"That was—that was wrong," a voice gasped out, choked with tears. "We shouldn't be mucking with the gods this way."
"Douse it," Jorge snapped, and Culebra wondered how in the world he had picked up the Pozhar way of telling somebody to be quiet. Culebra listened to his footsteps draw near, heard the rustle of his clothes as he, presumably, knelt—a theory backed by the way he forced Culebra to sit up. "How do you feel, Holiness?"
Holiness? "Awful," Culebra said. "Why did you make us do that? What is going on?"
"Don't you feel any different?"
"No," Culebra snapped. "All I feel is—" he stopped when he realized that wasn't true. The buzzing in the back of his mind that he had attributed to the quaking was a sharper awareness of the deaths all around him. People had died in the earthquake.
He also knew, he realized, that a couple of men in the room were slowly dying. They were sick. One would not die for years, but the other would be dead in a matter of weeks. The others, he realized in the next breath, would die of violent deaths someday. Possibly the next day, possibly in several years, but their life threads did not fray out—they were cut.
It wasn't until Cortez gasped beside him and clutched at his hand that Culebra realized those thoughts of violent death had not come from him.
"What's going on?" Cortez asked, and the fact she sounded tearful terrified Culebra. "What have you d-done to us?"
Jorge laughed and then replied, "It's pitiful how much of its own history Piedre has forgotten. The books in the library of Unheilvol hold more information than your entire country. It's really quite pathetic."
"What has that to do with your torturing us, waking my powers—because I can see that is what you have somehow managed to do, though I do not know what Cortez has to do with any of it."
"Has the Black Princesa never wondered why she had such a knack, such an instinct, for violent deaths? You are legend for taking only certain jobs—those that you say feel right. Because you only kill those who were meant to die violently and whose violent deaths were close."
Cortez's hand fumbled, found Culebra's, and squeezed it painfully tight; Culebra found himself squeezing back just as tightly. "What's going on?" Cortez asked again.
"Once upon a time," Jorge said, "there existed two types of priests under the Basilisk: the Holy Order of the White Rose oversaw the ceremonies for those who died natural deaths the Holy Order of the Black Rose oversaw the ceremonies for those who died unnatural deaths. Very different ceremonies and spells were required to see the souls returned to the arms of Holy Zhar Ptitsa. But all those priests still fell under the Brotherhood of the Stone Rose."
"Would you please come to your point?" Culebra snapped, though he had a horrible, sneaking suspicion that he knew what revelation Jorge was leading them toward.
Jorge laughed again and said, "Have you never thought it strange, highness, that you are so weak? The only power that marks you as a god is your eyes. Otherwise, you might only be a man with a skin condition. You are weak, helpless."
"I am not entirely without power," Culebra said softly.
"No, but you lack the courage to tap it, to use it. Most of that is because part of your soul is missing—the part of you, of the Basilisk, that oversaw unnatural deaths. Violent deaths. Your powers are woken now because you have shared blood with the missing piece of your soul. The White Prince and the Black Princesa reunite at last, and the true power of the Basilisk wakes with the trembling of the earth."
Culebra had never wanted to rip his bandages off so badly in his life. If he did it, he could destroy them all, leave no one alive. End the matter right there.
But he also risked killing people who did not deserve to die. All deaths came in their time, and to steal a life before its time was up was cruel. He was a god of death, but he was not cruel.
"Hastiness is always a mistake anyway," Cortez said softly. "We will need your eyes later; for now, keep them covered."
Could they read one another's minds? He could not read Cortez's, though. Yet even as he thought it, he realized he could. Perhaps it only took his realizing it. He would have smiled, amused and confounded by it all, if he was not so busy being terrified about why Jorge wanted the Basilisk's powers woken. "What are you going to do with us?"
"I am going to let the two of you show me the way to the Lost Temple," Jorge said.
"We have no idea where to begin looking," Culebra replied. "It's called the Lost Temple for a reason."
"It's somewhere in the Azul, and now that your powers are woken you will be able to find it again. If I am correct in my theories then that is where the last of your power remains locked away."
