so it rested directly in front of him. Then, slowly, half-afraid of what he might—or might not—see, he untied the string and pried up a corner of the oilskin. The first layer gave way to a second, then a third before he uncovered the makol’s treasure.

And a treasure it was. ‘‘Holy shit.’’ He’d had a hunch based on the glow, but seeing it for real . . . that was different.

The piece of fig bark was the size of two hands held side by side, and was covered with the smallest, most intricate glyphwork he’d ever seen. He didn’t have a clue what it said, but he could feel the latent power humming through his fingertips, and it was the red of the royal Nightkeepers, not the purple-green of the makol.

‘‘Thank you, Father,’’ he whispered. Then, refolding the protective covering, he tucked the packet inside his T-shirt, next to his skin, and went in search of Red-Boar.

He found the older Nightkeeper in his cottage, sitting at the kitchen table in his brown penitent’s robes with a Coke in one hand and a hunk of cheddar in the other.

The moment Strike’s foot hit the kitchen tile, Red-Boar scowled and snapped, ‘‘Why did you do it? Why did you abandon your people and go after the woman? What the hell were you thinking?’’

Snagging a Coke for himself—like the OJ hadn’t spiked enough sugar into his system—Strike dragged out a chair and sat. ‘‘I told you. I saw my father.’’

‘‘Like you saw the woman in your dreams.’’ It wasn’t a question.

‘‘Yes. No.’’ Strike popped the top of the soda and took a drag. ‘‘I saw him in the barrier. Technically, I saw a nahwal wearing his earring. It told me to go to her, and I saw her thread. When I grabbed it, wham, I was there. She and a makol were fighting—she’d done a damn good job on him, but not enough.’’

Red-Boar’s eyes went sharp at the mention of a makol. ‘‘It survived the explosion?’’

Strike shook his head. ‘‘Different one.’’ Which meant the ajaw-makol had made more of itself. Question was, how many more? Had the two they killed been the sum total, or were there others out there? Knowing they were going to need all the power they could get to deal with the issue, he pulled out the packet and set it on the table in front of the older Nightkeeper. ‘‘Open it.’’

Red-Boar unfolded the oilskin. The moment he saw the codex fragment, his expression went dark. ‘‘Shit. We need a translator.’’

‘‘I know.’’ Strike grimaced. ‘‘I hate asking her for this.’’

‘‘Anna’s going to like it even less.’’

Strike let the silence linger for a moment before he said, ‘‘I want you to take it to her. She’ll listen to you.’’

That earned him a baleful look. ‘‘You just want me out of the way so you can—’’

‘‘Don’t,’’ Strike said sharply, interrupting. Then, more softly, ‘‘Don’t. I’m doing the best I can, and I need you to back me on it.’’

‘‘Or what?’’

‘‘Let’s not go there. I need you. The newbies need you.’’ Strike chugged the rest of his Coke, tossed it toward the recycle bin, and missed.

‘‘You need me when it’s convenient to have someone backing you up,’’ Red-Boar said evenly, ‘‘but not when I disagree with you, or remind you you’re not the only one of your bloodline to make bad decisions based on a dream.’’ When Strike would’ve said something, he held up a hand. ‘‘Let me finish. It was your choice to put Rabbit through the ritual, and I think we both know his magic is probably what pulled us away from the trainees and nearly got them lost for good. His power isn’t the same as ours, never will be. Trying to make him into a Nightkeeper is only going to end badly.’’

‘‘So we should ignore him?’’ Strike snapped. ‘‘Do you hate him that much?’’

The corners of Red-Boar’s mouth tipped up, though there was no amusement in his expression. ‘‘Trying to derail the argument by striking your opponent’s weak spot? That’s not like you. More like my style.’’

‘‘Is he your weak spot?’’ Strike countered. ‘‘I couldn’t tell from the way you’ve raised him. Gods, you didn’t even give the kid a real name!’’

Something flickered in the older Nightkeeper’s eyes. ‘‘I’ve done what I’ve done for a reason. Never doubt that.’’

‘‘Whatever.’’ Strike pushed away from the table and stood, annoyed that he was so close to losing his temper, irritated that they hadn’t really settled anything, frustrated that—

That was it, he realized. He was frustrated, and it had far less to do with Red-Boar than with the knowledge that Leah was nearby. He might’ve already had his talent ceremony, might’ve passed beyond the binding-hormone madness, but that didn’t mean he was oblivious to the vibes in the air. Shit. It was going to be a long couple of months.

‘‘Go see Anna,’’ he said to Red-Boar.

