Blood Spells

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 answer.”

“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