Mayan Blood (15 page)

Arwan sat across from her, his legs tucked under him and his chest pushed out.

He recalled the stories Drina had told him of tribe leaders gathering around a fire so many years ago. Warriors with painted chests and faces, and armor made of animal bone, all of them participating in the grave discussion of the future of man.

He drew in a deep breath, cuing the wrinkles around Drina’s eyes to deepen with observation. “Love can destroy you if you expect it to feed your soul.” Arwan nodded in understanding. He wanted nothing more than to allow himself to be happy. But the darkness inside him was not worthy. Worse, it was dangerous. “Your love must be selfless. The guardian will love you in return, only if she knows who she gives her heart to.”

“She won’t want me if she knows who I am.” He ground his teeth. “No one could. I almost allowed it through. I couldn’t control it, and nearly killed someone…because of how I feel about her.”

After a silent moment, Drina reached for something near the firewood, and then whopped him on top of his head with a stick. Arwan jumped and rubbed the sore spot on his scalp. “Enough of feeling bad for yourself.” Drina waved the broken branch in his face, her wrinkles puckered into a scowl. Grunts pushed out of her throat as she got to her feet and stared down at him.

Arwan stood so he wouldn’t be at perfect beating level. “What was that for?” The woman had lost her mind.

Drina grabbed him by his earlobe. “Pitiful boy sits. Does not’ing but rolls in mud like an elephant in the heat.” Arwan stumbled under her lead, half-crouched while Drina dragged him out of the hut and to the bank of a stream.

When she finally let go, Arwan stood up straight, nearly two heads taller than her. He rubbed his ear without the slightest clue how to respond. Drina was a lot of things, but truly insane wasn’t on the top of the list. Something had set her off, and he was better off to shut his mouth and listen.

She poked him in the stomach with the stick. “The power inside you did not flare because of a weakness, but from finding someone who you care for more than yourself. Your balance.” She pointed to the water. “You are who you are, and you know what the ripples of fate can do. And you fear them.” She threw the stick in the water, causing a school of guppies to scatter in every direction. “But you forget. When the surface stands too still, not’ing changes.” Her rickety fingers wavered in front of him. “The ripples are progress.” She perched her fists on her hips. “But you…” She shook her head, her bushy eyebrows pushed downward. “You will never find happiness.”

Arwan’s chest constricted. In all the years he’d known Drina, she was never wrong. Not in her predictions, not in her advice. She knew him inside and out, and the truth that had come from her lips nearly sent him crumbling to the ground. “You are too selfish. Too scared.” She waved her hand in the air as if shooing away a mosquito. “Too weak.” The old woman slowly waddled back to her grass hut. “Your mot’er was wrong.” Her voice faded with every step. “You are still not ready.”

He crouched and stared into the mirror surface of the slow-moving creek. It had been a long time since he was brave enough to look at himself in the mirror.

Zanya was right. He did have his mother’s eyes.

He squared his jaw as a well of determination roared to life. It was deep, savage, and fierce. He pushed his chest out and leaned closer to the water’s surface.

He wouldn’t be like the guppies, clustered together because they were too afraid to venture out alone. They may be up against the general of the underworld, but he’d be damned if he’d let Zanya face Sarian alone.

Not when he was the only one who could.

He slapped the surface of the water, scattering the tiny fish and distorting his reflection. There were so many days he didn’t feel human. As the water pacified and regained its smooth surface, the reflection that stared back at him was much different than before.

The person he saw now was filled with purpose.

Chapter Sixteen

Zanya

The next morning, Zanya walked into the kitchen while humming a classical tune. What happened with Arwan seeing Jayden in her bedroom was an issue she would just have to deal with later. Now, she needed to find a way to go back.

She grabbed a bagel and some coffee, and then headed to the study. Renato smoked his pipe, as he usually did, sending clouds of smoke billowing into the air.

She bit a chunk from the bagel. “That’ll kill you, ya know.”

He smirked. “I have been smoking a pipe for a thousand years. I believe I’m past the point of concern.”

She chuckled as she leaned over his desk and peered at dozens of math problems scribbled on a sheet of paper. “What are you doing?”

“Arwan and I did several practice sessions this morning. It only took a few before I was able to calculate an estimated travel time.” He offered her the mathematical Rubix Cube.

“Uh-uh. You’ll have to explain this to me. I was never very good at math.”

“From what I understand, Arwan is extremely vigilant. I estimate it would take a total of seventeen minutes to bend time back by seventeen years. One minute per year, which is extraordinary.”

“But, when we were in the bend, we couldn’t breathe. We can’t last seventeen minutes with no air.”

“No, we cannot.” Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed his chin. “Perhaps we should be asking
how
we can breathe while in the bend.”

