Bloodwitch (3 page)

This wasn’t the first time Lady Brina had brought a stranger into the greenhouse, but it was a rare occurrence, and I found it unnerving, coming so close on the heels of my ominous conversation with Taro.

He didn’t look like anyone I had ever seen. His hair, which was braided into a long tail, was white as ice. When he glanced up at me, I saw that his eyes were a pale blue-green. He obviously wasn’t a vampire, but I doubted he was human. A shapeshifter, like me? Or he could be a witch; I had never seen one of those, but I had heard about them, both in myth and in Lord Daryl’s complaints about the fees they charged for working in the greenhouse.

All the stranger’s clothing was well fitted, every piece fastened neatly. Except for the brown boots that rose to his knees and a few errant straps and buckles, his entire outfit was made of white or off-white fur and leather, giving him the appearance of something crafted out of the same frosted, colorless glass that surrounded Lady Brina’s studio.

The man had placed his heavy-looking bag on the ground and opened the top as if searching for something.

“I have a good quantity of
azul Maya
,” he said, “which, as you know, is far preferable to Alexandria blue. I also have a quantity of silver cochineal.”

“These are Azteka pigments!” Lady Brina exclaimed. “How do you have them?”

“I’m resourceful,” he replied. “It is five days until Kendra’s famous art exhibition. Should I assume you want them?”

“Yes, yes,” Lady Brina said, her gaze already turned impatiently toward her studio area.

“Would the lovely, talented lady mind if I stayed here for a few hours, until the storm passes?” the merchant pressed. “If this weather spoils my other wares, I might not be able to—”

“Fine,”
Lady Brina snapped. “I need to get to work. Calysta, write the man a receipt to present to my secretary for payment. Vance, help me with this lamp oil.”

I sprang forward, happy to assist and to get a better look at the stranger. Upon closer inspection it was obvious that every inch of him was soaked to the bone. There were small crystals of ice still melting in the folds of the heavy cloak he had discarded before looking through his pack. No wonder he wanted to get out of the storm.

He paid almost no attention to me. When his gaze drifted idly past mine, I ducked my head to hide my face and picked up one of the heavy crates of lamp oil—enough to burn for a century, it seemed. Calysta stepped forward and drew back the hood of her cloak, shaking water away.

I was turning to leave when I heard the stranger say in a horrified, strangled tone,
“You’re
Calysta?”

“Sir?” she replied.

The stranger was staring, every muscle tensed, his eyes wide. A moment later Lady Brina glanced back with a huff, obviously frustrated that I had stopped.

“Is there a problem, Obsidian?” Lady Brina asked coolly. “You’re distracting my boy.”

The stranger—Obsidian, she’d called him—shook himself and turned to look away from Calysta. “This woman …?”

“She’s on loan from Taro,” Lady Brina answered. “She is teaching my boy to dance, since that’s something her kind has a talent for. She also has a tolerable knowledge of art.”

“I know,” Obsidian whispered.

“Come, Vance,” Lady Brina said, drawing me toward her. She set a hand on my back as I caught up, and said, “We have work to do.”

We worked together to fill and light the many lamps Lady Brina required when she worked at night and in weather such as this. As I carefully funneled oil into the elaborate glass contraptions, each handmade by Lord Daryl, Lady Brina mixed pigments and considered her canvas.

“
Tamoanchan
is what the human Aztecs—the Mexica, as they name themselves—call their afterlife,” she mused. “It is a paradise, full of fountains, rivers, and forests. At its center is the flowering tree of life, where all life began, which means this painting needs to tell not only the story of what happens after death but also what happened at the
beginning
. I suppose it’s your myth, as well, since your kind comes from the same origins.”

“What origins?” I asked cautiously. Sometimes if I interrupted her, she would stop talking, especially if she had a brush in her hand. But when she was preparing her studio, she usually enjoyed questions.

“According to the Mexica,” she explained, “when the god Huitzilopochtli guided his people from their mythical homeland, his sister, Malinalxochitl, traveled with them. She was a great sorcereress, who could take the form of a bird or an animal, cause madness with a look, or shake a river from its course through her will alone. The priests feared her power and begged Huitzilopochtli to control her. In response the great god of war and death drugged his sister and left her behind when the rest of the Mexica moved on.” She cast a sideways glance my way, along with a soft smile. “Men fear women with power, you see.”

I contemplated that notion as Lady Brina adjusted the lamps. Taro was always courteous to Lady Brina, and of course his respect for Mistress Jeshickah bordered on awe, but did he
fear
them? Was I supposed to?

Lady Brina did not elaborate. Instead, she fiddled with the mirrors that reflected and increased the light, and then continued her story. “Those loyal to Malinalxochtil stayed with her. The Mexica were mostly destroyed when the Spanish came to their shores, but Malinalxochitl’s people had their sorcery to protect them. They became the Azteka,
and they are still a powerful nation, populated by jaguar and quetzal shapeshifters. They’re almost as powerful as Midnight, or so
they
seem to think.” Another of those conspiratorial smiles. “If they are so powerful, though, I don’t see why they would have abandoned a baby in the woods.”

“Why do you think they did?” I asked, but Lady Brina had already picked up her brush. An expression of fierce concentration settled on her face as she slipped into her own personal world. She would be lost to everything but her painting for a while now, including Calysta, who came to report that Obsidian was asleep and under guard.

“Is he dangerous?” I asked her in the hushed tone we both instinctively fell into when Lady Brina was working.

“He could be if he wanted to,” Calysta answered, “but even Malachi Obsidian knows better than to cross—” She broke off and frowned, as if a thought had come to her briefly and then been lost. “He wouldn’t hurt you, but you should still stay away. He’s a liar, and no good for anyone.”

“He acted as if he knew you,” I remarked.
And you know more of his name than Lady Brina used
.