The older Nightkeeper sighed and touched the codex fragment, and for a moment he looked almost . . . sad. ‘‘As you wish.’’

‘‘Give her this.’’ Strike reached into his pocket and withdrew a long, thin chain. At the end dangled a yellow quartz effigy carved in the shape of a skull, its eyes and teeth worn smooth from the touch of generations of itza’at seers.

Anna had left the effigy behind the day she took off, making them promise not to come after her, to leave her alone so she could live a normal life.

Red-Boar’s eyes fixed on the pendant, but he shook his head. ‘‘Keep it. I can’t be the one to give it back to her.’’

Strike let the skull hang for a moment, then nodded and tucked it in his pocket. ‘‘I’ll see you when you get back. We’ll talk then.’’

‘‘Sure,’’ Red-Boar said, but his body language all but shouted, You’re an idiot.

Strike let the cottage door slam at his back, not because he was mad about any one thing, but because he was mad about everything. He was stirred up, juiced up. He wanted to run, wanted to howl at the moon like he hadn’t since he was a teenager.

And then he saw her, sitting on a plastic deck chair beside the pool.

Leah. Waiting for him.

She rose to her feet when she saw him. Her borrowed jeans were belted on and cuffed at the bottom, and she was wearing a crimson scoop-necked T-shirt that was baggy in front—Alexis’s clothes, probably. Her long white-blond hair was slicked back in a no-nonsense ponytail, and there was a dark shadow along her jaw where a bruise was starting to come through. Her expression was guarded and wary, her eyes cool. Cop’s eyes.

He had quite literally never seen anything so beautiful in his entire life—and he was pretty sure that was the man talking, not the magic or the gods.

He approached, stopping a few feet away from her. ‘‘Hey.’’

‘‘Hey, yourself,’’ she said back, and they stared at each other for a long time. They’d been lovers but they didn’t know each other. Didn’t know how to talk to each other.

‘‘Well,’’ he said finally. ‘‘This is weird.’’

Her voice held a bite of temper when she said, ‘‘Which part of it, the part where your people killed Vince, the part where we’ve had two separate sexual encounters and only one semicoherent conversation? Or . . .’’ Her voice went unsteady. ‘‘The part where I dreamed about you before I met you, made a carving knife fly, and freaking teleported from Miami to the middle of the desert?’’ Whispering now, eyes dark with confusion, she said, ‘‘That’s not possible. None of it is.’’ But it was more of a plea than a statement of fact.

Strike had gone still. ‘‘Tell me about the knife.’’

She gave him a long look, but said, ‘‘Last night Itchy had me strapped down pretty good when I came to. There was a knife a few feet away, and I . . . I thought at it, really hard, and it came to me. Floated. Right into my hand.’’

Which just added more weight to his growing conviction—concern? —that the gods had plans for her. What was he supposed to do with that? ‘‘Have you ever done anything like that before?’’

She shook her head, then lifted one shoulder in a sort of no-yes-maybe answer. ‘‘Yesterday morning I went to turn my coffeemaker on and fried its circuits instead, but that was probably just a coincidence.’’

Or not, he thought. If she’d retained some sort of magic from her experience at the intersection, it would stand to reason that she’d be more likely to be able to tap the power during a conjunction. Which meant . . .

Hell, he didn’t know what it meant.

Waving to a couple of poolside chairs, he said, ‘‘We should sit. This could take a while.’’

‘‘Apparently I’ve got time,’’ she muttered as she sat. ‘‘I called in this morning to put in for leave, and Connie—my boss—said I should take as long as I needed.’’

‘‘Ouch.’’

‘‘Yeah. I can’t blame her, really. I’ve been skirting the line ever since Matty was murdered.’’ Her eyes went hard. ‘‘I’m not staying away, though. Not if I can help get the bastard who did it. Which brings us back to you. Start talking. Who are the 2012ers, how does the Calendar Killer fit into this, and why . . . why did you guys kill Vince? He was a friend.’’

‘‘He was a makol.’’

‘‘He was a computer programmer.’’

‘‘The two are not mutually exclusive. Look . . .’’ Strike spun his chair so he was facing her, their knees almost bumping, and when her eyes went wide and she started looking for the nearest exit, he took her hands, telling himself it was only for reassurance, only an effort to keep her in place long enough to get the full story. ‘‘It’s an understatement to say this is complicated. I’m going to have to ask you to believe that I’m one of the good guys. I know you have absolutely no reason to trust me—hell, you’ve got every reason not to—but I’m asking you to give me a chance. Please.’’

