Bloodwitch

by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

  From these contemplations I slid into brutal dreams.

  Snakes with crimson eyes like the serpiente princess in the marketplace swarmed from the ground, biting at my legs with needlelike fangs. When I tried to run, I was assaulted from the air. Falcon talons as sharp as knives savaged my arms as I threw them up to protect my face.

  Blinded by blood, I stumbled and fell. The birds of prey snatched at the snakes, bringing them into the sky for the kill. Venom and hot blood fell like rain, scalding my skin, filling my mouth and nose until it was impossible to breathe.

  I sat up in bed, trembling and sure that very little time had passed. It was too early to meet Jaguar.

  I walked brazenly through the east wing, ignoring the vampire who had warned me to stay away. The slaves I spoke with responded politely, but all seemed anxious to return to their duties once given permission. In the south wing I overheard snippets of conversations that fell silent as soon as I was noticed. If I had been one of them, they probably would have continued, but instead they were as mindful of me as I had always been of Lady Brina.

  No wonder she thought of me as a slave. That was how I had presented myself.

  I knocked on Jaguar’s door hours early. If he was helping Mistress Jeshickah, I reasoned, he simply wouldn’t answer. If he was free, however, maybe he could help me with my tangled thoughts.

  It was not Jaguar who opened the door but a girl who looked a bit younger than I was, with dark brown hair, dark amber skin, and green-hazel eyes that didn’t seem to quite focus on me.

  Her head tilted as if she were listening to something very quiet, and she asked, “Can I help you?”

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m Vance. I need to speak to—” I broke off as I remembered that Mistress Jeshickah had talked to Taro about another quetzal when I was still living in the greenhouse. “Are you Celeste?”

  “Yes?” she replied, her voice questioning.

  The dress she was wearing was one I had come to know well. The material was finer, shades of cream and brown instead of faded black, but it was the same style as those worn by all the female slaves. Around her throat was a collar dyed a deep jade green with a fine gold buckle.

  “You’re a slave?” I asked.

  Her expression never changed, but her body tensed. “Can I help you?” she asked again.

  I shook my head. “How long have you been here? Where did you grow up?” The questions came pouring out. Why was she here, wearing a slave’s collar, while I was …

  I was free, wasn’t I?

  “I was born here.” She added nothing more.

  Born here. Like Malachi, who had also been a slave until Farrell Obsidian rescued him. Like me? They treated me well, but was that because I was free and respected, or because legends said a quetzal would not survive imprisonment? What better way to keep a bird content than never to let him see the bars of his cage?

  “Master Jaguar isn’t available at the moment,” she added when I didn’t respond.

  “That’s fine,” I answered. “I can—I’ll come back later.”

  “Very well, sir.” She closed the door.

  Am I a slave? They called me “sir.” What am I?

  Survive, and I will get you out, Malachi had promised. I had told him I didn’t need to be saved, but what if he was right? Lady Brina obviously assumed I was property. What if Jaguar’s “test” proved I really couldn’t ever use my magic? What would happen to me then?

  “YOU LOOK TROUBLED,” Jaguar said as soon as I stepped into his sitting room.

  About so many things, I thought, watching Celeste, who was sitting across the room next to the hearth. Her head was bent as she diligently worked to clean and oil a whip that looked unnervingly similar to the one that had savaged Felix’s flesh.

  “Am I a slave?” I asked, afraid to hear the answer.

  Jaguar frowned, as if puzzled by my question. “Vance, you’re here of your own free will. I thought you knew that.”

  “So if I wanted to leave forever, what would happen?” My voice rose as I challenged him.

  “We wouldn’t stop you,” Jaguar answered. “If you avoid starving, freezing, being mauled by a wild animal, and being executed by other shapeshifters, you will probably have a short, brutal life, but that’s your decision to make.”

  “What about her?” I asked, pointing to Celeste. “She’s a quetzal, like me. Why is she a slave?”