Cortez swore. "What do you mean, the last of our power? We have no more power."
A lie, Culebra knew instantly. That was a lie. He hadn't killed himself. He had been murdered. How he knew that suddenly, he did not know, but he knew it as well as his own name.
He had died all those years ago after someone had tried to take his power—not just because he had dominion over Death, but because he had dominion over Death and Destruction.
"Grab them, bind them, and get them out to the horses. You two will remain here and guard the captives. If you see my mark, kill them."
Cortez recoiled when the men tried to grab her and slammed the heel of her boot into one man's shriveled dick. Bolting from the couch, she raced across the room to where Fidel still lay prone on the floor. "Fidel! Fidel! I will never forgive you for being asleep, you bastard!"
His eyes jerked open, but before he woke up enough Cortez was grabbed from behind and something hard slammed down on her head. She fell on top of Fidel, vision going gray for a moment. She couldn't pass out. If she passed out, all was lost.
A hand grabbed her hair, twisted painfully, and yanked her to her feet. She was turned roughly around, and as she faced the bastard who had grabbed her she slammed her head into his face. He roared in pain, and she shoved him away as she stole his sword—
And froze when she saw the violet-eyed monster had a knife pressed to Fidel's throat. "Surrender, Princesa. You have no choice here. What do you think will happen if you try to flee? Your powers have been woken now. You are the piece of the Basilisk's soul that calls to and controls violent deaths. You are the soul of destruction. If you try to flee, those powers will eventually grow increasingly unstable. Is that what you want? For your temper to someday cause an earthquake? No, you will eventually be called to the Azul where the last piece of you is hidden away. Without that piece, destruction will eventually get the better of you."
Cortez gritted her teeth against an angry retort, but let the sword fall, withdrawing to sit once more with Culebra. She felt infinitely better when she was touching him. Steadier, stronger.
Holy gods, how was she a piece of a god? Everyone knew the Basilisk Prince was the only reincarnation of the Basilisk. No one had ever said anything about their being a stray piece. How had some violet-eyed bastard known what her entire country did not?
She held reluctantly still while they bound her hands, but going along meekly when they led her outside and secured her to the saddest looking horse she'd ever seen was much more difficult. "This horse will not make it to the mountains, never mind go up them."
"Once we reach the Azul, we will be going on foot," Jorge said. "The forest is too dense for horses. Now douse it, or we will gag you."
"Fidel will be all right if we cooperate? Dario as well?"
"Yes," Jorge said. "I don't care about them except that they get you to cooperate. If you obey, they live. If you don't, they die."
"But if we don't and they die, you have nothing left to force us to cooperate."
"That is when innocents will start dying," Jorge said. "I can guess how much you will approve of that."
Cortez bit back a curse and reluctantly subsided.
"Why are you doing this?" Culebra demanded, but Cortez could feel his thoughts on the matter. They couldn't share every thought, or maybe they just didn't know how, but she knew what he was thinking in regards to Jorge and the Lost Temple.
Jorge wanted their power, wanted to steal it. He was going to take them up the mountain and sacrifice them in the temple to steal the power of the Basilisk. But why?
Culebra had no theories on that, but Cortez did, sort of: his eyes were violet.
He's a shadow child?
Yes
What are we going to do?
Cortez shook her head, conceding she had no idea. Whatever they did, it risked killing Fidel and Dario. While the cold part of her said those deaths were reasonable given that the only other option was to let Jorge take their power, it simply was not a price she was willing to pay. However selfish that made her, she did not care.
She also could not leave Culebra. Alone and in the hands of the enemy, he was worse than helpless: he was at their mercy. She was the one who had unwittingly given both of them to Jorge. There had to be another solution. They just needed to find it.
Leave me,
Culebra said.
I hold you back. Without me, you'll find a way to overcome all this
.
Cortez shook her head.
I'm not just leaving you
Better to abandon me when an opportunity presents
.
