ALSO BY AMELIA ATWATER-RHODES
DEN OF SHADOWS
In the Forests of the Night
Demon in My View
Shattered Mirror
Midnight Predator
Persistence of Memory
Token of Darkness
All Just Glass
Poison Tree
Promises to Keep
THE KIESHA’RA
Hawksong
Snakecharm
Falcondance
Wolfcry
Wyvernhail
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2014 by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes
Jacket art copyright © 2014 by Sammy Yuen
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House LLC.
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Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-385-74303-7 (hc)
ISBN 978-0-307-98074-8 (ebook)
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v3.1
Bloodwitch is dedicated to Tom Hart, 1944-2012.
Fifteen years ago, Tom met a nervous adolescent girl with a book and a dream. Without him, that book would probably have been tucked away in a drawer, unread, unknown, and that dream would have withered away, unlived. You, my reader, would never have turned the pages that took you into Nyeusigrube.
Thank you, Tom. We wouldn’t be here without you.
A book starts with an author and an idea, but it doesn’t end there. I owe many people for helping me bring Bloodwitch from its NaNoWriMo birth to where it is now.
Thank you to Jodi, my editor from the Kiesha’ra series, who came back to work with me on this new project. Her keen eyes and insightful questions always drive me to the edge of despair and panic but also always bring out the best in any book.
More thanks go to Mandi, Bri, Mason, Rayne, Becky, and Ria for multiple read-throughs and invaluable critiques. Some of you put up with only receiving endless variations on the first ten thousand words, for which I am deeply grateful. If it weren’t for your comments, I never would have been able to make this world as crisp and defined as it is. Ria, thank you for helping me develop my mad artists, and Mason … I owe you. Really. I’m so sorry.
Finally, Bloodwitch required more research than anything I have every written, so thank you to everyone who helped me. It’s amazing how many commonly used items weren’t invented until 1850. A special shout-out goes to Ian Gaudet and all my other Facebook readers for helping me with my horse research. You have all made me want to learn to ride.
Enjoy Bloodwitch!
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
About the Author
YESTERDAY, AS LADY BRINA worked on her latest masterpiece, she shared with me a myth she had recently learned about quetzals. According to the Mayan people, the bird used to be all green, from the crest on its head to the tip of the male’s two-foot-long tail feathers. Almost three hundred years ago, the Mayans fought a great battle against the Spanish. When their greatest warrior, Tecún Umán, was slain, a quetzal settled on his chest to mourn. Tecún’s blood stained the bird’s breast, leaving the brilliant red feathers that remain today.
The Mayans were not the only ones to recognize the little bird in myths. The Aztecs also revered the resplendent quetzal, with its brilliant red, green, silver, and gold plumes. The male’s iridescent green tail feathers were crucial to the Aztecs’ sacred rituals, but killing a quetzal was punishable by death, so the great warriors had to capture the birds carefully in order to gently pluck the two long plumes. They then had to release the birds, which could not be kept in captivity.
According to legend, the resplendent quetzal cannot survive in a cage. Romantics say the beautiful bird will die of a broken heart when deprived of its liberty. What is known is that imprisoned quetzals kill themselves.
Lady Brina called the story ironic, though she would not explain why.
Most of the myths she tells are like that. For every moment of love or compassion, there are scenes of brutality and violence. Consider the Greek Prometheus, who was tied to a rock so his liver could be devoured every day for eternity, for the crime of giving fire to humanity. Or poor Hephaestus, who was flung out of Olympus by his own mother for no reason except that he was born ugly.
When Lady Brina paints, she makes these tragic stories beautiful. Even when the subject is dark and terrible, I am drawn to her work. I am grateful to live where I can be surrounded by such beauty all the time.
I do not know why my own parents abandoned me, like the Roman founder Romulus, who was also left in the woods. My guardian, Taro, says that we will probably never know. Maybe I should take a hint from mythology and accept that I was thrown away like Hephaestus. I could have been murdered instead, so my blood would feed the fifth sun, one of the sacrifices the Aztecs believed would keep the world from ending.
My gods, the immortals who have raised and cherished me, also need blood to survive. I would sacrifice to them if required, but they do not ask it of me. All they ask for is my loyalty and my love.
They have both.
Vance Ehecatl
1803
I DIDN’T MOVE. I didn’t dare.
Were my tail feathers trembling? If they weren’t already, they would begin to soon. This perch wasn’t comfortable, and it was hard to remember why I needed to stay still. It was difficult to understand things like that when I was in my quetzal form.
I risked a quick glance at Lady Brina but saw her brother, Lord Daryl, instead. That was reason enough to freeze. Lady Brina had instructed me to hold this exact pose. Lord Daryl would be very angry if he caught me staring at his sister instead.
