Mayan Blood

by Theresa Dalayne

  Arwan’s chest tightened. It was still difficult to talk about, even though he’d done his mourning years ago. “I did.”

  “And the headstone?”

  “It was a fine replacement. Thank you.” He leaned against an alabaster pillar supporting the Victorian style fireplace. “It’s been too long since I went to see her.” He perched an elbow on the stone mantel, admiring the night sky through windows.

  “Your mother would have understood.”

  “Maybe.” She would have, but there was no excuse that would make him forgive himself.

  An electronic ring came from Renato’s pocket. He pulled the phone and promptly answered the call. “Yes?” His expression stayed passive. “You’re where?” He looked at Arwan. “Did he?” Renato pinched the bride of his nose. “Yes. Stay where you are. I will contact you when it’s time.” He held up his finger for another moment of patience. “I’ll wire the money right over.” Renato flipped the phone shut and tucked it back into his pocket. “That was the seeker. He requested funds for food and hotel stay. Did you not assist him before you left?”

  Arwan scowled. “How much can we trust him?”

  “As much as we can trust any of our people.”

  “How much does he know?”

  Renato waved his hand in the air. “He seems to know little of our ancestry—typical for the younger generation of descendants.”

  “It’s not my ancestry. Not anymore.”

  “One cannot run from their bloodline.”

  Arwan scoffed. “I’ve been doing a decent job so far.”

  “Indeed.” That one word, spoken in that accusatory tone, was enough to reel back Arwan’s annoyance. “How is Peter’s training going?”

  Arwan examined his mentor. Anger morphed to impatience, plucking his nerves. “Why don’t you want me to meet the guardian?”

  “We both know why.”

  Arwan ground his teeth. “Sarian has eluded us for long enough, and she’s the only one who can help us find him.”

  “There are more important things than revenge, young man.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like recovering the stone. She may be the only hope we have of finding the general who killed your mother, but we must not forget—she knows very little about the stone. Nearly nothing.”

  “That’ll make finding it more difficult.”

  “That’s precisely why I have called in the seeker.”

  Arwan turned away. “I don’t think it’s safe to bring him around the guardian. He seems reckless.”

  “He is the only one who is willing to help. We have little choice but to trust him.”

  Arwan examined his mentor. “I thought you said we always have a choice.”

  Renato rested his hand on Arwan’s shoulder. “Do not rush her. This mission is more sacred than revenge. The fate of the world is in our hands.”

  His mentor was usually right, and had the patience Arwan had yet to learn. Arwan planted a firm hand on Renato’s opposite shoulder, engaging in a more traditional embrace. Warriors greeted each other with hands braced on alternate shoulders, such as they had done for centuries. “I’ll do my best.”

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Um…hello?” An unfamiliar voice called from the hall. “Renato?”

  His mentor stepped away. “Well. It seems as though the gods have fated you two to meet sooner than I intended.”

  Arwan leaned against the bookshelves in the corner of the room while Renato answered the door. The same soft voice came from the hall. He leaned slightly to the side, catching a glimpse of the girl he’d seen on the beach.

  She curled her arms around herself, still wearing the blue dress. She drew strands of wild hair over her shoulder. “I almost got lost trying to find my way around your house.”

  “Our house,” Renato replied. “You must remember, this is your home now too.”

  “I don’t have a home.” Her hands dropped to her sides and she tugged on the ends of her sleeves. “It’s better it stays that way.”

  “Perhaps you’ll learn to like it here if you’re given a tour. It can be quite overwhelming if you’re left to explore on your own.”

  Arwan tilted his head as he observed her carefully. There was something familiar about her, as if he’d caught a glimpse of her in another life.

  “Yeah, I guess that’d be good,” she said. “I should know where everything is if we’re staying here for a while.”

