Blood & Fur

Chapter Seventy-Three: Mother of Witches

I entered Zachilaa as a god among men.

Itzili had grown and recovered enough for me to ride him as we passed through the city gates. How mighty I must have looked to the commoners of my forlorn empire, clad in the scarlet armor of past emperors atop a feathered tyrant. An army of trihorn riders and footsmen followed in my wake, singing my praises with their mouths and war horns. My consorts, old and new, waved at the cheering crowds from atop the imperial longneck. If anybody noticed that Chindi had slipped into Eztli’s place, no one showed a hint of it.

I supposed it made sense. My subjects only ever saw my consorts from afar and at night. Few made the trip from Zachilaa to my capital, and fewer still would be able to tell the two apart. As far as the world was concerned, ‘Anaye’ had always been my fourth consort. A scarf hid the collar and leash marking her as a glorified slave.

What a joke.

After my triumphant entrance, I proceeded with the usual ceremonies. I met with Lady Zyanya’s father, a portly noble thrice my age with more titles than actual power, whose obsequiousness matched that of my most zealous priests. I could almost taste the family’s desperation to remain relevant.

Iztacoatl had ordered me to behave on behalf of the other Nightlords, and considering the depths of her recent humiliation, I knew better than to tempt their wrath. I blessed the city in the goddesses’ name, completed public rituals at their grand temple, visited the sick and dying, and then promised the recruits who would march with me into the Flower War glory in this world and the next. In short, I acted like the perfect puppet emperor.

At least, until the wedding.

I had witnessed a few of them back in Acampa, so I knew the procedure well enough. First of all, Tlaxcala housed his guests in a stone mansion in the heart of the city; one which his father once purchased on his late brother’s behalf. Though my entourage received the largest share of attention and courtesy, he had also invited his family’s business partners and all of Zachilaa’s nobility to witness the ceremony. I suspected many came to see me over him. They even had to reject some visitors considered too baseborn to feast in my presence.

Most marriages in Yohuachanca were arranged by matchmakers, who decided the date of the ceremony under a favorable day sign and then carried the bride to her future husband’s house for the wedding feast. That role technically fell to me, but it was beneath an emperor’s dignity to carry anyone on his back, even a noble. I thus assigned this duty to Lahun in order to reinforce her political position as my personal soothsayer.

Watching the bridal procession from the manor’s threshold was quite the sight. Lady Zyanya’s relatives arrived at nightfall, walking with bright torches in utter silence. I had my consorts join them in order to honor the bride, who was carried on Lahun’s back across the street in all of her finest finery and then delivered into Tlaxcala’s waiting hands.

The ‘happy’ couple invited us to the feast in the manor’s grand hall afterward. While I knew it was large enough to please any noble, I found it laughably small compared to my palace’s rooms. Gifts to the newlyweds piled up near a central hearth meant to honor the First Emperor, who burned in the sky for the sake of all life on this Earth. I personally provided a wealth of gold and jewels which would shame the wealthiest of nobles. The other guests carefully ensured that their own offerings would pale before mine.

The wise man does not overshadow his emperor, I mused as my harem and I were granted a dais above the cramped floor on which the other guests were forced to gather. The lesser men among them had so little space for themselves that raising one’s cup meant hitting their neighbor. In contrast, I enjoyed more than enough space and the presence of Necahual at my side. I have a better place than the newlyweds.

As per tradition, Tlaxcala and his new wife sat together on a mat below the hearth and a bowl of incense filling the air with warmth and a thick odor. I had imagined myself and Eztli in their places once, drinking together and laughing as we celebrated our union. Tonight’s newlyweds hadn't exchanged a word, let alone a glance. No love nor complicity had blossomed between them, and from the way Tlaxcala eyed the nubile female slave serving him food, I doubt it ever would.

At least the food was nice enough. We were served a basket full of tamales, bowls of roasted turkey, and plenty of maize. The servants provided the guests with their fill of pulque while the pounding drums and wailing flutes of musicians resonated across the room. My consorts and concubines enjoyed themselves well enough at least. I could hardly hear their discussion over the noise, though Aclla earned laughter from Tenoch and Atziri. A few guests sent her distrustful glances due to her obvious Sapa origins, but none dared to complain in my presence.

