She heard herself say, “You chose Grace.”
Warren stepped back from her, speechless, a hard anger working into his features. “No,” he said quietly, “she was his.”
Zoe stared at him.
“I will fix you,” he said, moving toward her with the knife. “I can make you strong.”
Zoe ran. Turned and ran away from her lover, ran like a doomed, bleeding animal.
“Zoe!”
Her breath sliced into her lungs; she clutched her throbbing hand. “We will take the folly and weakness of youth,” Rafael was saying to the group. “We will give it to our creators, and they will strengthen the earth.” She slowed down for a moment, swayed by the sound of the voice. And then she felt gentle arms around her. Robin’s arms. “It’s okay,” Robin whispered. “I thought it was weird, too, at first.”
Zoe took a breath. Her head was swimming from the pulque. She looked down at Robin’s arm, the red rivulets pouring out, staining her white dress.
“You don’t understand,” Zoe whispered. “Warren said . . .”
Warren caught up to her. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “I thought you were ready to know.”
This is the secret? This is the group? She looked at him. The strange gleam was gone from his eyes, along with the anger.
“I’m sorry,” Warren said. He was holding a white bandanna. “Give me your hand.” Reluctantly, she did, flinching as he wrapped the wound.
Robin said, “Take deep breaths, Zoe. Just watch and be. Listen to the Master, and you’ll get it.”
“Okay,” she said. “Okay.” She just needed to catch her breath. . . .
“Zoe.” It was Rafael. He was looking straight at her. “Let me ease your fear.” The musicians stopped. Rafael walked toward Zoe holding two shot-sized vials. One held clear liquid, the other red. Tequila and sangrito. “This is Zoe’s first time with us,” he said to the group. “We all remember how overwhelming it was at first, don’t we?”
Several guests murmured, “Yes.”
“Let’s all help her feel at ease.”
Zoe heard applause. She looked around the circle to see them all watching her, knives put away, maguey spines dropped to the grass. All this attention was wearing on her, tiring her out. She remembered Dave at Rafael’s party, calling her the guest of honor. She understood now, though still she wondered why. . . .
Rafael handed her the vials. Just what the doctor ordered. At this point, she needed something strong. She downed the clear liquid in one gulp. It was much sweeter than the Don Julio, with a chalky bite at the end. She grimaced. Terrible, cheap stuff. At least it relaxed her a little. Rafael handed her the red vial, and she gulped that down fast as well, hearing gasps as she did. The red liquid was not sangrito. It was thick and salty and slightly metallic and . . . It was blood.
Zoe gagged. The music started up and everyone began to sway, some of the faces pitched in ecstasy. Zoe broke free of the circle. She heard Warren calling her name, heard someone else—was it Vanessa?—shouting, “She’s rejecting it.” She headed past the baths, through the herb garden, moving toward the trees beyond. Soon she slowed, though. Her vision blurred, everything holding a weird type of sparkle. What was in the clear vial? Her skull felt as if it was stuffed with cotton. She forgot how to walk.
She fell to the ground and started to crawl toward the trees, grasping at the grass, dragging her feet behind her, terribly nauseous. Her face had gone numb. She bit her lip and couldn’t feel it. Then she heard several voices shouting her name in slow motion.
Her mouth was very dry. Water. She needed water. A few feet ahead of her, where the trees started, Zoe saw Paul’s cooler. It was probably pulque, but she would take that. She would take anything. She felt the slippery grass through her jeans and heard the scuff of her hands on the cooler lid, as if someone had put a loudspeaker to it. She heard her name again; then rough hands grabbed her waist as she pulled the lid off Paul’s cooler, fighting the hands and her failing vision. “Get her out of there,” said a man’s voice. It sounded like Paul.
The last clear thought she had was about the cooler’s contents. Dozens and dozens of vials, all filled with red liquid. Where did he get all that blood? The thought hung there, but only for a second before the hands pulled her away, and the moon rushed into her eyes and the whole world went shocking white.