“It was like a truck was parked on my chest. Even if we found some kind of oxygen mask, how would we get one with a tank that could withstand the pressure?”

“It is possible we could use deep-sea diving tanks. They are designed to withstand tremendous amounts of pressure.”

“And what if they don’t work right? What if the tubes burst or something comes loose? Besides, oxygen is really flammable. What if one of the tanks was cracked or leaked? It could explode and kill us all.”

Renato sat in silence, his chair creaking as he rocked back and forth. “Very good points.” He rubbed his chin. “What if we can find a way that is not normal? A truly abnormal means, indeed.”

He picked up the phone and dialed a number. It took only a moment before he began conversing in a strange language. Minutes later, he hung up the phone and stood.

Zanya gestured to the phone. “What language were you just speaking?”

“Yucatec is a Mayan dialect.”

“I didn’t know you spoke Mayan.”

“It’s actually my first language. It was only later I learned Spanish, and then English.”

“Wow, you’re trilingual?” She was lucky to slide by with a passing grade in French class in the orphanage.

“I’m what they would call a polyglot. I speak Yucatec, Spanish, English, and then German, Arabic, and a bit of Mandarin.”

Zanya sighed. “Of course you do.”

“When you’ve been alive as long as I have, you either spend quite a bit of time being bored, or you learn something. I chose the latter.”

“How many Mayan languages are there?”

“It’s not a question of how many languages. It’s a question of dialects. Over the years, there have been numerous variations formed throughout Central America. I believe now there are over forty different accents, although Yucatec is most commonly spoken, and the dialect I suggest you learn. It should only take you a few years, with some practice.”

Just the thought of studying another language made her head spin. “Yeah, maybe,” she lied. Time to change the subject before he handed her another stack of books. “What was that phone call about?”

“That was a friend of mine. He’s a collector of rare and endangered artifacts.”

“What, like an archeologist?”

“No. More like a mad scientist of sorts.”

Zanya’s eyebrows shot up. “So you’re asking Victor Frankenstein for help now?”

Renato laughed. “A
Frankenstein
fan, are we?”

“Not me. Tara.” Zanya grinned, recalling Halloween movie night at the orphanage.
Frankenstein
was always Tara’s favorite, even though she’d seen it a dozen times.

Zanya’s attention was pulled back to Renato while he gathered papers from his desk. He turned to her and rested his hand on her shoulder. “I suggest you go ready yourself. Thursday will be a big day for you.”

“Thursday?” She shifted her weight. “What’s Thursday?”

“Thursday, we travel to see your mother.”

His hand slipped from her shoulder, and Zanya stared after him as he left the study. She’d always pictured reuniting with her mom. The magical moment in which her mother would hug her and confess how she’d tirelessly searched for her all these years. Zanya always imagined she would be happy. Overjoyed, even. But instead, she found herself with a knot in her gut.

“Okay then.” She smoothed down her shirt. “In three days, I’ll meet my mother.”

***

Zanya spent the next few days reviewing the books and spending more time than she cared to admit swallowing down the metallic taste from rattled nerves.

As promised, she sat in her room, studying the books Renato had given her. She yawned and picked one up titled: ‘
Abilities’
.

That was it.

Just a single word to mark a book that must have been a thousand pages long.

The thick, leather cover was tied closed with twine. She carefully undid the knot and opened the cover.

Pg. 1: Healing

Pg. 266: Transformation

Pg. 592: Sprinting

Pg. 783: Strength

Pg. 991: Currents

Peter was a healer, and Hawa a sprinter. Renato had strength, which apparently she’d have too. But she’d never heard of transformation or currents.

She flipped to page two hundred twenty-six, where the bold lettering marked the chapter.

There was a sketch of a woman on the right, and to the left stood a sketch of an elderly man. Her eyes narrowed as she read the text scribbled beneath it.

Transformation is an ability of moderate talent. One must have focus to master this ability.

“Focus,” Zanya said to herself. “I could do that.”

Step one. Clear your mind. Find your center and breathe deep. Be aware of your entire body. The tips of your fingers, your limbs, your heartbeat. Do not allow any distractions to divide your focus. The Riyata must be completely neutral in both emotion and mind to accomplish this ability.

Zanya stood from her bed and propped the book on a pillow to face her. “Okay.” She drew in a deep breath, shaking out her hands. “Deep breaths. Tranquility.”

Step two. Picture your body changing. Do not just believe it can happen, but actively play the process through your mind, as if it is happening at that very moment. If the target has long hair, the Riyata must imagine their hair growing. If the target has colored skin, the Riyata must picture the color of their skin changing. It is vital to allow the process to take place in order to transform successfully.

