Fuck. I run to the altar, neither god paying attention to me. They’re too caught up in whatever they’re fighting about. It’s Tabitha on the altar, unconscious but still breathing. The cuff is still around her wrist. She’s wearing a simple, red robe open to expose her sternum. It couldn’t be more obvious what’s happening if she had a big, red X painted on her chest.
She’s held to the altar at her upper arms and calves by thick, metal straps. I pull at them, but they don’t budge. I’ve got nothing to pry them open with, either, not that I think anything would work. At that thought Mictlantecuhtli’s power perks up. It could do it. It could cleave through these straps like they’re paper.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Mictlantecuhtli says. They’ve stopped their bickering and they’re both looking at me. “But it’s a bad idea. You do that and you’re not coming back from it.”
He’s right. It would be the end of me. I have two fingers left, and even those are starting to feel a little numb. I’m surprised just thinking about the power doesn’t tip me over the edge.
Mictlantecuhtli looks more human than he did downstairs. Long, black hair falls over his shoulders. His face is more fleshed out, but not enough to hide the skull beneath. His cheekbones are a little too sharp, his lips a little too thin.
“Why don’t you just stab him?” I yell. The wind has picked up and I’m having trouble hearing myself over it. “You’ve got the knife. You’ll get what you want. You’ll get what you want for me. He dies, I go back to normal, and we rule here together. That is what you want, isn’t it? You’ve told me that plenty of times.”
Before she can say anything I turn to Mictlantecuhtli. “Or you? Are you saying you’re so weak you can’t get the blade away from her? You can’t wrestle it away? Hell, you don’t even have to do that. Just get her wrist bent the right way and shove. Inertia does the rest. What are you two waiting for?”
“You,” Santa Muerte says. “We’re waiting for you.”
“We can’t kill each other,” Mictlantecuhtli says. “Isn’t that obvious? Otherwise don’t you think we’d have done that a long time ago?”
“You need to choose, Eric,” Santa Muerte says. “This is as much your destiny as it is ours. You need to be the one to choose which god dies.”
“Am I executioner?” I say. I nod toward the blood red altar where who knows how many hearts have been torn from ecstatic breasts. “Or priest?”
“You can call it whatever you like,” Mictlantecuhtli says. “But the fact remains that you need to kill one of us.”
“How about both of you?” I say. “I like that plan better.”
Mictlantecuhtli looks at Santa Muerte and sneers. “I told you,” he says.
“Told you what?” I say.
“He believes that if I gave you the knife that you would try to kill us both,” Santa Muerte says. “He thinks that I chose my consort, his replacement, poorly.”
“She doesn’t realize just how pissed off you are,” Mictlantecuhtli says. “But I’ve seen it up close and personal.”
“So I am reconsidering,” Santa Muerte says. “As I am reconsidering my avatar. I will kill her and sever my connection. And then I will decide if I’m going to kill you or simply let Mictlantecuhtli’s fate be yours.”
“For the record,” Mictlantecuhtli says, “I am not a big fan of this plan.”
“You’re not killing her,” I say. “You’re going to give me the knife, and you’re going to cut Tabitha loose. And then we’ll talk.”
Santa Muerte turns the knife over in her hands. “And what will you do if I don’t?”
I can’t use my magic, I can’t cast any spells. Bullets will do fuck-all and a straight razor isn’t going to be any better. At this point I can safely say harsh language isn’t going to make any difference.
But I do have something. Quetzalcoatl’s Zippo is in my hand. I flip it open and thumb the wheel. It casts an intense, white light, throwing long shadows across the roof.
“I’ll burn this place to the fucking ground and all of us along with it.”
“I told you he was angry,” Mictlantecuhtli says.
“What is that?” Santa Muerte says. She peers at it, recognition and panic slowly dawning on her face. “Where did you get that?”
“The important question is who did I get it from. And I think you already know the answer.”
“The fire of Xiuhtecuhtli. I haven’t seen that in a long time,” Mictlantecuhtli says. “Not since Quetzalcoatl stole it from him. And back then it was just a pine torch. How is the old boy these days?”
“About the same as both of you. Old, used up, not worth a good goddamn. But he does hold a grudge like nobody I’ve ever met. I agreed to burn Mictlan down for him. I’m starting to think it’s not a bad idea.”
“Do not dare,” Santa Muerte says. She steps forward and I bend down to hold the flame inches from the roof, rain spattering on it, but never touching the flame. She freezes.