She was back where it’d all started—strapped to the chac-mool altar in the ritual chamber that guarded the intersection of the earth, sky, and underworld.

Worse, she was alive, and so was Zipacna. And the clock was ticking.

Eventually her fever broke, or the drugs wore off, or both. Her brain cleared and the pain lessened, and she was able to take stock. She was still dressed in her combat clothes, but the weapons belt was gone. That wasn’t a surprise, but it was definitely a problem. Without the jade-tips and knives, she’d be powerless against the ajaw-makol, even if she did manage to escape. The spell was no good without a knife, and even at that it was going to be a long shot.

Which left her bound to a sacrificial altar with no hope of rescue until too late, because Strike and the other Nightkeepers weren’t due at the intersection until the equinox, and she doubted Red-Boar was going to fess up to what he’d done. For all she knew, the bastard had lied and told Strike she’d gone to Zipacna willingly.

Tears filmed her vision, and grief tore at her. Regret. She should’ve left a note, should’ve told Strike what she was planning so he’d have a place to start looking at best, a warning at worst. Because the way it was looking now, he was going to zap into battle and find her there.

After everything they’d done to get around it, he was going to have to kill her and fulfill the thirteenth prophecy. If he didn’t, he’d be signing a death warrant for all mankind.

When a tear broke free and trickled down her cheek, she swiped her face against her shoulder, brushing it away. And froze.

The place on her right shoulder where she’d been been shot, which had been covered beneath a four-by-four bandage the last time she’d regained consciousness, wasn’t bandaged anymore. Instead, her captors had left the wound open. Only it wasn’t a wound anymore. It was a scar.

A faint shimmer of excitement worked through her. She seriously doubted the makol’s magic ran to healing spells . . . and if she’d healed herself, maybe she could do other tricks as well. Maybe the equinox magic was strong enough to give her a slim chance of escape.

She closed her eyes and focused inward, and thought she detected a trickle of power within. Without conscious decision, she touched the thin stream of magic and thought, Hello? Strike? Can you hear me?

Footsteps sounded outside the arched doorway leading from the ritual chamber.

Leah jolted, her heart bumping at the expectation of seeing Zipacna, the faint hope that it might be Strike. But it wasn’t either of them.

It was her brother.

‘‘Matty?’’ Her breath whistled in her lungs as emotions slapped at her: disbelief and excitement, suspicion, and a longing so intense she could barely suck in her next lungful of air.

I’m dreaming, she told herself. He’s dead. This is all in my mind.

His footsteps sounded real as he stepped inside the chamber, though. He was wearing the same sort of preppy shit she remembered from his college days, and his tousled hair fell over his forehead just so. His eyes seemed real when they locked on her, his smile was the one she remembered, and his voice was the same when he said, ‘‘Hey, Blondie.’’

‘‘You’re not really here.’’ She squeezed her eyes shut, struggling for sanity. ‘‘It’s the drugs. You’re a flashback or something.’’

But he laughed. ‘‘I can live with being a flashback. You’ve called me worse.’’

He was still there when she cracked her eyes open, standing next to the altar looking down at her, his eyes clear and blue like she remembered.

‘‘Magic,’’ she said before she could stop herself.

He nodded, and held out his hand to show the slash across his palm. ‘‘They brought me back for you, Leah. To show you what you can have if you join us.’’

Horror sang through her, alongside awful temptation. ‘‘I won’t become a makol. It’s wrong.’’

He chuckled, sounding so much like himself that her heart shuddered. ‘‘That’s my sister,’’ he said with fond tolerance. ‘‘Black and white. Right and wrong. But what’s right in this case? Is it right that your boyfriend is going to have to kill you to let his precious god go free? What if I tell you there’s another way? A way for you to have it all?’’

‘‘Impossible,’’ she whispered, telling herself not to listen, that it was the same self-centered rhetoric she’d accused Strike of only that morning. ‘‘There’s a balance. You’ve got to give something to get something. You have to sacrifice.’’

‘‘Don’t you think you’ve already given enough?’’ Matty said, eyes and voice going sad. He leaned in close and whispered, ‘‘Give it a chance, Leah. Give us a chance. The Nightkeepers aren’t the good guys—they’re just going to screw things up and waste energy fighting the inevitable. Zipacna has the power to guide the coming changes and see mankind through 2012 and beyond.’’ He paused. ‘‘Please, Leah? For me? I’ve missed you so much.’’

