* * *
Naranpa saw no one else, not even a curious child, until she reached the Lupine. Denaochi’s gambling den was as she remembered it—a windowless round building built into a cliff wall, only the front half of the circle exposed. Its whitewashed walls glowed in the ever-present twilight, a twilight that had not deepened to night but stayed steadily in shadow. It was strange, unsettling, but she had other things on her mind. The most important being her brother and his witch.
She climbed the ladder to the entrance, a trapdoor in the roof. Last time she had been here, a giant with a cudgel had awaited her, and she had been dressed as a man and carried a purse bursting with cacao. Now she came only as herself, a blanket across her body and dried blood and dirt flaking from her skin. She had no idea what kind of welcome she would receive, or whether her brother had hoped she would survive her tomb and his tests, or whether he had hoped the opposite. She wasn’t even sure what she would say to him. Was she grateful for his help or resentful of the way he chose to dole it out? All she knew was that her need to prove she was not the spoiled, useless elite he thought her to be was enough to drive her this far, and her own will to be something more, someone worthy, would carry her through the next.
She eased open the door and descended into the hushed space. The gambling tables below were empty, but the square firepits still smoldered, enough to warm the large room. The rich scent of tobacco lingered, too, sweetening the air. She felt a flutter of despair. What if Denaochi wasn’t here? What if she had been wrong?
She found him on the interior balcony. He was sitting on a bench, his back against the wall, hands gripping a long-handled club that lay across his lap. He looked as he had before: thin, to the point of gaunt, black hair razored to skin above his ears and greased back above the temples. An old knife scar ran from ear to nose across one cheek, and thick chunks of jade pierced his ears and below his bottom lip. Bands of coral and turquoise encircled his neck, and his porcupine mantle was slung across the bench beside him. Dark eyes stared at her, and she hesitated.
But she had come so far, and he had put her through so much. She did not hesitate for long.
“I passed your test, you damned monster,” she growled.
His eyes focused, and she realized he had been asleep. Asleep with his eyes open. He yawned, and then his mouth tipped in a genuine grin.
“Nara,” he said, his voice rough. “I never doubted.”
She did not strike him as she wanted to, but when she spoke, her voice shook with rage. “You left me there for dead, and then you made me crawl through all seven hells to reach you.”
He gestured dismissively. “I needed to make sure you wanted it.”
“Wanted what?”
Now she moved toward him, hand balled into a fist. She swung. He caught her intended blow before she could connect.
His voice was a resentful hiss. “Life! If I did it, I knew you could, too.”
It took her a moment to understand what he meant, and when she did, it stopped her anger cold. “Why? Who?”
“It doesn’t matter now. It was long ago.” His laugh was low and haunted. “You made the crawl in half the time it took me. You have always been ambitious.”
The way he said it did not sound like a compliment, and she let it sit between them.
He dragged himself to standing and limped over to a nearby table. He seemed tired, the energy that had animated him on her previous visit reduced to dregs. He poured water from a clay vessel and proffered a cup. She drained the mug. He poured her another, keen eyes watching, but this one she sipped, feeling greedy under his judgmental gaze.
“Where is Zataya?” She looked down at her arm. Zataya’s blood still clung to her skin in flaking patches. “You would think she would be here to celebrate how well her witchcraft fared.”
“Not witchcraft,” he corrected. “Blood magic, she told me. Southern sorcery.”
Revulsion slithered up her spine, and for a moment she heard that voice again, the one that belonged to the man in the jaguar skin who had interrogated her in her dreams. Not a dream but a spell. Magic. Naranpa was so stunned at the insight that she could only gape.
“Your eyes. They’ve changed.”
“What?” She instinctively held a hand to her face, as if she could somehow feel what he meant.
“The brown is flecked with yellow. They weren’t like that before.”
“A trick of the light.” She sounded glib, but the place in her chest burned, and fear clawed at her belly. Was it magic that caused the burning feeling beneath her heart? Magic that made her palms glow and her eyes shine in the dark?