Текст книги "Irregulars "
Автор книги: Astrid Amara
Соавторы: Nicole Kimberling,Ginn Hale,Josh lanyon
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 32 страниц)
Chapter Six
Deven rarely dreamed about sex.
After all, his experience was limited. Lord Jaguar had granted him access to one of his human sacrifices prior to her demise, and that had been a humiliating and awkward encounter that had gone nowhere.
On San Juan Island a visiting tourist named Christopher, who was about Deven’s age, once spent an afternoon fishing with him and later the two had drinks and he had done marvelous things to Deven’s body. But that was it for Deven. It wasn’t as though either experience had proceeded according to his own design.
Which was why it was so strange to wake up with his thoughts heated and a raging hard-on. All night he’d been haunted by the feel of a human caress, the soft, wet pressure of a kiss, so rare and pleasing. He wanted to be touched, to be devoured. He yearned for human contact so strongly he nearly gasped as he awoke, blinking up at the strange hotel ceiling.
Light poured into the room from the edges of the curtains. Deven glanced at the clock and saw it was a little past eight in the morning. He was surprised he had been allowed to sleep in so late.
He moved slowly in the bed, willing his erection to go away on its own. He didn’t have the privacy to take care of it; although judging by the unmoving form on the bed next to his, he expected Agent August was sound asleep.
Deven swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched. His hip didn’t hurt at all; a quick glimpse revealed only a yellow bruise at the site of impact.
Quietly, he padded to the bathroom. He showered his pixie-offending smell off. Since he hadn’t brought a comb, he used his fingers to brush down the damp strands of his spiky black hair. It was getting long, beginning to tickle the nape of his neck, but after years of having his head shaved by Lord Jaguar’s slaves, it felt nice to leave his scalp alone for a while. His green eyes looked oddly luminescent in the low light of the bathroom, especially against his light brown skin.
He examined the collection of toiletries August had brought with him and sprayed some of his deodorant on in the hopes of remaining offense-free for the rest of the morning.
He changed into a clean clothes, but none of this roused Agent August, whose back was turned to Deven’s bed and who lay curled under the covers like a child. Deven loaded his trouser pockets with gear he thought he’d need for the day—his obsidian mirror, a selection of knives, summoning papers, a book of matches. He made sure his pen was still wrapped in his hair and tucked behind his right ear and pocketed his sunglasses.
He tucked the thin piece of jaguar skin into his pocket last, as if embarrassed. It was almost as if he heard his therapist’s reprimands in his head.
There was still no movement from the agent. It was nearing nine o’clock. Bored, Deven decided the man had slept enough and moved to shake him awake.
Deven stopped beside the bed, however, taking in the sight of August asleep. He looked much sweeter without his sardonic sneer. His lips were flushed pink, his eyelashes long and dark against his pale skin. His high cheekbones gave his face a chiseled, statuesque appearance. An explosion of black curls covered his pillow and only a hint of stubble darkened his chin.
He smelled sleepy and warm, and for a moment, Deven longed to stick his hands under the agent’s blankets, feel the body heat pocketed there. Aztaws were so cold and bony. As long as he had lived in their world, he had found their touch repulsive. Even when Lord Jaguar had gripped Deven’s arm in affection, the contact had been like metal prongs striving to reach bone.
“Agent August,” Deven whispered, touching the man’s shoulder. He gave it a little shake. “It’s nine.”
Nothing but the man’s slow, even breathing.
“Agent August?” Deven said louder. He shook harder.
August’s eyes snapped open. Deven pulled his hand back, ready in case August struck out in surprise.
August blinked at him sleepily. “Hi.”
Deven felt something heat inside him. “Hey.”
“What time is it?” August’s voice was rough with sleep. He rubbed his hand over his face.
“Nine o’clock.”
“Forgot to arrange a wake-up call.” He sat up, glanced around, and then clenched his eyes shut, looking pained.
“You okay?” Deven asked.
August nodded. “Yeah. Just remembered that Carlos is still dead.”
Deven tried to think of something sympathetic to say but drew a blank.
The agent padded to the bathroom, dressed only in a pair of tight boxers. Agent August had a very nice body, Deven realized. He also noted with interest that August, a man who packed a month’s worth of clothes, hadn’t brought anything but underpants to sleep in.
August disappeared into the bathroom and reemerged wearing a fresh suit, with a white dress shirt and dark black trousers that were so perfectly tailored it looked as if he’d been sewn into them.