I doubt any spy can hear us any better. I glanced down at Itzili, who remained alert at my feet. The guests wisely gave him a wide berth, even the roaring drunks among them. No sign of snakes either. Excellent.

I had set up this entire situation to create a unique opportunity, which I decided to seize now.

The music turned silent the moment I rose from my seat. All chatter ceased in an instant out of fear and respect. I would see to it that both soon turned to awe.

“At last,” I said with my pulque cup raised and my voice thundering through the hall. “The knotting!”

Acclaim and applause followed my declaration. Tlaxcala’s mother—a shrewish woman whose eyes were filled with the same all-consuming greed that fueled her son—and Lady Zyanya’s father rose to each bless their in-laws with a gift. Lady Zyanya received a white blouse wrapped over her shoulders, while a red cape was wrapped around Tlaxcala’s shoulders.

It was customary for the matchmaker to tie their clothes together and officialize the union between the newlyweds. Lahun made a move to proceed with the ritual, but I stopped her with a wave of my hand.

“No need,” I decreed with the grave authority of an emperor. “I shall bless these two myself as the Godspeaker.”

Murmurs spread across the room at my declaration, followed by quick and servile bows from the newlyweds.

“My house would ever be so grateful, Your Divine Majesty,” Lady Zyanya said, recognizing the supreme honor this would represent.

I also caught a glint of interest in her gaze. Unlike her new and less experienced husband, she likely suspected what I had in mind for tonight’s entertainment.

“Your Divine Majesty would please us beyond words,” Tlaxcala added with the obsequiousness I’d come to expect of him. “We shall be bound forever as your humble servants.”

You might swallow those words soon enough, Tlaxcala. I walked up to these two in silence, hundreds of eyes focusing on me. I grabbed the cloak of the groom and the blouse of the bride, then tied them into a tight knot. For Yohuachanca’s emperor to bind these two lines would already be a great honor, but I would ensure nobody would forget this night. Time for a miracle.

I grabbed an obsidian knife from my belt and slashed my left hand.

My burning blood surged from my palm in a streak of smokeless fire. Shouts and murmurs of awe answered my display of supernatural power. Some guests stared at me in shock, their minds unable to process the miracle unfolding before their eyes; others joined their hands in prayer and knelt in adoration.

I basked in Tlaxcala’s shocked expression and the fiery ambition in Lady Zyanya’s eyes. Both witnessed the First Emperor speaking through me in the capital, but it was another thing entirely to witness magic so closely. I had shown them a taste of true divine power, the likes of which mortal fools could only revere.

“I thus bind you by the grace of the gods, by the shining radiance of the Fifth Sun and his daughters in shadow,” I boldly declared as droplets of my fiery blood fell upon the knot. “Your union shall be Yohuachanca’s light in the nights to come.”

My blood had cooled off enough not to set the clothes on fire once it touched them, but it would leave an eternal mark on them nonetheless. I wondered if they would become a sacred heirloom in the future; a relic blessed by the one true Godspeaker.

While the thought amused me, this entire display only served to lay the groundwork for my next demand.

“Now, Tlaxcala, as per tradition, you and your wife shall spend four nights together to conceive our empire’s future champions.” I turned to look at Zyanya, a false smile stretching on my face. “But her first…”

I softly grabbed Lady Zyanya’s chin with my bloody hand, letting her feel the warmth of my divine power and forcing her to meet my gaze.

“Her first night belongs to your emperor alone,” I declared.

The hall grew quiet as I invoked the right of the First Night.

The first hands soon clapped to congratulate Lady Zyanya. Her family was the first to do so, quickly followed by Zachilaa’s nobility and a very amused Chindi. Tlaxcala’s relatives and my consorts were the last to imitate them, mostly to avoid the shame of remaining silent when others rejoiced. Nenetl’s applause was the weakest and most half-hearted, while Ingrid and Chikal exchanged a quick glance. They knew me well enough to guess that I had a plan in mind.