I returned my gaze to one of the copper strips that held together the large frosted-glass panels that made up this corner of what Lady Brina called her greenhouse. I had often pondered the name, which seemed strange to me. Lady Brina’s studio was filled with pure white light, and the rest of her “greenhouse” was made of elaborate, multicolored stained-glass mosaics—no more green than any other color. Intricately carved wooden screens let fumes out and fresh air in.
My own two-room wooden cabin was tucked into a corner of the enclosed property, a house inside a house. Sometimes I wondered if the greenhouse was inside another house, but I had never been outside it to find out.
My foot slipped agai
n. I had been standing this way for a very long time. I could have slept on one of the perches higher up and been perfectly comfortable, but the steel one Lady Brina had provided near her canvas so I could model for her was slick under my talons. It was hard to find purchase and keep my balance.
I relaxed a little when I realized that Lady Brina was distracted, feeding. I still didn’t dare turn my head to look at her, but I could see shadows in my peripheral vision—two women, their forms made giant by the late-afternoon light. I had witnessed similar scenes often enough to know what they meant.
Lady Brina pushed her blood donor away. The second shadow stumbled, and I heard the scuff of a toe against the soft dirt ground. Moments later my shapeshifter friend Calysta crossed my view.
Calysta had promised to give me a dance lesson later, but now she would need to rest instead. I tried to squelch my disappointment. Lady Brina’s needs came before my wishes. I would have given her my own blood, if she had asked.
“You need to take a break,” Lord Daryl said to his sister.
I needed a break, too, but he wasn’t talking to me.
“I just did,” Lady Brina replied. I could hear the rattling that meant she was gathering her brushes and tools again.
“I mean you need rest,” he insisted. “Feeding is important, but so is sleep. You have been in here for two days straight.”
“The light is better in the day.”
“Two days and two nights. I just received the bill for the lamp oil you have burned.”
Lady Brina scoffed. I could picture her tossing her hair. It was sleek and black, and reflected every color of light that fell upon her.
“Kendra’s yuletide ball is in less than a week,” she said, sounding frustrated. If her brother could convince her to take a break, that would be nice. Normally I loved having her near. I loved seeing her, even when she ignored me. But the last day or so, she had been cranky. “She has promised me a place of honor for this piece, and I intend to make sure it is ready. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course I understand.”
His voice was soft. I saw their shadows move as he gently removed the brushes and palette from her hands. “But without sleep, without feeding, without time to rest your eyes on something other than your canvas and oils, how can you possibly see your masterpiece anymore? You risk ruining it in your haste to perfect it.”
That argument was probably the only one that could have swayed her. She sighed and let Daryl put her tools aside.
Two years ago assistants had helped her erect this canvas, which was twice as high as I was tall, and even wider than that. Occasionally she worked on other, smaller pieces, but inevitably she returned to this massive work. She called it Tamoanchan.
I had never been allowed to look at the painting itself, but I had been honored weeks ago when she had asked—no, ordered—me to come model. Lady Brina never asked anything. That was fine, since I would never have refused her.
Lady Brina had been a frequent presence throughout my life. Even on the days when she failed to acknowledge me at all, which was most days, my beautiful little world seemed to shine brighter when she was around. When she smiled, pleased with the way a particular painting was going, or lay on the soft, dappled grass in the multicolored sunlight, it made my heart beat faster.
At that moment both shadows disappeared. The tingling sensation that always told me when one of their kind was present also faded.
Vampires were able to appear or disappear in the blink of an eye. The first time it happened near me, I thought I had unexpectedly dozed off and missed Lady Brina’s good-bye. I apologized profusely for my rudeness when she returned, and she laughed at me and called me “charming.”
Calysta explained that vampires were not like the rest of us. They could do things shapeshifters couldn’t. They lived forever, without aging, which was why Brina looked exactly the same now as she had when I was an infant. They were stronger than us, and wiser. That was why they ruled and we were honored to serve.
I fluttered down to the ground, landing awkwardly because of my stupid tail plumes, which had recently started to lengthen and were now twice as long as my bird body. Not wanting to deal with them, I changed into human form quickly … though my human form wasn’t much better. Growth spurts had left my arms and legs feeling gangly, and even my dance lessons with Calysta couldn’t seem to make my limbs work gracefully.
I shook my head, and the leather cord that had been holding my hair back instantly fell out. Though my clothes always reappeared properly when I changed back to human form—trousers, shirt, and sleeveless waistcoat falling tidily into place—I inevitably ended up with a mess of burnt-umber hair in my face.