Tears lumped in her throat and poured down her cheeks. She wanted to say yes, wanted her brother back, wanted absolution for not being there when he’d needed her to help him stay the narrow path of good decisions. But she shook her head, denying the impossible because magic could do a great many things, but it couldn’t bring back the dead. ‘‘You’re not my brother. You’re not Matty.’’

He tipped his head. ‘‘Of course I am. Here, I’ll prove it. Remember that time you, me, and Dad went—’’

She didn’t listen, couldn’t listen. She shut her eyes, found that trickle of golden power, gathered it up, and threw it at him with a mental heave.

His voice cut off with a hiss, followed by a mocking chuckle.

When she opened her eyes, she found a stranger standing there, looking down at her with the bright green eyes of a makol. ‘‘Think you’re a clever bitch, do you?’’

He had a crocodile tat on his upper pec, visible at the open throat of his preppy getup. She didn’t know him, but she knew what he was. ‘‘Get your ass out of my room, mimic.’’

He just smiled down at her. ‘‘We’re offering you a chance, cop. You come over, we’ll give you your brother back.’’

‘‘He won’t be my brother, not really. And we’ll all die in the end anyway.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘I’m not dealing.’’

The makol shrugged. ‘‘No skin off mine. You join us, we get a makol with the power of a god. You refuse us, we keep you alive and in a couple of hours you’ll be dead, Kulkulkan will be destroyed, and the skyroad will be kaput.’’ The creature grinned. ‘‘Win-win, baby.’’

She wanted to scream at him, to curse him, to howl at the moon, but that would’ve been buying into the taunts, so she said nothing, watching him impassively as he slid the door shut.

Then she let the tears come. Gods, she wanted to be back at Skywatch. She wanted Strike. She wanted a chance to apologize, to make up for going off on her own and fucking it up so badly they’d wound up in exactly the situation they’d been trying to avoid.

Wanted to tell him that she loved him enough to die for him, but she’d far rather live with him, for as long as the gods allowed.

Strike was carrying so much pissed-off power that the air slammed away from him and Red-Boar when they arrived back at Skywatch, sending Jox reeling back a few steps. Anna was there, too, her eyes full of worry and sorrow.

‘‘The ajaw-makol has Leah,’’ Strike said, his voice rasping on the words, his entire body vibrating with fear, with fury as he turned on Jox. ‘‘Do you hear me? The. Makol. Have. Her. Because you didn’t watch her, and because this one’’—he nudged Red-Boar roughly with his toe—‘‘decided to take care of her himself.’’ And, because Strike had let himself stray from what really mattered. Which ended now. ‘‘Where are the others?’’ he demanded.

‘‘In the training hall,’’ Jox said. ‘‘What are you—’’

‘‘Gather the winikin and meet me under the tree,’’ Strike interrupted, and stalked off, headed for the pool house. He got dressed, not in the ceremonial robes tradition called for, but in the combat clothes and weapons he was going to need.

Wearing a black shirt, black cargo pants, and heavy boots, along with a webbed weapons belt that held a pair of MACs, spare clips of jade-tips, and a couple of no-nonsense combat knives, he strode across the rear yard to the ceiba tree his ancestors had worshiped as symbolizing the heart of the community.

He halted opposite his people, who stood beneath the spreading branches.

Called away from their practice, the Nightkeepers were dressed in black-on-black combat clothes and wore their weapons on their belts, save for Red-Boar, who wore penitent’s brown, and Anna in street clothes. Beyond the magi, the winikin were ranged in a loose semicircle, with the twins playing at Hannah’s feet.

There were nineteen of them in total, ten Nightkeepers, seven winikin, and the boys. So few, Strike thought, but told himself it would be enough. It would have to be, because he had no other choice.

He never had.

Deep down inside, he knew that taking his rightful place meant the death of his dreams, the end of any hope of a life not ruled by tradition and the needs of others. He would cease being Strike and become the Nightkeepers’ king, putting them first above all others except the gods.

Putting them above himself. Above Leah.

‘‘Gods,’’ he whispered, clenching his fists at his sides, not sure if it was a curse or a prayer.

As a child he’d hated the Banol Kax for their part in the massacre. As an adult, he’d realized his father had played an equal part in the deaths, and hadn’t understood how a rational man could’ve sacrificed an entire culture in an effort to save his own family.

Now, having known Leah and the promise of what they might’ve had together, Strike finally understood the temptation, the decision. But he couldn’t make the same choice.

He wasn’t his father.

‘‘Kuyubal-mak,’’ he said, tipping his head back and letting the words carry to the sky. ‘‘I forgive you.’’