Tlaxcala hardly hesitated. He removed his wedding cape without undoing the bindings and then relinquished them to me without a word of resentment. In fact, he seemed almost pleased. His wife didn’t bother to hide her pride at being chosen.

I suppressed a wave of contempt washing over me. Claiming a wife’s First Night in his own house would have been a humiliation for any husband under normal circumstances, but the Nightlords’ propaganda thoroughly turned it into an honor. My miracle at the wedding only reinforced their perception of me.

The divine could dispose of the mundane as they wanted in Yohuachanca.

Everyone present profited from this state of affairs too. An emperor whose blood glowed with the sun blessing a daughter of Zachilaa in such a public way would reinforce her and the city’s prestige, doubly so should she bear a child from my loins. Tlaxcala had already shown his willingness to give away his wife for political favors; he knew that planting her in my bed would no doubt earn my gratitude.

Opportunistic vermin, all of them.

“Necahual,” I said, my favorite straightening up. “A single woman is not enough to satisfy my needs, however gracious. Your time has come to assist the blessed bride.”

Necahual’s eyes widened ever so slightly at my subtle wording. She rose from her seat and followed me as I seized Lady Zyanya in my hands. I carried her into the bridal room upstairs to the cheering acclaim of the cuckolded husband and guests alike. Itzili crawled in our footsteps, his increasingly large frame struggling to squeeze through the doors.

The wedding boudoir reflected the newlyweds’ wealth and prestige, with mosaic patterns of the rising sun decorating the walls alongside a set of statuettes and stone masks honoring the gods-in-spirit. Urns stored plenty of food and water for the newlyweds to enjoy during their four-day honeymoon next to a luxurious, double-sized bed of jaguar furs and cotton blankets. A wood panel covered the only window while Iztili stood watch over the single door.

I laid Lady Zyanya on the bed, then quickly whipped up a Veil around myself. No gaze other than the two women present in the room interfered with my illusion. None of Iztacoatl’s spies hid in a corner, and why would they? I had only ever shown unease at the idea of claiming a woman’s first night in the past.

On the other hand, I had been careful to show some interest in Lady Zyanya so as not to arouse suspicions about my sudden change of behavior. Iztacoatl might suspect something was up, though I sincerely doubted that she would figure out the truth. Zyanya would serve as a fantastic smokescreen to obscure my true activities.

“You have served me well, Zyanya,” I said with a degree of sincerity. “Your obedience and loyalty please me greatly.”

“Your Divine Majesty honors me,” Zyanya replied with hardly disguised desire and ambition. She removed her blouse and clothes, letting them slide off the bed to unveil her nakedness. The sight slightly aroused me, I would not deny it. “All that I am is yours to seize.”

I sensed Necahual stare at this woman with deep contempt, which I shared in my heart and hid behind a smile.

“I have executed your first husband and forced the second to surrender you to me,” I said. “Are you so eager for these bloodstained hands of mine to fondle you?”

Lady Zyanya sneered, her true self shining through. “Neither of my husbands were worthy of me, unlike Your Divine Majesty.”

She had quite a high opinion of herself. I answered her by bending the knee and seizing her in my hands. She all but threw herself at me as my mouth approached her cheek.

Then I whispered a single Word in her ear.

“Sleep.”

Her body went stiff, her eyes snapping shut and her breath growing weak. She collapsed onto the cotton in the throes of deep slumber. I let her go with amusement.

Necahual stared at her with unease. “Is she…”

“Asleep.” I didn’t exclude killing her to hide the blood should the ritual go wrong, but I hoped to wake her up soon in the best-case scenario. “This night is ours alone.”

Stolen story; please report.

Necahual quickly caught on to my intention. “This farce served to offer us a moment of privacy.”

“One that will last until sunrise.” I turned to face her, my eyes studying her for a while. “It is time.”

Necahual tensed up with both apprehension and excitement. “You will complete your part of our bargain?”

