Gods of Jade and Shadow(80)

“Yes, he’s here,” Martín muttered.

Casiopea spun around, as if trying to find the Death Lord, but of course Vucub-Kamé wasn’t standing anywhere in sight. Martín bowed his head and placed his hands on Casiopea’s temples.

A fog enveloped him. It blotted his eyesight, it filled his brain. He was there and he wasn’t. When he touched Casiopea the fog lifted for a moment and a thousand colors danced in his eyes. Blue and crimson and yellow and white. In that moment, in that swirl of colors, he saw her dead by a lake. Then a different sight, but no less gruesome: a monster with bat wings ripping off her head. Other grisly deaths followed. The final sight was of Martín plunging a knife into her side. Through all these visions Vucub-Kamé sat on his obsidian throne, unblinking, superimposed, a shadow at the edge of his vision. There. Triumphant. Always.

She gasped. He knew she saw it too. And he knew they were being shown things that might be.

“Name your price, it will be granted. Should you want glory or gold, the Lord of Xibalba can give it to you. But do not consider only the benefits of your abeyance, but pause to think about the dangers of your defiance.”

He released Casiopea and she stumbled back. Her eyes were watery and dark.

“Kiss the lord’s ring and you shall be his favorite courtier,” Martín said with that voice that was not his own. He raised his hand, offering the ring for her to see.

Casiopea looked at him in fright, like when they’d been small and he was cruel to her, and Martín did not know why he felt ashamed then. Of who he had been, who he was. But there was no time to think about this, because she was shaking her head.

“No,” she said, also with that childhood stubbornness.

A terrible pain seized him; it went from the bottom of his spine to his skull, and he grimaced, gnashing his teeth. Vucub-Kamé could not speak more than a few words through this intermediary, and poor Martín shivered as the overwhelming presence that had invaded him departed.

“Martín?” she said.

“It has passed,” he mumbled.

“Do you want to sit down?”

There was a stone bench nearby. She tried to get him to go to it, but he could not. His legs felt weak, and a sob lodged in his throat. “No, no…Casiopea, can we simply get out of here? Can we simply leave?” he begged her. “Can you take me home?”

That is what he desired more than anything. Home, without monsters or gods or journeys.

“Oh, Martín,” she said.

Casiopea set a hand on his shoulder. For a moment he thought she was going to accept he was in the right, that she’d do the bidding of Vucub-Kamé, but then he noticed that her sympathy was not a sign of soft weakness.

“No,” she said, but kindly this time.

“God. Stop being pigheaded!” he yelled, shoving her arm away, more furious at her warmth than her refusal. “It’s exactly like I said, you do something stupid! You never do as I say!”

Casiopea took a step away from him, but she did not seem too worried about his fury.

“I am a man,” he said, jabbing a thumb against his chest. “I am your elder. I am going to be the leader of the family. What are you? Who do you think you are?”

“I’ve never been anyone,” she replied.

“He’ll kill you!” he yelled. “Maybe he’ll kill us both! Is that what you want?”

She did not answer him. He watched her rush back inside the building and did not follow her. Martín sat by the fountain, listening to the stone frog gurgle. He tried to convince himself that Casiopea was a stupid girl, that if they were to compete she would lose. That he had the upper hand, having seen Xibalba and walked through its road. That Vucub-Kamé would necessarily win this contest, and then Martín would be returned home, rewarded like a prince. He tried to count the gems and the gold he’d obtain. He tried and he did a good job of it, even if his hands shook.





You could not, they’d told them, enter the main ballroom without a tuxedo and an evening gown. There was a strict dress code. And so Casiopea and Hun-Kamé set about making themselves presentable, courtesy of the owner of Tierra Blanca, who had ordered they be treated with the utmost care.

She settled on a dress of pale cream, sheer chiffon with a floral design, rhinestones and silver beading splayed down the front of the bodice. The back of the gown was scandalously low, the kind of dress society ladies and movie stars wore when they were photographed for the papers. Not that she’d ever thought they’d want to take her picture and caption it. But now! Now she twirled in front of a mirror and watched the beading of her outfit sparkle like tiny twinkling stars.

They washed and combed her short locks and rouged her cheeks. When she met Hun-Kamé, her hair like lacquer and her eyes lined dark with kohl, she looked as elegant as any of the celebrities who crowded the casino. He looked very fine too, the tuxedo and bow tie giving him a severe yet appealing air, and she fancied that he was a bit like this when he sat in his throne room. A jewel, cut and polished to perfection.

He nodded at her, seemingly pleased, and gave her his arm.

They walked into the ballroom, and a few heads turned their way, curious, wondering who these two were. Movie people, come from Mexico City? Fortune hunters made a note of them as they were guided toward Zavala across the vast dining room, which was made to seem vaster thanks to the profusion of floor-to-ceiling gilded mirrors, each one separating the tall windows that opened to one of the gardens.