If I slip away, I may be able to get help
There's no saying you'll manage it before they do whatever it is they intend. They need both of us, so one of us getting away is all we need to buy time. But me alone leaves me helpless against them. You alone with them—you stand a fighting chance.
Cortez shook her head, hating that he was right. If she ran, Culebra would be alone and unable to do anything to fight them short of removing his bandages and subjecting them to his fatal gaze. It was too dangerous a power to resort to quite yet, especially when they still knew so little about Jorge.
Where in the world would she be able to lose Culebra that Jorge and his men would not be able to get him back? There was no way to know; they would have to wait for the opportunity to present itself.
In the meantime, she was plenty distracted in trying to grow used to her new powers. She was very carefully not thinking about the fact that she was apparently a piece of a god. How had no one ever known the Basilisk had broken himself—his power—into multiple pieces? How did some nasty refuse pile from Schatten know what the rest of them didn't?
Even just thinking of the possible reason made her shudder. No one had seen or heard of Teufel, the Shadow of Licht, for nearly a thousand years. Why was there suddenly a child off Schatten in Piedre? Cortez had always thought no one could enter or leave Schatten.
She was drawn from her spinning thoughts when the horses were halted and two men dragged them down. Beside her, Culebra shuddered. "Are you all right?"
"I can feel something—can't you?" he asked. "Like walking into a room and stepping on something wet when you know there should be nothing liquid in that room. Then you learn too late that you just stepped in blood."
Cortez frowned, but all she felt was nervous, tense, and afraid—all typical under the circumstances. Jorge approached them, smirking. "You feel it because you are the larger piece. You are almost the entire Basilisk. The woman, the temple, they are only smaller pieces, the violent pieces of your power. She will feel it the closer we get."
"Wonderful," Cortez muttered, and she hoped that an opportunity to slit all their throats arrived sooner rather than later. She watched as they sent the horses back in the direction of the village, her trepidation growing.
There was a rough dirt path in front of them. It started out wide, but she could just barely see where it quickly narrowed so that soon they would only be able to walk in a single line. She was tempted, so very tempted, to make a try for freedom. It would be easy enough to kill them, slit their worthless throats, grab Culebra, and head back toward the village to Fidel and Dario.
But there was no way of knowing if they would get there in time to save them, and if even one part of the plan went awry innocent people would begin to suffer as well. As much as she hated to admit it, she had the feeling Jorge was right about her seeking out the Lost Temple being inevitable. She might not yet feel whatever it was Culebra felt, but she didn't feel right in her skin. Her sense of who would meet a violent end was sharper, stronger. She knew two men in the group were dying slowly of illness.
She knew Jorge had killed a great many people to get as far as he had. So as much as she hated to remain and obey, it was the easiest way to get to where they needed to be—and hopefully by the time they got there, she and Culebra would have devised a plan.
Because if killing herself was what it ultimately took to keep the Basilisk's powers from Jorge, that was what she would do.
It took her a moment to realize the feelings of protest against that idea were not her own. Cortez was absolutely certain she was never going to get used to having another voice in her mind. She really hoped the sensation never became stronger. Did it get stronger with distance? Weaker? What else could affect the bond?
You being dead
, was Culebra's dry reply. Cortez laughed before she caught herself. Jorge stared at her, violet eyes sharp, too knowing. "You find your situation amusing?"
Unable to resist, tired of being ordered and shoved around, Cortez replied, "I find your face amusing."
The childish comment earned her the backhand she had expected. What she didn't expect, however, was for Jorge to drag his thumb through the resulting blood on her lip and then lick it away. She did not flinch from the strange action, however, simply glared at him. "One day very soon, shadow child, it will be your blood that spills."
Jorge laughed and playfully patted her sore cheek. "I am not afraid of you, even if you are one small piece of a god. My destiny belongs to another god, one far greater for you. I am carrying out the fate revealed to me at Unheilvol, and not even you will stop me from seeing it through to completion." He smacked her cheek one last time and then turned away, motioning to the men he had brought with him.