Aeonian Dreams (Zyanya Cycle Book 2)
Page 18
Anger welled up within him, and he struggled to hold it back. Scowling, he moved to walk past her, but she grabbed his arm.
“You hold us back, Miguel. We could all live in comfort and plenty if you could just get over yourself.”
He jerked his arm out of her grasp and stalked out. Theron immediately chastised his behavior. Rude, uncaring, ungrateful, slovenly, slothful. Theron’s will beat against him, pushing him to withdraw, to hide from the onslaught, but Mikhael knew that every bit he gave was a bit of himself he would never regain. And so he bore it in stubborn silence.
Chapter 18
1757 - Maracaibo
Emelia stood before the mirror in her room with her heart in her throat as her maid fussed with her hair and Nora went on about which jewelry she should wear.
“I think you ought to wear this one; it’ll match the blue of your dress,” Nora said, holding up yet another necklace. Emelia barely noticed as she fiddled with the gorgeous mantilla in her hands, specially ordered from Spain for her quinceañera ball.
“How can you stand the excitement?” Nora continued. “After tonight, you’ll be able to court and attend the balls and parties, and speak with all the handsome young men. And best of all, tonight they’re all here just for you. And the dancing ….” Nora sighed.
It was the dancing that had Emelia’s nerves on edge. She was sure of the steps; that would be no trouble, but … what about dancing with Álvaro? Her heart fluttered, and she felt sick to her stomach. What if he wouldn’t dance with her?
“Emelia,” her mother said gently, taking the mantilla. “Relax. You’re beautiful and everything will be fine.”
How did she know? How could she possibly know? Mama had Papa, who loved her and was devoted to her. She never had to stand, waiting nervously for the one she wanted to speak to her, frightened that he wouldn’t and terrified that he would.
She tried to focus on the ceremony, to put him from her mind, but it only worked until she stood outside the ballroom at Casa de la Cuesta as her attendants were announced before her. Finally, she was called in, escorted by her father.
After the traditional dancing and toasts, the young men and women took the floor, and Emelia was immediately sought by suitors. She smiled and thanked each one after each dance, and found that she felt she was truly herself. During a pause, she looked for Álvaro and found him dancing with Delores Garcia. He saw her and gave a sheepish smile and winked, and it made her laugh as her most recent dance partner returned with her drink. He asked about it and she waved it away, changing topics. As they stood there, more suitors joined them one by one. Emelia blushed when she noticed and clung to her glass, afraid of getting pounced on if she set it down.
One of the men at her side asked a question, and she turned to respond. When she turned back, Álvaro was there with his dark hair and lively green eyes, reaching for her.
“Senorita, if I may have this dance?”
Without thinking, Emelia took his hand, handing her glass to whomever would take it and then they were on the floor. She curtsied as the music began and looked up into his eyes. Had he always been taller than she? As they moved through the dance, he sang softly to her.
“I liked, but never loved, before I saw thy charming face. Now every feature I adore, and dote on every grace. She shall never know the kind desire which her cold look denies, unless my heart that’s all on fire should sparkle through my eyes. Then, if no gentle glance return, a silent leave to speak. My heart would forever burn, alas, I must sigh and break ....”
The dance seemed to go on forever, and every time their hands touched it felt like magic. She tried to say something to him. Anything, really, but her heart was too full of joy at the moment to allow her to breathe, let alone speak. Instead, she soaked up the sound of his singing, the melody made just for her.
All too soon it ended, and he held his arm out to her.
“Shall we get some air?” he asked. Emelia nodded.
As they moved toward the balcony, Abuelita Olivia angled toward them.
“That was some lovely dancing,” Abuelita said, with what sounded suspiciously like genuine approval.
Emelia raised a skeptical eyebrow. Abuelita never gave such easy praise unless she wanted something.
“Thank you,” Álvaro said with a nod, “but it was due mostly to my lovely and talented partner.”
“Of course,” Abuelita said as Emelia blushed. “May I be so cruel as to steal her from you for a moment?”
“If you must.” Álvaro grinned and gave Emelia a wink which said “Good luck” before continuing without her.
“What a nice young man he is turning out to be,” Abuelita said, watching him go. “Looks more like his father every day.”
Emelia nodded. There were portraits of his parents in the house, but she thought he looked a lot like his mother, too.
“How is your evening going, my dear?” her grandmother prompted.
“Well.” Emelia glanced around to see who Álvaro had paired off with.
“What has been your favorite part so far?”
“Dancing.” Emelia was already annoyed at being held up so long.
“I have been speaking with your mother, and now that you are a young lady — Emelia, are you listening?”
“Hmm?” Emelia dragged her eyes back to her grandmother.
“Your mother and I think that you should come live with me here, at Casa de la Cuesta.”
Emelia’s attention snapped to her grandmother. “What?”
“It’ll just be you and your sister at first, of course. But your mother and father will return as soon as things at the Álvarez estate are settled.”
“But why would I come here?” Emelia liked the plantation well enough, but the Álvarez hacienda was her home.
“Why, because it is your home. Your mother grew up here, and it will be her inheritance when Belo and I die, and it will be yours and Leonora’s some day, too.”