  “Celeste’s father, Itzli, was exiled from the Azteka for heresy,” Jaguar answered. “While in our employment he took advantage of a female slave. When Itzli realized she was carrying his child, he beat her nearly to death. Celeste was born blind as a result.”

  “She’s a slave because she’s blind?” I asked. Watching her now I realized it should have been obvious. Her eyes never quite focused on her work, but her fingers ran along the length of the weapon, working by touch.

  “The Azteka wouldn’t take her, because she was her father’s daughter, so I claimed her as mine. I ensure that her needs are met, and in exchange she serves me. Now come with me. We have work to do.”

  “But what—” Jaguar was already through the door.

  I wondered how long it would take him to come back if I refused to follow until he had answered all my questions. I didn’t have the nerve to put the question to the test.

  By the time I stepped into the next room, which was a bedroom at least twice as large as my own, Jaguar was already unlocking yet another door, this one black. When he pulled it open, I could tell it was thicker than most of the doors in Midnight. The lock was also heavier; I saw the iron key Jaguar used before placing it in his pocket. He carried a lamp with him as he entered.

  “What are—” Once again I stopped before I could finish the question, because the room before me was unlike any I had ever seen.

  I shivered as cool air washed over me. The chill seemed to seep up from the floor and walls, which were gray and white marble, polished to a glossy shine. The only visible furniture was a large trunk in one corner. The walls held no art, but they were not bare; black iron rings and hooks had been set into the back wall at inexplicable intervals. A wooden bar crossed the middle of the room, high enough that I would need to stretch my arms above my head to reach it.

  This was not a good room.

  “Jaguar …”

  “Vance, meet Elisabeth,” Jaguar said. He offered a hand to a woman sitting in the nearest corner, and she rose to her feet.

  Elisabeth curtsied. “An honor to meet you, sir.”

  I offered my hand to shake hers. She accepted it, but her handshake was soft and tentative.

  She had to be human. She wasn’t wearing a collar, but her simple shiftlike gown was similar to the one most of the slaves wore. Her bare arms were marked with gooseflesh in response to the chill. I glanced down and saw that her feet were bare, as well.

  “Aren’t you cold?” I asked.

  “I am fine,” she replied. “Thank you for your concern, sir.”

  “Tell him about our plan, Elisabeth,” Jaguar said. He turned his back to us and crossed to the trunk, which he opened without need of a key.

  I couldn’t see the contents from where I stood. I was more interested in Elisabeth anyway.

  “Master Jaguar spoke to me about you,” Elisabeth said. “He said the Azteka rely on blood sacrifice for their magic, and that it could help you explore your potential power if you had someone willing to assist. I am willing.”

  I didn’t like where this was going.

  “Absolutely not,” I whispered, horrified. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw what Jaguar had retrieved from the trunk: a pair of knives, one all metal and one with a blade made of some kind of black stone.

  Elisabeth’s eyes widened. Her lips parted, her gaze dropped, and her shoulders hunched. She said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  She looked devastated.

  “I’m not offended,” I assured her. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

  Malachi’s words s
till echoed in my brain, but I forced myself to speak.

  “Jaguar,” I said, looking up at the vampire, who was waiting by the trunk as if to give us privacy, “Malachi says I can’t use my magic, that unless I’m taught by a relative I won’t ever be able to reach it. There’s no point in—”

  “Something in you responded to Felix’s blood,” Jaguar said. “Jeshickah says you also demonstrated signs of power when the assassin attacked her. Do you really trust Malachi Obsidian—or the pochteca, for that matter—so much?”

  Malachi didn’t want Midnight to have a bloodwitch on their side; he would have plenty of motivation to lie about my supposed value.

  “What if he’s right? If I can’t use my magic, what will happen to me?” I asked. “Will you throw me out? If I’m not a slave, then do I have any right to be here if you don’t want me?”

  “You are here,” Jaguar answered. “We both know that Jeshickah hopes you have power, because that will help us in many ways, but she won’t throw you out unless you decide to openly defy her. As I said before, this is a working building. Even if you don’t have magic, I’m sure you’ll find some way to earn your keep.”

