Jessica Andersen - Blood Spells

It was her first deck of oracle cards, part of a boxed set that she’d bought off Amazon on a whim, and maybe a bit of rebellion against the traditions that dictated too much of her life at Skywatch.

Mayan astronomy wasn’t part of the old ways; hell, as far as she could tell, most of the shtick had been lifted straight from tarot readings, glossed over with a veneer of Mayan glyphs and concepts designed to appeal to the human world, where there was a growing awareness that December 21, 2012, might be more than just some hype and a couple of loud movies.

Over the past few months, though, she’d realized that just because the codices didn’t mention the oracle, that didn’t make it bullshit. More and more often, she was turning over cards that related to—

or even predicted—what was going on in her life. In fact, she was starting to think that the oracle could tap into some type of magic, whether or not the others wanted to accept it. Which was why she didn’t brush off the instinct that told her to cut the deck now.

She crossed to the low table and chose a card at random, without even shuffling. When she flipped it, she froze at the sight of a jagged “X” formed of two step-sided pyramid outlines, joined at their crowns.

It was the mirror glyph, etznab .

Again.

A shiver worked its way down her spine, and her heart picked up a beat. What were the odds she would cut the same card twice in a row from two different decks?

Glancing at the sliders, at the shining sun and the blue sky around it, she said, “I get it. Brandt and I have unfinished business. And apparently he has some with his ancestors too. But I don’t know what else I’m supposed to take from this.” She reached for the dog-eared book that went with the deck, figuring she should reread the entire entry on the etznab oracle.

But then she hesitated, staring at the card.

What if it wasn’t signifying unfinished business? What if it was telling her something far more obvious?

“Mirrors,” she whispered. “Holy shit.”

The ancestors had held mirrors as sacred, believing they were doorways into the soul . . . and into memory.

Her hands shook as she fumbled out her phone and called the library. Thanks to a private cell covering the compound—Jox’s doing—the call went through immediately, though canyon country itself was a dead zone. “Hey there,” Jade said in answer. “Any news?”

“Brandt is the same.”

“I’m sorry. Anna’s in bad shape too.” Jade’s voice echoed with concern for her friend. “Strike and the others are at the hospital now.”

“Gods.” Patience closed her eyes and sent a quick prayer. She didn’t know Anna well, but she was a teammate, estranged or not. And, apparently, a Triad mage. She had collapsed within minutes of the Triad spell being triggered, and had wound up rushed to the ER with an intracranial bleed.

Jade continued, forcing a businesslike tone into her voice. “And in the ‘not sounding good’ department, Mendez’s winikin disappeared out of his locked mental ward yesterday right after Mendez dropped out of sight. Nate, Sven, and Alexis are up there now, looking for both of them.” She paused.

“But I’m guessing you didn’t call for an update.”

“No.” Patience let out a slow breath and crossed her fingers that this was going to work. “Did Lucius’s search for memory enhancers pull up anything related to mirrors, like a mirrored artifact or a spell that uses one?”

There was a beat of silence on the other end. Then Jade said, “There’s a mirror-bottomed pot on the

‘to be translated’ pile. The magic led Lucius to it, but we moved it down on the priority list because a rough translation of the first few glyphs suggested that it’s more aimed at breaking mental blocks than recovering actual memories.”

Patience’s heart drummed in her ears. “Translate it now. Please. I think it’s the one I need.”

While she waited, Patience downed a couple of energy bars and a cup of coffee, and skirted gingerly around the coffee table, where the etznab card lay faceup.

She had defended her new hobby, but now she realized that she hadn’t really believed—not deep down inside—that the cards had any true power. Now, though . . . she hesitated to pull another, fearing that she would turn over something way darker than etznab . When a tap came at the hallway door, she flinched.

“It’s open,” she called. But then, unable to sit still, she stood and crossed to the door as it swung inward. She stopped dead at the sight of Rabbit. He was carrying a brightly painted, three-legged clay pot, and had a plastic bag and a manila folder tucked under one elbow. And he hadn’t been in the suite in a long, long time.

For a few seconds, the past and present ricocheted off each other, making her yearn.

“I volunteered to bring this stuff over and see if you want help with the spell,” he said conversationally, like they were picking up in the middle of a discussion they’d been having only moments earlier, rather than the year-plus it had been since the last time they had hung out together.

His blue-gray eyes, though, were wary.

It was the same expression he’d worn early on, when he’d watched the world from behind the insulation of an iPod and a teenager’s sulkiness. Back then, his father had given him good reason to anticipate trouble. Now she didn’t like knowing she had put that look in his eyes.

She reached out impulsively to grip his forearm. “I was just thinking about you.”

He went very still. He didn’t pull away, though, and when he met her eyes, he saw an echo of her own regrets. “I’m sorry about Brandt. If I didn’t have the hellmark—”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Patience interrupted, tightening her grip. “Not even you can control the gods.

And besides, I wasn’t thinking about what happened today. . . . I was thinking about the breakfasts we used to have in here, the whole gang of us together.”

Rabbit nodded, but he broke eye contact and his body closed up on itself, the way it used to. After a moment he pulled away from her and headed for the master, where he took a long look at Brandt before turning away to set the pot on the floor beside the bed, then crouching to put the folder and plastic bag beside it.

Those simple actions seemed to take forever.

Finally, he said, “I miss the rats.” That was what he’d called Harry and Braden—his rug rats. “I miss those breakfasts.” There was a long pause; then he glanced up at her. “I miss us being friends.”

She had been looking at the clay pot. Now she looked at him. And, seeing a hint of vulnerability, she didn’t cheat either of them with a knee-jerk answer of “We’re still friends.” Instead, she said, “Myrinne doesn’t like me.”

His lips twitched, and he glanced away. “She figured out that I used to have a huge crush on you.”

She kept it light, sensing that was what he needed right now. “I can’t say I mind the idea of a gorgeous coed wanting to scratch my eyes out over a younger man.” Though really they were only a few years apart in age.

His expression eased a little, but his body stayed tight as he stood and turned to face her fully. “That wasn’t . . . I wasn’t . . .” He took another breath and tried again. “Did having me around screw things up between you two?”

Oh. Ouch. So much for keeping it light. Too aware that Brandt was lying a few feet away, she said, “You didn’t screw up anything, Rabbit. At least not between Brandt and me.” In other areas, he was notorious. “You just reminded me what it felt like for a relationship to be fun and easy. And there were moments when I saw a younger version of him in you, and realized how much I missed the guy he used to be, how much I wanted him back.”