Surely, the man stuttered, you would set aside your wounded pride for the good of your —
Don’t tell me about pride! It only took those words, that outburst, which was really a cue, and the sisters fell into formation, clutching hands and letting the light pour through them in a collective roar. The whole hall flushed with that sudden surge, and for a few moments, no one could see anything.
These are my daughters, La Contessa said as the flash began to fade and the ambassador looked around, blinking and terrified. The Sisterhood of Sorrows. Keepers of the light, a quadrangle of power whose wrath you do not want to incur, believe me. Together with my own magic, it is they who will defeat the native insurrections you face and keep your slaves from rebelling. That is all that will stand between you and utter annihilation, hm?
María Cantara quieted the seething that erupted inside her. Soon, she thought. It wasn’t time yet, but soon it would be, and then she’d never have to perform this base charade again. And then she’d be free.
But, Contessa …
And in return, your regurgitated motherless King and Queen will reinstate my position in the courts and make me Regent Commander of this island, hm? You must think on it, yes? Check in with your superiors. Fine. Take one of my servants with you as a gesture of my goodwill, and when you have decided to grant me what you know I deserve, return him with the good news.
She motioned to Parada, a gardener, and María Cantara felt a cringe in the pit of her stomach. Parada had saved her life more than once, and he’d trained her to recognize and cultivate plants, to understand their subtle wants and needs, to harvest and nurture. He knew the secrets of lilies and azaleas, understood the quiet music of the trees. Plus, Parada was part of her and her father’s grand plan to topple La Contessa, and him being gone indefinitely would require them to rework everything.
But, Contessa, Parada complained, my wife has just given birth, and without me here, who will tend to your lush gardens and harvest fresh fruits and vegetables for your dinner?
Are you not my servant? La Contessa seethed. To do as I please with? Fine. You, Santo, go.
No! María Cantara knew she had made a terrible mistake as soon as the word left her lips, but it was already too late. In just that tiny moment, everything had come undone.
La Contessa snapped her head at the girl. She understood.
And it was over, just like that. All their planning, all their patience: dashed, because María Cantara had let loose that single word, and in so doing, smashed the delicate veneer of distance and obedience she’d worked so, so hard to create all this time.
Santo Colibrí saw it all too, saw his daughter’s disappointment in herself, saw the tragedy that was about to unfold, the unwinnable battle that lay ahead. La Contessa raised her arms, eyes narrowing at María Cantara, light gathering around her.
Attack! Santo yelled, and the world seemed to slow as bodies burst into motion around him.
The three Sorrows who weren’t María Cantara clenched hands and sent blast after blast of pale flashes of light into the hall, stunning and singeing and charring everyone in their path.
¡La bastarda! La Contessa yelled, and the three sisters turned against their own, brightness gathering. But María Cantara had been backing away slowly, her own powers swirling in an ever-brightening tornado.
Santo Colibrí watched in horror and admiration as his daughter seemed to catch fire within a blast of heavenly light while arrows and spears shrieked through the air. And then, with a magnificent burst, the burning spire around her unleashed and boomed outward, and the sound of crumbling walls, pounding feet, and screams took over the world.
Ven a los cuatro caminos, a los cuatro caminos ven …
The song a gentle whisper in her mind, and then her own voice singing sloppily on top of it, the lyrics and melody muddled.
Donde los poderes se unen y se hacen uno.
She was no longer within the palace; the warm, musty smell of soil let her know. And somewhere, not far away, garlic simmered in oil.
Mira cómo mis enemigos caen.
Mientras mi voz de espíritu grita.
When she opened her eyes, though, it wasn’t the sunlight cutting through the cool forest canopy that greeted her.
Hello, she said to Death. I haven’t seen you in a while.