Step three. Transform. Voice, appearance and even clothing can be changed in this process. Once the transformation is complete, the form may be held until the Riyata wills themselves to change back. To transform back, the Riyata must repeat the above steps in order to return to their natural form.

“Um…okay.” She stretched her neck side to side. The book said this ability was of moderate difficulty. If she could throw up a force field, maybe she could do this, too. But who did she want to change into? Someone she was familiar with. Someone she could hold a mental image of without any doubt of their appearance.

“Tara it is.” She drew in another deep breath and relaxed her muscles. Using yoga breaths she learned in group therapy at the orphanage, she centered herself in the quiet room. Her eyes were closed. Her breaths rhythmic. Her heart drummed in her ears and her limbs fell limp. She cleared her mind and focused only on Tara.

Tara had freckles. Lots of them.

The skin on Zanya’s cheeks burned as if she had stood in the sun for too long.

And red, curly hair that ended just past her shoulders.

Her scalp tingled and pinched.

How was she supposed to stay focused when everything she changed, hurt?

She swallowed; her concentration was slipping. She pulled in another breath and exhaled slowly through her mouth, centering herself.

Her voice was—

There was a knock at her door.

Zanya gasped and her eyes flew open. “What!” she shouted in her own voice. Apparently that part hadn’t taken.

There was a long pause. “It’s me, Peter.”

What the hell was Peter doing at her bedroom door at—she checked the clock hung on her wall—eleven at night. “Um…” Zanya turned and looked in the mirror. Her eyes widened and she stumbled back, tumbling over her bed and onto the floor. She knocked her elbow on the nightstand and groaned. “Damn it.”

“Are you okay?” He asked through the door.

Zanya buried her fingers in red, curly hair. “No. Definitely not okay.”

The knob rattled. “You sound like you need help.”

“No. No you can’t come in!” She jumped to her feet and threw herself at the vanity. Freckles dotted her own olive completion. She crinkled her nose. The red hair looked like a bad wig.

“I just came to check up on you. Renato’s been worried about you.”

Zanya spun to face the door. She couldn’t let Peter see her like this. She smoothed down the coarse curls. “I can’t talk right now. Maybe later. Tell Renato I’m fine.”

There was a streak of silence. “Are you?” His tone had taken a softer edge.

Zanya shifted her weight. Shooting him down might make Peter think she was hiding something. He didn’t need any more stress than he already had. “Just, hang on.” She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. “Clear your mind,” she whispered. Her limbs grew heavy. Her breaths softened. With a mental image of herself to focus on, her scalp and cheeks pinched and tingled.

She opened her eyes and looked in the mirror, and released a long exhale. She ran her fingers through strands of brown, wavy hair and over her cheeks, now freckle-free.

Note to self. Moderate meant hard.

She could only imagine how difficult the advanced abilities would be.

Zanya walked to her door and pulled it open. She stuck her head out into the empty hall. “Peter?” When there was no response, she leaned against the doorframe. Too bad. He sounded like he needed to talk.

She shut the door and walked back to her bed. She scooped up the book and snapped it shut, tying it closed with the twine. Maybe she needed to be bonded with the stone to do these things. Maybe Sarian was right. Without her stone, she was worthless.

Zanya collapsed into bed, staring up at the ceiling, where she drifted off to sleep.

The next morning was welcomed with rays of crisp sun shining through her window and a knock on her door. She sat up in bed. “Come in.”

Hawa swung it open. “It’s time. Get up and get ready.” She was dressed like an assassin, with knee-high leather boots and several weapons strapped to her belt.

Zanya crawled out of bed. “Why are you dressed like that?”

“We’re going to get the stone, remember?” She planted her hand on her hip. “Or has all of this escaped you?”

Zanya stood, covering her mouth through a yawn. “No, of course not. But...” The row of daggers gleamed in the light. She raised her brow. “I don’t have any weapons. Do I need any?”

Hawa grabbed the door handle. “Zanya, you are a weapon. Now get out of bed before the boys come up to find you like this. It’ll be my ass Renato chews on if you’re not ready in time.”

After cleaning up and getting dressed, Zanya made her way outside onto the beach. She didn’t have a huge wardrobe of clothes to choose from, but what she did have fitted her fine. Because there was no way of telling what exactly they’d encounter, she chose a pair of yoga pants and a tank top with cardigan to layer over.

Once she got outside, everyone in the group looked just as dangerous as Hawa.

Jayden came out the back door and jogged across the beach. A bow in his hand and a quiver of arrows bunched in a holster on his back.

Since when did he become an archer?

Marzena glided out and settled beside Renato.

Peter and Arwan were both dressed in cotton clothes with leather patches on their elbows and knees, weapons strapped to their own holsters.

“Marzena will link my mind with Arwan’s,” Renato said. “In order to take us to Ellie, he has to see our last link in time.”