“Yes,” I replied bluntly. “I won’t lie, there is a chance that you won’t survive the ritual. I will do my best to ensure your survival, but I cannot guarantee it. Power requires sacrifice.”

“Do you mean to dissuade me? After everything I went through for the sake of my promise?” Necahual sneered, her eyes alight with pride and resolve. “I am ready.”

I hoped so. I could not arrange another window of opportunity for a while.

“Strip and lay down on the mattress,” I ordered Necahual, who swiftly obeyed me. The bed was large enough to house her and Zyanya together, their clothes soon forming a pile on the side. “Bite your tongue or fill it with cotton.”

Necahual glared at me. “I will not scream.”

“This will hurt,” I warned her.

“I will not scream,” she simply repeated, her voice carrying the strength of stone. “Do it.”

“Very well.” I took in a deep breath, then knelt at Necahual’s side. I seized her left arm at the junction with her shoulder, my hands squeezing her soft flesh. I called upon the Doll and manifested talons of darkness from the depths of my soul. The Nightlords’ ritual to cripple their father failed to affect me and my sorcery remained undiminished.

“Ready?” I asked Necahual.

My favorite observed the talons of darkness rising from my body with a mix of apprehension, fear… and envy. Envy most of all. She knew that the power I offered would carry a price, but she had sacrificed too much and brushed too close to sorcery to refuse its call.

Necahual gave me a sharp nod.

I tore off her left arm with the Doll.

My talons sliced through her flesh and bone like a knife through a scroll. Necahual remained true to her word: she didn’t scream. Her face instead strained into an expression of absolute agony. She was forced to bite her tongue, as I’d warned her to, and her eyes closed when I used a burst of my smokeless Blaze to cauterize her stump before any of her blood could fall onto the bed.

She didn’t scream when I severed the other arm either.

I should have felt nausea and unease at mutilating Necahual so thoroughly. I had shared this woman’s bed on many occasions and tasted the flesh which I now despoiled. Yet I felt nothing. I had killed and dismembered so many that the sight of blood and suffering hardly aroused any emotional response from me anymore. My mind remained focused on the goal ahead.

I had grown numb to inflicting pain on others in the name of the greater good, even to a woman with whom I shared a complicated relationship. I wasn’t sure what to think of it. I used to enjoy demeaning and tormenting Necahual, but she had suffered so much in the name of our victory. I tried to tell myself that the end would make the pain worth it and only ended up feeling guilty.

The best I could do for her was to proceed quickly.

I went through the motions as I cut and cauterized each of Necahual’s limbs. By the time I cut off her last leg, her body had gone into the early stage of shock. Her skin had paled, her steaming stumps shivered, and she produced so much sweat I worried she would dry up.

But she didn’t scream.

Even as blood dripped down her bitten tongue and her lips, Necahual retained her dignity.

I saw it once again: that unbreakable resolve that no pain could break; that strange brand of bravery so similar to mind and which allowed this vile woman to endure the Nightlords’ tortures for so long.

Inspired, I soon proceeded to switch the severed limbs. I bit my palm to let my blood bind the stumps together in an unholy union. By the time I finished, wing-like legs stuck to Necahual’s shoulders, and hands replaced her feet like a bird’s talons. It was quite the disturbing sight, though far from the worst that I’d encountered.

I placed a hand on her chest, my bleeding palm pressing against her heart. I sensed it pounding wildly within her ribs. Though I hoped to alleviate the worst of it with a Seidr transfusion, the stress of this traumatizing experience would likely kill her should the ritual fail.

I would not allow it.

“Necahual Ce Quiahuitl,” I said, uttering her true name. “I am Tlacatecolotl, the owl-fiend of disaster. I hold your life within my very hands. Now I demand your soul.”

I immediately sensed a shift in my Teyolia and Tonalli. My owl-spirit stirred within the depths of my soul as I called upon it to form a binding rite of alliance. My shadow lengthened until it grew wings and talons.

