THE COMPLETE SERIES

MORGAN J. MUIR

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Daughter of Zyanya Omnibus Copyright © 2021 by Morgan J. Muir

Aura of Dawn Copyright © 2020 by Morgan J. Muir

Amaranth Dawn Copyright © 2016 by Morgan J. Muir

Aeonian Dreams Copyright © 2018 by Morgan J. Muir

Abiding Destiny Copyright © 2021 by Morgan J. Muir

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

Aura of Dawn ISBN 978-1-7338906-1-8 (Paperback)

Amaranth Dawn ISBN-13: 978-1-7338906-3-2 (Paperback)

Aeonian Dreams ISBN-13: 978-1-7338906-4-9 (Paperback)

Abiding Destiny ISBN-13: 978-1-7338906-2-5 (Paperback)

Cover & book design by Morgan J. Muir

www.Morganjmuir.com

Cover Art by Tairelei

www.tairelei.com

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Daughter of Zyanya: The Complete Series

Aura of Dawn: Prequel

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Amaranth Dawn: Book 1

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Aeonian Dreams: Book 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Abiding Destiny: Book 3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

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THE COMPLETE SERIES

BOOKS 1-4

Aura of Dawn: Prequel

A DAUGHTER OF ZYANYA PREQUEL

MORGAN J. MUIR

Chapter 1

SPRING 1739 – MARACAIBO

MARIA STOOD IN THE FADING evening light of the pier, a gentle breeze teasing her long black hair. Her father stood beside her. On the water, the floating villages on Lake Maracaibo began to light their evening lights, and in the western distance, the nightly thunderstorm gathered. The three other young women chatted with each other, but Maria remained silent. Her heart lay heavy in her chest as she kept vigil over the body of her canine companion, friend, and protector.

Elisa had seen him first, just a squirming bundle of ears and paws in a sailor’s rucksack. But it had been Maria who had claimed both the pup and his heart. Maria had saved his life, and he had saved hers in return.

As the darkness gathered, the other girls draped garlands over their lost playmate and returned to their homes. The funeral had been their idea. As soon as they realized the extent of Alistair’s injuries, her three friends had spent the last few days cheerily making fanciful funeral plans. The romantic and untraditional idea of sending him off to sea enthralled them. Maria, however, had lain with her hound, draining herself of tears and doing all she could to ease his passing.

Maria watched the small barge move out onto the lake, backlit by the distant lightning. Nothing would ever bring joy to her again. Her gaze remained fixed on the dark smudge. It danced along the surface of the water until she lost it among the twinkling lights of the native’s floating homes. The lights seemed to watch her, their sympathy at her loss nearly as painful as her guilt. Her eyes blurred as she watched. She struggled to blink back the tears, but they ran down her face anyway. She jumped when her father rested his hand on her shoulder, and she wiped away the wetness from her cheeks before turning toward him. For a moment, looking up into his face, Maria saw a depth in this man that went beyond just being her father.

The profound pain of loss that ached in her heart, loss of her dearest friend and confidant, she found reflected in his face. She knew, however, that his pain ran far deeper. He looked with unfocused eyes over the water. Perhaps he met the eyes of the natives who had come out to the edge of their palafitos, their floating village, to watch the strange ceremony. Perhaps he saw the ghost of her mother, whom Maria had never known, her loss still so fresh and painful that he never spoke of her to his daughter. What life had her father, Don Ciro Álvarez Bosque, merchant and businessman, lived and known that Maria knew nothing of? For the first time in her sixteen years of life, Maria wondered who her father truly was.

She turned back to the water, hoping to again find the barge among the broken reflection of the waning moon. But it was no longer there. The two of them remained in silence, each consumed with their own thoughts in the inky darkness.

THE MOON GLISTENED across the calm waves of the lake, its light blurred by the clouds as Michael walked beside the ship’s rail. The texture of the hard wood flowed beneath his fingers like frozen waves, guiding his fingers along inevitable paths. Michael looked up from the water, with its floating lights, to the stern of the anchored merchant ship. The floating wooden beast had been his home for the past several months as they’d crossed the world. He snorted at the thought. It wasn’t home; it was merely a place to exist. The abandoned helm called to him. He was meant to have captained a ship like this, a path that had lain before him as frozen and inevitable as the wood grain of the rail.

Or so he’d thought.

A warm breeze full of floral scents blew across the deck. It reminded him forcibly of old, vague memories full of warmth and honesty. Scowling, he pulled his gaze from the helm and crossed to the other side of the deck. He ought to turn in for the night. The morning would bring the typical hectic rush of work, offloading and reloading merchandise. Just another day of backbreaking labor, and then he’d be back to the sea.

The ocean called to him, as she did to every sailor. Entrancing, fickle. Beautiful and dangerous. She promised the freedom of salty wind in his face while under full sail, and the heady exhilaration of struggling for his ship’s life along with his own whenever she felt tempestuous.

Michael snorted, leaning against the rail. Her promises were as empty and unfulfilling as her threats were full. He was just a toy for her to use for her own amusement, to be tossed aside when she was done. Not unlike certain captains.

Below him on the dock, movement caught his eye. He watched a small group of young women, gathered at the edge of a nearby pier, throw things onto a small barge. It had all the air of a funeral, but a shockingly small one. The barge was pushed out and Michael watched it pass his ship by. That would be his end. Serving this ship, or another like it, until the sea claimed him for her own.

Michael slammed his fist into the rail. He belonged to no one. Not this ship. Not the sea. Not his father’s name.

The breeze again flowed over him, pulling at his dark hair. Tucking his loose hair back behind his ear, he turned away from the water. He needed to gather his things and get some sleep. It was time, and this place would be as good as any.

THE SMELL OF THE WATER, full of life and potential, drifted over Maria. The noise and bustle of the marketplace in the morning, punctuated by the cries of gulls in search of breakfast, were of little consequence as she moved toward the lake. Her friends followed behind her, their duenna trailing along some distance away, and Maria listened to them with only half an ear.

“Did we have to come this way?” Selena asked with a sigh as she picked her way through the muddy, busy street.

“There was no reason not to,” Betania said with her usual conciliatory manner.

“Except that you thought it a bad idea,” Elisa pointed out. “And it would take longer. And—”

“Oh hush,” Betania said to her sister. “I thought it might be nice, and Maria wanted to come this way.”

“Nice,” Elisa muttered. “If you like the smell of fish guts.” She swung her skirt to the side at the last minute to avoid brushing against a fishmonger’s cart.

“You would think it’s nice, Elisa,” Maria cut in, annoyed by Elisa’s persistent whining. She would never understand why Betania’s younger sister always had to follow along. “We all know it’s your favorite perfume, but you could really learn to be more judicious about it.”

Selena laughed, and Maria knew Betania would be holding back her own laughter. Elisa would fume about it for a while and then try to come up with some cutting retort. The girl had actually begun to develop some real wit.

Not even a spark of amusement found its way into Maria as they moved through the patchwork of sunlight and shadows. While Maria’s mind knew she should care—about something, anything—her soul simply didn’t. She walked on, ignoring the chatter of her friends, and made her way to the pier. The glitter of the sun on the waves was the only thing bright; all else was muted. Dull.

The three other girls milled around her for a minute, forced by Betania to give her some time.

Elisa said something in a giggling whisper that Maria didn’t care enough to hear. Betania nudged Maria out of her reverie and gestured discreetly to a young man walking down a nearby gangplank. He was tall, with dark hair, well dressed even if his clothes were a bit tattered, and he held a rucksack thrown over his shoulder. He looked out at the world with his head high and a grin, as if expecting something wonderful.

Maria scowled. How could anyone be so cheery?

“Come on,” she said, a flare of anger overcoming her apathy and spurring her into recklessness. Lifting her head, she led the girls deliberately toward him.

“What are you doing?” Betania whispered urgently. Poor, quiet Betania, always trying to take responsibility but too timid to succeed. Maria took her arm firmly, and Betania fell into step.

“Seeing if Elisa can catch herself another salty puppy,” Maria said, just loud enough for the other two to hear.

Elisa and Selena stifled giggles, and Betania tightened her grip on Maria’s arm in disapproval but didn’t try to stop her. Despite Maria’s efforts to not look as they passed, she couldn’t help but notice the young sailor’s gaze following them.

“Pardon me, señoritas,” he called out, not even trying to hide his British accent.

Maria grinned as she stopped the group.

“My name is Michael, and I’d be pleased to make the acquaintance of such lovely young women.”

“He’s all yours, Elisa,” Maria said, and the four of them turned back towards the sailor.

Elisa stepped forward with her hand outstretched, a sickeningly charming smile on her face and her golden hair shining in the sunlight. “I’m Elisa Díaz Palomo, daughter of Don Sergio Díaz Montejo, Señor de la Cuesta.”

Elisa paused just long enough for the young man to take her hand and shake it. “This is my sister, Betania, my cousin, Selena Abano Palomo, and our dear friend, Maria Álvarez Cordova.” The girls curtsied as they were introduced, Betania and Selena both keeping their eyes modestly downward. “Welcome to Maracaibo, Miguel.”

“Miguel. I like that.” He released Elisa’s hand and grinned. “Merci. It’s not every day you’re welcomed ashore by such visions of beauty. Might I walk with you for a bit, as we seem to be headed in the same direction?”

“What, away from the ship?” Maria whispered to Betania, who stifled a laugh with a demure cough and a gloved hand, still pointedly studying the muddy road.

Elisa looked Miguel up and down, then cast a glance at her older sister, whose grip dug into Maria’s arm. Maria shrugged, and Elisa held out her elbow for Miguel. “Certainly. We would be delighted!”

“Here,” Maria said, shifting Betania’s death grip to Selena’s arm as the group began forward. Shaking some feeling back into her own arm, Maria slowed to look back at the lake. The water glimmered beyond the waiting ships, whispering beneath the cacophony of life about ... something. It urged her aching heart to come to it. But her father had insisted that she get through today, and so she would. With regret, she turned from the water and caught up to her friends.

How much trouble might she get in for this bit of brashness? Her father would probably laugh, though Doña Olivia would tighten her lips and use that disapproving tone. She could practically hear it now. How dare you introduce yourself to some strange man! And a sailor at that. Surely you have better manners and care for your person. Blah blah blah.

Maria wrinkled her nose at the imaginary lecture. It wasn’t as though they were in any real danger. The girls always had an escort, be it the Díaz girls’ duenna—who currently looked as though she’d bitten into a lemon—or a member of the house staff. Especially now that Alistair was gone.

Maria’s throat tightened, and that stinging behind her eyes returned. She cut off that line of thought viciously, slamming the door shut on her melancholy. She wouldn’t cry in public. Instead, she looked over Elisa’s newest acquisition, determined to focus on something else. Anything else.

Miguel looked to be a couple years older than Maria, seventeen or eighteen perhaps, tall and well built. Life at sea appeared to have treated him well; he had a healthy color and moved gracefully. For a moment, she wondered about his teeth; she hadn’t noticed them before. But then again, it wasn’t as though she was buying a horse. Maria noted that he wasn’t as broad as most men she had fancied, but he certainly wasn’t bad to look at. If he was as young as she suspected, he would likely fill out in a couple more years, or so Nana always claimed of the young men her age.

He had dark hair, nearly as black as her own, which he wore pulled into a neat queue, tied at the nape of his neck. The loose sleeves of his white shirt billowed in the breeze and Maria imagined his arms would be nicely muscled. His boots, though well made, were worn, as was his faded waistcoat. Given his build, apparent health, and fine-though-worn apparel, the chances were good he wasn’t just a deckhand. Perhaps a junior officer? Maria allowed herself a small grin as she imagined him fighting off pirates with the cutlass that swung at his hip.

Maria listened for a moment to Selena and Betania’s conversation. They were going on about the number of ships in the busy harbor and the weather out in the Gulf of Venezuela beyond the lake. They’d obviously spent too much time listening to their fathers go on about business. Not interested in that tedious topic—she got enough of it from her own father—she moved forward to walk beside Miguel. Looping his bag over his shoulder to free his unoccupied arm, he offered Maria his elbow. Ignoring a moment of unease—this man was a stranger after all—she took his arm. He gave her a broad smile, and she smiled back at him, not caring that it didn’t reach her eyes. Elisa shot her a withering look, which almost made Maria’s smile genuine.

“Miguel and I were just talking about where he is from,” Elisa said with a careless flip of her golden hair.

“Actually—Maria is it?—I was avoiding the subject of where I am from.” He winked at her.

Maria rolled her eyes. “It’s obvious from your accent that you’re British, though your Castilian seems decent. You’ve also employed a smattering of French, so I’m sure you’ve dealt with them as well.”

“And what would you conclude from that?” he asked.

“I’m willing to bet that you’ve travelled the world. So tell us, mighty traveler, what have you seen?”

Miguel slowed to a stop, and she could practically feel Elisa’s chagrin as he looked at Maria. Maria turned to him, and their eyes met, his green eyes capturing her. A few seconds, or perhaps an eternity, later Miguel broke contact, and they began forward again.

“Well,” he began slowly, not looking at either of them, “I’m not really sure where I was born; somewhere in England, I’m told. My first memories are of being on a ship with my father, large as life, before me. I suppose I’ve travelled the world; it certainly feels like it. The last several years, I’ve mostly sailed the waters of Britain, France, and Spain. I have made the trip to India and back once. My father once told me that I’d even seen the Orient, though I don’t really remember it.”

While Elisa gave him her rapt attention, Maria opted to look him over more closely, as much as she could without being obvious. He had a finely shaped face, with lively eyes lined with dark lashes, and a very expressive mouth. He looked like the type of person who enjoyed laughing. No, she thought to herself, Elisa can have him.

“Anyhow,” Miguel continued, “after finally coming to the New World, I think I’ve had just about enough traveling. Perhaps I’ll stay on for a while, especially if life here is as sweet as the señoritas.”

Elisa and Maria both blushed, but Maria regained her tongue first.

“If you are going to stay here you’re going to need more of a name than just Miguel,” Maria said.

“What’s wrong with Miguel?” Elisa demanded, swinging forward to glare at Maria.

“Yes, please enlighten me, fair lady.” Miguel disentangled himself from Elisa and gave Maria a mock bow. “What is wrong with my name?

Maria laughed lightly. “Nothing. I think Miguel is a fine name. You just seem to have misplaced your surname.”

“Drat. I knew I left something on that ship.” Miguel feigned consternation. “Should I go back and fetch it?”

“Perhaps if you just called to it, it would come.” Elisa joined in the play and rethreaded her arm through his.

“Hmmm ... It may be surly about being left behind. Perhaps if you angels attempted to call it.”

Giggling, Elisa said, “Blanco!”

At the same moment, Maria spoke up with “del Mar.”

“Whoa, señoritas, one at a time, please! Let’s see, Elisa suggests Blanco, and Maria gives del Mar. What fine names for a man like me.” He rolled his shoulders as though trying on a new coat. “They seem comfortable enough. I shall keep them both.”

Elisa giggled yet again, and Maria just shook her head at the silliness. The warehouses had given way to the two-storied buildings of rock and stucco. A crossroads marked the edge of town, beyond which the buildings sat further apart, their boundaries marked by fences and the occasional palm tree. Miguel stopped, bowing again to the girls.

“Well, ladies, I’m afraid this is where we must part.”

“I hope to see you again soon.” Elisa batted her eyes at him, and Maria groaned. The girl was only fourteen, and was about as subtle as a brick to the head.

“I would like that very much. Casa de la Cuesta, right? I will surely call on you there.” Miguel gave Elisa a most charming smile, too charming for Maria, but Elisa soaked it in. “In fact, I look forward to seeing all of you again.” He shook each of their hands in turn. “Elisa, Betania, Selena. Maria.”

Miguel held on to Maria’s hand a moment longer than the others’. In a quiet voice meant only for her, Miguel added, “Especially you, Maria.”

The other three girls started down the road while Maria stood there in a sort of shock, heat rising into her face. No one had ever been so forward with her before. He gave her a sheepish grin, breaking the spell, and she turned away to catch up with her friends. As they strolled away, a gaggle of gossiping, giggling geese, Maria looked back to see Miguel still standing where they’d left him, looking thoughtful.

“Miguel!” she called back as a mischievous feeling stole over her. He looked up and she continued, “Miguel, there’s a merchant’s office in town, just around the corner. There’s pink coxcomb under the windows. You can’t miss it. If someone were looking for employ, he might start there.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he called back, raising his hand in farewell. “Gracias!”

She hurried back to her friends, looking back just before passing around a bend in the road. He still stood as they had left him. Finally, he hoisted his pack and turned back the way they had come.

Chapter 2

MARIA KEPT HER EYES on her embroidery, her tension hoop held lightly against her leg. Betania sat beside her, sharing the second-best couch in the Casa de la Cuesta. Maria had spent so much of her childhood here, receiving her education with Doña Olivia’s girls, that it nearly felt like home. Except that Casa de la Cuesta was far larger than the estate Maria shared with her father. One could get lost in the long pale halls here, in their cold grandeur. Her father’s hacienda was far more welcoming.

Elisa had spread herself out on the best couch, of course, and Selena shared a seat with her aunt, Doña Olivia. “Well?” she asked, unable to contain herself any longer. “What did you think of him?”

“Think of whom?” Doña Olivia asked, as if she hadn’t already interrogated both their duenna and the serving man who’d followed them.

“We were returning home, walking past the docks,” Selena said.

“What on Earth were you doing there?” Doña Olivia’s exasperated tone made Maria smile.

“Maria wanted to,” Betania said quietly. “And I thought it would be best—”

“Maria wanted to, so you did.” Doña Olivia cut her daughter off. “Honestly, child, when are you going to learn to make decisions for yourself?”

Maria looked up to see Betania quietly return her gaze to her embroidery.

“Regardless of how we got there, Tía Olivia,” Selena continued, preventing the awkward silence from growing, “a young man asked if he could walk with us.”

“I saw him first,” Elisa cut in.

“Of course she did,” Betania muttered under her breath to Maria, who smiled.

“He was disembarking a ship recently come in,” Elisa said.

“He definitely wasn’t disembarking a whale,” Maria returned quietly to Betania.

“Certainly there is more to tell about him than that?” Doña Olivia prodded, her disapproval softening.

“Well ....” Elisa straightened her back, looking down her nose at her embroidery. “He’s lived his whole life at sea. He’s been all around the world. India, the Orient and all over Europe, but this is his first time to the New World. He says it’s the most beautiful place he’s ever been, and that he’s going to stay here for a while.”

“Indeed?” Doña Olivia raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

Maria knew what would come next; the obligatory word of warning, lest Olivia’s youngest daughter let her heart be snared and stolen away by a sailor.

“Be sure not to expect too much of him.” Doña Olivia said. Maria could almost mouth the words along with her. “Marineros don’t often stay at port for very long. Even when they try, it just doesn’t last. When the sea is in their blood, it calls to them, beckons them home. For them, there is no resisting that siren’s call.” Doña Olivia’s eyes rested on Selena, whom everyone claimed looked more like her mother, Natalia—Doña Olivia’s sister—every day.

Maria waited for the inevitable comment about Selena’s father, Don Vasco, being a good-for-nothing sea dog who had seduced Selena’s mother, but it didn’t come. As the room fell into silence, Selena didn’t look up from her perfect, even stitches. Perhaps they should have been more alike, both losing mothers they couldn’t remember, but Maria never had siblings whereas Selena’s had died. But did that really matter if Selena couldn’t remember them? No, the biggest difference between them lay in the fact that Maria had a father who cared. A father who, when things were hard, had stayed instead of running away and abandoning her to relatives, checking in on her only when his ship returned to Maracaibo. She couldn’t imagine a world where her father, the indomitable Don Ciro Álvarez, larger than life and capable of solving any problem, was not there for her.

Selena again broke the silence, her voice level. ”To answer your question, Tía Olivia, he’s rather tall, taller than any of us, and his hair is dark like Maria’s, but shorter, of course. I didn’t get a good look at his eyes ....”

“They’re green,” Maria offered.

“And he wore a cutlass,” Elisa cut in, oblivious to the undertones of the conversation. “Oh, he looked so dashing!”

With the mood broken, the gossip continued on a lighter tone, and Maria fell out of the conversation. The fine cloth between her fingers was soft, but not nearly as soft as Alistair’s ears had been. His ears had been his only soft part. The rest of his fur had been short and wiry, and her fingers ached to touch that rough fur again. Or to hear his bark as he rushed at her after they’d been parted, and to feel his bulk try to knock her down. She would laugh and wrestle with him, her best friend and faithful companion. But now, only emptiness awaited her, compounded by the knowledge that it was of her own making. She hadn’t shed a tear for him at all today. She’d cried her fill of tears, enough for a lifetime, as her faithful companion had lain dying. He’d been at her side everywhere she went for so long that now she felt incomplete. Empty. A barren wasteland where her heart had once been.

She hadn’t wanted to get out of bed that morning, refusing even her own duenna, Nana. Eventually her father had come and insisted that she get up, something he had not done for years. But what was the point in getting up? Her soul had not the strength to go on.

“Maria,” he’d said quietly, taking a seat beside her on the bed. “I know what it is like to lose someone you love. You feel so very alone, like all is dark, and the sun will never shine again. As though all luster has gone from the world. You feel that there is no reason to ever even move again.”

She had nodded at him, relieved to see that he, at least, understood. She’d stared at the simple orange tiles of her floor as he spoke, trying to resist the soothing effect of her father’s voice and the comfort of his presence.

“But, and this is important, mi querida, not only will the night end and the sun shine, but it will do so with or without you. Fate extends her hand, and if you’re not there to take it, you will miss out on a lifetime of opportunities. She will not wait for you to decide you no longer hurt.”

The silence grew, and Maria had looked up at his face. The muscles on his clean-shaven jaw jumped as he worked his mouth before drawing in a ragged breath. With a steady voice, he continued. “You will always hurt. The pain will simply become easier to bear, with time.”

Maria had turned away from him without saying anything, pulling her blanket back over her head. She didn’t want things to get better. She wanted Alistair back.

Her father had set his hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Remember this, if nothing else: today will happen only once. You have only today to live.”

Maria had gotten out of bed after he left, more because he would have continued lecturing her about wasted time than because he’d inspired her. She’d put on a happy face and tromped about with her friends through town, teased a strange young man, and now she sewed. Yes, Papa, she thought, stabbing her needle through the cloth. What a fateful day it’s been.

Her mind turned again to her dog. The moment she’d realized no amount of love and care could keep him from dying had ripped her heart from her chest. And it was her own fault. As always. She was the one who had called to him just as the wagon had come around the corner. Maria’s hands slowed in their stitching and dropped into her lap.

Every time she tried to do something important, life spit in her face. Even just being born had caused her mother’s death. Maria shut her eyes against the tears that threatened to push their way out. The image of her father’s face from the previous night rose before her. There had been such depth of sorrow there, more than she could really comprehend. As much as she missed Alistair, and hurt from it, logic demanded she face the truth: there was worse pain awaiting her if she wasn’t careful.

Blink back her emotion, Maria picked absently at a thread on her dark skirt as she thought. She ignored the conversation that took place around her, as interesting as the honking of geese. She wanted to get out, to go somewhere, anywhere, and just be alone for a while. But to go out alone was simply not allowed.

Her father’s gardens, tucked securely within the guarded walls of the hacienda, could provide a sense of remoteness. But the illusion of solitude didn’t seem enough today. The grounds here at Casa de la Cuesta were watched as well, though not nearly as closely as her father’s grounds. Normally this didn’t bother her, but today it felt like being drowned by goodwill.

The sudden chiming of the grandfather clock in the hall sent a wave of relief over her as it announced her chance at freedom. Extricating herself from the gaggle of domestic geese, Maria found herself excited to get home and enjoy a quiet supper with her father. The echoes of her friends’ farewells followed her out into the large hall, the ball of tension within her chest loosened with each step. As the grand, curved staircase in the entry way came into view, Maria’s heart lifted. When she arrived home her father would ask her about her day, and she his, and she’d be left in peace.

The doorman opened the heavy door, and the evening sunlight slanted in, bringing with it the rich scent of roses, orchids, and coming rain. He let her out with a bow, and she thanked him with a reflexive smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

As she stepped into the courtyard, she patted her leg to call Alistair to heel before catching herself. Setting her jaw, Maria lifted her head and refused to look at the empty spot between the arched pillars where he would have waited to escort her. She swept down the front steps and set out with a long stride toward home.

Before she’d left the plantation’s palm-lined front drive, Maria had picked up a silent follower. The obligatory escort was just another reminder of her loss. Doña Olivia had insisted the girls always be followed, since the day Alistair had saved her life. They’ll be discreet, to give you a sense of freedom, Maria mimicked in her mind. With Alistair at her side, she’d never needed anyone’s protection. Now she felt the expanse of the unseen behind her, and the lengthening shadows made her shudder. She paused and motioned her escort-of-the-day to walk beside her.

They continued in silence in the muggy afternoon light. Maria, lost in her thoughts, retraced her steps from the night of the attack so many years ago. As before, when she reached the docks she slowed, looking out into the lake.

“You know, Señorita, it was I who was with you that night.” the mestizo manservant said, breaking the silence and startling Maria. She looked at her escort for the first time and took a moment before she connected his name to his face. José. “I had been sent after you, but I was still too far away to do more than shout when I saw the man in the shadows, but the dog! It was though he knew what was coming. He’d slunk off before I even knew there was danger and leapt on the pendejo with the ferocity of a wild animal. He was a magnificent beast.”

“That he was,” Maria agreed, returning her gaze to the expansive lake.

“Though you may not have known it, that pup of yours was famous among my people.”

“I am glad,” she replied, a flare of pride lightening her heart for a moment.

With a sigh that released the momentary warmth in her heart, she tore her gaze from the water. Typically, the house staff did not talk to the girls, but Maria had found that, when alone, they would talk to her.

The manservant continued on. “They say that you hadn’t named him until after that night. That you named him for something I said, but I’ve always wondered what that was.”

“Alistair.” Maria thought for a moment, picking at the wood of the rail before her. “It is Greek, meaning protector or guardian. I suppose, now that I think about it, that I did name him after something that was said. I’d had him for some three months and still couldn’t settle on a name. When you brought me home and explained to my father, you said that Alistair was a born protector. We waited up all night for him, and when he came home, all torn up but pleased as could be with himself, I knew just what to call him.”

“I don’t believe I ever saw you without him, after that,” José said. “I’m honored to have been a part of his naming.”

Maria nodded and started again toward home. When they reached the white stucco of the hacienda’s outer walls, she stopped him at the large, arched gate. “Thank you for your time, José. Return home safely.”

“Gracias, Señorita. You’ve always been so kind.” He smiled, bowed, and then disappeared into the fading evening light.

Maria watched him go. Why should he thank her for her kindness? She was just being polite, and Nana would have had a thing or two to say if she hadn’t been. With a dismissive shake of her head, she stepped into the large courtyard. The gravel between the pavers crunched beneath her feet as a servant closed the heavy wooden gate behind her. A hand on her elbow made her spin, her heart in her throat.

“Pardon, I didn’t mean to startle you.” The British accent calmed her even before she recognized the dark-haired young man.

“Miguel,” Maria said, breathless. “You gave me a fright. What are you doing here?”

“Let me escort you in, and I shall explain,” Miguel said with exaggerated seriousness bowing flamboyantly. The once-fine knee-length coat he had added to his attire, just as worn as the rest of his clothing, only added to the absurdity of the movement, and Maria couldn’t help but laugh. Still in his deep bow, Miguel raised his eyes to hers and winked.

For a moment, she wondered what would happen if she ignored him, but the chance for a moment of levity was too tempting. If he wanted to play a fool, then she was happy to help. Lifting her chin, Maria held up her hand. “Lead on, señor.”

Miguel straightened and placed his hand under hers. They held their hands aloft as they stepped through the courtyard toward the main house. The pompous display was too much for Maria, and she broke into laughter as they reached the house. She made the mistake of looking at him as she caught her breath, and his thoroughly scandalized look sent her into another fit of laughter. Then he, too, laughed.

“Ah, I see you have met our new guest already,” a booming voice said, and Maria turned toward the house. Her father, Ciro Álvarez, sat on the steps before the heavy, ornate wooden door, watching them with an amused smile. She tried to school her face, but it was hard not to smile around her father.

“Good evening, Papa.” Maria moved to his side and gave him a kiss on his cheek.

“I see you’ve done as I suggested, mi querida,” Ciro said softly. “It is good to see you smile.”

Maria looked at the ground, ashamed he might see she hadn’t been so happy a few minutes before.

“Let me introduce you,” Ciro said, his voice returning to normal as he gestured to Miguel. “Maria, meet Miguel Blanco del Mar. He’s just come in on La Solidad and has recommended her to me as a sound ship for a shipment I need to move. Miguel, my daughter, Maria.”

Maria raised her eyebrow at Miguel. He gave her a sheepish smile before dropping into a formal, and appropriate this time, bow. “A pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine.” Maria curtsied and gave him a properly sweet smile, looking into his dark, green eyes.

“Excellent!” Ciro broke in. “Maria, you’re just in time for supper. Come, let us eat.”

Ciro led the way along the covered walkway to a patio. The area was covered and partitioned from the rest of the grounds, and the walls overflowed with flowering greenery from the gardens it overlooked. Miguel gestured for Maria to walk ahead of him. She could almost feel him behind her as they walked, and she kept her eyes resolutely on her father’s back to keep from squirming.

As she stepped onto the shaded patio, Maria’s eye swept over the table, taking in the four place settings. Three on one end and the last, always freshly set but never used, at the opposite end. A servant, just setting out the last of the food, bowed to them and silently retreated to the kitchen.

“I’ve always enjoyed being out of doors as much as possible,” Ciro said as he moved to the head of the table. Maria sat in the seat beside him, motioning Miguel to the setting across from her. “And supping in the evening light when the weather cooperates is to be preferred over a stuffy dining room. Don’t you think?”

“I think anything beats a ship’s galley, señor,” Miguel said as he sat.

Ciro laughed, slapping the table hard enough to make the plates and Maria jump. “It does indeed.”

“Tell us a little about yourself, Miguel,” Maria prodded, hoping that she might get better answers now that her father was present. “What brings you to Maracaibo and to my father here?”

Miguel nodded as he laid the napkin across his lap. “Well, as I told your father, I have just come in as a sailor on the merchant ship, La Soledad. However, my contract”—Maria thought he stressed the word strangely—“with the captain has come to an end. I’ve been sailing most of my life and am rather through with it, so I decided to disembark at the next port and see if the place suited me.” Miguel began on his supper.

“And how does Maracaibo measure up?” Maria asked, before sipping at her drink.

“I’m still trying it out, but I like it so far.” Miguel looked directly at Maria as he spoke.

She dropped her eyes to her cup, hoping he wouldn’t notice the heat that rose on her cheeks.

“One of the locals directed Miguel to me. He can’t remember her name, only that she was quite lovely,” Ciro interjected with a twinkle in his eye, waving a bit of bread for emphasis. “In fact, Maria, Miguel here has impressed me quite a bit.”

“Thank you, señor,” Miguel said.

“Have you found a place to stay?” Maria asked, knowing that her friends would pester her for all the details.

“Actually, I’ve decided to hire him,” Ciro said before Miguel could begin. “I’ve been thinking for some time of getting an assistant. As he’ll be working very closely with me, I thought it best to have him live with us.” Then, in a false whisper, he added, “It’s not as though we don’t have the room.”

This new development left Maria speechless. A look at Miguel’s startled face said it was news to him as well. Miguel recovered quickly, though, thanking Ciro. The conversation between the men moved on, and Maria withdrew into her own thoughts. The idea of Miguel living in their home, eating with them, seeing his green eyes every day filled her with feelings she’d never felt before and had no name for. They rolled over her, confusing her with their strength. She stared at her plate, listlessly pushing the food around with her fork as she fought to still the waves of emotion.

Thinking she had pushed her emotions well enough aside, she risked a glance at Miguel, who shot her a grin. Quickly looking away, she flushed again as the fluttering in her chest returned with vigor.

“Señorita?” Anita, a kitchen maid, asked quietly, nudging her shoulder. Maria looked up, startled to find they were changing the course. She hoped no one else had noticed her sudden lapse of sensibility.

“Si, take it.” She waved Anita away. Schooling her face to look nonchalant, and with a firm grip on her emotions this time, she risked a glance back at her father and Miguel. Miguel, she repeated to herself, enjoying the way his name sounded in her mind, desperate to see what it felt like on her tongue. With great effort she pulled her mind back toward the conversation. To her relief, it seemed to be coming to a close.

“... won’t be needing you in the morning,” her father said. “I’ve got it managed for tomorrow.”

“That’ll be good. I’m in need of clothes better suited to land life, something better than tattered breeches and salt-stiff shirts. Years at sea will do a number on one’s attire.” He looked over at Maria. His unexpected look again startled her, and she dropped her eyes to his hands, noting how large and strong they appeared.

“Years at sea will do a number on just about everything,” Ciro agreed with a chuckle. “How about you accompany Maria about the town tomorrow? She can show you to the tailor and tell you some of Maracaibo’s exciting history.”

Maria’s eyes shot up to her father’s face to find him giving her an impish smile. Thoughts raced, colliding through Maria’s mind, too jumbled to form into words.

“I’d really enjoy that, Don Ciro.” Miguel turned to her and raised a questioning eyebrow. “That is, if Maria doesn’t mind?”

“I’d be delighted,” Maria murmured, again looking at Miguel’s hands. Thoughts of what those hands might feel like if she touched them invaded her mind. Unable to handle the turmoil inside any longer, Maria excused herself.

The scrape of wood against the paving stones told her that Miguel stood when she did, but she stubbornly refused to look toward him again. Keeping her eyes strictly on the door to the house, she walked with enough quiet dignity to have made Doña Olivia proud. She could feel him watching her, his gaze burning into her back as she moved. The few strides to the entrance seemed to take an eternity, and the white stucco of the arched walkway provided a tangible relief as she passed between. The moment she was out of sight of the dining patio, she fled to her room.

The safety of her room washed over her like a cool breeze as she shut the door behind her. Leaning against it, Maria inhaled deeply through her nose, attempting to calm her still- fluttering heart. But it was not willing to be calmed. What is wrong with me?

Maria paced the room, wringing a handkerchief in her hands, and he shoes clicking against the tiled floor. Just that morning she had thought her world was over, but now her fickle, disloyal heart would not stop obsessing over the young man downstairs. Irritation warred with wistfulness as she flung open the door to her balcony and leaned over the railing. The sweet, rich evening air rose from the gardens below, filling her lungs and worked toward stilling her mind.

Alistair was gone, and nothing could ever change that. She had loved her sweet sea-pup, and there would always be a special place for him in her heart. She took another deep breath of the fragrant air. Exhaling slowly, she felt something within her release. Just because he was gone didn’t mean there wasn’t anything left to be happy about.

A slow smile spread across her face, and she looked around sheepishly to ensure she was alone, and retreated back into her room. The bedroom stood in candlelit darkness, and not even the dim, moonlit shadows through the broad-leafed trees outside her small balcony moved. As quietly as she could manage, she whispered Miguel’s name. She giggled at the silliness of her furtive behavior, yet the feel of his name on her lips was a soft caress, and the sound in her ears, sweet music. Reaching out to the vine that grew outside her balcony door, she picked a red hibiscus in full bloom. Its golden pollen dusted the air as she spun it, withdrew back into her room, and dropped onto her bed.

Maria gently stroked the large blossom, but rather than its soft petals, her thoughts lingered on the hands of a certain ex-sailor. The tanned skin certainly held within them a sure strength, and no doubt they were gentle enough to handle a kitten. Did he like kittens? She could get him one. Tied with a pretty ribbon around its neck, green to match his eyes, of course. He would take it from her, and perhaps their hands would touch for the briefest of moments .... She would look up at him through her lashes and he’d smile that beautiful smile at her. Oh, that smile.

Maria’s thoughts meandered along the simple, innocent paths of the first blush of love. Eventually, she fell asleep with a smile and his name on her lips.

MIGUEL STOOD BEFORE the large fireplace, eyeing the bric-a-brac along the mantle, the dark wood offsetting the warm beige and subtly patterned tiles on the walls. How would it be to stay in one place long enough to accumulate such things? To have a place so entirely yours that you belonged to it as much as it belonged to you? A pain sliced through his heart as the image of his father’s cabin rose before his eyes. Irritated, he slammed the memory and the pain aside. That place would never be his; he’d left it behind three ships ago.

“What do you think of it, young Miguel?” Don Ciro’s voice boomed behind him, and Miguel spun, his hand automatically reaching for the knife at his hip.

“It speaks to me of stability,” he said, irritated at himself for being so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard his employer enter. Don Ciro smiled at him, and for a moment Miguel was taken aback at how genuine it seemed.

“And what do you think of my daughter?”

Well, that certainly wasn’t the direction he’d thought this would take. Miguel dropped his hand from the knife and thought a moment, trying to decide how to not insult this kind but powerful man. He certainly wouldn’t want to hear how his daughter had watched Miguel during dinner, or the way her face had flushed whenever Miguel met her dark eyes. This would certainly complicate things.

“She’s young,” he said, settling on the truth. “And rather taken with me, I think. Please tell me she has a beau.”

Don Ciro laughed and sat before the fireplace, gesturing for Miguel to do likewise. He sat in the chair opposite his employer, sinking down into the overly soft cushion.

“She’s sixteen,” Don Ciro said as Miguel dragged himself forward to sit on the edge of a chair that wanted to suck him into its depths. “And she’s recently gone through some heartbreak. I’m sure it’s nothing serious. I’m just glad to see her smile again.”

Miguel nodded. He hoped so too. He was not interested in entanglements, just stable employment.

“She’s also headstrong and smart, when she wants to be, but in many ways she is still very young. Maria knows nothing of danger or the forces that move this world outside the protection of these walls.” Don Ciro leaned forward, and Miguel found himself mirroring the action. “I intend for it to stay that way.”

Miguel nodded again. If he’d wanted a dull life, this had been the wrong place to come. The pistol that rested, loaded but uncocked in his jacket, pressed against his ribs. No, a dull life was definitely not something he was interested in. “What do I need to know?”

Chapter 3

MARIA WOKE BURSTING with joy. It was going to be a beautiful, wonderful day, she was sure of it. The morning sun glinted off the colored tiles of her floor, casting playful shapes across the walls and ceiling. The birds sang as they flirted with the hibiscus at her window, and the flowers cast their sweet floral scents into the air. Maria hopped out of bed and whistled for Alistair. Then, without waiting for him, she pulled on her robe and threw open the door–and stopped dead.

The world crashed down around her like a shattered stained-glass window. The joy that had filled her the moment before turned to ash in her mouth as she turned back to the empty rug near the foot of her bed. There was no Alistair anymore. The bright morning sun glared harsh and profane; the birdsong now a callous mock of her reality. The familiar lump rose in her throat as she stepped back into her room and shut the door. Sliding down the door frame, she hugged her knees to her chest as the tears flowed down her cheeks.

The sobbing lasted only a few minutes before the emptiness in her chest left her eyes dry. A soft rap on the door made her hastily wipe her still damp cheeks. She didn’t want her father to know she’d been crying again.

“Señorita?” her nursemaid called softly. “Let me in, querida. It is time to be up. You have appointments today.”

Grudgingly, Maria moved to the side just enough to let the door open. “The world is a dark and dreary place for me today. Surely everyone else living in the sun can find their way without me for one day,” Maria muttered as she stood before Nana could get after her for sitting on the floor.

“Dramatic today, aren’t we?” Nana walked directly to the closet, and pulled out two dresses. “Come now, you mustn’t wander around in just your robe anymore. You’re practically a woman grown. With a guest in the house, it simply wouldn’t be proper.”

“Guest?” Maria raised a skeptical eyebrow and gestured to the dress closest to her, a pale green one with tan embroidery. She wished she had grey, to match her mood.

“Forgotten already?” Nana tsked. “A young thing like you shouldn’t have the memory of an old woman like me.”

“Your memory is fine, Nana. More than fine. You could probably tell my father more about himself than he could.” Despite the empty ache in her chest, the familiar banter lifted her spirits a little.

“Pshaw! I’m older than you can imagine, silly girl. The stories I could tell ....” The nursemaid helped Maria with the dress.

“What, you mean like the two evil ancients of the Wayuu? Or of Si’a stealing jewels for the Earth goddess?” Maria threaded her corset while Nana tied the skirt.

“It was for Pulowi of the sea, not the earth, chica, as you well know.”

“And what would poor Doña Olivia say if she knew I had grown up on such heathen tales of the natives?” Maria said with mock severity, pulling her laces tight. “Or that you’ve been trying to sneak Wayuunaiki words into my brain since before I could walk?”

“I don’t find that woman’s opinion of what I do with my charges to be worth a goat’s rear end, and you know it.” Nana helped Maria with her jacket.

“What of my mother, then, what would she think of it?” Maria rolled her shoulders in her jacket, helping it settle properly.

“I helped raise your mother, same as I helped raise you, silly girl. She wouldn’t mind any more than you do.” Nana stood back, inspecting her.

Maria reached out, taking Nana’s hand and pulling her close. “Tell me more about her; you knew her better than anyone. What was she like? What was her favorite thing to do as a child?”

“Bah,” Nana said, shaking herself loose from Maria and steering her toward the dresser. “You know as well as I do your father—”

“My father refuses to talk about her.” Maria picked up her brush and savagely brushed her hair. Once her father’s wishes were brought up, she knew she’d lost. “That’s no reason for you not to.”

Nana took the brush from her and gently worked through the long, black locks. “Your father didn’t want to share her with others, and while I may not agree entirely with his motives, I will respect his wishes in this.”

Maria mouthed along with the familiar phrase, and made a face at Nana. The old woman gave her a sly smile in the mirror

“Your hair is very fine. It reminds me of hers.”

Maria clutched at the tidbit of information. It was a small success, but a success nonetheless. Any information about her mysterious mother was to be cherished. Nana changed the subject, and they continued to banter as they worked on Maria’s hair. By the time they were done, Maria found herself with a small but genuine smile, though her heart remained weighed down.

“I think Miguel’s been waiting on you for breakfast,” the old duenna whispered with a conspiratorial wink as Maria stood to leave.

A momentary surge of happiness rushed through Maria’s chest, but, unwilling to be subdued, the hurt from her lost friend fought against it, plunging her back into her melancholy. “How kind of him,” she responded.

Nana sighed as Maria went out the door.

Maria focused on the soft rustle of her skirt moving around her legs as she walked, her eyes morosely on the floor before her as she descended the stairs. The feelings that she had around Miguel confused and angered her. She was in mourning for Alistair, and it just wasn’t right that anything, especially this boy, should show up out of the blue and invade her life and her home, and—

“Oof!” Maria’s thoughts were interrupted abruptly as she ran into something that shouldn’t have been in the middle of the stairs.

“Buenos días, Señorita.” Miguel smiled as he steadied her.

“Disculpe; I didn’t see you.” Maria’s heart raced as much from the shock of having run into him as from the physical contact. Heat rose in her cheeks as she took the hand he offered. Though his skin had a roughness about it, his grip contained a sure and gentle strength. She held back a giggle at the fluttering in her stomach as she realized how accurate her estimation of his hands had been the night before. “Buenos días, Miguel. Have you eaten yet this morning?”

“A healthy appetite is something to be appreciated in a woman.” He flashed a smile that dazzled her. Unwilling to get caught gazing into his gorgeous green eyes, she looked away, noting that he wore the clothes from the night before. “No, Maria,” he said, that smile still in his voice. “I have not yet eaten. Would you care to breakfast with me?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Maria responded automatically. Rather than letting her hand go as she’d expected, Miguel set it into the crook of his elbow, and her heart took flight, finally breaking free of the mire that had held it down. The heat of his body surprised her, bleeding through his rough-spun shirt and into her hand as he led her out the front door, and along the loggia of the main house. She slipped her hand from his arm when they reached the dining patio, ardently hoping he hadn’t felt her reaction.