“Coffee, then the field office,” August ordered. The shower and shave had clearly revived him, for now he was flinty-eyed and full of energy. “And take that damned knife out of your pocket before you kill anyone else.”
Deven pulled out his largest blade and left it on the table. He didn’t mention the other three he had concealed.
August plugged his phone into his laptop and downloaded the test results he’d run the night before. Like so many other things, the readout seemed to make him angry.
Deven glanced at the scatter plot himself. “What does it mean?”
“No fucking clue.” August shook his head. “I’ve never seen a reading like this, but someone at the office may have an idea.” He yanked his phone out of the port and dashed out the door. Deven rushed to keep up.
In the hotel cafe August ordered them both coffees. August’s was pale brown with milk that smelled burned. Deven had his black. Coffee had been the great joy of his life upon returning to the natural world. He loved the bitterness and the aroma. This coffee, however, made him long for the small coffee shop he’d grown accustomed to in Friday Harbor.
The thought was an odd one, and he smiled to himself. It was the first time he had considered the Pacific Northwest as a place he might miss.
But he had no time to linger on such thoughts because August was growling at someone on his phone and rushing out the hotel doors. The same black sedan from the day before waited for them in the circular drive of the hotel, with the same driver.
“Embassy,” August ordered the driver, sliding inside.
“Hello,” Deven offered the driver. The man didn’t respond. Deven figured he was used to being barked at.
“72 doesn’t speak,” August told Deven.
“What?”
August nodded at the driver. “Refugee from starys. No vocal cords. Air too dense for sound waves or something.”
Deven studied the driver more closely. He appeared perfectly human. He would never have guessed the man wore a human body as a disguise. The driver met his eyes in the rearview mirror and smiled.
There was a deep chasm in his mouth, like looking down into the pit of hell. Distant echoes of screams seemed to fill the vast red space between his teeth. For a moment, Deven thought he saw the flicker of a small body writhing, impaled on one of the driver’s shiny white teeth.
Deven’s skin went clammy. He quickly looked away.
August chuckled. “Poor 72. That happens all the time. It’s why he’s stuck working for us. No masking spell is strong enough to hide how damned weird the starys are.”
The driver flipped August his middle finger, then pulled into traffic.
The drive to the US embassy was short. Blue uniform-clad and armed security guards surrounded the embassy. The sedan pulled under the green front awning of the building and August jumped out, with Deven close behind. They didn’t enter the embassy through the front. Instead, they walked around the building to a blocked-off alley, also guarded by wary security.
There were a few angled parking spaces with cars in them. August stopped beside a nondescript white SUV with tinted windows. He reached into his suit jacket pocket and pulled out a keyless remote. The SUV clicked and the lights flashed.
“Get in,” August said. He opened the back door. Deven climbed inside.
There were no backseats in the car. Instead, a gray-carpeted hatch lay on the floor of the vehicle. August lifted the hatch open to reveal a staircase.
“Down you go,” August ordered.
Deven cautiously made his way down the steep stairs, hand twitching for his knife. He heard a shrill beep as August locked the car again and saw him shut the hatch above them.
At the bottom of the stairs Deven found himself in a short office hallway. Gray carpet lined the floor. Pictures of eagles and dignitaries decorated the otherwise bland cream-colored walls.
“Why doesn’t NIAD have its own office in Mexico City?” Deven asked.
“Mexico isn’t a member nation of NATO,” August replied. “So our activities have to fall under the purview of the US government while we’re here.”
August directed Deven through a series of corridors until they reached a solid metal door with a plaque that had NIAD—Mexico City Field Office engraved upon it. August spat on his palm, gripped the door handle, and opened the door.
Inside, it looked exactly like any busy office. Men and women in suits fixed their attention on computer screens, filed papers, and carried boxes. Most were Mexican, but there were other nationalities as well, judging by looks, and a gentleman standing near a photocopier had an unpleasant greenish hue to his skin.
Deven had a sudden urge to shine August’s special flashlight in his face and see what he was.
As they wandered through the labyrinth of offices, storage rooms, restroom facilities, and an employee break lounge, a sense of déjà vu hit Deven and he realized he’d been here before. A little over a year ago, when he’d begged for political asylum, he’d been taken here.
But he had barely been able to see back then, his eyes burning from so much light after thirteen years of darkness. Now, however, with the gift of full sight, Deven found the place less intimidating, more mundane. Last year it had represented a great failure—a reluctant refuge that embodied his guilt at leaving Jaguar’s dynasty behind in their greatest need.
