He chuckled louder upon seeing our startled reactions, then patted the ground beside him in an invitation to join him.
I did so warily, not sure what else to do. Sitting down before him reminded me just how large he was, towering over me by at least a few feet. Cain and Claire—equally uncertain—took places on either side of me, looking ready to grab me and run at even the slightest change of wind.
“That was well done, White Rose,” the tortoise complimented me. “Much better than the man-child fared. But I still struck you first,” he added, slowly lifting a massive claw to point at my shirt. I glanced down, knowing for certain that I hadn’t seen him move before I made him explode into crushed ice. Sure enough, a single line had torn through the fabric of my shirt. And I suddenly realized what the relaxing sensation I had felt was all about.
It hadn’t been because it felt good to use my magic…
The perverted bastard had sliced through my bra!
The two cups now hung loosely from the shoulder straps. Luckily, I hadn’t worn a strapless bra, or that he hadn’t sliced my shirt entirely off. I blinked rapidly, spotting a faint red line across my skin through the torn shirt. It didn’t hurt, but I could see the raised welt clearly—like I had scraped myself on a thorn on a hike through the woods.
I slowly lifted my head to glare at the pervy tortoise, trying to comprehend how the hell he had managed to strike me without my knowing. I hadn’t sensed magic—none at all.
And I was reminded of the stereotypical scrawny Asian kid and the arrogant bully.
The tortoise watched me in amusement. “Not magic. This,” he said, and slowly—almost effortlessly—drew his magic sword two inches from the sheathe to reveal a frosty blue blade. It didn’t make a sound—the gesture as frictionless as sliding a dagger across velvet. But when he slid it back into the sheathe, I heard the familiar whispered click I’d noticed earlier as it settled into place.
Thankfully, his sword hadn’t shredded my magic jacket. Or…maybe his sword couldn’t.
Claire gulped audibly, sniffing at the air with concern. She hadn’t sensed him move either, and she was a shifter—much more perceptive than either of us.
“Man-child,” Cain repeated darkly. “I told you he had a magic sword,” he said, shifting that dark glare my way.
The tortoise shifted slightly in a humble gesture. “We all have our…crosses to bear, our swords to carry. Of course, you know all about that, Callie,” he said, enunciating my name.
I narrowed my eyes at him suspiciously. “I’m sure I don’t, as a matter of fact. I don’t have a sword or a cross.” I had recently learned I was the prophesied sheathe for the Spear of Destiny, or Spear of Longinus as many called it.
But that wasn’t a sword.
It was the spear that stabbed Jesus on the Cross. And it was currently in a rehab clinic located somewhere deep within my soul, supposedly repairing itself from damage received during my trip through the Doors.
And it wasn’t a cross, either.
He shrugged apologetically. “As you wish.”
I found myself smiling despite the cryptic comment. There was something about the tortoise that just oozed goodwill. I even empathized with him. Here he was, locked in a temple garden behind his house, all alone. And now he had guests! This was an exciting time for him, and he didn’t want to waste it being rude. He was just out of practice with social interactions.
Granted, it seemed his only other recent experience with social interactions was a stoner bear, so…he deserved a little leeway.
“You’re the Black Tortoise,” I said, flicking my gaze up at the statue behind him—the one we had expected to be our appointment. The very human statue.
“Black Warrior, Black Tortoise, Genbu, Xuanwu,” he recited in a bored tone. “Depends where you’re coming from and where you’re going to, but yes. I am. Call me Xuanwu.”
I had never heard any of those names before tonight, and I couldn’t recall any legend or story about a magic sword, a tortoise god or any specific Chinese constellation reference. What I did pick up on was that he had just used a Japanese name—Genbu—as well as a Chinese name—Xuanwu. I’d studied enough martial arts texts to at least be able to tie most names to their respective origins.
“Are you Chinese or Japanese?” I asked. “You used names from both languages.”
The tortoise snorted in amusement, shooting some gravel out from his nostrils like a bullet that struck right between Cain’s legs, making him flinch. Then he turned to me, cocking his head as if I had done something incredibly interesting. He must have had pretty low standards.