They sat across from each other at the outdoor table, a bowl of fruit, colorful and fragrant, sitting between them. The silence moved from comfortable to awkward as neither she nor Miguel reached toward the food.

Well Doña Olivia, how would you get out of this one, eh? Maria fiddled with her napkin in her lap, staring at her plate, at the fruit, at anything but him.

After what seemed like an eternity Miguel cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, “it looks like it is going to be a nice day for a tour around the town, don’t you think?”

“I suppose it is for now,” she said, utterly relieved. Leave it to the British to talk about the weather. She smiled at him. “Though it will, without a doubt, become annoyingly warm and wet this afternoon.”

Miguel suppressed a smile and handed her a mango. “We’ll just have to find ourselves a cool, dry place by then. Do you know of any place suitable?”

Maria laughed as she took the fruit and cut it open. “I doubt there is such a place in all of Maracaibo this time of year.”

“What, then, do you typically do when it gets unbearably warm and wet?” Miguel took a yellow passion fruit, and Maria raised her eyebrow at his use of a belt knife rather than the provided cutlery. He met her eyes, raised his own eyebrow, and popped the fruit into his mouth. Maria rolled her eyes at his silliness and stood.

“Come; I’ll show you,” Maria said, waving the mango at him to follow.

Miguel grabbed a mango of his own as he stood and followed her through the garden. The covered walkway between the buildings artfully overflowed with foliage on either side, it’s arching pillars framing the garden before him. Near the corner of the main house, the long leaves of a roble cast strategic shadows across it all.

“You know,” Miguel began as he stepped up beside her, “it’s been such a long time since I’ve been in a real garden, surrounded by so many lovely plants and things.”

“Why no, I didn’t know, but I appreciate you enlightening me.” Maria gave him a playful shove.

“I’m offended!” Miguel set his nose pompously into the air.

“Well, you should be!” Maria waved her half-eaten mango under his nose with her other hand set firmly on her hip. He burst out laughing, taking the mango from her. It warmed her to have made him smile.

“Well, I never!” Maria gave him a thoroughly scandalized look and walked away with her head held high.

Still laughing, Miguel caught up with her in two long strides and again set her hand in his elbow. Maria grinned as she steered him toward the courtyard.

“In all seriousness, I do love a well-kept garden. Especially ones that are so full that you can almost feel the wilderness just waiting for a chance to push through,” Miguel said wistfully, pulling a large, ball-shaped pink blossom from the tree that stood before the hacienda’s gates. “I find them full of such beauty, I think that’s one of the reasons I chose to stop here. There’s just something incredibly alluring about the jungles. More so here than any I’ve seen before.”

Maria nodded as they passed through the smaller side gate. “I know what you mean. I find the jungle sounds comforting. On clear nights, you can hear it here in the hacienda, as though it’s come right up to the walls. I’ve never actually been all the way out to the jungle, and just thinking about it fills me with nervousness. And yet, there’s a longing, too. I even dream about it sometimes.”

“That’s pretty brave of you, I think.” Miguel popped the last of the mango into his mouth before continuing. “Not the dreaming, I mean. I doubt there are many women who would willingly brave a jungle, especially with all the wild animals and the natives.”

“I’m not so worried about the natives. There’s been peace between us and them for some dozen years now. Mestizos work in the city and the plantations. My father employs several, and they’ve never given me any bother.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Miguel guided her to the side of the road to let a wagon pass. “Tell me more about Maracaibo. What is interesting about it?”

Maria laughed. “What do you want to know?”

“Just anything. How old is it?”

“That’s an interesting question, actually,” Maria said with a smug smile, secretly proud of the stubbornness of her people. “The city itself has actually been built three times. The first time was in 1529 by Ambrossius Ehinger, an Hessian, after conquering the Coquivoca, who were native to the area. He named the city Neu-Nürnberg and the lake after their chief, Mara, who was killed in the fighting. The Spanish renamed the city Maracaibo when we took possession of it, and that name has stuck. They abandoned the city a few years later. It has been reestablished twice more since then.”

“The Gulf of Venezuela is heavily sailed by pirates,” Miguel said. “Is there much history of raids here?”

Maria nodded, noting that he was still wearing his cutlass. Had he slept with the thing strapped to his hip? “Some. Not as much recently, but in the early 1600s there were a lot more. The most famous, of course, being when Henry Morgan attacked the city about seventy years ago. He moved on to Gibraltar, which is farther into the lake. They tried to block his escape back out to the Caribbean, but after he destroyed two of the ships blocking his way, the third surrendered.”

“What about the natives? Do they fight with the Spanish much or is there peace?”

“Well, like I said, there’s been a sort of peace for about a dozen years. The Wayuu to the north have organized a couple of major rebellions, the first at the turn of the century, and then again when I was four years old. I can’t imagine there should be more strife from them.”

Miguel nodded and changed the topic, asking about her favorite memories. She told him of the various adventures she and her friends had had with her dog. Excited to share, Maria led them through the business district to the dock where she’d first seen Alistair.

“I can still remember the crazy accent the man used!” Maria screwed up her face as she switched to English. “‘This li’l fella needs a home,’ he said. ‘A ship hardly be a place for a lil’ thing to grow up. Take care of 'im, and he’ll be as good to you as 'is mother’s been to me.’” Maria grinned wryly as Miguel laughed at her attempted accent.

“That’s about the worst slaughtering of English I’ve ever heard! I’ve known some sailors with atrocious accents, but never with a Spanish lilt to their cockney.”

“Well, see if I ever share anything with you again,” Maria said with a smile.

“But I don’t think I’ve ever heard my native tongue so sweetly abused.” He gave her a wink that made her blush. “You’ll have to do it again for me sometime.”

Maria laughed and rolled her eyes. She’d never known a man to be so silly and inclined to laugh. Her father laughed, but he was never silly. Most of the young men the Doña allowed them to socialize with were stuffy and wrapped up in their own interests, or too shy to speak coherently.

They continued on, and she pointed out the stand in the market where they’d once stolen some fruit. Elisa, Betania, and Selena, of course, had gotten little more than a lecture from Doña Olivia. Maria’s father, however, had repaid the merchant twice the value of the stolen fruit and then made her work off the debt with him.

“I’m sure it would have been worse if my father hadn’t intervened,” Maria said. “But I wasn’t worried; Papa is always able to make things right.”

“You really love your father, don’t you?” Miguel stopped near the berth of La Soledad.

“Of course.” A smile grew on Maria’s face. How could she possibly express to him all that made up her father? “He is a giant among men, good and kind and patient. He can do almost anything he puts his mind to.” Almost. The thought put a crack in her smile, and she shook her head.

“You’re fortunate to have him, then.”

“What about your father?” Maria asked.

Miguel shrugged. “He died a few years ago.”

Maria wasn’t sure what to say to that.

Miguel started up the gangplank, but stopped, turning back to her. “Maria, you do know ....”

She raised her eyebrow at his hesitation. “I know a lot of things.”

Emotions flitted across his face, and she wondered if what he settled on saying would be what he meant to say. Finally he shook his head, and gave her a wink. “You know, you should stay ashore while I go get my pay. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be here.” Maria rolled her eyes at him and leaned back against a stanchion. So, no, he hadn’t said what he’d meant to. Probably something about missing her father if he died, as if that was something that might happen. Not likely. Don Ciro was in his prime, and he would be around to see his grandchildren get married and to guide and help her whenever she needed him.

When Miguel returned, they continued their tour, talking and enjoying each other’s company as the day wore on.

“Maria,” Miguel cut in when they stopped at the market for a bite to eat. “The food is as lovely as the company, but eventually, I will need to stop at the tailor’s to be fitted for some new clothes.”

Heat crept up Maria’s neck. How could she have forgotten? “Of course. This way.” They ate in a comfortable silence as they walked along the colorful, noisy streets to the tailor’s.

“Do you think the musicians plan their performances?” Miguel asked as they turned down a street and the ambient music changed smoothly from one cadence to another, more somber one.

Maria laughed. “I’d never actually noticed before. I suppose there is always music here, isn’t there? I think I’d go crazy if I lived in town; there’d be no peace from it.”

“I like it. It’s like the heartbeat of the place.”

They slowed, and Maria gestured to the tailor’s shop. “Miguel?”

He turned toward her with a half-smile, waiting for her to continue.

“Why did you use the names Elisa and I suggested?”

Miguel hesitated only a moment. “I thought they sounded nice.”

“But what is wrong with your real name?”

“Miguel is my real name. Well, Michael is my real name, but I thought I’d go with the more Hispanic sound. It’s easier to say.” Despite his nonchalant tone, he had tensed at the question, not unlike her father did when asked about her mother. Perhaps she’d be able to get it out of him later.

“Bienvenido!” A voice called from within the shop, and Miguel and Maria turned to see a short, pudgy man waddle out to meet them. A smile lit his face when he recognized her.

“What can I make for you, señor?” the tailor asked Miguel, gesturing them into the shop.

“Clothes, I imagine,” Miguel said with a wink for Maria.

“Miguel has hired on as my father’s assistant,” Maria cut in before the tailor could respond. “His extended time at sea has left him somewhat bereft of suitable attire, and Don Álvarez requests he be properly outfitted.”

“Of course, señorita. As you say.” The tailor gave her a slight bow and turned his hawk-eyed gaze on Miguel.

He stood a little straighter as the tailor accosted him with his measuring tape. Maria turned to go but turned back at a strangled sound from Miguel.

“Don’t abandon me,” Miguel mouthed to her over the short man’s shoulder.

Maria laughed. “I’ll be down the street at the general store. Come find me when you’re done.”

“If I can remember where it is,” Miguel called after her as she stepped through the door.

Chapter 4

THE HEAT AND HUMIDITY neared the point of insufferability when Miguel found Maria perusing through the market. She stood in the shade of her parasol, in her pale green dress accentuating her gentle curves, and her glossy black hair tumbling down her back. One hand held the parasol lazily against her shoulder, spinning it absently to cast dancing patterns of light across her skirts. The other held a book up for inspection. Some of the gloom she’d worn about her like a cloak the first time he’d seen her had reappeared. It wasn’t right; she was meant to laugh.

Miguel stepped up behind her and leaned over her shoulder to set his face beside hers. “This is not the general store.”

Maria gasped and spun, moving to hit his intruding face with the book, which he prevented with a deft block. “You ...!”

“Me.” Miguel took the book from her hand and looked at it. Robinson Crusoe. “This is a good book. Not only does it contain an entertaining story, but I hear it’s good for hitting people in the face.”

“So you’ve read it before?”

“No, but I have nearly been hit in the face with it before, and I hold the wielder of such a weapon in the highest regard as an authority on things with which to hit me in the face.”

“If you’re not going to purchase that, please put it down,” the skinny merchant running the booth said, wringing his hands.

Miguel turned to Maria, offering her the book.

“Have you really read it?” Maria asked. “Is it any good?”

“A man shipwrecked on a jungle island? You would like it.”

She hesitated a moment longer before taking it from him, and the merchant visibly relaxed. How would it be to not be treated like an untrustworthy barnacle? Well, he’d had a taste of that when he’d met with Señor Álvarez, and he’d liked it. Perhaps with time, people would stop looking at him askance. He gave a wry grin as Maria finished her transaction with the merchant, telling him to charge her father & have the book delivered. Well, time and a better accent.

Miguel tucked her free hand into the crook of his arm as they moved on. He enjoyed the gentle weight of her hand on his arm, like an anchor keeping him from wandering adrift in the world. A cool breeze gave a sharp contrast to the heavy heat that had been growing since the morning, cooling the sweat that gathered on his neck.

“Maria, it appears to be getting a bit warm and damp.” Miguel dabbed at the sweat on his forehead and neck with a kerchief.

“Miguel,” Maria replied. “That is an understatement.”

Miguel discreetly watched the color rising in her cheeks, the blush enlivening the smooth, olive-toned skin. “Maria, I seem to recall you mentioning that you have a remedy for the heat and forthcoming rain.” He hoped she would glance up at him with those large, dark eyes.

“Miguel, I certainly did.” She gave him a coy smile, and he wished for another cool breeze to save him from the growing heat.

“Would you, could you tell me how you stand it?” Careful there, Mick. The inner voice of warning nudged at him.

“I would, I could ... but I shan’t.” Maria gave him a sweet smile, and he pushed aside his concerns. Being friendly wouldn’t cause any harm, and she needed distraction from her gloom.

“Fair maiden, you are cruel!” Miguel grabbed at his heart, and her laughter filled him.

She was so easy to talk to, and so quick to smile. A welcome change from the dour, stifling moods of his shipmates. It felt so good to make someone smile again. She was like fresh air blowing in through a stale hold, bringing with it all the promises of a new day. Of a new life.

“Ah, I recognize this place,” Miguel said as they passed the crossroads where she had left him the day before.

“What powers of recollection you have.”

“Indeed. It is where, yesterday, four angels left me, taking with them the light of the world. We now follow their course.”

“I see. Angels, you say? I’ve never seen any angels around here.” Maria elbowed him playfully as they walked. “Perhaps you can tell me about them?”

“Well, I recall they were about your age. Two were sisters, one their cousin, and one who just didn’t quite fit in at all. Perhaps you could tell me more.”

“I suppose I ought to prepare you. I wouldn’t want you to inadvertently insult one.”

“They might smite me, and then where would I be?” Back on La Soledad? Never. He kicked a stone, more viciously than he meant to, off to the side of the road. Every step seemed to plant him more firmly ashore, which was fine by him.

“The youngest, Elisa, and the oldest, Betania, are sisters, Señoritas de la Cuesta. Doña Olivia Palomo and Don Sergio Díaz are their parents, Señor and Señora de la Cuesta.” The girls’ family were plantation owners, then. It didn’t surprise him. They wore their wealth and privilege in their walk, in the way they held their heads, in the way they looked at him as he came ashore, and they didn’t even know it.

Maria had paused, and he nodded to her to continue. “Selena is Elisa’s cousin. Doña Olivia took her in when her mother, Doña Olivia’s sister, Natalia, died.”

“So Elisa and Betania are sisters, and Selena is their cousin. That explains them, but how do you fit in?” Miguel asked.

“I thought you just said I didn’t,” Maria poked him in the arm. “My father knew Señor Díaz from when he was with the East India Trading Company.” Miguel cringed at the mention of the Company. Don Ciro hadn’t mentioned that. “So when my father settled here, they became business partners, and Doña Olivia helped to raise me.”

“But what about your mother?”

“There’s not much to tell.” Maria shrugged, shifting the parasol on her shoulder. He wondered how much it actually helped with the heat. “My parents married before my father settled here. She died shortly after I was born. Nana told me that he was so heartbroken over it all that he couldn’t bear staying near her family anymore, so we came to Maracaibo. Nobody here knew her other than Nana and Papa, and so no one really talks about her.”

“Not even your father?”

“He doesn’t like to talk about her. I think ....” Maria smiled sadly and gave his arm a slight squeeze, as though trying to pull something lost back to herself. “I think it hurts too much. I asked him once, when I was very young. He got upset and locked himself in his study. I didn’t see him again for three days.”

Maria turned him down a palm-lined drive that, from the description Don Ciro had given him the night before, Miguel assumed led to the Díaz plantation. A rich earthy aroma rose around them as they neared the large house. The building surrounded an elegant courtyard on three sides, with a fountain in the middle. Arcades lined the building in a similar fashion to the hacienda, but with none of the Álvarez home’s warmth. The two story building had a stark elegance, from its patterned drive to its ornate decor.

“Casa de la Cuesta, I take it?” Miguel asked.

Maria nodded as she removed her hand from Miguel’s arm. “It overlooks both the plantation grounds and much of Maracaibo itself. From the topmost stories, you can even see Lake Maracaibo.”

The heavy wood door opened with an unsettling silence as the elderly butler let them in, instructing them to wait in the foyer while he sent for Doña Olivia. The enormous room felt cavernous to Miguel, with its musty, humid air, cold stone flooring, and extravagant tiling. Arrogant bits of art were scattered here and there. It probably made some statement about their lineage or some such thing. A person could get lost in a place like this, and not just physically. Maria stood apart from him, and the loss of her steadying hand only intensified the feeling.

The crisp click of a woman’s footsteps drew Miguel’s gaze. The woman gave an appearance of height that she didn’t actually have. With her upswept dark blond hair and eyes that managed to look down at him despite her lesser height; she could only be the lady of the house.

With a formal air that ill-suited her, Maria stepped forward to introduce them. “Doña Olivia, may I present Miguel Blanco del Mar, newly arrived in Maracaibo on the merchant ship La Soledad and is currently employed by my father.”

Miguel bowed.

“Miguel, may I present Doña Olivia Palomo Mingo, Señora de la Cuesta.”

“Mucho gusto, Miguel.” Doña Olivia inclined her head. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. My daughters have said much about you.”

“Mucho gusto, Doña Olivia.” This woman was about as friendly as an iceberg. Well, never let it be said he didn’t try to be friendly. Miguel gave her a playful smile. “I hope it’s only good things they’ve been saying.”

Doña Olivia actually smiled. Imagine that. “Here come my daughters. Miguel, my daughters, Betania and Elisa Díaz Palomo, Señoritas de la Cuesta.”

The young women in question rushed down the sweeping, curved staircase until a sharp look from Doña Olivia slowed them. Elisa and Betania curtsied beside their mother. Sweet Betania kept her eyes down, but Elisa, with her eyes full of fire and trouble, looked him full in the face.

The Doña gestured to her other side where the fourth angel appeared from the hallway, dark like her aunt but taller than her cousins. “And my niece and ward, Selena Abano Palomo.” Selena’s curtsey, as perfectly proper as the others’, spoke only of mild curiosity.

“Betania, Elisa, Selena, this is Miguel Blanco del Mar—” Doña Olivia arched her eyebrow at Elisa, who had snickered at his surname “—whom you have already met.”

Miguel bowed again, clutching his hands into fists to avoid doing something outrageous, just to see what would happen. Don’t be an idiot.

Selena gave a nod to Maria and in a soft voice said, “Why, Maria, dear, it would seem you’ve picked up another sea pup.”

Doña Olivia gave her a sharp, reproving look. Now what was that about?

“Only this time she wasted no time naming him!” Elisa added. Were they actually comparing him to the dog? The señoritas all giggled at the quip, and even Doña Olivia hid a grin. It stung, but he hid it behind a bewildered look at Maria. She blushed and looked away. So the comparison was to the dog. But Maria hadn’t laughed. He clung to that.

“That’s enough,” Doña Olivia commanded, still trying to hide her amusement. “All of you will go, now!”

The four girls curtsied again and practically scampered off.

“Not you, please,” Doña Olivia said to Miguel. “I’d like a word with you. If you will follow me?”

“Certainly, Señora,” Miguel again bowed, all playfulness gone, and followed the mistress of the house.

“DID YOU see the look on his face?” Selena laughed when they reached the girls’ private garden.

“Honestly, what kind of surname is Blanco del Mar?” Elisa chimed in, careful to stay beneath the awning despite the fact that the rain had not yet begun.

“His face? Did you see your mother’s face?” Maria shot back.

“If I got to choose my surname, it would be something far more romantic.” Elisa removed her shoes to play in the sheltered pond beneath a canopy of well-manicured trees, their branches brilliant with their yellow and pink blooms.

“That really wasn’t a nice thing to say, you know.” Betania took a seat near the edge of the pond.

“You should lighten up, learn to have a little fun.” Selena splashed water at Betania, who shrieked.

“Did you know that the British take their husband’s surname when they get married?” Elisa went on.

“What were you doing with him, Maria?” Betania moved to a spot further from the water, trying to maintain the dignity of being the oldest.

“Yes, tell us!” Selena insisted.

“I don’t know that I would want to change my name. Elisa Blanco del Mar. It just sounds so ....” Elisa shrugged and tossed a flower petal into the water.

“Bland,” Betania finished for her sister, and Elisa nodded.

“Well, turns out my father invited him to stay with us for a time,” Maria said, determined not to blush. She could imagine how they’d turn on her like hounds at the first scent of her wild emotions.

“What?!” Elisa, finally shocked out of her own thoughts, looked up. “You mean you really have taken in another sea dog?”

“He’s not a dog,” Selena said.

“But a more handsome sea dog I’ve never seen.” Elisa smiled. “Tell us what he’s like?”

“Did you have supper with him?” Betania asked.

“Did you take him home with you last night?” Selena asked.

“Were you alone together?” Betania asked.

“Yes, we had supper together, but no, we weren’t alone; my father was there.” Maria tried to answer the questions as quickly as they came. “He had already spoken to my father and was there when I got home.”

As Maria paused for breath, more comments flooded in to fill the space.

“I wonder if we could get him to stay with us.”

“He’s so handsome! Did he say why he wears that cutlass?”

“Does he talk a lot? He looked so serious today.”

“Do you think he’s seen many battles?”

“Don’t you think his eyes are so dreamy?”

Maria gave up on following what everyone was saying and sat down on the edge of the fountain with a flower in her hand, trailing it along in the water.

“My goodness!” Doña Olivia’s voice rang out over them, “You’d think none of you had ever seen a young man before.”

Maria jerked up her head, looking in Doña Olivia’s direction and hoping Miguel had not heard them. Relief and disappointment flooded through her to realize that he was not there. She wrinkled her nose at the sensation.

“Where’s Miguel, Mama?” Elisa asked.

“He remembered some errands Don Álvarez requested that he do today. He will return later to escort Maria home.” At the crestfallen looks of her charges Doña Olivia added, “Don’t get too attached to him. There are plenty of other men in Maracaibo. Plenty who are not sailors.”

Selena turned away at the last, and Maria wondered if Doña Olivia saw how much her words hurt. The older woman left the girls to themselves, and Maria wished she had just brought the book with her, rather than sending it home.

Maria moved to the bench beside Betania and leaned back, resting against the large, sturdy trunk that stood beside it, its long thin leaves reaching out far above them. She closed her eyes and just listened. It had been a long day so far, and her feet ached. If it weren’t for the risk that Elisa would start asking her questions again, Maria would have removed her shoes and rested her feet in the cool pond. The babble of the water that ran into their little pond mixed with the tentative return of birdsong as the girls settled to their interests.

She inhaled, savoring the full feel of the air that smelt of forthcoming rain, but not yet. There was a telltale change in the air, in the sound of the wind, in the very trees it seemed, that stole over the world just before the rain would fall. And it was not yet.

A rustle of paper beside her caused her to open her eyes, and Maria sat up. Betania startled, and quickly folded up the letter she’d been reading, setting her hand over it.

“What’s that?” Maria asked with a grin, reaching for the letter.

“Nothing.” Betania jerked it away and shoved it into her pocket.

“Really? It looked like a letter to me.”

“It’s just a letter from Rosalina,” Betania mumbled.

Maria grinned. “And full of her brother’s regards, no doubt.”

Betania blushed, and Maria nudged her gently. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you’ve got secret designs on a certain darkly handsome young man.”

“You’re one to speak of handsome young men,” Betania retorted.

Maria’s heart stopped. Did she know? How could she know? Frantically, Maria ran through her behavior from the last day. Certain she hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary, her heart resumed its normal beat. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Betania’s light laughter sounded right at home along with the garden’s birdsong. “I’m not blind. You light up when he’s around. I thought you’d be under a little storm cloud for at least a month when you lost Alistair, but you showed up today actually smiling.”

Maria shook her head. “It’s not like that. He’s a silly fool, and he makes me laugh, that’s all. Besides, it’s like your mother says. He’s a sailor. He’ll leave eventually, and I want a stable life with my husband at home with me. And a sailor could never give me that.” But even as the words left her mouth, Maria felt a twinge of shame. Her father had been a sailor once, and he was a fine man. The best, really.

“But what if it’s love?” Betania said. The wistfulness in her voice made Maria suspect she wasn’t thinking of Maria’s feelings.

“I wouldn’t know.” What did she know of love? The image of her father’s pained face when he thought of her mother came to mind. Nana said he’d loved her mother very much. “But I imagine real love takes more than a day.”

MIGUEL WALKED AROUND the cocoa plantation, the hot, heavy breeze moving around him, full and earthy smelling. So unlike the briny, cold air of life on the ocean, always overlaid with the aromas of wood and tar and sweat. Walking beside a long, thick row of shoulder-high cacao trees to one side and a row of tall, shady palm trees on the other—a pattern repeated across the entire field—brought fuzzy memories of running along the neat rows of another field. Memories buried by years and half a world‘s worth of water, and without a need for revival.

Don Ciro’s proposal intrigued him, but he was more excited at the prospect of stable, respectable work. Not that sailing hadn’t been respectable; it just hadn’t been the same the last few years. He wanted more from his life than endless repetition of menial tasks, strict orders, and constant discipline. He believed now, after talking with Doña Olivia, that this job would certainly fit that bill.

“So, Don Ciro has taken you on to be his ‘assistant,’ has he?” Doña Olivia had said as she led him toward a parlor, in the opposite direction from the girls.

“Yes, Señora.”

“He’s been considering doing just that for a long time but never found the right man. I’m sure he has already explained to you what he will be holding you responsible for, si?”

“Indeed, Doña Olivia. Don Álvarez is a very thorough employer.” Miguel gave her a level look. Despite his earlier misgivings, the woman was treating him with respect. A welcome surprise.

“That he is, Miguel. That he is.” Doña Olivia strode toward the door and gazed over the gardens with their wide gravel paths, almost maze-like hedges, and flowers of all colors accentuating it all. Miguel followed, humbled by the shadow of respectability Don Ciro had cast over him. He would work hard to avoid disappointing such a man.

“It would appear that Maria trusts you,” Doña Olivia continued. “She’s a nice girl, but naïve. Ciro Álvarez is a good man but not one to cross. You mustn’t ever be less than serious about what he’s hired you to do, do you understand that?”

Miguel did, and he’d told her so. He was never less than serious about paid work. Satisfied with his reply, she had instructed him to familiarize himself with the plantation grounds. Before they’d parted, she’d added a warning.

“These girls are not to be hurt.” Her voice had all the grave authority of a captain, and he’d stood straighter, despite himself. “Don’t get too close to them. If I ever find that you broke their hearts, you will wish you’d never been born.”

Miguel’s hand had twitched toward a salute, and he’d gripped his cutlass instead, bowing with a “Yes, mum.”

Doña Olivia had given him a curt nod, then swooped away the way she’d come.

Miguel rested his hand on his cutlass as he explored, reaching the end of the row. As he turned back toward the gardens and the house, the warm rain finally began. It felt so right to have the weapon there again, like an old friend at his side. The only true friend he’d ever had.

He hadn’t lied when he’d told Maria that he was tired of a sailor’s life, but this had been just another port, a stopping-off point on the way to something better. He could hear the girls’ laughter coming from beyond the walls of their enclosed garden. He walked along the wall, looking for flaws and footholds, anything that would help him watch over it and its patrons. One laugh stood out to him over the rest, musical and entrancing. Perhaps Maracaibo could become home.

Chapter 5

AUGUST 1739 – MARACAIBO

THE WORST OF THE HEAT had passed with the afternoon sun, and the rain had become a light misting in the air. A fresh carpeting of yellow tree blossoms covered much of the garden. Maria yawned and stretched, flipping through the pages of the book she’d been reading.

“I couldn’t agree more.” Betania closed her own book.

“Shall we attempt to find our lost puppy?” Elisa asked, tossing a flower into the pond. “I hope he hasn’t wandered too far, or that Mama didn’t scare him off.”

“I’m sure he has plenty of more important things to do for my father than wait around for us.” Maria waited for her friends to pass through the gate before following.

“Why, Miguel, wherever have you been?” Selena called out from beyond the gate, her voice dripping with honey.

Surely she was making fun?

“Ah, lovely señorita, I have but been in search of thee all day.” Miguel’s playful tenor voice and British accent were unmistakable, and a bubble of joy fizzled through Maria as she followed her friends out the gate.

“Just me?” Selena asked, and Maria hid a smile at the sight of his flamboyant bow.

“Alas, no. Thee and thy companions three,” he said with mock seriousness. He bowed to each of them as they giggled. “I’m afraid I have been terribly lost.”

“It is most fortuitous, then, that we have found you.” Elisa stepped up to him and took his arm.

Miguel’s gaze paused on Maria for a moment and then turned back to Elisa as she led him down the path. Or was Maria just imagining things? Selena took up Maria’s arm, jolting her from her thoughts. Shrugging, Maria linked her arm through Betania’s and the five of them returned to the house.

MARIA THOUGHT MIGUEL enjoyed himself as the girls led him on a tour of the de la Cuesta plantation. After an early supper, Miguel suggested that he and Maria be on their way, and she was only too happy for the excuse to leave.

“I’m still not convinced that going through the town is truly the fastest way,” Miguel said as they walked through the bustle along the docks. A parrot swooped down across the street, making Miguel duck and push Maria behind him. She laughed and pushed back as the bird continued into the trees that stood between the nearest warehouse. He gave it a rueful look and straightened his jacket. “If I had to guess, I’d say you just love looking at the lake.”

“Then you’d guess wrong.” Maria slowed, leaning against a post to look out over the water. The waves moved serenely, lapping against the hulls of the many ships that waited in the harbor. “As much as I love the lake, it is actually the fastest way to get to the eastern side of town by foot.”

An awareness of how close Miguel stood to her as he watched the people on the dock distracted her from her thoughts. He shifted, drawing her eye as he checked his cutlass and leaned his other hand casually atop the pistol she had seen just beneath his coat. The restless murmur of the people mixed with the harbor’s water, filling the silence between them, spiced by the familiar scents of lake water, life, and food. The palafitos floated in their distant silence atop it all as the shadows stretched across the lake.

“Do you suppose life is any simpler there?”

“What do you mean?” Miguel tilted his head toward her.

“I mean—do you think the Marabinos have it easier? It looks so simple and peaceful, living your life out on a lake. No need to wear a certain dress to dinner or hold to useless formalities. No loss, no pain, just floating on the lake. Is life simpler on the water?” Maria kept her eyes forward.

Miguel turned, looking for a moment at the floating village. “No, I don’t believe that it is. I’ve been many places in this world, seen many types of people, and they all have their formalities. Their own cultures.” Miguel turned back toward the market and Maria watched him from the corner of her eye. “Loss and pain? That seems to be inherent in human nature. On the sea, death becomes an intricate part of life, like work. It is simply what life is.”

Maria looked south, across the narrow neck of water toward the open lake. Somehow, that didn’t seem right. Surely there was some place a person could just be happy? “My father told me that when a person dies at sea, they’re sewn into a canvas bag and given to the water. He says that most sailors think it’s bad luck to have a dead body on board.”

“Indeed.”

He watched her turn back to the water as the nightly Catatumbo storm gathered in the distance. Miguel’s shipmates had told him of it, but this was his first chance to actually see it. The distant flickering lightning contrasted with the growing darkness but did not have the power to illuminate the world around them. He watched her watching the waves of the lake with her large, dark eyes. The soft breeze gently lifted the loose strands of her black hair from her face. It danced about, taunting him, begging him to reach out and tuck the hair back behind her ear. His eyes followed the curve of her lovely neck down her back to her trim waist. He allowed himself a moment more of watching her breathe, admiring the way her deep, even breaths subtly moved her body. She was beautiful.

She shifted her weight, bringing him back to himself. With a silent curse at his foolishness, he made a cursory glance across the nearly empty docks.

“My father also told me that sailors who die ashore would rather be returned to the sea than given a proper burial, though that’s not what he wants.” Her voice was full, thick with emotion.

“Most do, but they generally don’t talk about it much. Figure life’s too short to worry about dying, I suppose,” Miguel said, unable to keep the trace of bitterness from coloring his voice as he watched a passer-by.

“A dear friend of mine died a couple of days ago. We sent him out to sea the night before last from right here.” Maria picked at the wood of the rail.

Don Ciro had mentioned that, and he’d wondered when she’d bring it up.

“I do believe I saw you then. La Solidad was anchored nearby, and I was on deck. I saw you come and slip something in the water and watch it on its way.” He looked at her. “Who was it?”

“My protector and friend.”

Ice filled Miguel’s stomach like a dunk in the English Channel, and he tightened his grip on the cutlass. “What happened to him?”

“He was in an accident, was run over by a carriage.” Maria’s voice thickened. “I dreamt of him last night. He stood by me and seemed to say everything would be all right. My father gave me full responsibility for him, and I raised him the best I could. He saved my life at least once, here on this very dock, and now he’s gone.”

The dog. Relief filled Miguel like coming up for air, and he held back a laugh. It’s just the silly dog. He put his arm around Maria’s shoulders as she sobbed softly. She was so young.

“Come, Maria. Let’s get you home.” He gently urged her forward and started toward her home.

MARIA WAITED ALONE in the tall grass near the edge of the jungle, but for what, she wasn’t sure. A playful breeze pulled at her hair, and tossed it about her shoulders as she looked up at the sunny sky. It ought to be raining; it always rained here. She could see the city off in the distance, could smell the fresh cool scent of the lake mingling with the thick earthy tones of the jungle behind her.

The grass behind her rustled, and Maria spun around. To her surprise and joy, Alistair leapt up at her, nearly knocking her off her feet.

You rascal, you! Maria hugged him as he dropped back to the ground. She playfully knocked his head to the side, tugging on one ear. The large dog seemed to smile as he pushed back, and she fell to the ground, his short, wiry fur rough against her skin.

Maria laughed gleefully as they wrestled until she finally pushed him off and he sat beside her.

You really had me worried that you’d gone, she told him as she rubbed his ears.

He turned and looked at her, a sad little smile in his eyes.

Oh. Maria slumped.

They sat like that for a time, until Alistair stood and began to walk back toward the city.

Where are you going?

He stopped and looked back at her, his head cocked as if to say, Are you coming?

She stood as he pranced playfully away, then came loping back. Laughing, she ran toward him and chased him until she woke.

“STILL DREAMING OF ALISTAIR?” Betania asked one August afternoon as they lounged in the garden.

“Often enough.” Maria returned the stone chess pieces to their box. If she hurried, Elisa might not notice they’d finished and ask for a game. Selena was safely asleep with her embroidery on her lap.

“Think Miguel plays?” Betania settled in the last of her pieces.

“He does, and better than you.” Maria smiled, the familiar feeling of warmth in her chest at the mention of her father’s assistant.

“What does he do all day, anyway?”

Maria shrugged as a warm breeze fluttered through the trees. “Important things, no doubt.”

“And yet he always manages to show up right when you need an escort.” Betania gave Maria a look, and Maria laughed.

“It’s not like that.” Maria shut the box and set it aside. She didn’t want to talk about how he made her feel every time she saw him. She didn’t really want to think about it, either.

“But you wish it were.”

“Am I that obvious?” He was just her father’s employee. Certainly her feelings would move on to someone more appropriate with time.

Betania laughed and stood. “No, I’m just that observant.”

“You’re done?” Elisa said, making Maria jump. “It’s my turn against you, Maria. I’ll win this time, I’m sure of it.”

“Light or dark?” Maria, resigned to her lot, offered Elisa the box. Maybe if Elisa chose her color, she wouldn’t whine when she lost this time. Without hesitation, Elisa picked the light pieces and sat, fanning her blue skirt over the seat.

Within minutes, Maria had Elisa cornered three different ways and ready to mate in two moves. Elisa stewed over the pieces, pulling on one of her dangling, blonde curls, while Maria tried to decide if the younger girl would move or knock over the board. How Elisa could be nearing her quinceañera and still have such a wild temper, Maria couldn’t fathom.

At the sound of the gate opening, Elisa jumped to her feet to see who had come.

“That’s one way to avoid losing, I suppose,” Maria muttered to Betania, who merely looked up from her book.

A young page stood just inside the garden gate, fiddling with a pouch in his hands.

“Well?” Elisa snapped at him when he didn’t speak. Maria watched the exchange with mild interest. She should probably just call it a forfeit and put the board away.

“Señorita Elisa.” The young page’s words rushed over each other. “I have been sent with a message for each of the four of you.” The boy stood straighter in an attempt to look composed and held out an envelope to Elisa.

She snatched it from him with a sniff and held her hand out for the rest.

Maria felt a pang of sympathy for the poor mestizo boy as he gathered his nerve to speak.

“My instructions were to deliver each one personally.”

“Can you not see that they are all here?” Elisa swept her hand toward the others. “They all see you; they heard that you have something for them. Now give them to me and go.”

The boy shrank back from Elisa, dropping his gaze to the ground. “I cannot,” he said in a small voice.

“I will see you dismissed.” Elisa stomped her foot and she held out her hand again.

That’s enough of that. Maria stood and strode toward them, knowing what would happen if she didn’t intervene.

The page boy again shook his head, and Elisa raised her hand to strike.

“Elisa!” Maria grabbed Elisa’s wrist. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Let go of me! This is no affair of yours,” Elisa huffed, but she withdrew, throwing the page one last glare before stalking away to a bench, her back to the group.

Maria watched her go. At least the chess game was over.

“What’s going on?” Selena’s sleepy voice came from the corner.

“This page has messages for us.” Maria gestured to the boy and smiled as he handed her the folded paper with her name scrawled elegantly across it. “What is your name?”

“Juan,” he answered timidly, his eyes still lowered.

“Thank you, Juan,” Maria said with a large, warm smile.

Juan looked up and flashed her a grin of his own before hurrying to Selena and Betania.

“You did the right thing, doing as you were instructed,” Betania told him as he handed hers and Selena’s to them. “I’ll make sure Elisa doesn’t cause you trouble for this.”

The boy bowed and dashed from the garden, clearly grateful to get out of the situation.

Maria’s eyes dropped down to the letter she was holding. It wasn’t any handwriting she was familiar with. Who would be writing to all four of them? Intrigued, she opened it.

My Dear Dark-Eyed Angel (Maria),

Maria grinned. Miguel. Why was she not surprised?

You are hereby invited to an evening of fun, food, and ghost stories. The frivolities will commence this very evening. A carriage will arrive at the Casa de la Cuesta at six o’clock sharp to carry yourself and your three companion angels to the secret location.

Your current attire will suffice, but if you or your companions wish to don additional frills, that would be acceptable. There is no need to RSVP (or inform your father, as he has already been apprised of the situation), however you will be asked to provide entertainment during the latter part of the evening in the form of a ghost tale.

You will be returned to your home eventually at a decent hour. I greatly look forward to your presence.

Your servant,

Miguel

Maria’s heart warmed to be holding a paper that he had written on. Written her name on, no less. She rolled her eyes at her own reaction and refolded the letter, tucking it safely into a pocket. Don’t be such a fool. He wrote them letters, too.

“It would appear we have been invited to dinner,” Selena said, stretching.

“Oh! How exciting!” Elisa’s petulance had evaporated as quickly as it had come. “I know just the story I want to tell!”

“We’d better go get cleaned up.” Betania stood demurely, as though to balance her sister’s exuberance. “Elisa, stop bouncing so much. You’re not a child anymore, and it is not as though it is the first dinner invitation you have ever received.”

“Yes, it is.” Selena snickered despite her attempts to mimic Betania’s composure.

“Hmph!” Elisa stuck her nose in the air. “I’m not even sure I want to go; it seems so drab and boring.”

The opportunity was too good to pass up. Maria wadded up a handful of leaves and threw them at Elisa. “You’re just worried you’ll be frightened by the scary stories.”

“I am not.” Elisa huffed, flicking the leaves from her dress, but missing one that stuck in her hair.

Maria smirked and began toward the gate, with Elisa following.

“It’s not that,” Betania said as she and Selena followed suit. “She’s just worried that Miguel will think her tales are childish.”

“If she can think of any at all,” Selena chimed in, stepping a little faster to get ahead of Maria.

“I’ll show you all!” Elisa attempted to beat Selena to the gate without breaking into a run. “My story will be the best you’ve ever heard!”

“Only in your dreams,” Maria said, as she and Betania moved to overtake the younger two girls through the gate. Before long, they had left their calm demeanors behind, racing back towards the house without a care in the world.

By a quarter to six, the four girls stood in the loggia beside the front door of the large house, primped, polished, and wearing simple jewelry. Elisa and Selena had done their hair up in semi-elaborate styles. For a time they had entertained the idea of dressing up as silly as they could manage, but, to Maria’s relief, better sense prevailed.

A coach pulled around the fountain, stopping before them, and the other three tittered at its obvious age. It was an older style, and lacked much in the way of embellishments, but was obviously well kept. Maria recognized the vehicle immediately as one of her father’s. Now why would he be using that one? The coach, as was typical of things under the care of Don Ciro, had been well cared for, but they hadn’t used it in years. It looked to have been re-outfitted with drapes over the windows and a couple of other decorative touches, as though to disguise it.

Maria also recognized the familiar form of Diego, who had been one of her father’s drivers for as long as she could remember. She smiled at him as he pulled the horses to a stop with a soft, “Ho there,” and leapt down to open the door. Elisa muttered about a footman as Maria let the other girls in first, giving them their choice of the seats. She nodded to Diego as he helped her in and shut the door behind her, pulling closed the drapes.

“It’s all right, you can leave them open,” Maria said to him.

“Forgive me, Señorita, but my instructions were to close them.” Diego gave her a small bow and retreated to the driver’s seat.

“Why do you suppose Miguel needs the blinds closed?” Selena asked as the coach started forward, rocking gently.

“He said the location was secret,” Elisa whispered.

“I tend to think he just wants it to be a surprise, don’t you think, Maria?” Betania asked.

Maria nodded, her mind on the horses that had been chosen rather than the conversation around her. The horses were an older pair, but well-matched and steady. Like most of Ciro Álvarez’s possessions, they were finer than one might initially believe, given their appearance; well-trained, well-used, and well-maintained. But why those two? Her father didn’t have a large stable by any means, but he hadn’t used Alonzo and Sancho for the carriages for several years, not since he’d purchased the nearly identical chestnuts.

The carriage pulled to a stop only a couple of minutes after they’d started, and Maria shook her head. They were either halfway back to the village or had simply circled around to another spot on the plantation grounds. As she braced herself for the tell-tale rocking of the coach as the driver got down, the door flew open to a chorus of startled gasps.

Chapter 6

“WELCOME SEÑORITAS!” Miguel stood before them, holding the door open. The golden tones of sunset filled the air around them as he held his hand to help her down.

Maria’s heart beat a little faster as she set her hand in his. His fingers tightened around hers, warm and firm, as he steadied her while she stepped from the coach. His other hand, under her elbow, seemed to make her world solid in a way it hadn’t been before. She looked into his green eyes, his smiling face, and her breath caught in her throat. Before she could get lost in the depths of his eyes, he broke contact, reaching to help Betania.

Desperate to clear her head, she stepped away, glad that she had managed to keep her balance when he let go. She immediately recognized the small grove as one well within the bounds of the de la Cuesta plantation, just out of sight of the house. Maria nearly laughed at the silliness of it. Diego must have taken a long, circuitous route to have made the ride so long. On the other side of the grove stood a small table with a clean, pale tablecloth. The simple yet elegant decorations of local flowers framed the spread of food, punch, and dishware. A fire pit encircled by benches awaited them in the center of the grove.

“Oh, it’s lovely!” Elisa exclaimed. Maria turned in time to watch Elisa stepping from the coach, and she could have sworn Elisa misstepped purposefully, toppling into Miguel’s arms with an “Oof!”

“Careful.” Miguel smiled, swinging her away from the coach, and set her feet carefully on the ground.

“Oh, Miguel! I could have died!” she cried, with her arms still about his neck.

“Not likely with that hard head of hers,” Betania muttered to Maria and Selena as they joined her.

“Well, you’re safe now.” He pulled her arms gently from his neck.

Maria felt a surge of anger well up inside her, but she quickly pushed it back down. Why should she let it bother her? Elisa was just a flirt, and Maria didn’t care that much about Miguel anyway. Did she?

