Fixation

  Right before Balam and I had gone back inside for the rest of the night, Jack had taken me aside to whisper, “He’s a good one, Maya.” High praise indeed from the man who’d had nothing good to say about any of the men I’d dated since I’d moved into his back cottage.

  It was inevitable Balam would do something to take the shine off the glamour, like ask me to pull his finger or leave the toilet seat up, but so far he managed to stay almost annoyingly perfect.

  Hmm. Maybe annoying perfection was his fatal flaw.

  We got cappuccinos and sat on a bench to drink them. I rested my head against Balam’s shoulder, getting a whiff of sage from his shirt. He’d performed a cleansing ritual before we’d gone to bed last night, smudging the entire cottage in every corner with the smoke of a burning bundle of sage, chanting softly in the same unfamiliar language he’d used to restore me to human form. I’d sniffed the air as he lit up the sage.

  “It smells like the stoner’s bathroom in high school in here.”

  Balam grinned. “Yes, but it should keep Anani from invading our dreams,” he’d explained.

  Whether it was the scent or Balam’s chanting, my dreams had remained horror free. I’d slept soundly through the night, waking up to Balam’s kisses and the lingering smell of burning sage that would most likely evoke a Pavlovian response every time I smelled it in the future.

  I smiled and rubbed my face against his shoulder, taking another sip of my cappuccino and enjoying the feeling of playing hooky. Something about being out in the park when I should be at work just made me feel like a kid on summer vacation.

  I’d called Sharon before we’d left, letting her know I was taking another sick day. Considering my attendance record was, up until yesterday, a hundred percent, I didn’t think she’d hold it against me, especially when I introduced her to Balam.

  Balam checked his watch again.

  “Eight fifty-eight.”

  I grinned up at him. “If we walk really slowly, we’ll get there when it opens.”

  He stood up, offering me his hand while smiling down with a look in his eyes that curled my toes.

  Raowr.

  We reached the ticket office at deYoung at approximately one minute past nine, the first people in line. Good thing it wasn’t the weekly free admission day or we’d be wading through scads of schoolkids and tourists.

  Balam paid for our tickets. We walked through the courtyard and the “benches” that looked like stone monoliths tipped on their sides, gave our tickets to a smiling docent, and went inside.

  The interior of deYoung is all hardwood floors and big, open galleries. The word “spacious” comes to mind pretty much immediately. The aisles between the displays are wide, leaving plenty of room for those who want to stand and study a particular piece of art and those who prefer to keep moving. Right now as empty as it was, I had an urge to go skidding across the floors and pretend to be on ice skates.

  I suppressed the urge, however, and followed Balam down a flight of stairs to the Ancient Gods exhibit on the lower floor. A huge stone head with broad flat features guarded the entrance to the first gallery.

  “Olmec,” Balam commented, nodding at the head. “They are called colossals. “

  The colossal’s impassive gaze stared off into the distance. But as we walked past it, I couldn’t rid myself of the feeling that those blank eyes were suddenly alive and watching us. I didn’t look. I didn’t want to know if I was right. We walked by a thin middle-aged woman in a skirt and jacket the color of eggplant. A name tag on a lanyard read “Margaret.” She reminded me of Margaret Hamilton, the actress who played the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz. She gave us a nod as we entered the exhibit area.

  The front gallery seemed smaller than the rest of the museum, less spacious. That might have been because of the dim lighting overhead. The ceiling was lost in deep shadows, giving the impression we were in a cave. The exhibit pieces themselves were lit with spotlights, placed to highlight each piece as well as the explanatory texts in their Plexiglas protective sleeves. The overall effect was a very effective way to showcase these ancient artifacts.

  This first room, according to a handily placed informational placard, displayed significant discoveries from archeological digs done in Central America over the last fifty years: mostly basalt statues, steles (stone obelisks with carvings), masks, and some jadeite pieces depicting animals, humans, or a combination of the two. Mesoamerican cultures were big on the whole shapeshifting motif. The second gallery contained everyday items, such as knives, axe heads (called celts), baskets, jewelry, fishing hooks, and pottery. The third contained things related to religion and superstition: more colossal heads, statues, steles, altars, small totemic carvings, and the like.