Truth was, the girl and the towering collector of souls had spent many, many nights side by side at the balcony, gazing out at the dark forest. But once María Cantara had allowed herself to be initiated into La Contessa’s Sisterhood of Sorrows, Death had simply stopped showing up. María Cantara didn’t mind — she’d more or less known it would happen, and she figured that once she completed her sabotage and stole off to the wide world, Death would come back.
She just never expected it to be so soon.
Those robes gathered in languid, almost fluid folds, like the slow drip of molasses, and they expanded ever outward: Everything was darkness except the stark glimpses of bone grinning endlessly beneath the cowl.
My child.
Am I? María Cantara wondered out loud.
Death replied with only one word, a name: Lucera.
María Cantara nodded, accepting it.
I have saved you on this day, and in saving you I have claimed you, and in claiming you I have named you. But none of these are my true gift to you.
She just blinked up at him. Death had never had so much to say at one time.
My true gift to you is power. My power.
I can take any life I want? María Cantara asked, maybe a little too excited. She can be forgiven though, I think. She strongly suspected that La Contessa had survived the melee in the palace, and she was also pretty sure a lot of other people hadn’t. She simply wanted to finish what she’d started.
A terrifying throaty ripple of sound erupted within María Cantara: Death’s sordid chuckle. My power is much greater than that, as you will see, m’ija. Well worth the price you have paid.
Price? María asked, even as darkness swept over the grinning skull and she sank back into a senseless sleep.
Now she was sure she was dreaming when she awoke again, this time into a nightmarish world stricken with sharp blasts of pain every time she moved and then even more pain when she winced. And, as she blinked awake with a moan, two dozen half skulls turned their worried (half worried?) expressions toward her.
A bright searing burn ripped through her as she tried to scuttle away from the deathly horde.
M’ija, a voice said, but it wasn’t Death, it wasn’t a whisper within. It was her father. A man stepped forward, half skulled like the rest of them. No, it was paint. Why had they all so grimly decorated themselves?
She shook her head, tried to squint, blink away tears, and more blistering anguish erupted.
It’s me, Santo Colibrí said. You saved us, my child.
Why … She tried to finish her sentence, but only gasps of pain came out.
Come, let me give her some more ointment, hm? another familiar voice said. The poor dear.
How …
You’ve been asleep for almost three weeks, m’ija, her father said. The rebellion has begun. We paint our faces like this in your honor, because of what you did.
I don’t … “understand,” she was going to say, but then, very suddenly, she did understand. The price that Death had spoken of. She didn’t have to reach up and touch her face to realize that half of it had been seared clean away in the blast of light she’d unleashed to fend off her sisters. She didn’t need a mirror — why would she? At least twelve reflections of herself were looking right back at her.
Somehow, even through the pain that screamed inside her with each tiny movement, Lucera looked up at the family that had always been there for her, had saved her life and now were saving it again, those that would die to protect her and those she would die to protect too, and she smiled.
Juancito.
Juan Santiago tried to sit up, but the hand he’d put down to steady himself missed th
e bed entirely, and he followed it in a yelping tumble over the side.
“Aha!” He jumped to his feet, glanced around. “What?”
He was in his room. For real for real. He was safe. No bunks. No prison guards. No mean fluorescents burning out his retinas. No sign of imminent death clomping down a cold metal corridor toward him.
But who had just said his name?
He was in his room, by himself, and there was Gael’s familiar anal-retentive side of the place, everything annoyingly tidy and where it belonged under threat of violence until he got back from Afghanistan. But more importantly, there on the wall were all Juan’s metal posters, and there was the unruly mess of wires under his desk that led to a bunch of random electronics, and outside the frosted window the first soft signs of daybreak were whispering into existence over Brooklyn, not the choppy waves of the harbor.
It was still dark, but he was pretty sure no one was lurking in the corners, and anyway, it had sounded like … it had sounded like a spirit voice. And they’d used the Spanish diminutive version of his name that the damn ancestors always insisted on calling him, as if he didn’t already have a complex about being shorter than his younger sister.
