Blood Spells

by Jessica Andersen

  When the air stabilized, the dead man was well over six feet tall, big and tough looking. And he wore a black quatrefoil on his inner right wrist.

  “Fuck. Me,” Rabbit said.

  He turned away from Saamal, trying to stem the tide of grief, guilt, and anger. He’d found the right village, after all, but he hadn’t realized it. How had the old man tricked him? How—shit. It didn’t matter now, did it?

  “You were right,” Strike said, his tone indecipherable. “They were dark magi. They’ve been hiding up here all this time.”

  “Until I led Iago straight to them,” Rabbit said bitterly. “They must’ve deserted from the Order of Xibalba and broken their links to the magic.”

  “Then who cast the cloaking spell?” Strike asked.

  “I don’t know. But why else would their marks be black if they weren’t deserters?”

  “You’ve got it backwards,” said a rasping voice, coming from behind Rabbit.

  The only one back there was Saamal.

  Blood draining from his head, leaving him woozy, Rabbit turned and looked down at the body. Oh, holy hell. The spell had worked, after all.

  The elder’s eyes were lit with a parody of life. His body remained pale and motionless, his chest open and full of congealed blood, but the pumping throb of oily brown magic had returned his soul to his body.

  But any victory Rabbit might have felt deflated at the sight of the terrible pain and soul-deep loss that clouded the elder’s eyes. His soul might have returned to his body, but no amount of magic could undo the villagers’ murders and the destruction of Oc Ajal.

  Rabbit’s chest suddenly felt as hollow as the empty splay of Saamal’s ribs. He was aware of the others gathering close, of Myrinne gripping his shoulder in support, but those inputs were peripheral. He sank to his knees beside the dead man, started to roll the nearest mortar stone off him, only to stop when he realized that the stones were woven into the reanimation spell, that they were part of what was keeping him alive.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, the words emerging through lips that felt numb and strange, like they weren’t part of him anymore. “I didn’t mean to tell Iago where—” He broke off. “Wait. You speak English?”

  Saamal’s eyes narrowed. “That’s what you want to know right now?”

  “Christ, Rabbit.” Strike crouched down in the elder’s line of sight. “I’m Striking-Jaguar.” He paused a beat, testing.

  The elder glanced at Strike’s forearm, then at the edge of the circular hunab ku visible beneath the sleeve of his dark tee, which marked him as the Nightkeepers’ king. “Names aren’t important right now, nor is rank. What matters now is that you listen to me, and believe what your ancestors would not. That is why I called the young crossover here.” His eyes went to Rabbit. “And used the last of my power to keep my soul tethered beyond its mortality.”

  “Crossover? Oh, you mean half blood.” Actually, Rabbit decided he liked “crossover” better. “Because I can use light and dark magic.” When the elder nodded shallowly, he pressed, “If you know who and what I am, then tell me about my mother. Who was she?” Oh, gods. His eyes tractor-beamed to the woman with the grindstone. “Was she here? Did the makol kill her? And why didn’t you tell me who you were?” His voice rose, edging toward his boyhood tenor. “We could’ve brought you in, could’ve protected—”

  Strike cut him off. “Let him talk. I’m guessing his clock is ticking.”

  “That is true, jaguar king. My time on this plane is limited.” The elder closed his eyes, as if composing himself. When he opened them again, some of the grief and pain was blocked behind a warrior’s focus. To Rabbit, he said, “I did not reveal myself to you because my people are your enemies, and vice versa. Or rather, we were your enemies. This village housed the last members of the true Order of Xibalba, users of dark magic and guardians of the sky barrier on behalf of the dark gods.”

  Rabbit didn’t care about sides right now—he wanted to know what happened when Red-Boar visited the village, damn it. But he held himself in check as the elder described how the members of the order were the Nightkeepers’ opposites, dedicated to preventing what they called the “sky demons” from tearing through the barrier and overrunning the earth plane during the end time.

  Strike said bluntly, “No offense, but since there’s no fucking way you’re converting us, we don’t need a philosophy lesson except and unless it pertains to what we’re dealing with right now. Tell me about Iago. He’s one of yours, isn’t he? Or he was.” The king was strung tight, his expression flat and unreadable.