  Balam took a deep breath and turned slowly in a circle, taking everything in. His face was cast in shadows, his expression impenetrable as he looked around at the relics of his homeland’s past. Maybe he was homesick, perhaps wondering if he’d ever be able to return to Belize. Or if indeed there would be a home to return to, if crazy bitch Anani had her way.

  I didn’t want to disturb him so I wandered over to the nearest exhibit, a weathered basalt statue tucked in the far corner. About three feet high and mounted on a pedestal, it was an anthropomorphic figure somewhere between a human infant and wild beast, squatting on haunches, arms folded around its knees, hands looking more like paws. It had the same blank eyes as the Colossal and a snarling maw. Something about it gave me the chills. Not in a bad ”oh, scary” way, but in a “something’s coming, something good” way, like the song from West Side Story.

  “Transforming Jaguar Baby,” I read aloud. My voice echoed loudly in the near empty room, causing Margaret the docent to shoot me a look as if I’d shouted in a library or something. Bet she just loved tours of schoolkids, I thought snarkily. Still, I smiled apologetically and did the rest of my reading in silence.

  According to the text, it was one of five companion statues found in a ruined temple deep in the jungles surrounding Chiapas. The statues depicted the various stages of transformation from human to jaguar undertaken by the shamans who protected the ancient people of the time—and hunted those who broke the laws of the gods and goddesses.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  I turned, startled, to find Balam next to me, staring at the statue with barely suppressed excitement that validated the feeling it gave me.

  “This is one of the statues you mentioned, right?”

  Margaret the Docent chose that moment to join us, overhearing my last words and jumping in before Balam could answer. “Young lady, these statues are some of the most important archeological finds of the twentieth century.” Balam nodded in agreement, bringing a pleased smile to Margaret’s face. She continued with enthusiasm. “The origins are thought to be Olmec, if not older, even though they were found near Chiapas, which is further south than the Olmecs’ home at the Gulf of Mexico. As far as we know, it’s the only surviving set of its kind.”

  Balam shook his head at that and Margaret glanced at him sharply.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but this is the only set that’s ever been documented.”

  “That may be true,” said Balam politely, “but it doesn’t mean it’s the only one in existence.”

  I felt Margaret bristle, her energy getting all spiky. She was someone who put a lot of her identity into volunteering here and if someone in authority told her there was only one set of something in existence, to challenge that information was tantamount to challenging her reality.

  I gave Balam a surreptitious poke in the ribs with an elbow. “Are the rest of them on display here as well?” I turned to Margaret with my best “I am so interested in what you’re saying” expression.

  She nodded stiffly. “Yes.”

  If Balam had been in jaguar form, his tail would have been lashing back and forth with excitement. This had to be good news.

  “You’ll find them scattered throughout the exhibit halls. They’re i
n order of the stages of transformation, from the jaguar baby all the way to a fully transformed jaguar.” Her attention shifted as an older couple followed by a family with a toddler and a baby in a stroller entered the gallery.

  “The next one, Jaguar Boy, is by the entrance to the next room. Please excuse me.” Margaret hurried over to greet the newcomers, probably to make sure the kid didn’t touch anything with his grimy little toddler hands.

  I turned to Balam and indicated the Jaguar Baby. “This is good, right?”

  “It is better than good, my Maya.” Balam grabbed my hand and led me further into the gallery, away from the newcomers. “This may be our salvation.”

  I resisted the impulse to shout “hallelujah!” and followed him to the far side of the room where the Jaguar Boy statue stood. Like the Jaguar Baby, this was another stylized depiction of a creature part human and part jaguar, only this crouching figure was a boy in the first six or so years of life. Instead of having its arms folded around its knees, the arms were at its side with the clawed, paw-like hands hanging down.

  Balam reached out to touch it, but I grabbed his hand before he made contact.

