Home > The Shadow Crosser(33)

The Shadow Crosser(33)
Author: J.C. Cervantes

A terrifying idea bloomed in my head. “Are they planning to come back here to finish the job? Kill all the lights?”

“‘Killing the lights,’ as you put it, wouldn’t kill the gods,” Itzamna said. “They want in for another reason.”

“We have to help the gods!” Ren cried.

“Including me,” Itzamna moaned.

“We can call on the giants and other sobrenaturals,” I said, trying to remain cool-headed.

“I tried that,” Itzamna said. “But no one has answered. It’s as if they’re ignoring me. Or maybe I’m just not strong enough.” His eyes flicked to the Tree.

Brooks gasped. “My sister would never ignore…They must be in danger, too.”

“This is seriously messed up.” Hondo’s hands curled into tight fists.

My brain was definitely going to implode. “Or maybe no one heard Itzamna’s calls,” I argued. “We have to stay calm—”

“And deal only in facts,” Ren said, turning to the god. “You can see everything from the top of your Tree. So where are the gods?”

“Where are Zotz and Ixkik’?” I pressed.

“What are they going to do next?” Alana asked.

Brooks added, “And who’s the rotten sleep god they resurrected?”

Adrik finished with “How do you wake a sleeping god?”

“Such good questions.” Itzamna massaged his temples. “Yes, I can see all of creation from the top of my Tree, but in case you haven’t noticed, the Tree is not fully charged. Do you get my meaning?”

“The Tree isn’t a cell phone.” Hondo’s voice was spiked with real fear. I hated the sound of it.

Itzamna pointed at my uncle. “Great analogy. Give this guy a prize!”

“This isn’t a game,” Brooks said, drawing her wings closer.

“Ah, but in a way, it is.” Itzamna hiked his bushy brows. “All stories are games of great proportion. And, unfortunately for us, Zotz and Ixkik’ are winning.” He took a few more steps. “You must think like them. Be like them.”

“We will never be like them,” I ground out.

Rosie whined and nudged my shoulder with her nose. I patted her, but she kept at it.

Itzamna drew closer. “There isn’t a lot of space between the hero and the villain,” he said. “The villain thinks he or she is the hero of their own tale.”

The thought of Zotz and Ixkik’ and the wicked hero twins being cast as heroes made me sick.

“But you’re a god,” Adrik said. “Why can’t you think like them?”

“Must I keep repeating myself?” Itzamna said with a pained expression, like the words themselves were daggers slicing open his heart. “I…I grow weaker with each passing moment. I need the gods’ power to sustain my own. Don’t you see? Zotz and Ixkik’ have thought of everything. Soon, they will storm Xib’alb’a, and you are merely half gods. You cannot defeat them.”

“Tell us how to fix this!” I growled.

Rosie’s eyes erupted in red flames.

Wringing his hands, Itzamna said, “If they do have this so-called entry stone, then they have access to everywhere.” He rubbed his forehead. “I can use my last reserve of magic to protect the Tree for a while. But it will only buy you two or three days at most.” He blew out a long breath. “And even if you somehow succeeded in locating the gods,” he added, “you would not have sufficient power to wake them.”

I took a breath and leaned against Rosie, feeling her heart thudding beneath her thick chest. Her soft brown eyes looked up at me, filled with a message of some kind.

“What is it, girl?”

In answer, she reared on her hind legs, growled angrily, and bolted.

 

 

“Rosie!” I ran out of the library after her, leaving the others behind.

I followed the hot tug in my gut that led me deep into the jungle, down a winding path. Above me, I heard scuttling sounds followed by howls of laughter. I stopped and looked up.

Three monkeys were perched on a branch, their golden eyes glaring down at me. The center one smiled, smacking its lips.

“Where did the dog go?”

The monkeys stood on their hind legs, gnashing their teeth angrily. Then, as if it felt bad for me, one of the critters pointed to the right. I followed its hairy little finger to a dead end. There was no path, only a thick wall of branches and vines.

Rosie’s roar echoed from the other side. With Fuego, I began slashing through the foliage. Sharp branches cut my face and arms. I finally made my way through to a small clearing where Rosie was pacing while blowing little bursts of smoke from her nose. When she saw me, her eyes blazed and she raced ahead.

Where are you taking me? I wondered as I trailed her as closely as I could.

After a few more minutes, we came to what could only be described as an orange glass house with a thatched roof. It was two levels, stacked one on top of the other with sharp angles that jutted out.

The surrounding trees and vines arched protectively over the place, providing shade from the sun.

“Why did you bring me to a Lego house in the middle of the jungle?” I asked.

Rosie nudged my back with her head, urging me toward the entrance. “What is your deal? You’re the one who led us here,” I argued. “And you want me to go first?”

She gave a quick nod.

“Fine,” I muttered. “Big chicken.”

There was no door to knock on—just an open entrance. “Hello?” I said.

Rosie whined as I stepped inside. The room was hot with thick, humid air that burned my nose and pressed in on me from all sides. There were rows and rows of tables where leafy green plants sprouted from pots. Pink-and-yellow-and-purple-flowering vines spilled over their containers’ edges, dropping to the dirt floor.

“Do not step on the vines!” came a man’s voice.

My eyes darted around and I saw the top of a bald head peek out from behind some plants. It headed my way.

I stepped back, looking over my shoulder for the exit, just in case. The entrance I’d come in was gone—as in no más!—replaced by another orange glass wall.

A man about the size of yesterday’s air spirit rounded the table and came into full view. He had a dirty handkerchief in one hand and a trowel in the other. His eyes were the deepest brown I’d ever seen, and his skin was the color of wet sand. Wiping his tool on pants that for sure looked like they were made out of dried grass, he asked, “Who are you? What do you want? Didn’t you see the No Trespassing signs?”

“Uh—no,” I said, side-glaring at Rosie. No chicken necks for her for a year!

The little dude harrumphed. “Did Aapo send you?”

“Aapo?”

“Don’t act all innocent,” he said. “You look like the kind of spy my sister might hire—tall, young, and awkward. Well, guess what? Tell her she can’t have it.” He shook his head and said, more to himself than to me, “No, that won’t do. I need to send a powerful message to her, to get through her thick skull.” He flicked his eyes to mine. “I could take one of your fingers, send it to her in a box. She hates extremities.”

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