Jimena walked alongside the many Wixárika who had decided to follow her back to Bahia Oscura. Her goddess had urged her to give these people a better chance at life. Even so, it saddened her that not all of them had chosen to return with her.

  She understood why.

  Many of the elders and several families had already settled into their lives. There was also the sacred land nearby—the place they had once been exiled from—and the traditions tied to it. Those customs were too deeply rooted in the Wixárika to simply abandon.

  Jimena didn’t need them to.

  Her goddess already had plans for the Wixárika people. Plans that would eventually require Marisol’s help.

  Jimena was aware of the risks and hardships these people had endured. She understood the faith they had placed in her, the hope and responsibility resting on her shoulders.

  That was why she had chosen to move slowly.

  Her goddess had already spoken with the Wixárika priests long before this journey began. Those who wished to start anew—or who desired to live closer to the reincarnation of their goddess—had been given time to prepare for the migration.

  Jimena was grateful for her goddess’s help with communication. It was something she still struggled with. When she had tried before, the voices of faith had come too quickly, too loudly, blending together until she could barely understand any of them.

  So for now, the goddess handled most of the communion with their worshippers.

  It was an immense relief for the newly ascended Jimena. She could focus on growing into her divinity while her goddess managed the endless stream of faith flowing from their connection.

  Jimena smiled when several children rushed past her toward Kauyumari.

  The great deer had become a source of comfort during the journey. The mothers often let their children rest a top him while they themselves took a moment to breathe. The men had been offered places to ride as well, but most preferred to walk.

  Only the elders occasionally accepted the chance to sit.

  Most of the adolescents—those around Jimena’s age and older—chose to walk beside her.

  They asked her questions about Bahia Oscura, curious about the place that would soon become their home. Others asked about her—about how she had become what she was now.

  Some even asked if she had any stories.

  Jimena wasn’t entirely sure what kind of stories they meant. So she simply told them about Marisol and Jaime—the two lesser gods who helped protect Bahia Oscura.

  She spoke about the small town they had built together, about the things they had managed to gather there. She praised the Wixárika for their weaving skills and asked them questions in return.

  What did they hope their new home would look like?

  What were they most excited to see?

  The answers came eagerly.

  Everyone seemed to be enjoying the first day of travel. Their rations were plentiful, and Jimena had no doubt they were capable hunters. The bows slung across their backs showed clear signs of frequent use.

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  Jimena laughed with the girls who walked beside her while the boys darted ahead, playing and shouting.

  For a while, they simply enjoyed the warmth of the midday sun and the quiet promise of the path ahead.

  -

  A week had passed before Mort finally decided on a name for his village.

  āxōchitl.

  The sound flowed off the tongue like the name of his goddess. Even Renata hadn’t been too repulsed by it. Though simple, it represented them perfectly.

  A flower by the lake.

  Or perhaps flowers after all the work Mort had done.

  The bodies of the endless worms had served as nutrients for the soil. Because of that, a beautiful meadow had risen beneath the trees. Many of the blossoms were blood-red after being influenced by Mort. They continued to grow even after dying beneath the acidic blood of the worms.

  They bloomed, scattered their seeds, and waited beneath the soil for their chance to sprout again—ready to take whatever nutrients lay nearby.

  The corruption they consumed sometimes twisted them in strange ways. Faces appeared in their petals, or unnatural colors surfaced in rare specimens Mort had to pluck. He feared Renata would hate them the same way Xochiquetzal did.

  It made him feel strange that he cared so much about beauty.

  His fixation on what his appearance had once been had never truly left him. These peculiar, uncanny plants meant something to him.

  So he planted them in a quiet corner despite Xochiquetzal’s displeasure.

  Mort needed something that was his alone. A place separate from everything else. A place he could call his sanctuary—a place just as twisted as he was.

  The thorny flowers with monochrome petals were the most numerous and the least aggressive in appearance. The sickly green, drooling bell-flowers were the second most common. The ghost-faced blossoms were the third—and the ones Xochiquetzal hated the most.

  There were others as well, but Mort wasn’t confident they would survive.

  He assigned part of the swarm that lived outside the thorn bush to guard his sanctuary. Many of them had not been as enthusiastic as the ones that lived within the berry bush, but Mort showed them the advantages.

  The corruption that filled the flowers’ pollen and overflowing nectar was enticing.

  Unlike the berries, which converted trace corruption into acidic juice, these flowers stored corruption throughout their entire bodies. They used it to hide from the worms.

  Corruption could also become their weapon.

  Some secreted extremely sticky fluids. Others released paralyzing pollen. There were even stranger traits Mort had yet to fully uncover.

  The ants and bees that had moved into the sanctuary hadn’t understood the significance of this at first.

  But when worm clews passed nearby without bothering them—even when the swarms attacked the worms and retreated into the strange garden—the insects began to understand.

  The worms never followed them inside.

  And even when some persisted in their chase, none of the wriggling creatures that forced their way into the thick mat of ugly flowers were ever seen again by their wormy brethren.

  The young queens had been thrilled with their new homes after several successful hunts. They had even begun to find uses for the bizarre flowers, bringing Mort tribute in the form of processed nectar.

  Though sweeter than the berries, the nectar carried a strange flavor and texture that few villagers wanted to eat.

  Still, it offered hope.

  Another possible source of food.

  Mort had made sure to keep the sanctuary protected, even when worms occasionally assaulted the area. He considered himself lucky the flowers had proven far more effective than he had expected—especially with the bee and ant queens working together.

  Mort visited often to ensure nothing disastrous occurred while the endless clews were at their thinnest. There were nights he refused sleep just to check on them.

  Just like the thorn bush surrounding the village, this sanctuary of oddities had become a project he obsessed over.

  He had tried many methods to increase the amount of food the village could produce.

  Unfortunately, most of the results had not been edible.

  If not for the birds that came by for water—and the fish that had somehow reappeared in the lake—the village might have already begun to starve. Most small animals had been integrated into the swarm by now, which had ironically saved them from the desperate hunger of the villagers.

  The situation weighed heavily on Mort.

  So he began traveling farther away in search of crops, seeds, or anything that might help.

  Especially now that there were times when the worms grew sparse.

  Unfortunately, he found nothing but worms in every direction.

  Nearby villages had all been overrun. Their inhabitants were gone, leaving behind empty homes filled with writhing bodies. Even the edible plants nearby had been chewed down to nothing.

  Mort considered himself fortunate that most of the worms seemed to be moving outward.

  They avoided his village almost entirely.

  If not for Mort himself—or perhaps some method Itzcamazotz possessed to sense people—the worms would never have bothered approaching the lake at all.