But now it was only an office. He was relieved that bad memories didn’t linger here the way they did in other parts of his mind. Several of the people they passed offered him curious smiles. Some nodded to August as well, but others glanced away from the agent or outright ignored him. He was clearly a man respected and hated in equal terms.
They stopped in a room labeled Magical Forensics that resembled the merging of a sterile laboratory and a junkyard. Advanced, shiny equipment sat upon clean white counters along one wall; the rest of the room overflowed with an assortment of boxed oddities, pouring from their containers like the contents of a child’s play box. Little was recognizable; something that resembled a Gatling gun was propped against a wall. Another box seemed to be filled with what looked like dead puppies.
A young woman in a lab coat was busy reading a computer screen when they entered, but she glanced up and smiled at August as soon as the door shut.
“Hi, Elia,” August said. “I need you to look at something for me.”
“Sure. How are you holding up?” she asked.
“Fine.” August’s mouth formed a tight line. He handed her his phone. “This is from a bruise on Carlos’s body. Can you interpret the pattern?”
Elia took the phone, but her eyes kept darting over to Deven. “You haven’t introduced me to your friend, Silas,” she said.
“Deven, this is Elia Nogales, forensics. Elia, this is Deven Shaw, a special consultant on Aztaw.”
“Hi.” Deven hesitated, then stepped forward and offered his hand. Elia shook it softly, a big smile on her face, until she spotted the scar on his neck. The smile faltered slightly as she let go of his hand.
“The analysis matches the spread on an object that came in from Carlos’s apartment,” Elia said. She lifted a small baggie out of the white cardboard box on the table beside her. “Blood and bone remnants found at the murder site, belonging to Carlos. A fragment of obsidian has a similar spectrum.”
“Can you define it?” August asked.
“I’m working on it.”
The lab door opened and Agent Klakow entered, wearing the same suit he had on the day before but looking more comfortable in the air-conditioned underground office.
“Local team got the identity on last night’s corpse,” Klakow said. He offered Deven a smile. “How you doin’?”
“Good.” Deven didn’t miss the way August’s back stiffened at the sound of Klakow’s voice.
“Who was he?” August asked.
“Huezartzaw, alias Juan Lopez, registered Aztaw refugee, legally here. His masking spell and movements all check out.” Klakow shook his head. “You shouldn’t have killed him.”
Deven opened his mouth to apologize, but August cut him off. “When I need your opinion I’ll ask for it.”
“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Klakow glared at August, and Deven realized he must have thought August was responsible for stabbing the Aztaw.
“I’m the one—” he started.
“When had the refugee last been to Aztaw?” August interrupted, giving Deven a sharp look.
“He traveled between the Aztaw realm and his apartment in Itzapalapa regularly and had returned from Aztaw two days before.” Klakow turned to Deven. “Agents Ortega and Zardo went to his apartment last night. They found pictures of you.”
“Me?” Deven asked.
Klakow nodded. “A ton of them. A copy of your flight itinerary too. We must have a leak in the agency for that to have gotten out.”
“He was trying to scare me away from descending into Aztaw,” Deven said. “He must have had orders from whichever lord he’s still loyal to.”
August frowned. “Still?”
“Most soldiers supported the defeat of the lords and the rise of the common Aztaw,” Deven explained, “but some vassals remained faithful to their lords and dynasties. If this soldier served a house rival to Jaguar’s, he might have had instructions to keep an eye out for my return to Mexico City and to prevent me from descending.”
“Why?” Klakow asked.
“It’s irrelevant to this case,” August snapped. He looked to Elia. “So? It’s supernatural?”
Elia nodded. She held out a printout from the box. “See the pattern? It looks like filaments were tied to the skin cells, tracing to an unseen source. It’s a remnant of magic from a hidden realm, but I can’t tell you which one.”
“A hidden realm.” August frowned. He was quiet for a moment, then turned to Deven. “We need to try and figure out what Carlos and Beatriz were trying to see. That would help us pinpoint which realm to search in for their killer. Can you do the same vision serpent spell?”
“Of course.”
“Would we see what Carlos and Bea were trying to discover?”
Deven frowned. “It would be hard to know exactly what they were trying to find, but if I can look again at what they used to make the spell, I might be able to limit the focus.”
Elia motioned toward the box. “Everything with a spectral trace is in here, except for the dead birds. We saved a sample of the collection in the morgue if you need those.”
Deven rifled through the box. He removed the bloodletting cord and the remnants of burned papers. He tried to unfold them, but they broke apart in his hands.
