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Chapter 29
We made it back to Valero some time the next day, but not before savoring what we could of our last breakfast at the Twilight Tavern and bidding Olga goodbye. The journey home was, thankfully, uneventful.
Gil gave us an update on the cultist situation, passed through to him courtesy of Prudence. Apparently no more rifts had been recorded opening, and therefore, no further attacks from the Heart. That should have been a good thing, but it only got me more nervous. It was like the calm before the storm. I had a hunch that something awful was coming, only that I had no way of telling where or when it would strike.
Carver had greeted us as warmly as Carver could, waving us into the restaurant and physically inspecting our eyeballs and cranial orifices one by one, as if he was checking for parasites. He never did explain why he did it, exactly, but it was the closest thing to affection as he ever showed, so we were mostly glad to let him take a look.
Asher was much more enthusiastic about welcoming us back, especially when he caught sight of Sterling’s new plaything. “That’s so awesome,” he murmured, running his hands over the length of the strange, electrified katana Sterling had earned as a souvenir from the Japanese god of storms.
Later, Asher confessed that staying behind hadn’t been so boring for him after all. Apparently, Carver had used that time to teach Asher to shut the shrike rifts on his own, in case we needed a second person to do that.
“More importantly,” Asher said, “we’ve been spending a lot of time at Latham’s Cross. Just sort of communing with the dead. It’s been fun.”
Gil and I exchanged wary glances as Asher gushed on and on about chilling in a graveyard. But Sterling, ever the supportive friend, clapped Asher on the back and took in his every word. Maybe something in their common undead interests and origins made Asher’s excitement more relatable to vampires.
Strangest of all, however, was how warmly Mama Rosa welcomed us back. Me, especially. She took both my hands in hers, asking an oddly formulaic series of questions as she stared unblinkingly into my eyes. “Have you been eating well?” was one of them. “Did they feed you enough rice?” was a personal favorite, and was basically the same question, only reframed to help Rosa determine whether Gil, myself, and the others were properly fed the fifteen or so bushels worth of rice she habitually attempted to shove down our gullets at mealtimes.
“I have to admit,” I said to Rosa, attempting feebly to retrieve both my hands from her vise-like grip. “I’m surprised that you’re so concerned.”
“Dustin,” she said, her voice deep and serious. “Mama Rosa is always concerned. Maybe I am not good at showing it.”
She let go of my hands, and I rubbed my fingers against each other, grateful that I could return the circulation to them. Rosa reached for something behind the restaurant’s counter: a hot pink women’s leather wallet, one of those huge zippered ones that always looked loaded with spare change and could probably be used to a beat a man to death.
I should have known that Rosa was only part of her full name. Stamped across the outside of the embossed wallet in weathered golden letters was the name “Maria Rosaria Josefina Muñoz.” When she had finally properly unzipped and unclasped the monstrosity, it flipped open to unfurl a series of photographs that had been lovingly slipped into collapsible plastic pockets.
They were pictures of boys of different ages, some in their middle teens, other
s looking like they were in their twenties. From out of a few of the pictures stared Mama Rosa’s stern, stony face, posing amidst the boys like a perpetually grumpy statue.
“These are my sons,” Rosa said. She paused for a moment, then sighed heavily. “They are back home, in the Philippines. I send them money. One day I hope they can come join me in this country. For now, you are my sons.”
That hit me hard. I hadn’t expected that from Rosa, not then, not ever. I took my shot. I reached my arms over her shoulders – no small feat – and hugged her as well as I could. Rosa went as stiff as a boulder as soon as I touched her, but she didn’t shove me off or snap me in half like a twig, which I took as a good sign. When I pulled away, she looked me dead in the face, the corner of her mouth twitching. In all the time I’d known her I knew that meant that a smile was fighting to work its way out of her body. I smiled back.
We spent a little time chatting after that, and I took the chance to ask about her magical background. She was a bruha, she explained – a witch – the Filipino name taken from the Spanish word that meant very much the same thing. Rosa was educated in the tradition by her mother, who was taught by her mother before her, and so on.
It was fascinating to hear her talk about the art, which appeared to be based on sympathetic magic, allowing her to use common kitchen implements and ingredients to cast potentially very powerful spells. I could have listened to her all day, but the lecture had to be cut short by Scrimshaw’s sudden appearance. Mama Rosa tried to swat him with a newspaper, only relenting when I assured her that he was a friend, and not, quote, “an ugly devil baby.”
Scrimshaw had come to relay the Convocation’s instructions. Just as Herald said, my dedication ritual for Nyx was to happen that very night. I just couldn’t catch a break. But the more I thought of it, the more I wanted to get my coronation over and done with.
That meant we could put a stop to any future summoning attempts by the priests and worshippers of the Eldest. My soul was a small price to pay for the world’s protection – but I will admit that the thought of snuffing out so many of the wicked sent just the littlest jolt of excitement tingling up my spine. In a way it would be like becoming a superhero. A vigilante. I tried not to digest that this was my brain’s way of processing what it meant to surrender my humanity.
The full roster of the Boneyard, Asher included, escorted me out to the forest beyond Latham’s Cross. That meant Vanitas, too, held close in my backpack. Rosa had declined to join us, explaining that she had to catch up on a whole bunch of recorded Filipino telenovelas. That was as good an excuse as any, I thought. Carver had removed his false eye and sent it soaring into the sky to search for the clearing that Nyx had indicated. It didn’t take very long to find it.
Herald had made me promise to take him along, and he showed up, just as he said. Prudence came along as well. Basically everyone I knew had turned up. It was weird. Really, really weird, as if this wasn’t some bizarre ritual meant to signal my total devotion to a goddess of the night, but something more like a birthday party.
Or a funeral.
Either way I was glad to have them around, just in case something went awry. You never know when it comes to entities.
The others stood close to the trees, watching, waiting for the minutes to tick down to the time that Nyx had proclaimed was right. Midnight. Someone’s watch went off, and a hand pressed on the middle of my back, nudging me towards the center of the clearing.
“It is time,” Carver said.
“Right,” I said, my mouth dry. “Right. Here I go.”
I shrugged off my backpack, pushing it into Asher’s hands, but not before I retrieved a dagger, something I’d borrowed from Carver. Just as I expected, the dedication ritual involved a little bit of blood-letting. I stepped into the glade, my feet on autopilot, my hands lifting the hem of my shirt up over my head. The cold of night ran its fingers across my bare skin. Somewhere behind me, someone wolf-whistled.
“Shut up, Sterling,” Gil hissed. Sterling grunted, probably from being elbowed in the gut. I wasn’t mad about the interruption, if I’m honest. It helped lighten the mood a little. I mean, as much as I didn’t want to admit it, I still had reservations about surrendering my soul to the gods.