“I shall take your name and heart for my own, and bind them to my will until the day death drags us both into the Silent Dark,” I told Necahual. “In exchange, I shall grant you wings to fly into the night, talons to torment the meek, and flames to burn your enemies with. I shall make you the mother of witches which all mortals shall dread. I shall make you a Mometzcopinque, hated and feared by men and women alike.”

I leaned over Necahual, my lips growing so close to her own that I could feel her panicked breath on mine. The ritual would soon reach its climax.

“Will you be mine?” I asked. “Now and forever?”

“Yes,” she replied without hesitation, fighting through the pain and the throes of incoming death. “Yes… I will.”

Her Teyolia blazed within her chest, and a pressure closed on mine.

I felt my strength fading for an instant as an unbreakable bond formed between Necahual and me. My power flowed into her heart, forming a chain that bound it as solidly as the ones the Nightlords used to enslave my soul. My malevolent heart-fire and the feathers of my Tonalli joined with Necahual’s essence, changing it, reshaping it, befouling it.

Her dying body metamorphosed before my eyes.

Her shoulder-legs grew a coat of dark, owlish feathers blacker than the darkest night. Her thigh-arms transformed into talons with claws longer than blades. All of Necahual sharpened. Her teeth, her features, her frame… She became beautiful the same way an eagle was, wild and savage with slitted yellow eyes brimming with ferocity. Her Mometzcopinque transformation reminded me of a Nightkin’s monstrous self, albeit bearing the marks of the owl rather than the bat.

The stronger she became, the weaker I grew. For all of the power I had accumulated from the embers of a dead sun, empowering Necahual spiritually diminished me. I remained strong enough to shake the world with my spells, but their edges would dull.

I traded strength for control.

I owned Necahual.

This truth was engraved within my very soul. By answering my words and swearing fealty to me, she had surrendered her very essence. She would not outlive me. She would not leave me. She would lord over others with sorcery, yet forever stay by my side. She was mine, physically and spiritually.

By the time my hand stopped trembling on her chest, I felt the soft movements of her chest rising up and down.

“It is done,” I whispered, gathering my breath to recover from my exhaustion. “It is done.”

Necahual let out a heavy sigh as her eyes darted around to look at herself. She raised jet-black wings marked with my own feathers. Her hand-feet had transformed into twisted talons. She moved one of them closer to her face to take a better look.

Then it caught fire.

Baleful purple flames born of my power surged from Necahual’s talons at her mental command. They came out on their own, almost instinctively. Their glow lit up her face and cast dark shades in the background.

Tears of bliss formed at the edge of Necahual’s gaze.

She had resented my mother’s gifts for so many years, languishing in envy of her magic and the freedom it afforded her. The powers I lent Necahual were a mere shadow of a true sorcerer’s might, but she didn’t care. She wielded sorcery of her own at long last.

She gently pushed me back without a word and grabbed one of the decorative stone masks. Her talons closed on it with such strength that it shattered into dust. The flash of pleasure on her face dwarfed any that I had seen thus far. She reveled in her newfound power after so many moments of weakness and surrender.

“You should be able to turn back into a human at will,” I explained to her. “The opportunity to train with your new powers will come, but for now, you will have to hid–”

Her talons closed on my throat before I could finish my sentence.

Necahual slammed me against a wall with such strength that a few of the decorations fell off their perches. She pressed herself against me and pushed her lips onto mine with desire and bottomless hunger.

Her boldness surprised me. We mostly coupled at my initiative; Necahual made herself available, but I usually had to make the first move. She fully took the lead this time, folding her wings around my neck and devouring my face with lust. She soon whispered words I’d hardly ever heard say in my ear.

“Thank you,” she whispered with sincere gratitude. “Thank you.”

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My blood stirred with desire, and my arms coiled around her waist. I used the Doll to remove my clothes without breaking our embrace, then grabbed her ass and lifted her up. She grinded against me as I penetrated her, her talons closing on my back.