The coach pulled away and Maria shook her head, making her way to the table. The golden light of sunset gave way to true twilight, and several servants appeared to light the torches that surrounded the clearing.

“It’s amazing that it hasn’t rained,” Maria said to Miguel as he and Elisa came up to them.

“I spoke with the rain gods this afternoon, and they informed me it would be clear all night,” Miguel answered solemnly, sliding his arm from Elisa’s grasp. “Come, help yourselves to the food. I’ll get the fire started.”

“I’m famished.” Selena picked up a plate and delicately added food. The other three followed suit, then took a seat on the benches to watch Miguel attempt to light the fire while they ate.

“Are you sure you know how to build one of those properly?” Selena asked while he moved the wood around in the pit.

“I can’t imagine why a sailor would need to know how to build a fire.” Elisa took a seat, spreading out her skirt with a flourish.

“Unless he was the ship’s cook,” Betania offered, sitting beside Maria.

“Potato boy, maybe.” Elisa giggled.

“I’ll have you know there are many reasons to build a fire when you’re a sailor,” Miguel said without turning his head from his work.

“I’d like to see that,” Maria continued, ignoring his comment. “I can just imagine him swinging that sword of his around to slice the potatoes!”

“The proper name for it is a cutlass,” Miguel interjected.

“Back, you fiendish potato!” Selena stood, waving her fork at an imaginary potato as the girls giggled. “Back, I say, or I shall cut you to bits! No? Well, you asked for it! Whack! Whack! Whack!”

Selena straightened haughtily and bowed with a flourish of her fork to the girls’ applause. She paused for a beat before grinning and returning to her supper.

“You laugh now, but those potatoes can be awfully dangerous if you let them get out of hand.” Miguel rocked back on his heels as the fire flared up before him. “And, while yes, I have cut up my fair share of potatoes, you’ll have to guess again. I did not work in the galley or the mess, at least not since I was very young. And I would never use my cutlass on a potato.”

“Well, if you didn’t travel the seas trying to rid the world of evil potatoes, what did you do?” Betania asked.

Maria’s eyes followed him as he rose and went to the table.

“I sailed on a merchant ship.” Miguel filled his plate.

Elisa tucked her skirts closer as she watched him from the corner of her eye, making space on her bench, presumably for Miguel.

“I’m not sure that will help any,” Maria whispered to Betania, with a nod to Elisa. “There’s not enough room on that bench for more than herself, her skirts, and her ego as it is.”

“Hush.” Betania elbowed her, stifling a giggle.

“It’s true though, and you know it.” Maria poked her back.

“Did you ever encounter pirates?” Elisa asked, batting her eyes at Miguel.

“Maybe.” He walked around the fire, bypassing Elisa to sit on a bench of his own. Maria smiled at Elisa’s pout. “But the sailing itself really wasn’t very interesting, got kind of monotonous after a while.”

“Do you ever miss being at sea?” Selena asked.

“Sometimes.” Miguel shrugged. “I miss the beauty of the sunsets and the uncertainty in a storm. Other things.”

“What other things?” Elisa asked, returning to the table for a glass of the punch.

“Well,” Miguel hesitated, staring at his plate. “Seeing new things,” he finished, faltering over his words.

“There are plenty of new things to see here,” Selena said as Elisa returned with her glass and sat right next to Miguel.

Betania leaned over to Maria and whispered. “I think he means women.”

Maria blushed and nodded her agreement. She hadn’t thought about that before. Did he have someone special awaiting his return on some distant shore?

“Tell us about some of the exotic women you’ve seen,” Betania said. “What kind of things do they wear? Do they act very differently from civilized Europeans?”

“Well.” Miguel stood, trying to disentangle himself from Elisa without upsetting her drink. “Voyages take a very long time, so while I have been to the other side of the world before, I don’t remember much of it. The ship I’ve been on for the last few years didn’t travel to exotic places.” He managed to finally slip free of Elisa, and Maria smirked at her perturbed look until Miguel strode up to them. “May I sit between you two angels?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Maria whispered loudly to Betania. “Do you really think we should?”

“I mean, would it be safe? I still think he’s some sort of potato pirate or something,” she replied.

“Potatoes are one thing,” Miguel said, lowering his voice and giving them a pleading look, “but I think your sister’s amateur attempts for my attention are another.”

“I agree. We should take pity on him,” Betania concluded, and they moved apart to let him sit.

“I am much obliged to you good ladies.” He nodded to them as he sat.

THE JOKING AND BANTER continued throughout the meal, punctuated by a round of word games and riddles. The word play fascinated Miguel, giving him insight into his newly adopted language. His father had always said that truly knowing a language was different from being able to speak it.

As the sky darkened, revealing the brilliant stars overhead, the servants removed the remaining food, dishes, and even the tables. From the corner of his eye, he watched Maria’s face in the firelight as she looked toward the house with a thoughtful look. What was going through that mind of hers, behind those dark eyes? She wouldn’t be able to see the lights of the house through the thick trees. The plan had been to make it seem they were secluded, though the household would certainly be able to see their fire. Don Ciro had loved the plan when Miguel suggested the location.

“Come, let’s have some stories!” Selena’s voice interrupted Miguel’s thoughts.

“I suppose it is late enough.” Miguel said, drawing his mind back to the present. “Who should go first?”

“You!” Elisa practically jumped out of her seat with enthusiasm. “I’m sure you have the scariest stories of all, collecting them from all over the world.”

“Sure do.” Miguel nodded. “But what fun would it be if the best story went first?”

“Are you saying that our stories couldn’t possibly be as good as yours?” Maria poked his side. He swatted at her hand, and she moved back, grinning up at him.

“I think that is exactly what he is saying,” Selena said. “Who would like to go first, then?”

“I will!” Elisa bounced up and moved to stand opposite the others.

“This is a tale of two young lovers, tragically separated.” Elisa began with a note of melancholy in her voice.

“Oh, great,” Betania muttered. “Not this one again.”

“Once, many years ago, there was a beautiful young princess,” Elisa continued, flicking her hair. “And she was in love with a charming prince.”

“Of course he’d never be a scoundrel prince,” Maria returned quietly to Betania, who snorted.

Miguel smiled, trying not to laugh as they teased the oblivious narrator throughout her story. Selena, however, was as enthralled by Elisa’s story as Elisa was in telling it. The story of the two young lovers who had been separated through mischance might have been worth listening to from a better narrator.

“I’m going to guess they both die,” Miguel whispered to Maria.

“Careful, she might throw a flaming potato at you for spoiling her story,” Maria whispered back.

“It’s okay,” Betania added, leaning forward to look at Maria. “He’s brought his cutlass, he’ll be fine.”

“Sure, he will be, but what about us? We’ll be splattered with bits of flaming potatoes, and then where will we be?”

Several retorts came to mind, and none of them appropriate. Biting his tongue, Miguel reluctantly returned his attention to Elisa’s story. Sure enough, the young man died, and the girl waited for him in her garden until she, too, died. They clapped politely while Elisa curtsied with a flourish and returned to her seat. Maria raised an eyebrow at Miguel, asking his opinion of the tale.

“Flaming potatoes aside, seems stupidly tragic to me,” he whispered to her, “but I suppose I can see the draw in it for girls.”

“So you’re saying they don’t have such tragic tales of love among sailors?” Betania asked, her voice low as Selena took Elisa’s place.

“Sure, or close enough. A better narrator might be able to pull it off, but it’s a fool who mopes themselves to death for not getting her way.”

Maria nodded, and Selena began.

She surprised them all with a ghost story without a single element of romance. Miguel hadn’t thought she had such practicality in her. The tale of a ghost who possessed his still-living friends in his lust for blood and revenge sent a chill through Miguel. He’d heard stories like this before, but sailors tended to be a superstitious lot, and there was always an undercurrent of real fear when such tales were told. In the end, the ghost had succeeded in destroying his friends, both those who had betrayed and those who had helped him, and had been left alone, doomed to wander through the centuries alone in his misery to torment the unfortunate soul who next passed his way.

Selena’s voice faded into the night, and Maria was the first to applaud.

“I didn’t realize you were such a storyteller,” Miguel said as Selena curtsied.

“Gracias.” She beamed at the compliment and she returned to her seat. “It’s actually a story that was told to me by a friend of my father’s the last time they were in port.”

“That makes sense, then.” Miguel rose to add wood to the fire. “I’ve heard similar stories in my travels. In fact, I almost picked one such to tell tonight. I’m glad I didn’t, though. You told it far better than I would have.”

Selena blushed and looked at her hands. “Are you going next, Betania?” she asked, drawing the attention away from her.

“Certainly.” Betania stood, taking a moment to brush away non-existent dirt from her skirt and moving with her typical deliberate grace. Taking her place on the other side of the fire, she gazed into the fire, centering herself. What sort of tale had this down-to-earth, quiet young woman brought, Miguel wondered as he returned to his seat beside Maria.

Squaring her shoulders and lifting her head, Betania took a deep breath and began to sing an Italian aria. Her pitch was perfect, and her unaccompanied voice was clear and strong. Given Maria’s stunned look, Miguel guessed that she’d never heard her friend sing. Not like this anyway, and he found himself impressed. Betania often sang quietly to herself, as reserved and shy in this as everything else he’d ever seen her do. Listening to her sing, really sing, was something else. There was a strong, powerful personality hidden behind that reserved and quiet exterior.

The final note of her crisp voice hung in the air for a moment after the song ended, mixing with the crackling of the flames. Miguel stood and clapped loudly, breaking the spell. Maria and Selena joined enthusiastically. Betania ducked her head and returned to her seat.

“I didn’t know you could sing like that!” Selena exclaimed. “Did you, Elisa?”

“Of course.” Elisa crossed her arms and refused to look at her sister. “It wasn’t as though it was great or anything.”

“You’d have to be deaf to think that wasn’t amazing,” Miguel said with a laugh, and moved to stoke the fire. Betania blushed again and Elisa snorted as Miguel continued. “I suppose that just leaves Maria.”

“Only because you’re afraid our stories are better than yours.” Maria said, taking her place across the fire.

Miguel returned to his bench, watching her. She moved in a way that was subtly different from the others. He could only describe it as more solid, more true, as though each movement was a deliberate way to say, “This is me.”

“This is a story my duenna, Nana, told me long ago.”

“This is supposed to be scary stories, not nursery tales,” Elisa cut in with a groan.

Without so much as a glance at Elisa, Maria continued. “It is a story about the natives of this land, the Wayuu. They have passed it down, father to son and mother to daughter, through the generations.”

Elisa snorted again, and Miguel settled back against the hard bench, excited for a taste of local legend.

“Many generations ago, long before the arrival of the Conquistadores, the Wayuu, a free and proud people, were also a peaceful people. One day, a stranger arrived. It is not remembered how he came, whether by ship or some less ordinary means. All that is known is that he came. He appeared on the shore, a young man with skin pale as the moon and hair the color of sand. He moved with speed beyond sight, and with strength enough to crush stones with his bare hands. The people, always friendly, welcomed him. But the elders, who conversed with the spirits of the dead, were wary.”

A slight breeze pushed through the small clearing, pushing the smoke toward Maria as she spoke. She stood her ground, and the breeze changed directions, taking the smoke with it.

“The stranger spoke to them with a silver tongue and endless patience. Eventually, much as the elders had feared, the stranger lured the more foolhardy youth from their homes with promises to grant them their hearts’ desires. By the time anyone had realized the deception, it was too late, for youth had been enslaved, both body and mind.

“There was nothing anyone could do to free them, nor were the victims able to free themselves. They were in the stranger’s complete control.”

Miguel could almost see the figures in the fire, caught by things beyond their power. He could sympathize with them. Wasn’t that always the way things went? The sage and wise warn the young and foolish to follow the way and be wary of the stranger, and always it ends the same—with the young fool enslaved for following his dream.

“Not many years afterward, another stranger came to them with the same uncanny qualities as the first. This time, the Wayuu were cautious. The newcomer professed to have noble intentions, wishing only to free them from the captor who’d stolen their very lives. Unable to find a better way, the Wayuu agreed to a price that seemed reasonable. With the help of the Noble One, the Slaver was defeated.”

And what of the youth that had been enslaved? Miguel tightened his hand on his cutlass. No doubt, destroyed in the crossfire.

“The Noble One remained among them, teaching them new ways to defend themselves. He helped prepare them for further invaders to their land, so that when our people first came here, the Wayuu were not destroyed like many of their cousins. They were not impressed by our pale-skinned ancestors whose speed and strength were that of any ordinary man’s. To this day, the Wayuu remember the slavery of the first stranger and continue their fight, for it is said that so long as they remember they will always be free.”

Maria fell silent, and returned to her seat.

“That wasn’t much of a ghost story,” Selena said. “It wasn’t even scary.”

“Besides, who wants to hear some stupid native legend?” Elisa chimed in. “Everyone knows that someday those savages will be tamed and cultured, the same as all the rest.”

“Perhaps they don’t want to be.” Betania’s voice had returned to its typical quiet reticence.

“How could they possibly not want to be?” Elisa asked. “What do they have that is better than what we could give them?”

Try as he might, Miguel could not think of an answer that Elisa would understand. He shook his head and glanced into the shadows beyond the trees. A figure moved through the shadows and gave him a signal. At Miguel’s nod, the figure melted back into the darkness. Miguel cleared his throat and stood.

“My turn, I think, señoritas,” he interjected into the pause of the conversation, conscious that many of the lingering servants were mestizos, half-breeds between the Spaniards and natives. “Despite all of your concerns, I am not afraid that my tale will fail to live up to yours.”

He walked with surety, his familiar jacket swirling about him and his left hand resting lightly on the hilt of his cutlass which swung at his side. He knew well how to radiate the aura that he was a dangerous man, and how to utilize it to good effect. He stopped far enough back from the fire to cast shadows across his face as he smoothed the laughter from it. For the final touch, he ran his hands through his hair, pulling just enough of it loose to frame his face with a casually disheveled look. Taking a deep breath, he began his tale.

“Everything has an origin.” He could feel the stillness of the girls watching from across the fire. “Every large tree was once a tiny seed; every roaring river begins as a small spring. So, too, did every legend begin, each having a source from which it springs, each having a seed of truth from which it grew.

“I have traveled the world and heard many, many stories. But I have found that in every place, certain tales resurface over and over again. One such is a tale of a beautiful woman who is part fish and tied to the water.” He met Elisa’s gaze, holding it as he continued. “Though the type of fish and the body of water differ, as does, occasionally, the fate of the man who finds her. But she is still there. King Arthur’s Lady of the Lake, Jason’s sirens, Atargatis the mermaid, water nymphs and naiads. Even the Orient has their version, the Ningyo of Japan.

“Another such tale is that of a great flood that overcame the Earth,” Miguel continued, moving his gaze to Selena when Elisa finally broke eye contact. “In the Christian world, we know it as the flood of Noah, but for Egypt, the world began with a flood from which the first queen of Egypt arrived. In Greek mythology, Zeus sent a flood and killed almost every living man but a few who escaped to high mountains. The Hindus tell a tale of Manu, the first man, who saved a fish, and the fish warned him of the deluge to come and to build a ship, then the fish guided the boat to a safe place. There are many, many more examples, but these are not the tales I wish to share tonight.

“Tonight, I will tell you of another legend that spans the globe.” He released Selena and turned his intense stare to Betania, who wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Perhaps it even shares its origins with Selena’s ghosts and Maria’s strangers. It is a tale of a creature who feeds off the very lives of the living—a drinker of blood.

“Now, as I said before, the tales of the blood-drinkers span both history and the globe, from Kali in India, to Sekhmet of Egypt, to the Jiang Shi of the Orient. The most common name for such creatures here in the West is ...” Miguel paused, locking eyes with Maria, and dropped his voice. “... vampire.”

Elisa and Selena gasped, and Betania shuddered a little at the word. Maria watched him, meeting his gaze with an intensity of her own.

“I am certain each of you have heard before tales of these demons.” Miguel broke eye contact with her before it could distract him. Keeping his voice low and haunting, he continued. “But it is easy to disbelieve stories that happened generations ago. No, my story tonight happened not so long ago, in our very lifetimes, in fact.

“The year was 1725 in the village of Metwett. It was a nice village, as such things go. And though the people were poor, struggling in the aftermath of the recent wars, they were happy. There was one man, Arnold Paule, who had been sent there as a hajduk, a militiaman to protect the borders during periods of peace.” Miguel swung his cutlass from its sheath and saluted in a smooth and practiced motion. The girls’ startled gasps made him grin. He flourished the sword a moment, then returned it to its sheath.

“He was charismatic and friendly and the villagers took to him quickly. There was a tale he loved to tell to anyone who would listen. He claimed that he had once been attacked and bitten by a vampire, infected by its evil. However, due to his quick wits and extreme courage, he had cured himself of its deadly taint by eating the soil from its grave and smearing himself with the corpse’s blood.” Here, Miguel stooped down and grabbed a handful of warm dirt, letting it slip through his fingers.

“The villagers, considering themselves to be grounded and sensible people, refused to believe such wild, nonsensical tales. But then ... something happened.” Miguel dropped the remaining dirt and began a slow circuit around the fire.

“One day, as Arnold Paule helped a neighbor bring in a harvest of hay, he suffered a mishap. No one knows quite how it happened, but Paule fell from the wagon and broke his neck, dead as a nit. Terribly unfortunate, the people thought. But that was all they thought about it, and Paule was buried with due ceremony.

“That, however, was not that. Not three days after his funeral, an old woman walking home from the market saw him standing by the side of the road, beckoning to her.” He reached his arm out to Selena, who recoiled. He grinned and continued on. “Startled, the woman walked faster, pretending she had not seen him. But Paule was not to be deterred. He followed swiftly and silently behind her until she reached the safety of her home. He continued to harass her each night, waiting just outside her home for her to come out. By the end of the week, she had begun to go mad with fear and went out to face the revenant.”

Miguel stooped to pick up a branch, pausing as he returned to his starting point on the far side of the fire. Crouching down, he poked at the fire and continued. “She was found dead the next morning, with bite marks on her neck and entirely drained of blood. By the end of the month, three more had died in the same manner.

“Scared, the villagers sought the advice of Paule’s commanding officer, a foreigner who had seen such things before. He led them in the opening of Paule’s grave, and can you imagine what they found?” Miguel paused and stared into darkness beyond the fire, watching the girls shift in the periphery.

“When they opened the grave of Arnold Paule, a full month after he had broken his neck, they indeed found his body. But rather than a dead and rotted corpse, they found it fresh, and far healthier-looking than Paule had ever been in life.” Miguel rose slowly, his eyes still downcast toward the fire. “His mouth”—Miguel ran his hands over his own lips—“was covered in fresh blood, dripping down onto his shirt. His nails and skin, regrown. Certain now that Paule had, after all, become a vampire, they drove a stake into his heart.” Here Miguel slammed his stick into the center of the fire, and a shower of sparks rose around it. He lowered his voice again and continued. “And Paule? He groaned once more as the latest, fresh blood from his victims oozed out from the wound.”

The silence that followed drew on for a moment before Elisa asked breathlessly, “What happened then?”

Miguel shrugged and in his regular voice said, “They burned his body, and, for good measure, gave the same treatment to his four victims.”

“Did that stop the killings?” Selena asked, shivering in the darkness.

“Until the next vampire came,” Miguel said with a careless gesture.

“Are you going to tell us about that one, too?” Betania asked.

“Nope; you all told only one story tonight, and so did I.” Miguel rolled his shoulders and looked up at the moon advancing across the sky. “Besides, it’s far too late for any more tonight, I think.”

He returned to his seat between Maria and Betania as the girls began their typical chatter. Except for Maria, who watched the flames dancing in the darkness.

“What do you see?” she asked Miguel after a moment.

“See? Do you mean aside from the dark-haired angel before me?” he teased.

Maria laughed and gestured toward the dwindling fire. “No, I mean in flames. Do you ever look at them and imagine they’re alive?”

“Sometimes.” He looked at the flames, moving like wisps of thoughts, insubstantial as the passing of moments. “There is something about a fire in the darkness that I think most people are drawn to, in one way or another.”

“I like to watch them dance. When I watch long enough, they seem like little faeries flitting to music only they can hear.” A gentle breeze pulled loose a lock of her hair, which Maria tucked behind her ear.

Miguel nodded and stared into the flames. “The fae are often thought to be seen in the flames. Some people like to imagine the future when they look, and others only see the past.”

They lapsed into silence, though he thought she might ask which he saw. Just as she seemed to have gathered the courage to ask, the coach returned to the clearing, and the moment was lost. He looked up to Diego, the driver. Meeting his eyes, Diego gave a tight smile. All was clear. Relief washed through him as a tension he’d been ignoring dissipated. Standing and straightening his jacket, he cleared his throat to get the girls’ attention.

“Well my angels, it appears to be fairly late,” Miguel announced, his voice chipper. “It is definitely past time I returned you all to the safety of your homes.”

Giggling and teasing each other, including a scream from Elisa when Selena poked her side, the four girls allowed Miguel to help them back into the coach. Miguel pulled himself up beside the driver, and they took the direct route back to the Casa de la Cuesta. After dropping off the Señoritas de la Cuesta with their cousin, Miguel joined Maria inside the cabin. He sat across from her, hoping she might restart their conversation, but she watched thoughtfully out the window. After a minute or two, he settled back, his right hand resting on the butt of his pistol just inside his jacket, and closed his eyes to listen to the familiar creak of the carriage.

Chapter 7

OCTOBER 1739 – MARACAIBO

MARIA LISTENED WITH HALF an ear to the chatter of the girls as they sat in the drawing room of Casa de la Cuesta, droning on like the buzzing of insects as they patched old clothes to give to the poor. The skin on her neck itched with the sweat that lay on it, and she wished she could flick her ear like a horse to dislodge the noise. Instead, she patted her damp neck with a handkerchief. Not that it would do any good, of course. Maria set her stitching on her lap and stretched her shoulders discreetly. The hot season was not her favorite time of year, but, thank goodness, it would be over soon. She’d probably have been less wet if she’d jumped in the lake. Now that was an idea. Really, anything was better than spending all afternoon sewing.

Without warning, Elisa jumped up from her darning, startling Maria and silencing the other girls.

“We should have a ball!” Elisa clapped her hands.

“Took you all day to think of that?” Betania muttered, turning back to her stitches.

“I’m serious! The weather will be turning soon, so it would be cool enough to dance all night.” Elisa still stood, a gleeful gleam in her eye.

“A ball would take months to put together,” Betania objected.

“So let it take months.” Elisa’s voice turned pleading.

“We’d need to host it here,” Selena said.

“Of course it would need to be here,” Elisa said with a laugh. “Where else could it be? It’s not as though the ballroom at the Álvarez’s provincial little hacienda could hold a real ball. It would be perfect here!”

Maria let the slight against her home slide. They had a perfectly serviceable ball room at the hacienda, even if it wasn’t as grand as the Casa de la Cuesta. Really, Maria wanted to contradict her just because of the obnoxious tone, but a ball did sound fun.

“It could be a masked ball.” Selena kept her voice small.

“Yes! We could invite everyone in Maracaibo–” Elisa started.

“No,” Maria cut her off, resuming her stitches. She could feel their eyes on her, but she remained stoic.

“No?” Elisa asked with a pout. “Why ever not?”

Maria raised her eyes and gave them a coy smile. “Not everyone in Maracaibo, but perhaps a masked ball for all the eligible young men and young ladies.”

“With sufficient chaperones, of course.” Betania lowered her stitches and a grin grew on her face.

“Of course!” Elisa bounced about and pulled Betania to her feet.

“If we time it right we could have it outside, in one of the gardens,” Selena said breathlessly. Elisa pulled her to her feet as well.

“We’ll have to make a guest list, and plan out flower arrangements and what kind of food we should have! Oh, there’s so much to plan!” Elisa was set to bounce right off the balcony if she didn’t rein in her excitement a little. “Can you imagine? A ball at the Casa de la Cuesta! Hosted by the four of us! None will have ever seen the like!” Elisa’s face was aglow with the vision in her head.

“There’s only one problem, Elisa.” Maria said, genuinely hating to be the bearer of bad news in this case. “We’ll have to clear it with your mother.”

The girls slumped back down into their chairs.

“It might not be as grand,” Maria offered into the silence, “but I’m sure my father would allow it at our home if she turns us down.”

Elisa scoffed. “Who would want to go to a ball hosted by a merchant’s daughter, Maria? Really? Besides, I'm sure mother won’t tell us no.”

“Elisa,” Betania chided, shocked.

Maria had it on the tip of her tongue to tell Elisa she wouldn't be invited if she found the hacienda so provincial when Doña Olivia’s voice came from the doorway.

“What will I not tell you no about?” Doña Olivia stood in the doorway with her hands planted on her hips.

Maria and Selena looked at Elisa, who looked pleadingly at Betania, who stared at the floor before her feet.

“Well?” Doña Olivia prodded after a moment with a hint of a smile in her voice. As it wasn’t her idea, Maria felt no need to speak up. Besides, if Doña Olivia turned them down, she could always approach her father.

Finally, Betania squared her shoulders and looked at her mother.

“Mother,” she started firmly, and Maria gave her a sharp look. She’d never spoken so boldly about anything. “Maria, Selena, Elisa, and I have decided to host a masked ball. We would be pleased to hold it at the Casa de la Cuesta, with your permission.”

Selena and Elisa gaped at Betania’s request, but Maria couldn’t help feeling proud of her friend. Certainly Selena was the most timid, but Betania had never shown any sort of backbone to anyone. Anyone she perceived to be her better, at any rate, and that certainly included her formidable mother.

Unaccountably, Doña Olivia smiled. “I’ve often felt of late that the Casa de la Cuesta has been quiet for far too long. The last real party we held here was just after Elisa was born, a few years after we arrived. I can hardly believe it has been so long. Tell me, girls, what are your plans?”

She took a seat and sent a servant for a pen, ink and paper. Selena took notes as they schemed. For the most part Doña Olivia let them make all the decisions, though she pointed out potential problems and overruled things that were too outrageous.

In the end, they settled for an evening in January, though the girls had hoped for a Yule ball, when the rain would be least likely and the evening decently cool. With instructions to create a guest list, Doña Olivia sent them out to their garden.

The humidity in the garden wasn’t much better than it had been in the house, but as the task was far less dull, Maria didn’t mind it as much. They sat along the side of the small pond, their feet in the water as they giggled more than discussed who should be invited and who should not.

“Rosalina Garcia Arce definitely needs to come.”

“Yes, but not her sister Juana, she’s so snobbish!”

“Well, we can’t very well invite the one without the other,” Betania mediated.

“Very well, we won’t invite either,” Elisa said.

“What about their older brother, Benito? He’s too gorgeous to not invite,” Betania said.

“I suppose his beauty might make up for his sisters.” Maria shrugged, fiddling with a wreath of flowers she’d been braiding.

“Not to mention how graceful he is at the dance.” Betania looked wistfully into the pond.

“And just how would you know?” Elisa demanded.

“She couldn’t take her eyes off of him at last year’s Yule celebration.” Selena snickered as she wrote down the names.

“I remember now! He asked her to stand with him in a dance, but she was too tongue-tied to answer him.” Maria laughed as Betania blushed.

“Well, this year I shall be old enough to go, and you can bet you won’t see me standing alone,” Elisa said.

“Now remember, we mustn’t tell anyone about this until the invitations are sent.” Selena looked pointedly at Elisa, who had the good grace to blush.

“Like Mother said, also, we really must be sure to send an invitation to every family so that none feel snubbed,” Betania said. “After all, Papa does business with nearly every respectable family in Maracaibo.”

“And all the rest belong to Don Álvarez!” Elisa tossed a posy Maria’s way.

Maria stiffened as she caught the flowers. “And just what are you implying, Señorita de la Cuesta?”

“She was just poking a little fun,” Betania said quietly.

“Really, Maria, it was just a bit of fun. We all know your father doesn’t deal with riff-raff,” Elisa began, almost sounding sincere. “Even if he is just a merchant.”

“Though he has taken to hiring sea dogs!” Selena put in merrily, oblivious to the change in mood.

“You’re right. All of you.” Maria’s voice was dangerously calm to hide her anger, drawing each of their eyes to her as she stood. “My father is an honest man. He lives off the work of his own hands rather than other men’s stolen backs.” Elisa turned red at the reference to the slaves that worked her father’s plantation, but Maria continued, turning her anger toward Selena. “And at least my father had the decency to stay and take care of his daughter when life dealt him a blow, rather than foisting her off on his in-laws and running back to sea.”

Selena’s eyes widened in shock and hurt, and Betania put her arms around her.

Shaking with fury, Maria replaced her stockings and shoved her feet into her shoes, her trembling fingers barely able to tie the laces. Clenching her jaw to keep from saying more, she straightened and headed for the gate.

As she opened the heavy, wrought iron grill she heard Betania call softly after her, “At least we all know who our mothers are.”

Tears blurred Maria’s vision as she fled.

She ran blindly down the way, away from the plantation, when something quite solid knocked her onto her backside. She was grateful it had been dry enough lately that the road wasn’t all mud. With a groan, she looked up to see what she’d run into, only to be blinded by the sun.

“I knew angels could fly, but I didn’t realize the use of said wings blinded them,” a lovely voice said from the sun as hands gently helped her to her feet.

She fumbled around for a moment, straightening her skirt and hair and drying her tears on the proffered handkerchief before turning to her helper.

It was Miguel.

For a moment she couldn’t move. She couldn’t breathe. Then, as if taking all the time in the world, he reached to her face. She turned her face toward him, closed her eyes and ....

Time slammed back into motion as he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and picked a leaf from her shoulder. She turned away from him for a moment, took a deep breath to compose herself, and then looked back with a smile.

Her smile nearly broke his heart. What had she just gone through to have a smile so filled with sorrow? Glancing toward the house, Miguel made eye contact with the servant who had been following her. The woman gave no indication that anything was amiss, so he nodded a dismissal, and the woman turned back to the house.

“Really, for a man who claims to have lived so long at sea, you do an amazing impression of a very large rock,” she said lightly, though her voice was still thick from her tears. With a quick look over Maria to assure himself that she was unharmed, Miguel simply chuckled and offered his arm. She took it and set a brisk pace away from the Casa de la Cuesta.

An anger inside him demanded to know who had upset her so he could return and teach them manners. Not that she’d appreciate such a thing. He smiled. It wasn’t really the smartest thing to do anyway. Besides, he was Don Ciro’s man, and his actions reflected on his employer. And on his employer’s daughter. Miguel stood a little straighter as they walked.

As they neared the town Miguel decided he’d given her enough time.

“So, truly, what onerous creature were you running from today?” he asked.

“Not onerous, perhaps, but certainly a terrible monster. With three heads.” Maria tried to sound nonchalant, but a quaver remained in her voice.

“Shall I return and slay it for you?” Miguel offered, pulling his cutlass part of the way out with his free hand.

“No, it is far too dangerous a territory for one such as yourself.” Maria cracked a smile.

It lifted his heart. Closing his eyes, he steeled himself. She made him happy, but he shouldn’t let it be more. He could not get overly attached to his employer’s daughter.

“But your father would be most displeased if he ever found out you were going into danger that I knew of but didn’t protect you from,” Miguel said, coloring his voice with mock hurt. Actually, he’d probably kill me.

“Ah, Miguel. The only way to save me from this would be to pack me up and take me some place where no one knew me. Or my father.”

“Are you certain that’s the only way?” Miguel swallowed. The warmth of Maria’s hand on his arm suddenly became far more noticeable.

“Either that or remove all the women from my life. Especially the short blond ones.” Maria managed a charming smile and batted her eyes at him.

He could smell the warm floral scent she wore, that of an unknown flower that reminded him of the sky at twilight.

“Ah, my lady doth ask much of me.” Miguel moved away to give her a wild and deep bow, flourishing his hands. The momentary separation did nothing to clear his head. “I think, of the two tasks lain before me, the former would be the nobler.” He paused and, winking, added in a loud whisper, “Not to mention the easier!”

Maria’s face brightened as she laughed. “Truly, Miguel, where did you learn such silly things? And for heaven’s sake, why?”

Miguel straightened and smiled back at her. “Truly, Maria, anywhere I could. As for the why, well, every man must keep some secrets from the ladies, else we would cease to be mysterious. But, for now, let’s say it was so that I could make a dark, lovely angel smile and hear her charming laugh.” Miguel again offered his elbow.

“Fair is fair. We can say that for now.” Maria took his arm in hers and continued on their walk. He could fight all he wanted, but the weight of her hand on his arm could not be denied. She steadied him, and seeing her happy filled him like wind in a sail. Just admit it already. He sighed inwardly, braced himself for the turmoil it would cause in his life, and looked over at the young woman walking beside him. All right, fine. I am fond of her.

They lingered in town, ducking into shops or under awnings at the occasional spurt of rain, and talked of unimportant things. Music of one sort or another hung on the air at nearly every corner as the day wound down and twilight fell over the town.

“I dreamt of Alistair again last night,” Maria said after a lull in their conversation.

“Was it the same dream you’ve had before?” Miguel asked, enjoying her nearness and the sound of her voice.

“Sort of. We were standing in the fields outside the city, the wind blowing across the grass. Normally, he would just come up to me, and we’d be together, but last night he started growling.” Maria looked up at him. “What do you suppose it means?”

“I don’t suppose it means anything more than that you miss your friend,” Miguel shrugged.

“I don’t know. It’s been months since he died, and even though I’m still sad sometimes, I’ve come to terms with it.” Maria pulled him to the side, out of the way of a lamp-lighter. “Maybe it means something is coming.”

“Or maybe he’s just mad at Elisa for upsetting you.” Miguel gave her a playful push as they walked.

She smiled up at him, but shivered as an unseasonably cool wind blew in from across the coast. “I wish I’d brought a shawl,” she said absently, rubbing her arms.

Miguel shrugged out of his coat and draped it over her shoulders. She pulled it close around her and inhaled his scent, enjoying the lingering warmth. He had newer coats but had found that none of them fit or moved quite as well as this one. A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned his head casually.

“We should go watch the lightning by the lake,” she said with an impish grin. “I’ll race you to the docks.”

The shadow turned into two men who ducked down an alley leading to the lake.

“It is getting quite late.” Miguel shook his head, all playfulness gone from his voice. He took her hand more firmly in his arm and began to walk.

“What is a little darkness?” Maria returned playfully, tugging his arm toward the lake, but she couldn’t move his solid frame. Was she trying to get herself hurt?

“And you are in danger of a chill,” Miguel said just as seriously as before, steering her down a well-lit street toward her home. He glanced across the street at a burly man who waited, half concealed by a cart. The same man he had seen at least three times in the last hour.

“What is a little chill air on an evening as pleasant as this?” Irritation colored her voice as she shrugged off his arm and turned back toward the lake.

Miguel bit back his own frustration at her childish stubbornness. He could pick her up and throw her over his shoulder, but it would severely hamper his ability to fight if it came to that.

“Maria, I must insist. It is late, and your father will be waiting for us.” He took her elbow firmly in one hand and set his other on the small of her back, again aiming her down the brighter street. His every sense became alert, scanning the quickly emptying street for threats.

She jerked her arm out of his grip and turned on him. “My father won’t mind a few more minutes, and besides, you’re in no position to tell me what to do.”

Miguel’s full attention snapped to her, and he gave her a stony glare. He could see it, the moment Maria became aware of the silence that filled the street. She hesitated a moment longer, fear warring with anger on her face. Holding her head up, she allowed him to lead her down the brighter street.

Finally. Miguel scowled. She’s come to her senses. Maria cast a glare up at him as he held her hand tightly in his elbow. Correction, he thought, not sensibility. Pride. He had better things to worry about just now than her pride. At least she was cooperating.

His free hand rested on the pistol at his hip as the burly man followed. Miguel sped up, and she matched his pace with a small sound of disgust.

As they neared the edge of town and the homes became increasingly distant from each other, their tail fell behind before disappearing completely. Miguel relaxed his grip on her arm a little, though his pace remained hurried.

“Miguel, what—!” Maria started angrily, but Miguel shushed her, gritting his teeth.

Save your breath in case we need to run, he scowled silently. The girl had no sense in her head. He almost wished they had horses.

Maria opened her mouth again as they walked.

Miguel shot her a glare, and whatever protest she’d been about to make remained unspoken. He continued without breaking his stride, but he could feel her fuming beside him.

The Álvarez hacienda came into view, and Miguel fought the urge to bolt for the safety of the walled estate. Slowing them to a more deliberate pace, he again tightened his grip on Maria’s arm. She tried to jerk away, but he refused to let go. What better place to surprise a person than within sight of safety?

Nothing moved in the shadows, and Miguel forced his lungs into slow, even breaths. Straining his ears over the sound of his own heartbeat, he listened to the silence behind them. As they neared the small side gate, it swung silently open, and they were through. Miguel pushed Maria behind him as he turned to secure the gate, and the watcher who had opened it for them returned to his post.

The solid sound of the gate’s latch sliding home released the tension in his chest, even as Maria jerked free from his grasp. Now that she was safe, he let her go, turning to see the burning fury in her dark eyes as his jacket dropped to the ground between them.

“How dare you treat me like that, Miguel!” She glared at him as a gentle rain began to fall.

Miguel picked up his coat and looked at her in stony silence for a moment, closing himself off. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean,” he said flatly and turned to walk away.

She grabbed his elbow, and he reluctantly turned back to face her.

“You know exactly what I mean. Dragging me around, hustling me about as though you were ashamed to be seen with me!”

“Maria!” a loud voice boomed, cutting her off from further accusations.

Miguel snapped up straight as Maria startled at the sight of her father striding toward them through the rain.

“Don Álvarez. M’lady,” Miguel said crisply, bowing slightly to them both before striding to the house. The rain was not enough to obscure the voices behind him.

“Well?” Ciro demanded, his usual patient tone entirely gone. “Can you account for yourself? Choosing to so abuse my assistant and our guest?”

“I abuse him?” Maria demanded. “He pulled me through the streets like, like ... well, it was undignified!”

“From what I saw, he escorted you home, safely I will add, and protected you from your own folly of staying out too late.”

“I was with him all afternoon! It is every bit his fault that we were out late as it was mine!”

Of course she would blame me. Another stone added to the wall Miguel was building around himself.

“Maria, listen to me. Miguel is a good man whom I trust, and I need you to trust him like you trust me. In the future, you are to do as he tells you.” Ciro’s voice was firm.

“But Papa! He’s so rude and conceited. Especially after tonight, I don’t believe I will ever be able to bring myself to speak to him again!”

What a fool he was. He was nothing to her but her father’s hired hand. Miguel held his head higher and refused to look back as he opened the door to the house as the rain began to fall in earnest.

“You listen to me, chica,” Ciro said, but what he had to say beyond that was lost to Miguel as the door closed behind him.

Chapter 8

THE CACOPHONOUS CRY of gulls filled the air as Miguel followed Don Ciro to the warehouse. The sun shone hot on their backs, and Miguel found himself almost grateful they were on horseback. He’d not have enjoyed walking so far in this heat. Next time, he would find some place cooler to stop. Or at the very least, less humid. Miguel rubbed at the sweat on his neck with his sleeve. Not that it did any good.

The thought of leaving pulled at him. His initial agreement with Don Ciro had nearly come to an end, but after the debacle with his daughter, Don Ciro had commended Miguel’s vigilance and offered him an early release. Miguel shifted in his saddle, trying to work sensation back into his knees. In the moment, Miguel’s pride had kept him from accepting, but now he wasn’t as sure. His horse, as though in response, moved closer to the trees that lined the road, bashing Miguel’s knee. How would it be to be back on the open ocean? The wind on his face and the vast unknown laid out before him? And no beautiful young women to confuse you or not speak to you for weeks.

“Do you suppose life is any simpler there?” Maria’s question sounded in his mind, and he shook his head as though to dislodge her voice. Without her around every day to complicate things, it certainly would be simpler. Leaving had an allure, but the specter of his father’s disapproval hung over him. He scowled. It wasn’t as though breaking his contract with Don Álvarez would damage the family name. His uncle ....

Miguel cut off that line of thought. His father was gone, and what was done was past. Maria, on the other hand, was not. He stretched in his saddle as Don Ciro pulled to a stop.

Miguel shoved aside his thoughts of the girl. He needed to focus. “Tell me again why you continue to do business with this man,” he asked as he dismounted.

His sable gelding turned to nip at him as his feet touched solid ground. Miguel’s legs still protested this new form of transportation, and his stomach felt queasy at the thought of trusting such a large and powerful creature with a mind of its own. He did his best to ignore them both. It was a new skill to learn, and he would do so without regard for fear or pain.

“Still nervous of the horse, Miguel?” Don Ciro clapped Miguel on the shoulder.

The gelding jerked his head away at the motion, and Miguel jumped back, his heart thumping. Don Ciro laughed.

“I’ll get over it,” Miguel deliberately stepped toward the horse, gently pulling its head back down, and handed him over to Dom, Don Ciro’s steward. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Maybe I was avoiding it.” Ciro straightened his jacket as Dom took the three horses, giving Miguel a look that said, Nice try.

“Let me ask you this.” Don Ciro led Miguel around to the front of the warehouse. “In all your years aboard a merchant ship, did your captain never take on cargo from a less than perfect vendor?”

“Of course he did, but I don’t know that they had ever wanted to kill us, either.”

“But say they did. Say you feared he planned to put pox on your ship intentionally. How would you stop him?”

Miguel gripped his cutlass as they neared the doors, rubbing his thumb over the pommel. Killing the man wouldn’t solve anything, not that he’d consider that an option anyway. His grip on the weapon tightened. He knew plenty of people who would think it a great solution.

Deliberately, he dropped his hand and forced his muscles to relax, noting his surroundings at the same time. The sun glared off the nearby lake, the breeze from across the water moved gently through the ever present foliage, and the street bustled with sailors and other folk going about their business. Dom and the horses followed behind.

“Not accepting merchandise from him wouldn’t be enough,” Miguel said, thoughtful. “It’d be a simple thing to sabotage your ship. Bad food, a turncoat on the crew ....”

“Or even pay off a harbormaster to declare your shipment diseased and burn your whole ship and all the wares.” Ciro nodded as he pulled open the doors. “So, how do you keep him invested in your well-being?”

Ciro stepped into the dark warehouse without hesitation. Miguel followed a step behind, his sword hand itching to draw. He hated the way Don Ciro strode into situations without bothering to assess them first.

“You’re late!” a voice, nasally and arrogant, called from the warehouse’s gloom. “I see you’ve brought your little protégé along. Feeling old are you, Ciro?”

Miguel blinked at the darkness, hoping to adjust his vision more quickly. Shapes began to form, and subtle shifts of movement in his periphery put him on guard. For a moment, he wished he kept the wall to his back, but Don Ciro continued forward and Miguel had to follow.

“Not today, Antonio.” Don Ciro grasped the hand and arm of a slender man, giving him a firm handshake. Miguel had never actually seen Gonza before, but the way he grinned back at Don Ciro like a dog baring its teeth, fit exactly with what he’d heard.

After a moment of silent battle between the two merchants, Miguel cleared his throat. The shapes around them had, by now, resolved into crates of merchandise and at least six other men.

“Yes, well.” Gonza released his grip and stepped away from Don Ciro. He waved his right hand in a careless gesture, but a glint of motion from the left caught Miguel’s eye. Would Gonza really have knifed Don Ciro, given the chance?

“I assume you wish to inspect everything yourself. Here is a copy of the manifest for you.” With a quick gesture of Gonza’s hand, a skinny boy Miguel hadn’t noticed scampered over to him with a leather portfolio. Gonza handed it to Don Ciro and stepped back while Ciro opened it. The two men began their circuit of the warehouse, and Miguel watched the boy. Eight perhaps. Maybe ten. The boy followed Gonza with his eyes, doing his best to mimic the man’s gait and stance. He even did a decent job with the haughty expression.