He sorted through the material until he found a small fragment of bone. It glowed faintly, not enough to be noticed in a bright room but enough that when Deven cupped his hands he could see the faint light.
“Aztaws always glow?” August asked.
Deven nodded.
“No wonder Jaguar wanted you as an assassin. You could hide in the dark.”
“They can see in the dark,” Deven clarified. “In fact, most lords have the power to quench all light, natural or mechanical, since it hurts their eyes. But it still proved an advantage.” Deven swallowed, thinking of Jaguar’s training, then shook his head. “This is all we need.” He gathered the bone and the cord and the dented copper bowl for good measure.
August grabbed a small medical kit from the counter, then waved to Elia. “We’re done. Thanks.”
She nodded back shyly. “You have my condolences, for Carlos.” She touched August’s sleeve.
August’s jaw clenched tightly. He nodded.
Elia smiled. “At least he died doing something he believed in.”
August eyes narrowed. “What?”
Elia looked embarrassed. “He was doing important work. And he—”
“Do you know how Carlos wanted to die?” August interrupted. “The same way I do. Old, in my bed, asleep.”
“Of course.” Elia had flushed bright red.
“His life was taken from him in violence. That’s about as awful as it gets.” He yanked open the door. “Come on, Deven.”
Deven followed, with a sympathetic look from Klakow.
“Don’t be his bitch,” Klakow muttered.
Deven said nothing in return, but he really wanted to tell the agent to fuck off. Instead he followed after August, who stormed down the long hallway like a man on a mission of murder. Deven hurried to catch up with him, anxious about getting lost in the labyrinth of similar-looking corridors.
As Deven fell in step alongside him, August said, “Don’t say anything about it.”
“Why would I?” Deven asked.
August ran a hand through his hair, causing his dark curls to stand on end, making him look wild. “I’m sick of people justifying what happened to Carlos as part of the job. That’s bullshit. I’m not willing to die for work.”
Deven said nothing, and this seemed to anger August more. “What? You agree with them?”
Deven shrugged. “Where I come from life means nothing, because the afterlife matters more. I saw humans murdered by the hundreds. I saw Aztaw soldiers killed in endless combat. I took their lives. And at any moment, I expected them to take mine.” Deven thought for a moment. “None of it meant anything there. But here, I think I see your point. Life is the only sure thing. It’s known, which makes it all that matters.”
August stared down at Deven with an expression similar to the one he’d had in the morgue the day before. His eyes were a little glassy.
“Come on,” Deven said, echoing what he was discovering were August’s favorite words. “Let’s find a nice, dark, quiet place to summon a vision serpent.”
August seemed to pull himself together. He nodded. “Dark, quiet place.”
“Preferably bigger than a closet,” Deven added.
August gave him a sideways glance. “Why, afraid of standing in the closet with me?”
Deven laughed at that. “No. Afraid the deodorant I stole from you this morning may be wearing off and you’ll find my smell offensive again.”
August smiled. Deven again marveled at how something as simple as a smile could bring such light to his eyes and completely transform his face. He really was quite gorgeous.
“I said you smelled, I didn’t say you smelled offensive.” August lowered his voice. “Quite the contrary. I like your smell.”
Deven felt the words sink into his stomach and roll there, warm and heavy.
August resumed his quick pace. “One stop at the armory, and off we go.”
Deven got to meet the odor-sensitive pixie August had mentioned the night before. Deven had never seen a pixie and was surprised by his size, having assumed he would have been small enough to fit in his hand.
Instead, the pixie was nearly Deven’s height, although his ageless body was thin and his skin nearly blue in color. He wore only a small loincloth and had iridescent wings, which increasingly flapped the more annoyed he got.
And annoyed he was. He begrudgingly shoved a set of freeze balls at Deven only after Agent August cut him off mid-curse and threatened to call in Director Alonsa, the head of the Mexican branch office. August grabbed a weapon for himself from an arms locker that was labeled “shard pistols.” Freshly armed, Deven wanted to test his new weapon, but August was determined to do the vision serpent spell as soon as possible.
72 drove them to a warehouse in an industrial part of the city. The boarded-up building appeared condemned; rusted and dented metal garage doors barred the entrance and a large Se Vende sign was nailed over the narrow windows.
72 opened the heavy padlock on the door and they stepped inside, where the building was revealed to be in good condition, brightly lit and clean. The large open space had little furniture, only a few folding chairs and a table set up in the corner, holding a flat of bottled water, a coffee maker, and what looked to be some dirty coffee mugs. The rest of the concrete floor was bare, although markings had been scrawled in a circle at one end and another end was scorched black with burn marks.