Emelia’s head spun. She’d always known, of course, that the hacienda belonged to Álvaro, but had never thought she’d need to leave. The idea was as strange as a person flying.
“What of Álvaro?” Emelia asked. “Surely he won’t want to live here.”
“And why should he?” she responded tartly. “There’s no reason he should leave his home.”
Abuelita Olivia excused herself to talk with someone else, leaving Emelia stunned. Did Álvaro know yet? What would it be like, living in a new place? Emelia searched the dancing couples for Álvaro. She needed to talk to him, her thoughts racing between excitement and trepidation.
She caught his eye, as he turned through a form with one of his partners, and nodded toward the balcony. He grinned before turning back to his partner, and Emelia made her way out to wait for him.
The air outside was a nice reprieve from the warmth, bustle, and noise of the ballroom. She leaned against the bannister, her back to the door, and looked at the gardens below. The pathways were lit here and there, but the moonlight cast enough light to illuminate the occasional couple strolling along the paths.
“Can you imagine the stories those gardens could tell?” she asked as Álvaro came to stand beside her.
“Probably the same story over and over,” he said with a shrug. They fell into a comfortable silence as the musicians started another song inside.
“Have they told you yet?” she ventured after another minute.
“Told me what?”
“We’re moving out of the hacienda, my sister and I. Mama and Papa will, too, once you’re old enough to live there alone.” She watched him, trying to gauge his reaction. He betrayed nothing as he continued to look out to the gardens.
“No, they hadn’t told me, but I always knew it would happen.”
“What do you mean?”
He leaned more heavily on his elbows before responding. “Everybody leaves eventually.”
Emelia remained quiet, knowing he had more to say and that if she spoke he wouldn’t say it.
“Before that ….” He turned and leaned back against the bannister, shaking his head.
“What?”
“Naw, it’s stupid.” He took her hand. “Come on. Let’s go dance again.”
“Not until you tell me,” she said with a playful smile.
He gave her an appraising look. “You’ll laugh.”
“I won’t.” She made a deliberately serious face and he grinned despite himself. Emelia touched his shoulder. “I promise I won’t.”
Álvaro tilted his head toward the sky, fidgeting with her hand. “When I was little I used to dream that I could hear my mother singing to me in my sleep. I could never bring myself to believe that she was really gone so long as I could hear her. Sometimes I even thought I heard her when I was awake, encouraging me, and I always knew she loved me. Then, all at once, it stopped.”
“We all imagine things. Maybe you just grew out of it —”
“I didn’t imagine it, Emelia. It just stopped, all at once, like a blanket yanked off on a chilly morning. And I knew. I knew this time that she was really gone.”
Emelia didn’t know what to say. Álvaro would never lie to her, or make something like that up but … the idea that he’d been visited by his mother’s ghost. It made her smile.
“Well, come on then,” she said, taking his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She led him through the doors, and from there he led her back to the floor.
***
The pyre burned the corpse of the young woman Mariah and Sophus had just fed from, in a hidden room saved for just that purpose. Mariah stood as far back from the flame as she could while still tending to it. It was a thankless, miserable task, but it was hers to do. The flames still made her stomach drop away with fear of what might happen if they touched her, but somehow they were calming at the same time, allowing her to think.
The sickness that had run rampant among the women in their household before had never gone away, never even lessened. Hoping that giving her responsibilities would bring Mariah back to herself, Sophus had given her the task of disposing of the bodies. He insisted that burning them was the only safe way to do so. This she did with the same ease, efficiency, and listlessness that she had for anything else.
Mariah recalled a time not long after her return when Sophus had come to her, concerned about her health.
“You look as though you’ve had the life sucked out of you,” he’d tried to joke.
“I have,” she said simply, shrugging and staring at the wall behind him.
“Come, now.You have done great things! You have helped ensure the continued freedom of the Wayuu and worked to maintain our home. You should take pride in your accomplishments,” he’d said, stroking her cheek.
“I have no pride,” she said flatly, ignoring his advances.
“You should let me put fire back into your soul,” Sophus said, pulling her close to him. When she did not resist, he kissed her, deeply and passionately. But even that had failed to stir any life in her. When he released her, she had sagged slightly and dropped her gaze to the floor.
“It will get better with time, mi corazón,” he had reassured her, lifting her chin to look into her eyes. “I can see that you are broken, and your spirit lies in pain, but it is not dead. It will come back, eventually. I can wait.”
She might have rebelled at the thought, if she had cared. But she did not.
The fire warmed her skin though she stood as far from the pyre as the room allowed. As long as she kept her distance from the fire, she could control her fear. The fear made her feel alive, and Mariah had no wish to feel at all. She did not dream anymore, either. The last time she had pulled her courage together to face the dream world again, she had been swamped by the shadows and the blood.