Keeping his breath deliberately calm in hopes to slow his racing heartbeat, Miguel chose to keep his distance from the two merchants as they made their way through the manifest. Of the six men he’d noted, four were working, actually moving crates while the other two merely seemed to work. Miguel made a show of tucking his coat back to more fully reveal the battered cutlass sheath, his hand casually draped over the pommel. I know you’re there, it said. You don’t want to try it today.

When Don Ciro and Gonza finally finished, they nodded to each other and again shook hands. Don Ciro led the way to the door, and Miguel gave one last look around, noting the locations of all eight of Gonza’s men. He took a step or two backwards, following Don Ciro until he was satisfied that none of the men were close enough to jump on him with a knife before turning and following his employer out the door.

His back itched with the anticipation of a blow even as they stepped into the bright sunlight and Dom handed back the reins of the gelding. Miguel rolled his shoulders and glanced back at the gaping door of the warehouse before mounting up. Don Ciro nudged his horse into a trot and Miguel matched his pace, his hands tight on the reins to keep them from trembling.

“Don Ciro,” Miguel called out as they passed out of the docks. “Would he really have knifed you in his own warehouse?”

“Antonio Gonza?” Don Ciro nodded. “Given the chance, without a moment’s hesitation.”

A weight settled into Miguel’s guts. Name or no name, Miguel wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he left Maria exposed to a man like that. No matter how it might hurt. Miguel looked up into the sky, noting the storm clouds edging their way in. Well, Father, at least I got to keep something of yours. Let’s just hope our overdeveloped sense of loyalty doesn’t get me killed, too.

THE RAIN STRUCK HEAVILY outside Maria’s window and she watched it, her fingers in the decorative grate of the window and her forehead resting against it. She longed to get out. To get away from all the watching eyes judging her. But she was nothing if not true to her word. She didn’t care what they thought; she had said she wouldn’t speak to Miguel, and so she hadn’t. Even this morning when he’d greeted her, she had not even acknowledged it. Her father’s disapproving look had cut, but she’d steeled herself against it.

At first, it seemed her plan would work. Miguel had been quiet and standoffish with everyone, especially Elisa. The little opportunist had pounced on him as soon as she’d realized she and Miguel weren’t talking. Maria scowled at the leaves that refused to be beat down by the rain. But then he had started being cheery again. Now he listened to Elisa’s prattle.

“Scowling about it won’t stop the rain,” Nana said from where she stood dusting the shelves.

“I don’t know who he thinks he is!” Maria pushed off from the window grate and stalked across the room.

“Do you ever really know who another person is?” Nana said, unperturbed by Maria’s outburst.

Maria ignored the comment. “He just goes on as though I’m not even there; talking to Elisa and the others as though he’s known them forever. I was the one who suggested he speak to my father about a job.”

“The del Mar boy again, is it?” Nana said flatly as Maria turned sharply and headed back the way she’d come.

“If not for me he’d have probably ended up working as a stable hand and sleeping in a hot, moldy hay loft.”

“You would prefer that, would you?” Nana rolled her eyes and set down the duster. “Get over and help me with the bedding.”

With more force than necessary, Maria tore the pillows from their covers. “What an ingrate! Then, when it suits him, he orders me around, willy-nilly, and expects me to do what I’m told. And Papa agrees!”

Nana gave her a bland smile.

“Don’t you do that.” Maria threw the pillow at Nana, who caught it and dropped it into a clean case. “Don’t you smile at me like you think I’m wrong. I’m not.”

Nana shrugged and began to hum, that same infuriating smile on her face. Maria scowled and continued to help with the bedding. Any other of the household’s servants would have been scandalized, or insulted, or both. But Nana had helped raise her, instilling in Maria an almost reflexive desire to work beside her. And, to Maria’s chagrin, working always helped calm her temper.

She returned to her window and looked out at the rain as Nana moved on, pretending to straighten the room. Her father’s words from the night she’d been unceremoniously dragged home from the docks ran through her mind. He’d given her, in no uncertain terms, the directive to follow Miguel’s instructions in the future. As much as it galled her, she would obey her father. Her pride would allow nothing less. But it was the other part that had stung.

I had expected Doña Olivia could teach you to be a woman of sense and had hoped you would manifest at least some of the qualities and goodness of your mother, but I suppose I shall have to make do with the ill-mannered girl you choose to remain.

Maria sniffed, dabbing at the tears that formed in her eyes. She wouldn’t cry, even if her father’s disappointment hurt like a knife in her heart. How could he compare her to her mother when he wouldn’t even talk about her? How was she supposed to measure up to some unknown person? She wanted to be like her mother, to make her father proud, but how could she when he kept so much about her a secret?

Nana’s humming stopped abruptly, and began again, this time in a haunting, vaguely familiar tune that toyed with memories just beyond Maria’s ability to recall. She looked over at the older woman. Perhaps she could wheedle something more from her?

“Tell me about my mother, Nana,” Maria asked.

“What is it that you are wanting to know?” the old woman asked cautiously, setting down the figurine she had been polishing and taking a seat at the table beside Maria.

“Anything. Everything. I don’t know anything about her. Father rarely talks about her, and no one else I’ve met even knows who she was.” Maria leaned forward, looking earnestly into Nana’s dark brown eyes.

“And why should I be any different?”

“Because you knew her, even better than Papa. You said yourself that you were her nurse, too, when she was a child. Surely you can tell me something about her. Papa wouldn’t need to know.”

Nana held Maria’s gaze for a moment longer before settling back into her chair with a thoughtful smile. “Well, now. Ayelen. What to say about her? She was shorter than you as an adult, but you look very much like her with your dark hair and the shape of your eyes. It no doubt pains your father when he looks at you, seeing his beloved wife every time.”

“Except when I talk. Or make a decision, or do anything at all.” Maria didn’t even try to keep the bitterness from her voice. “I know all that. Tell me what she was like.”

“She was very sweet and soft-spoken, but she was a woman who knew what she wanted out of life. Very determined. When she set her mind to something, she found a way to get it, always intent on no one getting hurt in the process.” Nana straightened the lace on the table. “Why do you ask?”

Maria hmphed, and turned back to the window to hide the hurt in her eyes. “Papa says I’m a shame to him, nothing like her. That I’m just a foolish, selfish girl who could never grow into some half-remembered ideal.” Her voice cracked as she continued. “How am I supposed to measure up to a standard that I don’t even know?”

Nana rose and set her hand on Maria’s shoulder. “Chiquita, your father cares about you very much. He doesn’t expect you to be anything other than yourself. It is most likely that whatever he said to you he said out of fear and concern for your well-being.”

“Sure he did,” Maria said bitterly, turning away, and Nana dropped her hand. After a time, Maria decided to try the subject of her mother again but found she was alone in her room.

Chapter 9

NOVEMBER 1739 - MARACAIBO

“DOES IT EVER STOP RAINING here?” Miguel asked his horse as he navigated the gelding around a cart during a rare break in the weather. “They keep saying it’ll dry up soon, but I swear I’m growing moss. How about you?”

The horse ignored his comments and continued on, swatting Miguel with his tail. Miguel sighed. “You’ve really got to work on your communication skills, my friend. You keep this up, and folk may stop talking to you all together.” Miguel snorted. Not unlike some women I know.

He looked around, always aware of the people around him, and let his gaze rest on the dark-haired young woman who rode ahead of him. He could always tell when Maria finally noticed him following her. She’d sit up straighter and push her horse to walk faster. Most asinine of all, though, she’d take long circuitous routes to get wherever she meant to travel, as though turning at random. He couldn’t bring himself to believe that she meant to lose him; her pace was far too leisurely than that.

Which left the idea that she was just trying to annoy him. It probably would have worked if it hadn’t actually made his job easier. The fact that she had no set route made a possible ambush that much more difficult. The fact that her stubborn pride inconvenienced only herself felt like sweet justice.

“At least with the lighter rain, we don’t have to play the messenger so much anymore, hey boy?” Miguel asked his gelding, patting it on the neck as Maria turned onto the road that would take her to the Casa de la Cuesta. Now, being sent to carry notes between her and the Señoritas de la Cuesta, that had annoyed him. Especially during the heavy rain.

Maria kicked her horse into a trot, and Miguel kept pace until she turned into the drive. He reined in his gelding and watched from the road. He thought he saw her turn back and look at him for just a moment before disappearing into the safety of the great house. Taking a deep breath, he shook his head.

“Come on, boy. We have work to do.” Miguel turned the horse and trotted back into the town.

“YOU OUGHT TO STOP TORMENTING him.” Betania set down her quill and stretched her hands.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Maria said, setting a flourish on the fanciful flower she was inking. The invitations for the ball were to go out within the week, and she and Betania had volunteered for the task of writing and embellishing them. A gentle breeze pushed its way through the open windows of the study Maria’s father had given her to use.

“Tormenting yourself, then. You perk up every time someone walks by and wilt when it’s not him.” Betania turned in her chair to give Maria a look.

Maria worked her mouth a moment before she could decide what to say. “I do not. It’s just that, well, he’s been acting weird.”

“You mean aside from being his usually friendly self? Or are you just upset that he’s gotten friendly with my sister?”

Maria held back a scowl. “I don’t care about Elisa. She throws herself at everyone.”

“So why are you avoiding her?” Betania moved the invitation she’d been working on aside and pulled a fresh one toward her, dipping her quill into the ink.

“I’m not avoiding her, she’s just so ....” Maria made a gagging sound and Betania smiled.

Though, if Maria were honest with herself, she was a little jealous. She missed his companionship. She missed their conversations and the way he smiled when she made him laugh. But now it was Betania’s blonde slip of a sister who was speaking to him, when he should have been speaking to her. Elisa always made a point of being friendly with Miguel, and their conversations had become easier and easier. And only the other day, she’d heard Elisa make him laugh.

“Hey, watch it!’ Betania exclaimed.

Maria looked down at her paper. She’d pressed too hard, and the red ink had spread across the paper. Maria repressed the urge to crumble up the paper and throw it.

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.” Maria carefully blotted the ruined page and rose to toss it into the fireplace. She just didn’t understand him. She’d been able to avoid him during the heavy rains, but as they’d lightened and she’d had to spend more time outdoors, it seemed Miguel was always around, conveniently busy with another task or just happening to be where she was. He always had something nice to say to her even though she refused to reply. Even worse was when she’d glance at him out of the corner of her eye to find him staring at her, which he did at least half of the time. She returned to her seat beside Betania.

But then he’d go and encourage Elisa’s flirting. Maria pulled a fresh sheet toward herself and bit her lip, holding the pen above the ink pot.

Didn’t Miguel know she was angry with him? Tapping the ink from the nip, Maria set the pen to paper. She had tried to ignore him, but the harder she tried, the more she caught herself watching him. He never was without his cutlass. She had noticed a pistol butt inside his coat, and he almost never went anywhere without a coat, despite the heat. She also knew that late in the day, a lock of his dark hair would always escape the cord that held the rest of it back, falling directly over one of his eyes.

With a final flourish, she set down the pen and inspected the flower. Finding it satisfactory, she set it aside and reached for the next one. She also knew that he often ran his hand through his hair when it was down, and made motions to do so when it was pulled back. That his green eyes glittered when he laughed but were always dark when he thought himself unseen. That his British accent was stronger when he was tired. That he had a dimple in one cheek when he smiled, which was often. That one of his teeth was somewhat crooked ....

The sound of footsteps along the corridor made her look up and hold her breath, until she realized they were too light to be his. A feeling of disappointment ran through her, and she scowled before shaking it off, turning back to her work.

“If it’s not my sister,” Betania said, a smile in her voice, “then what is bothering you so much about him?”

“No. I mean, yes, Elisa is bothersome. When is she not? But also, with Miguel. He’s friendly and the soul of propriety, but I think my little sea dog is actually following me. It’s unnerving.”

“You know he doesn’t like being called that, right?” Betania said without looking up.

Maria rolled her eyes. “I don’t see why it matters if he doesn’t like it; it’s not like anyone calls him that to his face.”

“If you really think he’s following you, you should ask him about it,” Betania suggested, annoyance creeping into her voice. “If it’s that big of a deal to you, you should actually talk about it.”

“I would confront him about it,” Maria said, shrugging her shoulders as she began again on the invitations, “but as I am not speaking to him until he apologizes for his rude behavior, it will have to wait. I can think of no decent reason that he won’t apologize, so I intend to wait.”

AT LONG LAST, THE DAY came, late in December, for the invitations to be sent. Having seen the letters on their way, the girls were basked in the rare sunlight in their garden.

“I think this ball is going to be perfectly lovely!” Betania sighed, running her fingers along the spine of a book Maria knew to hold several well-read notes.

“I’m still excited to pick up our masks. They should be ready by tomorrow,” Selena said.

“Ours will be the best, of course, since I had the wonderful idea of ordering them made early, before anyone else.” Elisa lay back on her bench, far too pleased with her own forethought.

“I’m just glad Miguel isn’t invited,” Maria said. That very morning he’d had the audacity to tell her good morning with that smile and his beautiful green eyes.

“Whatever do you mean?” Selena asked.

“What do you mean?” Maria asked, confused.

“Didn’t you know?” Betania gave Maria a cautious look. “Elisa gave him an invitation personally,”

“I see.” Maria glared at Elisa.

Elisa sat up straight and attempted to look down her nose at the taller Maria. “I had every right. You certainly didn’t seem interested in being the one to invite him, so I did. We decided from the start to invite every eligible young man, and as I see it, that includes Miguel.”

“He is nothing but my father’s hired hand. We didn’t invite any of Selena’s body servants.”

“What is done is done, Maria. Let it go,” Selena cut in.

Maria gave Elisa one last loathing look and walked out of the garden, bidding them a good day over her shoulder.

As Maria stepped through the gate, she looked around expectantly for Miguel. To her surprise and disappointment, he did not appear. When she reached the main house, she ordered her horse brought around, certain he would show up before she left. But when he had still not appeared by the time she mounted up, Maria found herself lingering, hoping he would arrive.

As the light rain had started up again, she sighed and turned her horse toward home. Maria took the long route around the town, wanting to be alone with her thoughts. More than anything, she felt confused. She was angry that Elisa had invited Miguel yet pleased that he would be coming. Angry because Miguel was her sea dog to invite or not invite. Pleased when she finally noticed him on his own horse behind her. Angry that he would not actually talk to her but excited when he brought his sable gelding up even with hers. Frustrated that her anticipated night of fun at the ball would be marred by his presence. Thrilled at the prospect that he might ask her to dance.

Maria struggled with her thoughts and the heavy silence between them, acutely aware of both the distance and the closeness of him riding beside her. She dismounted when they reached her home and handed her reins to Antón, the stablehand. She let out a breath, and for a moment, felt that she’d been hit in the gut when Miguel turned his horse and rode back out the gate without a word to her.

That night during supper, Maria, Don Ciro, and Miguel sat in their usual places, when Miguel brought up the subject Maria had hoped to avoid.

“Don Ciro, it appears that I have been invited to a masked ball, to be hosted by the Díaz girls, their cousin, and your daughter,” he said, his voice a model of cordiality.

“Is that so?” Ciro looked at his daughter. “Maria, you never told me you’d been planning a masque.”

An uncomfortable feeling of being trapped began in the pit of her stomach. “Doña Olivia advised that we not tell anyone until the invitations had been sent.”

“A wise decision from a wise woman. As I am sure she has been overseeing the plans, I have no objection to your going, Maria.” Ciro nodded.

“What about Miguel, Papa?” Maria’s heart sank even as she asked. She knew what he’d say.

Ciro looked long and hard at Miguel before answering. “As long as he attends to all of his duties that day, I would consider it a slight to my hospitality if he did not attend.”

“With all due respect, Don Ciro, I will only go with Maria’s permission,” Miguel said quietly.

Don Ciro raised an eyebrow at him. “What do you mean her permission? Didn’t you just say she invited you?”

“No, Señor. It was the younger Señorita de la Cuesta who gave me the invitation, and without your daughter’s knowledge. Seeing as your daughter holds some grudge against me, it would be dishonorable to go to her own ball against her wishes.” Miguel caught Maria’s gaze and held it for the first time in weeks.

Maria felt as though all the air had been sucked from the room.

Don Ciro looked at his daughter as well, raising an expectant eyebrow.

Maria took a breath and centered herself to speak as coolly as she could manage. “I care for Elisa as a sister, and if she wishes for Miguel to be there, I shall not stand in the way.”

“Maria,” Don Ciro warned.

“Oh, fine.” Maria sighed. I’ll do it for you, Papa. She turned to address Miguel directly. “Miguel, I would be honored if you attended our ball.”

“Of course, m’lady.” Miguel stood and bowed while Ciro flashed an impish grin.

“I’m afraid I have a headache and must retire for the night.” Maria scowled at them. Clearly, she had lost. “Good evening.”

The men stood as she did, and she stalked toward the main house, heading straight for her bedroom.

“YOU KNOW, MIGUEL,” Ciro said, looking after his daughter as she glided from the room, “I don’t believe she knows how graceful she really is.”

“No, Señor, I don’t believe she does,” Miguel said. Or how amazingly beautiful she is, either, he thought, staring after her long after she was gone, letting his food grow cold.

Chapter 10

DECEMBER 1739 - MARACAIBO

THREE WEEKS before the ball, and with some prodding from Nana, Maria decided to officially break the silence with Miguel. It would be in her best interest, after all. She refused to cede the point that she was being rude and childish, but she was willing to accept that the ball would be far more pleasant if she could be cordial with everyone. And that included Miguel. Not to mention, of course, that she might cause gossip and tarnish her father’s reputation if she appeared snobbish. Hurting her father intentionally was one thing Maria simply could not do.

Maria paced the hall before her room, steeling her nerves. Nana is going to come down that hall any moment and chide you for wearing a hole in the carpet, Maria scolded herself. All right, just go for it. Taking a deep breath, she turned to the stairs and descended for breakfast.

The walk from the staircase to the dining room seemed to last for miles, especially once she glimpsed Miguel from the covered walkway. She paused just outside the door and rolled her shoulders, holding her head high before entering.

“Buenos días, Señorita Álvarez,” Miguel greeted her as he usually did.

“Buenos días, Miguel,” Maria said briskly, nodding in his direction.

Miguel’s double-take and look of caution nearly undid her as she rounded the table. It was all she could do to keep from laughing. Why hadn’t she done this sooner? She leaned across the table to snag the first fruit she happened to touch. She hastened from the room and smirked at the sound his chair scraping across the floor, as Miguel stood for her a moment too late.

Maria practically ran back to her room, shutting the door behind her. Had he come out and watched her flight? She leaned against the door, trying to catch her breath and calm the giddiness that filled her. She set the fruit on her table, actually noticing it for the first time. Mango. Great. They had eaten mangoes together the first morning Miguel had stayed in her father’s house. How long ago had that been? Maria could hardly remember a time when Miguel had not been in her life. Almost a year, perhaps.

That was right; it was just after Alistair had died. They’d met the next morning. Maria felt a sudden pang of guilt as she realized that, aside from the occasional dreams of him beside her, she hadn’t thought about her dog in months. Not since her head had been so filled with Miguel. A flare of anger rose in her chest, but she smothered it before it could catch. She was nearly seventeen, a woman grown. It was time to start behaving like one, as her father had told her. His cutting remarks from that night still stung, making her vision blur with tears. Those she pushed back down, too. She was a woman now, and she would make her father proud.

Maria moved to her wash-basin and splashed water on her face. She would show Miguel that she was not to be trifled with any longer. She fixed her hair and changed into one of her nicest dresses with Nana’s help. As she settled the last of her outfit together, Maria looked in the mirror, pleased with what she saw. She stood up straighter, throwing back her shoulders and holding her head high. She would show him.

As she left the room, she saw Nana shaking her head and smiling to herself. Maria almost paused to ask why but decided she didn’t want to know.

For the rest of that day, Maria continued to reply to Miguel if he spoke to her first, but always briskly and briefly. To her dismay, she found she could not manage the easy banter they had enjoyed before. Over the next few days, she applied herself to responding more warmly and engaging him in conversation. At first, his responses were terse, but soon they were speaking amicably again. She even found herself laughing at his jokes from time to time, though she could not yet get him to laugh.

Oddly though, Maria noticed he would only speak with her openly when nobody of consequence was around. Whenever anyone from either her household or the Casa de la Cuesta appeared, he would clam up and return to his previous brusque manner.

And then there was Elisa. Somehow, he remained friendly with Elisa.

Each time she saw so much as a look pass between them, Feelings rolled over her so strongly they threatened to drown her. Anger, jealousy, dark feelings she had no name for, but she pushed them down, forced them away, stood up taller, and focused on smiling.

Then, when Maria and Miguel would walk together, and he would take her arm or speak her name or even look at her, she would be filled with even more confusing feelings. Feelings that made her feel as though she would burst with joy, as well as yet more ebullient feelings that she could not name but wanted to bask in. Those too, she shoved down, though she did not try to rid herself of them completely.

MIGUEL FOUND THAT HE did not trust Maria’s quicksilver emotions. They reminded him too much of being at sea with the air heavy before a storm, unsure if or when the torrent would begin. In his time with the Álvarez family, he had come to enjoy their sense of stability, even if it was like a sturdy ship in shark-infested waters. Rolling his shoulders, he flexed the stiff material of the shockingly high quality great coat she had presented him with two days before. He wouldn’t be surprised to see this coat last for years. The subtle blue-grey cloth fit him perfectly from the cut to the lack of ornate embellishment.

“Gonza still insisting that you lost his merchandise?” Dom, the Álvarez steward, asked Don Ciro as they inspected his ship, the gulls overhead crying out with their usual noise.

Miguel stood before the large hatch, eyeing the workers hauling the cargo ashore. Now that Maria was speaking to him again, the days seemed brighter, but he hated to trust to hope. I’m just her father’s hired man, he reminded himself, as he did several times a day. Yet the way she’d smile at him, her face lighting up when she noticed him, would make his heart skip a beat or his feet miss a step. And then there was the great coat, a deep blue-grey with silvered buttons and pockets deep enough to keep a pistol in; without a doubt the finest gift he’d ever received. But then Doña Olivia’s warning would creep back into his head. These girls—Maria—were not for the likes of him. No matter how she smiled at him.

“No, much worse.” Don Ciro began his descent into the hold. “He is claiming I stole it.”

Dom followed Don Ciro below as the smells of the ship—wood, tar, and the acrid smells of humans living too close together for too long—swirled around Miguel. They pulled at him, and he wrinkled his nose. His father’s ship—Miguel shook his head. Convinced that the supercargo had the workers well in hand and none planned to drop their crate and attack them, Miguel followed the men into the hold.

It wasn’t a matter of being too cautious, either. That very thing had actually happened the first time Don Ciro had brought Miguel on an inspection. Miguel hadn’t taken the possibility of danger quite as seriously then. He had supposed that tempers couldn’t run as high on land, with all the space and freedom that came with it.

With a tight smile, Miguel shook his head at his naivety as he moved through the dark, dank hold toward the other men. With a hand set cautiously on his belt knife, he watched the gloomy corners but saw no one. What he really needed was to put Maria out of his mind.

“Will he accept payment for the missing goods?” Dom asked as they moved through the hold.

“Would that even be a good idea?” Miguel asked as he reached them. Don Ciro raised an eyebrow. “I mean, if he is lying about it and you paid him, essentially rewarding his dishonesty, wouldn’t he just do it again?”

“Even if he’s not lying and his merchandise never made it to him, if I paid him for it, he might try this again,” Don Ciro said with a nod, shifting a crate to the side. “He’s pulled this before, but I have been able to prove that his goods were delivered, and he has dropped the matter. But this time is different. I am certain the goods made it ashore. The manifest says they were unloaded, but they disappeared from the warehouse.”

“Couldn’t you report it as a theft?” Miguel suggested, making his way down a row of empty hammocks that swung gently with the rocking of the ship.

“If anything else was missing, he could,” Dom said. “Everyone knows of their rivalry, so if this comes to light it will serve only to hurt Ciro.”

“Which is, of course, always the goal.” Miguel nodded. “So why hasn’t he done something like this sooner?”

Ciro crouched down and hefted a barrel onto his shoulder, then turned back toward the hatch. “Because this time he wants something from me, and I refuse to give it.”

Miguel gave Dom a sideways look as their employer walked past them, a determined look on his face.

Dom shook his head. “If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you.”

Miguel moved to follow Dom out of the hold. Whatever it was Gonza wanted, if Don Ciro had refused to give it to him so far, Miguel could be sure he wasn’t going to. But how far Gonza would go to obtain this mysterious thing? And would it put Maria in danger?

As he clambered out of the ship, Miguel grimaced at the bright sunlight, half expecting to be clubbed on the head. But Dom and Don Ciro were before him, their stances relaxed, and no shadows moved behind him. Giving a discreet assessment of the deck, Miguel took his place beside the older men, who were now speaking with the captain.

The salty, fishy air filled his nose. He sighed internally. There was just no getting around it. He cared for Maria, too much perhaps. But did she actually care for him back, or was she like the ocean? He eyed the clouds in the distance. Fickle, temperamental, seeing him as just another plaything to use and discard at her whim. A part of him rebelled at the thought, loyally declaring that she had so much more substance to her than that. And yet she didn’t speak to me for weeks because she felt slighted. He had no response for that. The distant ringing of the church bells brought Miguel back to himself.

“It is time for me to be on my way, señors,” Miguel cut in with a bow. Don Ciro gave a wave of dismissal, and with a curt nod, Miguel turned from them, the length of his great coat flaring behind him. Time. An unwelcome flickering of hope flared up in his chest. He would give her time, and perhaps she would see him as more.

Chapter 11

JANUARY 1740 - MARACAIBO

MARIA WOKE EARLY THE DAY of the ball, getting up even before the sun had risen. Neither her lingering dream of Alistair growling beside her nor her ever-more-confusing feelings towards Miguel could dampen her excitement as she prepared for the ball.

She and Nana spent part of the day deciding how to arrange some of the ribbons they had purchased in the days prior. Early afternoon found Maria preparing her long black hair and getting her into her dark red gown. As she and Nana were applying the finishing touches, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Maria called, watching the door through her mirror.

“We’re nearly finished,” Nana called out at the same time.

Maria watched as the door opened and her father stepped into the room. She smiled and stood, rushing over to give him a hug. He hugged her back and then, after a moment, pulled her away and stared down into her face.

“My word, Maria. Is that really you?” Ciro asked. Maria blushed and looked away. “Nana, I think I have seen a vision. Come over here and see if you see it, too.”

“Oh, I can see it quite well from here, Señor. I have watched her transform before my very eyes these past few months,” Nana said.

“Tell me, Papa—” Maria stepped back a few steps and smiled up at her father “—what is this vision that you and Nana are sharing?”

But Ciro just stood where he was, shaking his head slowly. Maria gave Nana a questioning look.

“Why, you are appearing as a profound likeness of your mother.” Nana gave Maria a smile. “Much like she did when they first met, I might add.”

“Do I really, Papa?” Maria’s heart filled with pride. After all this time, had she finally done justice to her mother’s memory? “Do you think mother would be proud?”

“Absolutely, mi querida. I think your mother would be very proud of you, and I know that I am.” Ciro’s voice was full of emotion as he pulled a box from his pocket. “Here, I have something for you. I would be pleased if you would wear it tonight.”

“What is it?” Maria asked as her father opened the box.

“It was your mother’s, something her mother had given to her, and her mother before that. I had it refitted to something more in today’s style.” Ciro opened the box and unwrapped the fold of silk cloth. Maria gasped as a necklace she had never seen before was revealed.

“It’s beautiful!” she breathed, reaching for it to take a closer look.

Gently, her father laid it in her hand. The necklace was a choker of pearls with ribbons on the end to tie it. In the center of the pearls hung a worked silver pendant, nearly as long as her thumb, triangular, and holding a carved red stone. Around the stone, the silver was set with a dozen tiny diamonds. Ciro lifted it by the strand of pearls, and the red stone, hung independently within the silver setting, rotated as though to show off its color. Maria tore her gaze from the necklace and looked back at her father with a bright smile.

“When I first met your mother, she wore the stone in a beaded setting that she had made herself as a young woman. When I was preparing to ... ask for her hand, I arranged for her to ‘lose’ it one day.” Ciro laughed as he handed the box to Nana and moved to place the necklace on Maria's throat. “Actually, I had her brother steal it from her.”

“It was a naughty thing you did, too,” Nana chided him as she removed the matching pearl and jasper earrings and fastened them in Maria’s ears. Then, addressing Maria, she continued. “Ayelen was so distraught over its loss that she did not eat for three days and did not smile for a week. I’m not sure she would ever have forgiven either her brother or your father for putting her through that anxiety.”

“What happened then?” Maria asked her father, devouring every little tidbit she could get about her mother.

“Well, I had it set into some metalwork, nothing as nice as it is now, as I was not so well off then, and returned it to her when I asked her to marry me.”

“How romantic!” Maria exclaimed.

“Not really.” Ciro grinned ruefully as Nana guffawed.

“Ayelen was so angry, she thought he had stolen it,” Nana said. “That was bad enough, you see, but then she thought he was trying to pa—”

“Trying to give her something that was already hers,” Ciro cut Nana off with a dark look.

“What did she do?” Maria touched the necklace as she looked into the mirror, wondering just how much of her reflection was her mother looking back at her.

“Well, she pulled the stone out of the setting and tried to throw the rest of it into the river.” Ciro said with a shrug. “I stopped her, and once I had calmed her down and explained the situation, she relented.”

Maria wondered what she had said that had drained the mirth from his eyes.

“He neglects to mention that she slapped him and ‘calming her down,’ ‘explaining the situation’ and her ‘relenting’ took a good two weeks,” Nana whispered into Maria’s ear, and Maria giggled.

“She did let me replace the setting, though. And she rarely took it off until you were born, mi querida. Before she died, she told me that I was to give it to you when you ... ‘decided to become a woman’ were the words she used.” Ciro smiled at her. “So, you see, I think she would be very proud of you. As, indeed, am I.”

A knock on the door announced that the coach was ready, and Ciro offered his daughter his arm. Maria took it, and he led her out the door. She could hardly contain her joy. Her father had finally forgiven her for her poor attitude, and perhaps she could admit it had been childish. Her mother’s necklace lay cool and comforting against her skin.

As they reached the stairs, Maria saw Miguel standing at the bottom waiting for them, still wearing his cutlass, though now it was in a beautiful scabbard. He looked up at them and smiled, and warmth filled her. She smiled and looked away from him as Ciro gave her a nudge toward the stairs. She looked back at him for a moment before descending, wishing she could tell him how grateful she felt. When she reached the bottom Miguel held out his hand. She hesitated a moment before laying her bare hand in his. It was the first time they’d touched in two months, and a thrill shot up her arm at the contact.

Miguel led her to the waiting coach, and Maria nodded up to Diego, the driver, who gave her a discreet wink. Grinning, Maria let Miguel help up into the coach, and as she settled her skirts about her, Ciro touched Miguel’s shoulder.

“Take care of her, Miguel,” he said gravely.

“I will, Señor,” Miguel nodded to him and took a seat across from Maria.

Ciro turned to his daughter, one hand on the coach door. “I love you, Maria. Never forget that.”

“I love you, too, Papa,” Maria returned, surprised at the unusual display of sentiment.

Her father shut the door and stepped away.

Maria couldn’t think of anything to say as the coach started forward. What a strange exchange. Though she had never doubted his affection, her father rarely told her he loved her, and never in public like that before. And what had that been with Miguel? What was going on?

Unwilling to let the puzzle ruin her evening, she decided to save it for later and distracted herself by studying Miguel’s outfit. He wore an embroidered coat, but nothing on it announced him as having any affiliation with the Álvarez house. He wore gloves and polished knee-high boots, but she could see they were well worn and likely far more comfortable than her own shoes.

In fact, now that she looked closely, she could see that everything he was wearing spoke of much use and comfort to the wearer, though well cleaned and fitting enough for the ball. When had he found time to break in such fancy clothes? It didn’t surprise her, though. He was her father’s man, and he looked every bit the part. She wondered what other weaponry besides his cutlass he had stashed away on his person this time, and where he would be keeping it. Perhaps next to his skin, the metal warming from the heat of his body ....

Blushing, she looked away. When she dared to look back, she saw that he was studying her, too, and she quickly looked down at her own hands.

“What do you see?” she asked him, picking up her mask and fiddling with it.

“I see ... a vision of beauty. You shall be the envy of the night, I am sure,” Miguel said. “Actually, I believe I am mistaken. I shall be the envy of the ball tonight.”

“What do you mean?” Maria looked up at him.

“I mean that every young man who sees you shall envy me for being by your side, wishing that they were in my place.”

“I see,” said Maria skeptically.

“What do you see?” Miguel leaned back, draping his arm across the seat back.

“I see a young man who can’t seem to go anywhere without his sword. Honestly, do you really expect to get into a fight tonight? I’ve only ever seen you draw it once. I’d almost believe that you’ve no idea how to use the thing,” she said, trying to sound playful.

“Do you now? Tell me, what else do you almost believe?”

“I don’t really know, Miguel.” Maria sighed. I believe I missed you. I believe you infuriate me. “I’ve been so confused about, well, everything since you came around. I can’t seem to figure you out one way or the other. You don’t use your real name, you don’t tell anyone the truth about yourself, and you’re always following me despite constant work for my father, and yet for some reason he trusts you explicitly. Who knows what to believe about you?”

“I am a mystery. I know no more truth than you do.” Miguel smiled and raised his mask to his face. “Tell me what you want to believe about me, and tonight I will be it for you.”

I want to believe ... But she wouldn’t allow herself to think it even as her eyes traced the contours and lines of his mask, avoiding contact with the green eyes behind it. “I don’t want to make things up about you.”

“What do you want then?” Miguel asked as she finally met his eyes.

Her heart sped up. “What any woman wants, I suppose.” Maria shrugged and looked away, only to find her gaze drawn back to his, as inevitable as a flower turning toward the sun.

Miguel raised an eyebrow and leaned forward. “Enlighten me.”

“I don’t know.” Maria’s mind was muddled; she could hardly think with him looking at her like that. And his voice ... She took a deep breath and tried to set her feelings to words. “A man I can trust not to leave me, who will take care of me. Someone reliable and dependable, everything my father is and more. Someone who won’t just leave at the next tide. Who is not ... I don’t know ....” Maria ran out of words and gestured helplessly.

“You mean, not a sailor?” Miguel sat back, lowering his mask.

“I didn’t mean that,” Maria backpedaled, confused by the change in his voice.

“But you did. You do. Am I really just another sea dog to you? A pet, biddable and amusing, then ultimately disposable? Tell me Maria, if I left, how long would you mourn me? The dog got a few days; do you think I would merit a week?”

“Miguel, really, I didn’t mean to say—”

“But you did say it. But it is nice to know what you think of me, and what I can never be to you.” Miguel forced his voice back to lightness, but the chill in it struck Maria through the heart. “It frees me to move on. There are so many other lovely ladies in Maracaibo, especially the younger Señorita de la Cuesta.”

The coach stopped abruptly. They had arrived. Tears pushed up behind Maria’s eyes, and she raised her mask to cover the struggle to force them back down. She would be strong, like her mother.

“If all you are is another sea dog, I hope you will at least have the decency to escort me in before you go chasing off after the next bit of driftwood in the surf,” Maria said coldly.

Miguel helped her out, and, without giving him another moment’s concern, she threw her shoulders back and walked as regally as she could into the house. She could feel him walking silently beside her, half a step behind. A pang went through her that he had not taken her arm as they walked in, but she swallowed it down. She didn’t want him to, anyhow.

True to Miguel’s prediction, every eye turned toward her as she walked through the crowd. After a few minutes, when the first young man came and asked her to dance, she realized that Miguel had slipped off. She accepted cordially and set herself to enjoying the evening.

The decorations were stunning and everyone was in the most beautiful gowns she had ever seen. She had never been to any party in Maracaibo with such elegance and vibrancy, the latter of which she attributed to the age of the crowd. Maria spent most of the evening dancing with the young men. At one point, she picked out Betania from the crowd, dancing with Benito Garcia, the young man Betania had insisted be invited. Maria did not see one without the other nearby for the rest of the evening.

After one especially lively dance, Maria decided that she’d had enough fun for the moment and begged her partner for some air. She sent him off for a drink and made her way to the balcony which stretched the length of the ballroom, enjoying the feel of the cool night air. Leaning against the banister, she looked over the dark plantation to the jungles beyond. Maria fancied she could almost hear the call of the wild birds and animals through the sounds of merrymaking inside. Her sight wandered up into the velvety sky and the stars that glittered across it. The moon had not risen yet, and the “great river of stars,” as Nana had always called them, shone bright and clear.

The music began again, and Maria wondered idly where her previous dance partner had gone off to. Voices out on the lawn below the balcony drew Maria’s gaze back down to earth. She smiled. Some day she might walk down a garden path in the moonlight with the man she loved. Whoever that was.

Shifting her weight sent an ache through her feet. Maria was not yet ready to return to the lights and sounds of the party. Instead, she moved to a more secluded part of the balcony and sat on a bench, enjoying the feel of the cool, smooth stone beneath her fingers. The mountains to the northwest stood in silhouette beneath the night sky, and Maria wondered, not for the first time, what was beyond them. She’d continued to have regular dreams of Alistair, but each time she drew closer to the jungle that lay at the mountain’s feet, covering them like a rich green blanket. And each time her dog grew more agitated with her as she gazed at them. Maria gave a half smile. She could almost hear him now, like an echo of music in a large hall, growling his warning beneath the music.

The music inside stopped, and Maria shook herself from her reverie. It was probably time she returned. She wasn’t even certain how long she’d been out here. Hadn’t anyone noticed she was gone? Miguel, at least—but no. Her face fell. Taking a deep breath, she stood and moved toward the door. Just then, Elisa came out, pulling a young man out onto the balcony. That it was Elisa was obvious, despite her mask; no one else could bounce as much as that girl. Curious to know who she had ensnared, Maria stepped back into the shadows and watched.

Elisa pulled the young man up to the balcony banister and leaned out over it, breaking off a spray of lavender and holding it up to her nose. The young man stood placidly beside her, speaking in quiet tones. There was something familiar about him, something that made Maria uncomfortable, but the shadows obscured them. Elisa reached up and threw her arms around the man, leaning against him. Maria held back a snort, she could imagine Doña Olivia’s reaction if she heard of Elisa behaving in such a way. The young man pulled her arms down from around his neck, leading her around a nearby pillar. A tightness filled Maria’s stomach. She shouldn’t be spying on them. He swung Elisa around, setting her back against the pillar and, with one hand on the stone beside her head and the other holding both her hands at her chest, he leaned in and spoke in her ear.

Embarrassed, Maria looked away. It was time to make a discreet exit. She tried not to look at the couple as she passed, but her need to satisfy her curiosity about the young man’s identity overruling her sense of propriety, and she glanced up.

Maria found herself staring straight into Miguel’s eyes. He’d chosen that moment to look up, and it stopped her cold. Maria’s breathing stopped. Sound stopped. Time stopped. Maria was trapped in Miguel’s beautiful green eyes.

Her eyes slid over to Elisa with her petulant smile. Something broke inside Maria, and, like strings snapped on a marionette, her whole body sagged. She didn’t register Miguel’s pained look as he pushed Elisa away from him. She turned and walked blindly back into the house.

She’d made it halfway across the ballroom when Miguel caught up to her.

“Maria, please,” Miguel pleaded, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over the music.

“Go away, Miguel,” Maria said in a pained whisper.

“That wasn’t what it looked like.” He tried to grab Maria’s arm and make her face him, but she jerked free.

“Please, leave me alone.” Maria could hardly hear her own voice as she continued her swift pace to the door.

“Maria ....” Miguel followed her into the hall.

She turned abruptly and faced him. “You’re always following me, Miguel. Always watching, always nearby. Why are you spying on me?” she hissed at him.

Miguel just stood there, at a loss for an answer.

“Heh. That’s what I thought. Just leave me alone, Miguel. I’ve had nothing but trouble since you showed up. For once in your meddlesome life here, leave me alone!” She shoved him back into the ballroom. He stumbled a little, caught himself and stood there, watching as all his hopes and dreams he’d been too afraid to accept until that very moment disappeared down the hall with the dark-haired girl in the red dress.

ELISA WATCHED THE INTERCHANGE from across the room and sneered as Maria walked off by herself. She felt a twist of anger inside her, a bitterness she’d felt before but never to the extent of maliciousness. Without a care toward how her actions would change the course of her life, she sought out one of the head servants and ordered that for the remainder of the night, Maria was not to be disturbed, not to be approached, and not to be watched. Then, to soothe her hurt pride, she resumed throwing herself at the young men.

Chapter 12

MARIA PASSED THROUGH the halls of the plantation home without noticing or caring where she went, blind to all around her. She had practically grown up in the Casa de la Cuesta and had no fear of losing her way. An unseasonably chill breeze bit at her bare arms, bringing her to the realization that she’d gone outside. She rubbed her hands over her arms, willing the goosebumps to relax. She looked down at her bare hands with chagrin, wishing she’d brought gloves. Unwilling to go back inside, she started across the lawn. The shadows beside her moved, startling her.

“Señorita Álvarez,” someone called to her in a hushed whisper.

“Yes?” she asked cautiously.

The man motioned to her closer, as if afraid of being seen. “Señorita, I have long been in the employ of your father, Don Álvarez. In fact, I’ve known him since long before he settled down here in Maracaibo. He is a good and honorable man.”

Maria noted that the man, a mestizo by the look of him, wore de la Cuesta livery. He likely lived in the western part of the town, the “Maracaibo mestiza,” which was composed of the lowest social group. It was neither surprising nor uncommon that one should be among the servants here, but it did seem unlikely that any had sailed with her father. Unlikely, too, that such a one, who seemed so devoted to him, would have willingly chosen this place rather than the service of her father.

With these doubts in her mind, she guardedly came closer. “I am aware of the qualities of my father. But who are you, and why do you wish to remain unnoticed?”

“Punishment is severe for those who disobey orders in the de la Cuesta plantation, but worse is the wrath of your father, whose man I remain.”

Maria’s stomach constricted with apprehension. “What orders? What are you talking about?”

“We have been ordered to not attend you in any way for the remainder of the evening. However, there are many who have been placed here for your safety. Over the years, most have forgotten their debts to Señor Álvarez, but I have not. I cannot protect you outright; that is his job, but I feel I must at least warn you.”

“Warn me of what?” Maria was not sure what to think.

“Señorita, your father has many enemies. Many very powerful enemies, who will hurt him any way they can. And that includes you. It is not as safe here as it once was, and tonight everyone in Maracaibo knows you are here. And now we have been ordered to turn our backs to you, and no one here will dare to disobey such a direct command, coming from so high.” They heard voices drawing near, and he backed away, looking frightened.

“What is going on?” she hissed at him.

“I have said too much already. Go back inside, and do not let yourself be caught alone tonight.” And with that, the strange mestizo disappeared back into the shadows.

Maria stared after him in wonder, feeling her world shaken to its foundations. After a moment she shook her head, trying to dispel her trepidation. Enemies. Right. Her father had been a captain for the East India Company before she was born. It had been an honorable business venture, and he had settled here to raise her after making his fortune. He’d built a business and partnered with Dons Sergio Díaz, Elisa and Betania’s father, and Vasco Abano, Selena’s father. His business here was as reputable as he was. How could he have enemies? Surely there might be people out there who didn’t like him, but in seventeen years he’d had no trouble that she knew of. Why should there be any tonight?

With these consoling thoughts Maria shook her head one more time at the crazy servant and turned back toward the gardens as a light breeze toyed with her hair. Despite her reassurances, a chill ran down her spine as she noticed for the first time the many deep shadows. Gardens that had seemed so peaceful and romantic just a short time before now made her hesitate. Chiding herself for being silly, Maria turned back toward the house. Silly or not, she was determined to do more to be the responsible young woman her father expected her to be.