TWENTY-ONE
Zoe couldn’t move. Her arms were held straight out, her legs crossed over each other, as if there were weights placed on top of her hands and ankles. Somehow, she’d been moved to a wooden floor.... Was it a floor? She felt planks beneath her. She heard voices around her—human voices—but they weren’t speaking. They were buzzing, like flies. Her whole skull ached. She could move her neck a little, but it made her head hurt more, so she turned very slowly, gazed the length of her left arm. Fresh blood coated her wrist, pooled beneath her fingers. Her gaze darted to the other arm and then she saw the metal spikes driven through her hands. It wasn’t a floor beneath her. She had been nailed to a cross. But she was calm, peaceful even. And despite the thick spikes through her bones and veins, she was in no pain at all, save for the throbbing in her head.
That was how she knew this was a dream.
The human flies came closer. Each had the outline of someone she knew—the hair, the shoulders, the clothes of Vanessa, Rafael, Robin, Dave, Paul . . . but they all had a thousand red eyes, antennae worming out of their foreheads. “Not ready,” the Dave Fly buzzed. “Don’t think there was enough in the vial.”
“There is only one full moon a month,” the Vanessa Fly said. “And we need her tonight more than ever. She needs to be ready. . . .”
They were all buzzing now, their voices blending, words darting in and out of her eyes and ears. “. . . didn’t take to the sacred blood. That isn’t a good. . . .”
“. . . The others didn’t need the clear.”
“Better that than nothing.”
“She didn’t take the blood.”
“Stop your arguing. It needs to be done. Now.”
Zoe said, “Where is Warren?”
“Are you awake, Zoe?” said one of the females.
“No,” she said, “I’m dreaming.”
The Rafael Fly brought his face very close to hers. The slick black antennae stroked her cheek. His eyes were a hall of mirrors. “Listen to me, Zoe You have been chosen. You will feed the earth with your weakness and you will become strong. You will transcend the pain and feel yourself filled with light.”
Zoe looked at one bleeding hand. She said, “What did you use to drive the nails through?”
The Dave Fly was over her now. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Where is Warren?” she said. But she realized she wasn’t moving her lips, just thinking the question.
“Filled. With. Light.” The words oozed out of the Rafael Fly and poured thickly down her neck, stuck to her skin like honey. She was aware of many other human flies in the room. A swarm. She checked her hands again. The blood was still there, the spikes, but then a voice in her head screamed, Your eyes aren’t open. Open your EYES!
“Her eyes are opening,” said Rafael, standing over her as she lay on her back on the floor of a room that smelled like mesquite and church candles. The sunroom. No antennae. No wings. She looked for the painting of Grace, but she couldn’t lift her head. Her gaze took in Rafael, shirtless, holding a large knife with a gleaming black blade. He knelt down, began unbuttoning her sleeveless blouse.
“Stop,” Zoe said. The word floated out of her mouth. She could see the letters in the air, puffy and red, crowned by black thorns. I’m still dreaming. It’s okay. I’m still dreaming, not nailed to a cross. I must be asleep, in Warren’s bed. I had too much to drink and the party was too strange for words, but I’m home and I’m sleeping, and . . .
Dave said, “Deep breaths, Zoe.” Zoe’s gaze followed the voice, to his shirtless form, the thick hair on his chest, the cross. . . . “You may feel some disc
omfort, but that is natural.” He was standing on her right hand. She could feel the soles of his bare feet and saw no blood, no spikes. Her eyes were open. She was sweating. This felt like no dream she had ever had.
Zoe’s gaze moved from Dave, darted down the length of her left arm. Vanessa was standing on the hand, barefoot as well. The white bandanna had been removed, but Zoe felt no pain in the wound, nothing but the soles of Vanessa’s small feet. Her white sundress was sheer as tissue in the candlelight, her hair glowing white, her face a shadow.
Now Zoe glanced down. Paul sat on her crossed ankles, smiling. Her heart sped up. Beyond her, a line of shadows holding lit candles. She could hear them, shifting on their feet, whispering words she couldn’t understand.
“She won’t remember,” said Vanessa.
“If she lives.” That was Dave.
Paul said, “Dave, are you sober enough to perform your duties?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
Rafael finished unbuttoning Zoe’s blouse, pushed it open. She struggled to move. “There is no other time,” he said softly, and then another language started pouring out of him, a language Zoe had never heard before, hard and guttural. “Wewetottle Weetzeelopochee, Tlalock.” He drifted in and out of focus, and Zoe’s muscles went lax again. She thought, It’s just a dream, just a dream. It’s okay. It’s just . . .