Mariah hardly needed to leave her body now, anyway, to know that the spirit of the young woman stood beside her, watching her mortal shell be consumed by the flames. Sometimes the ghosts lingered; other times they rushed away to reunite with their families. Mariah never bothered trying to talk to them. Not even to the ancient shadow of the woman who wandered the halls. Once they had crossed paths in the halls, and the woman had met her gaze. Mariah had frozen at the look, and they had stared at each other for a long time, the woman scrutinizing Mariah’s dead eyes. Finally, the woman had reached out as though to touch Mariah’s face, and Mariah had jerked away. The ghost had disappeared, but Mariah thought she heard the echo of the woman’s voice, a whisper through time. I’m sorry ….
“It is happening again,” Mariah said out loud as the door behind her opened.
“What is?” old Wuchii asked. If she was surprised that Mariah had spoken first, she did not show it.
“The influx of women has tapered off. There are more dying than joining us,” Mariah answered flatly. “Soon, Lord Sophus will go out again to stir up trouble, and I will again be his Ángel de la Muerte. It will happen again and again until there are none left.”
“No, it won’t,” Wuchii said, her old, shaky voice filled with certainty.
“How can you know that?” Mariah asked, despair beginning to color her voice.
“Because, for the first time in years, I hear emotion in your voice,” Wuchii said warmly. “Because you will stop it.”
“What makes you think I could do anything?” Mariah asked, turning back to the flames.
“You will because you are the last of the Zyanya line. You are destined to destroy them. And I have faith in you,” Wuchii said with a shrug and walked away.
Mariah stood alone, watching the fire until it died, thinking of what Wuchii had said. What did her being Zyanya have to do with anything? She shook her head. It had been years. It was clear in the faces of the women around her. Most of the women who’d been here when Mariah had first come were dead, and the ones who remained had aged considerably, Wuchii being the most prominent example. Mariah feared that her old friend wouldn’t be around for more than a few more years. Even Iráma was getting old, her confident step a little less sure, her movements a little less graceful, her dark hair long since streaked with gray.
But Mariah had remained the same, frozen in perfection at twenty years. How old would she have been had she not changed? Thirty? Forty? The years flew by so quickly, and she had long since lost track. Mariah returned to her room lost in thought.
There was a knock on the door and Mariah looked up as Iráma let herself in.
“Wuchii tells me there is life in you again,” Iráma stated as she closed the door behind her.
“It is happening again, but I don’t want to do it again,” Mariah confessed to her aged friend. They stood in silence for a while until Mariah continued. “I saw them, Iráma. I saw the spirits of the dead before I left. So many of them were men I had killed. They follow me still, and I can feel them in the corners, waiting in the shadows. Their blood stains my hands.” Mariah held up her clean, pale hands to show her friend.
“I know,” Iráma said as she sat down next to Mariah, putting her arm around her shoulders. “You must do what needs to be done. You are our only hope of freedom. If not for us, then for our children, and if not our children then our children’s children. When the time is right, you will free us.”
“How?” Mariah could not keep the hopelessness out of her voice. “I could never beat Sophus in a match of physical strength, nor could I outmaneuver him in a battle of wits.”
“After all these years, you know more of your opponent than you give yourself credit for. Things will come together in your favor. You will see,” Iráma said, giving Mariah’s shoulders a squeeze, as much as one could squeeze a rock.
“And even if I did get Sophus out of the way, what of Theron? He controls the bodies of three, where I a
m only one.”
“Then you will simply need to even the odds.”
“How? I feel like such a child, so sheltered and ignorant.” Mariah stood up and looked back at Iráma.
“When one of our people needs advice, they seek the wisdom of a village elder. In your case, there is only one who could help you,” Iráma said with a cryptic smile. Mariah thought about all the elders she had known; most of them were probably dead by now. Which one could possibly know anything about vampires or have the skills to help her destroy them? Amused at Mariah’s puzzlement, Iráma stood and walked to the door. She paused as she opened it and turned back to Mariah. “You really can’t think of one?”
Mariah shook her head.
“Why, the Old One, of course.” Iráma chuckled and shut the door behind her, leaving Mariah alone again.
Mariah felt as though a flicker of light had flashed in the darkness. Did she mean Kasha? But where would she find her? One of the villages, probably. For the first time in nearly a decade, Mariah’s spirit lifted her head from the floor in her mind, eyeing the scrap of light, flickering through the looming shades. She could still feel the blood, fresh and flowing, that covered her like a cocoon of condemnation. For the first time, rather than hide from it, Mariah ignored it. Might there be hope after all? Perhaps Kasha would have some answers, but if she didn’t ….
The light within guttered like a candle in the wind as Mariah shrank from the thought that she might never be free. What if her hope was false? What if the pain of the deaths she had caused never ceased?
But what if it worked? She had to try, didn’t she? The light within stabilized as Mariah stood up straight and looked out at the world with her head held high, her emotions still held in check behind a still-solidifying wall. What if it worked?
Mariah put her hair up with more care than she had for a long time. She donned a dress she had no memory of having worn before and matching jewelry that she couldn’t remember receiving. It was time. She walked down the hall towards Sophus’s chambers, and the women stopped what they were doing to stare. Most had never seen her like this before, full of life and purpose. It was an astonishing difference from the ghost of a woman, haunted and sad, whom they had always seen before. Her eyes were still haunted, but they were the eyes of a woman determined to free herself from her prison.