Skykeepers (33 page)

“And that means what, exactly?” Sasha had the sudden sensation of balancing at the edge of a very tall cliff, headed for a very long fall.

“
Ch’ul
is essentially the essence of all living things. It’s the energy flow that makes up the barrier and gives life and sentience.” She paused. “The creator gods used
ch’ul
to animate the maize people, creating mankind. Next to the gods, only a special sort of mage called a
ch’ulel
can directly manipulate
ch’ul
.”

Sasha pulled her sleeve down over the glyph. “I thought all of the magi could wield the barrier energy.”

“Every mage can use the power of the
ch’ul
contained within the barrier. But only a
ch’ulel
can alter the flow of
ch’ul
within living things, including plants and people.” Anna paused. “There are only a couple of references to the
ch’ulel
, all Mayan, not Nightkeeper. In one of them, she’s called the daughter of the gods.”

“Oh.” Sasha hugged herself, trying not to shiver.

Anna stepped closer and reached out to rub Sasha’s shoulder gently.

The supportive, almost maternal gesture unaccountably made Sasha want to weep.
No time for this
, she reminded herself.
Rabbit needs help
. “That’s what you want me to do? Alter his energy flow?”

“The
ch’ulel
is a positive force, which means you can give energy, maybe in certain cases siphon it from one place to another, but only when it is freely given. You can’t take life away . . . but you might be able to give it. On the most basic level, you should be able to promote growth and healing . . . which would also be consistent with the whole ‘defying death’ part of the triad prophecy.”

Sasha closed her eyes on a messy wash of guilt and pain. “Ambrose was right about that, too. I was supposed to be a doctor, not a chef. I even screwed that part up.”

“Or else,” Anna said reasonably, “your love of food is integral to your ability with plants, which is part of being a
ch’ulel
. For all we know, you access your gifts through food sacrifice rather than blood.”

Sasha swallowed hard. “I’m going to need time to practice, time to figure out how to use . . .” She faltered, the concepts of
ch’ul
and
ch’ulel
too big for her to even conceive. How, exactly, was she supposed to deal with the idea of controlling the flipping Force? She wasn’t Yoda, for chrissake.

“The other magi found their talents naturally,” Jox assured her. “Strike performed his first ’port blind, the day the barrier reactivated. It eventually brought him to Leah. Patience first blinked invisible to protect the twins. Nate became the Volatile to save Alexis. You’ll do fine.”

“They were all trying to reach or protect the people they love,” Sasha pointed out. “I’ve barely met Rabbit.”

“True, but you and he have shared a mental link twice now,” Jox pointed out. “We’re hoping that’ll help.” The
winikin
leveled a look at her. “You have to at least try.”

Aware that Myrinne had slitted her eyes and was glaring at her, Sasha glanced down at Rabbit. He had quieted, and now lay still. But not in a good way. Instead of looking peaceful, he looked . . . absent. As if there were nobody home inside his head or body. “Of course.”

“Do you want me to get Michael?” Jox asked quietly. “Strike and Anna should be able to boost you through your shared bloodline, but we already know for certain that you and Michael are compatible.”

Magically, anyway
, Sasha thought. But she nodded. “He’s either down by the ball court or on his way back to his suite. I’d bet he’s still out at the court.” She wasn’t going to jeopardize whatever chance she might have to help Rabbit just because she’d rather not be around Michael.

“Anna and I will link with you, too,” Strike said. It was more a statement than an offer, but if Sasha had been inclined to demur, one look at his and Anna’s faces would’ve changed her mind. They were worried as hell about the young man, whether or not his girlfriend saw or believed it.

She nodded. “When Jox gets back with Michael, we’ll uplink.” The words seemed strange coming off her tongue. It took her a moment to realize the oddity came from the utter lack of disconnect within her. She’d bought into the magic, bought into her new life. She wasn’t worried about escaping, denying, or even really understanding what was going on. Her greatest fear at that moment was failing the young man lying too still on the bed, stretched out flat with his arms at his sides, like he’d already gone to corpse.

“What exactly happened?” she asked.