  “That could get us thrown out of here,” I said in an undertone. I jerked my head towards Margaret. “Especially since you argued with her. Docents don’t like that much. Trust me, I speak from experience.”

  We went into the next room, where two more of the statues, Jaguar Youth and Jaguar Warrior, guarded the two doorways leading in and out of the gallery.

  Jaguar Youth was on one knee, as if poised to spring. Its face was fiercer than Jaguar Boy, more animalistic. Jaguar Warrior kicked it up a notch, a perfect melding of human and jaguar, its face, body, and limbs all caught in the moment of shifting between the two. One paw held a spear, sharp teeth bared in a snarl.

  “Are you going to tell me why these statues are so important?” I asked as Balam ran a hand worshipfully over the contours of Jaguar Warrior.

  “These statues are identical to the ones in Evaki’s temple in Belize,” replied Balam. “Each one has power on its own. But together they create a circuit of power when placed in the proper formation and linked together by ritual magic. Used with the proper ritual, I might be able to raise enough power to stop Anani.”

  “Might?”

  He didn’t answer, just pulled me into the last gallery of the exhibit where Jaguar Shaman greeted us. I recognized it as the one featured in the banners advertising the exhibit.

  “Hello, old friend,” Balam murmured.

  Jaguar Shaman was a fully transformed jaguar, with very little humanity left within it. It exuded raw power, much the same way Balam did. My skin prickled standing next to it, as if the statue was charged with static electricity.

  I moved away from the statue further into the room, but found the prickling sensation increasing instead of diminishing. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck rose as a crackling surge of energy surge up through the soles of my feet into my body. I felt a pull from the center of the room as if tugged by invisible rope, and followed it past more colossal heads, glass display cases of totemic carvings, and animalistic masks to what looked like a mammoth basalt pot. The thing practically throbbed with otherworldly power.

  I looked at the placard in front of it, which read Evaki’s Cauldron.

  Why was I not surprised?

  The sides of the thing were almost as tall as me, the lip level with my head. It was thick with carvings of people, mouths and eyes gaping, limbs intertwined in a jumble. The entire effect was a shapeshifting, souls-of-the-damned Dante-esque nightmare.

  I was drawn to it, overwhelmed by an urge to touch it. I knew if I crawled inside the cauldron, I would be safe. Safe from anyone or anything who would hurt me. I placed my hands against the side, feeling flesh writhe against my palms, hearing screams and moans of souls trapped in agony. Energy thrummed into my palms, the suffering of those trapped in the thing feeding its power. I would find power in there, more power than I’d ever dreamed of. All I had to do was crawl inside—

  “Maya!”

  Balam’s voice acted like a slap in the face, shocking me back into the present, where I found myself with my hands gripping the lip of the cauldron, my body hoisted up halfway up the sides.

  What the hell?

  Balam grabbed me around the waist. I immediately let go of the cauldron and dropped back to the ground, Balam’s hands steadying me as I landed. The compulsion to climb into the cauldron still nagged at me, but now it came from outside me, buzzing in my ear like a persistent mosquito. I shook my head, trying to clear my head. Balam drew me away from the cauldron, moving me towards the far exit.

  “Are you all right?” He tilted my head up towards him with a finger under my chin, green gold eyes staring into mine intently.

  “I ... I think so.” I looked back at the cauldron, still feeling the pull of it. “I wanted to climb inside it. I still do.”

  “That is the one thing you must never do.” He gripped my shoulders with both hands. “To climb into the embrace of Evaki’s Cauldron means certain death.”

  Of course it did.

  Chapter Fifteen

  We went into the little café in the museum. Balam ordered an espresso and I got a mocha, figuring I needed the chocolate and sugar to counteract the shock of my near-suicide-induced-by-supernatural-influence experience. Or something like that.

  I took a sip of mocha, savoring the hot liquid combined with the cool sweetness of the whipped cream on top. “So was that your psycho bitch ex again?”

  Balam shook his head. “I do not think so.”