  “Like a slave does?” This time my voice was less sure.

  “Like we all do,” he corrected. “I work. Taro works. Other shapeshifters work as guards, messengers, or artisans. You were born to privilege, Vance, and raised in luxury because Mistress Jeshickah thought that was best. But you should never assume that those who rule have fewer responsibilities than those who serve. Ruling the world is no idle occupation,” he added with one of those quirky smiles that had first gained my trust.

  He was so clear, so blunt. So honest? I tried to pick his words apart and examine them critically. Everything he said made sense. So why was I standing in a cell with a helpless woman, being offered a knife?

  “I am not willing to harm someone just in case I might have magic,” I asserted. “I don’t need magic that badly.”

  “As I have already assured Elisabeth, you won’t harm her,” Jaguar replied. He sounded … bored. “This room has been scrubbed with lime, Elisabeth herself has recently bathed, and all my blades are regularly washed and heated. There is little chance of infection, and I will be here to make sure the wound itself is not large enough to cause damage.”

  “What if I just don’t want to hurt her?” I demanded.

  “Then you should know that a sharp blade, handled correctly, causes almost no pain.” He held the metal knife out, handle toward me. It was small, the blade barely the size of my little finger.

  “What about her?” I asked. “How do you suppose she feels about my cutting her up?”

  “She volunteered. Ask her, if you don’t believe me,” Jaguar suggested.

  I looked at Elisabeth. “You really want to do this?”

  Her face lit up, as if I had offered her a prize. “Yes, I am willing.”

  That wasn’t quite what I asked, was it? But since I wasn’t the one offering to bleed, I felt silly standing there, objecting on grounds that were swiftly dissolving beneath me.

  “Are you more afraid of hurting someone,” Jaguar asked, “or of failing?”

  The words needled me. They echoed my exact thoughts from earlier. Elisabeth was willing, and Jaguar had convinced me I wouldn’t hurt her. Maybe I was only hesitating because I didn’t want to face the fear of what would happen if nothing happened.

  I accepted the knife and stepped forward. Elisabeth continued to watch me serenely, but I looked to Jaguar for guidance.

  “The blade is sharp enough that you need very little pressure. I won’t let you near anything vital until I know you can control how deep you cut,” he assured me. “Here is safe, or here,” he said, gesturing to an area on her shoulder and another on the back of her forearm.

  Elisabeth held out her hand and set it trustingly in my free one. She wasn’t trembling, but I was, which seemed bad when handling a knife. I took a deep breath, willing my body to calm. My first attempt at a cut on her forearm was barely a scratch. A pink line rose, with tiny beads of blood at one end, but that was all.

  I looked into her eyes again, so calm, and then tried again, a little higher up the arm. This time a fine line of blood rose to the surface. Elisabeth didn’t flinch or cry out, but I sucked in a breath, shocked by the vivid crimson line. The blood trembled in place but couldn’t seem to escape its bounds.

  Hypnotized by that shivering red mark, I moved farther up the arm and tried once more, with more confidence.

  Flesh parted, and the blood flowed swiftly, a hot stream that splashed on the cold marble by my feet. Too vividly reminded of my dreams, I recoiled from Elisabeth as if she might be poison. As if her blood might burn. I didn’t want to touch it.

  “Vance—”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, dropping the blade. Elisabeth, who hadn’t complained or uttered a single sound of pain, danced back as the knife clattered close to her bare feet. “I need … I need some air.”

  Jaguar sighed. “I’ll take care of Elisabeth. We’ll try again another day.”

  I hope not.

  I fled to the stables. In the past I would have used my quetzal form to flee feelings like these, but there was no space large enough inside to fly, and outside the winter winds were too fierce for my unpracticed wings.

  I needed to move, to push my muscles so hard I wouldn’t have a chance to think. I forced myself to calm down and then saddled and mounted Dika. By the time I was done, the sun was just starting to rise, casting gray light on the path.