“Hello?” he said to his empty room, feeling somewhat like a dick.
Nothing.
The truth was, even though Grandpa Lázaro had taught him about shadowshaping when he was just a kid, and he’d grown up seeing those tall, long-legged shadows shimmering in the corners of his eyes and sometimes just walking up to him — he’d never really taken the time to learn that much about what it all meant. He just knew they were protecting him and they showed up at his gigs (hell, sometimes they were the only folks that showed up at his gigs, in those impossible early days of Culebra) and that was that.
Then Sierra had suddenly turned out to be the top-dog shadowshaper, and Juan had felt super weird about having hoarded that knowledge to himself without really meaning to, and then things really came to a head at a gig in Park Slope during the West Indian Day parade, when some creepy white dude had accosted Juan outside the club and drained almost all his powers.
Waking up from that nightmare, Juan had felt empty in a way he’d never known he could. The spirits were far away from him, and it was like someone had removed a layer of his skin — something he’d just never thought about that much and always taken for granted was gone, or mostly gone, and all he knew was he needed it back.
In the cab heading home that night, that familiar warmth of feeling spirits close to him flooding back through his body, he’d sworn he’d get his shit together finally when it came to shadowshaping. He had to. And then he’d got that regular gig at the Red Edge, and he got busy and then, just like that, he was locked up, and the House of Iron had made sure no spirits were getting into Rikers under any circumstances; so there he was empty again, and he swore when he got out he would for real for real get it together, and he meant it.
And now he was out, barely a day, and already they were whispering into his dreams. At least it made some sense.
He looked at his phone.
Six fourteen in the damn morning.
That ridiculous rigorous prison routine had really infected him, even in that short time.
Still … he felt lowkey amazing, as long as he didn’t think about Pulpo being a traitor. The spirits had woken him, even if in a kinda-not-there creepy way, and he’d been half the night Skype chatting with Bennie. Life was kinda incredible, in an off-center sort of way. If this was what it felt like to wake up early, then maybe he should do it more often.
The smell of French toast greeted him as he opened the door to the hallway. And beneath it, that gurgle of the cafetera and the clatter of silverware on dishes. His mom had clearly anticipated the early rise — she didn’t even look surprised when she turned around from the stove at the sound of his socked feet descending the stairs.
“¡Desayuno!” she said with a wide grin. She was already fully dressed in a pantsuit and jacket, her face made up, hair perfect. “I’m so happy you’re home, m’ijo.”
He jumped down the last few steps and snuggled into her arms. “Me too, Mami. I thought school was out for Christmas break, though.”
“Out for the kids. The teacher’s work is never done.”
“Ugh.”
“Meetings and more meetings.” She ruffled his spiky hair. “I was really worried, you know.”
“I know, Mami. I’m sorry I scared you.”
“It’s okay.” She held him at arm’s length, looking him up and down with sharp eyes. “I know you did it for a good reason.”
“Yeah, I thought so too …” He slumped into a chair by the counter and made a face. Pulpo’s frown kept popping back through. He’d gone to lockup for his best friend, and his best friend had decided to join up with the enemy. None of it made sense.
María cocked her head at him. “¿Pero?”
He shrugged. “I don’t wanna talk about it. The coffee’s ready?”
“Claro que sí, m’ijo.”
He poured himself a cup, settled back into his seat as María Santiago threw another chunk of butter onto the sizzling pan.
Culebra was done with, that much was for sure. The very thought brought its own kind of devastation, but Juan had started to make peace with it. The two boys had come up with the name and whole concept behind the band one epic night when they were twelve. They’d gone to a concert at the Prospect Park bandshell — some old-school salsa group. There was a coffee truck there, one of those fancy hipster ones, and they’d each ordered something called a Frosted Midnight Death Special of Eternal Bliss & Damnation. They had no idea what it was, but the name alone was enough. It turned out to consist of about eighteen espresso shots swirled into a frothy, frozen cappuccino icy-type thing and topped with cinnamon, an orange peel, and gooey chocolate gumballs. It lived up to its name, in other words, which was an impressive feat on its own.