“You working for Agent Ortega today?” August asked 72, who nodded. August turned to Deven. “How long does this take?”
“About fifteen minutes to conjure. If we use our blood, the vision will last no longer than an hour.”
August nodded to 72. “Pick us up in two hours.”
72 nodded, his gaping, vacuous mouth echoing screams and chilling Deven. He relaxed once the driver was out of the building.
“Where are we?” Deven asked.
“Practice studio.” August shrugged out of his suit jacket. “It’s a safe environment for conjuring with wards around the facility to contain effects. The agency tries to set one up in every city they have a field office.” He threw his coat over the back of a folding chair. He leaned forward and sniffed at the coffee maker. Something about the odor made him back away. He nodded to Deven. “It’s your show, pretty boy.”
Deven scowled at the name but nevertheless pulled out what he’d taken from Carlos Rodriguez’s evidence box. He also removed conjuring papers from his pocket and matches.
He held out the thorn-threaded cord, a moment of nausea quickly pushed down after years of experience.
“You need blood, right?” August asked. He pulled out the pocket medical kit he’d taken from the forensics lab and rolled up his sleeves.
“Not from your arm.” Deven stopped him. “More effective from the tongue.”
August looked a little queasy at that. “Disgusting.”
“Aztaws usually take the blood from the penis.”
“No thanks.”
Deven handed August the copper bowl. “Hold this under my mouth.” He didn’t think about it. He tore the thorned cord quickly over the center of his tongue and pain choked him. Blood filled his mouth. He spat into the bowl and took it from August, holding it under his chin as he let the blood drip from his tongue.
August had a look of extreme distaste, grimacing at the bowl. “You don’t need that much blood to do a spell, you know.” He pulled a needle from the medical kit and examined it as if making sure it was clean. He pricked his finger, then took the bowl from Deven’s hands. “Our research department has shown most traditional spell casting uses far more blood than necessary. In actuality…” He squeezed the tip of his finger and several drops of blood fell into the bowl, mingling with Deven’s voluminous contribution. “Half a teaspoon will successfully fuel any magic and with less consequences.” He squeezed a few more drops into the bowl, then handed it back to Deven.
Deven glared. “You might have started that speech a minute earlier.” His words were garbled as he spoke around the swelling of his injured tongue.
August laughed, his eyes twinkling as he pulled a bandage from the kit and meticulously wrapped his index finger. He used his bandaged finger to point at Deven. “Less chance of infection too.”
“It was your friend’s thorned cord,” Deven reminded him.
“Actually, it was most likely Bea’s. She was researching links between Aztaw invasions in pre-Columbian Mexico and influences on indigenous culture. She loved old artifacts.”
Deven spat more blood on the floor as a response.
August walked over to the table and returned with a bottle of water. He handed it to Deven.
“Thank you.” Deven gratefully diluted the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. When the bleeding slowed enough, he held out his summoning papers. “If you’re ready, turn off the lights.”
August switched off the lights and moved to stand behind Deven. Other than the faint glow of an emergency exit sign in the back of the warehouse, the space blackened completely and Deven relaxed in the safety of darkness.
He poured their mingled blood over the papers, lit a match, and set them alight. At first the smoke sputtered, the paper soaked wet, but then a whiff of the smell reached the underworld and the paper burst aflame.
Deven dropped the fiery sheet into the copper bowl to burn up the rest of the blood. He pushed the bowl away and stepped back. August avidly observed his actions.
Deven had performed little magic in the natural world and for a moment he wondered if he’d done something wrong. Then a burst of smoke mushroomed from the flame and shadowy shapes filled the darkness. White smoke coiled, curling and expanding into a massive double-headed serpent, rearing on its tail from the flaming bowl. Its two skull heads turned, forked tongues reaching out to nearly lick their faces. The serpent grew to the ceiling of the warehouse.
Deven glanced at August to make sure he was all right. Deven had seen human captives faint dead away or go white, screaming at the sight of vision serpents. But August stared intently at the specter, not scared, simply looking like he was trying to figure it out. Deven felt oddly proud.
White smoke clearly defined one of the serpent’s heads, detailing each tooth and bone. But the other head wavered in smoke tendrils, barely formed as it peered into another world.