  I raised an eyebrow. Don’t tell me he was sticking up for the bitch. “Then why did I try to throw myself into that thing?”

  “According to legends,” Balam said carefully, no doubt sensing my emotions, “the lure of Evaki’s Cauldron has drawn many people into its depths without any outside influence.”

  “I though Evaki was all good and shit.” Childish, yeah, but I couldn’t help it. I felt betrayed.

  “Evaki is like any other god or goddess: an elemental force of nature. How her power manifests is dependent upon those who worship her. And the gods and goddesses of the Ancient World have always thrived on the life force of their followers.”

  “I think you just came up with the ultimate definition of religion.” I drank more mocha.

  “There are certain deities that veer towards either the dark or the light,” said Balam, “but for the most part, even those associated with evil for centuries gained that taint through mankind’s belief.”

  Okay, there was an entire evening’s worth of conversational fodder, way too much to even start to think about now.

  “So what’s the deal with the cauldron? You’re saying if I’d climbed inside, I’d be dead?”

  Balam’s face tightened. “Dead or lost beyond any hope of ever being found.”

  I nodded carefully, trying not to dwell on the fact I’d now had two near-death experiences within twenty-four hours. If I thought about it too closely, I’d freak out. And a freak-out was obviously not a luxury I had about now.

  “It’s like the Black Cauldron,” I said, my brain flashing back to a book I’d read as a kid.

  It was Balam’s turn to raise a quizzical eyebrow.

  “It’s a fantasy book,” I explained. “There’s this death lord, Arawn or something like that, and he has a cauldron that makes deathless warriors called Cauldron Born, kind of like zombies except they don’t eat people. And the bodies are already dead when they go in. A living person—” I paused and thought back for a moment, trying to remember what happened in the book. “The cauldron was destroyed when a living person threw himself in as a willing sacrifice.”

  Balam nodded. “Many cultures have their own version of various legends. And most legends have a basis in fact. Evaki’s Cauldron is said to hold the sun after it sets every night, so to climb inside at night would mean incineration, although some say it can trigger a rebirth. During the hours of day
light, the Cauldron holds an endless, icy void where one would wander in eternal darkness, their life force feeding Evaki.”

  Charming. I wasn’t loving Evaki all that much at the moment, but I guess she was a better alternative to Anani since at least the goddess had the sense to not want to cast the world into endless night. Anani, in my opinion, was a power-hungry fruitcake. I decided to get the point. “So what do we do now?”

  “We wait until the museum closes and perform the ritual I hope will free my fellow shamans and strip Anani of her power before she can do any more harm.”

  “You do realize they have security guards on duty, right?”

  “Not in Dream Time.”

  Balam grinned at me, green eyes glinting with those otherworldly golden lights. I noticed a couple of teenage girls a few tables away staring at him and whispering to one another behind their hands. Both wore skinny jeans and identical pink baby-doll T-shirts with rhinestones spelling out the word “Princess” across their chests.

  Charming.

  One of them looked at me, then back at Balam with a disbelieving shake of her head, then said something to her friend, who nodded. I guess they thought Balam should come with a sign that read, “Must be this attractive to date me.”

  I turned my attention away from the annoying and undoubtedly tramp-stamped little twerps and back to Balam.

  “If we’ll be doing this ritual in Dream Time, can’t we just ... dream our way into the museum?”

  Balam leaned back in his chair, the white cotton fabric of his shirt hugging his well-toned torso. I tried not to stare too obviously. The two ”princesses,” on the other hand, didn’t bother with subtlety. I thought of offering them napkins to wipe up the drool.

  “Dream Time is not that simple,” he said.

  “Of course it’s not,” I muttered, taking solace in my mocha.

  “Entering a building or dwelling while in Dream Time does not guarantee one will find themselves in the time period they expect. We could find ourselves in this museum as it was ten years ago, with a different exhibit entirely. If, however, we are in the museum itself when we enter Dream Time ... we have a grounding in the present reality to guide us.”