“How very observant of you to notice such a distinction between names,” he said in a complimentary—and creepily intent—tone, like he was delivering secret advice or a warning. I shivered under the scrutiny of those glittering dark eyes. “But names can change as time slips by. They are ephemeral, tricky little things, to be picked up and abandoned as needed.“
I frowned. Some names—True Names—were often really freaking important and couldn’t be abandoned in a cardboard box along the side of the road like he was implying.
The intense look faded, and he shrugged in a glacially slow, nonchalant manner, his shell rising up slightly over his head with the motion. “I am more than just a name. I am all. And I am nothing. Just a piece of this world, riding out my part to play in life like any other.”
I frowned thoughtfully, but I really hadn’t expected anything less mysterious from a god.
I had spoken with very powerful beings before, and they all adored the use of cryptic comments and advice. Oftentimes, it was the only method they could use to pass on information—not being allowed to involve themselves too directly in mortal affairs. So riddles were their #TotesFaves.
While the mortals wailed and gnashed their teeth.
But Buddhists…I was beginning to think that they could make everything sound like some great epiphany or parable, hence their penchant for fortune cookies.
Looking at him with the statue just over his shoulder, I realized that the sword in the statue’s hand and the one in the tortoise’s claw was identical. So who was the guy in the statue with his foot resting atop the tortoise’s shell and a snake wrapped around his leg? In fact…if this was the tortoise, where was the snake? Starlight had called him turtle-snake, but we’d only met this invincible turtle-cube.
The statue had led me to believe we were looking for a man with two creatures at his command—a tortoise and a snake. Much like Roland had Paradise and Lost—as familiars, or maybe oath-maidens. So to be talking to the tortoise with no snake in sight…
As much as I wanted to ask that obvious question, it was equally obvious that Xuanwu meant us no harm—he could have sliced our noses off without us noticing—so I didn’t anticipate a serpent attacking us from behind. Not immediately, anyway. I needed to establish common ground.
“Starlight told us it was important that we talk with you, but that was the extent of his explanation…”
Xuanwu wheezed out a laugh. “He was likely as high as a kite, searching for his next great journey with Bear Necessity.” Then he smiled to let us know he was not casting judgment on Starlight’s hobbies.
I smiled faintly, nodding. This tortoise even knew the name of Starlight’s bong? They had to be close friends. But I was damned curious what Xuanwu meant by Starlight’s next great journey.
I idly imagined Bill and Ted’s sequel, Bogus Journey, before refocusing.
Chapter 18
I realized that, rather than answering my question, Xuanwu was watching the three of us with curious amusement—primarily Claire. “A white bear of the cold North,” he said, smiling at her and dipping his beak respectfully. “Yes. We could be friends, Claire Stone.” He enunciated her name very distinctly, as if branding it into his memory.
“Thank you,” Claire said, sounding uncertain whether that had required a verbal response or some unknown gesture particular to the culture.
“An
d you, Cain,” Xuanwu said respectfully, turning to face him. “The world’s first murderer. What’s that like?”
Cain narrowed his eyes. “About as much fun as talking to a ninja turtle, apparently,” he said in a cool, dry tone.
It was alarmingly silent for two excruciatingly slow heartbeats. And then Xuanwu burst out laughing. “I think we could be friends, too. You do not mince words. Yippee Ki-Yay…” he snorted, chuckling softly.
Cain nodded, hesitantly accepting the praise, and looking mildly surprised he hadn’t earned another slash on his shirt for his sharp tongue.
“Callie…Penrose,” Xuanwu said slowly, enunciating each syllable strangely. “The White Rose,” he added, as if tasting the cadence of the words. He studied me silently for a time, his glittering dark gaze making me uncomfortable. “Do you know what the color white represents to the Chinese?” he finally asked. I shook my head, not wanting to hazard a guess. “White symbolizes death, for the most part.”