  “His father, Werigo, was one of us, yes.” The elder’s voice was thinning, but when Michael started forward, the old man shook his head. “No, muk wielder, no power on this plane can keep me soul-tethered after this spell runs out. Once I’m done, I’m done.”

  “So talk fast,” Strike ordered.

  Rabbit glared at him, but didn’t waste time picking the fight. It was coming, though.

  “Werigo became devoted to an offshoot sect of the order, one that was destroyed long ago because its goals diverged from those of the true Order of Xibalba. The members of the sect believed that our mandate wasn’t to secure the barrier against the sky demons; it was to rule the earth ourselves.”

  “Who wants to bet this sect spun off to live with the Aztecs?” Lucius murmured.

  “Just so,” Saamal agreed. “Although the sect itself was destroyed during the conquest, its last leader—the Aztec god-king Moctezuma—hid key codices and ceremonial objects. Twenty-six years ago, acting on a dream he claimed was a vision from Moctezuma himself, Werigo dug up the cache and began subverting members of the true order over to his cause.” A pause. “The dream came a few months before the magic ceased working.”

  Rabbit glanced at Strike. The king wasn’t telegraphing shit, but it couldn’t be a coincidence that Werigo’s prophetic dream had coincided with the ones that had set Strike’s father on the road to the Solstice Massacre.

  “Werigo was a hard, harsh man before the dreams,” the elder continued. “He was the elder son of our leader, but when our father died, I—the second son—was made ruler instead of him. That festered. In the end, Werigo and his sons left the old village along with ten others. Anticipating that he would come after us when he grew strong enough—looking to take prisoners, sacrifices, and converts, much as the god-kings of old used to do—I relocated the village, and we learned to hide our true natures.” Saamal paused. “He and his followers grew even harder and harsher, and became fanatically convinced that it was their duty to reincarnate Moctezuma and complete the Aztec conquest. They found us one solstice, and attacked. They killed everyone they could find, murdering the men, women, and even children who had been their friends and family. Only a dozen of us survived. . . . Eventually, we came here. To Oc Ajal.”

  Where they were safe, Rabbit thought hollowly, until I showed up.

  As if he had heard the thought, Saamal zeroed in on him. “Werigo could have found us if he had truly looked. Since so long had passed, we thought he had decided we weren’t important. We became so wrapped up in our own preparations for the end time that we were taken by surprise when his soldiers appeared today. We had grown soft and sloppy, and because of that, we lost the war before we even got a chance to fight. So now it’s up to you.”

  “Do you mean the Nightkeepers, or me, specifically?” Rabbit almost whispered the words. He didn’t bother correcting the elder’s assumption that Werigo had been behind the attack. Father or son, it didn’t seem important just then.

  “The Nightkeepers serve the wrong gods. You are the crossover; you stand in both the light and shadows.” The elder’s voice sank to a windy sigh. “Three women went with Werigo when he left; two others were captured later. Your mother must have been one of them. I’m sorry, but I don’t know which one.”

  Rabbit’s throat closed. “I’m not sure I want to know more than that. We came . . . I came here looking for allies. I guess I’ve got my answe
r.”

  “Indeed. Now I’ll give you three things you didn’t come looking for. A triad, if you will.” Saamal’s lips lifted fractionally, though the effort was grotesque against the sagging backdrop of pale skin and eyes that glossed over as the life-magic failed. “First, I give you a warning. The makol stole a sacred knife that belonged to our father—an ancient war trophy that Moctezuma himself was said to have used in the first fire ceremony.” Saamal’s voice was almost gone. “Second, I give you a gift, one that I was led to by a dream of my own. There’s an eccentric hidden beneath the center post of my house. It is yours. And third and last, I give you what has, for centuries, been a blessing among the members of the order. We say: ‘May the crossover bring balance to all things.’”

  Rabbit’s heart raced. There were a thousand things he wanted to ask the old man, and the sum total of them logjammed in his throat, leaving him silent save for the one thing he couldn’t go without saying. He bent over, leaning close to Saamal as he whispered, “I’m so sorry I led them here.”

