Amelia Atwater-Rhodes - Bloodwitch

Bloodwitch is dedicated to Tom Hart, 1944-2012.

Fifteen years ago, Tom met a nervous adolescent girl with a book and a dream. Without him, that book would probably have been tucked away in a drawer, unread, unknown, and that dream would have withered away, unlived. You, my reader, would never have turned the pages that took you into Nyeusigrube.

Thank you, Tom. We wouldn’t be here without you.

A book starts with an author and an idea, but it doesn’t end there. I owe many people for helping me bring Bloodwitch from its NaNoWriMo birth to where it is now.

Thank you to Jodi, my editor from the Kiesha’ra series, who came back to work with me on this new project. Her keen eyes and insightful questions always drive me to the edge of despair and panic but also always bring out the best in any book.

More thanks go to Mandi, Bri, Mason, Rayne, Becky, and Ria for multiple read-throughs and invaluable critiques. Some of you put up with only receiving endless variations on the first ten thousand words, for which I am deeply grateful. If it weren’t for your comments, I never would have been able to make this world as crisp and defined as it is. Ria, thank you for helping me develop my mad artists, and Mason … I owe you. Really. I’m so sorry.

Finally, Bloodwitch required more research than anything I have every written, so thank you to everyone who helped me. It’s amazing how many commonly used items weren’t invented until 1850. A special shout-out goes to Ian Gaudet and all my other Facebook readers for helping me with my horse research. You have all made me want to learn to ride.

Enjoy Bloodwitch !

YESTERDAY, AS LADY BRINA worked on her latest masterpiece, she shared with me a myth she had recently learned about quetzals. According to the Mayan people, the bird used to be all green, from the crest on its head to the tip of the male’s two-foot-long tail feathers. Almost three hundred years ago, the Mayans fought a great battle against the Spanish. When their greatest warrior, Tecún Umán, was slain, a quetzal settled on his chest to mourn. Tecún’s blood stained the bird’s breast, leaving the brilliant red feathers that remain today .

The Mayans were not the only ones to recognize the little bird in myths. The Aztecs also revered the resplendent quetzal, with its brilliant red, green, silver, and gold plumes. The male’s iridescent green tail feathers were crucial to the Aztecs’ sacred rituals, but killing a quetzal was punishable by death, so the great warriors had to capture the birds carefully in order to gently pluck the two long plumes. They then had to release the birds, which could not be kept in captivity .

According to legend, the resplendent quetzal cannot survive in a cage. Romantics say the beautiful bird will die of a broken heart when deprived of its liberty. What is known is that imprisoned quetzals kill themselves .

Lady Brina called the story ironic, though she would not explain why .

Most of the myths she tells are like that. For every moment of love or compassion, there are scenes of brutality and violence. Consider the Greek Prometheus, who was tied to a rock so his liver could be devoured every day for eternity, for the crime of giving fire to humanity. Or poor Hephaestus, who was flung out of Olympus by his own mother for no reason except that he was born ugly .

When Lady Brina paints, she makes these tragic stories beautiful. Even when the subject is dark and terrible, I am drawn to her work. I am grateful to live where I can be surrounded by such beauty all the time .

I do not know why my own parents abandoned me, like the Roman founder Romulus, who was also left in the woods. My guardian, Taro, says that we will probably never know. Maybe I should take a hint from mythology and accept that I was thrown away like Hephaestus. I could have been murdered instead, so my blood would feed the fifth sun, one of the sacrifices the Aztecs believed would keep the world from ending .

My gods, the immortals who have raised and cherished me, also need blood to survive. I would sacrifice to them if required, but they do not ask it of me. All they ask for is my loyalty and my love .

They have both .

Vance Ehecatl

1803

I DIDN’T MOVE. I didn’t dare.

Were my tail feathers trembling? If they weren’t already, they would begin to soon. This perch wasn’t comfortable, and it was hard to remember why I needed to stay still. It was difficult to understand things like that when I was in my quetzal form.

I risked a quick glance at Lady Brina but saw her brother, Lord Daryl, instead. That was reason enough to freeze. Lady Brina had instructed me to hold this exact pose. Lord Daryl would be very angry if he caught me staring at his sister instead.

I returned my gaze to one of the copper strips that held together the large frosted-glass panels that made up this corner of what Lady Brina called her greenhouse. I had often pondered the name, which seemed strange to me. Lady Brina’s studio was filled with pure white light, and the rest of her “greenhouse” was made of elaborate, multicolored stained-glass mosaics—no more green than any other color. Intricately carved wooden screens let fumes out and fresh air in.

My own two-room wooden cabin was tucked into a corner of the enclosed property, a house inside a house. Sometimes I wondered if the greenhouse was inside another house, but I had never been outside it to find out.

My foot slipped again. I had been standing this way for a very long time. I could have slept on one of the perches higher up and been perfectly comfortable, but the steel one Lady Brina had provided near her canvas so I could model for her was slick under my talons. It was hard to find purchase and keep my balance.

I relaxed a little when I realized that Lady Brina was distracted, feeding. I still didn’t dare turn my head to look at her, but I could see shadows in my peripheral vision—two women, their forms made giant by the late-afternoon light. I had witnessed similar scenes often enough to know what they meant.

Lady Brina pushed her blood donor away. The second shadow stumbled, and I heard the scuff of a toe against the soft dirt ground. Moments later my shapeshifter friend Calysta crossed my view.

Calysta had promised to give me a dance lesson later, but now she would need to rest instead. I tried to squelch my disappointment. Lady Brina’s needs came before my wishes. I would have given her my own blood, if she had asked.

“You need to take a break,” Lord Daryl said to his sister.

I needed a break, too, but he wasn’t talking to me.

“I just did,” Lady Brina replied. I could hear the rattling that meant she was gathering her brushes and tools again.

“I mean you need rest ,” he insisted. “Feeding is important, but so is sleep. You have been in here for two days straight.”

“The light is better in the day.”

“Two days and two nights. I just received the bill for the lamp oil you have burned.”

Lady Brina scoffed. I could picture her tossing her hair. It was sleek and black, and reflected every color of light that fell upon her.

“Kendra’s yuletide ball is in less than a week,” she said, sounding frustrated. If her brother could convince her to take a break, that would be nice. Normally I loved having her near. I loved seeing her, even when she ignored me. But the last day or so, she had been cranky. “She has promised me a place of honor for this piece, and I intend to make sure it is ready. I’m sure you understand.”