“Maybe, long ago,” Calysta answered with a shake of her head. “Not now.”

“Is he a serpent, like you? Are you from the same place?” Lady Brina’s tale had made me curious. Normally the myths she told me were about places like Greece and Rome, places that had no connection to my world.

Almost as powerful as Midnight, or so
they
seem to think
.

Midnight was the pinnacle of civilization. How could the Azteka think they were anywhere near as good? Did others think the same about themselves?

“Yes—no,” Calysta answered. “It’s complicated, and it doesn’t matter. I come from a place where it is often cold, and wet, and an empty stomach is more common than a full one. Why do you think Malachi wanted to get inside? Why do you think your mother left you for Midnight to have? This is a better life.” She gave a full-body shiver, as if trying to shake off the last of the chill from outside. With what looked like a forced smile, she said, “Dance with me, Vance.”

“What did Lady Brina mean when she said you were on loan from Taro?”

Human slaves, like the cook and the maid, could be borrowed or loaned, but Calysta was a shapeshifter, like me. She wasn’t a slave, was she? Could shapeshifters
be
slaves?

“Taro asked me to come here,” Calysta answered. “About two years ago now. Do you remember? You told him you felt lonely when Lady Brina wasn’t around. He thought you should have a companion.” She smiled and caught my hands. “This is a beautiful place, Vance. Don’t sully it by dwelling on the dark things. Please,” she added, her voice soft and imploring.

A place where it is often cold, and wet, and an empty stomach is more common than a full one
. I felt bad, forcing her to dwell
on such terrible memories, so I dropped the conversation and let her guide me. I had been learning some new steps, which my body didn’t quite believe were possible yet.

The sun had come up, and I had almost mastered the tricky move, by the time Lady Brina announced, “Done. It’s done. Finally. Come see, Vance,” she said. “I think it’s my best work yet.”

As I reached Lady Brina, she set a hand on my hair, ruffling it and inevitably getting multicolored paint in the dark strands. The glowing, exhausted, yet triumphant smile on her face was more than sufficient reward for the last several days’ crankiness.

The central image in the painting was a giant tree, which had been cleft down the middle. Blood flowed from the center, but each side continued to grow, the trunks spiraling around each other. The tree was full of jewels, blooming with dozens of different types of flowers, and brilliant green feathers fell around it like rain. In the sky above a quetzal spread its wings and soared.

Me
, I thought.

My chest grew tight, and tears filled my eyes. The tiny bird, with its red breast and long, green tail feathers, seemed so free. Triumphant. Powerful, and joyous, and—

Next to me, Calysta let out a strangled sound. She asked, “Lady Brina, do you want me to clean up for you, so you can rest?”

I stared at Calysta, startled by the interruption. I could
have continued staring at the painting for hours, but despite the small sound that had escaped her just moments ago, Calysta’s downcast eyes showed no emotion.

“Yes, that would be good,” Lady Brina said. “I feel like I could sleep for a century, but I suppose I shall settle for closing my eyes until sundown.”

She disappeared without another word.

“I will take care of the mess,” Calysta said to me as soon as Lady Brina was gone. “You should get some rest, too. You haven’t slept any more than Lady Brina.”

I nodded. “Are you sure you don’t need help?”

“I’m fine.” She turned her back on me, so I walked away.

I needed to sleep—now that I paused to think about it, I could feel how heavy my body was—but I also felt restless. I wanted to go look at the painting again, but I didn’t want to get in Calysta’s way.

I took my quetzal form and flew up to the highest perch, instead, where I sat next to a small songbird for a while. It hopped off the perch, circled, landed, circled again, landed again. I watched it, wondering what it would say if it could talk to me. Unfortunately, even in bird form my mind was too human to communicate with my always-feathered companions.

I returned to the ground and paced in a circle. Why did my greenhouse suddenly feel so
small
? Why could I not get the image of that painted quetzal, flying above a flowering tree full of jewels and blood, out of my head?

I walked to the stream and knelt to dip my hands in the cool water.

Without quite knowing why, I found my hands closing around one of the rocks on the streambed. Impulse took me, and with a quetzal’s short, quavering cry, I flung the stone with all my strength.

The instant it was out of my hand, I realized my heart was pounding in my throat. How would I explain the shattered glass? Worse, how would I explain why I had damaged the beautiful stained-glass mosaic?

I flinched in anticipation of a crash that never came.

The stone bounced off the magic-imbued glass, which sparkled in the aftermath of the blow.

I looked around guiltily, but no one had seen. The stranger was still sleeping near the doorway, Calysta was still cleaning the studio, and no one else was around.

What was I
doing
?

And
why
?

I felt so lost.

I CRAWLED INTO
my bed and dragged an extra blanket over myself, afraid to do anything else. I tried to breathe slowly, to calm my racing heart, but I ended up tossing and turning all night. When I woke the storm had let up, though the light that made its way through the greenhouse walls still had a cool, gray quality to it.

I went to the stream, where I stripped and submerged myself in the warm waters. The restless night had left all my muscles tense. I didn’t see anyone on my way there or back—Malachi, or Calysta—and for the moment I was glad to be alone.

I retreated to my house, dried off, and dressed again. I waved the cook away and set to baking bread, hoping the usually soothing, rhythmic work of kneading the dough
would help calm me, but the stickiness and the bittersweet smell of the sourdough culture only made my stomach turn and the crawling sensation along my arms dig its way deeper into my muscles.

I left the bread to rise and examined the guarded door to the world beyond my greenhouse, wondering what would happen if I tried to leave. The guards were protecting the greenhouse from something outside, right? Not guarding
me
. Maybe I could just walk up and open the door. Peek outside. I didn’t want to leave. I just wanted to look. That couldn’t be too dangerous, could it?