The head facing them hissed. Deven raised the Aztaw bone from Rodriguez’s apartment. “Show us what he died to hide,” he commanded in English and in Aztawi. He threw the bone at the serpent. The smoke rippled where the bone shot through the vision. The skull in the natural world pulled away and the obscured skull of the supernatural world turned to face them. Its jaws opened and dislocated, revealing what looked to be a filthy, dark Mexican alley. An Aztaw lord walked slowly through this alley, dragging one leg as he moved. His body rhythmically pulsed as if he were a walking heart. The vision of the lord was vivid, even in the dark, flickering only as air currents disturbed the smoke.
He was Aztaw, no doubt about it, but he didn’t look like any lord Deven had ever seen. Paper-thin, translucent skin stretched over his luminescent skull and spine, weathered with age. His face bones were painted in black and yellow stripes, and his eyes burned in their sockets, wide and lidless. His lipless mouth opened to reveal teeth sharpened into long fangs.
His left leg ended in a sandaled foot, but the right terminated at an exposed shin bone that scraped along the ground as the monster walked. He wore black and yellow Aztaw armor and carried a tall staff in one hand. In his other hand he held an axe with a handle as long as a man’s body. An obsidian mirror was strapped to the back of his head.
All Aztaw lords were terrible in appearance, but this one was particularly unusual because his flesh was so thin it revealed coursing red blood moving underneath the surface, pulsing around his spine. He resembled a fat, transparent tick, swollen on blood. Dozens of red arteries streamed out from his spine and stretched into the ether. The blood vessels hovered above the alleyway pavement, turning the corner as if the creature were the heart of a city-sized circulatory system. As he walked, dragging his right foot behind, his entire body pulsed and the blood under his skin pumped.
“Christ...” August blinked at the vision.
Deven recognized the black and yellow paint from oral legends. “Night Axe,” he said. “Lord of Hurricanes.”
The lord spun and stared straight at Deven, pupils contracting to pinpricks. His mouth opened wide, revealing sharp, jagged teeth.
Terror rushed through Deven. “He’s seen us!” He kicked over the copper bowl, spilling the remains of their blood onto the concrete.
“I thought it was only a vision,” August said.
“Somehow he knows we’re looking at him.” Deven cursed himself for not crafting a jade spell breaker. “Enough!” He waved at the vision serpent. “Turn your face away!”
But vision serpents were notoriously disobedient and the terrible image of Night Axe remained. The lord seemed to smile. His body throbbed as he pointed his staff directly at Deven. He dragged the sharp tip over his own neck in warning.
“Look away!” Deven commanded again, and at last the jaws of the vision serpent snapped shut. Its tongues hissed at Deven, screeching as it dissipated back into the copper bowl. The smell of sulfur and ozone permeated the air and soot scorched the back wall of the warehouse, forming a final, murky image of the serpent.
Deven breathed heavily. Fear tingled down his spine. Impossible.
“Shit.” He heard August curse somewhere off in the distance. Then the lights switched on. Deven covered his eyes with the palms of his hands.
“Is that what Aztaw lords look like?” August asked.
“No. He’s mutated.” Deven lowered his hands, wincing at the light.
“Do you know who he is?”
“Yes, but I don’t know how he could be here.”
August frowned. “Your hands are shaking.”
Deven swallowed. “Night Axe...he’s the bogeyman to Aztaws. And I’ve never seen any lord break through a vision spell and peer back at the spell caster like that.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means he’s here.” Deven fumbled on the ground for his bottle of water and took a deep gulp.
“Here?”
“He’s not on another plane. He’s here in Mexico City, hidden by magic but in the natural world.” Deven’s tongue throbbed angrily in his mouth.
August frowned. “So Carlos and Bea were trying to find out where he was?”
Deven nodded. “Yes, although why I have no idea.”
“Who is he?”
“He is the Lord of Hurricanes, although Night Axe is what Lord Jaguar always called him. Almost a thousand years ago, the lords banded together in a rare moment of unity to collectively exile Night Axe from Aztaw. Even by their standards he was considered too evil—reckless in his manipulation and excess. I’ve heard of him spoken of only in whispers, but he has many names. He’s the Trickster, the enemy, the Lord of the Smoking Mirror. His house power allows him to change his appearance, even mimic the shape, movement, and sounds of others. Doing so, he brings discord and deception wherever he goes. The lords exiled him for the unadulterated pleasure he gained by continuing a cycle of destruction. He once burned crops to purposefully bring famine to his own vassals. And when Aztaws suffered, he’d use his smoking mirror to reflect their pain and prolong their suffering.
