Obsidian Butterfly - Laurell K. Hamilton [95]
César had made it to the top of the temple. The four jaguar men grabbed him, by wrist and ankle, lifting him over their heads, steadying his body with their hands. They paced the stage with him held above their heads, showing him to the four corners of the stage, even the one that faced away from the audience. Then they brought him to the small round stone and laid his body across it, so that his head and shoulders leaned back, and the lowest part of his chest and upper stomach were curved over the stone.
I was on my feet before I saw the obsidian blade in the priest’s hand. Edward grabbed my arm. “Look to your left,” he said.
I glanced and found two of the jaguar men waiting. If I made a run for the stage, I bet they’d try and stop me. César had said that he’d come for the earrings after the performance. Which implied he’d be alive to do it. He’d warned me not to interfere. But dammit, they were going to cut him up. I knew that now. What I didn’t know, was how badly they were going to cut him up.
Dallas had gotten up from her seat and was at my other arm, whispering, “It’s part of the show. César plays sacrifice twice a month. Not always this exact sacrifice, but it’s part of his job.” She spoke low and soothingly like you talked to a crazy person on a ledge. I let her and Edward ease me back into my seat. I was gripping the jade earrings so hard the edges dug into my hands.
Dallas knelt beside me, keeping a hand on my arm, but she watched the stage. The jaguar men held him, and you could see their grip tighten, see them take in their collective breaths. César’s face showed nothing, not fear, not anticipation, just waiting for it.
The priest drove the blade into the flesh just below the ribs. César’s body jerked in reaction, but he didn’t cry out. The blade tore across him, digging into the meat, widening the hole. His body danced with the wound, but he never made a sound. Blood poured across César’s pale skin, bright and almost unreal under the lights. The priest reached his hand into the wound nearly up to his elbow, and César cried out.
I grabbed Dallas’s arm. “He can’t survive without his heart, not even a shapeshifter can survive that.”
“They won’t take his heart, I swear it.” She stroked my hand where it gripped her like you’d soothe a nervous dog.
I leaned in close to her, and whispered, “If they take his heart when I could have stopped it, I’ll have your heart on a knife before I leave New Mexico. You still willing to swear?”
Her eyes had gone wide. I think she was holding her breath, but she nodded. “I swear it.”
The funny thing was that she believed the threat instantly. Most people you tell them you’re going to cut their heart out and they won’t believe you. People believe you’ll kill them, but get too graphic and they take it like a joke or an exaggeration. Professor Dallas believed me. You could see it in her face. Most college professors wouldn’t have. Made me wonder about Dallas more than I already did.
The priest’s voice came into the utter silence that had filled the room. “I hold his heart in my hand. In the long gone days we would have torn it from his chest, but those days are gone,” and you heard, felt the regret in his words. “We worship as we can, not as we would.” He slid his hand out slowly, and I was close enough to hear the wet, fleshy sound as his hand pulled out of the wound.
He raised a hand covered in blood above his head, and the audience cheered.
They cheered. They fucking cheered.
The jaguar men lifted César from the altar and tossed him down the steps. He tumbled bonelessly, coming to rest on the floor directly in front of the steps. He lay on his back, gasping, fighting to breathe and I wondered if the priest had damaged