“Heriberto del Valle. We call him Berto. He was married to Moira, the dead sister.”
“Can you keep his heart going?”
Diego nodded. He cushioned his knees with another of the towels, placed his hands exactly where they needed to be on Berto’s chest, and went to work, counting under his breath.
The silence in the room struck me as incongruent with the unfolding situation. I glanced over my shoulder, not knowing what to expect, only to see Malvyn, Maritza, Margarita, and Carlos gathered in a half-circle, their sides pressed together.
“What am I missing?” I asked. “This man is close to crossing over. Do you want him to die?” I couldn’t keep the annoyed tone out of my voice. Death’s Invitation continued to hover near Berto’s body, though the messenger’s gray fingers had yet to touch any of the downed man’s bare skin.
“Heriberto has been trying to die ever since we lost our sister,” Malvyn said.
“Is that what he really wants? Is that what all of you really want?”
The four shook their heads as though one puppeteer controlled the strings. “We want him to live. His daughters want him to live,” Malvyn continued. “Mari and I have each brought him back from the precipice three times, always on the anniversary of Moira’s death. We are bound by the limitations of our familial connection to perform no more rites upon his body, other than the ones given upon a full and unequivocal passing.
“I suspect he chose to come here today, on the seventh anniversary of losing Moira, thinking he would fulfill his wish to die because neither of us can help him.”
“Then help me,” I said. “Maritza. Malvyn. Do I have your permission to perform a full Resuscitation on Heriberto del Valle?”
Mari and her brother both gave an emphatic yes.
Permission granted, I rolled onto my feet, stripped down to my boxer briefs and unclasped my watch, and turned the entirety of my attention to the man on the floor.
I held his sightless eyes open with my thumb and forefinger and reached my free arm behind me. “Maritza, my pen knife is in the front pocket of my slacks. Use the tip to open the plastic insert you’ll find just below my inner elbow.”
I’d grown tired of always having to cut myself in order to supply blood for rituals and had asked a friend to design an implantable, flow-controlling device. Maritza found the spot and did as I asked. Within seconds, a stream of life-giving ink flowed down my arm and onto my first two fingers.
I offered a taste to Death’s Invitation, then began to draw a series of sigils on Berto’s head. “Could someone please remove his shirt?” I shifted my position to make room. Mari knelt beside me and used my knife to slice through the stained cloth. With Berto’s chest exposed, I painted the sigil for Hecate on his right pectoral and the sigil for— “To whom does he pray?” I asked. “Do any of you know?”
“He gave up on prayer after Moira’s death, after we—” Maritza pressed her forehead against my shoulder, and whispered, “After we lost her ghost.”
May the Goddess have mercy.
“I think I can help with that,” I said, though the enormity of her admission gave me a momentary pause. At some point, after Heriberto was fully ensconced amongst the living, I would go looking for his wife’s ghost amongst the dead. With the Goddess’s blessing, I would find her.
I redoubled my efforts on the supine man. I didn’t have to reach far to pluck the next set of symbols from my genetic memory. I was a Nekrosine, after all. We had been reviving the dead, and the near-dead, for centuries. Heriberto would be up and about within twenty-four hours, unless he was carrying a curse that none of us—necromancers, witches, and sorcerers alike—could discern.
James and Felicia hurried into the room, each carrying a tray of seedlings. “There’re more,” James said, “right outside the door. Mal, can you get them?” The botanist kneeled, placed his tray on the floor, and reached for Felicia’s. I assayed the offerings as I finished connecting the sigils. “Diego, you may stop. James and Felicia, lift the seedlings out of the pots and place them around the outside of the body.” While they followed my instructions, I tucked plants under Berto’s armpits and placed a line of them along the inside of each thigh.
“Mari, I want you at Berto’s head. Be ready to place your hands on him when I say to.” I swiveled, kneeled at the man’s feet, and removed his shoes.
Goddess have mercy. Again.
I would be having a conversation with James and Malvyn later. When I was in-state, or unexpectedly performing rites such as this, I generally held back all judgment on the body’s appearance. The condition of this man’s toenails and the circle of dirt embedded around his ankles told me someone needed to care for him once I had given him my all.
I glanced up Berto’s front. Dozens of un-potted seedlings—heavy with buds and filled with green leaves thrumming with life’s force—created a living, breathing outline. Delicate rootlets were already reaching for their neighbors. All I had to do was redirect the plants to reach for the body.
Maritza was in place, her hands to either side of Berto’s skull. The mineral-rich soil formed a dark, living layer between her skin and his hair. As soon as she nodded to me, I drew sigils on my palms using my blood, then shoved my hands against the bottoms of the dying man’s feet. “Leilani. Carry the water pitcher over here and pour it—slowly, please—between your uncle and the seedlings.
I focused on directing the rootlets toward Berto’s limbs. The plants resisted my efforts until the water created a link. Leilani finished, stepped away, and everyone in the room gasped as the front of the dying man’s body was quickly covered in a fine mesh of fuzzy, pale white roots.
Berto began to breathe on his own. This method of
