“Would I lie to you?”
I jerked back from him and slugged him in the shoulder, not hard, but he got my point. Would Edward lie to me? Would the sun rise tomorrow? Yes to both.
The actors that had taken our places were finally on stage, in robes. The priest in his feathers was introducing them, getting the applause they deserved. I was glad they ruined the effect and didn’t leave poor Ramona convinced she’d done terrible things. I was actually surprised that they’d spoiled the trick, like a magician revealing his secrets.
“We’ll allow you to eat before the next and last act of our show.”
The lights came up, and we all turned to our meals. I’d thought the meat was beef, but when I put the first bite in my mouth the texture told me I was wrong. The waitress had brought me an extra napkin, and I used that to spit the bite into.
“What’s wrong?” Bernardo asked. He was eating the meat and enjoying himself.
“I don’t eat . . . veal,” I said. I took a forkful of an unrecognizable vegetable, then realized it was sweet potatoes. I didn’t recognize the spices in them. Of course, cooking wasn’t exactly my area of expertise.
Everyone was eating the meat except me, and strangely, Edward. He’d taken a bite, but then he concentrated on the flat bread, and the vegetables, too.
“You don’t eat veal either, Ted?” Olaf asked. He put another bite in his mouth and chewed slowly, as if trying to draw every ounce of flavor.
“No,” Edward said.
“I know it’s not moral indignation about the poor little calves,” I said.
“And you worry about the poor little calves?” Edward said. He gave me a long look as he asked. I couldn’t read his eyes, but they weren’t blank, I just couldn’t read them. What else was new?
“I don’t approve of the treatment of the animals, no, but truthfully I just don’t like the texture.”
Dallas was watching us all as if we were doing something a lot more interesting than discussing meat. “You don’t like the texture of . . . veal?”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t.”
Olaf had turned to the other woman. He took his latest bite of meat and offered it to her on the end of his fork. “You like veal?”
She got a strange little smile on her face. “I eat veal here almost every night.” She didn’t take his bite that he offered but took another bite from her own fork.
I felt like I was missing something, but before I could ask, the lights went down again. The final act was about to begin. If I was still hungry, surely there’d be something open on the way home. There usually was.
24
THE LIGHTS WENT DOWN until the room was left in darkness. A dim spotlight cut the darkness. The light was only a faint white gleam when it finally stopped at the far, far end of the darkened room.
A figure stepped into that pale gleam. A crown of brilliant red and yellow feathers was bent towards the light. A cloak of smaller feathers covered the figure from neck to the edge of the light. The crown raised, revealing a pale face. It was César. He turned his face to one side, giving profile and showing that he had earrings going from lobe to halfway up the edge of his ear. Gold glittered as he moved his head, and the light grew stronger. He lifted something in his hands and a note of music filled the near dark. A thin trilling note like a flute, but not. The song was beautiful, but eerie, as if something lovely were crying. A jaguar man lifted off the feathered cloak and vanished into the darkness. A heavy gold collar lay across his shoulders and chest. If it were real, it was a fortune in precious metal. Hands came from either side of the darkness, appearing in the light, taking the feathered crown without ever showing themselves.
César walked slowly, and halfway up the room I could see what he was playing. It looked like a panpipe, but not exactly. The song cut through the darkness, crawled through it, one moment uplifting, the next mournful. It looked like he was truly playing it, and if so it was impressive. Jaguar men stripped him of everything he was carrying: a small shield, a strange stick that looked sort of like a bow, but not, a bag of short arrows or something like them. He was close enough now that I could see the jade decoration that he wore in front of his kilt, though I knew it wasn’t a kilt, but skirt wasn’t right either. The front was covered in feathers; the rest, some rich cloth. More hands came into the light to undo the garment and take it and the jade away. They were close enough now that the darkness and light couldn’t hide that the hands belonged to the jaguars. They stripped him down to the flesh-colored G-string he’d worn before, or one like it.