‘‘I shouldn’t,’’ she said softly. But she didn’t pull her hands away. ‘‘I should’ve left last night, should’ve run screaming, but there are things going on that I can’t explain. Things that don’t fall under the heading of ‘standard police procedure.’ ’’

‘‘Yes.’’ He resisted the urge to hold her hands tighter, to move closer. Her skin was soft and smooth beneath his fingers, with the hardness of bone and strength beneath. ‘‘I’ll explain what I can.’’ Which they both knew wasn’t the same as explaining everything.

‘‘You made me think I dreamed you.’’ Her accusation went so much deeper than just the forgetting spell. ‘‘If that’s not a lie of omission, I don’t know what is. And what’s worse, there’s a big part of me that wants to trust you.’’

‘‘Then do it,’’ he urged.

‘‘I’m not sure I can.’’ Her tone lost some of its edge, making her sound unutterably weary. ‘‘You made me forget us making love. I’m not going to play the forced-seduction card, because I know damn well I was a willing participant, and I appreciate the whole saving-my-life thing, but it doesn’t seem like you want to be with me. More like you’re trying to get the hell away.’’ She paused. ‘‘What exactly do you want from me?’’

Nothing, he wanted to say. Everything. Damn it. ‘‘I don’t know,’’ he said finally, which was also the truth. ‘‘What do you want from me?’’

‘‘An explanation,’’ she said softly. ‘‘I want to know who killed Matty, and why.’’

Which put them right back at odds, making him think she had her own reasons for not wanting to pick up where they’d left off the other night. He should’ve been relieved that she hadn’t forced him to talk about what was—and wasn’t—between them. Instead, he was irritated.

Which just proved how screwed-up he was these days.

‘‘I’ll give you as much as I can,’’ he said. ‘‘But I need some context. Tell me about these Calendar murders.’’ When she scowled, looking ready to refuse, he squeezed her hands. ‘‘Trust me.’’

Suddenly, it was very important that she do just that.

‘‘Okay,’’ she finally said, but he wasn’t sure whether she was agreeing to trust him, or only to describe the murders. Then she started talking about a serial killer who preyed at the solstice and equinox, and within a few sentences he knew they were onto something. She must’ve seen it on his face, because she broke off. ‘‘The killer’s signature means something to you.’’

Choosing his words carefully, he said, ‘‘The equinox and solstice are the times of highest magical activity, the times the barrier between worlds is thinnest. If I were trying to use human sacrifice to jump-start the barrier back into action, those are the days I’d pick for the bloodletting.’’

‘‘Did you?’’ Her eyes held his, unwavering.

‘‘No.’’ He projected everything he could into the word, wanting—needing—her to believe him. To believe in him. ‘‘Our magic is mostly autosacrifice. Self-bloodletting. It’s very rare for one Nightkeeper to blood another.’’ He leaned in so their faces were very close together when he said, ‘‘We’re the good guys, Leah. My father sacrificed almost our entire race to close the barrier. We were waiting for the end date to pass so we could finally live our lives. No way any of us did what you’re describing.’’

‘‘Then who did?’’

‘‘Zipacna,’’ Strike said, and there was no doubt in his mind. ‘‘Either the barrier thinned enough that one of the Banol Kax reached through to him, or he found one of the lost spells and made contact from this side.’’

‘‘You said Vince was a makol, too,’’ Leah said, ‘‘but he hated Survivor2012. He was convinced they killed Matty—heck, it was his idea to crash that party. And you said before that the makol ritual only works on evil-minded people, or someone who accepts evil in exchange for power. So how could he be—’’ She broke off. Then she scrubbed both hands across her face and halfway screamed, ‘‘Aah!’’

‘‘What?’’

She dropped her hands and looked at him, shaking her head, eyes bleak. ‘‘This is . . . ridiculous. I can’t even believe I’m treating this discussion like it’s real. Do you ever listen to yourself and think that what you’re saying sounds completely insane? Like you should be waiting for the mother ship?’’

‘‘This is religion, not an alien abduction.’’

‘‘Depending on who you talk to, there’s not much difference.’’

‘‘Then why are you still here?’’

‘‘Because of the dreams,’’ she said, avoiding his eyes a little, her color riding high, making him very aware of the curve of her jaw, the long line of her neck. ‘‘And because Matty . . .’’ She faltered. ‘‘I need to know why he picked Matty.’’

But the ajaw-makol hadn’t just picked her brother, Strike realized suddenly. Zipacna had brought her to the sacred chamber at the solstice. Vince had drawn her back into the Survivor2012 compound when Red-Boar’s mind-bending had told her to leave it alone. Itchy had held her prisoner in her own house, no doubt under his master’s orders.