The gaiety of the party still felt abrasive, however, so she turned to walk around the north wing of the house and return through the front doors. Surely there would be plenty of light and people between here and there. Walking the perimeter of the large house would give her time to recuperate from the emotional trauma Miguel had inflicted before returning to the ball.

Miguel. Really, he was the source of all her problems. She’d been so happy until he came around. Why did he follow her around all the time, anyway? Perhaps it was because he liked her, maybe wanting to court her. She pursed her lips. He was far too outgoing for such subtlety. Perhaps he really was interested in Elisa. Again, her heart fell as she remembered him leaning in toward her, whispering in her ear. What was he saying? Had they kissed when she wasn’t looking?

She clenched her fists. I don’t care what he was saying or if he kissed her! she shouted in her mind. If he wants some other girl, he should have her. I care too much for him to hold him back. The thought stopped her in her tracks. I care too much for him? Do I really care for him that much?

She began forward again, aware that she was in shadow, but the burning question of just how much did she care for Miguel consumed her attention. A part of her wanted to admit that she loved him, perhaps even was in love with him. All the rest of her refused the thought; all her pride and anger and frustration, fought the idea of loving him. He was the reason for all her problems. But she did care for him.

Struggling with her feelings, she slowed to a stop, her focus too inward to notice the world around her. Movement caught her eye, snapping her from her reverie. A large man in ill-fitting clothing swaggered toward her. Worried, but trying to keep her head about her, she angled to the side, away from the house. The man smiled and mirrored her movements.

She turned abruptly to go back the way she’d come. Three more men flanked her, walking toward her with the same arrogant stride and hard looks. The crazy mestizo’s warning resounded in her mind, and, without thinking, she bolted between them. The idea that they would be expecting her to run never passed through Maria’s mind.

They caught her with ease.

Before she knew what was happening, cloth was stuffed in her mouth, her arms were behind her back, and she was on her knees. Why was this happening to her? Her racing heartbeat sounded in her ears as she looked around, hoping to see someone in the shadows. Anyone. But there was nothing. This couldn’t be real.

“’Ello there, dearie,” the man said with a heavy English accent. He knelt in front of her and lifted her chin. The stink of his unwashed body made her recoil.

“Wot a pretty thing you are,” another man sneered. Reality crashed into her, and she began to struggle to free her arms as she tried not to panic.

“Lucky for you our master wants you in one piece. And undamaged, if possible,” the kneeling man said.

“Now, ’ere’s the deal. See this ’ere knife?” He pulled a long, curved knife from somewhere unseen and held it before her face.

She froze, her guts like ice, and nodded.

“Now, tha’s a lovely dress yer wearing, dearie, and probably quite costly. Am I right?” Maria nodded again as the world around her seemed to narrow to the knife and the hand that held it.

“I wouldna want to damage such a lovely dress. I’m going to hold this knife to yer ribs, and we are going to walk to the front and git inter yer carriage as though there ain’t nothing in the world wrong. Are you following me so far?”

Maria nodded. A stray thought, wondering if the knife would be sharp enough to cut the cloth cleanly or tear it ragged, pushed to the fore of her mind.

Knife Man leaned a little closer. “Now, we’ll take this thing out of yer mouth on the condition that you not make a sound, and we’ll leave yer ... dress ... undamaged as long as you do what we say, without arousing suspicion. Are we clear?”

Maria nodded once again, her throat so tight that she couldn’t have spoken if she’d tried.

“We’ve already taken the liberty to ‘order’ yer coach. It will be waiting right over there.” Knife Man jerked his head toward the front.

“Stand ’er up!’ he hissed. The man behind her jerked on her arms, forcing her painfully to her feet, and she stumbled, unable to feel the ground beneath her. He snickered, twisting her arms further.

Knife Man nodded and grinned, coming up close behind and placing the tip of his knife in the center of her back. The pressure of it through her corset made her want to giggle at the absurdity of it all.

Don’t panic! Maria took a deep breath through her nose, determined to calm herself enough to think straight.

“Good. Now let’s go, darlin’.”

Her arms were released, and she fumbled with numb fingers to pull the gag from her mouth. She crumbled it into her fist to keep from shaking. With another steadying breath, she held her head high and clenched her trembling jaw. She had too much pride to let them see her weakness, and strode forward. Certainly someone would notice the odd group. The pounding in her ears decreased as she walked. Any moment now, someone would stop them.

They rounded the corner, and her carriage stood before them. Her knees almost buckled, first with relief, then fear as she realized the driver, though wearing the Álvarez livery, was not one of her father’s men. Nausea filled her stomach. What had they had done with Diego? She’d known him since she was a child; surely he’d be all right. He’d find her father and let him know. But what if he wasn’t? What if they’d hurt him? Diego would never have let them take the coach without a fight. Panic pushed up against her throat, and she cut off that line of thought. She needed to keep her head.

Maria took a hesitant step forward and looked toward the building. People milled around the front entrance of the Casa de la Cuesta. Could she scream? Run across the courtyard to them and safety? The knife suddenly lay on the side of her neck, unnaturally cold.

“Keep movin’.”

With one last longing look at the warmly lit entrance, she walked to the waiting carriage. One of the men shoved her through the carriage door, and she stumbled in, falling to her knees. Quickly, she gathered her skirts and threw herself into the corner as Knife Man and another man climbed in, sitting across from her. The other two climbed aboard outside, and the horses started forward. Maria wrapped her arms around herself, determined to hold herself together, even as the trembling in her stomach increased.

The faint music from the house followed them down the drive, and Maria felt the Casa de la Cuesta had never looked so beautiful as it did just then, just out of reach.

Her heart sank as she realized she was on her own. No one was coming for her. No one even knew she was gone.

Chapter 13

MIGUEL PACED THE HALL just outside the ballroom of the Casa de la Cuesta. How had things turned out so wrong? He had been such an idiot to allow Elisa to get him alone. The end of the hall came too quickly, and he did an abrupt about-face and stalked back the way he’d come. But how was he supposed to have known that Maria would see?

You shouldn’t have been so quick to lose your temper with her, Mick. Miguel pulled on his cutlass, lifting it half an inch from the scabbard and shoving it back down as he walked. No, he shouldn’t have let himself get attached. He was just a hired hand, nothing more. Just another stray dog to be given table scraps until he was no longer amusing, and then thrown out with the trash. Why should this place have been any different?

He stopped abruptly at the other end of the hall before an ornate table with a large mirror hung above it. Don Ciro has never treated you that way. He trusted you with his daughter’s safety. Miguel scowled at his reflection. As she’d so brutally told him, she didn’t need him being her nanny. She was safe here. He turned from the mirror and strode back down the hall. So why did he feel so anxious?

Miguel knew all of Álvarez’s men at the Casa de la Cuesta. Had Don Ciro felt they were insufficient or untrustworthy, he would have told Miguel. Miguel’s step faltered. Hadn’t Don Ciro given just such directions when they’d left? Miguel stepped into the doorway and scanned the crowd in the ballroom, hoping to see her. He cursed himself for a fool at having let her go off alone.

“Where could you be?” he muttered under his breath. Could she have gone to the gardens? He changed course for the rear of the house. Or perhaps she’d decided to go home. He paused. He could check with the stables. But what if she came back while he was gone? Scowling again, he resumed his determined stride toward the end of the hall.

A man in de la Cuesta livery entered the hall and brushed against Miguel’s shoulder. Alarmed, Miguel followed the servant into the ballroom. The man relieved the nearest servant of their drink tray, circled around, and brought it to Miguel with a bow.

“Señorita Álvarez is in trouble. She is alone outside, and I fear for her safety,” he murmured, for Miguel’s ears only. “We have been ordered to stay away from her.”

Miguel waved away the drink, and the serving man wandered back into the crowd. You miserable, worthless cur, he berated himself, turning on his heel to exit the room. You can’t even follow simple instructions.

Over the previous year, Miguel had made a point of becoming familiar with the ins and outs of the entire de la Cuesta plantation. Putting his knowledge to use, he ducked through halls and into the kitchen. Then he was outside, the moonlit darkness pulling him up short at its emptiness. Let her be safe, he prayed to anyone who would listen as he ran to the rear of the house. Several couples lingered on the balconies, but fear twisted his gut as he realized none of them were the dark-haired girl in the red dress. He turned and ran back to the stable yard, his eyes searching frantically for the Álvarez coach.

A moment of hope dared to flare inside him when he found the space for the Álvarez coach empty. She had gone home then. As he neared, movement in the darkness urged him forward. Diego, Ciro’s driver, lay on the ground, clutching his head. Miguel bolted for the common room in the stables where the hands would be enjoying their own get-together. Why had he wasted so much time? He stopped in the doorway, located another of Don Ciro’s men, and nodded him outside.

“Maria has been taken. I believe she is in your master’s coach. Get me two fast horses saddled quickly. The driver is in the stall; he is alive, but bleeding. You ride as fast as you can and get more men from Don Ciro. I will go after Maria.”

The stable hand gave a smart nod and rushed to a different part of the stable, rousing two stableboys to assist. Miguel held himself back from simply running out into the night after her, but the waiting galled him. The moment the stable hand turned the saddled horse from the stall, Miguel took the reins, swung up onto the gelding’s back, and kicked him into a gallop, lying against the horse’s neck as they bolted through the door. The hoofbeats of the stable hand’s mount sounded behind him on the hard-packed dirt road.

Soon they parted ways, the stablehand veering toward the docks. Miguel turned his horse down the dark road that led around the town. He was taking a chance that they would have preferred to avoid eyes that might recognize something amiss. After all, that was what he would have done. He urged his horse faster down the moonlit road.

THE CURTAINS IN THE coach had been drawn closed and Knife Man had put away his knife. Maria’s mind raced at the possibilities. Perhaps she could attack him and get the knife away. But no, he was far too strong for her. Could she lunge for the door and throw herself out? As though in response to the idea, the coach abruptly picked up speed. Maria’s heart raced at the increase in the horses’ pace, and a sudden gust of wind buffeted the vehicle. Knife Man scowled and pulled out a pistol, pointing it at her. She struggled to keep her composure and her balance as pressure built behind her eyes. She couldn’t just do nothing, but breaking down would not improve her situation, and she blinked to keep her eyes clear.

“Don’t do anythin’ rash, dearie,” Knife Man sneered.

The other man put his head out the window and called up to the driver. When he came back in, he shook his head at Knife Man. Maria watched, dumbfounded, as the second man then, of all things, climbed out of the coach. Through the window! While it was moving! She had never heard of such a thing, and the scandalized face of Doña Olivia flashed through her mind. Maria almost smiled, afraid that if she did, she would start laughing hysterically.

The coach jerked sideways again and bounced crazily over the road as the horses were whipped to a greater speed. Maria braced herself, focused on keeping her seat. She clung to whatever she could for stability. Then she heard something that froze her blood.

The crack of a gunshot.

The sound echoed across the valley, and Maria huddled into the corner, trying to make herself too small to attract further danger. Cursing came from above, and another gunshot. Both shots had come from behind the coach. Had someone come after her? She tried to cower down further, but the bouncing and jolting kept her from doing more than tightening her grip. Knife Man never took his gaze, or the aim of his gun, off her.

A deafening crack of gunfire from the coach startled Maria, followed by a third shot from behind. Her heart raced as she listened, trying to piece together what was happening outside the covered windows. For several heartbeats she heard nothing but the pounding of hooves and creak of the wood. Suddenly, the heavy breathing of a galloping horse sounded beside the coach. The clang of swords just beyond the door made her breath catch in her throat.

Knife Man turned from her to look at the door, the pistol’s aim dropping. Not thinking, Maria lunged at him. He saw her coming, and her head exploded with the impact of the pistol-holding fist. Her head hit the back of the coach with a crack, and she flopped to the rocking floor. The world spun as darkness closed over her mind.

MIGUEL PULLED ON THE reins, slowing the team to a smooth trot, certain they were out of pistol range of the men he’d dumped overboard. He should stop the coach and check on Maria. But what if one of the men found Miguel’s discarded mount and came after them? He couldn’t risk it. But what if she was hurt? He gritted his teeth and flicked the reins, refusing to allow the next logical question. If she was hurt, the best thing would be to get her home as quickly as possible.

The coach rocked abruptly, and Miguel spun, his pistol out, expecting to see someone climbing onto the coach as he’d done. A woman’s muffled cry came from inside, followed by a thud that rocked the vehicle and made Miguel’s heart leap into his throat. He violently pulled the horses to a stop and jumped down before the team had stopped entirely. His blood ran cold at the muffled sound of a pistol shot. The world around him seemed to slow as his feet hit the ground and he pulled his cutlass from its sheath. He knew full well the sword would be no use against a pistol, but his own pistols had been spent. He had to get to Maria.

He raised his sword and threw open the door, jumping back, ready to swing at whatever came through the door. The rest of the world fell away as he waited one heartbeat. Then another. No longer willing to wait for fate, he rushed forward. And froze as time and the world stilled around him.

A large man slumped against Maria. Viciously, Miguel grabbed him with his free hand and yanked him away from her, throwing him onto the dirt beneath the coach. He landed with a dull thud, but didn’t move.

Miguel turned back to Maria, and his heart stilled. She was covered in blood, staring lifelessly into space. He reached for her and her head jerked up, wild-eyed. Her shaking hands, holding a pistol, lurched upward, aiming the weapon at him. She pulled the trigger, and the empty flintlock clicked.

He stared at her as she trembled, her face wet with tears, and his mind caught up with the fact that he had not been shot. Slowly, he pulled himself into the coach.

“Shhhh, Maria, it’s me. It’s Miguel,” he crooned, reaching toward her. “It’s all right. I’m here now; everything’s going to be fine. Can you give me the pistol?” He gently touched her hand, and she dropped the gun as though it had burned her. Without letting go of her hand or breaking eye contact, he reached down and picked up the pistol, tucking it into his coat. “Are you hurt?”

Maria shook her head abruptly, and Miguel took a seat beside her on the floorboards. Gently, he pulled her hands toward her lap and wrapped his other arm around her shoulders. She rocked stiffly back and forth, and he pulled her head down onto his shoulder. She melted into him and sobbed.

“Shhhh, it’s all right, mi querida, you’re safe now, I’m here.” He pulled her onto his lap, rocking her as she whimpered in his arms. The weight of her warm body anchored him, and for a moment, nothing existed beyond the walls of the coach. Gently, he wiped away the worst of the blood.

The sound of approaching horses brought Miguel back to himself. He reached for his cutlass, lying on the seat beside him. Pulling Maria more firmly to him with one arm, he raised the weapon to strike as the door burst open. A familiar figure abruptly stopped in the doorway, and Miguel paused.

Don Ciro stood still, torn between reaching for his blood-covered daughter, and the threat of the man who held her. Slowly, Ciro lowered the pistol he’d brought, and Miguel lowered the cutlass, wrapping his sword arm protectively over Maria.

“Is she hurt?” Don Ciro asked in a low voice.

Miguel shook his head and Ciro backed out.

Someone climbed into the driver’s seat, and the carriage started to move. As he rested his head on Maria’s hair, Miguel could hear the horses surrounding them. Maria continued to cling to him, and eventually, her sobs stilled. She pulled away a little and looked up at him.

“Miguel?” she whispered.

“I’m here, Maria,” he said.

“Don’t ever leave me again,” she pleaded, returning her face to his shirt, clinging to his coat.

“I won’t, mi morena, I’ll always be right here for you.” He held her tighter until they pulled up to the Álvarez home.

Ciro opened the door, the torchlight of the hacienda lighting the drive. He reached for Maria, who had fallen asleep. Ignoring him, Miguel shifted one hand beneath her knees and stood, unwilling to give her up, even to her father. She stirred as Ciro helped Miguel down from the coach with his bundle but didn’t wake, only clinging tighter to Miguel’s coat. Before Ciro could say anything, Miguel strode toward the house. He would see her safe. Ciro took a step to follow but hesitated, then turned back to his men, giving orders for securing the hacienda for the evening.

NANA OPENED THE DOOR to Maria’s room as Miguel brought her up. “I’ll take her,” the old woman said firmly, but Miguel brushed past her without breaking his stride.

Somewhat flustered, Maria’s old nursemaid bolted in front of him and turned down the bed. Miguel laid her down, but as he pulled away Maria’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist.

“Don’t go,” she whispered, looking up at him.

“I won’t,” he promised.

Nana sighed and pulled over a chair for him to sit on. She grumbled about young love and hearts and promises as she fussed over Maria, wiping her hands and face clean and constantly forcing Miguel to move his chair further away.

The blatant domesticity of the situation relaxed Miguel, allowing the full weight of what had happened to settle over him. She had been taken. Because of him. When Nana had finally done all she could to get Maria dressed down with Miguel there, she turned on him with her hands on her hips.

“If you’re not going to leave, you’re to face out the window,” Nana said, pointing.

Miguel leaned over Maria and whispered in her ear, “I’m not leaving, but I am going to go sit over there. I promise I won’t leave.”

“I’m not an idiot, you know. I heard her,” Maria tried to joke, but it came out in a shaky mumble.

Miguel almost smiled. He turned his chair to the window, leaning out over the sill to cut off his peripheral vision. He could still hear, though, as Nana stood Maria up and helped her remove her dress and corset. What might have happened if he hadn’t found her? The thought oppressed him, pushing his heart through the floor.

The rustle of the Maria’s nightdress dropping over her and the creak of her bed as she returned to it seemed to accuse him. Had he picked the wrong route she would not be here to make those noises. Nana pulled the covers up the bed again, tucking them around Maria. Miguel hadn’t even been able to protect her; she’d had to shoot her captor herself.

The moment Nana stepped away, Miguel was back beside the bed, holding Maria’s hand and moving a curl of hair from her face. She smiled up at him.

“Go to sleep. I’ll be here,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes and her breathing slowed.

Footsteps at the door pulled Miguel’s attention. Ciro stood there watching them, a pain in his eyes.

Nana let out an unabashed sigh of exasperation. “She needs to rest,” Nana insisted as Ciro entered the room, taking a place beside Miguel. “No need to listen to me,” she muttered as she set about putting away Maria’s things and picking up the discarded red dress.

As Maria’s breath settled into the deep rhythm of sleep, Ciro motioned for Miguel to follow him. Inevitability hung over him like death’s scythe. Miguel looked at Maria, hesitant, his hand entwined with hers.

“I’ll be right outside the door, mi morena. I’ll be here,” he whispered into her ear and let go of her hand. She stirred a little, but when he was sure she would not wake, he walked out into the hall with Ciro, who gently closed the door behind them.

“What happened?” he demanded, not quite able to hide his anger.

“I, we ... had a fight. She’d noticed that I’m always following her and demanded that I leave her alone. I thought it best to give her some space,” he said, too ashamed of his stupidity to meet Ciro’s eyes. “I should never have left her, never have let her out of my sight.”

“She should have been safe there,” Ciro growled. “Olivia’s men should have been watching her. My men were supposed to be watching her.”

“One of your men in Doña Olivia’s employ came to warn me. Someone had ordered that all eyes be removed from your daughter. I shouldn’t have let her out of my sight.” Miguel slumped again, sitting heavily on a chair that he was certain had not been there before. This was it then, the moment he had sworn he would never allow again. But this time, the exile would be his own fault. This time, it would be deserved.

“This is intolerable.” Ciro growled to himself, pacing. “Unforgivable.”

Intolerable. Miguel nodded. Unforgivable. There were not more appropriate words. Miguel stood and started down the hall. It was late, but he would certainly be able to find a ship to take him before the tide turned.

Ciro put his hand on Miguel’s chest, halting him. “Where do you think you’re going?” Ciro asked, not unkindly.

“Away from here. She’s right. All I do is bring her trouble. You’re right, it was unforgivable. She’ll never forgive me ....” Miguel didn’t have the heart to continue or to fight Ciro as he pushed him back into the chair.

“Miguel, you are staying right here, where you promised you would be. People make mistakes; it is not you with whom I am angry. And neither is she. I will need you here with me, with her, now more than ever. I can’t believe Gonza would go this far. Things are going to get ugly soon, and she will need you while I am gone.”

CIRO KNEW THAT MIGUEL did not hear him, but he was convinced now that Miguel wouldn’t leave. He strode down the hall, pulling at his cravat. Events would move faster now, he was sure of it. He would need to prepare. Eventually, he would need to leave, and if he was lucky, things would not come to a head before he could see his daughter securely provided for.

Chapter 14

MARIA STOOD IN A FIELD some distance from Maracaibo, the nearby jungle dark and swaying in the stormy breeze. The sky overhead was a deep indigo and drenched with stars, and she could smell the impending rain. But then, it always rained here.

She wrapped her arms about herself and shivered. It’s just the cold, she tried to tell herself. Not nerves, just cold.

The shadowed jungle whispered to her, unheard voices urging her toward it. In the distance she could hear hoofbeats, shouting, and the crack of a gunshot. Maria’s heart raced as she spun, trying to locate the sound as it bore down upon her, surrounding her.

Suddenly, there he was.

Alistair! Maria fell on his neck, hugging him to her. He nuzzled her for a moment before nudging her up. As she stood, the sound faded, both the hoofbeats and the jungle’s whispers. A fresh breeze, thick with the storm’s scent, pushed Maria’s hair back from her face as Alistair urged her away from the jungle.

As she clung to his collar, he pulled her forward through the wind, and she fell forward into less chaotic dreams.

MARIA WOKE FROM A RESTLESS sleep with the lingering memory of dark dreams. Her head pounded, and she groaned at the multitude of aches that flared to life as she rolled onto her back. The morning sunlight slanted into her room through the open windows, carrying birdsong on its back. She closed her eyes again, but darkness and a flash of light played against her eyelids, and suddenly the weight of her quilt was suffocating. With a shudder, she opened her eyes. She needed to get up, anyhow.

Maria sat up, pushing back the offending blankets despite protesting muscles. Stretching her back, she rubbed her hands over her face with a yawn but froze at the sight of something that should most definitely not have been in her room, let alone while she’d been sleeping. Miguel was asleep in a chair beside her bed.

Maria hesitated, her hand hovering over her quilt as she weighed her options. He looked so peaceful, so beautiful asleep, with the sunlight lying across his still form. But she had an increasingly urgent need to get up. She glanced around the room for her robe. It sat several feet away, draped over her dressing table chair. Maria gave it a rueful look. There was no hope for it. The only way to get the robe would be to chance his waking as she snuck over to it. Maria bit her lip. She had no idea what kind of a sleeper he was. The choice lay before her—bodily necessity or decency? With a sigh, she flopped back down onto her pillows, pulled the blankets back over herself, and turned toward him again.

Miguel’s head rested against the wall with his face turned toward her, relaxed and peaceful. A bit of his messy, dark hair fell into his face. He’d removed his coat and bunched it behind his head as a makeshift pillow. Maria’s eyes travelled down to his chest, which rose and fell with his deep, even breaths. He still wore the fancy shirt from the night before, and his hands rested oddly at his waist. It made her smile to note that one hand covered the butt of a pistol lying on his lap, and the other was on his cutlass.

She had always seen the cutlass—he was never without it—but she’d only occasionally seen him carry a pistol. The sound of a gunshot from behind echoed in her memory and set her heart beating faster. The urge to turn away and hide beneath her covers pulled at her, but at the same time, the idea of the weighty quilt draped over her repelled her. I’m home. I’m safe here. Maria gritted her teeth and forced herself to breathe slowly. She had not imagined then that it was Miguel who had come after her. But the pistol on his lap was disturbingly familiar, and somehow, she knew it wasn’t his.

She shook her head to dispel the creeping foreboding and lay back on the pillows, trying to think of something else. Her body assisted in the effort, demanding to be relieved. She stared at the ceiling for a few minutes more, hoping for a solution. Maybe Nana would come in and solve her problem for her. With a sigh of resignation, Maria accepted that the decision was hers. She’d either have to wake Miguel or walk across the room in front of him in her nightdress to get the robe herself. As appreciative of him as she was, that was just too much.

“Miguel,” she whispered sotto voce.

He shifted in his chair but didn’t wake.

“Migueeeeel,” she said again, this time a little louder. When he still didn’t wake she grinned.

Maria reached behind her and grabbed one of her pillows by the corner. “Migueeeelll, you really ought to wake up now.” She swung the pillow around and let it fly at Miguel’s head.

Miguel’s eyes flew open just as the pillow hit him square in the face. He leapt to his feet, knocking the pillow away with the pistol and drawing his cutlass all in the same graceful movement. Before the pillow hit the floor, Miguel was poised, ready for combat. Maria’s breath caught for a moment at the beauty of it—she’d never seen him move like that, stand like that. For the first time, she truly saw in him the powerful and dangerous man that he was, and a deep feeling she couldn’t define filled her. Then she started to giggle.

He looked over at her, puzzled, then down at the pillow. He sheathed his sword with a sheepish grin and tucked the pistol into his belt. Maria tried to come up with an appropriate quip, but before she could, the door of her room opened. Nana bustled into the room with a tray of food, followed by a short trail of servants with buckets of steaming bath water.

“Ah, you’re awake,” she chirped, nodding to the others to fill the short tub in the adjoining room. “Feeling well, too, by the looks of things.” She gave Miguel an appraising look; a defensive aura still radiated from him. Nana raised an eyebrow at the pillow on the floor.

“It would appear that Maria’s room has become infested with flying pillows,” he said gravely to her, and Maria covered her mouth to hide her mirth. “This one attacked me while I slept, but I taught it to mind its manners.” He picked it up and handed it to Maria, who gave an abashed smile under Nana’s reproving look.

“There is breakfast for you in the kitchen, Miguel,” Nana said kindly. When he hesitated she added, “Maria can’t get washed and dressed while you’re here. I’ll ensure her safety from vagrant pillows while you are gone.”

Maria blushed at her nursemaid’s candidness and Miguel hastened out, embarrassed.

Maria watched his back until the door was shut, then turned to Nana. “Thank goodness you came when you did. I need to relieve myself, but my dress robe was on the other side of the room, and I couldn’t get Miguel to wake up so that I could get it!” She tried to hop out of bed, but her sore muscles protested anything related to quick movements. She hobbled across the room to her privy.

Once relieved, Maria eased herself into a warm bath, grateful for the heat against her sore muscles.

“That was no way to treat him, Maria,” Nana scolded her as she scrubbed and untangled Maria’s hair.

“There was no harm done, and we both had a good laugh,” Maria said with a shrug, her mind reviewing the way he had looked, jumping to her defense, his eyes dark and the line of his back and shoulders beneath his shirt .... She blushed, forcing her mind elsewhere.

“It was unkind. That man saved your life last night and has refused to leave your side since. He deserves your respect, if nothing else,” Nana chided.

Maria stared at the water in silence. Once again, she had chosen wrong and hurt someone she cared for in the process. She ought to have just waited for Nana.

After a few minutes, Nana urged her to finish bathing quickly, as Miguel would certainly be returning. Encouraged by the thought, Maria moved as fast as her sore muscles would allow, surprised at how much better they felt after soaking in the warm water.

Once she was dressed and her hair in order, Maria sat down to the breakfast Nana had brought. Maria set her mother’s necklace on the table beside her and inspected the red stone as she pushed the food around on her plate, uninterested in eating.

“What is this?” Maria asked Nana.

“Your mother’s necklace. Goodness, child, I knew you bumped your head but I didn’t think you’d lost your memory as well.”

Maria laughed. “I know it’s my mother’s necklace. I meant, what is this stone? Why did my mother always wear it?”

“Ah. These old ears don’t hear as well as they used to. I can’t do the things I used to, my poor old body creaks with every movement. Why, when I was young—”

“Nana! The stone?” Maria feigned exasperation.

“Ah, yes. It’s red jasper, chica. It is called tu’uma by the Wayuu, the natives to the north, and considered by them to be extremely precious. Your mother always wore it because it was her mother’s, and her mother’s before that. It is generations old, older than even I am, and that’s saying something.” Nana’s eyes twinkled.

Maria spun the stone in its setting as she ate, watching the way it reflected the light. She looked up at a knock on the door, and found Miguel. He’d changed into clean clothes and his well-worn coat. He still wore his cutlass, but the pistols were either gone or hidden. A moment of disappointment hit Maria at the sight of his tidied hair; she preferred the lock of hair in his face. She held up the necklace, and he smiled, coming into the room. As he took it from her hands, their fingertips brushed, and she looked away, lifting her hair from her neck. He draped the necklace over her throat, and the feel of his gentle fingers on her skin sent a thrill down her spine.

“Muchas gracias, Miguel.” Maria looked over her shoulder to him when he dropped his hands.

“It was my pleasure,” Miguel responded in English.

Maria looked at him quizzically, not sure that she’d correctly understood. Uncomfortable with the way he stood above her, she stood with as much grace as she could muster, only to come to an abrupt halt when that put her face to face with him. Her mind went blank as she looked into his green eyes, the space between their bodies tangible. Had she ever stood so close to him? She forgot how to breathe, and her mouth went dry. She licked her lips, and her eyes travelled down his face, along his clean-shaven jaw to his mouth. She could practically feel the short space between them, and her hands ached to close the distance. But did she dare? She glanced back up at his eyes, but the intensity of his gaze made her look down, tracing the line of his shoulder and down his arm. As she reached for him, he leaned closer to her, and she closed her eyes, drawing in a breath.

Nana cleared her throat, and the world slammed back into Maria’s senses.

They jerked apart and promptly found objects of interest in very separate parts of the room, stuttering their apologies. Miguel fidgeted with the coat he’d left on a chair as Maria went to her mirror and played with some trinkets, her face on fire and her body tingling.

Miguel regained his composure before she did and turned to her, his words tumbling over themselves. “Well, you had an exciting evening. I’ll let you get back to your rest.”

“I’m plenty rested, thank you.” Maria attempted to force herself to be calm. Despite her embarrassment, she was not yet ready for him to leave. “I want to walk in the gardens, if you’ll accompany me.” She held out her elbow.

Miguel turned to Nana. She merely gave them an amused smile.

“Are you sure? You look so tired still ....” Miguel hesitated.

“I assure you, I am fine.” Maria held her up head and started toward the door, ignoring her protesting muscles. “If you won’t come with me, I’ll go on my own.” She stopped in the doorway and gave a mischievous smile over her shoulder. “But, if you don’t come with me, I don’t know that I shall ever be able to take you at your word again.”

“I don’t think I could live with that ....” Miguel murmured and followed Maria, putting his arm around her waist with the pretense of assisting her down the hall.

Nana watched them go from the doorway as Ciro came down the hall.

“They’ll be good together, I think,” Nana said to him.

Ciro nodded absently and looked at the old woman. “Why do you stay with us?” he asked. “Maria’s too old to still need a nursemaid.”

“I stay because she asked me to stay, among other reasons.” Nana gave an enigmatic smile.

“That’s no answer, Nana. Surely you have a family of your own. What is your real name, anyhow?”

“This has ever been my family, and Nana is the only name I want.” She turned back into the young woman’s room to straighten it up.

Ciro looked on, pondering on all the strange things that made up his life.

MARIA TRIED NOT TO flinch as she walked, but Miguel could tell she hurt. That she was more tired than she let on was apparent when she slowed near a bench in a more secluded part of the garden.

“Shall we sit?” He gestured to the stone bench.

She smiled up at him and sat, sagging slightly as she arranged her skirts. “It’s odd,” she said as he sat, careful to place a proper distance between them. Maria held her hands in her lap, and he was acutely aware of how easy it would be to take her hand if she let it fall to the side.

“What is?” he asked.

“I ache all over, all across my back and shoulders, and my head too, of course.” Maria smoothed out her skirt. “It’s certainly not the first time I’ve been in a fast-moving coach, and probably not the bumpiest ride I’ve been on, but this is so much worse, and I can’t fathom why.”

“Are you sure you’re ready to talk about last night?” Miguel asked, his voice soft. He wished he could put his arm around her without upsetting her.

“What do you mean?” She didn’t look up at him.

Miguel hesitated. He shouldn’t push her; but he had to know what she thought about him. “What do you remember about last night?”

He regretted his words as soon as they were out of his mouth. What if she remembered what had happened on the balcony? What if she hated him for it? What if she, rightfully, blamed him for what had happened?

“I remember those villains forcing me into a coach, a lot of bouncing around, hearing some gunshots, and then ...” She hesitated and blushed. “... being in your arms and just ... feeling safe.”

An insufferable joy that she felt safe with him warred with trepidation as he forced himself to ask, “What do you remember of the ball?”

“I had a fairly good time. I remember lots of lights, lovely gowns, and then walking outside. The whole evening is pretty fuzzy, but I imagine it was an effect of all the excitement.” She smiled warmly at him.

Loathing himself for his cowardice, he didn’t press her any further. Instead, he reached over and took her hand. It was warm and soft and fit perfectly in his. She smiled at him, giving him the courage to wrap his other arm around her. She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. Feelings of warmth and peace rose into his chest, held there by the calming weight of her head. Her soft, glossy black hair pressed against his neck and chin, and he ached to stroke it. Mostly, he wanted to pull her into his arms as he had the night before and hold her tight, but the spell that had fallen over them seemed too fragile for movement.

So they stayed as they were and said nothing more, afraid that once the moment had passed it might never come again.

Chapter 15

THE CHIMING FROM THE grandfather clock down the hall sounded the lateness of the hour, muffled and quiet despite the silence of the sleeping household. Miguel shifted his weight and did a mental check of his weapons, running through various techniques of attack, both proper and unsavory. Growing up around the hard crewmen of his father’s merchant ship had given him a well-rounded education when it came to fighting. Footsteps down the hall reached Miguel’s ears. Even, heavy, and nearly silent. Don Ciro, then, come to relieve him of his vigil at Maria’s door. Miguel rolled his shoulders, working the tension from them and his back. The old man needed his rest; there was no reason Miguel couldn’t stay all night.

The old crone, Nana, hadn’t allowed him back into Maria’s room after the first night, and as much as he hated to admit it, she was right. It had been entirely improper, but there was nothing improper about him guarding her outside her door. More importantly, he knew she felt more secure with him there.

“Buenas noches, Miguel,” Ciro said softly as he approached.

“Evening, Don Ciro.” Miguel nodded to the other man.

“Another long night standing guard?” Ciro came to a stop across the hall from Miguel and leaned against the wall. “When do you sleep?”

“I could ask the same of you, sir. You’ve come to take my place, and it is not even midnight. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you come a few minutes earlier each evening.”

Don Ciro nodded, dropping his hands casually into the pockets of his robe. “How is she?”

“She doesn’t sleep well if I’m not here and won’t leave the hacienda without me nearby.”

“But at least she’s going out again. I should think you wouldn't need to guard her door every night any more. It has been nearly two weeks, and nothing has happened. I have people in place here to ensure her safety.”

“Like you did at Casa de la Cuesta?” Miguel realized his impertinence as soon as the words were out of his mouth, but he refused to take them back, standing up straighter.

“No, not like Casa de la Cuesta. Sergio is ... an easy man sometimes. He does not keep as tight a rein on his business as he probably should. But every man here, and woman, too, is loyal to the Álvarez family. Especially where Gonza is concerned.”

“You’re still convinced it’s him, then?” Miguel shifted his weight again and mimicked his employer’s posture, draping his hand over the pommel of his cutlass.

“He’s as much as admitted it.” Ciro looked down the hall and sighed. “Miguel, he wants something from me. I’d do anything to protect my daughter, but this is a thing I simply cannot give.”

“So the goal was to take her and force you to do ... what?”

Ciro brought his eyes to Miguel’s as a fierceness settled over his features. “What do you know of the history of the natives to the north? The Wayuu?”

The Wayuu? What did they have to do with any of this? “Maria mentioned them to me once, said there had been a few rebellions in the past. She didn’t figure there would be more trouble with them. Why?”

“I am a man of peace, and a man of business. But I have in the past, been a man of war. Gonza would have me be so again.” Ciro shook his head. “But not as an honest soldier, no. He cares nothing for the cause, or the lives, or the cost of human souls. All he sees is that there is money to be made, and he wants me to support him in this.

“There are rumors of discontent in both the city and the villages.. Tensions between the Spanish and the natives are growing. Rather than try to find peace, people like Gonza fan those sparks, pushing them into flames just to see the world burn so they may forge their fortunes in the furnace of destruction.”

Miguel nodded as the pieces fell into place. “And if you publicly supported it, another war would come that much faster.”

Ciro stood up straight from the wall and crossed to Miguel. “But more than that, I would be selling out my soul and everything that I’ve ever held of value.”

“Does Gonza by himself really have enough influence to push things that far?”

“I’m certain that he doesn’t. He’s conniving, but this maneuvering ... it just doesn’t quite feel right. There has to be someone else guiding his steps ....” Ciro shook his head. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

Miguel raised his eyebrow at him, skeptical. “Is this supposed to reassure me?”

Ciro put his hand on Miguel’s shoulder. Miguel held back his immediate impulse to shake it off. He still wished he’d broken the arm of the last man to do so, but Don Ciro was different. Miguel waited.

“Here’s the thing, Miguel. I’m getting the impression you’ve about made up your mind to stay here permanently.” Ciro paused, watching Miguel.

Miguel stood straighter, glancing at Maria’s door, then back to Ciro.

“If that’s the case, then I have plans that need to be put into motion. My first concern is, as always, Maria’s safety and future. To that end, I believe it is time you start taking a greater part in the running of this business. To that end, you will need to sleep.”

Uncertainty filled Miguel. Once before he had been robbed of everything he’d held dear by a man he’d always believed he could trust. Now, before him stood another man who had been a complete stranger not so long ago, offering to bring him in, asking for his trust. Or was Ciro using him, too? Was it worth the risk?

The warm wood of Maria’s door frame pressed into Miguel’s back. For her, though, he would risk anything.

“She doesn’t sleep well if I don’t stay,” Miguel repeated.

“You can stay until she is asleep.” Ciro pulled Miguel away from the door. “Go to your room and sleep. She will be fine, and you will be more use to her rested.”

Reluctantly, Miguel walked away.

MARIA STOOD JUST OUTSIDE the door to the main house of the hacienda, watching the coach roll up, a sick feeling she couldn’t define settling in her stomach. The footman opened the door of the coach and a thin, dark man stepped out. Well-dressed, he walked with an arrogant stride that struck Maria as distasteful. She shrank back, hiding behind the nearest arching pillar of the arcade as the man swept up the steps.

“Senior Gonza,” the doorman said, holding his hand out for the man’s hat and leading him in. “If you will wait here, I will inform Don Álvarez of your presence.”

Gonza. She had overheard her father speak of this man more than once, and often with contempt. She watched him from the doorway, and when he looked up and met her eye, it made her skin crawl. She stood straighter, holding up her chin. Even if nothing else seemed certain in her life right now, she could still hold herself with pride.

“Maria,” Miguel called from the courtyard. Gonza gave her a cruel smile as she met his gaze. “Maria, I’ve got the horses—” Miguel cut off as he neared and saw Gonza in the foyer

Gonza’s smile turned absolutely feral and Maria narrowed her eyes at him. Miguel put his hand on her elbow, his grip gentle but tense. Maria turned her back on the intruder, sweeping out into the sunlight and the saddled horses that awaited them. The knots in her stomach loosened with each step.

Despite Miguel’s steadying hand on her back, Maria trembled as she reached her horse. For the first time in weeks, she found herself relieved to leave the hacienda. “I don’t know what it is about that man, but I don’t like him in my home.”

Miguel put his hands on her waist and helped her into her saddle. “Neither do I, and I do know what it is I don’t like about him. He’s an absolute scoundrel. If I’d known he was coming, we’d have left sooner.”

Maria gathered her reins and watched Miguel swing himself awkwardly up into his saddle. She smiled. He tried so hard, but it was clear he was not meant to be a horseman.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” he asked as they walked their horses through the gates.

Maria’s stomach twisted at the thought. “My father likes to say that it is better to get a painful thing over with quickly. When he was teaching me to ride when I was small, I once fell off my horse. I was terrified to get back on, but he told me the longer I waited, the worse it would be. And even worse, the horse knows when you’re afraid and will act out. He always made me get back on the horse as soon as possible. So whether I’m ready or not, it’s time to get back on this horse.”

“Is there any life problem your father’s wisdom can’t fix?” Miguel asked with a laugh as the hacienda’s gates passed out of sight.

“Pain,” Maria said quickly. “He says that pain has to be passed through.”

“Unless you pass out.” Miguel’s eyes twinkled.

Maria laughed. She loved the way he always made her laugh, even when she was upset. Especially when she was upset. Her world had been shaken to its core. She’d always known there were evil people out there, but it had always seemed like such an academic thing. Something to read about in books. But to have it reach out and snatch her from her life, from a place she’d always considered a home ... Maria shuddered despite the morning heat.

“Are you sure you’re all right with this?” Miguel leaned over and squeezed her hand, bumping his knee against her horse as he did so. “I can take you home and send your excuses to the Señoritas de la Cuesta.”

“It will be fine.” She squeezed his hand in return, then let it go. “It’s time I went back there. Besides, that awful man might still be meeting with my father, and I don’t have any interest in being within a mile of him, if possible. Besides, it is nice to spend some time alone with you. I feel you’re so busy now, we hardly ever have time to talk.”

Miguel gave her a rueful smile. “Your father’s decided he wants to bring me on more fully in the business. I almost think he had hopes to do so from the beginning. I was raised on a merchant ship, the son of a merchant captain after all.”

Maria gave him a playful shove. “You never told me that! What were you doing as a simple deckhand in La Solidad?”

“That’s a story for another day. The point is, though, I’m sorry I haven’t been around for you as much as I’d have liked.”

The knowledge that he liked being around her warmed her, and she used it to combat the chill of anxiety that crept up her spine as they neared the plantation. When they arrived, Miguel walked into the house with her instead of making his excuses and leaving.

Doña Olivia greeted them warmly, as though nothing untoward had ever happened. She then insisted that Maria and Miguel stay to dine that morning, though she herself had other business to attend. Doña Olivia directed them to one of the balconies where her daughters and niece were enjoying the nice weather as they ate. Walking through the familiar halls felt strange to Maria, as though something as normal as this was from a distant past, almost another lifetime. The girls greeted her, all aflutter as Maria came to the table. Betania was her usual warm self, and Selena as well. Elisa, however, went straight for Miguel.

Maria felt her smile turn forced as Elisa fawned over Miguel.

“How have you been? You’re looking so well. How fine that coat looks on you.”

Why not just throw yourself in his arms and pet his face? Maria maneuvered herself to stand between them, gratified at the way Miguel pointedly ignored Elisa.

“Have a seat won’t you, Elisa?” Maria gestured to the table where Selena and Betania had already taken their seats.

“Oh, of course. I was just so excited to have you here again. It has simply been ages, and there is just so much to say.” Elisa set herself down as daintily as a blossom on water, conveniently beside the open seat Miguel had moved toward. Miguel changed directions, and, after helping Maria with her chair, sat as far from Elisa as the small table would allow.

They chatted for a few minutes of menial things, but Maria felt out of place, as though watching the whole thing from a distance. Miguel’s presence beside her, however, lent her reassurance.

“What do you suppose Selena is so antsy about?” Miguel whispered, nodding toward the anxiously bouncing girl.

“Probably has ants biting her ankles,” Maria whispered back, hiding a smile in her teacup.

“You should put her out of her misery and ask her what is on her mind.”

“Selena—” Maria started as soon as the conversation lulled.

“Maria! You’ll never guess what has happened with Betania!” she exclaimed.

“Selena!” Betania blushed, but obviously wanting her to continue.

“What? What’s going on?” Maria looked between the two of them.

“Well, remember that boy, Benito Garcia—” Elisa started before Selena could say anything.

“He’s not a boy,” Betania objected.

“—the one we were debating whether to invite or not?” Elisa continued without missing a beat.

Maria nodded. “Yes, he danced with Betania almost the whole night.”

“Well, it turns out they’ve been courting behind our backs!” Selena said.