  “Fantastic.” Renato stepped aside and waved Arwan toward them. “I have just the guide. Arwan, this is Zanya. Zanya, meet Arwan, a young man who has been a part of our rather unique family for many years.” Renato gestured him forward. “Please show Zanya around the house. She hasn’t had a proper tour. You might like to be a decent host and take some time to get to know our new guest.”

  When her gaze met his, her chest jumped with a tiny gasp. Arwan squared his shoulders and gave a slight bow. “Absolutamente.”

  A blush spread over her cheeks.

  When he walked toward her, she backed toward the open door. He couldn’t be sure, but she seemed scared. She watched him with no particular expression. Just like on the beach, she was hard to read. Perhaps he would find out more about her while showing her around.

  He extended his hand toward the hall. “Shall we?”

  Her wolf-gray eyes examined him through a curtain of dark eyelashes. She gave a single nod. “Thanks.” She crossed her arms and stepped aside. “You first.”

  He led her through the hall to a curved archway with two letters engraved in the center of a large, wooden door: E.W.

  “This is the east wing.” He opened the door to another foyer, smaller than the one in the main wing.

  Cement floors covered the space, giving it a medieval feel. Arwan had walked barefoot on these cold floors countless times. “This is Renato’s wing.”

  Zanya ran her fingers along an alabaster statue of an Egyptian pharaoh. A large painting of a man with dark eyes and dark, wavy hair hung on the wall.

  She stopped to examine the portrait. “Is that Renato?”

  Arwan nodded and laughed quietly to himself. He’d always thought that painting was overdone. But the old man didn’t look half bad. His features were proud and patriarchal, posing with his hands rested on the hilt of a sword.

  When she was ready to move on, Arwan pulled open another door and stepped aside. “Ladies first.” He had a thousand questions, all of them pertaining to her knowledge of the stone and her readiness to find it.

  Zanya passed him, into the hall. Her hair flowed behind her, leaving the air infused with the scent of vanilla and lavender. He followed her with his attention trained on the subtle, almost unnoticeable glow radiating from her skin. If his senses weren’t so keen—if he didn’t have such heightened perception—he may not have noticed it. But he had, and his curiosity wouldn’t allow him to rest until he understood exactly what it meant.

  Chapter Six

  Zanya

  Zanya’s eyes widened at the sight of the north wing, beautiful and brilliant, with mostly white, silver, and splashes of teal and burnt orange as the color palette. Shaggy throw rugs lay over the shiny marble floor, which sparkled with flecks of silver.

  Her stomach hadn’t settled since the tour began. Usually she was gifted at hiding her nerves or any sign of stress. She had to do it almost every day at the orphanage. But something about this guy threw all of that off.

  A glass coffee table sat in the center of the living room with an entire ocean habitat of exotic fish and brightly colored coral, providing a temporary distraction. She crouched beside it and admired the two sea horses, a clown fish, and several other colorful creatures she couldn’t identify. She’d only seen fish like these in textbooks. Everything in the institution was drab and dull. Saltwater fish were anything but. “They’re beautiful.” She turned toward Arwan. “Who stays here?”

  “This is Marzena’s wing. Hawa has a room here, too. If you prefer to stay here, I’m s
ure it wouldn’t be a problem.”

  She admired the sea creatures a moment longer, then stood and smoothed out her dress. She would give her right arm to go upstairs and change. Dresses weren’t her thing, but either were bathing suits. This seemed like the lesser of the two evils. “No, I like it where I am. It was my mother’s room. I couldn’t leave it. Plus, I don’t want to intrude on Marzena. She seems to enjoy her privacy.”

  “Most dreamwalkers do. They are quiet, solitary people. Don’t take it personally if she’s not around often.”

  She appreciated her own privacy too, not that she’d ever had any. But the few times she was allowed a drawer for her things or a cubby to keep her toiletries, they belonged to her, and that was something.

  They continued into a hallway lined with candles, guiding the way in a soft luminescence. The shadows from the flames danced across the sharp angle of his jawline.

  “Zanya, can I ask you a question?”