A sudden wind blew up, sweeping across the box canyon and kicking up dust devils. The hum of power built to an audible whine, and the sun dimmed in the cloudless sky as though there were an eclipse, though none was scheduled.

Knowing it was time, knowing it was right, Strike drew his father’s knife from his belt and scored both of his palms, cutting deep so the blood flowed freely and dripped to the canyon floor at his feet.

Pain washed his vision red, but the smell of blood and its sacrifice to the gods sent the power soaring as he shouted his acceptance of the kingship, his accession to rulership of the Nightkeepers, the words coming from deep within him, some sort of bloodline memory he’d been unaware of until that moment as he roared, ‘‘Chumwan ti ajawlel!’’

A detonation blasted open the firmament in front of him, the plane of mankind splitting to reveal the gray-green barrier behind. Crimson light burst from the tear, silhouetting a figure within.

Strike saw the wink of a bloodred ruby at the nahwal’s ear, and recognized it from before. Except its eyes weren’t flat black now.

They were cobalt blue, and shone with pride.

‘‘Father,’’ Strike whispered, going to his knees before the jaguar king.

‘‘Son,’’ the nahwal replied, not in the many-timbred voice it’d used before, but in the one he remembered from his childhood. His father’s voice. The nahwal reached down. Gripped his shoulder. ‘‘Rise. A king bows only to the gods.’’

Strike stood, dimly aware that the Nightkeepers and winikin stayed kneeling behind him. The crimson light formed a royal red cloak that flared to the nahwal’s ankles, stirring in the wind that howled through the box canyon. Then the crimson light parted, revealing a spear of golden power.

The Manikin scepter.

Carved of ceiba wood and polished by the hands of a thousand kings, the scepter was actually a representation of the god Kauil, with his forehead pierced by an ax and one leg turned into a snake, wearing god markings on each of his biceps.

The nature of the god himself had long been lost to time, but the scepter represented divine kingship. The man who wielded the scepter wielded the might of the Nightkeepers.

Fingers trembling not with fear, but with awe, Strike reached out and gripped the polished idol, which remained within the barrier unless called upon for cermemonies of birth or marriage. Or ascension of a new king.

Racial memory told him the words should come in the old tongue, but this wasn’t the old days, wasn’t his father’s time, so he finished the spell in English, saying, ‘‘Before the god Kauil I take the scepter, I take the king’s duty and sacrifice, and vow to lead in defense against the end-time.’’ He paused, then said the three words that ended his old life and began a new one. ‘‘I am king.’’

Thunder clapped and red lightning split the darkened sky, and the wind whipped into a howl that stirred up the dust and spun the crimson light into a vortex. Within the funnel cloud, the nahwal started to lose its shape.

Strike strained toward it. ‘‘Father!’’

The last to disappear were its cobalt eyes, which shone with love and regret.

As the tear in the barrier snapped shut, the old king’s voice whispered, ‘‘I pray that you will do what I could not. Lead with your heart, but don’t follow it blindly.’’

Then it was gone. The air was clear, the sun shining down on them as though the freak storm had never been. Even the scepter was gone, sucked back into the barrier where its power resided.

But it had left its mark on Strike; not on his forearm, where the Nightkeepers’ glyphs went, but on his bicep, where the gods—and kings—were marked.

He stared at the geometric glyph, and for the first time in a long, long time, his soul was silent. Gone was the confusion, the grief and resentment. In their place was icy determination.

He turned to the winikin. ‘‘Who am I?’’

Jox was the first to move. He stood and crossed to Strike, then pulled a knife from his pocket, flipped the blade open, and drew it sharply across his tongue, cutting deep. Blood flowed, dripped down his chin, and stained his teeth red when he said, ‘‘You are my king.’’ He bent his head and spat blood at Strike’s feet in the oldest of sacrifices, offering both blood and water. Then he looked up at Strike, uncertain. ‘‘If you’ll still have me.’’

Strike nodded. ‘‘I am your king. We’ll figure out the other shit later.’’

Jox bowed his head and returned to the other winikin, who repeated the process one by one.

Then Strike turned to the Nightkeepers. ‘‘If you accept me as your king, we’re going after Leah. She’s not your fight, she’s mine, but I’m asking for your help getting her back.’’

‘‘All due respect,’’ Sven said, looking eerily mature in combat clothes, with his hair slicked back in a stubby ponytail. ‘‘Saving Leah isn’t just your fight. She’s one of us, bloodline mark or no bloodline mark.’’

