Chapter Ten: Relics of the Maya

Illusion finally shattered, and the garden remained oppressive and cold. The woman in the painting stood before the cottage door, the ancient wooden wall still stained with blood-red characters.

Neither Lamia nor I knew any “witchcraft,” so I could only ask, “Did Hecate kill Sir Henry?”

Lamia sighed, “It seems so. Yet even if she did, she hasn’t escaped the statue’s control.”

We were amateurs, and such guesses were likely futile, but one thing was certain: Hecate wanted us to enter this house.

I approached the wooden door, noticing it was covered by a thin layer of shadow, which explained its eerie blue hue. Facing Lamia, I said, “My dear, allow me to show you a little of my skill.”

She smiled and nodded. “I’ll be watching.”

My shadow grasped the doorknob, twisted, and pushed inward. Something blocked the door, allowing only a narrow crack to open. A chill ran through me. “There’s someone inside!” The resistance felt nothing like furniture; it was as if someone behind the door was pushing outward.

Lamia asked, “Is it Henry Petz?”

I didn’t know, but it was most likely him.

Lamia raised her gun, aiming carefully, while I threw my weight against the door. With a loud bang, it slammed shut again.

Suddenly, Lamia held a round object in her hand, smiling. “Now it’s my turn, darling.”

I was utterly shocked—a hand grenade! I exclaimed, “Are you sure?”

Lamia replied, “I’m not sure it’ll work, but I’m sure it must be done.”

Later, I learned this grenade was called an Aether Grenade. Its principle was similar to that of the Divine Sword Bullets; it contained a substance known as aether, which was highly effective against supernatural monsters, and, of course, could also maim humans.

“Back away!” Lamia commanded. She pulled the pin and tossed the grenade. It rolled to the door and exploded violently, shattering the door and spreading pale blue light. A harsh roar echoed from within.

“How much does one of those grenades cost?” I asked.

“Not cheap,” Lamia replied.

“We should bill Michael for expenses, or we’ll be out of luck,” I said.

Lamia frowned. “Now isn’t the time for that.”

Suddenly, with a whoosh, a heavy black coffin hurtled toward Lamia. She smashed it in half with a single punch. Next, a ragged, nearly bald figure burst from the doorway. The muscles in his face were deeply sunken, his body emaciated like a branch, yet from his features I could still discern it was Henry. His mouth was full of sharp teeth, as if he’d suffered from chronic malnutrition.

It was clear: mishandling a midlife crisis, unfilial children—such a fate awaited many in old age, as miserable as Henry, struggling even to eat.

Henry lunged at Lamia first. She fired, piercing his throat. I shouted, “Don’t use the Divine Sword Bullets, or we’ll suffer a huge loss!”

Lamia yelled back, “Stop talking and finish him off quickly!”

---

I was well aware of my own marksmanship, so I drew my dagger and flanked him from behind.

Henry’s wound no longer bled, yet his movements remained unnaturally agile. Even if he wasn’t a vampire—though I believed vampires were merely rabid patients—he was close enough. Before Lamia could shoot again, he rolled and hid behind a tree.

Lamia and I exchanged glances, circling to close in on the tree where he hid. If he so much as exposed an inch, Lamia would not miss.

But he was no longer there.

I was startled. Looking back, Henry emerged from behind another tree behind us, as if he were a newly sprouted branch. I cried out, “He’s behind us!” He chanted a spell at Lamia, and instantly a thicket of brambles grew, binding her tightly.

Lamia struggled, snapping a few brambles. “I’m fine! Focus on him!”

Henry leapt from the tree, and I dodged back, avoiding his attack. I noticed his hands appeared to be encased in wooden gloves, his fingers tipped with sharp wooden spikes—a formidable weapon. Henry panted heavily, his skeletal body twitching now and then; it seemed that casting such magic drained him considerably, and he was desperate to drink blood.

I frantically searched for a potion, but as I reached into my pocket, I cursed inwardly—I’d exhausted my supplies, and had nothing left.

Henry lunged at me, wooden claws aimed for my head. I ducked, but before I could counterattack, he pressed down with both claws, his assault relentless.

I blocked with my left hand, retreating, when suddenly he headbutted me. It was like being struck by a stone; dizziness overwhelmed me, and I lost all sense of where I was.

Lamia shouted, “Fishbone! Don’t go head-to-head with him!”

Her words brought me back to myself—I rallied. Henry’s claws nearly touched my heart; I immediately arched backwards, his claws leaving bloody gashes across my chest. Kneeling, I slid back several meters, widening the distance.

I still remembered Orchid’s teachings from Waterless Village. I had once been second only to Mielse in swordsmanship. Although years of scavenging and assassination had dulled my skill in direct combat, my childhood training had become instinct. I shouldn’t be so weak, even if my enemy was a blood-sucking fiend. I shouldn’t be so pathetic.