One of the human shadows moved closer, until he was standing directly behind Rafael. A heavyset Mexican man, everything on him big and flat—his hair, his nose, his lips. He was shirtless as well. In his hands he clasped a black cross painted with a a torn-crowned human heart. Please let this be a dream, please, please. . . . The man had a deep black mole that looked like a drop of ink on his cheek. Zoe couldn’t stop staring at it.
Dave said, “You may feel some discomfort, Zoe. That is natural. Breathe into the pain. Do not tense up.”
Rafael straddled her hips. She felt the weight of him, the muscles of his thighs. He spoke, and she could feel the vibration of his voice, his breath on her bare skin. “We give you youth. We give you light. We give you blood.” He touched the tip of the blade to her sternum. She felt a sting, felt something trickling down her chest, hot like a tear. She knew it was blood. Her own blood. She stared at Rafael. This is happening. It is really happening. Zoe started to scream. Dave said, “Panicking will only increase blood flow. Please try to stay calm. . . .”
Zoe screamed louder, and the man with the mole shoved his fist into her mouth. She bit his hand, struggled to move, but she couldn’t. She was paralyzed.
She heard a voice say, “Stop!” Warren.
Can you feel cold like this? Can you bleed in dreams? Can someone’s eyes—Warren’s eyes—seem so real? He stood behind Rafael, his face hard. “She’s not ready. Don’t you get it?”
“What are you doing here?” said Rafael.
“I belong here,” Warren said. “She doesn’t. Look at her.”
Rafael’s face moved in and out of focus, and the air suddenly seemed as thick as water.
Vanessa said, “Warren, you’re ruining this.” But her voice wasn’t her own—it was more like a cat mewling.
“It’s already ruined and you know it.”
Everything turned to cool gel. Zoe tasted the salt of the strange man’s skin, yet she was weirdly relaxed.
“Get away!” said Rafael.
Warren’s thick arm was around Rafael’s neck. The fist came out of her mouth and the man with the mole was moving toward him. Vanessa mewled, “Nooo . . .”
Rafael’s eyes rolled back into his head, a stream of those strange guttural words coursing out of his mouth, the knife blade glinting closer as Warren said, “For God’s sake, Rafael, look at her. You have to take them unconscious now? Are you really that weak?”
Rafael grew quiet. Zoe saw something creep into his eyes . . . a rage turned to hunger.
She looked at Warren, at those clear blue eyes, and thought: Prey.
Rafael’s face melted, changed. . . . “Pa-dum-pa-dum-pa-dum,” he said as the blade sliced a longer line. “This feel okay? This feel okay, kitten? Won’t hurt too much, kitten, if you just relax . . .” And Zoe was no longer looking at Rafael. She was looking into the eyes of Daryl Barclay. She opened her mouth and screamed until her throat ripped apart. But the scream was silent—all feeling, no sound.
She yanked her eyes open. She felt for the top of her blouse, found it closed, and touching it, she realized her hands and feet were unbloodied, unweighted. She was lying in Warren’s bed, her head throbbing angrily. God, what an awful dream—an awful dream with such a bizarre night behind it . . .
The whole scene at Las Aguas came rushing back at her. They cut themselves. They made me drink blood. How could she talk to Warren now? What was she supposed to say? But when she rolled onto her side, she saw that Warren wasn’t there. Disappeared. Again. For once, she was glad.
She grabbed her watch off the bedstand. Eight a.m. Zoe sat up, her head throbbing, her whole body parched.
What was that stuff in the vial?
Zoe got out of bed. Where was Warren at eight a.m.? She went into the master bathroom and brushed her teeth with sterilized water from the cooler next to the sink. She refilled the paper cup and drank it in one gulp, then another, then another. That made her feel a little better. Her hand stung, so she ran some cold water over the knife wound. Already it had healed into a pinkish line, and she wondered if Warren had treated it before putting her to bed. If it was Warren who had put her to bed. She couldn’t remember the ride home, couldn’t remember anything after . . . Jesus. The vials in Paul’s cooler. Where did he get all that blood? What were they going to use it for?