Every now and then I considered asking Taro to cut it for me, but his hair was long, too. Though his skin was darker than mine, Taro’s hair was shiny, coppery-blond, and always neat. I needed a comb every time I changed shape. Maybe that was another vampire power, one that Calysta simply hadn’t mentioned.
Pushing my hair back uselessly, I took a step toward the painting. I just wanted a peek. Lady Brina had never asked me to model before.
No.
I wasn’t supposed to. I wouldn’t violate her trust that way. Instead, I did my rounds, occupying my time with responsibilities I had neglected over the last two days as Lady Brina had worked on her painting.
Several small yellow songbirds, an abundance of butterflies, and a hive of honeybees shared the greenhouse with me, along with an assortment of fruit trees, berry bushes, and vines. The orange trees had been ripe for the last month, but I was supposed to gather only one basket of fruit a week, since it would stay fresh on the trees better than it would once harvested.
I searched the ground for any fruit that had fallen, so it wouldn’t rot and befoul Lady Brina’s greenhouse, and then went to check the stream.
Water welled up on one side from the pores between several large stones, meandered across the greenhouse floor, and then disappeared on the opposite side through another grouping of boulders. The second set of rocks tended to collect debris like leaves, feathers, and misplaced paintbrushes, which I needed to clean out. This time of year the water was frigid when it first bubbled up, but it warmed as it passed over the white stones that lined the streambed. The symbols carved into those stones sparkled as the water flowed over them, creating a warm, golden glow even in the middle of the darkest night.
An animal’s shrill cry, carried by the breeze, caused me to lift and then shake my head. Though the glass walls let in plenty of light, even the white ones were so etched and frosted that it was impossible to see through them. The screens allowed gentle breezes to enter the greenhouse but were not conveniently placed for visibility. Sometimes I tried to peer through them, to get a glimpse of the world outside, but they were too high when I was in human form, there were no nearby perches, and my quetzal form did not hover well.
It didn’t matter. I had a beautiful world right here. Why did I need anything more?
Taro was adamant that, in addition to my responsibilities taking care of the greenhouse, I needed to take good care of myself. Cleanliness was important, as was exercise. I was supposed to practice my dancing every day, but without Calysta I felt silly when I tried to run through the steps she had taught me. She normally hummed as she danced with me, or played a flute while I danced alone. I would have to wait for her to come back.
I was standing in the doorway of my cabin contemplating what to do next when the door behind me opened with an icy burst of air. Sensing one of them, I turned expectantly and smiled to see my guardian, Taro. I started to speak, to greet him and tell him about my day, but then I realized he wasn’t alone.
The woman with him reminded me of Lady Brina, but just for a moment, and probably because Lady Brina was the only person I had ever known who seemed so confident in the way she held herself. Like Lady Brina, this woman had fair skin and dark hair, but while Lady Brina’s skin was as flawless as the milk-white stones along the streamb
ed, this woman’s had a tan hue to it, and while Lady Brina’s hair was as black as night, this woman’s was a very dark brown. Unlike Lady Brina, who always wore elaborately embroidered gowns, even when she was painting, this woman was wearing a riding habit that stopped above her knees to reveal breeches and tall boots.
My disrespectful eyes snapped to the ground as soon as I realized I was staring. The woman before me was obviously a vampire. I could feel the way her power resonated in my head and along my skin. I didn’t need to look at her eyes to see if they were black, like those of all her kind. I shouldn’t; it wasn’t my place to meet her gaze. Instead, I did what Taro had taught me to do whenever I met one of them: I lowered my knees to the ground, bowed my head, and waited to be acknowledged.
“Mistress Jeshickah,” Taro said to the woman, “may I present Vance Ehecatl.”
Mistress Jeshickah! My heart leapt into my throat, and I fought the desire to raise my head and get a better look at her. Taro referred to her frequently as my benefactor and the most powerful woman in the world, but I had never met her. Mistress Jeshickah was the only woman whom even Lady Brina spoke of with awe.
I didn’t have to wait long. She reached out and placed a finger under my chin, drawing me to my feet and raising my head with the pressure of one sharp nail.
Don’t speak unless spoken to, I reminded myself. But I had so many things I wanted to say! So many questions!
“You’re certain he is fourteen?” she asked Taro as she examined my face.
“Yes,” Taro replied. “I know he appears young for his age, but I have been told that is common with the breed.”
“True. Jaguar’s Celeste is almost sixteen now but could pass for twelve,” she remarked. Was she talking about another, female quetzal? If so, where was she? She didn’t live in my home. Were there two places like this?
“They all mature, with time,” he said.
I stumbled when Mistress Jeshickah released me. She turned back to Taro. “I had to speak to Brina,” she said. “She was talking about her model at the market, of all places. Do you still feel this is the best place for him?”