The song rose into the dimness as he neared the last few rows of tables. You could almost see the notes rising upward like birds. I don’t usually wax poetic about music, but this was different. Somehow you knew it wasn’t just a song, just something to listen to and forget, or hum in odd moments. When you think of ritual music, you think of drums, something with a beat to remind us of our hearts, and the ebb and flow of our bodies. But not all ritual is made to remind us of our bodies. Some of it’s made to remind us of why the ritual is happening. All ritual at its heart is for the sake of divinity. All right, not all, but most. Most of it is us yelling, hey God, look at me, look at us, hope you like it. We are all just children at heart, hoping Dad or Mom likes the present we picked out.
Of course, sometimes Mom and Dad can have quite a temper.
César let the flute or pipes hang from a thong around his neck. He knelt and removed his own sandals, then handed them to a woman at the nearest table. There was a shifting in the dimness as if she wasn’t sure she wanted them. Maybe after the earlier show she was afraid to take them. Couldn’t really blame her on that one.
He stopped at the table just behind that one and spoke quietly to another woman. She stood and removed one of the gold earrings from his ear. Then he went from table to table, and let sometimes men, but mostly women take the last of his decoration from his body. Which probably explained why the earrings were the least expensive, least authentic pieces he’d been wearing. Except for the last earrings. A medium sized jade ball set in each earlobe, but it was the figurines that dangled beneath, moving as his head moved, swaying as he walked, that made the earrings special. Each figure was nearly three inches high, brushing his shoulders like the hair he did not have. As he got closer, you could see the green stone was intricately carved into one of those squat deities the Aztecs were so fond of.
He stopped at our table, and I was surprised because he’d carefully ignored the other “brides” on this walk. He raised me to my feet with one hand in mine, then turned his head so I could reach the earring. I didn’t want to stop the show, but they were too expensive a gift to accept unless they were fake. The moment I touched the cool stone, I knew it was real jade. It was too heavy, too smooth to be anything else.
I don’t wear earrings, and I’ve never had pierced ears, so I was left feeling the back of his ear in the near dark, trying to figure out how to undo the earring. He finally reached up and helped me, hands doing quickly and almost gracefully what I’d been fumbling at. By watching him I realized that they unscrewed, and when he turned his head I was able to get the second one out myself. I knew enough about jewelry to know that the screws were modern. It was real jade, real gold, but it wasn’t an antique, or at least the clasps were modern.
The stones rested heavy and very solid in my hands. He leaned over and whispered, breath warm against my cheek. “I will get them back from you after the performance. Don’t interfere.” He laid a gentle kiss on my cheek and walked to the bottom step. He took the flute from around his neck and broke off one of the many reeds, scattering it on the step.
I sat back down, the jade gripped in my hands. I leaned into Edward. “What’s about to happen?”
He shook his head. “I’ve never seen this particular show.”
I looked across the table at Professor Dallas. I wanted to ask her what was going on, but she had all her attention on the stage. César had broken part of the flute on every step as
he walked up them. Four jaguar men were waiting at the top, grouped around a small, roundish stone. The priest was there, too, but without the cape. He was even broader through the shoulders than he’d seemed, and though not tall you got the impression of sheer strength, sheer physicality. He seemed more warrior than priest.
César had made it to the top of the temple. The four jaguar men grabbed him, by wrist and ankle, lifting him over their heads, steadying his body with their hands. They paced the stage with him held above their heads, showing him to the four corners of the stage, even the one that faced away from the audience. Then they brought him to the small round stone and laid his body across it, so that his head and shoulders leaned back, and the lowest part of his chest and upper stomach were curved over the stone.
I was on my feet before I saw the obsidian blade in the priest’s hand. Edward grabbed my arm. “Look to your left,” he said.
I glanced and found two of the jaguar men waiting. If I made a run for the stage, I bet they’d try and stop me. César had said that he’d come for the earrings after the performance. Which implied he’d be alive to do it. He’d warned me not to interfere. But dammit, they were going to cut him up. I knew that now. What I didn’t know, was how badly they were going to cut him up.