Maria wasn’t surprised but wondered where Betania found the time; it seemed she was almost always with her sister and cousin. But then again, Maria hadn’t been around as much recently.

“We’ve become engaged,” Betania murmured, giving Maria a knowing smile.

“Congratulations!” Miguel raised his cup to her.

“Yes, that’s wonderful, Betania!” Maria returned the smile, though she could tell Betania was uncomfortable with the attention.

“Tell us, Maria, what happened to you that night?” Betania asked, clearly desperate to change the subject. “You just disappeared, and no one seemed to know where you were.”

Maria shrank back from the question, her mind blank as she felt four sets of eyes on her. Miguel rested his hand on her arm, calming her and she looked up at him.

“We’re rather curious to hear what you’ve heard.” He turned the question back to them without looking toward Maria. Maria remained tense as they started talking.

“Well, oddly, none of the servants know anything about it,” Betania said.

“Only you would care for servant’s gossip.” Elisa snorted.

“I saw you leave. It looked like you two were having a fight,” Selena offered quietly, looking toward them for some sign of affirmation. At Miguel’s nod she smiled and continued. “Doña Olivia told us that you left in your carriage, but that your coachman had indulged in too much drink—”

“Shameful, but what else could you expect from a mestizo servant?” Elisa cut in, and Miguel shot her an angry look.

“Worried, your faithful sea dog followed you on horseback and rescued you from the runaway carriage,” Selena finished, with Miguel bristling at the reference to himself that he had come to despise.

“So romantic.” Betania sighed.

Maria was unsure if Betania was referring to the tale or her new fiancé. When Maria realized that none of them knew what had happened, she relaxed a little, but something about the way Elisa was looking at Miguel made her wary. There was a maliciousness hiding in the set of her lips and a sparkle of jealousy in her hazel eyes.

“Did you know why she and her pup were fighting?” Elisa asked in a low voice, leaning toward Selena.

“No, do tell!” Selena demanded, excited for more gossip.

Dread settled over Maria. She only vaguely remembered that they had fought, but she couldn’t quite recall what it had been about.

“Really, it’s not something to be discussed,” Miguel cut in, sensing Maria’s growing agitation.

Elisa’s eyes darted from Maria to Miguel at the questioning look that passed between them and continued with venom lacing her words.

“It would seem that puppy Miguel had finally come to his senses and tried to remove himself from Maria’s leash. He wanted to be alone with me, you see. So, he took me out to the balcony, that one over there.” She pointed.

“Elisa, perhaps you’d better not,” Betania stated as Miguel glowered at her sister.

Maria shook her head, confused. There had been something about the balcony. What was it?

“Why ever not, dear sister? There’s no harm in the truth,” Elisa said with a dainty shrug.

“I think we should leave.” Miguel stood and gently took Maria’s arm to help her up.

Maria stood slowly and looked at Elisa, searching her memory for the truth. Elisa had never been one to be trusted with the truth.

Elisa looked back into Maria’s eyes and continued, pouting. “He took me to the balcony, where it was dark and he thought we were alone. He told me that he loved me, that he wanted to always be with me.”

“That’s a lie,” Miguel hissed, and took a menacing step toward Elisa, his hand going to his sword hilt.

She sat calmly and lifted a cup of tea to her lips, glaring into his eyes. She sipped her tea without breaking eye contact and then continued.

“Then, he pushed me up against the wall, whispering into my ear, and kissed my neck, right here.” She pointed to her jaw and Selena gasped, scandalized. Then Elisa turned her eyes to Maria, her voice as sweet as honey. “But then Maria came and beckoned him away, and, like a good little dog he followed, ready for his beating.”

In a flash, Maria remembered. She remembered seeing them together, seeing him leaning over Elisa, leaning down to her. Maria felt heat rise in her chest, but she didn’t have the strength to push it away so she turned and fled.

Miguel gave one last glare at Elisa, finally cowing her, and stalked out after Maria.

“That was cruel, Elisa. Look at what you have done,” he heard Betania chide.

“That was the idea,” Elisa said coldly, and Miguel quickened his pace.

MARIA WAITED FOR HIM at the front of the house, watching for their horses to be brought around. Her emotions swirled around her. Elisa had meant to make her upset. Elisa twisted things to get what she wanted. She wanted Maria upset. This was nothing new, but Elisa had never been so vicious about it. Nor so successful.

Miguel walked up behind her and touched her arm. “Maria ....” he said, a note of pleading in his voice

“Not now, not here, please.” She pulled away. She needed to figure this out. For the moment, though, what she knew without a doubt was that she wouldn’t give Elisa the satisfaction of dealing with it here. She would not be Elisa’s entertainment.

Miguel backed away a little, certain she could still feel him there, behind her. When the groom brought their horses, she mounted and started off at a trot, not waiting for Miguel. He quickly caught up to her, but she didn’t speak.

The silence grew between them as Miguel fought down his anger at Elisa’s cruelty. And what if Maria was unforgiving? No matter what it took, he would make sure she heard his side, but what then? What if she wanted nothing more to do with him? He tightened his grip on the reins and his gelding tossed his head. His fear circled around again to anger, each emotion vying for control. He struggled to balance them, knowing that if either won they would remove reason from his grasp.

Maria was caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions of her own. Elisa was a liar. But Maria remembered it. The balcony, the music, the faded evening light. The sense of betrayal. But Miguel cared for her, didn’t he? Why would Elisa lie? Maria had grown up with the girl, they were practically sisters. Why would Elisa be so hateful?

They slowed their horses to a walk as the plantation disappeared behind them, more of that night coming back in bits and flashes. She and Miguel had argued, and she wasn’t even sure why. Despair washed over her as she remembered his anger. It probably was only loyalty to her father that kept him around.

Miguel brought his horse abreast of Maria’s, and she tried vainly to wipe away the tears on her face.

“I’m not ready to go home yet,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

“I understand,” he said gently. “We need to talk, and I know a place where we should be alone.” He turned down a road that led away from the town.

She nodded and followed in silence, riding between various plantations which eventually gave way to grazing pastures. Miguel led them to a glade, separate from the jungles in the distance.

As they passed into the cool shade, Maria gasped. “It’s so well-manicured, almost as if one of Doña Olivia’s gardens were allowed to grow at will.”

Miguel nodded. “I’d never quite thought of it that way, but it does look like she came in and tried to tame the wild.” They continued until they reached a little clearing with benches artfully placed in it.

“What is this place?” Maria wondered, eyeing the simply designed stone benches.

“A friend of your father grazes his sheep here, in the surrounding area. Their family has done so for three or four generations. His mother started domesticating this place when he was a child, and she was the one who brought the benches. He’s kept it up since then, though it is rare anyone comes here anymore. He told me I could use it if I ever needed to ‘get away’ for a bit.”

“It’s very peaceful,” Maria said, calmed by the whisper of the breeze through the trees and the cheerful chirping of birds. Something about this place made all her fears seem less potent. Miguel helped her dismount and tethered their horses to a tree. Maria moved closer to a large flowering plant with trumpet-shaped white and pale orange blossoms that she didn’t recognize, as Miguel pulled a blanket from his saddlebags.

“How did you know to bring that?” she asked with a laugh as he spread it across one of the benches.

“I like to be prepared. I always bring supplies with me in case I have to spend a night somewhere.”

“What are you talking about? You’ve never not come home.” She gave him a sideways look, surely he was joking.

“After a life traveling the world, I like to be prepared for anything.” He came to her, offering his hand, which she took. “I learned long ago that just because it hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it won’t ever happen. I hate being caught unprepared.” He led her to the bench and she sat. She watched him as he took a steadying breath and sat, facing her. “I wasn’t prepared for you.”

Maria blushed and looked away.

The silence stretched out, and Maria fidgeted with her dress, picking at imagined loose threads on the fabric.

Finally Miguel gathered his courage and gently took her hands, turning her toward him. “What Elisa said, that’s not what happened.”

“I wish I could believe that, Miguel, but I remember ....” She looked down at their entwined hands. It felt so right.

Miguel’s heart felt weighed down with lead shot, crushing the breath from his chest. With the last bit of hope he could find he tried again. “Maria, do you trust me?”

“I don’t know. I want to ....” She turned her deep brown eyes up to his. I’m so afraid, her eyes seemed to say.

“After we fought in the carriage, I was upset. At myself, mostly. I’ve been so drawn to you, Maria, since the first time I saw you.” Miguel reached out and tucked a curl of hair that had fallen into her face behind her ear, and she didn’t pull away. “I felt, though, that with the circumstances surrounding my employment with your father, it was inappropriate to pursue you the way I would have otherwise.”

“But you followed me around anyway? How was that less inappropriate?”

A smile played on Miguel’s lips. “Maria, have you ever known me to be subtle? Following you around like a lovesick puppy is not my style.”

“You really hate that comparison, don’t you?” She searched his face with her eyes.

Miguel leaned back, running his hand through his hair. “I ... I don’t like to feel used. Or that others might think I was just using you.” He turned back to Maria. “Between my close proximity to you, the nature of my responsibilities, living in your father’s house, and especially his vast fortune, I knew others would believe my interest superficial. And you ... I was afraid you would never come to believe it was you I wanted and nothing else.” He touched her chin, the smooth skin of her face warm in his hand, and raised her face to him.

“If it was me you wanted, why were you with Elisa?” Maria asked, her voice filled with desire to believe him.

“Maria, through those weeks when you refused to speak with me, I was drawn to you more than ever. Drawn to someone who thought of me as little more than a pet, yet just as unable to escape you. And it scared me. When I saw the chance to break away from you, I took it.” Maria pulled his hand away from her face and looked away, but he had to keep going. “I thought I might be able to find someone who could take my mind off you. If there was anyone in Maracaibo who could have, I knew she’d be at the ball. However, each girl I danced with couldn’t compare to you. The only face I saw was yours. The only name I could remember was yours.”

Maria shook her head. “That doesn’t change the fact that you were there, with her on the balcony. I had been sitting in the shadows, taking a moment.”

Miguel sighed. “In one last effort to get you off my mind, I sought out Elisa, but as soon as I saw her, I knew I needed to find you. I asked if she knew where you were, and she led me to the balcony. She is an unrelenting flirt and would not answer me outright.”

“But I saw you. You held her against the wall and kissed ....” Maria trailed off, wanting to believe him, but unable to overcome the doubt that Elisa had planted.

“Maria, I’ve kissed many girls in my life. I have traveled the world and often thought myself in love, but if you believe nothing else about me, know that I have never kissed Elisa Díaz Palomo. If you can ever believe that, I have another truth to tell you.”

“I want to believe it, Miguel. I want to believe that I didn’t see what I thought I did. It was dark, I was tired. So much of that night is such a blur.” Maria pulled her hands out of Miguel’s and turned away, looking at the horses grazing serenely.

“It would appear you have two choices, then. You can believe Elisa’s version of events, a girl who you know will lie to get what she wants. Or you can believe me, and I swear I didn’t kiss her.” Maria thought on that for a minute. Why did the confession that he had kissed other women not bother her, but the thought of Elisa even touching him made her want to slap the girl?

“What truth have you not told me?” she asked, turning back to him.

“Then you believe me?”

“For now,” she said with a small smile.

“The truth then.” Miguel took her hands again and leaned toward her. “The truth that I have learned since coming here and meeting you, is that I have never before known love. No one has filled my head and heart the way you have, Maria. The truth is that I love you.”

Once more, time seemed to stop for Maria. He loves me. It was all she could think. The thought repeated itself over and over in her head as she looked into his green eyes. Then the realization struck her. I love him. She jerked away, standing and turning away from Miguel, overwhelmed. She didn’t know what to do.

Miguel watched her from his seat, equally unsure. Professing his love was not something new to him. This, however, was so much more than he’d ever felt before. He’d never understood what he was saying before. This time, he truly meant it. He’d never before had to wait, practically unable to breathe; hoping endlessly that she returned his affection. He thought he understood women to an extent, but watching Maria pace, obviously struggling with something, he knew he didn’t have a clue.

Gathering his courage, he went and put his arms around her. She leaned into him, resting her head on his chest, filling him with that deep sense of peace and calm he’d never known except with her. He stroked her hair, marveling at the way it flowed between his fingers, leading his hand down to her slender back.

Miguel’s presence was so calming. In his arms, everything in a world that had been falling apart around her suddenly felt right to Maria. Here, she was safe. With her head still on his chest she whispered the words they’d both been waiting for. “I love you, Miguel.”

Miguel tilted her head back and looked into her dark eyes. Her heart seemed to stop as he leaned down and their lips met. Her eyes closed and she inhaled, taking in the smell of him, horse and leather and cedar. Her arms reached around his neck and pulled him closer as his hands slid to her waist and did the same.

Chapter 16

SPRING 1740 - MARACAIBO

AS THE DAYS PASSED, CIRO took more and more of Miguel’s time, but rather than daring the world without him, Maria simply went out less. She remained hesitant to leave her father’s home without her escort, and though they often went on rides through the countryside in the evenings, she grew restless. Determined to take control over her life, she decided to try something drastic.

Maria pushed the food around on her plate as Miguel and her father continued to talk business over supper. Normally, she would have tried to guide the conversation elsewhere, but tonight, her stomach was filled with butterflies. Perhaps she should have asked Miguel his opinion first.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” Maria’s father said, and both the men looked over at her.

Too late.

“Papa,” Maria said, taking a deep breath.

“Yes, hija?” Ciro smiled at her.

Maria swallowed and tried not to rush as she spilled her thoughts. “I have decided that since Miguel has become increasingly more involved with you and the business, and since I cannot spend the rest of my life within the walls of our hacienda, I would like to learn to shoot.” Miguel nearly choked on his food as he gave her an incredulous look. She definitely should have spoken to him first. Her father, on the other hand, nodded thoughtfully.

“I have actually been thinking about that myself. Perhaps it would be best, though, if Miguel took you. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s a better shot than me.” He gave Miguel an appraising look. “We can move more of the paperwork to the evenings; I can do that on my own easily enough. I think you’ve got the hang of it, Miguel, don’t you think?”

“Yes, Señor,” Miguel answered, still trying to clear his throat. “I think I understand how it works.”

“Excellent. Then it seems that in addition to your other duties, you will be teaching my daughter to shoot in the evenings as the weather permits. You two go out riding every afternoon, anyhow. I’m sure you’d rather do something more productive with that time than abraz—”

“Of course, Señor. I’d be happy to teach Maria,” Miguel hastily cut in as Maria blushed, her relief turning to embarrassment.

“Shooting, Miguel. Teach my daughter shooting.” Ciro grinned at Miguel as Maria blushed deeper and tried to disappear into her chair.

“Of course, Señor,” Miguel said, trying to cover a grin with a drink.

“Now, that brings up another thing I’d been meaning to speak to both of you about.” Ciro sat back. Maria gave him a horrified look, and he chuckled. “Well, I suppose it can wait.”

THE NEXT DAY, MARIA paced through the house and changed her dress three times, trying to make sure she wore just the right thing. What did one wear to learn to shoot a pistol, anyway? What if it rained while they were out?

Anxiety at holding a gun again snaked its way through her thoughts, held precariously at bay by any distraction she could find. At the moment, she focused on the riddle of what had tipped off her father as to why she and Miguel had been spending so much time together. Where had his suspicion come from? How could he possibly know? They weren’t really doing anything wrong, though perhaps a bit inappropriate for a couple who weren’t yet engaged... She pulled on a pair of leather riding gloves. Would he be angry if he knew for sure? Would he approve of Miguel? How in the world did her father know? She certainly hadn’t told anyone. Miguel! She tore the gloves off again and threw them on the nearest chair. Was he gossiping about her? To her father! Oh, I’ll kill him!

When the time neared, Maria ordered the horses saddled and brought around to the front. She found a parasol in case it started to rain and then sought out Miguel, who was with her father in his study.

“Ah, it would appear that it is time for my daughter’s lessons, Miguel,” her father said when she appeared in the door.

“So it would.” Miguel turned to her and bowed. “My lady.”

“Miguel.” Maria curtsied back.

“Señor, I beg your leave. I’d hate to keep such a lovely young woman waiting,” Miguel said.

“Of course. Maria, have you a pistol?” Ciro looked back down at his papers.

The question took Maria completely off guard.

At the silence that followed Ciro laughed. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Miguel, there is a box over on that shelf, the one with the inlaid ivory.”

Miguel retrieved the box and brought it to Ciro’s desk. Curious, Maria came over and watched Miguel open it. Inside were two beautiful matching pistols.

“They are for you, Maria, though Miguel will determine when you can have them. I’d like you to try to keep them on your person after that, though.”

Maria nodded, wanting to run her fingers along the beautiful worked handles but repelled by them at the same time.

“Miguel, make sure she understands how to safely handle them as well as shoot them. Please also consider what we spoke about earlier.”

“Certainly, Señor. Señorita?” Miguel offered his arm to Maria and tucked the box with the pistols under the other.

They rode north toward the strait until they came to an abandoned building with a half-fallen fence nearby. What had seemed like a good, logical idea to Maria suddenly made her ill. Bad things happened around guns. They dismounted, and Miguel tied the horses near the shack, removing the greatcoat she had given him and tossing it over his horse’s saddle. Untying the box with her father’s pistols, he gestured her to a small boulder several paces from the derelict fence posts.

“First, I will explain to you how these work.” Miguel pulled out one of the pistols as she neared, pointing it at the ground.

“I know how they work. My father explained them to me once when I was a girl” Maria confidently picked up the other. The metal along the handle burned cold against her palm, but rather than drop it, she gripped tighter. She would do this.

“All right then, impress me.” Miguel tucked her father’s pistol away.

“This is the barrel where the shot comes out.” She lifted the gun to show him, and he jerked back, pushing the barrel away from him.

“Lesson one: muzzle control. Don’t point that thing at anything you don’t want to kill.”

He said it with a smile, but ice shot through her veins. She wouldn’t think about it. Turning to face the fence post squarely, she continued.

“These pistols are rifled inside, which makes the shot spin as it comes out. The spin helps the pistol shoot true, though not all guns have this.” Pointing to the bit above the handle, she continued. “This is the flintlock, and when the hammer is cocked all the way back and the trigger is pulled, the flint on the flintlock sparks the gunpowder in the frizzen. The resulting explosion is what shoots the ball.” She smiled, hoping she’d impressed Miguel.

“Not bad, but tell me ....” Miguel pulled his own pistol from within his jacket and shot at the distant post. A puff of dust erupted from the wood. He held the gun out for Maria. “Now how do you shoot?”

“I suppose you reload it ... oh, don’t even start with me!” She grinned and shoved at him playfully. “You’ll have to tell me how.”

“So, your gun is empty. You pull the hammer back halfway; this position is called ‘lock.’” Miguel demonstrated as he spoke. “Then you load the powder and shot. If it is a muzzle load, like mine, you use the ramrod, here, to shove it all down the barrel, like this.”

“So, lock—” she repeated his actions on her empty pistol “—and load.”

“Then you must prime the flash pan, like so.” He added some of the fine powder and closed the frizzen, then held out the powder to her. “Your pistol is now primed and ready. It’s the same with muskets; they’re just larger.”

Maria copied him as he spoke. “Surely there is a better way to do this. It seems it would take far too long during a fight,” Maria commented as she finished priming her pistol. Now that her pistol was ready to shoot, death held in potential in her hands, her guts clenched.

“It’s been the best technology around for a hundred years. A good soldier can shoot, reload, and shoot again in fifteen seconds. Also, I keep my pistols locked and loaded whenever I go out, so all I need is to pull the cock the rest of the way back, aim, and fire.”

“Pistols? As in more than one?” Maria gave him a look, careful to keep her pistol aimed at the dirt several feet away from them.

Miguel grinned and pulled the hammer of his pistol the rest of the way back. “Now, you aim your gun like so, lining the barrel up with your target, and squeeze the trigger.” He aimed at the fence again and shot, once again hitting the dilapidated post squarely in the middle.

Maria nodded and stepped up beside him. She looked at the target, her hands suddenly sweaty. She could do this. She would do this.

“Full cock.”

Maria raised her arm, but a trembling began in her stomach and radiated out her arms. She could do this. It was just a post. Not a man.

“Aim.”

Maria took one deep breath and then another.

Miguel stepped up beside her, his hand pressed against the small of her back. It steadied her, and the trembling subsided as she focused on the pressure of his hand and ignored the rest of the world.

“Fire,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. The gun leapt from her hands. Maria’s eyes flew open as the gun landed with a heavy thud several feet away and Miguel burst out laughing.

“What did I do wrong?” she asked, bewildered, as Miguel picked up the pistol.

“Reload, and I’ll help you next time.” Miguel grinned and handed back the pistol.

She reloaded, determined to do better this time, to be steady. Again, Miguel stepped up behind her, the warmth of his body pressed against her back, and the feel of his arms along hers distracted her for a moment. Focus, she chided herself. Resetting her stance, she allowed him to guide her arm with his.

“Now, you want to aim.” He moved his face beside hers and spoke into her ear. “Set your sights down the barrel, there, but keep your eyes open this time and prepare for the recoil. It’s not much, and you should be able to handle it if you’re ready.”

His hands lay strong and steady over hers, and her heart beat faster as she couldn’t help but note the strength and solidity of him. Focus, she reprimanded herself again. This time when she shot, she hit the trees just behind the fence post. A thrill shot through her at finding the pistol still in her hands as Miguel stepped away. The apprehension that had grown in her all morning evaporated.

“I didn’t drop it!” She gave him a triumphant smile, showing him the gun, and he grinned back at her joy.

“Good! Now reload and try again. This time though, gently squeeze the trigger,” he said as he sat on a nearby rock. “And remember never to point that thing anywhere but the ground and your target.”

They passed the remainder of the afternoon that way, Maria shot, reloaded, and shot again, while Miguel sat on his rock and watched, correcting her when needed. They continued until the sun began to set and the wind picked up. Maria ruefully rubbed her aching arm and shoulder muscles as they rode in companionable silence.

“What was it that my father wanted you to consider?” Maria asked.

“Hmmm? When?” Miguel asked.

“Today before we left. He asked you to consider what you had discussed?”

“That. Right.” Miguel was silent for a few moments as he gathered his thoughts. “Maria, your father knows that we’ve grown close.”

“Who told him that, I wonder?” Maria said, annoyance coloring her voice.

“Maria, everyone knows it.” He shook his head. “Anyone who has ever been in love can see it. We’re not exactly discreet.”

Maria blushed at her naiveté and looked at her hands and the smooth leather reins she held. She felt silly she hadn’t considered that possibility.

Miguel continued. “Your father is still very much in love with your mother. He misses her terribly, for all that she’s been dead for seventeen years. It’s amazing, really, that he never sought to fill the void she left.”

Maria gave him a sharp look and he cleared his throat.

“Anyhow, your father, well, um ... he thinks it would be best, since it is obvious that we have become close, that we make public that we are courting.”

“Courting?” Maria teased, enjoying his discomfort.

“Well, I’d like to court you, officially.” Miguel stumbled over his words. “That is, if you want to ....”

Maria grinned. She loved ruffling him; he was always so proper around everyone else. “Well, if my father thinks it’s a good idea, I’ll just have to go along with it.”

Miguel smiled back at her and reached over to squeeze her hand.

THE WIND WHIPPED THE rain into Miguel’s face like so many branches, despite his hat, and he ducked his head beneath his arm, feeling sorry for his steadfast gelding who had no such protection. Ciro rode beside him as they made their way home. Miguel wasn’t sure if he should curse the weather that kept him from speaking to Ciro, or thank it. He’d been hearing rumors that worried him, of Gonza, and of the Wayuu. Both topics Ciro did not like to discuss.

A large branch crashed down in front of them as they reached the gates to the hacienda, and Ciro cursed as Miguel fought to keep his horse from rearing. By the time the men had their horses under control, dancing around the offending branch as the trees reached menacingly toward them, the gate had been opened. Miguel resisted the urge to rush his horse through the courtyard. It was no small relief when the horses finally stepped into the shelter of the hacienda’s stable, and Miguel slid from his gelding’s back.

“Do you always choose the worst storm of the year to ride out in?” he asked Ciro as he handed a stablehand the reins.

“This? This is hardly a storm at all. Just some wind,” Ciro said with a rakish grin and a slap on the back for Miguel.

“At least it’s warm here.” Miguel adjusted his heavy greatcoat.

“It is that.” Ciro removed his own coat. “I can never decide if I want the protection my coat will give me or the relief from the heat I’d get by leaving it behind.”

“And risk my powder getting wet?” Miguel shook his head as he checked his pistols. “Never.”

“That’s what I like about you; you know when to take risks, and when not to.” Ciro gestured to the door, and they walked.

Miguel swallowed. Ciro had been pushing more and more for him to take an active role in decisions lately. It was now or never. “Speaking of risks, Gonza is certainly taking one, putting so much of his wealth into just a few ships.”

“Putting so much of his clients’ wealth into so few ships,” Ciro responded thoughtfully. “And far too many of those ships are mine. If the journey goes well, the risk will pay off well for him, but if any one of those ships goes down, he’ll be a ruined man. It is utterly foolish of him.”

Their conversation paused as they rushed from the stables through the storm and into the house. So far, so good. Miguel decided to press on.

“Do you think he’ll blame you personally if anything happens?” Miguel asked, shaking the water from his greatcoat and passing it and his hat to the footman.

“Naturally.” Ciro moved into the study and sat heavily on the couch.

The wind rattled branches against the windows as Miguel followed suit, sitting across from him. “The question then, I suppose, is what will he do, and what will we do to prevent it?”

Ciro leaned back, stretching his legs before him, but didn’t respond.

“Is he still after your support for the war?” Miguel asked, braving the topic Ciro liked least. “Would that be a viable buffer, do you think? Could you convince him to take fewer risks if you agreed?”

Leaning forward, Ciro looked Miguel in the eye. “That will never be a possibility.” He ran his hand through his wet hair. “That is certainly an issue, though. I can’t be seen to support the rabble rousing, but if it comes to it, I can’t risk being seen to not help. If I’m deemed a traitor, Maria could lose everything I’ve built for her.”

Miguel leaned back, loosening his damp cravat. The issue here was Gonza. He, more than anyone, pushed folks to stir up animosity about the natives. He had far too much influence that way. If there was something that could bring him down ....

“What if you lost one of your ships?” Miguel suggested.

Ciro gave him a calculating look. “Would you be willing to go down with that ship and her crew, my boy?”

Miguel shook his head. “Not sink, just ... lose. For a little while. Ships are late all the time. This one would only need to be late long enough. And if we plan for it, we should be able to get by.”

“Plan for what?” Maria’s voice from the doorway made them both turn.

“It’s just business,” Ciro said. “Nothing you need to be concerned with.”

Maria entered and stood by the sideboard. Miguel always enjoyed watching her gather her courage, the way she would take a deep breath and square her shoulders. There it was—she raised her chin and turned back to her father. Miguel smiled, wondering what unexpected thing she’d come up with this time.

“I would like to be more involved in the family business, Papa.” Her voice remained level and even.

Miguel silently applauded her courage, even if he disapproved. He glanced at Ciro who looked pleased.

“I have a good head for figures, and excellent penmanship, and, after all, it is a family business, and I think it’s important that I know what is going on.”

Ciro stood and hugged his daughter. “I think it is a wonderful idea. Your mother always enjoyed being involved, as well. I’m sure most of the smartest decisions we made were her ideas, anyway.”

Maria beamed at her father.

“I think we’re done for the day, as it is.” He stepped back. “Would you see when dinner will be ready while Miguel and I change into some dry clothes?”

Maria nodded and shot Miguel a smile as she left.

“I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” Miguel said cautiously as Ciro shut the door behind her. “She could get hurt. What if Gonza goes after her again?”

“We’ll keep the estate secure. I’ll see that Sergio does the same to Casa de la Cuesta, and she doesn’t go out without you anyhow. Most of the business is administration and paperwork, anyway, and she’s right that she’s got a good head for that sort of thing. She’ll stay safe, and you and I will manage the rough things. Besides, I have no interest in telling her she can’t do something. Do you?”

Miguel stood, water still squishing in his boots. It would be nice to get into dry clothes. He shook his head. “I’m not sure it’s possible to stop her once she’s got the bit between her teeth, anyway.”

Ciro laughed and opened the door. “You’re learning.”

THINGS FELL INTO A new pattern for Maria. She spent more time each day learning how her father’s business ran; their clients, their accounts, and the histories thereof. In the evening, when the rain and wind seemed unlikely to be severe, she and Miguel would ride to the broken-down shed where Maria practiced shooting, reloading, and shooting again. After a few days, Miguel added smaller targets to the fence post.

When she complained about the constant ache in her arm, shoulder, and back, Miguel introduced basic knife fighting and swordsmanship in conjunction with the use of the pistol. For safety’s sake, they used a mock pistol, lathes, and short sticks for the fighting lessons. Whenever Maria began to think she could get the upper hand, Miguel would surprise her with something she hadn’t thought of before. Sometimes, when he’d pinned her, he would steal a kiss on her cheek before she figured out how to break free.

“That’s terribly distracting,” she once said, giving him a good-natured shove after they’d broken apart.

“Then you shouldn’t let yourself be distracted,” he countered with a grin as she prepared to attack again.

She gave a mischievous smile. If that was how he was going to be, then she’d distract him, instead. “You’re impossible!” she exclaimed several failed attempts later.

“In what way?” he asked, taking a seat on the stone.

She rolled her eyes, reaching up to lift her windswept hair from her sweating neck. “To distract.”

“Everyone can be distracted.” He smiled, watching. “It’s just a matter of discovering what they’re susceptible to.”

“And just what are you susceptible to?” Maria asked, dropping her hands to her hips. “Obviously not my wiles.”

“Oh, I’m susceptible to your wiles, just not during a fight.”

“So how would I beat you in a fight?” She stepped closer to him.

“A wise man never gives away his weaknesses,” he said sagely.

Maria shook her head and tried to push him off the rock. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her down onto his lap instead, leaning her back.

“See, now this is a position you wouldn’t want to find yourself in.” He leaned toward her, his voice husky. “What are you going to do about it?”

Maria’s heart pounded in her chest. “I could scream.”

“I could kiss you; then who would hear?” He leaned closer, pressing against her.

She tried to keep her mind off how close his lips were to hers.

“I could grab your hair.” She brought her hand to his face. “Or hit your jaw with my palm.”

He gently took her wrist, then moved it firmly to her waist, his eyes glancing down to her lips as he drew her closer, whispering into her ear. “Now what would you do?”

She tried pulling back her head so she could think about something beyond the texture of his scruff against her cheek or the deep warmth that filled her, but his hand on the base of her neck kept her from doing so. Perhaps she could kick him somehow ...? As she twisted to bring her foot around, she overcorrected, jerking her head forward and bashing his nose with her forehead.

Immediately, his grip on her loosened as he reached for his face and she toppled onto the ground. He reached for her, losing his balance as she landed on his feet, and fell in a heap beside her with a grunt.

“Did I hurt you?” Maria immediately tried to sit up, but her skirts were tangled around her legs. Scowling, she pulled them around to free her feet, as Miguel sat up.

“I’m so sorry!” Miguel said as he sat up, his voice choked. “Are you all right? I can’t believe I dropped you—”

Maria turned back to him, inadvertently hitting his face with her elbow. This time, Miguel let himself fall to his back, one hand pinching his bleeding nose and the other flung above his head.

“You win. I surrender!” he called out, laughing.

Maria gathered her skirts and knelt beside him, poking him in the side. “Ha, I finally bested you.”

“Yes, you finally did. Serves me right, too. I was not expecting that.”

Dusting off her skirt with mock arrogance, she looked down at him. “Well, I’d hate to bore you.”

“I doubt that is even possible. Though I might be a bit dull while I lie here until my nose stops bleeding and I can gather the broken pieces of my pride.” He exhaled and closed his eyes.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. We’ll say the horse did it.”

“I’m not sure that would be all that much better.”

Maria stood as another burst of wind blew across the field. She reached down to help Miguel stand. “We’d better head back; it’ll rain soon.”

THE LENGTH OF THEIR practice sessions grew shorter as they spent more time talking, walking, or simply riding at a leisurely pace. As the rain became more frequent and heavy, Maria spent the afternoons with Nana. They worked on the best ways to alter her dresses to allow for a knife or two and a pistol to be carried on her person, along with additional small pockets for powder and shot, just in case. Nana pretended to be upset at the impropriety of Maria carrying weapons, but when it failed to ruffle her young mistress, Nana took to fretting about the dresses. Despite all the grumbling, Maria could tell Nana was both pleased and proud of her for learning to defend herself.

Chapter 17

JULY 1740 - MARACAIBO

THE DAY OF BETANIA’S WEDDING to Benito Garcia Arce dawned bright and clear. Midway between the first and second rainy seasons meant the rain would be minimal. Or at least, that was the hope in July. Maria spent most of the morning helping her father and Miguel get through their work quickly so that they would not be behind the next day. Around noon, Maria returned to her rooms to get dressed, hoping that the men wouldn’t wait too long before getting ready themselves.

Maria entered her room to see a dress already laid out on her bed. She wrinkled her nose at it. It was the red dress she had worn to the masked ball what seemed like an eternity ago.

“Why is this old thing out, Nana?” Maria asked, pulling at the pins that held up her hair. She didn’t want to think of the dark stains that had covered the skirt the last time she’d seen it. “Surely I have something better.”

“That ‘old thing’ was new the last time you wore it, chica,” Nana said, backing into the room, her arms full of petticoats. “The only time you wore it, I might add.”

“But everyone has seen me in it already. I ought to wear something else.” Maria picked up the dress, holding it at arm’s length as she returned it to the wardrobe.

“I think not.” Nana took the dress from Maria and laid it back on the bed. “It compliments your features exquisitely.”

“I don’t want to wear it.” Maria sighed, knowing that her ploy had failed.

“And why is that?” Nana gave Maria a challenging look.

“It ... makes my skin crawl to even look at it,” Maria admitted, shuddering.

“See? It wasn’t so hard to tell old Nana the truth, now was it,” Nana said simply, returning the dress to the wardrobe. “Start getting changed. I’ll bring out another one.”

Maria removed her dress and changed her petticoats, looking with disgust at the corset waiting for her. She stalled as long as she could before putting it on and having Nana cinch it for her. Despite the modifications they’d made to it to allow her to breathe should she need to run, or maneuver should she need to fight, it was still tight, confining, and uncomfortable. Maria hated the thing. Nana simply chuckled as she helped lace it up.

“It’s things like this that tempt me to simply wear a man’s clothes,” Maria grumbled as Nana yanked on the strings.

“I’m not sure how well you’d be able to pull that off. Your bosom is much too large,” Nana stated as Maria twisted her shoulders and hips, readjusting the set of the corset.

Maria looked back at her old nursemaid, appraising the woman’s sagging breasts.

“You can have mine, but I’m afraid I don’t want yours in return,” Maria said with a final tug at her shift.

“I’m afraid I’m content with mine. You’ll just have to give yours to someone else.” Nana lifted the new gown, red and black brocade with golden lace, over Maria’s head. It settled gently over her underpinnings, and Nana started on the laces.

Nana turned Maria around to make sure nothing had been forgotten. Satisfied, Nana opened the door to the hall to allow the air to pass through the hot room. Maria turned to her mirror and started on her hair.

“Hair is as annoying as breasts,” she said, as Nana took over Maria’s hair.

“I’ve worked hard to start ridding myself of that, too, but it just keeps coming back,” Nana whispered conspiratorially to Maria.

Maria laughed at the thought of Nana, who had long silver tresses, bald.

“I’ll give them to Miguel, then,” Maria said.

“I’m sure he’d appreciate that,” Nana chortled.

“Give me what?” Miguel said from the doorway. Maria spun so fast she knocked her powder to the floor. “How long have you been there?!”

“Sorry, I was passing in the hall when I heard my name,” he said at the same time, stepping back.

“Her breasts,” Nana said over them both.

“Excuse me?” Miguel asked, looking incredulously at Nana while Maria blushed and turned away from them both, appalled to realize that she still faced him by way of the mirror.

“She has decided to give you her breasts in exchange for your clothes,” Nana said in a most somber voice.

“Nana!” Maria cried, shocked and too embarrassed to face Miguel in the doorway or the mirror. She turned instead toward the window, covering her face with her hands.

“Um ....” Miguel stood there speechless for a moment, and then in a choked voice said, “I’ll, just, um, be on my way. Sorry to disturb you, Señorita.” Maria watched through the mirror as he bowed to her back, looking at the floor the whole time, and hurried on his way.

“That was completely uncalled for!” Maria rushed to shut the door. No cooling breeze was worth enduring that.

“It was nothing but the truth.” Nana shrugged as she finished Maria’s hair and tied on her mother’s necklace.

When she was ready, Maria peeked cautiously out her door, relieved to find only an empty hall. With one last glare at Nana, she stepped out, throwing her shoulders back and putting up her chin, determined to pretend nothing had happened the next time she saw Miguel. Maybe he would forget about it.

She fiddled with the knickknacks in the entryway as she waited for the men to appear, working herself up to remain calm. Her father appeared first. She smiled at him and set her hand in his offered arm. She gripped his sleeve as they approached the waiting coach. Maria clamped down on the nerves that threatened to upset her hard-won calm. It was only a coach. She had done other, harder things. She could do this, too.

“Where is Miguel?” she asked, careful to sound unconcerned as her father helped her in.

“On his way, I imagine.” Ciro climbed in after her and took a seat beside her. His steadying presence did almost as much to calm her as Miguel’s would have.

“I do hope he doesn’t keep us waiting too long,” she said, proud of her voice for remaining level.

Miguel appeared shortly thereafter, apologizing for holding them up as he climbed in and sat across from father and daughter.

“Nothing to worry yourself about, muchacho,” Ciro replied.

Maria watched Miguel as he kept his eyes averted from her, looking out the window, at the floor, the ceiling, or Ciro. When he did look her way, their eyes locked for a moment. She quickly looked down, blushing fiercely and fidgeting under his intense gaze. Finally, she looked out the window, afraid to meet his eyes again.

The loaded silence in the coach lengthened. After a time, Maria chanced another look at Miguel, only to be caught up in his eyes again. This time, when she broke contact, she cast a discreet look at her father and saw him leaning back, watching them with a grin.

I hope you’re entertained, she thought sarcastically. She sighed and looked at her hands as she fiddled with her gloves. Her sigh seemed to break the spell, and the men began to chat. She ignored it, preferring to watch the passing scenery.

When they reached the Casa de la Cuesta, Ciro left them, claiming he had some people to speak to. Miguel took Maria’s arm, maintaining propriety with an exacting stubbornness. Maria could feel him next to her, as if lightning were jumping between them, his touch like fire on her arm. When she looked up at the front of the de la Cuesta mansion, Miguel’s presence faded somewhat under a pang of nostalgia.

“I can hardly believe it has been so long since I’ve been here.” Maria took in the grand plantation home with its sweeping arches and manicured foliage.

Miguel nodded. “Nearly six months.”

They walked on until they reached a large group of wedding guests, where they were obliged to exchange greetings and courtesies. When they had finally made their way through the gauntlet, Miguel led Maria to a bench.

“What are weddings like on the other side of the world?” Maria asked as she sat, moving aside her skirt to make room for Miguel.

“I’ve seen many weddings in dozens of places. They all have their own unique customs, but many things are the same. For instance, most of them have some sort of tradition that indicates which unmarried man or woman will be next to marry,” Miguel said after taking a measured look at Maria.

“We have something like that, too. The bride gives gifts to all the guests. The single women get pins or brooches”—Maria showed Miguel hers, a sweeping, worked silver vine with three dark enameled roses to one side—“which they wear upside down. If I were to lose it during the festivities, then I would supposedly be the next in line to marry.”

“I see. What about an exchange of gifts between the bride and groom?”

“The groom gives either the bride or her father thirteen gold coins, called arras. This shows that he can support her.”

“And when do they do that?”

“They can do it either as part of the ceremony or beforehand. It doesn’t really matter.” Maria noticed a stir in the guests and stood up and grinned. “It would appear to be time to start the procession.”

Miguel and Maria turned the same direction as the rest of the guests just in time to see Betania emerge. Her black silk dress looked amazing on her, and Maria couldn’t help the small sigh that escaped her. An intricate black lace veil covered her face, matching the black lace trim on her dress. Betania’s father, Don Sergio Díaz Montejo, Señor de la Cuesta, escorted her, walking along proudly enough to put a rooster to shame.

Maria reached for Miguel’s hand as the guests cheered among a buzz of comments on the beauty of the bride and her dress. Don Sergio and his eldest daughter made their way out the front door to the waiting carriage. Following them were Doña Olivia and Elisa, resplendent in their dresses. When Elisa saw Miguel and Maria standing together she slowed a little and gave them an icy glare, before hurrying after her family.

One by one, the wedding guests climbed back into their carriages or walked beside the bride’s for the procession to the chapel. Don Ciro appeared through the crowd just as their coach did, and the three of them climbed in, making room for an elderly couple whom Ciro had invited to join them. They spoke of business and politics and the tensions with the Wayuu, speculating on the likelihood of yet another rebellion. The elderly woman staunchly insisted that it would never happen again, not after the last one with their two thousand warriors, and even if it did, it would never come close to that number again, that the natives should simply be content with what the Spanish gave them. Her husband agreed with her with an air of weariness from trying to explain the reality of the situation to her. Don Ciro tried to explain why it not only could, but likely would happen again, if certain things didn’t change. Miguel paid careful attention to the entire exchange, but Maria let her gaze and her mind wander.

For a time, she allowed her eyes to travel over Miguel’s well-fitting clothes. They were a far cry from what he had worn the first time they’d met. These clothes were new, newer than even what he had worn to the masked ball, and rather finer, too. Even the gleaming boots were new, though already broken in. For once, he wasn’t wearing the greatcoat she’d given him. The thought of how badly it would have clashed made her smile. The coat he’d had the day they met had been so weathered that the initial color was only hinted at, whereas this dress coat, tailored in the latest fashion, matched his pants and vest.

Despite the fancy appearance, she knew that under the coat were at least two half-cocked pistols and three or more knives secreted about his body. He was taller now, at nearly twenty years old, than he had been a year and a half ago. She admired how nicely he’d filled out in his chest and shoulders. The thought of his body made her blush again, and she looked up to see him watching her. She blushed even harder and looked out the window. She loved the way he looked at her but hated how shy she was about it in public.

They arrived at the chapel and filed in. Benito was escorted down the aisle by his mother, followed by Betania with her father. She looked radiant and so full of joy under her black veil that Maria couldn’t help smiling herself. She watched rather longingly as the priest performed the ceremony, the coins were exchanged, and a rosary was wrapped around the couple.

The entire company followed the new couple back to the Casa de la Cuesta for the wedding festivities. Betania and Benito danced the wedding dance, Seguidillas Manchegas, and then circled the room to visit with the guests.

“Oh, Maria, I can’t believe how happy I am!” Betania exclaimed once the couple reached them. “It seems like only yesterday we announced our engagement. I hope you find as much happiness!”

“I don’t know.” Maria laughed. “I think you’re going to use up the world’s supply of happiness tonight, if you don’t burst from it first!”

Betania leaned to her, “Honestly, though, I hope you marry Miguel. He seems like such a good man for you.”

“What about your sister?” Maria asked. “Wouldn’t you rather see him with her?”

“Absolutely not.” Betania’s face turned serious. “She would ruin him. She’s been all in a flurry since the announcement about you. She’s changed. She’s so ... vicious now. She told me she was the one who ordered the servants to leave you alone at the ball. It’s probably best that you stay away from her.”

“Don’t worry about that.” Maria waved her back. “Now, let’s not talk of such dreary things! This is your wedding! Felicitaciones! Go, enjoy yourselves!”

Betania smiled her appreciation and took Benito’s arm, and they moved on. Miguel pulled Maria out to dance as the next song began.

“Why the long face?” Miguel asked as they danced.