The others nodded, all except for Red-Boar, who growled, ‘‘And if you get her back? What then? She lives only to die at the equinox, taking the god with her?’’

‘‘I know how to bring the god through,’’ Strike said. ‘‘We’ll reunite Kulkulkan’s power on earth and use it to keep the Banol Kax from coming through the barrier.’’ Gods willing.

The older man’s eyes were dark and wary. ‘‘How can you be certain it’ll work?’’

‘‘I’m certain,’’ Strike said, holding his stare. ‘‘Trust me.’’

And there it was, the leap of faith he needed from them, from Anna and Red-Boar most of all. He needed them to believe.

Softly, he said to the Nightkeepers, ‘‘Who am I?’’

To his surprise, Rabbit came forward first, knelt, blooded himself, and spat in the dust. ‘‘You are my king.’’

A look of exquisite pain flashed across Red-Boar’s face at the obeisance. The older man hung back as the others stepped up, one by one, until he and Anna were the only ones left.

Anna approached but did not kneel and didn’t cut her tongue. Instead, she scored her palm and, when blood ran free, took Strike’s hand in hers. He felt the jolt of power, the bloodline connection and the love that hadn’t wavered despite their time apart. ‘‘You are my king,’’ she said, and leaned in and kissed his cheek.

He hugged her and whispered in her ear, ‘‘Thank you.’’

Then he let her go and turned to Red-Boar. ‘‘Who am I?’’

Red-Boar met Strike’s glare. ‘‘There can be no love in war. Your father is still an idiot, even in death.’’

Strike crossed to him. Got in his face. Growled, ‘‘Who. Am. I?’’

The standoff lasted five seconds, maybe ten. Then Red-Boar broke and looked away. ‘‘You are my king.’’ He scored his tongue, spat the offering, and added, ‘‘Gods help us all.’’

‘‘The spell you pulled from the grad student’s head,’’ Strike said. ‘‘Give it to me.’’

‘‘I can’t,’’ Red-Boar said, holding up a hand as Strike bristled. ‘‘Not won’t, I can’t. He didn’t finish translating all of it.’’

‘‘Damn it!’’ Strike spun away, fury and futility railing at him. He looked to the others. ‘‘Jade?’’

She shook her head. ‘‘I couldn’t find it.’’

There had to be a way, Strike knew. And not just because he wanted there to be—because it didn’t make any sense for the gods to bring him and Leah this far only to have them fail now.

Which meant he had to have faith, he thought, turning to face his people. His Nightkeepers. ‘‘Load up on live ammo and get your body armor. We’re going to kick some Banol Kax ass and get Leah back.’’

And after that, he was going to fucking wing it.

Five minutes later, the Nightkeepers were assembled, bristling with guns and knives. Red-Boar was blank-visaged and ready to kill. Rabbit stood at his side, vibrating with energy, his eyes alight with excitement. Anna looked ill, as though she’d rather be anywhere else just then, but Strike couldn’t leave her behind when their shared ancestry meant she could boost his power. And the trainees . . . Hell, he thought with a little kick beneath his heart, they look like a team.

Alexis and Nate might have broken up in the wake of the talent ceremony, but they stood shoulder-to-shoulder now, stern-faced, nerves evident only in the tap of his fingers against a gun butt, and her slight shift from one foot to the other. Brandt and Patience were a unit, Michael and Jade looked ready enough, though Jade would serve only to boost her former lover’s shield magic, and Sven was pale but resolute, his hair slicked back, his features sharper than Strike had thought them.

Three months earlier they’d been normal people, CEOs and screwups, therapists and number crunchers. Now they were magi. They were the Nightkeepers.

And, he thought with a sick churning in his gut, they were mortal. Which had been an unacknowledged sticking point for him, one of the reasons he’d held himself away from them for as long as possible. He hadn’t just been fighting for his old life, or for the promise of a new one with Leah. He’d been fighting not to care about his teammates, or, failing that, struggling not to have to lead them into battle.

His father had led his family and friends to their deaths. What if he did the same? What if the greatest sacrifice was the remainder of the Nightkeepers? What then?

‘‘Then we go out fighting,’’ he said aloud, and crossed to them, the scepter magic still churning in his blood, keeping the turbines revving high. ‘‘Join up and hang on,’’ he ordered, and when they linked hands, the power nearly took off the top of his head.

He leaned on it, pictured the Yucatán rain forest, and the clearing outside the hidden tunnel leading to the sacred chamber, and zapped.

The moment they blinked in, a group of makol massed in the tunnel mouth opened fire.