There was a pause while Strike and Anna looked at Myrinne, who played dead. Or maybe she really was dozing; Sasha wasn’t sure. Shaking his head, Strike turned back and said, “He was trying to help us out and things backfired. Literally.” He went on to describe what had happened, presumably as relayed by Myrinne.

“The spell is basic occult,” Sasha said.

Anna nodded. “It shouldn’t have done anything, really. My guess is that he got into his own powers, which he isn’t supposed to be able to touch with the mental filters in place, and now he’s trapped behind the blocks.”

Strike frowned. “But he installed the damn things. And he was up and walking for a while after the spell, so I’m not sure that makes sense.”

Anna faced her palms to the sky in a “who knows?” gesture, then turned expectantly to Sasha. Strike did the same, so they were both looking at her, waiting for a miracle.

Sasha’s heart lumped in her throat. “I can’t promise anything.”

“Just do your best,” Strike said softly. “That’s all any of us can do.”

Nodding and taking a deep breath that did jack shit to settle her nerves, Sasha moved to the side of the bed. Rabbit looked like he could’ve been any of the young guys, more balls than brains, that she’d worked with in a dozen kitchens. Yet according to the stories, he was the most powerful of the magi, an unpredictable half-blood with a good heart and bad luck.

Gods
, she thought, for the first time sending her thoughts outward, winging toward the sky, hoping that somehow, somewhere, someone—or some
thing
—was listening.
Help me help this kid
. When that didn’t seem like nearly enough, she went a layer deeper.
Help me help the Nightkeepers
. And at that, she thought she felt a shimmer within, a faint hint of heat, a stir of echoes. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

Steeling herself, she touched Rabbit’s wrist, where the hellmark stood out in violent bloodred while the marks of the peccary, the warrior, and the fire starter were done in reassuring Nightkeeper black. When she opened herself up to the world around her, she felt . . . nothing special. His arm was just an arm, a little cooler than it maybe should’ve been, and faintly clammy. But beyond that? Not a damn thing. Remembering something she’d seen one of the village elders do as part of asking the gods to heal a dying woman, she said, “Is there any
chorote
left?”

“I’ll go get it,” Strike volunteered, and bolted. He returned a couple of minutes later with not just the sacred drink, but Michael and Jox, as well, making the room suddenly feel far more crowded than it had before, filled with Michael’s presence, and her deep desire not to have to deal with him just then.

But that was the coward’s way, she knew, and whatever her father had raised her to be, it wasn’t a wimp. So she watched him come through the door, forcibly banking the chemical reaction that had heat spiraling inside her at the sight of his broad shoulders and wide chest, which were draped now with a silky white button-down that he wore unbuttoned, showing a strip of ripped torso beneath. Bracing herself, she looked up and met his eyes. To her surprise—and faint disquiet—there was no sign of the wild violence that had blazed in him down at the ball court. There was only the man she’d come to know there at Skywatch, the one who’d found Ada for her, the one who’d followed her into the
nahwal
’s vision and saved her life a second time. This was the man she wanted, she realized, not that other, angrier part of him, the part he kept so well hidden most of the time. But what good did it do her to want only half of the man? It was impossible to take the good and ignore the bad. She’d learned that the hard way. Never mind the question of what, exactly, that anger meant.

He moved up beside her and looked down at her, eyes intent and shadowed with regret. “I’m sorry about before,” he said quietly, while the others pretended not to hear. “I should’ve—”

“We’ve been over this,” she interrupted. “I don’t want to hear it again. What I want is for you to shut up and bleed.”

His eyes flickered with surprise, and maybe a gleam of appreciation, but he said nothing, simply palmed his knife from his ankle sheath and held out the blade to her. She cut her palms and handed it back, and waited while he, Strike, and Anna all followed suit. Then Strike passed around the small thermos of
chorote
he’d snagged from the mansion, and they each took a sip. Sasha wasn’t sure when the magic started; one moment it was just there, humming at the back of her brain, sounding almost like a song, like the voice of the lover she wished Michael could have been for her.

