“Let’s try another route. How about power, Montserrat? The power you’ve craved since you were a little girl, when they mocked you and shoved you and called you dirty names. The power you lack when those men sneer at you and ignore your contributions, your brilliance. The power to make the whole world see you.”
“You’re talking about what you want, not me,” she said, although her mind immediately jumped back to the old taunts, the nicknames she knew well. Peg-leg, where’s your pirate ship? the kids at school had asked, and her cheeks burned with mortification at this memory.
He noticed the blush, seemed amused. “I think we’re very much alike. You’d like to know all the secrets that hide between the pages of musty books, all the ways spells can be woven with runes, and the meaning of words you’ve never heard before. You want to know, you’ve always wanted to. I’ve seen into your heart as you’ve slept and discerned your dreams.”
She wondered if he could spy into people’s minds while they slept, or if his knowledge was gained from lurking in shadows and hearing her speak to Tristán. He wasn’t wrong, though, and if she denied it, he’d discern the lie.
“You’re not to be trusted,” she told him instead.
“And you have potential,” he replied.
She stared at him mutely, wondering exactly how much knowledge he’d wolfed down through the years, and the how of it, and many other things.
The potential for what? she wondered, and she didn’t like that she tilted her head at him, unable to contain her instinctive curiosity. She didn’t like that she had to strain to swallow her words, but to ask questions would be a mistake, a detour onto a dangerous path.
He gave her an indulgent look, as if it didn’t matter she wasn’t talking, as if he’d guessed what she was thinking: the tilt of the head gave it all away. And she was thinking how lovely it might be to learn how to etch a red rune on the back of a spider and crush your enemies as you crushed the insect’s body.
“You’re special,” he said, and Montserrat almost sighed in relief because the words were utterly wrong; they reminded her of the conversation she’d had with José.
“I see. Perhaps I’m an Aztec princess,” she replied tartly. Her hands twitched, but he’d said it himself: anger was a shield. She clung to it. “You tell people what they want to hear. You’re trying to sell me the same bullshit you sold José and Alma. How did they trick an all-powerful sorcerer such as yourself, who knows the secrets of the universe?”
He didn’t care for that. His smile, cold and perfect, wavered in irritation. He was tiring of her. Or maybe tiring, period. How long could he stay here in this netherworld? Not too long, she thought. He’d toss her from this place soon, although that wouldn’t be great, either. She’d be back in that room with Clarimonde and her cultists.
“Maybe that’s why I am being generous. I learn from my mistakes,” Ewers said.
“You want to bribe me a little better than you bribed them so I won’t turn against you.”
“José had talent but he is old, Alma and Abel are dead, and that leaves only Clarimonde. Let there be three.”
“The son to rule the West, the mother Lady of the South, and the Eastern King, the Mighty father united by the might of man,” she recited, remembering what was written in the book. “But then, I thought you’d reserved the spot of the mother for Clarimonde. The love of your life, am I correct?” she asked mockingly.
“Magic is about symbols,” Ewers said. “Things spoken that have a second meaning. Magic is ritual. You and Tristán fit perfectly within this play, like slipping on a mask. Follow me into the night.”
Poetry, rhythm, musicality. He spoke well, had a knack for it, and she had a good ear.
“You’ve said that phrase before. What does it mean?” she asked, tasting something in his words. Dynamism and symmetry, the heady perfume of magic upon each syllable.
“You know what it means. Words are also ritual, gestures are spells. Promise to obey me, be a servant to a great lord, and I’ll grant you immense power.”
He had ceased in his walking and stood very still. Watching her carefully. Sizing her up. “Here, take my hand,” he said and almost casually lifted said hand. Not for her to shake, no. Perhaps for her to bow her head and kiss the fingertips. It was lofty, an almost laughable and theatrical gesture, but he had a grandiose swagger. Hollywood, she thought again, spectacle. But a spectacle with purpose. It’s what he had written in his book, in his letter.
She had the disturbing realization that the fog was closing in on them, the endless expanse they walked in was growing smaller. When she jumped into the grain containers she’d had a similar sensation, one panicked moment when she felt the grain would close above her head and she’d never be able to push her way out.
“You can’t be trusted,” she said rather than responding to his languid gesture. “You lie and cheat. If we let you, you will consume us.”
“It’s natural for the strong to feast on the weak. I am meant to rule over you. The Opener of the Way—”
“Is a concept you invented,” she said, cutting him off. “Or a story you heard about and perverted. There’s nothing natural about it.”
Montserrat shuffled one, two steps away from him; watched as the corners of his lips lifted into a caustic smile.
“Maybe I’ll fix that lame leg of yours. You move like a wounded bird, how awkward,” he said, glancing down at her feet.
She had a sudden wish to hit him. He reminded her of the neighborhood bullies, of the boys who mocked her cane. Rather than folding she wished to hold her ground, and rather than bowing she wished to snarl.
“You must have been a very unhappy boy, Wilhelm Ewers,” she said. “Scrawny, sickly, no match for your big brother. Your parents preferred him. Your mother took her own life when her favorite kid died. Maybe she thought you should have been the boy who perished. And your father had always been distant. You could not impress him with anything you did, not even when you tried, reading all those books, amassing all that knowledge.”
“You have a vivid imagination,” Ewers said dismissively, and his hand now curled into a fist, falling by his side, “and a talent for fabrications.”
“I read your letter. And you said we’re very much alike.”
She thought she was correct. Somewhere, in between the lines in his book and his letter, in the leaden gaze imprinted on the photographs, Montserrat had recognized a familiar tale. It had beckoned her. She didn’t even have to look into anybody’s dreams to figure as much.
“You are brave because I’m being exceedingly kind. Do not doubt that I can still harm you. In this and any other place. You and your little friend. You’ll never be free of me; you’ll never be safe.”
“You need us, that’s what this is all about,” she countered.
“No, this is about you trying to find a solution to your predicament, trying to find a chink in my armor, a weakness to exploit. You think I can’t tell? Your little mind is spinning, but while it’s been amusing, you must know that you can’t possibly best me.”