  “Um…” There were no promises she’d be truthful, but… “Sure.”

  “How long have you known about the stone?”

  She snorted. “Five minutes.” A bit exaggerated, but mostly the truth.

  His rubbed the back of his neck. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “You’re telling me. None of this makes sense.”

  “No. It doesn’t make sense you don’t know anything—that you haven’t known anything all this time. How is that possible?” His words quickened, becoming more intense as he spoke.

  “I don’t know. I mean…” Why did he care so much, anyway? “It’s complicated I guess. I’m still wrapping my mind around it all, so I’m probably not the best person to answer that.”

  He tightened his jaw. “So much time has been wasted.”

  She stopped. “You think I don’t know about wasted time?” She pursed her lips into a tight line. “You’re talking to the queen of lost time.”

  He hung his head balled his hands into fists. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “There’s a difference between asking and probing,” she muttered. Something told her he had a motive other than the kindness in his heart. “Especially when it comes to my destiny.” She quoted the last two words with her fingers.

  “A great destiny is never an easy one.” He walked ahead, leaving her in the hall.

  “Some tour.” She followed him through another door with a W.W. engraved in it.

  It had a more relaxed feel than the others. In the center of the living room were two dark leather couches and an oval coffee table showing obvious signs of wear. A plasma television was mounted to the wall with gaming systems and a DVD player below.

  It screamed bachelor pad.

  “Is this your wing?” Zanya noticed the stack of UFC magazines lying on a side table. Built-in shelves housed DVDs and books.

  “Yes, Peter and I live here.”

  “It’s nice.” She fingered through the small library of books. “Renato’s study doesn’t have enough books to read?” It was straight out of a scene from Beauty and the Beast.

  “I like to read.”

  “Are all of these yours?”

  “Most. Some are Peter’s.”

  She huffed. “He probably hasn’t had much time to read lately, with him getting along with Tara so well.”

  “He’s been slacking off on his training. That’s for certain. But it seems like he’s fond of her.”

  Zanya rolled her eyes. Of course he would take Peter’s side. What guy wouldn’t play wingman and try to score brownie points with the best friend? “Yeah, well, I hope he stays fond of her. Tara’s…naive.”

  He cocked his head. “She means a lot to you.”

  “She does, and I won’t see her get hurt just so some guy can get in her pants. I mean, he may act like he adores her, but boys are really good at acting, and even when they’re not, they change their minds—a lot.” She wasn’t about to forget that, not even over a pair of dazzling eyes and Spanish accent.

  “Do they?”

  “Yes, they do.” She turned her back to him and pulled in a quiet breath. She had fallen for a guy’s charm before, and all it got her was a shattered heart. She wasn’t about to make the same mistake again.

  “It sounds as if you’re speaking from experience.”

  And we have a mind reader.

  Zanya scoffed, and then froze.

  What if he really was a mind reader? It wouldn’t be the only unexplainable thing she’d seen. “All I’m saying is that Peter seems nice enough and charming enough, but Tara is reckless in the world of love. She falls too easily, and it would be simple for some guy to see that and take full advantage of it.”

  Arwan uncrossed his arms and walked toward her. His lime green shirt complemented his olive skin so stunningly, she almost forgot to breathe. “You think he’s charming?”

  “Not my kind of charming. Tara thinks he’s charming. But he’s…” She fingered through the DVDs absentmindedly. “He’s not my type.” Flashes of dirty blond hair and crystal blue eyes reeled through her mind.

  Yep, there it was—the searing pain in her chest reminding her why she could never be that vulnerable again.

  Her fingers rested on a DVD, not like the rest. She slid it out and examined the cover. It was a CD. “Eleuia.” She turned to Arwan. “That’s—”

  “Your mother.” He stepped toward her. “She was a musician, so Renato has told me.”

  Her fingers shook. “A musician?”

  “I believe he said she played the cello.”

  She couldn’t hold back a beaming smile. “Can I borrow this?”