Lamia was beside me; her safety was at stake. I couldn’t afford to lose.

I summoned all my will. I noticed my shadow was with me, and I felt my arm fill with strength. Blood surged through my heart, making it pound rapidly. In an instant, I was ready. I discarded my dagger, and a fishbone spear grew from my left palm.

Henry shrieked and charged. I held my breath, thrusting the spear, my will shaping the shadow. A sharp black wind flashed past—Henry stopped midway, a gaping wound in his heart. He looked at me in disbelief, then collapsed in the mud. His skin cracked and quickly turned to dust.

This was Orchid’s so-called blade of will. At last, I had mastered the elusive Stonespruce.

I watched the fishbone spear recede into my hand, and the sight left me covered in goosebumps. Using my dagger, I cut away the brambles binding Lamia, seeing her arms covered in scratches. My heart ached—I only wished to take her back for proper care.

Lamia said, “These are only surface wounds. Your chest injury is much worse.” She took out medical syringes, and we each injected ourselves.

At that moment, we saw Hecate walking toward the remains of Sir Henry’s ashes. She scooped some up, buried her face in them, as if weeping.

I feared she might attack us, but Lamia shook her head. “I don’t think she will.”

After a while, Hecate lifted her head, life returning to her face. She spoke, her voice ethereal and sorrowful.

“I attacked my father, but he escaped and sealed himself in the cottage. I used magic to trap him, but he cursed me in return, binding me as a slave to the Three Sisters of Ixis forever. We were thus mutually restrained, trapped here, unable to leave.”

Lamia asked, “Then all the deaths over these years...”

Hecate said, “Ixis used me to cast evil spells, summoning phantoms from other worlds and luring the villagers to suicide. Ixis is the goddess of suicide; originally, she and her sisters were three Mayan priestesses. They killed themselves before the statue and were reborn, gaining evil powers.”

---

As she spoke, she aged rapidly. She was a pitiable young woman. Lamia thought perhaps letting her drink blood might save her, but Hecate stopped her with a look.

She said, “The soul of one of the Three Sisters of Ixis still dwells in the statue. Be careful—you must find a way to exorcise it, or destroy the statue. I am released now. Thank you.”

I asked, “Three sisters? Are there two more statues like that?”

Hecate nodded, unable to speak further. The lives she had stolen over the years were returned in that instant. Her body decayed swiftly, turning to ashes, and she remained among the flowers beside her father.

Lamia held my hand and knelt before their remnants, praying for them.

I sighed, “In the future, when I turn forty, you must treat me well, lest I end up as miserable as Henry.”

Lamia asked in surprise, “What kind of talk is that? Wasn’t Hecate miserable too? Wasn’t all this Henry’s fault?”

Ah, women—their nature seems to make men bear all the blame. But wise as I am, I knew better than to argue.

The furniture in the cottage was all terribly worn. Henry must have slept in the coffin for a century. Thinking of Orchid, my heart grew heavier, almost suffocating.

I discovered a photograph of part of a map, along with several other photos—apparently from an exhibition hall. At the center of a display case was another statue, quite different from Michael’s.

I exclaimed, “It’s a clue to another statue! What price do you think Michael will offer?”

Lamia chided, “Why is your mind always filled with petty profits? He’s a marquis—you should have him owe you a favor, not money.”

She had never endured days of poverty, though money was useless in the wilds.

The photos were labeled with the location: the San Francisco Museum of Art, which likely wasn’t far from here. There was also an old map of the San Francisco area, which might come in handy.

We packed up all the relevant clues and spent considerable effort finding the exit. When we emerged from the meadow, we stood before the painting.

The painting itself was an artifact; we worried it might be destroyed once we left the house. After much discussion, we found no solution. I said, “This painting is cursed. As the saying goes, ‘evil thrives for a thousand years’—I doubt it’s so fragile.”

We decided to risk it and took the painting down. As I opened the door, anxiety gnawed at me. Just as I cracked it open, I saw Jean Valen leading several professionals outside.

They greeted us with cries of delight, rushing forward. When they saw the painting wrapped in curtains, they were utterly shocked, shouting, “Stop!”

Jean Valen bellowed, “Don’t move! You two idiots! Get back inside—let us handle this!”

We had no choice but to return. Jean Valen and his team, apparently oblivious to the deaths inside, strode in without hesitation. Soon, I saw them unpacking layer upon layer of canvas, setting up all sorts of instruments, and busily working around the painting.

Lamia sighed, “The world of the wealthy—we don’t understand.”

I replied, “The world of power and privilege—we understand even less.”