Shadow Rites

On one wall I had once seen circles and swirls painted in soot and fat and crushed pigments. Carved into the stone were arrows pointing to the right. Lines parallel. Lines like waves—the symbols of The People. And there had been paw prints. They padded across the rounded stone roof of the world, big-cat paws in the red of old blood. Human footprints walked beside the paw prints, up and over the roof of the world. Side by side. Like Beast and me.

There were also white man symbols, brought here since we had lived in the modern world, diamonds and stars, signs and ciphers, and an image of a cross that burned. And of course, there had been the blue hands in circles of white, and white hands in circles of blue. Pigments, signs of ownership applied to the walls of my soul house by Gee, who had thought to use me.

Cleansed by fire.

“Mine,” I growled. “My place.”

Until I had been hit with a spell by the Son of Darkness. Then I had seen above us, in the dome of the roof, red lines, like blood vessels, veins, and arteries pulsing with silver and black and red motes of power and full of blood. Magic that hurt us was black magic. Blood magic. Like the magic of witches turned to darkness. Like blood magic stored in stone. The blood diamond had such magic, magic that sent out red pulses and motes of power. But in my soul home the vessels had looked clogged and bruised, full of clotted and dying blood, and they had been leaking. It was what I understood a soul might look like when under attack from vampire blood.

Later, the walls had appeared blackened as if by fire, the smell of sour smoke hanging on the damp air. It had smelled unused, had sounded silent, had felt cold and empty. My cavern had been damaged, as if fire—or lightning—had left soot and char all over it, black and gray and dirty, with the undamaged wall showing through in places, white and the palest of greens and creamy grays in what looked like strange symbols, nonpatterns that I didn’t recognize at first. I had walked around the pit, studying the shapes, and they had resolved into hundreds of representations of the Blood Cross scorched into the walls at every angle, as if the lightning and the cross had been spinning around, engaged in a dance—or some arcane form of combat.

More recently there had been a vision that had worried me more than any of the others, even more than the burned, lightning-struck vision. The cavern had no longer looked sooty and burned, its walls creamy gray, tinted with greens, but directly overhead had appeared the shape of wings, white wings and dark wings, as if a snowy owl and a crow fought there. It had seemed a symbolism of danger, as if forces of light and dark engaged in combat for my soul.

And lastly, there had been wings, possibly angel wings draping across the roof of the world. And there had been that black mote pulsing beside it, like a heart of darkness, full of power. The angel wings were still here, in this peyote dream, draping across the roof and down the walls, the flight feathers resting curled on the floor. The dark mote was still there, where Angie Baby had pointed it out, up high, near the joining of the angel wings, where the heart of the angel itself should be.

I stared at the place overhead, straining to see the dark mote clearly. Where the angel wings joined together, the mote was shackled with a large blue ring the color of woad, and from the other side of the ring fell a triple-linked chain, in style like an ornate necklace chain. The links draped along the wings, following the shape of the roof, until it came to a stalactite, thick and strong, one that had been forming for millennia, long enough to meet the stalagmite below it and merge into a single column that reached from ceiling to floor. There the silver chain looped loosely around the pillar down to the ground to lie coiled like a woman’s necklace dropped and forgotten in the shadows.

That chain was what Angie Baby had used to pull the black mote from my chest so we could see it together. The chain she said might kill me if I broke it. I padded to the pillar and sniffed the chain. It smelled of metal. And ozone, like the aftermath of lightning. And it smelled of blood. Vampire blood. Beneath that stink was the reek of burned hair. I sat down again, studying the chain. It was thinner near the floor, and the way it was curled, it had taken on the shape of a flower. A rosebud, which seemed significant but I couldn’t remember why. Overhead, as the chain fell downward, the links were thicker, and the higher I looked, the more organic they appeared, less perfectly made and heavier, as if the chain was alive and was growing and the roots were overhead, like a plant growing upside down, to flower on the floor.

I extended my claws and poked at the bloom, pricking it. The bud opened, fast, like the special photography showing the “pop” of some flowers opening. Inside the petals, where the stamen should be, was an eye, green and blurry and unformed, but looking at me.

Every time I’ve been attacked by magical means, it left a mark, I thought. Like a crack in a piece of pottery that allows water to slowly drain through, continuing to damage the dish.

Jane is not dish. Jane is not in cage. Jane is free, Beast thought back, which didn’t sound like a reply to my comment, but an altogether different observation.

Okay. I’ll think about that one. For now, we need to fix my hand.

Jane can fix hand. Jane is not in cage.

I chuffed out a breath. Lay down and thought about our twined and twisted double helix of genetic material, the double spiral that once was, a double helix for Beast and a double helix for me. But like the last few times I tried to find one or the other, they appeared together, a tripled helix of tangled DNA polymers. The nucleic acids held together by nucleotides, which should base-pair together, were instead in rows of three, twisted back on themselves and knotted in odd places. I had read as much as I could understand about how the helix should work, but it wasn’t enough to separate the strands.