Amelia Atwater-Rhodes - Bloodwitch

Mistress Jeshickah had said I looked younger than I was. A younger child would be more likely to get lost, right? Being younger could give me an excuse for a lot of silly slipups I might make. “Eleven,” I answered.

“Hmm.” He turned back to the fire. “Were you on your way to the market?”

“I don’t—I mean, yes, I was.” That was the way I was heading, anyway, though it wasn’t my actual goal. I didn’t want to tell him I’d been looking for Taro.

Again, those eyes on me, intense … and then sparkling, as he chuckled and shook his head.

“Truce,” he said, amusement still in his voice. “I’ll share my squirrel stew and stop asking questions if you stop pretending you know how to lie.”

“I—I don’t know what—” I stammered. “I mean—” He quirked a brow, waiting for me to get my tongue untangled. Finally, I gave up on defending myself and asked, “What’s a squirrel?”

“It’s—” This time he was the one who seemed speechless. I had meant to ask something benign, not something that was apparently shocking. “A small animal with a bushy tail,” he said at last. “The next time I see one, I’ll point it out.” Were squirrels common out here? Lady Brina cared more about gods and goddesses than bushy-tailed little animals, and she had never mentioned them. “Take a seat,” he urged, gesturing toward the tree trunk. “Dinner’s ready. I even have an extra bowl in my pack.”

The pack in question was hanging from one of the tree branches. I didn’t know if it had been as invisible as the campsite was earlier, or if I just hadn’t been paying attention.

My host handed me a tin bowl of stew and a clunky spoon, then filled a second bowl, folded his legs under himself, and sat on the snow near the fire. Since the snow wasn’t falling anymore, I pushed my hood back to get it out of the way as I ate what turned out to be a surprisingly tasty meal. Whatever “squirrel” was, it made good stew.

When I asked for seconds, however, my host said, “Only if I get to ask another question.”

I could always refuse to answer, if I needed to. “Okay.”

“Are you a bloodwitch?”

I recognized the word “witch,” but I didn’t know the rest of the term he used. “Am I a what?”

“You’re a quetzal, right?” he asked. When I hesitated, he said, “I could tell you were a bird the first time I saw you, but I wasn’t paying much attention, so I figured a crow or a raven. The feathers give you away.” He gestured to the back of his neck, causing me to reach instinctively toward mine. I didn’t think about the feathers that grew at the nape of my neck often, because they didn’t get in my face like my hair did. I knew they were red and green like gemstones, though. Apparently they were visible by firelight.

Since there was obviously no hiding it, and I didn’t know why I would need to, I admitted, “Yes, I’m a quetzal. But if one of us is a witch, I think it’s you.” I remembered the way the entire camp had seemed to materialize only when he put his hand on my shoulder.

“Why does Brina have a quetzal?” he asked.

I didn’t want to answer any more questions, and he had already said he wouldn’t ask. “I don’t need thirds,” I answered dryly, which made him laugh again.

“Fine, fine,” he said. “I’ll help you home tomorrow, and accept that some secrets are in my best interests.”

He had accused me of being a bad liar, but I suspected Malachi Obsidian was probably a very good liar. Calysta had said as much. His attitude had changed when he realized I was a quetzal. I wasn’t sure I trusted his offer to get me home anymore.

No, my best course now was to wait for him to sleep, then set out again, leaving behind this stranger with his unsettling gaze and prying questions. Maybe he was harmless, but my gut said otherwise.

Taro and the others would be looking for me by now; I was sure of it. But, they might not be able to find me in Malachi’s magically hidden campsite, which was why I needed to get away.

“Can we sleep?” I asked, pushing away the half-full bowl of stew. His questioning had ruined what appetite I had left, and I wanted an excuse for the conversation to be over. “I was in the woods a long time.”

“Of course,” he answered. “The tent will be close quarters with two of us, but that keeps it warmer. I’m going to clean up and do some scouting before bed, so if you wake up and I’m not here, don’t panic.”

I wouldn’t panic. It would give me a chance to run.

DESPITE MY RESOLUTEintention to sneak away, I slept like a rock. My dreams were like butterflies, colorful but fleeting. I woke groggy, surprised that it was still dark.

I pulled the blanket closer and shivered at the noise the wind made as it whistled past the tent. Somewhere in the distance I heard something howl. Did I really want to go out there again?

I couldn’t stay here. I had to get past my fear and run before Malachi returned. I pulled my boots back on, cringing at the chill that came with them, then struggled into my heavy clothes and crept out of the tent.

This time it wasn’t the cold that took my breath away.

My host had built up the fire, which popped and swirled in the wind. I could see him only in silhouette as he danced as freely as those flames.

He was barefoot and bare-chested, as if the dance made him immune to the elements. His hair was loose, and it moved around him like liquid silver, full of hot sparks as it reflected the fire. He moved as if he had joints or muscles where I didn’t and was capable of controlling each one precisely.

He danced without music … or, no, that wasn’t right. His dance was the music, and it made the night into music. His footfalls on the ground, the crackling of the fire, the whistling of the wind, and even the distant cries of wolves all created a song that I could only hear as one piece as his movements brought it all together.

When he turned and noticed me standing there, he stopped abruptly, and I heard a small sound of protest escape my lips. I had been utterly still, just watching, for several minutes. It hadn’t occurred to me to sneak away while he wasn’t looking. I hadn’t even noticed I was cold.

“How do you do that?” I asked. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” I had recognized some of the steps that Calysta had shown me, but watching her had never been that awe-inspiring.

“You were raised with every luxury.” He was out of breath, and it made his sentences clipped. “You never struggled. Never questioned.” The words came faster as he approached me, still speaking, his rhythmic voice holding me in place. “Never triumphed, or feared failure. You never hungered, or wondered if you would see tomorrow. You have never been asked to die for something, or someone.” He paused inches away from me, close enough that I could see snow melt as it touched his bare skin. “The serpents’ dance is a tapestry of passion and freedom and agony and need. You’ll sooner find it in the trainers’ lower cells than inside a stained-glass cage.”

“I don’t understand.” I knew the meaning of every word coming out of his mouth, but what he was saying didn’t seem to match his tone. The intensity in his voice was frightening.

He shook his head.

“I did a little research while you slept,” Malachi explained. Whatever he had learned, he wasn’t happy about it.

“I … see.” If I ran, would he chase me? Probably. I wouldn’t get far on the ground. On the other hand, he was a serpent. Snakes couldn’t fly.

“I returned to your lovely cage and struck up a conversation with some of your fellow slaves,” he continued. “They’re not supposed to talk to anyone about you, but I can be very persuasive when I want to be. You’re Vance Ehecatl. The Nahuatl name was Jeshickah’s choice, but Brina didn’t like how foreign it sounded, so she decided to call you Vance instead. It made her happy, so others didn’t object, even though you are not technically hers. Brina’s studio slaves didn’t know much more than that, but what they were able to tell me was enough.”