spill over the side of my palm. I follow the silent cue of the others, raise my arm, and tip my hand palm-down.
We all watch breathlessly, tracking as the very first drop of my blood falls.
It hits the stone, and I swear, I can hear it like a slap against skin, and every drop of blood that lands onto the carved floor of the Hell Portal begins to steam.
The guys start murmuring a few words over and over in a chant, and my mouth starts mimicking them without me even having to think about it.
“By blood, soul, and origin, I tie my essence to this Gate. Never to be broken, by word or marrow. I claim this Rite and bind this access to the threads of who I am. So it is spoken, so it is done.”
Our voices build like a crescendo. Simple words spoken from devoted lips, over and over again, and I’m surprised by the power that swirls robustly around us as we drop our blood and promises onto the ancient ground and warm air. It feels like a breeze picks up our repeated vow and expertly wraps all of us in it, connecting and twining one life to the other in a Celtic knot that cannot be broken or undone from here until forever.
The floor begins to tremble, but I stay frozen on the spot, not daring to move or mess anything up. Our collective voices get even louder as steam rises and grows thicker around us, dancing with the breeze and fortifying the connections I can feel being forged.
My ears start ringing, and my palm aches, and something hooks in the pit of my stomach, like a fish latching onto bait. It’s startling and invigorating, and this must be what Iceman was talking about when he said I’d feel the Gate’s pull.
The guys’ voices start to sound hoarse as though we’ve been talking for days. Then again, I realize that I have no sense of time. It feels like only minutes have passed, but maybe I’m wrong. My own throat suddenly feels raspy, and Hell portal steam is clogging my ears, my nose, my mouth, feeling as heavy and oppressive as the responsibility I can feel weaving through everything that I am. The ground quakes even more threateningly, causing some of the stone ceiling to rain down dusty rocks above us, and just when I think the whole thing is going to crack and cave in, everything stops.
The steam dissipates. Our voices stop. The floor becomes steady and solid beneath our feet once again. With wide gray eyes, I stare down at the symbols etched into the floor, noting that every drop of blood is gone.
I try to take stock of myself, seeing if I can decipher any physical changes or strange feelings. That hooked and knotted sensation has completely dissipated, and I just feel like me again.
I swallow thickly, my eyes dragging up. “Was that it? Did it work?” I ask breathlessly.
Iceman nods, and then his full lips spread into a breathtaking smile. “It’s done. You’re now a Hellgate Guardian.”
15
Tears spill from my eyes, and I grab my side, trying and failing to calm the ache in it. My cheeks hurt from laughing so hard and for so long, but I can’t help it. I can’t even stop laughing long enough to eat the amazing Chinese chicken salad sitting in front of me. I took one bite and decided I wanted to crawl into the dish and live there always, but then Iceman started talking about the first Beltane he went to at Jerif’s parents’ house, and I haven’t been able to stop giggling long enough to eat another bite.
“He just stood there with the flat iron to his short and curlies, pissed that he had burnt himself because his mom never knocks. ‘MA! I’m in here!’” Iceman yells in the most hilarious impression of what Jerif sounded like when he apparently shouted at his mother.
It’s killing me. Every time he yells Maaa! I just hear it in this South Boston accent, and the next thing I know, I’m on the verge of pissing myself laughing.
“So he slams the door, cursing up a storm about how he almost burnt his dick off, while his mom is banging on the door telling him that curly pubes are just as good as straight ones and he should be happy with what he has. He, of course, just yelled at her to leave him alone,” Iceman continues the