“It’s just that ....” Maria began, stumbling over her words as she tried to sort through her emotions. “Elisa. Do you suppose she knew what would happen that night?”

“I seriously doubt it. How could she have known unless she was a conspirator? She was just being mean-spirited. Probably thought no further than to inconvenience and annoy you.”

“Did you know it was her?” Maria looked up into his lovely green eyes.

“Of course. Your father spoke with Don Sergio immediately, and naturally, they spoke with the staff. Don’t worry about it, mi morena. We took care of it.” He smiled at her and she felt herself relax. Now was not the time to fret about Elisa anyhow. Tonight was to be enjoyed.

They danced together throughout the night, and occasionally with other partners, though each never let the other out of sight. They also kept a wary eye on Elisa and found excuses to move about the room, keeping as much distance from her as they politely could.

As the evening wore on, Maria found Miguel and pulled him out to a balcony to take a break from the heat and noise. She led him to the bannister and leaned over it, watching the gardens in the moonlight. She wanted to talk to him, just to listen to his voice, but couldn’t find the words. The evening was too perfect for words.

Figures moved through the gardens below, as they had the last time she’d been on this balcony. Turning to ask Miguel if he would walk with her down there, she found him watching her, a crimson flower in his hand. Her mind blanked, fixated on the daring he’d shown to pick one of Doña Olivia’s flowers from her planter, as he reached toward her, tucking the flower behind her ear.

Her breath caught as his hand trailed down her jaw then tilted her head up. Maria’s world fell away as he kissed her tenderly in the moonlight. She melted into his arms, and he pulled away before she was ready for it to end. She smiled up at him, holding his hand on her neck.

“Let’s take a walk.” She gestured toward the gardens, her voice soft.

“All right,” he said in a husky voice, allowing her to lead him down off the balcony. They walked across the moonlit lawn arm in arm.

“That night, at the ball,” she said as they ambled down the path, “I stood on the balcony and watched couples walking down here. They seemed so oblivious to the rest of the world. I wondered if I would ever do the same with the man I love.”

“And here you are,” he said.

“And here you are.” She squeezed his arm.

They wound their way along the paths lined with ornamental hedges and flowers, and the occasional tall roble with its wide leaves. The heavy scent of the flowers—orchids, roses, hibiscus, and others she couldn’t name—mingled with the humid air. They walked aimlessly until coming to a stop before a secluded bench a little way from the main path. They sat down, and Maria leaned back against the armrest, looking at the stars.

“Why is it that you were always following me?” she asked.

“You really never figured it out?” Miguel asked, a laugh in his voice.

“I have had my suspicions, but I want to hear what you’ll say,” Maria said, her gaze still tracing the stars.

“Your father hired me to be your bodyguard. We called it being his ‘assistant’ because I was assisting him with ensuring your safety. That, and he didn’t think you’d take kindly to having a stranger following you everywhere.”

“So all those times you appeared, insisting that I go one way and not the other ...?” She looked over at him.

“For one reason or another, I feared for your safety.”

“And now?”

“Now? I am your father's business partner in fact, but I'll always be your bodyguard." He looked down to meet her eyes. “Does that bother you, Maria?”

“No,” Maria said, rather surprised as she realized it really didn’t. Miguel nodded and Maria returned to her celestial contemplation.

Miguel watched her for a time, thinking how beautiful she was, how charmed he was by her wit. It amazed him how he strove to be on his best behavior when she was around. A right gentleman he was turning into. His old chums from the sea and the ports around the world would hardly recognize him now. He fingered the silver brooch in his pocket that he had deftly removed from Maria’s shoulder when they’d kissed, certain she hadn’t noticed. Steeling his nerves, Miguel took a deep breath.

“Your pin is gone,” he said.

“Huh?” Maria asked, absent-mindedly.

“Your brooch. The one you told me about earlier. It’s gone.” He said, touched her shoulder where the brooch had been.

She looked down at her dress and touched the bare cloth. “So it is.” She smiled up at Miguel through her eyelashes.

Miguel took another moment to swallow. His mouth had gone dry and butterflies fluttered in his stomach. He took both of her hands in his and slid to the ground, kneeling before her. She looked down at him skeptically as he placed her brooch in her hands.

“What’s this?” She looked at the brooch, then at him.

“Maria Álvarez Cordova, would you do me the honor of being my wife?” Miguel looked into her dark eyes. The silence that followed seemed to stretch through eternity.

“Miguel, I ... I don’t know what to say ....”

“Why not? If you don’t want to marry me, just say so.” Miguel stood, pulling Maria up to stand next to him, worry that he’d terribly misjudged things gnawing at him.

“No, it’s not that. I mean, I do want to. Marry you, that is, but ....” Maria turned from him, pulling his arms around her.

He held her tight to him. “But what?” he asked gently.

“I’d be so happy with you, Miguel, but, I don’t deserve it. I’m a terrible person.”

“Whatever do you mean? I think you’re a wonderful, amazing woman who could conquer the world if she wanted.”

“No, I’m not.” She paused, the tension in her body speaking of her uncertainty. “Miguel, I’ve killed a man,” she whispered, pulling a little away from him.

Miguel let out a breath of relief, unsure what to say. Of course he knew she’d killed that man in the carriage. How could he not?

She turned in his arms to face him. “Could you ever forgive me for such a thing?”

“I could forgive you anything, mi morena. I love you.” Miguel caressed her face. When she looked away in shame, he pulled her back to her seat on the bench. “Why don’t you tell me what happened,” he asked gently.

“I killed him, Miguel. The man in the carriage, the night you rescued me. He had the pistol, and it was pointed right at me, but then he was distracted, and I tried to grab the gun from him ....” Maria choked up and tears fell down her cheeks. “I must’ve hit my head somehow, because the next thing I knew, I was on the floor, and all I could think was that he was going to kill me, so I kicked him as hard as I could. He dropped the gun and I picked it up. And then I ... I shot him in the face. There was so much blood ....”

Maria started sobbing. Feeling helpless, Miguel wrapped her in his arms, letting her cry into his shoulder. He stroked her hair and told her everything would be all right until her sobs quieted.

“Mi querida, there is no shame in protecting yourself or the ones you love. I killed at least one man that night as well, possibly all three of them.” He swallowed, allowing himself to feel for a moment the regret he’d carried for so long. Then he admitted something he’d never said out loud. “And they were not my first.”

Maria pulled back and shook her head. “But his life—it’s over. What about the people who cared about him? He was a person. What if somebody loved him? What if he had a wife and children? I took him away from them. He had parents at some point; somebody raised him. He had hopes and dreams.”

“Maria, honey, you can’t think of it like that, or it will consume you.” Miguel tilted her head up gently and searched her eyes. “You have all those things, too. What right does anyone have to take that from you? He chose to be where he was, and he knew it might cost him his life. You did the right thing, the only thing, and you shouldn’t be ashamed of it.”

“I just don’t know.” She looked back up to the stars.

Miguel stood and offered her his hand. This was not how he’d imagined this evening would go, but when had his life since finding Maria ever gone the way he expected? “Come, let’s get back before we’re missed. Your father might start to worry.”

Maria sent him a grateful smile and took his hand. They started back, walking arm in arm while Maria fiddled with the brooch Miguel had returned to her, safely in her pocket.

They were only a few feet from the main path when a loud thwack made Maria jump. Miguel collapsed beside her. She spun around to see a large, familiar man lumbering toward her. Stunned, she tried to take a step back but tripped and fell, her legs tangling in her skirts as she tried to regain her footing.

“’Ello, pretty li’l thing,” he sneered as he loomed over her.

Then, from the shadows, Miguel jumped on him, a knife gleaming in his hand. Maria quickly untangled herself and stood, the world around her spinning as the thug punched Miguel square in the jaw. He seemed to drop to the ground in slow motion.

Maria tried to go to him, but her feet were like lead weights buried in the ground. The man leaned over Miguel, wrangling the knife away and pressing it to his throat. Maria’s breath came in short gasps, unable to get enough oxygen to make a sound. Everything in her screamed to do something, anything. But this man had taken down Miguel; what could she possibly do to him?

“Now tha’ wasna too smart, boy. I’da let ye live if ye’d had the sense to stay down.” The thug leaned closer to Miguel’s face. “But sadly, for ye an’ yer lady, any’ow, I’m going ter kill ye.”

As the thug spoke and Miguel struggled, the world shifted beneath Maria’s feet. Suddenly, everything was clear. He was just another target. She reached her hand slowly into the hidden pocket of her dress, hoping the thug wouldn’t notice.

“Then, once yer good an’ dead I’ll take tha’ chi’ of a girl righ’ ‘ere, next ter yer still-warm corpse—”

Click.

The thug jerked his head to look at Maria but didn’t get to say anything more as the powder exploded in the flintlock pistol. He fell to the ground with a satisfying thud.

Miguel looked up at her over the sudden dead-weight of the man, the smoke swirling around her face as she kept the gun trained squarely on the attacker.

Miguel pushed him off with a grunt, pain exploding through his vision as he tried to stand. Gingerly, he picked himself up as the man on the ground stirred. A wordless fury washed over him, and he kicked the man viciously in the gut. For the moment, the pain that shot through his leg was worth the satisfaction. He turned to Maria, standing square as he’d taught her, her dark eyes fixed on their target. A mixture of pride and awe tugged a small smile onto his face as he limped to her. He reached down her arm to take the pistol from her, her finger still squeezing the trigger.

As soon as he touched the gun, she stirred, drawing the pistol back towards her. He watched silently, his head swimming, as she moved to reload the pistol.

“Take mine,” he said as she fumbled in her pocket for shot. “I’ll trade you back later.”

She took his gun, checked the mechanisms, and set it to the holster in her skirt. When she finished, she looked at Miguel, her eyes filled with a cold calmness. “There is no shame in protecting the ones I love,” she said, a small tremor belying the courageous words. “You are hurt; let’s get you back to the house.”

“Not as bad as it looks.” He looked down at his blood-spattered clothes, then grinned wryly. “Least your dress is too dark to notice the blood.”

“I seem to have bad luck with red dresses,” she responded, shaking out her skirts.

“Is because,” Miguel said slowly, struggling to find the words in Castilian, “they’re too beautiful on you to resist allure.” He limped forward, stumbling and grabbing a tree for support as his left knee gave out. Shaking her head, Maria put her arm around his waist, and he settled his left arm over her shoulder. Slowly, they hobbled forward.

“What does it take to get rid of you?” a cold voice said, and Miguel snapped up his head, his vision blurring at the pain of the sudden movement. He sagged, losing his balance, and for a moment feared he’d pull Maria down with him.

“I know you,” Maria said, fear and anger clear in her voice.

The man’s laugh sent a chill down Miguel’s spine as his vision cleared and he steadied himself.

“Gonza.” Miguel spat out the name, attempting to assess the situation through the cloud that lay over his brain.

“Aren’t you two just adorable.” Gonza stood, his pose relaxed as he talked, but there was something off about his movements that raised alarms in Miguel’s fuzzy mind. “Two little lovebirds sitting in a bush, perfect for the taking.”

Gun. Miguel closed his eyes for a moment as the world tried to spin sideways.

“I’d have rather had you alive, but I’m just as happy crushing Álvarez this way. And believe me, he will be crushed.”

Miguel opened his eyes to find Gonza closer. Alarms went off in his mind, a cacophony of English and Castilian too jumbled to wrap his tongue around. His eyes focused enough to see his Sharpe 8-inch flintlock at the end of his left arm. His delicate, feminine arm ...? His mind struggled to resolve the inconsistency. Maybe that was my blood .... He wanted to look down and check his shirt for blood, but he fought the urge. He needed to focus. Someone was speaking.

Shoot him. Miguel squeezed the trigger, but the woman’s arm didn’t respond. Maybe it wasn’t his left arm? Why would he shoot left-handed anyway?

Gonza moved, his arm reaching for something in his jacket.

Shoot! The gun before him trembled, wavering. Dropping. He should steady it.

Gonza sneered, stepping forward, and pulled out his own pistol.

With all the speed of a bucket of tar on a cold day, Miguel brought his right hand up to steady his mis-matched left arm, laying his hand over hers. A heartbeat passed, and his left arm still didn’t shoot.

Gonza’s barrel cleared the holster, his teeth glinting in the bright moonlight like a demon’s.

With a growl, Miguel jerked the gun to the right just enough and squeezed the trigger. The concussion filled his ears and eyes with an all-consuming white light, but he held himself as stone, unmovable, as the sound bounced around his skull.

Then he was on the ground.

Chapter 18

MARIA FOLLOWED SILENTLY behind José, who carried the semi-conscious Miguel. She’d traded out the second spent pistol of the night for another of Miguel’s almost as soon as he’d fallen. Gonza had crumpled silently to the ground before them, clutching his wounded gut, and Maria hadn’t given him a second look. When José appeared out of the darkness, she’d nearly shot him, too, before recognizing the de la Cuesta livery.

A few people had run to them, offering to help, but José had stopped them from coming close, urging them on with jokes about his friends having too much to drink. The three of them slipped in through one of the servant’s kitchens and into a nearby room, where Miguel was tended and Maria sent someone to collect the thug and Gonza.

A part of her was surprised the staff hadn’t gone running off for one of the family, or patched Miguel up quickly and shuffled them off for more “proper” care, but rather treated him like one of their own. Not that she minded; she enjoyed the earthy hospitality.

Maria washed her face and hands, watching the way the blood swirled and diffused in the water. She would not think of how it had gotten on her face. She refused to look at her dress. Then she sat near Miguel, trying to stay out of the way, calm, quiet, and in control of her senses.

She watched the servants tend Miguel as though he was one of them. They spoke with her without the usual formality that they used for their employers and higher-ups. Of course, now that she thought about it, it seemed they had always been more personable with her than other people. She had always taken it in stride and always treated them in kind, thinking it was just the way things were.

Something was different about the world that Maria couldn’t place her finger on, as though she was seeing through new eyes. Something in her had died tonight; something monumental had shifted. She felt changed, transformed in a way. Disconnected from her world or her body.

As though to deny the thought, a pain in the palm of her hand pushed through her mental haze. She looked down and saw her hand was clenched in a fist. Opening it, she found the silver brooch Miguel had given her earlier, leaving a red mark across her skin. She turned it in her hand for a minute, watching Miguel absently. Could she accept this? She loved Miguel, but marrying him...? She’d never made such a large decision on her own before. Perhaps her father could give her advice.

A petite but stern-looking woman worked over Miguel, cleaning and binding his wounds on his chest, and he began to stir. A trail of dark hair ran down his belly, but Maria found herself too distracted at the moment to be embarrassed about seeing it.

“He should be all right, I think,” the woman said, pulling his shirt back down. “Assuming he stays hydrated and rests. He’s to stay down for at least a week. Longer, if he remains dizzy or his mind is clouded. His knee will take time to heal, and the knife wound on his ribs should heal well so long as it is not allowed to fester.”

Maria nodded, and the woman looked her over with a critical eye. “You are certain you are not wounded?”

“I am uninjured, thank you,” Maria said with a dismissive gesture, dropping the brooch into her pocket as she moved to sit beside Miguel.

The healer gave her a tight look. “Well, see to it that you don’t disturb him. It is critical that he rests now.”

“Of course,” Maria said demurely, and the woman left.

As she sat in the chair beside the bed, he opened his eyes and gave her a groggy smile.

“I’m afraid I left your knife behind.” She took his hand.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said slowly but clearly, as he tried to sit up.

She gently pushed him back into the pillow. “You need to rest,” she said gently, and he relaxed into the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like ....” Miguel trailed off for a moment, and Maria held her breath. “Like I’ve been kicked in the head by a horse who then sat on me. My head hurts when I try to sit up, but I’ll be fine. It’s not anything I haven’t experienced before,” he said with a little shrug.

Maria nodded, relieved. His broken speech before he’d passed out had scared her almost as much as the attack. “You should rest here.” Now that she felt he would be all right, her mind raced, setting in order the things that would need to be done. She had handled the immediate crisis.

Next , she would need to tell her father. And Sergio; this was his home after all. No doubt they would be together. Maria stood, certain of what she needed to do.

“Where are you going?” He tried to get up when she stood.

She pushed him gently back down, and again he complied, this time with a pained groan as he lay back. “I am going to find Don Álvarez and make him aware of what has happened. Stay here. I will return.”

She had figured this out on her own; surely she could make her own decision on Miguel. Maria ran her fingers over the worked silver and roses of the brooch, smiling. As she walked out the door she pinned it back onto her shoulder, right-side up.

As she neared the more occupied portion of the house, she pulled a servant aside.

“Where is my father?” she asked, a serious tone in her voice that she’d never heard from her own mouth.

“In Don Sergio’s study, Señorita, but they are talking business and do not wish to be disturbed,” he said with a note of anxiety.

“I won’t tell anyone you told me,” she said with a smile and changed her course to Don Sergio’s study. As she walked, memories of the times she and the other girls had snuck in to see what was there flitted before her. Naturally, Elisa had insisted they do it, Betania urged them to not, Selena had simply followed along, and Maria had planned the whole thing. The large wooden door that had always seemed imposing and forbidden stood before her. Pausing a moment, she checked her appearance in the mirror, scolding herself for not doing so earlier.

The woman looking back at her from the mirror felt different somehow from who she’d been just a few hours before, her dark eyes more intense. The subtle light of the candelabras in the hall cast gentle shadows across her dark red and black dress, the gold lace trim cascading from the edging. Even her hair, though slightly mussed, hardly looked amiss. How could she have had her life threatened twice within the last hour and still look no more worse for wear than if she’d been dancing?

Squaring her shoulders and raising her chin, she looked again to the forbidden door. But it was just a door. Not bothering to knock, she simply opened the door and walked in. The half a dozen or so men in the room looked up at her when she entered, their conversation immediately muted. She stood her ground and locked eyes with her father.

“I am sorry to disturb you Dons, but I must speak with my father,” she said firmly, no tremor of fear or uncertainty in her chest.

“Señoritas. They think they own the world when they reach that age,” one of the men joked and the rest chuckled. Don Ciro, however, did not, and the others sobered when he rose.

“I believe I will speak with my daughter. Excuse me.” He gestured her back toward the hall.

“Actually, Papa, you may want Señor de la Cuesta to hear what I have to tell you. It rather concerns him, too.” She stood firmly in her place.

Sergio Díaz sat in his overstuffed chair, his cheeks and nose a little more red than normal. He looked from father to daughter, his look transforming from amused annoyance at the interruption to the grudging respect he had always given her father. Now it was directed at her.

She held her hands still, though they wanted to fidget under the scrutiny, and took a deep, satisfying breath.

“Dons,” Sergio said with a sudden briskness. “It has been a lovely evening, but it would appear that Don Álvarez and I have some pressing private business to attend to. If you would excuse us, please make yourselves at home with the guests and enjoy the rest of the evening’s festivities.” Don Sergio bowed politely and gestured the men to the open door.

Once all the guests were out of the room and the door firmly shut, Don Sergio turned to the other two in the room. “Ciro, what is going on?” he asked, almost daring enough to be angry with him.

Ciro looked at Maria. “You’re the one with something to say.”

“You are aware, I’m sure, of my abduction last January from your plantation, Señor de la Cuesta?” She was more curt with him than perhaps she ought to have been. But she found herself fighting a sudden anger at everything that had happened.

“Certainly, and a shameful thing it was, too. Ciro and I have already discussed the implications of it on our businesses and our relationship.”

Maria nodded, irritated that the effect on her had not been mentioned. “Papa, I think it prudent for you to know that there was another attack on me tonight.”

“What! Here?” Sergio cried out.

Ciro ignored him. “What happened?”

“Miguel and I were walking in the gardens and were attacked. A man, I think it was one from the group before but no one I recognized from here. He came at us from behind and knocked Miguel to the ground. They fought, and the man got the better of Miguel, so I shot him.”

“What? You shot your own bodyguard?” Sergio cried out in horror.

“No, I shot the attacker,” she said flatly.

“How is Miguel? How are you?” Ciro asked calmly, his eyes dropping to her shoulder, then back to her face.

“He is resting. The healer said that with rest and time, he should recover.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Ciro turned to Sergio. “Señor, that is twice now, within six months, that there has been an attempt on my household. Both times on your plantation.”

“Just what are you implying?” Sergio folded his arms defensively over his chest.

“At the very least, my friend, that your house needs further looking to.”

Sergio stood at the accusation and glared at Ciro a moment before turning to pour another glass from the decanter, muttering about his daughter’s wedding and his wife’s wrath.

“Papa.” Maria put her hand on his arm. He turned back to her and she dropped her voice so that Sergio would not overhear. ”That wasn’t all. After I disabled the first man, another came. This one was well dressed, and I’m sure I’ve seen him before. I ... I thought I heard Miguel say ‘Gonza’.”

Her father’s muscles bulged under her hand as he clenched his fist.

“But isn’t he a business partner of yours? What would he want with me?”

“We’ve got to send people to find him, and quickly.” Ciro started for the door.

“I already have, Papa.”

Ciro gave a curt nod of approval to Maria, and then addressed Sergio. “Until he is found and we get to the bottom of what has happened, this place can no longer be considered a safe house. Sergio, we will need to withdraw for a time ....” Ciro trailed off, and both the men looked at Maria.

“What do you need from me?” Maria asked.

“For now, take the carriage and get Miguel home quickly. Have the servants secure the hacienda. I will come on horseback when I can. Do not worry, hija. They will not make another attempt on us tonight.”

Maria opened the door, certain she could accomplish the requested task, but paused as Ciro continued.

“Oh, and Maria? Tell Miguel that he has my blessing.” Ciro turned back to Sergio, and they were scheming before Maria had even closed the door.

Warmth filled Maria as she made her way back to the servants’ quarters. Things suddenly seemed less dire than they had half an hour before. She ordered the coach brought around and sat beside Miguel’s bed, watching him sleep. He looked so peaceful in the flickering lamplight. Smiling, she reached out and moved aside a lock of the dark, silky hair which had fallen into his face.

His green eyes opened and he smiled up at her. “Mi morena,” he murmured.

“Can you get up? It’s time to go home.”

“I think so, if you give me a hand?” He grunted as he pulled himself up with Maria’s support. Once up, he wavered, and she paused, waiting for the dizziness to subside.

“Your carriage is waiting just outside,” one of the servants rushed up to tell them.

“Gracias.” She nodded. He bowed slightly, wringing his hands, and waited to escort them out. Miguel tried to wave off Maria as they walked, but she glared at him until he allowed her to help.

While Miguel climbed into the coach, Maria checked that the driver was one of her father’s men before following suit. As she stepped in, she hesitated a moment over whether to sit beside or across from Miguel. She settled herself beside him and rested his head on her shoulder.

The carriage leapt forward at a brisk pace, and though the roads on the de la Cuesta plantation were kept maintained and relatively smooth, it was still a rough ride. She held on tightly to Miguel so that he could relax and not have to focus on keeping his seat. Though he didn’t make any sound, his face paled further with each jolt, and his jaw clenched tight against the pain. She had so much she wanted to say to him, needed to say to him, but she couldn’t find the words to start. After a time, Miguel heaved a sigh and sat up, pulling out of Maria’s arms.

“I think I’m all right now,” he said, his voice thin.

She nodded despite her misgivings and moved to the seat opposite him so that they could face each other while they spoke.

“That was one of the same men from before,” she blurted out. “I didn’t get a terribly clear look at his face, but he looked and sounded very familiar.”

“I imagine it was.” Miguel nodded, his eyes tight. “I don’t trust my memory at the moment, but were there two, or did I just hit my head really hard?”

“Both. You called the second man Gonza.”

Miguel dropped his face into his hands with a groan. “I hoped I’d imagined that one.”

“On some level, I’ve always known my father has enemies.” Maria gave a sharp laugh. “Though it’s only been real to me the last few months. I can’t understand this man’s hatred, though. Why would he hold such a grudge against my father?”

“I don’t know. Don Ciro shares much with me about his current business, but he does not share about his past. I’m no law expert, but as far as I can tell, everything he does now is legitimate and legal. That, in and of itself, might be part of the issue, though.”

“That sounds like him. He always refuses to talk about my mother, too. I wonder if that has anything to do with this Gonza person.”

“I don’t know. It might.”

They lapsed back into silence.

Miguel looked over the woman across from him as his brain struggled to remain on one topic for more than a few seconds. She was very beautiful. He’d thought that from the beginning. More than that, though, he loved the person within. He loved making her smile, hearing her laugh, the way she said things, and even more, the things she said.

Maria had turned her head to the window, watching the dark landscape pass them by. His eyes traced the profile of her face and dropped down her neck. Something was there that hadn’t been before. He stared at the brooch, struggling to push aside the pain that continued to fog his brain. Hadn’t he taken that earlier? It had been upside-down then. And he’d kissed her .... The silver and enameled roses now clung to her dress right-side up. The light that had flickered in his chest before began to fill him.

“So, uh ....” he started, not sure how to bring up the subject that was now fully on his mind.

“Yes?” She smiled coyly at him.

“So, some night, huh?” He mentally kicked himself. Real smooth there, Mick. “What I mean is, um ... well, I’m sure tonight wasn’t the way you always imagined you’d be proposed to, eh?” Stupid, stupid, stupid!

She smiled and laughed. “No, not quite. I mean, the first part was lovely, but really, you didn’t need to arrange an attack to prove to me your manly prowess. I’m quite aware of it already.”

Miguel chuckled, then groaned, grabbing his ribs at the stabbing pain. You had to crack my ribs, too? But then again, at least I didn’t get shot.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked, half standing to move beside him again.

He waved her back. “As long as you keep talking, and quit making me laugh, it helps. It keeps my mind off the pain.”

Maria sat back down. “My father also sent me with a message.”

“And what is that, pray tell?” Miguel asked, his eyes twinkling despite his pain.

“I don’t know that I shall tell you.” Maria sat up all prim and proper.

“Can’t you see I’m in pain? You should be kind and not make me guess.” He would never not love the determined way she held herself.

“I didn’t say I’d make you guess.”

“Why won’t you tell me then?” He gritted his teeth at a particularly bad jolt that sent a shock of pain through his knee.

“You didn’t ask nicely enough.”

“And how would you have me ask?”

“Be creative.”

“Oh, fair lady, thou art cruel to ask so much of a man beaten, bruised, with a crushing headache this late at night and in such an unstable carriage.”

Maria’s laugh at his feigned despair was almost enough to ease the headache.

“Well, given that, I hardly think it is fair to keep such an ailing invalid in suspense. Just know that if we were not in a bouncing carriage, you would be expected to come up with something grand.”

“Understood,” he said gravely.

Maria smiled mischievously and looked at him through her lashes, suddenly serious and shy. “My father said to tell you that you have his blessing.”

In the silence that followed, Maria looked away shyly from Miguel. Miguel rocked back as what she had said sank in, everything else swept away for the moment. Elated, he reached over to her and drew her beside him.

“And you?” he asked, raising her face up to look into her eyes.

“Yes, Miguel. A thousand times, yes.” Miguel pulled her to him, crushing her against him. It was worth every stab of his ribs and pull of the stitches. She held him just as tight.

“I wish I could kiss you,” Miguel whispered into her hair.

“Me too, but I don’t think it would work too well with all the jostling,” Maria replied. “There will be plenty of time later.”

Amaranth Dawn: Book 1

DAUGHTER OF ZYANYA: BOOK ONE

MORGAN J. MUIR

Prologue

KALÁIRA WALKED IN THE peace of the dream world. The quiet space around her whispered of Freedom. It teased her with the idea of slicing through the bands of anger that weighed her down and the resentment that held her back. Imagined images of her upcoming wedding flickered across the dreamscape, her random thoughts made momentarily manifest. The wind toyed with her hair. Full of the warm scent of flowers and rain, it whispered secrets in the language of her fathers. Si’a, the little spirit bird with his deep black wings and golden chest, danced brazenly among the winds. Kaláira smiled at him.

With closed eyes, she took a deep breath. The sweet air that filled her lungs pushed the anger deeper into her belly, where it could not escape. She turned her gaze toward the stars, brilliant through an impossibly blue sky, and ignored their murmuring. She would not think about her mother. Si’a twittered at her, a sound suspiciously similar to laughter.

What would you know about it? she asked, giving him a wry look.

In response, he dropped something at her feet. Narrowing her eyes at the playful bird, she dropped to pick it up. Tu’uma? The precious red stone was warm in her hand. What did her spirit guide mean by giving her this? Si’a chirruped and flitted overhead as she straightened, and even the wind seemed more agitated than usual, pushing her forward. Kaláira closed her eyes and allowed herself to be led. It was not often the spirits of the dream world were so insistent. There was both power and meaning to be found here, even when the spirits were calm. Unbidden, a smile pulled at her lips. Perhaps this time she would see a true vision, like the elders, and earn a place of respect among the tribe.

She allowed herself to be carried by the winds, gliding like a ribbon of sand before a storm. Si’a flew alongside, chirping urgently. Setting her feet on the ground, she opened her eyes and drew in a sharp breath. The wind had taken her to Ouktaa, the place of shameful death. Kaláira scowled. There was no reason to be here.

Her anger darkened the dream world around her and dropped her from the wind’s embrace like a rock over a cliff. Landing roughly on the ground, she glared at the dark, carved mouth of a cave. It was a blight on the land, an abomination in both the physical world and the ethereal. The aura of the place hung thick with stale fear and old pain, tainting each breath with the tang of bitterness. The entrance had been carved with strange pillars and harsh shapes. Perhaps it had been meant to look lovely, but to Kaláira it was naught but foreign.

Her mother was in there somewhere, no doubt. Hiding from her pain, from her life. Kaláira rubbed her forearms absently. Her mother had not run away when Kaláira’s baby sister had been killed, nor when her father or brothers had died. Shadowed images of her memories flickered by to the whispered accompaniment of her family’s silenced laughter. But the loss of Kaláira’s younger brother lingered. She remembered the transparent image of her mother kneeling, with her empty eyes over the body of her youngest son. It had broken her.

Kaláira waved the image away.

In Kaláira’s moment of greatest darkness, when she needed her mother the most, her mother had left, run away to Ouktaa. Kaláira clenched her fists. Her mother, Ka’i, had abandoned her. She had abandoned her duties as a mother and as eldest daughter to her own mother, leaving all the responsibility on Kaláira’s slender shoulders. The weight of that responsibility settled over her again, tight and biting across her shoulders and stabbing through her chest. She turned to leave this place of misery but the winds enveloped her, filling the heavens with storm clouds, and would not let her pass.

I want nothing to do with her! Kaláira shouted, fighting her way through the wind. She left me! Let me move on!

The dream winds pushed against her harder but only hardened her resolve.

If that is the way you want to be about it, she snarled. I’ll leave the other way.

Only by killing her could they stop her from waking. She began the descent back into her own body. Si’a fluttered down to perch on her shoulder, and she paused for her friend. The bird’s glinting chest and black-feathered hood drew her unwilling eyes. He cocked his head at her, and she could not help but see beyond him as the figure of a woman, clearly ill and emaciated, stumbled out of the gates of endless death. Si’a’s golden plumage brightened and his blacks deepened as Kaláira’s anger turned to fury.

No. She glared at Si’a, who now hovered before her.

Si’a cocked his head.

I don’t care. Kaláira turned her back to the woman who held so tightly to herself as she staggered through the storming darkness.

Si’a looked unblinking into her eyes.

She chose her path. Let her die. Kaláira walked away from her mother, the air around her suddenly calm.

Teeth jaguar sharp prey prey prey. Si’a trilled as he circled around her head.

What did you say? Kaláira stopped in her tracks and looked at the bird. He never spoke to her.

Si’a flapped playfully before her, a golden light in the gathering darkness. Sun bear Moon, Jaguar cub cub cub. The bird flared his wings before her, and in them she saw the wild cat’s teeth bathed in the moonlight, crunching through the net that bound her people. As the jaguar’s powerful jaws crunched through the blood-sucking thing that held them, a drop of moonlight fell from Si’a’s wings into Kaláira’s hand. She looked down and found the tu’uma stone she’d picked up earlier, bathed in iridescent moonlight.

Her breath caught in her throat. She, Kaláira daughter of Ka’i, had been given a vision. But of what?

Freedom, the wind whispered in her ears.

And the cost? she asked, not looking up from the stone.

Forgiveness, the voices echoed in her mind as she opened her physical eyes. She opened her hand and saw the stone that Si’a had given her, brought to the physical world. The anger and bitterness congealed inside her into a solid rock of stubbornness. It was time to save her mother.

Chapter 1

JULY 1740 - MARACAIBO

THE WORLD AROUND MARIA CAME to a standstill as she stared down the sights of the flintlock pistol held in her hand, pointed squarely at Antonio Gonza. Moonlight bathed the garden in its pale glow and the distant music of the wedding dancing floated over the hedge. Maria’s mind raced, flitting around, and she could feel the trembling start in her gut. She had already killed one man tonight; surely the universe would not make her kill another.

The weight of Miguel’s arm over her shoulder steadied her, even as she held him up. His leg had given out and the blow to his head frightened her. Only moments ago, he had been proposing to her. How had this happened? She took a cautious step back, her heeled boot crunching against the gravel. She needed to get Miguel back to the house. How would she get out of this?

“I’d have rather had you alive, but I’m just as happy crushing Álvarez this way.” Gonza stepped closer, his raspy voice grating against her senses. “And believe me, your father will be crushed.”

Beside her, Miguel muttered an unintelligible mix of English and Castilian. Weight crushed against her chest as her breathing came in short, unfulfilling gasps. She needed to do something, and now. Everything within her urged her to shoot Gonza. He was dangerous and bent on destroying her father, and if she didn’t find help, Miguel might die as well. She couldn’t run for help and carry him. Nor could she leave him for Gonza’s non-existent mercy.

Pain seared her heart; she didn’t want to kill anyone else. She’d had so much death in her life already. He wasn’t even armed. Could she scare him off? But she had only one shot. If she wasted it... The trembling reached her arm.

Gonza sneered at her hesitation, stepping forward again. “You’re far too much of a coward like your mestizo-loving father to shoot me, girl.” He leveled his own pistol at her.

Maria froze. Where had he gotten a gun? He wouldn’t actually shoot her. How could she die now? She wasn’t even eighteen yet. This couldn’t be happening.

Miguel growled, and the pistol jerked in her grip, his hand covering hers. An explosion of light and sound set the world in motion again as Gonza dropped before her. Her blood ran cold as Miguel’s arm fell from her shoulders and he collapsed beside her, the pistol still tight in his grip.

THE CARRIAGE ROLLED through the dark streets as the inevitable rain of tropical Maracaibo pattered against the windows. Maria kept her seat easily in the gently rocking cabin, her arm threaded through Miguel’s. His solid presence stilled her lingering fears. My fiancé. The thought made her smile. Perhaps she would never stop smiling.

A jarring bump in the road made him groan and lean forward to rest his head in his hands. His dark hair cascaded over his fingers and obscured his face.

Maria rubbed her hand across his broad shoulders, the fine linen of his shirt bunching beneath her fingers. Once they were back within the walls of the hacienda they would all be safe and everything would be fine. “We’re nearly there, Miguel. I wish I could help more.”

He sat back and smiled at her. “It’s fine, mi morena. I’m sure I’ll feel as good as new after some solid sleep.”

Maria frowned at how thickly his English accent came through. At least he’d started speaking Castilian again, and in coherent sentences. It reassured her more than the healer’s words had. “You’d better be.” She gently tucked his hair behind his ear as the carriage turned, entering the wide gates of the hacienda. “I don’t intend to announce our engagement without you beside me.”

“You sure?” Miguel squeezed her hand. “You seemed to do just fine today, ordering the Casa de la Cuesta staff around like you owned the place. I can only imagine the look on Sergio’s face when you walked in, demanding to speak with your father.”

Maria ducked her head, blushing. “I only did what needed to be done.” The events of the last few hours swirled through her mind. They had been enjoying the wedding festivities of her dear friend, Betania, the daughter of her father’s business partner, Sergio Díaz, and Miguel had proposed. Maria absently touched the brooch on her shoulder, a sweeping, worked-silver vine with three dark enameled roses to one side, now pinned right side up—a sign for any who saw it that she was now an engaged woman.

But the perfect night had been shattered when her father’s nemesis, Antonio Gonza, had attacked them and Miguel had been injured in the struggle.

The carriage pulled to a stop outside the main doors of the hacienda’s main house. Maria smiled up at the large white building, trimmed with dark wood and surrounded by grounds overflowing with greenery.

“We’re home,” she said softly to Miguel, who had returned to holding his head. The carriage rocked when the footman leapt down and opened the door. The warm, damp wind of the storm blew her hair across her face, and she pushed it from her eyes. With a worried glance back at her fiancé, Maria stepped down into the courtyard.

“He may need some help in, Dom,” she said quietly to the man who stood beside her, as her father’s steward took the umbrella he held to protect them from the rain. “Gonza attacked us at the wedding. He was injured, but disappeared. Papa says to secure the hacienda, and he will return later tonight on horseback.”

“I’ll see to it, señorita.” Dom nodded and motioned another forward to help Miguel down.

Maria watched, concerned, as Miguel attempted to stand straight, nearly a head taller than her, and tried to shake off the footman’s hand.

“The señorita insists,” the footman said, refusing to be shaken off.

“Well, if the Lady says,” Miguel replied in English with a roll of his eyes.

Maria bit her lip and led them into the main house. “Take him to his room and see that he sleeps,” she said as they passed under the arched walkway and through the doors.

“No.” Miguel nodded toward the sitting room, his speech slipping back to Castilian. “We should wait for your father.”

They moved to the sitting room, and Miguel sank into a seat. The warm familiarity of the room put Maria further at ease. The walled hacienda had stood as guardian to Maria her entire life. It, as much as her father, Ciro Alvarez, was immovable and unconquerable.

Maria sat across from Miguel, spreading out her damp, red skirt. “Do you realize every time something bad happens, I’m wearing a red dress?”

“Sometimes good things happen, too.” Miguel turned in his seat to put his feet on the cushions and leaned back over the armrest, his arm draped over his eyes.

“That doesn’t offset the fact that bad things still happen. If it’s not the dress, then it’s me. I’ve a curse of bad luck.” Maria worked her fingers through her black, windswept hair, setting it back into a semblance of order.

Miguel laughed. “Yes, terrible bad luck. I could use some more of it, I think.”

“What do you mean by that?” Maria tossed a throw pillow at him, hitting him in his covered face.

“What did I do to deserve that?” he asked, shoving the pillow beneath his back.

“You never addressed the infestation of flying pillows in this house.” Maria sat back. “Now, what did you mean about my luck?”

“Well, your dog died, right?”

“And it was my fault he got run over by a wagon.” The stab of pain in Maria’s gut at that truth had lessened over the two years since she’d lost her sweet Alistair, but it still came. She took a deep breath, willing it to pass.

“But I first saw you from my ship the night you set him to sea on his little funeral barge. So it was good luck for me. Good luck for me, too, that you went back the next morning and we ran into each other.”

Maria crossed her arms. “It was Elisa who saw you first.”

“Oh, I think we’re all well aware of that; she never stops pointing it out. But it was you who encouraged her to talk to me.” Miguel shifted his weight, wincing as he adjusted the pillow behind his back.

“Only because I was cross.”

“Nevertheless, your so-called bad luck was really good luck for us both. I will never forget being greeted by four angels as I stepped onto the docks of Maracaibo. Or when the darkest of the four, with her shining black hair and dark, serious eyes, suggested I could find work with a certain merchant who turned out to be her father.” He raised his arm from his face and turned his head to look directly at her. “The rest of it isn’t bad luck or your fault, it’s just life.”

A silence filled the space between them. She didn’t want to say it, but she had to. “My mother’s death was my fault. She died because I was born.”

With an effort, Miguel pushed himself upright and gestured for her to sit beside him. She moved across the floor and sat beside him on the couch, and he took her hand. “Maria, that was nearly eighteen years ago. You can’t keep blaming yourself for that. Both your father and Nana, who were both there, have told you it wasn’t your fault. Why can’t you believe them?”

Tears stung at her eyes, and suddenly all the emotions of the night filled her, pushing against the wall she used to push them back. “It’s late, Miguel. I’m tired, you’re tired, and neither of us are thinking straight. I’m sure Papa will get everything straightened out and will want to talk to us in the morning.”

“Don’t cry.” He touched her jaw and turned her face toward him. “You’re right; everything will turn out fine. And I believe I owe you a kiss.”

For a few, beautiful moments, all of Maria’s cares fell away, and nothing existed except herself and Miguel. A knock on the open door pulled her back to earth, and Maria sat up, pulling herself from Miguel’s arms.

“If you’re quite finished.” Nana swept into the room as though she owned the place. Maria’s nursemaid, and a faithful servant and friend of the family since Maria’s mother had been a child, reached out her hand to help Maria off the couch. “Dom told me what happened, and a messenger just arrived with further instructions. Your father will spend the night at Casa de la Cuesta and wishes you two to get some rest.”

Maria nodded, gesturing to Miguel, who had lain back on the couch. “He may need some support getting to his room.”

“I can sleep on the couch,” he muttered.

“I’ll see to it, chica.” Nana smiled. “And congratulations, from both myself and your father.”

Maria gave her a quick hug, glad for the woman’s stalwart presence. Between Nana and her father, Maria’s world was stable and strong. Now that she had Miguel as well, what could possibly shake it?

Chapter 2

MARIA WALKED THROUGH fields of gently waving grass, and the stars overhead shone through the blue sky. The sounds of the jungle that blanketed the distant mountain sounded unnaturally close, comforting her with their presence. Behind her lay Lake Maracaibo and home. A gentle breeze flowed around her, tugging playfully at her hair and whispering secrets she couldn’t quite understand. Maria turned her face to the cloudless, star-strewn sky. It would rain soon, but it always rained here.

A whine and a pressure against her leg drew her attention. Maria looked down to see Alistair beside her with his large, lopsided smile. She dropped down and hugged her dog. I’ve missed you, you rascal, she said, scratching his ears. Can you believe it? Miguel proposed to me!

Alistair barked and jumped on her shoulders, knocking her backwards. She laughed as he licked her face, and she pushed him off. I’m glad you approve.

THE SOFT SOUND OF RAIN against her window woke Maria the next morning. She reached under her pillow and pulled out the pin from the wedding, smiling as she turned it over in her hands.

Despite his injuries, Miguel had escorted her to her room, relying on Dom to steady him as he walked. When Miguel tried to stand guard at her door Nana had chased him off so that he, too, could rest. Maria smiled at the memory and the sense that she again felt secure in her world. She was still in bed studying the silver brooch when Nana came in with her breakfast, the old woman’s white hair coiled severely on her head.

“Bah! Still in bed? Youth is wasted on the young, I always say,” Nana grumbled, setting down the tray and bustling around the room.

Maria cheerfully threw off her covers and set her feet on the cool, tiled floor. “It’s a beautiful morning, don’t you think?”

“Only if you’re in love.” Nana pulled out a grey and green dress from the wardrobe.

“What of it? I am unapologetically in love and will soon be married to a wonderful man,” Maria dropped the dress over her head.

“Felicitaciones,” Nana said dryly as she worked the laces closed.

“Gracias.” Maria started brushing her long, black hair, but Nana took the brush and gestured Maria to the waiting breakfast of fruit and a boiled egg.

“Have you heard any more from my father yet?” Maria asked between bites of her breakfast as Nana worked through her hair.

“Si, he arrived not too long ago, too weary for breakfast. He thinks he’s still the young man he used to be, but this life, it has allowed him to go soft.”

Maria smiled at the thought of her father, Ciro Álvarez Bosque, being soft. To her, he was tall, strong, capable, and unconquerable. “I’m sure he knows his limits.” Maria shrugged.

