Maritza lowered herself onto the red rocking chair, crossed her legs, and pulled an Hermès scarf from her bag. The square of silk was printed with a lavish image of a Phoenix. She folded the scarf into a triangle, covered her hair, and knotted two corners underneath her chin.
Belle handed Maritza a petite linen lunch napkin, which she pressed against the bottom of the glass.
Even with my feet encased in unfashionable work books, I could feel the ground’s tremor of anticipation.
With one last long draught of lemonade, Maritza’s muscle tissues plumped enough she went from scrawny to, simply, a bit on the skinny side. “Have the heads thawed?”
I swallowed hard, connecting the dots. Maritza was the necromancer. And if family genetics were as generous to her as to Malvyn, there was a storehouse of power sitting next to me.
Together, Rose and Belle answered, “Yes,” with Rose adding, “We followed your instructions to the letter, although I must say your suggestion to…”
“Rose, there are those here who would not react well to the nuances of reanimation.”
Rose nodded, curt and precise. “Have you decided where you would like to do this, Maritza? Shall we bring the heads to the bodies or the bodies to the heads?”
The necromancer held her glass out to be refilled, leaned into the back of the rocker, and eyed Tanner.
“You are Jessamyne’s druid?” A statement more than a question and not the response Rose was waiting for.
Tanner stood rock-still before bending from the waist and extending his hand. “Tanner Marechal, Provincial Agent for Ministry of Forests, Lands, and Natural Resources. And druid from the lineage of Ni’eve du Blanc.”
Maritza curled her middle three fingers over his, gave him the subtlest nod, and turned her attention to Belle. “Were you able to locate enough yellow marigolds?”
“I was, and I think you will be pleased with the quality of the petals.”
“And do we have any clothing from the deceased?” Maritza directed that question to the group at large.
“The heads were bare when I found them in the freezer,” I said, finding my way into the conversation while continuing to stand.
“Then let us hope the bodies are clothed.” Maritza placed her napkin and glass on the tray. “Here is what I propose. We bring the heads to the burial mounds. The druids will lift the veil shielding the sacred resting ground and move the soil covering the bodies. I would find it problematic but not impossible to perform this with the bodies and heads such a distance from one another, but I think it would please the group to witness as much as possible. That way, there will be no discrepancy about what I would otherwise simply report to you.”
“Did you decide how you would like us to transport the heads?” Belle asked.
Rose stepped in. “Abigail would harangue us no end if we used her bread bowls, but they’re the right size. Has anyone seen something similar, perhaps in one of the barns?”
Tanner, Wes, and Kaz peeled away from our grouping, as though they’d been waiting for the excuse to put some distance between themselves and the necromancer, and strode toward the nearest outbuilding.
Maritza pointed to one of the empty rocking chairs. “Sit with me, Calliope. While they’re off, I will tell you a story.”
I settled into the seat’s high back, making myself comfortable but not overly so. There was a bird-of-prey quality to Maritza’s bearing, even as I deduced she was the likely owner of the cheery Volkswagen out front.
“I was born in a Mexican cemetery on the night of November first, Día de los Muertos, when the veils between the living and the dead lift. My father was embarrassed and horrified, but my mother sought to make good use of the moment—and perhaps to annoy her husband—and like the wily bruja she was, told no one but her best friend that she was well into labor when she joined our town’s procession to the graveyard.
“She swaddled me in one of my grandmother’s woven rebozos and tucked me into a coffin made for a baby. Not a specific baby.” She leaned forward and shook a blue-tipped finger at me. “My mother’s sense of humor was not that macabre. Coffins are plentiful that time of year in San Miguel, as are candles, calaveras, and calacas.”
I quirked my head at the unfamiliar words.
“Skulls and skeletons. Decorations,” Maritza added. “Once I was securely ensconced, my mother released my unadorned, unremarkable, unpainted pine coffin into the crowd, whereupon I was paraded around the graves while she delivered the afterbirth and buried it in the ground. To this day I can feel the scratchy wool of my grandmother’s shawl against my tender skin.” She lifted her glass, indicating I should pour her more lemonade. “Beginning my life in a graveyard, during a celebration of life and death, was a gift. This has allowed me to truly see and know that Death is simply another phase of Life.”
She separated one of the gold chains looped around her neck and waved a small glass vial at me.
“Soil with the bloods of my mother and me, mixed. I trade this with the dead. An offering, an exchange for their time.”
Tucking the vial under her blouse, she peered over the top of her sunglasses. Her eyes were as blue as her painted fingernails.
“And you, Calliope, must collect as much of your blood as you can. Feed it directly into the soil that marks the place you call home. The earth needs it, and you won’t have moon blood to give forever.”
Chapter 7
Tanner, Wes, and the others returned as Maritza’s recounting of her birth ended. We left Hyslop and Peasgood on the porch with two