I pursed my lips, not knowing whether he was trying to offend me or warn me. “Okay.”
“And flowers that grow from thorny vines are often attributed to pain and unhappiness, because they all have a tendency to creep into the most unwanted of places, despite our best efforts to tame them, avoid them, or hide from them,” he explained, gauging my reaction.
Instinctively, I wanted to try hitting him again, but knew it wouldn’t get me anywhere—and that he would likely slice my top clean off before I could do so. I thought about the creature before me—one obviously deeply rooted in a Taoist belief system. And I wondered why, out of all the things he could have said to start a conversation, he had chosen to focus on our names and attributes. First Claire being a white bear, then Cain as his brother’s murderer…
And now specific elements of one of my monikers—White Rose—culturally translating to Death, pain, and unhappiness…
And a suspicion abruptly hit me like a swift rock between the eyes. Exactly between the eyes, but a few inches higher, in the center of my forehead. Now that I thought about it, he’d said other things that seemed to slither into this epiphany of mine.
“Despair…” I whispered, watching his reaction as I tried to keep my face neutral.
“Perhaps,” he replied almost absently, lifting one claw as if weighing something in his hand. If he had meant to imply what I feared, I would have expected some kind of victorious look on his face—excitement, relief—or even fear.
But instead, he was now staring down at his sword, lost in thought.
Was I jumping to conclusions—drawing deeper meanings from his overly cryptic answers that he hadn’t meant? Because the word Despair was written on my forehead in Enochian script. And Nate Temple was currently hosting a career fair, searching for a candidate for one of his new Horsemen Masks. He had even named each of his new, second string Riders of the Apocalypse—Hope, Despair, Justice, and Absolution.
Nate was Hope, and as far as I’d heard, the other three were still up for grabs. But that had been over a year ago, so maybe he’d given them all out by now. I was about a million percent sure I didn’t want to become a Horseman. I had enough problems, and it sure didn’t seem like a good idea to have two groups of Horsemen riding during the Apocalypse. Archangel Michael had been horrified to learn of this second band of Apocalypse Riders, saying that God had never mentioned such a thing.
Which really cranked up the terror meter, in my opinion, telling me that the book of Revelations had been plagiarized or hijacked by other pantheons.
And to learn that my forehead had one of those four names branded across it like I was bought and paid for livestock…
Despair…Even the word made me shiver.
Phix and I had once had a very intense conversation on the definitions and possible interpretations of Hope and Despair. It had been beyond enlightening, and the more I thought about it, the more similarities I found between her words and Xuanwu’s implications.
Phix had told me that Despair wasn’t a single-sided definition. That it was a blade to be swung both ways, at whatever target I chose. The user’s choice became the definition. Phix’s words drifted to the forefront of my mind.
The only way to balance the whips of hope are to know the blades of despair. The world will require that balance, or all will be lost. Hope is nearing his understanding. The world must birth despair.
Even recalling her words, I shook my head stubbornly. I wanted to bring everyone together, not cause pain and suffering. If anything, I would pick Justice—
No. I wouldn’t pick any of them because I didn’t want anything to do with them. Heaven and Hell already had enough reasons to dislike me. Or recruit me. I was smuggling a Holy Spear inside me, for one thing.
I’d also learned firsthand how power could change a person. I’d sought nothing but power in my journey through the Doors, and that pursuit had created a monster that I never wanted to see again. A monster desiring of only two things—more power, and vengeance—both to be used to hunt down Samael. I had managed to take a step back from crazy town, but I hadn’t forgotten Samael and what he’d done to Cain. His day of reckoning was still coming. Mark my words.
“What does the color black represent?” Claire asked curiously, as if uncomfortable with the growing silence. I felt her studying me nervously from her peripheral vision, waiting for some nonverbal cue that would tell her to attack or to help me escape.
The tortoise chuckled. “Water, of course.”
Cain arched an eyebrow suspiciously. “Of course. Because water is black,” he said, deadpan.
“Black also represents destruction, evil, cruelty, and sadness,” Xuanwu admitted, ignoring Cain’s sarcasm.