When he put those things together, it started to look like her brother hadn’t been the main target of any of this. She was.

But why?

As Strike had done the first time they met, he took her right hand and turned it palm up. He traced his thumb across a small square of puckered, roughened skin on her inner forearm. ‘‘Tell me about this scar.’’

She looked away. ‘‘It’s nothing. I don’t even remember getting it.’’

‘‘Leah,’’ he said quietly.

That brought her eyes back to him, but she shook her head. ‘‘Please. Tell me about Zipacna.’’

He knew he should push. Instead, he said, ‘‘In the Nightkeepers’ pantheon, he’s a vicious, vindictive piece of work with a taste for blood and the ability to appear as a winged crocodile. His father is one of the rulers of Xibalba, which gives him a power boost.’’

‘‘I meant the guy in Miami.’’

‘‘I know.’’ Carter’s report on the leader of Survivor 2012 had included a few grainy, overenlarged photos and a sketchy history that went a whopping six years back. ‘‘You probably know way more about him than I do.’’

‘‘In other words, almost nothing,’’ Leah said grimly. ‘‘What I want to know is whether he killed my brother and Nick. Whether Vince died because of what Zipacna made him.’’

Strike nodded slowly. ‘‘My gut says yes to all three.’’

‘‘I hear a ‘but’ in your voice.’’

‘‘That would be the part where I say, ‘but I can’t let you go after him.’ ’’

She pulled her hands away, eyes going hard. ‘‘Sorry, Ace. You have no right to tell me what I can and can’t do.’’

Yeah, but I have a couple of overflow storage lockers in the basement that’d keep you out of trouble, he thought. He didn’t say that, though, because for one, he didn’t want to turn this into a battle . . . and for another, he figured he should probably hold the lockup idea in reserve, just in case. So instead he said, ‘‘This is bigger than both of us, and I think you know it, or at least suspect that it might be.’’

‘‘You really, truly think the world is going to end,’’ she said softly. It wasn’t a question.

‘‘I believe that the next few months are going to determine exactly that,’’ he said, going with a half-truth. Then he added, ‘‘The Nightkeepers believe the world exists in a series of repeating cycles, both spiritual and cosmic, all of which are going to intersect on the end date. The Great Conjunction is coming no matter what we do— that’s an astrological fact. It’s up to us to block the spiritual side of things. It’s what our ancestors lived for. What our parents died for.’’ He took a deep breath. Let it out. ‘‘I’m the king’s son, which means I have a responsibility to my people and what we’re bound to do over the next four-plus years. If I were just a man . . .’’

He leaned in and brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek, and his blood heated when she trembled at his touch.

‘‘Yeah, well . . .’’ She pulled away from him and stood, moving away a few feet so she could stare out across the compound, past the cottages and ball court to the pueblo-dotted canyon walls beyond, all of which were going purple-red with the approach of dusk. ‘‘Don’t think I’m staying away from Zipacna just because you’re hot.’’

His lips twitched. ‘‘Not even if I offer to be your sex slave?’’

‘‘Are you offering?’’

Shaking his head—and regretting the hell out of the necessity—he said, ‘‘I can’t.

‘‘Because I’m not a Nightkeeper.’’

‘‘Because we don’t know what you are yet.’’ Another half-truth. ‘‘I’m going to have to do some reading, see what I can figure out about your flying-knife trick, and why Zipacna seems to have targeted you specifically.’’ He rose and joined her, so they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, looking out at the dark shadows of the pueblo ruins—the remains of another people who had tracked time by the sun and stars, and believed in magic and the apocalypse.

‘‘What am I supposed to do now?’’ Her voice came out weary, wary, as though she acknowledged the need for protection but didn’t like it. ‘‘House arrest isn’t really my style.’’

‘‘Be a cop,’’ he said. ‘‘Find Zipacna. Make some calls, pull in some favors, do whatever it takes. You can lean on Carter for the legwork.’’

‘‘You’re not going to let me leave.’’

‘‘I think it’s safer if you stay,’’ he said, hoping she didn’t push him to lock her down.

‘‘And you think you’re not letting me near Zipacna.’’

‘‘Again, safer that way. I don’t want to see you get hurt.’’ Which was approximately the understatement of the decade. Having her this near had his blood humming in his veins, and having her bent on going after the ajaw-makol chilled him to the bone.

She glanced up at him, eyes shadowed. ‘‘This was a hell of a lot easier in the dreams.’’

‘‘Yeah.’’ He nodded, in that moment feeling as close to his father as he ever had. ‘‘Somehow it always is.’’