Mimicking the ritual she’d watched the village healer perform, she let her blood fall into the half-full flask to mix with the remaining
chorote
. Then she uncovered Rabbit, who was clothed in only a pair of blue bike shorts. Even though he was a young man, his body showed the development of a Nightkeeper male, big and muscular. Sasha let drops of the blood-and-
chorote
mixture fall on his neck, and then on each of his shoulders, elbows, wrists, hips, knees, and ankles, the spots that made up the thirteen points of health in Mayan spiritual medicine.

Aware that Strike and Anna had already joined hands and uplinked, she held out her free hand, bleeding palm up. Strike took her hand, blood-to-blood.

The contact rocketed through her, a potent combination of heat and power, and a warm sense of something that she didn’t recognize. Something that might’ve been family. She heard their songs playing through the contact: Strike was a trumpet fanfare; Anna was strings and a woman singing softly in an unfamiliar language. Theme songs, she realized. Somehow, her brain was translating their
ch’ul
into song.

“Easy,” Strike said, his voice soothing. “We’ve got you.”

And they did, Sasha realized, feeling how Strike—
my brother
, she corrected inwardly, trying to get used to the idea—was regulating the power flow, buffering her from overloading with too much, too soon. She nodded her thanks.

Within the small, crowded room, Jox had faded into the shadows, standing apart from the magic, but ready to help if needed. Myrinne had given up all pretense of sleep; she was still curled in a protective ball, but her eyes were wide open, and fixed on Sasha. When their gazes connected, Sasha saw a mute plea beneath the sullen mistrust.
Help him
, the girl’s eyes said.
Don’t let him leave me here alone.
And damned if that didn’t resonate.

Sasha nodded again, though she wasn’t entirely sure what she was agreeing to. Without looking at Michael, she said, “Okay. Let’s do this.”

He moved up behind her, bracketing her body with his much larger one as he reached around her and placed his hands atop hers, one where she touched Rabbit, the other where she was linked with her brother and sister. Despite what had happened between them earlier, she had to force herself not to lean back into Michael’s reassuring warmth and solidity. For a moment, she felt nothing from him. Then a small shudder ran through his big frame, and the red-gold power flowed into her from him, sparking the kernel of magic at the back of her skull to a flame. Feeling self-conscious, she murmured, “
Pasaj och
,” gaining another layer of power from the barrier itself. For a moment the magic filled her up, threatened to spill over. She felt larger than herself, as though the skin stretched over her flesh and bones; it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation—it was just
full
.

She heard Strike’s and Anna’s music, heard the martial theme she’d begun to suspect was her own, though it didn’t seem to suit her, wasn’t what she would’ve picked for herself. She heard nothing from Michael, which was strange because she’d caught something off him earlier, back at the ball court. A creepy-crawly tracked down her spine when she remembered that had been when his eye were strange, the anger at its worst. Not wanting to analyze that any further, she focused on Rabbit, seeking to forge with him the same sort of link she shared with Strike and Anna, that of energy and music, and the reciprocal flow of what she thought might be
ch’ul
.

She got nothing. Rabbit was a blank. She got no music from him, no power. No energy flow. Nothing. It was like she was touching a piece of furniture. Or a corpse, she thought, shivering a little. “I can’t find his music,” she said softly. “Where is it?”

“What music?” Strike asked.

“I think that’s how my brain translates
ch’ul
—as music, though gods know why, given that I can’t carry a tune in a freaking bucket. Anyway, everyone I’ve touched since coming out of the ceremony—and a few people beforehand, as well—has given me a sense of . . . a theme song, I guess you’d call it.” She paused. “Jox’s is low and twangy; Strike’s has trumpets blowing a fanfare.” She didn’t mention the inconsistency of Michael’s theme. “I think I need to find Rabbit’s song in order to channel him our energy and call him back.”

She wasn’t sure that would make any sense, the way she’d said it, but Strike nodded. “I visualize a yellow thread connecting me to my ’port destination, and give it a mental ‘yank’ to initiate the magic. I think our minds come up with ways to interpret the magic within a paradigm that makes sense to our brains, using our experiences. For me it’s string; for you it’s music.”

“So what am I supposed to do, sing to him?” she asked, looking down at Rabbit, who was too pale, his skin verging almost on gray.