Chapter Two

The old van rumbled to a stop in front of a faded, red sign declaring the entrance to the Inca Trail, the path that would lead to the ancient ruins of Machu Picchu. The trek would take four days of hiking, possibly longer, since it was wet season and already the sky had opened up, emptying its stores of water onto the earth.

The trail was technically closed for maintenance during the month of February, but I would be taking it anyway. I hoped that the entire citadel would be emptier than usual, thanks to the consistent and torrential down-pours that plagued the southern hemisphere in the winter months.

I took my bag from the short Peruvian man that gave me a ride from Lima to here. An old friend of Angelica's, he had driven the thirty hours with me in a much-appreciated silence. I handed him a stack of nuevo sol, the local currency, and turned my back on him.

Walking forward, I could feel the faint call of magic in the distance. They were out there. Somewhere. I had no idea where, or how to find them, but I could feel the quiet calling of magic and the prickling of electricity igniting in my blood.

The path was well worn, and difficult to walk. The ancient stones were slippery in the relentless rain and the air thin with the altitude. But I was moved by the beauty of the Andes.

I had never seen a place so vividly and distinctly green. The deep tones of the trees blanketed the distant mountain sides in dark, flowing monochromatic colors that stood drastically against the stone of the towering mountains. And the lighter, softer greens of the mountain grass stood out starkly in the landscape as if the two greens were not the same color at all. God's brush strokes painted these mountains and valleys with the blessedness of variety, and I could feel my soul swell in awe of the creation surrounding me.

The sky had never felt so vast from this vantage point, even under the thick canopy that housed the trail I walked. The rivers and streams tumbled down the mountain side in blue ribbons of moving water, weaving in and out of the thick forests. The raw beauty of such an organic environment reminded me that I was only a small piece to the elegant and divine puzzle that was this life. As small as I was in the middle of this magnanimous mountainside, so was my life in the scope of eternity. Yet, somehow, I found that comforting.

I walked for hours, deep into the wilderness that paved the way to a once sacred escape for kings of old. Not long ago, I would have been terrified to take this journey alone. But now, there was no fear, and no anxiety, just purpose.

I was beyond childish fears of the dark or being alone. I had reached beyond the naive immaturity that keeps one afraid of the unknown. When my grandfather died, something broke inside of me. When they took my brother, the innocent part of my soul was murdered. When I watched my friends, my loved ones, even innocent people I didn't know, be loaded into armored cars as prisoners, all of my fears stood before me. And when my heart was ripped in two by the cruelty of betrayal, I gave up on emotions and feelings all together.

Alone on the trail, I tried to stay focused on revenge, on those loved ones I would vindicate, but my thoughts wondered unforgivably. I thought of him, that name I would not let myself speak aloud or even think. I thought of the man that had made me so blissfully happy and then betrayed those that I loved in the name of a selfish conquest.

The tears fell from my eyes, hot with the stabbing pain of the memory of his betrayal. He took everything from me, everything, and then left me a shattered, and broken ghost of myself.

I stopped to catch my breath at the top of a slippery, steep, stone stairway and grasped at the necklace I kept tucked underneath my rain jacket. The large, emerald stone of the engagement ring dug into my chest, a painful reminder of its existence, but one that I had come to treasure. As long as that ring stabbed at the place where my heart used to beat with desire for its giver, I would always be reminded of what he had done.

Now, alone on this trail, this journey to redemption, I would find others that were wronged by him and his bloodline. I would rebuild the army of the rebellion and we would fight against him and what he stood for. And we would not stop until there was nothing left of the Kendrick bloodline, until every last one of them was dead and buried, and until this people felt their blood thicken with vindication and their magic pulse with true immortality.

----

I was soaked to the bone when the ancient city for Incan kings appeared in the distance. The rain did not let up for even a moment, but even through the fog and haze of the downfall, the ruins, nestled against the steep cliffs, stood as a beacon for my weary legs. I hiked the trail for days, fighting against the mud, the slippery stone and the overwhelming fatigue.

A few times, I set up the small pop-up tent that fit easily into my backpack and slipped into the exhausted, dreamless sleep of the well worn. I hadn't truly been able to sleep since before.... since before the battle and always I woke in pools of cold sweat, screaming and lashing out. The nightmares kept the wild animals away and my magic kept my blood warm in the frozen temperatures once the sun was set.

Nightmares plagued my sleep since Avalon was taken. Every time my eyes closed the haunting torment of my subconscious attacked and I was always thankful just to be awake, gasping for air and clutching my throat, but awake.

At first, I wondered if maybe they were dream-walks, that I was being tortured in a subconscious sleep-world without my knowledge. But, always before, the dream-walk had been done consciously, and I was always capable of remembering the details when I awoke. These nightmares were fuzzy and disorienting and always, the particulars slipped away before I could put them together.

