Malleable

He pulled her close while the smoke, while his breath, still swirled in her lungs. One hand crept up along her spine. Her body did shiver then, one violent shudder as it realized he was reaching toward her nape, knowing when he once again touched her there, when she felt his fingers massage along the base of her skull once more, all would be lost. All would be found. Forever.

"Please." She shouldn't have been able to speak at all. Any other word was impossible. He had conjured up an earlier time and her deepest need responded.

His eyes went wide. Surprised. Impressed. She had to be his.

The hand slid all the way up, all pretext, all teasing leisure gone. Straight up,her spine to the spot it was meant to find.

His impossibly deep eyes went wider yet. The hand vanished from her neck, appeared between them as he stared at it in disbelief.

A single, brilliant drop of blood formed on one finger, dropped to floor. A tiny round red splat on the old hardwood. Her eyes followed it down, watched it shimmer on the wood. A second landed as she watched, expanding the small red puddle, the sound loud and wet.

"No." The barest whisper, weak denial of what he saw and felt.

The third drop landed. Dark as moonless night. Black blood swirling amongst the red.

"No!" The brujo -- Tony -- bellowed.

She felt the impact of his shove, almost flew back against the plaster wall. The impact knocked the breath out of her, his and hers. She sank to the floor, dazed, but free.

Tony Garcia stared at his finger, gripping it with his other hand. He didn't seem so imposing now. Another black drop, then another. They became a steady thick trickle, feeding the growing, darkening puddle.

The trickle became a stream. The puddle spread, engulfing his feet. The stream widened, the sound a wet spray.

His eyes were still bright, still deep, but pained when he looked up at her. He looked smaller, frightened. "What have you done?"

His knees buckled. He fell forward onto his elbows, finger still gripped in his hand, both slick and dark now. His voice pitched higher, frantic. "Why, Tosha? Why?"

The black pool soaked him, drew him down into his own dark blood. His head dropped, one cheek submerging before it found the wooden floor. His eyes were finally dull, but he still managed to force out his last, wet words. "We were so close."

Still dizzy from the impact, Tosha forced herself to her feet, using the cracked wall behind her for support. Her fingers traced back along the crude necklace from the amulet at her throat to the knot in the back. Carefully, she untied the knot she had used after it had first slipped off.

It came free, dropped into her hand. She stared at the golden arrowhead she had bound into the knot, directly opposite her throat. She dully wondered if that sensitive spot along the base of her skull where the point had waited would ever be an erogenous zone again. The gold shined bright, no sign of blood or stain, still pure.

She didn't know how long she stared at it before the sound of a thin pitiful crying registered. Longer still before she realized it wasn't her own.

Sara sobbed on the table, face buried in her hands, bare legs pulled up in a tight, fetal ball.

Coco was on the floor, twitching slightly. Cheryl looked much the same, only mumbling as Chief Burr pushed weakly free of her arms, stumbling to his feet.

Tosha watched him drag a blanket off the back of the couch.

"It's alright now, child." He managed as he covered the crying girl. "Everything's alright."

Was it all right? Would it ever be? Tosha doubted it, but still felt relieved when she saw Lucinda's chest falling and rising with even, slow breaths, saw the strong woman stir, reach a hand to her head with a pained groan.

Epilogue

The tiny hammer struck twice, two quick, precise blows on the fine chisel, cutting a neat line through the malleable precious metal. The chisel repositioned, the small anvil rang out with two more blows. The single piece of purest found-nugget gold, the precious arrowhead that had stopped two malevolent brujos generations apart, was now chopped into three rough slivers.

Tosha glanced up, out the well-insulated second story window, her lips mouthing silent words, over and over.

It had taken several months of patience and quiet negotiation, but she had finally moved into this cozy apartment above a garage. She wouldn't be able to afford this location in the Avenues for long, but she wouldn't need to.

Her view looked over a white-washed privacy fence, into the neighbor's shady, manicured backyard. Two women, one barely out of her youth, the other at the peak of her powerful maturity, rode the sways of twin spring-back chairs under the branches of an ancient live oak. Both were obviously, blissfully pregnant.

Cheryl Mueller appeared, carrying a sterling silver tray complete with tea pot and cups and even saucers. It was a glorious autumn day for this late in October, warm enough to sit outside, cool enough to wear a light sweater. No sign of rain yet, though forecasters were watching a large, chaotic storm system due to arrive on or near Halloween. Cheryl's own pregnancy showed as clearly as the seated pair's. She poured three cups, served Lucinda and Coco before seating herself in the third chair, supporting her growing belly with a hand underneath.

Three bellies swollen with child, all becoming evident within days of each other. Three women who still seemed to glow with a certain indescribable radiance, a glow attributed by most in town to their current unexpected state.

Tosha put down the chisel, switched to a different petite hammer, lips still moving in silence. Practiced hands shaped the first sliver of gold into a familiar shape with a staccato of sure blows: a new arrowhead, much smaller, formed from only a third of the original nugget. She set it aside and began working over the second sliver without the slightest pause.

Soon, all three were complete, small and almost delicate, but bright, sharp and deadly. Each rested beside its own long slender shaft of carefully straightened wood with feathers already fletching one end. She had three lengths of natural sinew soaking in a jar, ready for the wrapping, to bind gold to wood, shrinking tighter as it dried.

This time the words were a barely audible whisper, for no one's ears but her own.

"Trust the arrow. Trust yourself."

Her voice grew fierce, ceasing to be wholly her own. "You are the bow, Tosha. You wield the cleansing gold, the flashing lightning in the heart of the gathering storm."