Amelia Atwater-Rhodes - Bloodwitch

“Enough for what?”

“Enough that I can’t let you go back there,” Malachi said. “I’m sorry. You’re just a boy, and I’m willing to bet that you have no idea how dangerous you could be.”

“Pardon me?” Fight or flee? I didn’t know how to fight, but I could probably surprise him and knock him far enough off balance to get a head start. I just needed to fly into the air, where he couldn’t follow.

“If your freedom were the only thing at stake here, I would leave you to your naïveté, but Jeshickah has been trying to get someone like you for years. Quetzals are notoriously difficult to cage, but if she can keep you alive long enough, she will make you her weapon. I can’t—”

Enough!

I shoved him as hard as I could. I drove my shoulder into his chest until he stumbled back, and then spun around and changed shape, beating my wings furiously. I darted through the brambly pine boughs, seeking open space so I could make the best use of my lead. It wouldn’t take him long to come after me.

At the first break in the trees, I tried to gain altitude.

That was when the demon came from the sky.

It hit me before I knew it was there, driving my tiny bird’s body down into the snow. My heart beat wildly, faster and faster, as I became aware that death was imminent in this beast’s talons.

I changed back to human form, gasping, sputtering on snow. As soon as I did, the creature on top of me changed as well. Before I could get my bearings, Malachi had me pinned, with a knife at my throat.

“Even if your wings weren’t stunted from a lifetime in a cage, a quetzal can’t outfly a falcon.” He stood and offered the hand that wasn’t holding the knife to help me up.

I stood on my own and brushed the snow off my back. Now I had new bruises to go with the ones from Lady Brina and Lord Daryl.

“I thought you were a serpent,” I said. Calysta said only serpents danced that way. Even Malachi had called it the serpents’ dance.

“My mother was,” Malachi answered. “My father was not.”

“What’s a falcon?” Other than a big bird I had never heard of til now.

“That’s … a long answer. One you need to hear, but which I would rather give in the camp, next to the fire, than here. Do I need to truss you up and carry you, or will you walk without further dramatics?”

Forcing him to tie me up would ruin any chance of escape, so I said, “I’ll walk.”

“If you run, I will catch you. Do you believe that?”

I trusted it to be true for the moment, anyway. Now that I knew he could fly, I needed to come up with a better plan.

I nodded and followed him back to camp. Despite my less-than-willing mood, the fire gave a welcome warmth as I sat in front of it. Malachi sat on the ground, but I didn’t let that fool me. He would be up in an instant if I ran.

“You asked what a falcon is,” he said, his gaze lost in the crackling fire. “I assume you wanted to know more than the fact that falcons are large birds of prey, capable of hunting small animals and other birds. Though you should know that, because a natural falcon or hawk in this forest would think your quetzal form was a tasty snack. One of them would be fast enough to snap your neck before you could think about changing back to human form, so you need to be careful where you fly. As for the un natural falcons …”

He trailed off.

“My father’s people are called the shm’Ahnmik. They are some of the most powerful magic-users in the modern world and one of the only empires that has not surrendered to Midnight’s tyranny. Unfortunately, they see Midnight as an amusing convenience—a place to send the worst of their criminals—and not a threat, so they don’t fight. Jeshickah would very much like to have falcon magic on her side, but the shm’Ahnmik are sensible enough to bind the power of anyone they exile.”

“You thought before that I was a … a bloodwitch,” I said, recalling the unfamiliar word. “Is that like the shm’Ahnmik?”

He nodded. “Your people are the Azteka. They’re jaguar or quetzal shapeshifters. Not all of them have power, but the rare ones who do—the bloodwitches—are terrifying. As I understand it, the magic runs reliably in families, even when crossed with outsider blood. Jeshickah breeds horses, you see,” he said. “She has for centuries. And she has no qualms about applying the same theories to people. In you she has a foundation stallion who has devastating power—a trait she wants—but a fragile constitution. All she needs is a dam who can introduce some hardier traits, and she can start breeding her own personal army, utterly loyal to her. We … I’ve lost you, haven’t I?”

“Did you ever have me?” I asked. I had no idea what he was talking about, with stallions and dams and horse breeding. What I knew was that Mistress Jeshickah had taken me in when my blood family had abandoned me. She had given me a place to live and provided for all my needs. Malachi talked as if I should be afraid of what she might want, but if I ever had an opportunity to help the woman who had saved me, I would do so proudly.

“I’m talking to a boy raised in a box,” Malachi grumbled, collapsing dramatically to stretch out on his back on the packed snow. “How could you even know what children or horses or armies are?”

Deciding that it would make my point in more ways than one, I answered, “I know what those things are. I grew up listening to Lady Brina tell stories.”

He quirked a brow, clearly amused. “I have a hard time picturing Brina telling bedtime stories to a slave.”

“I told you, I’m not a slave,” I replied automatically.

“You have no idea what you are,” Malachi responded. “It’s clear that—”

“It’s clear that you don’t know Lady Brina very well,” I interrupted. “Sometimes when she paints she gets lost in the colors and can’t be distracted. Other times she likes to tell the myths that inspire her. Or she will show me a drawing, or a painting, and ask me if I can guess what has happened.”

That was the magic of Lady Brina’s work. She could paint one still image but hide within it the details of an entire story.

“I know her reputation as an artist,” Malachi said. “I also know her reputation as a volatile, unpredictable task-mistress. When I found you earlier you were limping and had bruises on your face. Did she give you those, too?”

“You don’t understand. Calysta—” My voice choked off.

Malachi’s body tensed, and I remembered that he also knew her. “The slaves said she killed herself,” he said, barely whispering.

“She destroyed the painting,” I said, trying to explain.

“She killed herself,” Malachi repeated, his voice gaining strength. “I heard it was quite a mess. Do you know what kind of madness it takes to drive a blade through your own wrist? So tell me, if your home was such a paradise, why would she do that?”

Why would she do that?

I stood up with a rush of breath, trying to rid myself of the memory and of Malachi’s question—the same question that had haunted me every time I thought about Calysta. Malachi was on his feet in a flash as well, but I wasn’t trying to run from him. I wished I could run from my own mind.

“I don’t know ,” I whispered. “Maybe it has to do with you . She told me not to trust you.”

For a brief, horrible moment, I was certain it had everything to do with Malachi. Maybe she hadn’t killed herself. Maybe he had killed her. But no, I had seen the tools, held in a death grip in her hands.

“Maybe it does have to do with me, since I used to know her,” Malachi said, each word clipped and as sharp as a blade. “If she told you not to trust me, it’s because she feared that I might tell you the truth about who she used to be and what they did to make her what she is—was. Sooner or later, Vance, you will find yourself in the same position, and it will destroy you, too. The woman you call Calysta used to be named Shiva, before she was taken from us and turned into a mindless creature who could be loaned out in order to clean painting supplies for a madwoman and teach the serpents’ dance—a sacred ritual of freedom—to a caged bird.”