  The elder’s eyes were opaque in death, his skin sallow and sagging, but he managed a grotesque parody of a smile. “The gods choose the hour of our passing regardless of our actions. If they had wanted me to live, I would still be alive. They want me to begin my journey now, so off I go. Do not take the blame for what others and the gods have done. Instead, remember the strength of your name. The rabbit not only saved the Hero Twins and their father; his is the shape of the shadow in the full moon.”

  Rabbit’s throat went dry. “I know.” One night when he was just a kid, Red-Boar had taken him up on the roof of the shitty apartment where they’d been staying, and told him how the rabbit-shaped shadow had gotten onto the moon, implying that was the origin of Rabbit’s name. When Rabbit had asked later for a repeat performance, Red-Boar had claimed not to know what the fuck he was talking about.

  The thing was . . . Jox hadn’t known the story either, and Lucius hadn’t been able to find it in the library. Ergo, it wasn’t Nightkeeper. Yet Red-Boar kept the name and passed on the story.

  What the hell was he supposed to take from that?

  “Find the eccentric,” Saamal pressed. “And find your true balance, even if your actions contradict the beliefs of those who love you.”

  Rabbit didn’t make the promise. Instead he touched his forehead and the spot over his heart. “Have an interesting journey, old man.” The Xibalbans had believed that the nine levels of the underworld were a series of tests and competitions, and that a true warrior would fight his way all the way down to a seat at the ceremonial ball court of the dark lords—or, better yet, a player’s position.

  “Same to you, young Rabbit.” Without ceremony or outward sign, the elder’s soul made the transition. The flaccid lips went still and the last of the dark magic slipped away, leaving Rabbit kneeling beside the elder’s corpse with his hand wet to the wrist with the old man’s blood.

  He stayed there for a moment, feeling . . . nothing. He was numb. Exhausted. Confused.

  “Hey.” Myrinne’s face came into view as she crouched down beside him. “You okay?”

  “I’m . . .” He trailed off, then shook his head. “I have no clue how to answer that.”

  She held out her hand. “Come on. Let’s go find whatever he left you. Assuming the makol didn’t get it.”

  “Right. The gift. Door number two.” And shit, she was right. What if the makol had found it? Relieved to have something—anything—concrete to focus on, he let her pull him up, and they headed for Saamal’s hut.

  “Rabbit, wait,” Patience called. “Don’t go—”

  In there, she would have said, he realized the moment he crossed the threshold and his eyes adjusted to the light, if not to the sight confronting him. Oh, shit, he thought frantically, remembering too late the noises he’d heard coming from the building in his vision.

  Myrinne turned away, gagging, but Rabbit made himself stand and look.

  The woman hung limply, trussed to the center post. Based on her clothing, he thought she had been one of the ones who had been grinding corn when he and Myrinne had first visited. He couldn’t be sure from her face, though—not because the cloaking spell was gone, but because she had been horribly mutilated, sliced and slashed until the front of her body was more meat than skin. There was blood everywhere, and the air was thick with the smell of body fluids, death, and terrible fear.

  Aware that the others stood there, some in the doorway, some just outside, he swallowed, trying to find some moisture to wet his mouth. “I heard her screaming. In the dream, she was still alive while they were—shit.”

  He spun, got a hand over his mouth, and bolted. He made it to the edge of the forest, beyond the village circle and the stone archway. Then he puked violently into the undergrowth, retching until his stomach muscles hurt and tears streamed down his face. Then he stayed there, hunched over and clutching himself, for a long, long time.

  When he heard someone come up behind him, he said, “That’s in my blood. It doesn’t matter if my mother followed Werigo willingly or if she was captured later. She was part of that. And my old man—” He broke off on a dry heave that hurt like hell. “He stayed with them; he had to have stayed. He kept their name for me, he kept me, but he didn’t . . .” He trailed off. He didn’t want to snivel that his father hadn’t loved him, hadn’t liked him, had barely tolerated him most days. But still. “How does that make any sense? He was a Nightkeeper, for fuck’s sake! He was the Nightkeeper. How could he do that? And what the hell am I supposed to do about it? I don’t want to be a half blood. I don’t want to be the crossover, whatever the fuck that is. I just want to be a godsdamned mage.” He stood and turned, opening his arms for a hug, assuming it was Myrinne who had come after him.

