Passion

“Ix who?”

“Ix Cuat. Your name in this life meant ‘Little Snake.’ ” Bill watched her face change. “It was a term of endearment in the Mayan culture. Sort of.”

“The same way getting your head impaled on a stick was an honor?”

Bill rolled his stone eyes. “Stop being so ethnocentric. That means thinking your own culture is superior to other cultures.”

“I know what it means,” she said, working the band into her dirty hair. “But I’m not being superior. I just don’t think having my head stuck on one of these racks would be so great.” There was a faint thrumming in the air, like faraway drumbeats.

“That’s exactly the sort of thing Ix Cuat would say! You always were a little bit backward!”

“What do you mean?”

“See, you—Ix Cuat—were born during the Wayeb’, which are these five odd days at the end of the Mayan year that everyone gets real superstitious about because they don’t fit into the calendar. Kind of like leap-year days. It’s not exactly lucky to be born during Wayeb’. So no one was shocked when you grew up to be an old maid.”

“Old maid?” Luce asked. “I thought I never live past seventeen … more or less.”

“Seventeen here in Chichén Itzá is ancient,” Bill said, floating from head to head, his wings humming as they fluttered. “But it’s true, you never used to live much past seventeen or thereabouts. It’s been kind of a mystery as to why in the lifetime of Lucinda Price you’ve managed to stick around so long.”

“Daniel said it was because I wasn’t baptized.” Now Luce was sure she heard drums—and that they were drawing closer. “But how can that matter? I mean, I bet Ix Ca-whatever was baptized—”

Bill flapped his hand dismissively. “Baptism is just one word for a kind of sacrament or covenant, in which your soul is more or less claimed. Just about every faith has something similar. Christianity, Judaism, Islam, even the Mayan religion that is about to go marching past”—he nodded toward the drumming, which was now so loud that Luce wondered if they should hide—“they all feature sacraments of some kind in which one expresses one’s devotion to one’s god.”

“So I’m alive in my current life in Thunderbolt because my parents didn’t have me baptized?”

“No,” Bill said, “you’re able to be killed in your current life in Thunderbolt because your parents didn’t have you baptized. You’re alive in your current life because, well … no one really knows why.”

There must have been a reason. Maybe it was the loophole Daniel had spoken about in the hospital in Milan. But even he didn’t seem to understand how Luce was able to travel through the Announcers. With every life she visited, Luce could feel herself getting closer to fitting the pieces of her past together … but she wasn’t there yet.

“Where’s the village?” she asked. “Where are the people? Where’s Daniel?” The drums grew so loud that she had to raise her voice.

“Oh,” Bill said, “they’re on the other side of the tzompantlis.”

“The what?”

“This wall of heads. Come on—you’ve got to see this!”

Through the open spaces in the racks of skulls, flashes of color danced. Bill herded Luce to the edge of the skull wall and gestured for her to look.

Beyond the wall, a whole civilization paraded past. A long line of people danced and beat their feet against a broad packed-dirt road that wound through the bone-yard. They had silky black hair and skin the color of chestnuts. They ranged in age from three to old enough to defy guessing. All of them were vibrant and beautiful and strange. Their clothes were sparse, weathered animal hides that barely covered their flesh, showing off tattoos and painted faces. It was the most remarkable body art—elaborate, colorful depictions of brightly feathered birds, suns, and geometric designs splayed across their backs and arms and chests.

In the distance, there were buildings—an orderly grid of bleached-stone structures and a cluster of smaller buildings with flat thatched roofs. Beyond that, there was jungle, but the leaves of its trees looked withered and brittle.

The crowd marched past, blind to Luce, caught up in the frenzy of their dance. “Come on!” Bill said, and shoved her out into the flow of people.

“What?” she shouted. “Go in there? With them?”

“It’ll be fun!” Bill cackled, flying ahead. “You know how to dance, don’t you?”

Cautiously at first, she and the little gargoyle joined the parade as they passed through what looked like a marketplace—a long, narrow strip of land packed with wooden casks and bowls full of goods for sale: dimply black avocados, deep red stalks of maize, dried herbs bundled with twine, and many other things Luce didn’t recognize. She turned her head this way and that to see as much as possible as she passed, but there was no way to stop. The surge of the crowd pushed her inexorably forward.

The Mayans followed the road as it curved down onto a wide, shallow plain. The roar of their dance faded, and they gathered quietly, murmuring to one another. They numbered in the hundreds. At the repeated pressure of Bill’s sharp claws on her shoulders, Luce lowered herself to her knees like the rest of them and followed the crowd’s gaze upward.

Behind the marketplace, one building rose higher than all the others: a stepped pyramid of the whitest stone. The two sides visible to Luce each had steep staircases running up their centers that ended at a single-story structure painted blue and red. A shiver ran through Luce, part recognition and part inexplicable fear.

She’d seen this pyramid before. In history-book pictures, the Mayan temple had fallen to ruins. But it was far from ruins now. It was magnificent.

Four men holding drums made of wood and stretched hide stood in a row on the ledge around the pyramid’s top. Their tanned faces were painted with strokes of red, yellow, and blue to look like masks. Their drums beat in unison, faster and faster until someone emerged from the doorway.

The man was taller than the drummers; beneath a towering red-and-white-feathered headdress, his entire face was painted with mazelike turquoise designs. His neck, wrists, ankles, and earlobes were adorned with the same kind of bone jewelry Bill had given Luce to wear. He was carrying something—a long stick decorated with painted feathers and shiny shards of white. At one end, something silver gleamed.

When he faced the people, the crowd fell silent, almost as if by magic.

“Who is that man?” Luce whispered to Bill. “What’s he doing?”

“That’s the tribal leader, Zotz. Pretty haggard, right? Times are tough when your people haven’t seen rain for three hundred and sixty-four days. Not that they’re counting on that stone calendar over there or anything.” He pointed at a gray slab of rock marked with hundreds of sooty black lines.

Not one drop of water for almost an entire year? Luce could almost feel the thirst coming off the crowd. “They’re dying,” she said.

“They hope not. That’s where you come in,” Bill said. “You and a few other unfortunate wretches. Daniel, too—he’s got a minor role. Chaat’s very hungry by now, so it’s really all hands on deck.”

“Chaat?”

“The rain god. The Mayans have this absurd belief that a wrathful god’s favorite food is blood. See where I’m going with this?”

“Human sacrifice,” Luce said slowly.

“Yep. This is the beginning of a long day of ’em. More skulls to add to the racks. Exciting, isn’t it?”

“Where’s Lucinda? I mean, Ix Cuat?”

Bill pointed at the temple. “She’s locked up in there, along with the other sacrificees, waiting for the ball game to be over.”

“The ball game?”

“That’s what this crowd is on their way to watch. See, the tribal leader likes to host a ball game before a big sacrifice.” Bill coughed and brushed his wings back. “It’s kind of a cross between basketball and soccer, if each team had only two players, and the ball weighed a ton, and the losers got their heads cut off and their blood fed to Chaat.”