  “You can have it.” He eyed the case in her hands. “Do you play?”

  “The violin.” She tucked the CD in her back pocket.

  “Then there’s a room you’ll want to see, just past that doorway.” He walked to the far end of the den and pulled open a heavy wooden door.

  Zanya walked through the threshold into a small auditorium stocked with instruments. A tiny thrill ran through her. “A music room!”

  It looked like they’d collected every instrument in existence. She caressed shiny finish of an acoustic guitar. Moving along, shiny flutes sat beside a wall of drums. She bounced her palm off the surface of one, then spotted a long, wooden pipe leaning against the far wall. “You’re kidding. Is that a didgeridoo?”

  “Is that what it’s called?” He held up a violin—a piece of musical art made of exquisite red wood. He handed it to her.

  She traced her fingers over its curves and then cradled it under her chin. He held out a bow made of matching red wood, with a silk grip and a leather thumb cushion. “Gold mountings? You don’t see that anymore. This thing must have cost a fortune.” Zanya dragged the white horsehair ribbon across the strings. Each note was smooth and flavorful. She played a few bars of a favorite tune. A satisfied grin stretched her lips. She lowered the bow and opened her eyes. “Can I come here to play sometime?”

  “Whenever you want.”

  Her heart ached to hear music again. “This has got to be the best room in the entire house.”

  “You may think so, but there’s another room I like more.” Arwan escorted her through another hallway that led to a martial arts dojo. International flags and medals hung proudly displayed on the walls.

  He circled a black mat that blanketed the floor. “I spend a lot of time in here practicing capoeira and with my glaive.” He gestured to a long staff with a curved blade at the end. “I’m sure Renato will want you to learn at least the basics now that you’ve found your way home.”

  “I wouldn’t say I found my way, exactly.” She followed him around the corner of the room. “More like I was brought…by force.”

  “You’re very important.” He held her gaze. “To all of us.”

  ***

  That night Zanya slipped the CD of her mother’s cello recital into the disk player in her bedroom. She pressed play and slipped under her cool sheets. The room was dark and she was exhausted, but hearing h
er mother’s music was the closest she’d get to knowing her.

  The rich, robust tone of the cello filled the room. Zanya closed her eyes and rested into the mattress. The tempo of the notes was slow and heavy, carrying an undertone of sadness. It was one reason Zanya loved music. Emotion flowed through it like a direct link to her soul.

  Her muscles relaxed while she absorbed every note. She could almost picture her mother, sitting with an arched back in a chair, straddling the cello, playing with her eyes closed. Zanya mind drifted into a sleepy fog.

  It seemed like moments later when she blinked open her eyes to her dark room.

  Except there was no furniture and no walls. Nothing but endless black. Zanya still wore the pajamas she’d changed into before bed. She peered into the distance. “Hello?”

  Something wasn’t right. She had been stuck in countless scenarios in her dreams, all of them fearfully lovely or dreadfully gruesome. But this time was different. This time it was vacant and somehow endless.

  Zanya turned in a circle, searching above her, below her, and in every possible direction.

  A soft glow slowly illuminated the space. She searched for the source, and after a moment, realized it was not coming from a lantern, flashlight, or even a candle. The warm light came from the center of her chest in an oval, pulsing orb.

  She ran her fingertips over her chest and settled the palm of her hand over the ice-cold light. To her surprise, it didn’t hurt.

  The light grew brighter, allowing her to see farther into the space.

  A man’s silhouette appeared in the distance. Fear thrashed through her. It was The Man. The one who haunted her. Who hurt her.

  His bitter stench filled the space as he limped closer. Zanya stumbled back and reached for a wall to lean on, but there was none. She fell to the ground—or what seemed to be the ground.

  His face was framed with dark black hair, and even blacker eyes that peered down at her. “Ah, there you are, young guardian.” He walked forward, using his cane for support. The brass handle had a dull shine, worn from years of use. “I heard they had recovered you, but I had to see it for myself.”