Our lovemaking was wild, primal, and savage. I pounded her against a wall, any thoughts of asking her to return to her human form forgotten. The danger of discovery and Zyanya’s sleeping snorts near us only heightened the experience. Necahual welcomed me into herself with an unmatched passion that surpassed everything the likes of Chindi could come up with.

It hardly took a thrust for our Teyolias to connect and for me to sense that presence between us: a tiny unborn fire gestating in the shadow of our own flames, brighter than the one I’d sensed inside Chikal.

I froze mid-thrust in realization, my lips breaking a kiss just long enough to whisper three small words.

“You are pregnant,” I said, gasping and panting.

Necahual caught her breath, then nodded sharply. “Since the house.”

I detected no self-hatred or resentment in her expression, as I would have expected from her; only a twisted and inexplicable kind of pride that it happened on her terms rather than anybody else’s.

I knew we had planned for this outcome for a while, but it took a bit for its reality to hit me with all of its weight.

Necahual was pregnant with my child.

I’d sired a child on my mother-in-law at long last, something which she wouldn’t allow Guatemoc to do. We had violated the last taboo that stood between us.

The realization filled me with such peerless bliss. She was mine now, in body and soul. I had claimed her both within and without, marking her flesh in its innermost refuge and claiming her life for myself. She would give birth to my sorcerous brood and follow me into death’s cold embrace when King Mictlantecuhtli finally claimed me for the final time.

I had avenged myself of years of torment. She had given in to me, putting a slave collar on her own neck and letting me hold the leash. The thrill of victory washed away my earlier distaste and the humiliation of Iztacoatl’s previous taunts. I felt my confidence restored and renewed.

For a brief instant, I was the happiest man in the world.

“If you give me a daughter, I will call her Ichtaca,” I taunted her, twisting the knife. “Itzili, if it’s a son.”

Her smile had teeth. “How about I name our daughter Iztacoatl instead?”

I should have known better than to challenge Necahual to a contest of cruelty. She always bit harder than she took. It excited me, that thin frontier between mutual loathing, violent lust, and twisted affection.

“You are mine,” I whispered as my arms coiled around her back, claiming her, owning her. “Your soul and body are mine. You are all mine. I own you.”

“Do you?” She kissed me, biting my lip to draw my burning blood. “Who comes crawling to me whenever a vampire wounds his poor heart? Who needs me to soothe their pride? Who requires the comfort of my bosom to feel strong?”

Necahual licked my blood while her talons marked their territory on my back.

“Who owns whom, Iztac?”

I remembered the twin terrors that tormented me in the Razor House; how the Lord of Control relinquished power the moment its abused slave spoke for itself. When a master required tormenting their servant to feel powerful, were they truly in control of themselves? Or simply a slave to their own desires and others’ perceptions?

Necahual had a point. I was addicted to her. I needed her as much as she needed me, like poison required water in which to hide. I didn’t think I would have been able to keep calm should she have denied me her embrace. She held power over me with strings subtler than any spell.

I would never let her leave me. I would kill any man who dared to touch her. I would sire witches and demons on her until we started a whole dynasty. She would love me, and hate me, and counsel me, and comfort me. That was the price I exacted from her.

In return, Necahual would bask in my power and rule at my side as my favorite. She would fly over the mundane humanity she used to be part of and enjoy youth eternal fueled by sorcery. She would no longer linger in my mother’s shadow. At long last, I would allow her to stand proud at my side as my most trusted advisor.

My seed built up in my loins. Necahual was already full, but she accepted my gift all the same. The union of our souls came quicker now that they were bound by the chains of our contract.

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As our minds melded together, demon and witch cavorting over a sleeping fool, I showed her my plan for Eztli. I gave her the information she required, not with words and whispers, but pictures and thoughts.

When the white flash passed and empty serenity followed it, I still held Necahual pressed against the wall. Her hands had changed back into fingers and her eyes had returned to normal. Her feathers were unseen, but not gone; she had retracted them into herself, hiding her newfound inhumanity the same way I kept my own powers beneath notice. Her posture had strengthened though, and she held her head higher than before. Her heart swelled with the secret pride of a witch. She would masquerade as the bitter woman she used to be until the moment to strike came.