I breathed in relief, finally making my way past the modern structures set up as gift shops and ticket booths and to the doorway leading into the age-old city. It was very early in the morning and there was not a soul around. I stepped carefully through the stone passageway and onto the rough carefully shaped rock walkways that stood the test of time.

I was alone. At this height, and with the ancient city sprawling down the mountainside at my feet, I was never more alone. I walked the stone pathways and up the hundreds of stone steps to the highest point of the Incan citadel.

I stood next to a wide square stone that was taller than me and housed some kind of pyramid built onto the top of it and felt myself moved again. Machu Picchu was a religious experience, a moment in my life when my soul felt bigger than my body.

I stood with arms wide and chin tipped towards the sun rising in the east, over the pointed mountain peaks. I breathed the thin, crisp air finding a perspective bigger than me, bigger than my problems. I stayed like that for a while, drinking in the sacredness surrounding me.

The Shape-shifter colony was close, the magic grew steadily stronger the deeper into the mountains I hiked and now I could feel the direction it was located in, clearly. Pressed with urgency until this moment, I took in the height of an antiquated citadel that still stood, despite the modern world, as a gateway to the past. The hundreds of buildings made from chiseled stone, stairs worn with age and use, and religious structures for archaic gods all but forgotten, shined as sobering reminders that kingdoms rise and fall. I was just a small piece in the tides of change that dictated the currents of life. I had a part to play, but if I failed, someone else would rise. Injustice would not always be victor of this life.

The magic began to grow stronger, my blood igniting with the warning signs of an approaching magic. I dropped my arms, and opened my eyes, but I would not move. Whoever was out there would come to me.

A flash of black between two stone columns caught my attention. I witnessed wild animals along the hike here, but the soft coat of an alpaca was nothing quite like the sleek black fur of a wild panther. I tilted my head, waiting for the man to turn back human.

"I was coming to you," I called out before the man made himself known. "You didn't have to meet me."

"You're confident that you could have found us?" he asked in his rich Jamaican accent, smugly assured that I would not have been able to.

Silas stepped from behind the stone archway, leading up to the sacred high place. His skin was as dark as the fur of his panther shape. He wore the same brown work pants and forest green sweater I saw him in the night I first time we met.

"I guess, we will never know," I replied, not willing to humble myself, but not wanting to insult him either.

"So, you have come then. It has gone badly," Silas stated, and his words felt like a harsh accusation.

"Yes, but you knew that it would," I answered. We stood awkwardly far apart from each other. I expected a warm greeting and a man thankful that I came to him, but he eyed me suspiciously from a distance as if I were a threat.

"Still, I had hoped things would go.... differently." He looked passed me, at the surrounding mountains. His gray eyes clouded with sorrow, and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"So did I," I surprised myself with morbid sarcasm.

"The old man?" Silas asked, ignoring my poor attempt at dark humor.

"Dead," I declared simply and then cleared my throat quickly.

Silas took a step back as if I had slapped him before continuing, "And the boy?"

"Taken," I responded in the same way.

"And you?" His eyes flashed back to suspicion and then met me with new interest. "How is it that you are here?"

His question surprised me. "You are the one who told me to come," I lashed out angrily. How dare he give me cryptic instructions and then question my obedience.

"Did I tell you to take so many magics? You are radiating with stolen blood." His eyes turned from suspicion to hard distrust.

"Yes, I am. So, what?" I crossed my arms defensively. "Do you know what it was like when they came for my family? Were you there?" It was my turn to accuse, but I answered my own questions before he even opened his mouth to speak, "No, you were not. You were here, protected by your mountains and hidden from sight. My people were massacred. They were betrayed. My grandfather was murdered and my brother kidnapped. Do not question my stolen magics when I was fighting to save those that I loved most," my voice broke, and a hot tear fell free from the prison of my eye and slipped without permission down my rain soaked cheek.

"And so you take other's magic without remorse?" he asked, disbelieving.

"I have remorse!" I screamed at the old man, my voice echoing off the mountains in a chorus of anger.

"No," he accused quietly. "No, you are an evil thing now. Unrecognizable and evil," his voice dropped to a whisper, but I had no trouble hearing his accusations.

I knew that he was right.

"Will you help me?" I cut to the chase, unwilling to continue the hurtful small talk.

"No, we will not help you," he vowed simply and with finality. He turned from me; this conversation was over.

I watched him leave. I came here for nothing. He would not help me and I had nowhere else to go. Worst of all, I realized the last of my fears. I wasn't myself anymore. I wasn't a future queen, or the next Oracle. I had slipped into an evil version of myself, the greatness that was once been whispered with my name would stay a hushed murmur that floated away with the wind. I wasn't recognizable anymore; Silas had said it.

I was evil. There was no more good left.