Dallas had gotten up from her seat and was at my other arm, whispering, “It’s part of the show. César plays sacrifice twice a month. Not always this exact sacrifice, but it’s part of his job.” She spoke low and soothingly like you talked to a crazy person on a ledge. I let her and Edward ease me back into my seat. I was gripping the jade earrings so hard the edges dug into my hands.
Dallas knelt beside me, keeping a hand on my arm, but she watched the stage. The jaguar men held him, and you could see their grip tighten, see them take in their collective breaths. César’s face showed nothing, not fear, not anticipation, just waiting for it.
The priest drove the blade into the flesh just below the ribs. César’s body jerked in reaction, but he didn’t cry out. The blade tore across him, digging into the meat, widening the hole. His body danced with the wound, but he never made a sound. Blood poured across César’s pale skin, bright and almost unreal under the lights. The priest reached his hand into the wound nearly up to his elbow, and César cried out.
I grabbed Dallas’s arm. “He can’t survive without his heart, not even a shapeshifter can survive that.”
“They won’t take his heart, I swear it.” She stroked my hand where it gripped her like you’d soothe a nervous dog.
I leaned in close to her, and whispered, “If they take his heart when I could have stopped it, I’ll have your heart on a knife before I leave New Mexico. You still willing to swear?”
Her eyes had gone wide. I think she was holding her breath, but she nodded. “I swear it.”
The funny thing was that she believed the threat instantly. Most people you tell them you’re going to cut their heart out and they won’t believe you. People believe you’ll kill them, but get too graphic and they take it like a joke or an exaggeration. Professor Dallas believed me. You could see it in her face. Most college professors wouldn’t have. Made me wonder about Dallas more than I already did.
The priest’s voice came into the utter silence that had filled the room. “I hold his heart in my hand. In the long gone days we would have torn it from his chest, but those days are gone,” and you heard, felt the regret in his words. “We worship as we can, not as we would.” He slid his hand out slowly, and I was close enough to hear the wet, fleshy sound as his hand pulled out of the wound.
He raised a hand covered in blood above his head, and the audience cheered.
They cheered. They fucking cheered.
The jaguar men lifted César from the altar and tossed him down the steps. He tumbled bonelessly, coming to rest on the floor directly in front of the steps. He lay on his back, gasping, fighting to breathe and I wondered if the priest had damaged a lung or two when he went fishing for the heart.
I just sat there, staring at him. He did this twice a month. It was part of his job. Shit. Not only didn’t I understand it, I didn’t want to. If he was into pain and death, I didn’t need to know anything else about him. I was eyeball deep in sadomasochistic wereleopards back home. I didn’t need another one.
The priest was talking, but I didn’t hear him. I didn’t hear anything but a great roaring like white noise in my ears. I watched the wereleopard twitch, body jerking, blood pouring down his sides, across the floor, but even as I stared, the blood was slowing. It was hard to tell through all the blood and torn flesh, but I knew he was healing.
Two of the human bouncers came and picked him up, one taking his ankles, the other lifting under his arms. They carried him through the tables, past us. I stood, stopping them. Dallas stood with me, as if afraid of what I’d do. I stared into César’s eyes. There was real pain there. He wasn’t having a good time or didn’t seem to be. But you don’t do shit like this on a regular basis unless you enjoy it on some level. His hands were lying on his chest, as if he were trying to hold himself together. I pried one hand up. The skin was slick with blood. I pressed the jade earrings into his hand, closed his fingers around them.
He whispered something, but I didn’t bend down to hear. “Don’t ever come near me again.”
I sat back down, and they carried him away. I started to reach for a napkin to wipe my hands, but Dallas grabbed my arm. “She’s ready to see you now.”
I hadn’t seen anyone talk to her, but I wasn’t questioning it. If she said it was time, fine. We could meet the Master of the City and get the hell out of here.
I started to reach for the napkin again, but she moved it out of reach. “It is fitting that you meet her with the blood of sacrifice on your hands.”