A time that would come soon enough.

“We have little time,” I said as I relinquished my hold on her legs and allowed her to stand on her own two feet once more. “Can you convince Eztli to go along with it?”

“Yes,” Necahual replied with confidence. “I already have an idea how.”

“Good. She will know when the moment comes.” I had my ways of informing Eztli of the coming ritual, even if I didn’t stand in her presence. “All I need from her is a cloudless mind free of doubts.”

Necahual responded with a small nod. That was reassurance enough for her. She would do as I asked, end of the story.

We lay in the bed afterward, right next to the sleeping Zyanya. Necahual hardly spared her a glance. “Will you wake her up?”

“Soon,” I replied. “I will say she fainted at my touch, then claim her for appearance’s sake.”

Necahual scoffed. “What a waste.”

My hands caressed her belly. Once she would have recoiled in disgust at my touch, yet she did no such thing. Her hands joined mine and encouraged them to press against her skin; to celebrate the fruit of our twisted union.

Our child was desired by both sides.

“Are you happy now?” I asked her softly.

“Almost,” Necahual replied. “I will not raise her in a prison.”

“Her?”

“Your soothsayer believes it will be a daughter.” She caressed my hair almost lovingly, the way Zyanya would have with Tlaxcala had they shared any affection for one another. “Mother of witches, remember?”

I smiled. “That implies I will sire more than one.”

Necahual answered me with a smile full of condescension. “If you are man enough to keep up, maybe.”

She knew how to challenge me. I kissed her again, basking in the taste of her blood on her lips. A demon and a witch made for a fine pairing, stronger than a gnarled tree.

“What happened with Nenetl?” Necahual asked me, her eyebrows furrowing upon sensing the tension racing down my spine. “I am not blind. You keep avoiding her gaze while you could hardly look away from her a few nights ago.”

I had no wish to speak of the matter, for the wound remained sore. However, Necahual had been my truest confidant for a while now and was wiser than expected. Perhaps I ought to seek her counsel.

“She… she may be my sister,” I confessed. Merely saying the word disgusted me. “Nenetl.”

Necahual pondered my words for a very long while. “I see.”

“I see?” Her subdued reaction disturbed me. “I might have committed incest.”

Necahual snorted in disdain. “That taboo hardly stopped you when you first crawled into my bed and that of my daughter.”

“That’s not… that’s not the same.” My jaw clenched. “You think it is possible?”

“Your mother wouldn’t think twice about cheating on your father,” Necahual replied with bitter hatred. Her assumption was incorrect, but her opinion of Ichtaca might not be too off the mark. “The Nightlords have done worse too. Still, can you confirm it?”

“Not yet, but the thought won’t leave my mind.” I hoped this would be one of Iztacoatl’s ploys meant to disturb me and nothing more. If not… “Nenetl was the one relationship the Nightlords hadn’t tainted yet. I thought I had something pure going on with her. Now I feel sick whenever I look at her. The love we shared has been turned into a twisted experiment.”

“It might have been,” Necahual replied. She studied me for a while, her sympathy for my situation tampered with cold calculation. “You ought to confirm the information first, then discuss it with Nenetl. You should at least inform her of your reasons for ending your relationship. Otherwise, your silence will wound her.”

“What am I supposed to tell her if this proves true?” I replied in annoyance. “‘I am your brother and we slept together?’”

“It will be better than guilty avoidances and lies,” Necahual replied bluntly. “Have you such little faith in her?”

I frowned. “This is not about faith. The truth will devastate her.”

“She is stronger than you think, and wiser than you give her credit for. She may react badly, or she may not. If you truly love her, then you will tell her the truth and help her move on.” Necahual scoffed. “Or are you so craven that you would rather stay silent and let her suffer?”

My hand moved up her neckline and closer to her throat. “You tempt me, witch.”

Necahual remained utterly unimpressed. “If you want a shoulder on which to cry on, Iztac, then go find someone else. I sold you my soul, not my tongue.”

And I loved her for it.