  Why had I been so fascinated by Felix’s blood that I was compelled to touch it? Why hadn’t I been able to call that voice back when I was with Elisabeth? I couldn’t believe I had run. What must Jaguar think of me? And Elisabeth? She hadn’t complained. I was the one who had acted like a coward.

  I felt Dika’s balance shift, her front hoof sliding under her, and started from my reverie to realize she had drifted off the well-maintained path. We both tried to recover, but she slid to a knee. Then I was soaring, wingless, through the air—

  I struck snow and ice, hard. My gloves tore, and sharp ice shredded my palms before my shoulder and cheek slammed into the ground. The coppery tang of blood filled my mouth.

  I knew I needed to stand, to get Dika and make sure she was okay, but black and red shadows coiled at the corners of my dazed vision.

  You’re not that hurt, I told myself. It’s a scrape at most. You didn’t break any bones.

  I tried to push myself up, but I was short of breath and shaking too hard.

  I curled up in the snow instead. Maybe when the cold seeped in, it would numb my body and my mind.

  Maybe it would finally let me rest. I closed my eyes.

  I was in the greenhouse, but it was so much smaller than I remembered. A single orange tree, its trunk bent where it had tried to grow too large for its enclosure, struggled to survive inside the glass walls.

  Sweat ran into my eyes and down my back. The scraggly, wilted tree provided no shade.

  The river will be cool, I thought. I lowered my body into the crystal water. The white stones below me were slippery—and sharp, I discovered, as one cut my palm. Tendrils of blood flowed into the clear water as I picked the stone up.

  It wasn’t a stone.

  The skull stared at me with empty sockets.

  I was lying on a bed of bones.

  The water turned thick, hot. I clambered out as it began to scald my skin, and then looked back to discover that the whole stream had turned to blood. I choked on the metallic smell that rose to greet me as the water deepened, overflowing its banks and spattering my feet.

  Where is the door?

  There was no door.

  I threw myself against the glass walls and heard a crystal laugh. I tried again, and again, until the glass shattered. Falling shards sliced into my body, severing flesh from bone.

  Salvation came, in a way it had never come before. Pale hands reached forward, grabbed me, and dragged me out of
my nightmare.

  “Vance … what is going on?”

  I looked up, in the middle of a dreamscape that looked like the inside of a bubble, to find Malachi standing before me. My gaze swept the iridescent vista warily. Through the bubble’s flowing sides, I could see the blood and darkness of my nightmares swirling.

  “Vance, talk to me,” Malachi said.

  “I want to wake up now,” I replied.

  “Vance, are you sick?” he asked. Malachi’s concern made the bubble around us quiver. “Your mind isn’t right, somehow, but it isn’t what I normally find in the trainers, either.”

  “I can’t get sick,” I said. That was a human weakness.

  “Apparently you can,” Malachi said softly. “Maybe it’s a quetzal problem I do not know about. I can ask the pochteca, if I can get them to talk to me about you. In the meantime, you—” He broke off, looking around as if he saw or heard something I did not. “Are you outside? Vance, why are you sleeping outside?”

  Why indeed? I tried to remember.

  “Vance, you’re very cold,” Malachi said. “I don’t think your body is in good shape. You need to wake up and get somewhere warmer.”

  “I like it here.”

  Was I making any sense?

  “Did you run away again?” he asked. “If you did, I will try to find you. If you didn’t run away, I can tell them to look for you, and that you are not well.”

  “I didn’t run away!” I shouted. He was always saying that!

  The bubble quaked again. Nearby, parts of it began to shred, splitting like the skin of a rotten fruit.

  Outside there was blood and screaming. Malachi’s violet eyes went wide, and he put his body between me and the tidal wave of agony that rushed in from the bubble’s wound.

  I WOKE, GAGGING, trembling, and struggling to breathe. My skin crawled. My muscles twitched. My head ached. And even though I felt like I was awake, all around me the shadows warped and stretched, threatening me.

  “—is beyond what I—”

  Burn! Must burn! The image of wildfire spreading across an endless plane forced its way into my vision.