I looked at her and grabbed the napkin out of her hands. She actually struggled to keep it, and we had a little tug of war before I jerked it away from her. But a woman appeared at my elbow. She wore a red-hooded cloak and came up only to my shoulder, but even before she turned her head so I could see the face that lay inside that cloak, I knew what she was. Itzpapalotl, Obsidian Butterfly, Master of the City, and self-proclaimed goddess. I hadn’t felt her coming. I hadn’t heard her or sensed her. She just appeared beside me like magic. It had been a long time since a vampire had been able to do that. I think I stopped breathing for a second or two as I met her eyes.
Her face was as delicate as the rest of her, her skin a milk-pale brown. Her eyes were black, not just brown, but truly black like the obsidian blade she was named for. Most master vamp’s eyes are like drowning pools, things to fall into and be trapped, but her eyes were like solid black mirrors reflecting back, not something to fall into, but something to show you the truth. I saw myself in those eyes, a miniature reflection perfect in every detail like a black cameo. Then the image split, doubling, tripling. My face stayed in the center with a wolf’s head on one side, and a skull on the other. As I watched, the three images grew closer until the wolf and skull were superimposed over my face, and for a split second I couldn’t tell where one image left off and the others began.
One image floated above the rest. The skull rose above the first two, spilling upward through the blackness, filling her eyes until the skull filled my vision, and I was able to stumble back, nearly falling. Edward was there, catching me. Dallas had moved to stand beside the vampire.
Bernardo and Olaf were at Edward’s back, and I knew in that instant that if he’d given the word, they’d have both drawn guns and fired. It was a comforting thought. Suicidal, but comforting. Because I could feel her people now, which meant she had to have been blocking me, hiding them. I felt the vampires underneath the building, around it, through it. There were hundreds of them, and most of them were old. Hundreds of years old. And Obsidian Butterfly? I glanced at her but was careful not to meet her eyes this time. It had been years since I’d had to avoid a vampire’s eyes. I’d forgotten how hard it is to look someone in the face without making eye contact, l
ike some elaborate game. Them trying to catch my glance and bespell me, me trying to keep away.
She had a fall of straight black bangs, but the rest of her hair was pulled back from her face to reveal delicate ears set with jade ear spools. She was a delicate thing, petite even standing next to me and Professor Dallas, but I wasn’t fooled by the packaging. What lay inside was a vampire not that old. I doubted she was a thousand years yet. I’d met older, much older, but I’d never met any vampire under a thousand that echoed in my head with the power that this one had. Power breathed off her skin like a nearly visible cloud, and I’d learned enough of vampires to know that the echo of power wasn’t on purpose. Some of the masters with special abilities, like causing fear or lust, just gave off that power constantly like steam rising from a pot. It was involuntary, partially at least. But I’d never met one that leaked power, pure power.
Edward was talking to me, probably had been talking to me for a while. I just hadn’t heard. “Anita, Anita, are you all right?” I felt the press of a gun not pointed at my back, but drawn, using my body to shield it from the room. Things could get ugly really fast.
“I’m all right,” but my voice didn’t sound all right. It sounded hollow and distant, like I was in shock. Maybe I was, a little. She hadn’t exactly rolled my mind, but she knew things about me in that first contact that most vampires never figured out. I realized suddenly that she knew what kind of power I was. That was her gift, to be able to read power.
Her voice when it came was heavily accented and much deeper than that fragile throat should have held, as if the voice was an echo of that immense power. “Whose servant are you?”
She knew I was a vampire’s human servant, but not whose servant I was. I liked that, made me feel better. She read only power, not details, unless of course, she was only pretending not to know. But somehow I didn’t think she’d pretend ignorance. No, this was one that liked showing off her knowledge. She breathed arrogance as she breathed power. But why not be arrogant? She was, after all, a goddess, self-proclaimed anyway. You’d have to be either absolutely arrogant or crazy to claim godhood.
Anita Blake, Vampire Hunter Collection 6-10 Page 152
