Marisol coaxed the many dolls to follow her pink mist from atop Bruno. The giant doll was decorated with beautiful flowers and pungent herbs. A small tree had even begun to grow from his back, forming a large hump upon which Marisol now sat.

  Her divinity poured from her body, rising in great swirling clouds of pink mist. It slithered through the air, weaving between dolls as it led them into the forest, energizing their little bodies so they could better fulfill their roles as scouts. The other large Bruno dolls remained behind in the village—they were far too slow. Only her giant mount, the one she actively channeled her divinity through, could keep pace with the tiny dolls racing across the forest floor below.

  They searched for strange occurrences or creatures that might be causing trouble. The corruption that had suddenly descended the mountain troubled the three lesser gods. Just as faith could create alebrijes, corruption could give rise to rebujos—animals twisted into mischievous, unpredictable beings.

  Though Marisol doubted they would find many, if any at all, it was still a good experience for the naughty dolls. That had grown steadily more disciplined after the many war games she had judged. She found it adorable how their chubby, often misshapen bodies marched in orderly rows. She was happy at all the subtle changes they underwent, the longer they existed. That curiosity had drawn her out today—to observe what else might shift.

  Her suspicions proved correct.

  Blue lines on their bodies had begun to gather along their chests, forming faint pictograms.

  Marisol sighed and thought about more pressing matters.

  Chalchiuhtlicue had warned her of a coming storm. Mictlantecuhtli had whispered to Jaime of what his hollow eyes foresaw—death looming at the mountain’s peak. So she could not simply remain idle while her village stood in potential danger.

  Which was why after a brief meeting with Jimena and Jaime, she decided to strengthen the forest and saturate it with vitality. Conversations with her grandmother had helped her understand how faith shifted depending on which “flavor of faith” it favored most.

  In this case, she chose vitality.

  The sanctuaries she planted began to flourish. The trees she grew—marked with her divinity—developed cores within their trunks. Hearts that expanded with every ring of age the trees rapidly earned.

  Bruno’s massive body served as a conduit for her divinity, allowing Marisol to spread it through the earth. It made controlling the dolls easier, especially those tempted to wander. At the same time, she seeded her power into new sanctuaries, nourishing their roots with the abundance she now possessed.

  Even if it strained her, she had the capacity to create dozens of vitality-filled pockets.

  With them, she planned to expand their domain—pushing the border outward with a living wall of growth. Even if their patron gods could not extend their dominion far from their seat of power, their chosen could.

  Especially now.

  Especially as lesser gods.

  Anything could become an idol once faith and divinity were invested into its making. Even her trees were becoming extensions of herself. The cores growing within their trunks connected to her in a strange, intimate way.

  Axochi alone seemed capable of guiding the ebb and flow of those countless connections. Marisol’s mind was far too slow to sort through them all. The trees and dolls bearing traces of her divinity sent faith back along those threads—paltry amounts, but enough to sustain her work.

  For a brief moment, she felt as though things had finally begun to settle.

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  She sighed again and leaned against the small tree growing from Bruno’s back, contemplating the preparations they must make for whatever approached.

  Jimena had departed again to oversee the tribes gathering beneath her cuauhxicalli. Jaime had turned his attention to construction—more houses, proper toilets, and pools that doubled as water storage.

  So Marisol focused on food.

  She expanded the water flowing into the village through her sanctuaries, ensuring abundance would meet whatever hardship came. Strengthened their currents and grew mosses on the canals that would help purify the water while on its way to the pools.

  -

  Mort had celebrated—briefly—with his new village.

  The people, influenced by his goddess and the intensity of recent events, had released their stress through food and dance. Phantasmal performers crafted by Xochiquetzal shimmered through the night, their luminous forms twirling to brighten weary spirits.

  It was, perhaps, the reason they now suffered a shortage of food.

  Mort had tried to remedy that. Repeatedly. Desperately.

  His goddess could guide fertility, coaxing plants toward growth and abundance. But Mort’s bloody divinity twisted whatever it touched. Crops nourished by his power grew thick and vibrant—yet foul in taste. Some were outright poisonous.

  The failure gnawed at him.

  He had grown and regrown plants in mass trials, reshaping them hundreds of times in search of something consumable. At last, his efforts bore fruit—a squat, thorny bush crowned with bright red berries. They were intensely bitter, slightly acidic… but survivable.

  Renata had even called the bush charming.

  That alone was enough for Mort to declare it their staple crop.

  Taste mattered little. He was certain the berries were highly nutritious.

  The villagers disagreed.

  They ate them only when Mort insisted, refusing to dismiss them until they tried at least a handful. At first, they had considered themselves fortunate he had not forced them to sample the other experimental fruits he’d grown.

  Unfortunately, that fortune had not lasted.

  It was a blessing the berries were beneficial, because the sheer quantity Mort fed them—driven by dwindling supplies—threatened to upset even hardened stomachs.

  Mort laughed quietly at the memory while mowing down another wave of invading worms.

  Distractions.

  That was what all of this was.

  The food. The flowers. The laughter.

  Distractions from the truth—that the creatures had been slowly encircling the village.

  Throughout the night, Mort and Renata had exterminated them in silence, never allowing the villagers to realize how close danger crept. His bloody divinity proved devastating against the worms. It infected them like a secondary corruption, turning their own vitality against them.

  By day, the villagers only noticed the ceaseless extermination at the forest’s edge.

  They did not see the hidden struggle—the swarm’s constant war to hold the line. Mort hoped to change that someday. If the bees’ honey production improved, it would provide nourishment strong enough to sustain his swarm properly. Plus, become another staple for their village aside from the berries.

  He let his thoughts wander as another worm leapt, spewing acid toward him.

  A nuisance.

  He barely moved.

  The creatures burst apart, becoming fertilizer for the countless flowers now carpeting the forest floor. None of the blossoms appeared vicious. On the contrary, they were vibrant, colorful, almost inviting.

  Mort used their pollen as a weapon.

  It slipped past hardened carapaces with ease. When his fervent energy followed, it drained the worms from within, disintegrating their bodies in quiet bursts of dissolution. Corruption fizzed away without residue.

  Still, more came.

  Endless replacements for every corpse that fell.

  Mort had shredded so many worms that, when his divinity lagged behind its natural recovery, he summoned the swarm into open war. An unending tide of writhing bodies met by relentless mandibles and stingers.

  If not for the fact that the lake bordering the village was separate from Lake Chapala, he was certain they would already have been overrun.

  Even so—

  Itzcamazotz’s dreadful power had begun to cast a shadow inside his heart once more.

  A cold presence. A reminder.

  Thankfully, Renata and Xochiquetzal soothed him. Their soul embraces, their gentle reassurances, drove back the corruption clawing at his soul.

  Mort shook the darkness away and smiled at the massacre unfolding before him.

  The stench was thick. Worm corpses formed a carpet across the ground, their blood and acid mingling into a viscous slime that clung to everything.

  Beautiful, in its own way.

  He watched as Renata spun gracefully within the giant plant she had summoned from the void. The flower within Mort had grown thorns and tendrils—extensions she could now manifest through herself as a living focus.

  Together, the girl and the colossal bloom moved with unsettling elegance.

  They possessed a personal charm Mort struggled to define.

  Not the radiant charm of Xochiquetzal’s phantasms.

  Theirs was something else.

  A charm born from blood and blossoms.

  From violence wrapped in beauty.

  And Mort, standing amidst ruin and vibrant petals, could not help but feel proud.