Gods of Jade and Shadow(48)

It made her boiling mad. She bit down on it as hard as she could. The plant hissed again in anger—and Xtabay hissed in equal anger, clutching her hand, the marks of teeth showing on her unblemished skin. Casiopea managed to peel the tendril off her face.

“Hun-Kamé!” she yelled. “Don’t listen to her!”

When the name escaped Casiopea’s lips, Hun-Kamé turned his head to look at her. He had heard nothing of the commotion happening in a corner of the room, but Casiopea’s voice sliced through the magic Xtabay had been weaving, as if a hand had shoved away a cobweb. The knots of power, which had remained invisible, glowed blue for a second before being extinguished. This minor act of destruction also had the effect of knocking Xtabay down. She lay on her knees on the zebra rug, stunned.

Hun-Kamé straightened himself up and walked to Casiopea’s side. The plant had slackened its grip on her, but when the god approached, it blackened and recoiled entirely, as if it could not withstand the anger of the Death Lord. And angry he did look, eye as dark as coal, brushing off a stray leaf that had caught in Casiopea’s hair. He offered her his left hand, so that she might find purchase on him and stand up.

“Are you injured?” she asked. “Do you need me to help you?”

“Perfectly fine,” he said. “Although I was about to ask that question.”

“Oh. Nothing is broken,” she assured him.

“I see. Just a scratch here,” he said, touching her forehead for a second, wiping away the mark like he’d wiped away the stray leaf, “and gone again.”

By the couch Xtabay, head down, spoke words of power, but they fizzled, a fire without tinder, impossible to spark.

“Your trickery won’t work with me,” Hun-Kamé told her, but he did not bother even glancing at the woman.

“It almost did,” Xtabay said, her voice now a venomous hiss, no sweetness to it. She nursed her injured hand, the red, angry mark of Casiopea’s teeth stark upon it.

“Return my property,” Hun-Kamé replied coolly.

“It will not change anything,” Xtabay told him.

Nevertheless, she complied, walking toward a bookcase where she kept a black box with two green jade lines running down its sides. Xtabay opened the box and offered it to Hun-Kamé, kneeling down before him, in what Casiopea thought was a clear display of mockery.

“For the Lord Hun-Kamé,” Xtabay said, as she threw the lid of the box open, “from his humble servant.”

Cushioned in black velvet rested the finger. Just like the ear, it was well preserved, as if it had been cut off a few minutes ago. Hun-Kamé pressed the digit against his hand, and it fused with his flesh. Then he motioned for Xtabay to stand up. She did.

“Who has the next piece of this puzzle?” he asked.

“You think I know?”

“My brother wishes to crown you, Xtabay. I think he would have told you.”

“You cannot make me speak the answer.”

“I have undone your spell,” Hun-Kamé said.

“No, not you, you vain and na?ve lord, the girl. Did you lose one eye or go entirely blind?” Xtabay said, mocking him. “You did nothing.”

True, he had not. It had been Casiopea’s voice that quenched the spell, an act of will, though her essence mixed with that of a god, and thus it was partly his magic that had given her the ability to perform the task. Partly, but not wholly.

“Then give me the answer,” Casiopea said, feeling tired, the beginning of a headache drumming inside her skull. She wanted this matter over. She pressed forward to stand inches before the woman.

“You undo one spell and you think you can command me?” the woman said, scoffing.

“I’m suspecting that’s the way it works. And if it’s not the way, then I’ll start smashing all your plants and flowers to bits until you are nicer to me. I think you wouldn’t like that,” Casiopea said.

“You would not dare.”

“I would very much dare,” Casiopea said.

“She is a savage,” the woman told Hun-Kamé.

“The Lady Tun has a very distinctive personality, but I would not go as far as that,” Hun-Kamé said. “And she makes a fine point: do you want us to smash a few things around your home? Burn these flowers and plants?”

“Of course not, my lord,” Xtabay said, lowering her head and clutching her injured hand. “There is an uay in El Paso, the Uay Chivo. He serves Vucub-Kamé.”

Hun-Kamé turned as if to leave, motioning for Casiopea to walk with him, but Xtabay spoke again, her hard eyes watching them intently. She looked as beautiful as she had when they had entered the room and yet she was also diminished.

“You should let it be, Hun-Kamé,” the woman said, and she sounded empty now. “Forget about the throne and disappear. Vucub-Kamé will kill you.”

“Gods may not die.”

“Yes,” Xtabay said with a nod. “Gods may not. Look at your reflection in a mirror.”

Hun-Kamé grabbed Casiopea’s hand and pulled her out of the room. When they reached the elevator he dragged the metal door closed with a loud clang.

Downstairs, as he opened one of the double glass doors, Hun-Kamé glanced at his reflection. He saw nothing in the dim outline of his face to cause alarm.