I frowned thoughtfully, snapping out of my inner thoughts. “You don’t seem to be any of those things…” Just like Phix had said…the definition not necessarily matching the words—or person, in this case.
He shrugged. “We are all many things at one time or another. We take names, borrow them and their baggage, own them for a short time…but in the end they are simply cherry blossoms on the wind, floating to the next person—and the next, and the next.”
“If they are all fleeting and temporary, then why worry about what the colors mean? Or which names define us? If we aren’t doomed to fall under their influence, why talk of them?”
He shrugged. “It is something I learned once upon a time,” he admitted, sounding as if it were of no consequence. “But even if temporary, names have power—both over us and for us. Much like a sword cuts both ways. I, too, know what it’s like to live a life bonded to a sword,” he said, his eyes latching back onto the sword in his lap for a brief moment.
Then he looked directly at me, and there was no easygoing smile this time. I felt my shoulders tense, not understanding where this was going. “I already told you once, I don’t have a sword.”
He snorted another shotgun blast of gravel near Cain, making him flinch. “We all have swords, child. Your blood is a sword. Your voice is a sword. Your name is a sword. We are all swords. Some just take better care of them than others before passing them on to the next reincarnation.”
My mind was spinning, having no idea if this was just a casual conversation, a string of answers hidden in riddles, or if the tortoise was perhaps still mentally sleeping and speaking to us in some sort of fever-dream. Like those moments immediately after a nightmare when you woke up and still felt like you were a petite, white-haired little girl, running through a twisted version of a carnival, your parents nowhere to be found, and a walking, talking, ten-foot-tall octopus with knife tentacles was pursuing you with a maniacal cackle.
A completely hypothetical example.
“Remember that Roland guy? Big prick, am I right?” Cain interrupted, sounding as if he was running out of patience, or perhaps tired of dodging snot rockets. I let out a sigh of relief, thankful for the change in topic.
I nodded my agreement, rolling my shoulders to shake off the imagined feeling of tentacles slithering
up behind me.
“I feel like we’re running around in circles, chasing our tails,” I said, implying both the conversation so far, and my concerns about Kansas City.
“Maybe you are chasing your tale,” Xuanwu said, grinning sagely.
I folded my arms stubbornly. I couldn’t kill the curious part of me, but I also knew when someone was trying to lead me to another topic. He was definitely some sort of Buddhist, although probably an original practitioner rather than one of the many trendy present-day Burning Man variations. Maybe he knew the Minotaur, a relatively new fellow Buddhist.
“I don’t have time to chase my tail,” I muttered. “My city is in chaos, and I need to stop a man who has lost his way. A man who once taught me the difference between right and wrong has forgotten his own lessons.”
Xuanwu nodded sadly. “Sometimes, blindly chasing after our forefathers can have disastrous repercussions.”
I hesitated. “Four fathers or forefathers?” I asked, clearly enunciating the difference. Because a demon named Johnathan had once called me the girl with four fathers.
God—everyone’s father.
Titus—my biological father who had given me up to the church as a babe.
Terry Penrose—my adoptive father and personal hero.
Roland Haviar—my old mentor, my father in the teachings of magic and self-defense. The new vampy Michael Corleone of my city.
Xuanwu smiled. “Yes, I see what you mean. Fathers can often disappoint, also.”
Even knowing he was baiting me, I still considered his answer in respectful silence for a few moments. Was he talking about Roland—the obvious disappointment in town? Or was this a talk about the Big G? I didn’t think so, since Xuanwu obviously wasn’t Christian. And Titus was dead, although I had been beyond disappointed to learn he had abandoned me, even if he’d had good intentions. Terry had never disappointed me. Thinking of him, I really hoped he was safe—but even if he was, none of us would be okay if Roland continued holding Kansas City hostage. Which meant I needed to put a stop to Roland’s insanity before checking on my dad. Hopefully, he and Rai were far, far away.
Feathers and Fire Series Box Set 2 Page 63