They’d stood there in the trees, back a little from the dance floor, watching some couples cut it up a little too perfectly, those ones you could tell had been to every single salsa class possible in a desperate grasp for some flavor, while other couples clearly had no idea what they were doing but were having a blast anyway. And then those occasional — usually elderly — ones who just seemed to glide effortlessly amidst the struggling masses, nailing every step like they had been born in frilled skirts, guayaberas, and dance shoes.
And then Pulpo’s cell had rung — he had one of those fancy ones with the extra loud ring, so it blasted this death-metal song called “GARANGA” (all caps or death) straight out across the field — and for a single blissful moment, the metal ruckus had blended with the jangle of those piano notes and timbales.
“Ugh, this chick,” Pulpo had said, declining the call. “What’s wrong?”
Juan was just standing there, blinking. “Why did you … why did you make it stop?”
“She’s mad annoying, man. I’m not trying to talk to her, and I’ve told her that from jump but —”
“No, no,” Juan said, still staring off at some distant star in the darkening sky. “Why did you make the music stop?”
“What, my ringtone? Juan, what’s wrong with you, man?”
Juan raised one hand and whispered, “Listen,” as he took out his phone and called Pulpo without looking at it. “Just listen.”
That second time the chaotic mash-up of thrash and suave charanga played, Pulpo stood up very straight and looked down at Juan. “Holy shit.”
They kept calling Pulpo’s phone until one of the dancers complained and they got kicked out, and then they walked all the way back to the Santiagos’ Bed-Stuy brownstone, yammering the whole time about time signatures and chord changes and who they could bring in and what they should call it. And the planning session had gone on straight through the night, thanks to the Frosted Midnight Death Special of Eternal Bliss & Damnation and despite multiple threats of grievous bodily harm from Sierra down the hall.
“Juan?” Marí
a’s voice pulled him from his memories. “Why are you clenching your fists, mi amor? Talk to me.”
He shook his head, grunted. The truth was, he really didn’t want to lose his best friend, and it made it even worse that he was totally clueless as to why it had happened. And he was going to have to do something about it. He had no idea what, but sitting on all this sadness and anger wasn’t an option. Normally he’d put it into a song and bring it to the boys, but … “No, it’s just … I dunno.”
María rolled her eyes, making sure he didn’t think she was actually convinced by that, and put down a plate stacked with steaming, butter-and-syrup-soaked French toast. “You don’t have to talk to me about it, but you’re going to have to talk to someone to figure it out. Now I have to go to these meetings.” She said the word like something disgusting had just died in her mouth. “Enjoy your breakfast and —”
A deafening explosion of Cojo’s barks blasted away whatever María was about to say next.
Someone was at the front door. Or many someones, maybe? Sneakers squeaked and stomped amidst the sounds of motion and … struggle? Juan jumped up, hurried out into the den along with his mom as Cojo’s barks charged through the air once again.
“Who is —” Juan said, but then the front door flew open and Sierra backed in with something — no, someone in her arms.
“Juan!” she yelled, heaving the top part of Tee’s unconscious and bloodied body through the door. “A hand?”
Juan rushed forward, grabbing her waist. Caleb, sweating and panting, had her legs.
“¿Pero qué … ?” María gasped, jumping in to help too.
“No,” Sierra said, leading them toward the staircase. “Stay and help —”
“Coming through,” someone yelled from outside.
“— them,” Sierra said.
An enormous brown-skinned dude with no hair and an audacious goatee ducked into the house with Izzy slung over his shoulder. María looked up at him with wide eyes, hands raised to help. He looked down at her, panting. “Oh, no, I got this, thanks, mama. Where to, Sierra?”
Shadowshaper Legacy Page 17