Zoe moved away from the sink and sat down on that luxurious tub—a tub that, just two days ago, had held so many exciting possibilities. . . .
No more. It had to end. She cared for Warren. But she could never go through another night like last. They cut themselves. They gave me blood to drink. Last night, she had seen too much. This is how you fix me, Warren? This is how you make me strong?
Zoe had an urge to call Steve, to tell him what had happened and hear the shock in his voice and feel normal again.
She would tell him about that dream—that awful dream she’d just had with the human flies and the knife on her chest and Rafael speaking in tongues and going after Warren. Steve would say, Sounds like a Roger Corman movie, and she would surprise herself by laughing.
She missed Steve so much. . . .
Zoe started out of the bathroom, but realized pretty fast she needed a shower first. She felt as if she were coated with a thick, greasy film. She turned the water on in the stall shower, pulled off all her clothes, dropped them on the floor and stepped in. She closed her eyes, breathed in the steam and relaxed a little. Then she felt it.
Where the water hit her chest, it stung. She looked down and saw a shallow cut, perfectly straight, from her throat to the center of her sternum. A knife wound.
“It wasn’t a dream,” she whispered. Then she collapsed to the shower floor.
The sun was too bright. It blazed down on Vanessa’s head and back as she walked back up the hill to her house, rubbing salt in this gaping wound of a morning after. For the first time since she’d moved here, she was out in daylight without sunblock or a hat, without protection of any kind, and Vanessa could feel herself getting burned by it, the poison seeping into her skin, sucking out the moisture, making her feel . . . well, her age.
Often, the morning after a ceremony, Vanessa would think about how good she felt—good as when she was in her twenties, riding home in a limo from a five-star hotel. . . . Then she’d remember her baby sister, Lucy, and compare herself. She would recall how, even when she was healthy, Lucy was too busy caring for Naomi or working her job at the dentist’s office to feel young like this. It was as if in Vanessa’s family, there was only so much youth to go around, and she had gone back for seconds and thirds, leaving the baby with an empty plate.
Now, though, Vanessa’s
back hurt and her leg muscles ached and her skin felt as dry as paper. She used to wish her sister had been well enough to go with her to a ceremony, to feel for herself the power, the awakening . . . to watch Vanessa cut the bad out of herself and bleed into the ground for Lucy’s sake, for Naomi’s, for the earth. . . . God, it was hard to believe this morning that Vanessa had ever, in her entire life, felt that way. The only silver lining in the dark cloud of last night was that Naomi hadn’t been anywhere near it.
The blood—that had been the Master’s idea. He had entrusted Dave with the task of collecting blood from everyone in the group—not with maguey spines or knives but with sterile needles. Dave had drawn it out of followers and put it into the vials, and Paul had placed them all into that cooler and everyone was to take it—accept it like communion wine. “Absorb one another’s weakness,” Rafael had urged the group. “Grow stronger. Nourish yourself, like the plants, the earth. . . .”
Most of the followers had balked—especially after Zoe’s response. And the few brave souls who did gagged and wretched, anything but stronger, the opposite of nourished. . . .
Warren had shouted the question, “Where did the blood come from? He didn’t take it from me!” Paul had said, “Me neither!” and soon Las Aguas was echoing with chatter. Where had Dr. Dave gotten all that blood?
Vanessa, who suspected that Dave had simply lent his professional name to the blood collection, had a different question: Where had Rafael gotten the blood?
She could still taste it. Her stomach turned. . . .
She remembered the Master’s pathetic effort with Zoe in the sunroom. After it was over and everyone had left, Vanessa had given up on her walk home, returned to the studio and gone to bed with Rafael—a last-ditch attempt to feel right again. That metallic taste still in her mouth, she had slipped beside him in bed and asked, “Where did the blood come from, Rafael? If so many of us didn’t give, then who did? Who gave that much?”
He had said nothing. He had grabbed her by the shoulders and flipped her onto her stomach, shoving her head into the pillow, grabbing her by the hair. He had stood her up on all fours and thrown himself behind her—all force, a show of brute strength, the light within him gone. And then he couldn’t even perform.
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