  But it wasn’t Myrinne. It was Strike.

  “Shit.” He turned the arms-out move into a swipe at his tear-soaked face and puke-fouled mouth, then drew back, jamming his hands in his pockets. “Want to take a swing at me? Go ahead. I could use a good pounding right now. Might make me feel better about—” He broke off as a faint breeze stirred the air, bringing him the smell of blood and terror.

  The image of the woman’s body hit him again, and his gorge rose. He fought it down this time, and lifted his chin in a dare. Tears sheened his vision, making the world shimmer. “Go ahead. What are you waiting for?”

  Strike shook his head. “I didn’t come out here to pound on you. I came out to apologize. I’ve been acting like a dick and it’s not fair. What’s more, it meant you couldn’t talk to me about wanting to track down your mother.”

  Rabbit swallowed hard, taking a second to process the apology. Which just made him feel more like shit. “I should’ve told you anyway. You wouldn’t have let me go, we wouldn’t be here now, and none of this—” He swallowed the heave, knowing it was his body’s way of wussing out of facing what he’d done. “None of this would’ve happened.”

  “Or maybe it would’ve happened a different way. We can’t second-guess the gods—sky or Xibalban.” Strike paused, grimacing. “But I wish this had happened differently. I wish I’d handled it better, wish I’d handled you better.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Rabbit hadn’t meant to ask. He’d told himself he didn’t care, that he had Myrinne for support and Jox for the occasional piece of advice, so it didn’t matter if three of the four people he’d grown up with—Strike, Anna, and his old man—were out of the picture.

  But now, off alone with Strike after what they’d just been through, it wasn’t about him and Strike the king, but rather him and the guy who’d helped raise him, and who’d been older by enough years to play a role that had hit halfway between big brother and father figure. And who had disappeared on him recently.

  With it just the two of them, and him raw as hell, Rabbit could admit that it had mattered. It had mattered a shit-ton.

  “Because you terrify me,” Strike said finally. “I’m terrified of you. I’m terrified for you. And I’m afrai
d of what’s going to happen to the rest of us if things go wrong with you. You’re already the strongest mage of the bunch of us, and I have a feeling you haven’t even started to tap what’s in that head of yours. You’re too fucking brave for your own good, and you’ve got the shittiest luck of anyone I’ve ever known. You put all that together, and it keeps me up some nights worrying about what’s in your future. Two days, two weeks, two years . . . shit, I don’t know what you’re going to be doing two minutes from now, except that I know that whatever it is, you’ll be giving it a hundred percent effort, for better or worse.”

  Strike paused, but Rabbit didn’t say anything—he fucking couldn’t say anything past the millstone that’d just landed on his chest.

  After an awkward pause, the king shrugged. “So, yeah, I’ve been riding your ass. Jox’s too, because he’s ripping himself to shreds trying to keep it all together at Skywatch and making himself miserable in the process. And Brandt and Patience . . . shit. The team is coming together, but some of the people in it are on the edge, and I don’t know how to pull them back. I—”

  He broke off, jamming his hands into his pockets, his shoulders sagging from their usual “I can handle whatever the hell you want to chuck at me” squareness. “Fuck. And I’ve just turned what happened here into something about me, which I didn’t mean to do. I just thought . . . I just wanted you to know that nothing that’s been going on between the two of us has a godsdamned thing to do with who your mother was—or, hell, who your father was, what he did, or what he was thinking when he did it. You’re you. I’ve known you most of my life. And . . . I love you. I just thought you might need to hear that right about now.”

  Forget not being able to talk. Rabbit couldn’t breathe.

  Strike stood there for another moment, looking uncomfortable as hell. Then he shrugged, shot a funny half smile that Rabbit remembered from a thousand times before, growing up, and turned away, heading back to the village center.