“Men his age know no such thing. Their youth sneaks away from them while their head is turned, and when it comes time for them to run, they find they can barely walk. But a man like your father, his spirit is still that of the man he was twenty years ago, all fire and strength, capable of fixing all that is wrong in the world.” Nana’s voice had turned sober as she twisted up parts of Maria’s hair into a knot, held in place with a tortoiseshell comb, and letting the rest falling in gentle, dark curls down Maria’s neck. “He still sees himself as he was, but, mind me now, he will soon go out expecting to do what has been done before, but this time, his body will fail him, and he will not succeed.”

Maria felt a twinge of foreboding as a silence fell between them. She shook her head, refusing to let the feeling linger. What would old Nana know about such things?

Maria finished eating and had Nana hold up her hair for her while she tied on her mother’s necklace. Her father had presented it to her the previous year, explaining that the stone had been particularly precious to her mother. She touched the cool pink stone where it rested on her throat. Her father had it set in silver, surrounded by a dozen diamond chips, and strung on a rope of pearls. Her father rarely spoke of Maria’s mother, Ayelen Cordova, a Spanish woman with some French heritage. Most of what Maria knew, she’d wheedled out of old Nana. One thing had always been clear to her, though: her father had loved her mother.

Maria checked herself over in her mirror, tucked a red carnation into her hair beside the comb, and left her room with no particular direction in mind. The scents of earth wet from the morning’s light rain and flowers from the hacienda’s gardens filled the halls of the main house. Soon, she found herself in her father’s study, sorting through papers that hadn’t been seen to the day before. The cozy room reminded her of her father, from the warm wood accents of the walls and the bright morning sunlight that slanted down through the windows, to the orderly stacks of books and papers that filled every shelf and bookcase in the room.

“Buenos días,” Maria said absently when Miguel came in, her mind entirely focused on the papers before her. “How are you feeling?”

“Buenos días,” Miguel said, joining her with the paperwork. “My ribs still feel like they’ve been kicked by a horse, but otherwise, I feel as good as new.”

She gave him an appraising look. He’d changed into clean clothes, his standard well- worn and comfortable looking pants, a linen shirt, and a light jacket, despite the warmth and humidity of the climate. His customary cutlass hung from his hip, and Maria had no doubt he’d stashed his knives and at least two pistols somewhere on his person. He’d chosen his old, worn boots, likely for their comfort more than anything else, and had pulled his long dark hair into a queue at his neck. But his green eyes were clear when she met them, and he seemed alert enough. Even his English accent was minimal this morning. She moved a file from her stack and set it in front of him. “If you say so.”

She watched him sign his name to one of the documents. His normal flowing script seemed a little more forced today as the pen spelled out his adopted surnames.

“Miguel?” Maria asked. “Are you sure you want to keep the surnames we gave you? Blanco del Mar? Wouldn’t you rather go by your real family name, whatever it is?”

Miguel's smile held a touch of sadness in it. “I left that behind me when I stepped off that ship. A new place, a new name, truly a new start.”

“Will you ever tell me what it was?” she asked, taking his hand.

“Perhaps some day. But I prefer to let dead things be. I am happier here than I've ever been in my life. Would you want to be someone other than Maria Alvarez Cordova? Should we follow English tradition, and you can drop your family names to take mine?”

“And erase my family history? Not a chance.” Maria shook her head at the absurdity of it. “I am proud to carry my father’s name of Alvarez, and I have precious little of my mother’s. I could not think of giving up her name of Cordova.”

“It is the same for me, mi morena. Miguel Blanco del Mar is the only name I want.” He squeezed her hand gently, and she let it go, turning back to her work.

The third time he sat back, rubbing his eyes, his face pale, she set down her pen. “You’re supposed to be resting. Go sit over there. I can handle this on my own for now.”

Miguel rose, the pain in his movements apparent despite his attempt to hide it. He sat gingerly on the overstuffed chair and closed his eyes, turning his face away from the morning sunlight. She continued to work, but after several minutes she rose and shut the blinds to the window, casting the room into an almost twilight gloom. Miguel returned to the desk, insisting he felt better without the bright light.

They worked together, Maria managing the figures and Miguel sorting things, until Don Ciro came in, looking a little worse for wear despite having bathed and donned fresh clothes. He sat at his desk after greeting them, watching as they continued through the accounts.

“I don’t know how I managed all these years without the help of you two,” he said with a chuckle. Maria smiled and Miguel shrugged. When he didn’t get more of a response Ciro tried again. “Is there any news I need to be made aware of?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Maria flipped through the portfolios and pulled one out of the stack. “The Ortiz account is behind again—”

Ciro heaved a dramatic sigh, and Maria looked up at him with a raised eyebrow.

“That can wait,” Ciro said. “I’m sure there is another recent development that ought to be made official?”

“Oh, that.” Maria set down her papers and sat back. A giddy feeling grew in her chest, and she couldn’t help the small smile that formed on her lips. “Miguel?”

“Don Ciro.” Miguel took Maria’s hand. “Your daughter and I have decided to be married. We would ask for your blessing, but it would appear you’ve already given it.”

“Indeed I have.” Ciro’s hearty voice boomed, and Maria felt Miguel flinch. “I am happy for you, mi querida. For you both, Miguel. I think you will do well together. Now, when shall we plan for this happy event to occur?”

“I will need at least a year to save enough for a modest estate,” Miguel said tentatively.

“Nonsense, Miguel. Maria is my only heir, and all that I have will pass to her. This hacienda is hers when I die, and all that goes with it. I would rather you continue on with me, both of you, to take it over in the next couple of years.” He chuckled and added, “That way I can retire and spend my time playing with my grandbabies.”

Maria blushed at the implication as Miguel stood and enthusiastically shook her father’s hand.

Miguel’s smile nearly split his face. “I would be honored, Don Ciro.”

“Miguel, just ‘Ciro,’ please. My congratulations to you both, again. A year is a respectable enough length for an engagement, but you might be wiser to wait a year and a half, as there is always less rain in January. That is, of course, if that is acceptable to you, Maria.”

“Of course, Papa.”

Ciro gave her a strange look, then pulled her out of her chair and gave her a huge hug. “I’m so proud of you, mi querida. I can hardly believe you’re old enough to be married. I love you.”

“I love you too, Papa.” She hugged him back as tightly as she could.

“Now, I think this demands some celebration. Maria, would you go let the cooks know to make something extra special for tonight? Perhaps, also send an announcement to Don Sergio and his family inviting them to supper.”

“Certainly.” She smiled. Today was going to be a wonderful day, and if she had to deal with Elisa a little, well, that wasn’t going to spoil things. Maria had never really gotten on well with Elisa Díaz Palomo, Betania’s younger sister. Elisa was only a year or so younger than Maria, but Maria couldn’t help thinking of her as a child. At the same time, however, she didn’t mind the girl. Maria had practically been raised with Betania and Elisa. Doña Olivia Palomo Mingo, Señora de la Cuesta, had insisted on taking the motherless Maria under her wing. The formidable woman had taught Maria much, but it was old Nana, the Wayuu woman with the long, silver hair and a penchant for teaching Maria the native’s legends, who was the closest thing Maria had to a mother.

Maria left the men to their work, reminding them both that the healer had ordered Miguel to rest, and did as her father bid her. The cooks were excited at the prospect of a party and often made treats for themselves as well, a habit Ciro encouraged. He believed that servants who enjoyed their lives were not only a great asset, but also better cooks.

Once the messenger was dispatched, Maria went in search of Nana. She found the Wayuu woman elbow deep in a sudsy wash bucket, working on laundry beside a mestiza servant girl a couple of years younger than Maria. Maria didn’t recognize her and thought she must be new to the hacienda. Gonza had called her father a mestizo-lover, and had meant it as an insult. While it was true Ciro Alvarez hired more than his share of mestizos—people of mixed heritage—as well as full-blooded Wayuu, Maria could not consider it a bad thing. Ciro took care of his employees, Wayuu, Mestizo, or Spaniard alike. She had grown up watching her father treat them as equals, regardless of the opinion of Society. And she would never be anything but proud of him for it.

“What is it that you want, child?” Nana asked Maria, handing her a wet shirt.

“There is to be a celebration tonight, Nana!” Maria grinned and began wringing and hanging the clothes Nana handed her.

“Bah, I’m too old to enjoy celebrations. They mean more work for these old bones.”

“Nonsense. It will be fun. You haven’t asked what we’re celebrating.”

“I’ll celebrate finishing the wash. Hand me the soap there, chica.” Nana gestured with her chin, attacking another shapeless garment.

“Here. You can celebrate that if you want, but the rest of us are celebrating my engagement to Miguel,” Maria said, joy coloring her voice.

“Bah. Celebrate the engagement with a wedding and leave me less work until then.”

Maria caught the good-natured smile that Nana attempted to hide. The girl beside Nana gave her a horrified look, and Maria winked at her. The girl blushed and ducked her head, focusing intently on her work.

“What do you think I should do for my dress?” Maria continued, undeterred.

“Black,” Nana said flatly, “with black lace.”

“You’re no help at all! Of course it will be black. It should be silk, though.” Maria babbled on about what cut it would have and how many layers of petticoats, while Nana grunted her approval or made suggestions.

As they talked, a cloud entered Maria’s mind, muting her joy. “To tell the truth, though—”

“You should always tell the truth.” Nana turned to the girl who watched their conversation in open shock. “Ana, we can finish without you. I’m sure Cook needs help. Go on.”

Ana nodded and dried her hands before running back to the house.

“Of course. As I was saying, the Díaz family is coming to dinner tonight—”

“What of it? They’re good friends of your father’s.”

“They’re coming to dinner tonight, and I worry about how Elisa will take it.” Maria rushed through her sentence before Nana could cut her off again.

“Why should she be a bother to you?”

“I don’t know,” Maria sighed. “She’s just always jealous if I have something she doesn’t, and I am worried she will not take the news well.”

“She’s a spoiled girl. It would do her some good to learn that not everything is about her.”

“I suppose.” Maria shrugged, but she couldn’t help worrying. What could Elisa possibly do to mess this up for her? She couldn’t imagine, but knowing Elisa, the girl would find a way.

Once they had finished hanging the laundry, Maria returned to her father’s study but was informed that her help would not be needed for the afternoon. With nothing better to do, Maria found her copy of Robinson Crusoe and set out for the garden to read. The rain had cleared up, but the clouds overhead promised its return. The humidity stuck her dress to her skin, but she didn’t mind all that much. She preferred the chance to be outside when she could.

Maria settled down on a bench beneath a massive roble de sabana, its green branches shading the path, stark against the white stucco of the garden wall. Birds chattered and chirped in the foliage, unconcerned with her presence as Maria opened her well-worn book to a random page and began reading. After a time, the disconcerting feeling of being watched by unfriendly eyes pulled her from the pages. Looking up, she found Elisa, standing proud and arrogant, her blond hair pinned high on her head, glaring at her from across the garden.

They looked at each other for a long moment, a breeze whispering through the roble’s leaves.

“It’s been a long time since you were here last,” Maria said, finally breaking the silence.

“It hasn’t changed much.” Elisa’s voice held a hint of disgust as she glanced across the garden.

Maria marked her place and closed the book. “I like it well enough.”

“I’m sure you do, wrapped nice and snug in your little haven.” Elisa walked around, feigning interest in the various plants and finding them horribly lacking.

Maria watched her quietly, noting that Elisa had dressed herself in the latest fashion, far too elegantly for the occasion, her dress cut almost to the point of impropriety.

“If it is so distasteful to you, why do you remain?” Maria said when Elisa snorted at her fourth plant. “Really, this aloof attitude does not become you.”

“What does not become me,” Elisa said, continuing her poised perusal of the flora, “is being forced into bad company.”

“I do not see anyone holding a knife to your neck.” Maria leaned to the side as though to look for a person behind Elisa. “Perhaps he is invisible?”

Elisa turned and looked down her nose at Maria, who remained on her bench, unruffled.

“What does not become me,” Elisa said serenely, “is coming to congratulate a mestiza bastard girl on her engagement to some sea mongrel.” She gave a small laugh as though she couldn’t believe what she was about to say. “I am here for my father, who, for some absurd reason, feels an obligation to your father.”

How dare she! Maria stood, grateful that she had the advantage in height. Schooling her face to calmness, she leveled her gaze at the girl before her.

“I know how highly you prize your standing in society, so I will not tell anyone of your gross breach of etiquette, not to mention your slanderous tongue.” Maria allowed a note of disdain to enter her polite tone. “Perhaps you ought to go run to your father. I’m sure his presence will help to quell your childish impulses, and if his will not, no doubt your mother’s can.” She gave Elisa one last hard look and strode away.

The rich, wet scent of rain followed Maria to the house, along with the sound of the first heavy drops of rain hitting the orange tiles of the covered walkway. Good, she thought. Let that wisp of a girl ruin her fine dress. Elisa’s words sat like a rock in her belly. What had she meant by it, calling Maria a mestiza? Maria knew she wasn’t a bastard; it had been made clear to her at various times in her life that her parents had been married, but was it possible that she could, in fact, be of mixed blood?

Maria rubbed her hand against her dress, the cloth still damp in a spot from a moment of carelessness helping Nana. In an unexpected rush, she recalled all the times that servants seemed to have been extra-kind to her, treating her so much less formally than everyone else. She ran to her room, shut the door, and peered into the mirror to scrutinize her features.

Her eyes were still the same dark, rich brown they had always been, a color so deep that it was difficult to tell where the iris ended and the pupil began. Her hair, even darker than her eyes, waved gently down her back. Her high cheekbones gave a soft definition to her somewhat wide face, but nothing so different from any other Spaniard. Even her skin was rich olive color, darker certainly than Elisa and Betania’s, but not unusually so for a Spaniard. She shook her head at her silliness and stepped back from her reflection.

“She was just trying to ruffle your feathers,” Maria consoled herself.

“It looks like she succeeded.” Maria spun around to see Nana standing quietly in the doorway. “What did she say to get you so upset?”

“Nothing worth repeating.”

Nana snorted.

Maria gave a dismissive gesture. “She is upset about not getting Miguel and so she flung insults. She called me a mestiza and Miguel a sea mongrel. Calling Miguel a dog I’d expect, she’s done that from the beginning, but calling me mestiza is a new low for her.” She busied her hands in the silence that followed by straightening her dress and adjusting her mother’s necklace.

“I see,” was all the answer she got from the old woman.

After composing herself, Maria left the room, determined to finish her role as hostess as well as she could for the evening. The meal went smoothly, though Elisa remained cold and aloof. Maria noted with satisfaction the stains from the rain on Elisa’s elaborate dress. Señor and Señora de la Cuesta were lively guests and spoke a great deal with their hosts about a range of topics, from past escapades of Sergio’s and Ciro’s lives as young traders to the current political climate and the growing tension with the natives. Maria found it fascinating, invigorating, and a little strange, since Doña Olivia had never spoken with her as an adult before.

As the guests prepared to leave, there were more congratulations, and even Elisa condescended to offer terse felicitations. When the Diaz family had finally driven away and the doors were shut, Maria, Miguel, and Ciro sagged with exhaustion.

“I thought they’d never leave,” Miguel joked, rubbing the back of his head. “My face hurts from smiling so much.”

“You’d better work on those muscles, then,” Maria laughed, nudging him. “I expect you to smile all the time.”

“You’re a hard taskmistress. Have mercy on me.” Miguel pulled her close, and heat filled her face as he kissed her jaw.

“Shall we go to my study?” Ciro cut in, unperturbed.

Maria pushed away from Miguel but held his hand, following her father to his study.

“Well, it certainly was a pleasant evening,” her father said as they passed through the study’s door.

“Except for Elisa.” Miguel shook his head, letting go of Maria and taking a seat on the couch. “She acted like she had mold in her dress or something.”

“It would serve her right if she did,” Maria said irritably, leaning against a mantle displaying several old revolvers.

“What do you mean?” Ciro settled himself into his favorite chair.

“She sought me out when they first got here so that she could tell me that the marriage of a mestiza girl and a sea mongrel was a waste of her time. She’s changed lately, and I don’t think it is for the better.” Maria pushed away from the mantle and took a seat in a nearby chair.

Miguel snorted at the comment, but Ciro went very still, and Maria looked over at him curiously.

“What is it, Ciro?” Miguel asked quietly.

Her father heaved a sigh and walked to Maria.

“I should have told you about this long ago, mi querida,” Ciro said sadly, kneeling next to Maria’s chair. He touched the stone on her necklace, seeing things from long ago.

“Tell me what, Papa?” Maria asked softly, smoothing the wrinkles of his shirt across his shoulders.

“I loved your mother dearly. I first met her shortly after I’d broken with my first business partner.”

“Gonza?” Miguel asked, and Ciro nodded.

“Our partnership failed over differing moral stances. I had a need to leave Maracaibo for a time, and a fellow, the son of a Spanish merchant himself, offered to take me along on his trading route. We stopped at his home, a Wayuu village, far to the north of here.”

The knot in Maria’s stomach tightened.

“And there, like an angel, was your mother. I loved her from the first time I saw her. She was very kind to me, helping me more than perhaps I deserved. As soon as we could, we married. Ayelen was an amazing woman. I’d always hoped to return there someday...”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Maria whispered, shaking her head in disbelief. “You let me believe...” a lie. How could he have lied to her for so long?

“What good would it have done?” Ciro hung his head and sat back on his heels. “The way the wealthy Spanish colonists treated Ayelen before I met her wounded her deeply, though she was far too proud to admit it. She had almost entirely given up her Spanish heritage by the time we met. She never wanted that for you, Maria, and I agreed. At best, you would have been treated no better by Society than they treat servants, but more likely they would have treated you worse for being my daughter. People are cruel, especially when they feel afraid.”

“What would they have to be afraid of from me?”

Miguel gave her a thoughtful nod. “They feel they have dominance here by right of their birth. You would fly in the face of that. They would feel threatened, because if you could be in the upper circles of society, then why not their servants? They would see that their position is not as secure as they want to believe.”

“You still should have told me.” Bitterness constricting Maria’s throat. “What else have you kept from me? Is my mother still alive somewhere?”

“Nothing, mi querida, nothing, I promise,” Ciro said quickly. “As for your mother, I dearly wish she was—” His voice broke, and he returned to his chair, staring despondently into the fire.

“And what secrets do you keep from me that I ought to have known?” Maria turned her pain toward Miguel.

“I will tell you anything you ask.” Miguel took her hand. She threw herself into his embrace, taking comfort in his strong arms. He spoke quietly to her while she rested her head against his chest. “I’m sure it was hard for your father to never openly speak of your mother. I think that if I ever lost you, I would do everything I could to keep your memory alive. However, I believe Ciro has been wise to keep this secret.”

Maria pulled away a little to look at Miguel. “How could you think lying to me is a good thing?”

“You are to inherit all that he has, mi morena, and if it is found out that you are mestiza, not a full Spaniard, people will fight to rob you of what is yours. All that he has done, he has done for you.”

Ciro roused from his reflections and looked at his daughter. “It is true, hija. After your mother died, you were my only direction, my only reason not to return to the sea and lose myself as quickly as I could. Perhaps, sometimes, I have even envied Vasco the ease of his escape after his wife died in childbirth, but I loved your mother too much. I loved you too much to run away like he did.”

“I think it would be prudent to continue to keep this quiet,” Miguel added. “I think so long as we don’t make a fuss of it, any rumors Elisa starts will come across as nothing more than spite.”

Maria looked into the fire. Perhaps they were right. It all felt too big for her to handle. She nodded her agreement. They understood better the intricacies of politics, and she didn’t want to try to understand it all right now. They spent the rest of the evening quietly making plans for the wedding along with how to handle any further accusations. It was past midnight before they separated to go to their own rooms.

Maria flopped down onto her bed with a sigh, and Nana materialized out of the darkness.

“What a long day.” Maria dragged herself to her feet and began undressing.

“Indeed,” Nana said softly.

“I can’t believe I never figured it out. Why couldn’t you at least have told me?”

“I would have, but Ayelen asked me not to,” Nana said, her voice unusually subdued.

“And you loved Ayelen more than me?”

Nana shook her head. “I have served the women of your family for a long time. Asking which I loved best would be like asking a mother which of her children she cherished more.”

Maria thought a moment as she pulled off her dress. “Was it she who told you not to talk of her?”

“No, that was your father’s request.” Nana took the dress and handed Maria her night dress. “I only obeyed because it served Ayelen’s wishes as well.”

“Wishes? Besides hiding my heritage from me?”

“Ayelen was also of both worlds. Her mother was Wayuu and her father a Spaniard. He stayed with us in the village. He taught her and her twin brother the ways of the Spaniards, and to speak Castilian, alongside her mother, who taught them how to live as her people, the Wayuu. When they were old enough, she and her brother went with him to see the towns and live for a time among her father’s people.”

Maria sat on the side of the bed, her irritation forgotten, enraptured to hear the tale of her mother and grandparents.

“She was beautiful, talented, smart. Well-spoken and well-mannered. But whenever her or her father’s peers learned she was mestiza, they would turn on her. She used to tell me that she could see it in their eyes the moment it happened, when their thoughts turned to disdain. She learned to rise above it, of course, but it always bothered her.

“There was one man, though, whose eyes never hardened against her. Despite many of the young men who sought her out among her mother’s people, it was this Spanish merchant with whom she fell in love.”

“My father!” Maria perked up in excitement.

“Your father, Ciro Álvarez Bosque.” Nana nodded, sitting on the bed beside her. “His eyes would follow her everywhere. At first, she rebuffed him as insincere, but his persistence eventually won her over. ‘It was his eyes,’ she told me once. In his eyes, she could see that he never cared that she was anyone but Ayelen Zyanya.”

“Zyanya?” Maria asked. “Not Cordova?”

“Your grandfather’s name was Cordova. But by right, you are Maria Álvarez Zyanya.”

“Zyanya,” Maria repeated, trying the unfamiliar name on her tongue. “Does it mean anything?”

Nana gave Maria an appraising look. Just as Maria began to squirm under the scrutiny, Nana answered. “It means forever, or eternal. The women of your line have continued, unbroken, for a very long time. You are the firstborn daughter of a firstborn daughter whose mother, too, was a firstborn daughter, back generation upon generation.”

Nana hesitated, took a deep breath, and continued. “Do you remember the story I told you, hija? The Wayuu legend of the Slaver and the Noble One?”

“Of course. I told it to Miguel and the girls once. He told us a story of a murderous, blood-sucking vampire called Arnold Paule in Europe. They dug up his grave and stabbed him with a stake, and then burned him for good measure.” Maria smiled at the memory of the way Miguel had used the light of the bonfire to frighten and delight the girls as he’d told his gruesome tale.

“What do you remember of the Slaver and Noble One?” Nana prompted.

“It’s the one where a strange, pale-skinned man appeared on the Wayuu shores centuries ago, with unnatural speed and strength. The Wayuu had been a peaceful people, and so they welcomed him, but he, in return, used his magic and enslaved the youth, hence the name of the Slaver.”

“And the Noble One?”

Maria wondered what this had to do with anything, but her curiosity demanded she go along with it. “Some time later, another one of these creatures showed up, and this time the Wayuu were cautious, despite this man’s claim of noble intentions.”

“He claimed to be able to free us from the Slaver who had stolen so very much from our people already. When the elders had tried everything else they could think of and still failed to free themselves from the power of the Slaver, they turned to the noble one. He did as he said they would, but he was as they had originally feared, a trickster. The price he extracted from the Wayuu was even higher than the Slaver, but he kept his promise to help the Wayuu. To this day, they maintain their independence from all foreign invaders. This is why there have been two major rebellions against the colonists already.” Maria picked at a bit of lint on her skirt. “Does Papa believe that tale? Is that why he thinks there will be another war?”

“That is the one, but I don’t know if your father knows of it or not.” Nana shook her head. “There is more to that tale than I have told you. Your mother knew, of course, but asked that I not say anything until you were ready.”

“You think I’m old enough now?” Maria tried to swallow down the bitterness in the back of her throat. Even Nana kept things from her.

“I think there is no reason not to tell you, now that you know about your mother’s family.”

“Well, late though it is, today seems to be the day for telling me things.” Maria tried to make light of the knowledge that, once again, important information had been hidden from her. That’s just the way it is. Everyone lie to Maria, she won’t mind.

Nana took both of Maria’s hands into hers. “There is a prophecy connected to that tale.”

Maria raised an eyebrow but didn’t interrupt.

“It is said that one day a woman will arise who will free us from the continued servitude of the Noble One and the Slaver. One who will destroy those blood-sucking vipers who prey upon the hearts of our most vulnerable.”

Irritation rose up in Maria. She was exhausted, and while being kept up later for tales of her mother was one thing, foolish ghost stories were quite another. “Why is this so important to tell me now? Why could it not have waited until the morning?”

“I’m telling you because you deserve to know. I’m telling you because the woman in the prophecy will be one of the Zyanya. She will be the last of the unbroken line. We will know her by her firstborn being a son.”

Maria had had enough and pulled her hands gently from Nana’s grasp. “And you believe this?”

“I’m certain of it.”

“Nana.” Maria shook her head. “I’m tired, and I’ve had a lot thrown at me today. Don’t try to saddle me with some native ghost story that you think I’m part of and expect me to believe it.”

Sighing, Nana stood to leave. She stopped at the door on her way out and looked back at Maria, sitting on her bed in the lamplight.

“Your mother believed it.”

“Not tonight, Nana.”

“Do you ever have strange dreams?” Nana tried one last time, but Maria had had enough.

“Good night, old woman.” Maria blew out the lamp, dropping the room into starlit darkness. She heard her door close without another word. Relieved, she dropped onto her pillows and was asleep within seconds.

Chapter 3

DECEMBER 1740

THE BROAD, DEEP GREEN LEAVES of the roble trees, half again as long and nearly wide as Miguel’s hand, swayed in the gentle wind. The trees that lined the road ahead of him moved in the dark night like dancers to music. Miguel shifted his heavy blue greatcoat on his shoulders, ignoring itching sweat that had formed on his back. Maria had given him the coat shortly before they’d begun courting, and though it was uncomfortably warm, it excelled at keeping out the unending rain, protecting the powder of his flintlocks.

His horse snorted, shaking his head and prancing, much to Miguel’s irritation. The scar on his ribs still pulled, and, despite the months since the attack at Betania’s wedding, nights like tonight still made his skull ache. But that was no reason to not keep his wits about him. Miguel touched the hilt of his cutlass, confident that it remained loose in the scabbard. He ran a mental checklist of his other weapons—two pistols and three knives—as he scanned the shadowy buildings.

Exhaustion pressed on him as thickly as the humidity. He, Dom, and Ciro had already had a full day of work inspecting the ships and cargoes before they’d gone off to find Gonza. The man had escaped, and rumors of his sudden ill health had passed through the community. Miguel wasn’t certain, but it was likely close enough to midnight that Maria would be worried despite the messenger they’d sent back several hours ago. Or perhaps because of it. Miguel’s horse snorted again, snapping at the tall grass beside the road.

“Keep your head up, mate,” he said quietly, pulling up the gelding’s head and patting his neck. “There’ll be plenty of hay for you when we’re safely home.”

“You all right there, amigo?” Dom asked, looking back at Miguel. Ciro’s steward and unofficial bodyguard rode beside his employer, their horses walking further ahead and at a more energetic pace than Miguel’s.

“Fine.” Miguel urged his horse forward, but the gelding ignored the signal. What was it that made horses hate him? “It’s just quiet. I’m not sure I dare to trust that Gonza is really no longer a threat. We should pick up the pace.”

Dom turned and spoke in a low voice to Ciro, who hadn’t spoken since he’d seen Gonza, or what was left of him, with his own eyes. Ciro nodded and kicked his horse to a trot with Dom following suit.

“You better pick up the pace,” Miguel said to his horse. Before he could adjust his seat, the gelding started off in a swift and uncomfortable gait to catch his stablemates as the walls of the hacienda came into view.

The three horses came to a clattering stop in the courtyard beside the stable, where Maria stood waiting, wrapped in a dark shawl with a lamp at her feet. Almost before Miguel’s feet had touched the ground, Maria threw herself into his arms. He pulled her close, savoring the softness of her body and the warm, floral scent she wore. Someday, he would have to ask her the name of the flower, he decided, kissing the top of her head.

“I see how it is,” Ciro said, dismounting, a playfulness in his voice that Miguel knew was forced. “Now that you are getting married, you don’t even have a hug for your old Papa.”

Miguel let her go, and she gave her father a grin. “I’d have hugged you first, but you’re so slow to get off your horse, I might have died of old age if I’d waited.”

“You’re impossible, chica.” Her father pulled her into a hug, and Miguel smiled as the last of her tension melted away in her father’s embrace. How would it have been to have a father like that? Though Ciro treated him increasingly like family, Miguel knew no one would ever love him as unconditionally as Ciro loved his daughter. Miguel handed a sleepy young stablehand his horse’s reins.

“What happened? Why have you been gone all day?” Maria nodded a greeting to Dom and led them across the courtyard to the main house.

“Can’t it wait until we had some food?” Ciro asked with a sigh, removing his coat and draping it over his arm.

“There’s food for you in the study and has been for hours. Now, what happened?”

“Antonio Gonza is as good as dead.” Miguel took Maria’s hand as they entered the house. “He is refusing to tell the authorities who shot him, but word is his wound has gone septic. I hope, for his own sake, it kills him quickly.”

Miguel gave her hand a quick squeeze before letting it go and removing his own coat as they entered the cool study. The gentle glow of the lamps against the pale stucco walls gave it the feel of sanctuary as the weary men entered, and Maria took their coats, setting them across the back of a chair. Miguel’s eyes were drawn immediately to the food set out on the side table. Though his stomach growled, he held back, allowing Ciro to go first. Maria stood beside her father, who merely stared down at the food.

“He was your friend once, wasn’t he?” She touched her father’s arm lightly.

“Once,” Ciro responded gruffly, turning away from her. Her hand fell away, coming to rest on the table. “Have something brought to my room. I’ll see you two in the morning.”

She watched, hurt and confusion on her face, as Ciro stormed away. This, at least, was something Miguel understood. He stepped closer, taking her hand, and she leaned in to him with a sigh. He ran his thumb across the back of her hand, organizing his thoughts.

“It is hard for him. Seeing Gonza was like looking at a living skeleton.” Miguel rubbed absently the long-healed stab wound on his ribs.

“That could have just as easily been you,” she said softly, pulling her hand away and handing him a plate.

Miguel took the plate and set the cold food onto it, ignoring the dull ache in his head. “You have to understand that if it weren’t for Gonza trying to have your father killed, he never would have met your mother. So while that man is responsible for some of the hardest parts of Ciro’s life, he’s also the cause of some of the best. And, as you pointed out, they were once friends.”

“Seems strange to credit him for happiness when he’s been trying to kill us,” Maria said dryly.

Miguel shrugged and tossed a grape into his mouth, the glorious, juicy sweetness of it exploding on his tongue. When had he last eaten anyway? He took a seat on the couch by the empty fireplace, watching her.

“What of his business? The rumors in town are that Gonza was ruined when the ships were delayed.” Maria’s concern for her father was written across her face as she looked, unseeing, at the food before her. Setting her empty plate back on the table, she turned instead to sit on the couch across from Miguel.

Miguel shook his head. “When his latest planned shipment didn’t show up, it ruined him. It seemed he owed considerable amounts of money to the wrong people, and they have picked him dry, unwilling to wait longer for his ships. Naturally, he blames your father for this.”

Maria nodded. “Because this was the one that Papa refused to take. I remember hearing about that early on. Papa said that if he took Gonza’s entire shipment and any of the ships went down or were delayed, it would ruin his client.”

“But all your father’s ships have returned and departed again since then.” Miguel shrugged, taking a bite from his empanada. He savored the spiciness of the perfectly tender meat as he chewed. “The only positive side to all this is that Gonza can no longer cause us problems. Your father even set up a trust for the man’s son, though Gonza tried to spit in his face when he told him.”

“How did things go with Sergio today?” Maria asked after a pause to let Miguel swallow.

“About the same. I think Sergio remains in awe of your father, but Ciro has been a little more cool to him. Overall, the crop should be good this year, though, so there’s little to worry about on that front. How about you? How were things with Betania today?”

Maria grinned, her entire demeanor lightening. “You’ll never believe it, but Selena has a beau. She’s been downright chipper the last couple of weeks.”

Maria loved spending time with Betania and Betania’s cousin, Selena. When he’d been employed as Maria’s bodyguard, Miguel had spent many hours listening to them chatter from the other side of the walled garden at the de la Cuesta plantation. He still laughed at some of the strange things they’d come up with, though, more often than not, the conversations had turned to discussing boys.

Maria continued while he ate another empanada, this one just as delicious as the first.

“I think being married suits Betania, though. She’s still terribly enamored with Benito, always going on about his accomplishments or giggling of his endearing inadequacies.”

“Endearing inadequacies?” Miguel wiggled his eyebrows at her, and she rolled her eyes.

“Just because she finds them sweet doesn’t mean I would.” Maria ran her long fingers over the upholstery of the couch, picking at a loose thread. “As lovey, idyllic, and carefree as their futures look, I don’t envy them. They’ll run a home, but I’ll run a business with you in addition to our home. Their children will grow up with hardly a care in the world beyond wearing the latest fashions, but ours—” Maria blushed, a subtle rose spreading across the gentle, tawny bronze of her skin “—will always have the stigma of being mestizo lurking in their shadows. Their families will be able to proudly show pedigrees going back generations, and ours will show only one line in four.”

“And that bothers you.” Miguel had thought little of the legacy he might pass on to his children someday, but he would never regret his choice to start with a blank slate. Blanco del Mar, indeed.

Maria smiled and moved to sit next to him, taking his hand. “Just the opposite. Don’t you see? Our children will know the satisfaction of earning what they have and of marrying for love’s sake and not because it is good for business. Betania has been fortunate in that respect with Benito.”

Miguel nodded. “I suppose that’s true. As much as Elisa likes to pout about it, had I tried to court her, Betania, or even Selena instead of you, the match would have been rejected outright. There is far too much of a class difference between us.”

“But I’m just a wealthy merchant’s daughter, free to accept whomever I choose.”

Miguel laughed and squeezed her hand. “Even some stray puppy the ocean saw fit to deposit at your feet?”

“Even then.” Maria stood, took his empty plate, and returned to the side table.

Leaning back, Miguel stretched out against the couch with a yawn. “What’s been going on with Elisa these days anyhow? I haven’t heard much about her lately.”

Maria returned to Miguel, his empty plate now laden with food. “All I know is what Betania tells me. She says Elisa has moved on from our circle of acquaintances. She doesn’t talk to a single one.”

“I’m afraid I just can’t see that as a loss. Thank you.” Miguel took the refilled plate from Maria and immediately started in on it, as though he hadn’t eaten in days instead of minutes. The moonlight that fell through the open window disappeared, and within moments, the whisper of the coming storm pushed its way through the trees.

Maria rushed to shut the window before the rain began, and the first heavy drops pinged the glass as she returned to Miguel’s side. “What did you hear today about the trouble with the Wayuu?”

Miguel had wondered when she’d bring that up. Ciro refused to talk to her about it, a policy Miguel heartily disagreed with. “I think major fighting is going to be inevitable. The upper class still tries to ignore the unrest, or believes it will pass and die out. Many think that if it comes to open rebellion that they will be able to put out any spark of trouble quickly, like they did back in ‘27.”

“But Papa doesn’t believe that.” Maria took Miguel’s hand as he set down his plate and she gently traced the lines of his veins down the back of his hand with her fingers, sending a pleasant shiver through his body. She turned his hand over as the blue line made its way up the inside of his arm to his elbow, pushing his sleeve out of the way, then followed another back down to his palm. He sighed and leaned back, relaxing at her touch.

“No. And there are many like him, hidden in the corners of society who sympathize with the Wayuu.” Miguel caught her hand with his before she could trace another vein up his arm. “He feels it is wrong to oppress them, and that the Spanish who came before us were wrong in stealing their lands, their riches, and their very lives. And I can’t say I disagree.”

Certainly the house staff knew where Don Ciro stood on the issue. Maria still took an escort with her whenever she went out, but more and more often, it was one of the household staff rather than Miguel. He’d reluctantly turned over his duties as her bodyguard as Ciro had brought him more fully into the business. Having Ciro’s trust had long been a point of pride for Miguel, but some days he longed for the simpler days when protecting her was his primary concern. But Don Ciro had a way of gathering loyalty from people, and Miguel trusted his men. They often treated Maria as though they were protecting one of her own.

The demeanor of the town had changed along with the weather. It seemed that even the ever-present street music had begun to carry a tension.

“Nana thinks that Papa might try to go adventuring, and that will turn out badly for him.” Maria leaned her head on Miguel’s shoulder. “I only hope Papa will do no more than talk. I couldn’t bear it if he left to join the fighting. Do you think we could convince him that trying to help here will be enough?”

Miguel put his arm around her shoulder and held her tight, brushing his fingers over her arm. “I seriously doubt that, mi morena, but we can try.”

Chapter 4

FEBRUARY 1741 - MARACAIBO

“PAPA!” MARIA CRIED OUT TO CIRO as he stuffed clothes into a saddlebag. “You can’t do this!”

“Why not?” Ciro asked without pausing. “You don’t need me to run the business anymore; you and Miguel have that well under control. You don’t need me to protect you; Miguel and the staff do that without my help, and I’ll be back before your wedding. As far as I can see, all matters here are settled, and I am a mere ornament.”

“You’re not!” Maria took clothes out of the bag as quickly as he shoved them in. “I need you, Papa!”

Ciro stopped and looked at his daughter. His grey eyes, flanked by lines as much from laughter as from care, were full of both pain and longing.

“You’re all grown up now, mi querida. It is time you learned to stand on your own, to trust in Miguel to support you when you feel you should fall, and to pick you up when you are down. That is the role of a husband,” her father said gently, caressing Maria’s face.

She didn’t feel grown just then. She felt like a young child standing on a ledge with nothing to hold on to.

“But why must you go? There are plenty of other men who will fight—”

“There are indeed, but they will be on the other side. I go to help your mother’s people. You know how I feel about what is being done.” Ciro returned to his packing.

Asking clearly wasn’t going to work. She needed a different strategy. “You’re not as young as you used to be,” she said tentatively, moving him aside to repack his clothes, refolding them neatly inside the bag. “What if you get hurt and can’t return?”

“Then I die for the cause that burns within me,” he said fiercely. “It is a better choice than growing old and musty in a house, growing useless, becoming a burden.”

Realizing that she had only furthered his resolve, Maria closed her eyes, pushing back the tears that threatened to form.

“If you die there, who will I have for family at my wedding?” she said softly, gently placing the last of the clothes in his bag.

For the first time that morning, Ciro paused. A spark of hope lit within Maria’s heart.

“You are right,” he said reluctantly, sitting down heavily on a chair.

“Of course she is,” Miguel said cheerily, walking briskly into the room. He stopped abruptly at the sight of Ciro on the chair with his head in his hands. “What are you right about, mi morena?” he asked softly.

Maria turned to Miguel, who pulled her into his arms. Perhaps he could talk some sense into her father. Pulling back, she spoke softly to him. “Papa has decided to leave for the rebellion. We’ve got to stop him. I’ve tried everything I can think of, but he won’t listen to me. Maybe he’ll listen to you. Please make him stay, Miguel. Please?”

“I think,” Miguel said slowly, “that if a man feels strongly that he must do something, if he feels that he is morally bound to do that thing, then he must do it.”

Maria pulled away from Miguel in disbelief. How could he? He’d said he would help her convince her father to stay. She looked over to her father. Ciro met Miguel’s steady gaze and nodded, standing slowly and returning to his packing.

“I must do this, hija. They are your mother’s people, her family, and so they are mine. I stayed out of it last time they were slaughtered, for the sake of my infant daughter. But I cannot do it again,” Ciro said. “As for your wedding, I do not like the idea of you marrying so young. I had hoped you could wait another year. You’re still only eighteen. When you’re as old as I am, eighteen seems so incredibly young. However, I think it would be best if you were married before I leave. If you will agree to it.”

Maria was speechless. Could she get her father to stay this way? Would Miguel be upset at having their engagement used this way?

“And if I don’t?” she finally asked.

“Then I will leave tomorrow and try my best to return to you and finish my responsibility as your father.”

“Miguel?” she asked, looking up at her fiancé with pleading eyes.

He looked back at her, his eyes kind, but the disappointment that lay beneath it was clear. In that moment, she knew she couldn’t use him to manipulate her father. Miguel would see it as betrayal.

“I agree with your father,” Miguel said, and Maria dropped her hand from his arm, her fingers sliding down the soft cloth. “He needs to go. I would go, were I in his place. I would go with him now, except we both agree my place is here with you.”

Maria turned from him and dropped into a chair. Emotions warred within her, and she tried to sort through them. She dropped her head into her hands, the pressure building up again behind her eyes. How could Miguel betray her like this? He was supposed to side with her!

Her chest tightened, and she tried to steady herself through deep breaths. How could her father leave her to go and most likely die for people he hadn’t seen in decades? How could he choose them over her?

She sat up, turning her head away from the talking men so that they wouldn’t see, her hands clenched into fists. Didn’t they know how much they were needed here? How much she needed them both?

How could her father, the only family she had, leave her all alone? Why, if he loved her, was he leaving her?

Something broke in Maria, and she squeezed her eyes shut, pushing out the tears that had formed despite her efforts. Why, if she loved him, wasn’t she letting him go?

Maria swallowed and discreetly wiped her cheeks. Her father felt that she could do this. And she wouldn’t be alone. She’d still have Nana and Miguel to help her. With a deep steadying breath, Maria braced herself for what would come next.

“We will move the wedding,” she said quietly. “We can get married tonight, if you think it can be arranged so quickly.”

Ciro and Miguel both looked at her, startled.

“Are you sure, mi querida?” Ciro asked, walking toward her.

“Yes, Papa. If you feel you must go, then I must not stand in your way.”

“Oh, Maria, my little girl!” Ciro exclaimed, hugging her. “I will miss you. I’m glad to have lived to see you become such a woman.”

“I love you, Papa,” was all Maria could say through her tears, feeling more like a child than ever as she clung to her father.

“I will see what can be arranged,” Miguel said. Ciro nodded to him, and he left. Before long, Nana came in and led Maria to her own room to wait.

Events swirled around Maria as though she wasn’t really a part of them. Nana produced a black silk dress from somewhere, and, after a quick fitting, started making the necessary adjustments for Maria.

Maria pulled out a shirt she had been working on for Miguel. She rubbed her fingers over the tight, decorative stitching. This shirt was not meant to have been the one she made for Miguel to wear on their wedding, but it would have to do. Spreading the shirt over her bed, she began planning what it would need to be fit for a groom. Gathering her sewing basket and the shirt, she sat beneath the sunny window in her bedroom. The memory of Miguel’s sleeping face in the sunlight in that same chair made her smile as she picked loose the pattern.

The sun had moved enough to put her in shadow and her fingers ached by the time Miguel returned. “The priest was busy today, but he is prepared to marry us tomorrow evening.”

Maria nodded soberly and continued her needlework, listening to Miguel’s soft footsteps as he left.

When her back and neck ached, her father appeared with black lace for her veil, all wrapped up in paper. She thanked him warmly, rolled her shoulders and stretched her neck, and returned to Miguel’s shirt.

Maria reached for the next color in her pattern, and with a start realized the light had faded enough that she could no longer tell the colors apart. She looked up, hoping to light a lamp, and her stomach growled. Setting the shirt aside, she stood and stretched. The movement felt as though she’d breathed for the first time in hours, and it cleared her mind. Had she really not eaten all day? What smelled so good? A tray of food sat on her side table along with an unlit lamp, and Maria smiled, grateful for Nana’s foresight.

Stifling a yawn, she lit the lamp and changed into her nightdress. Her mind churning, she sat down to her food. What was left to prepare for the wedding tomorrow night? Miguel’s shirt was nearly finished. Putting together a mental list, she allowed her eyes to wander while she ate, and they stopped on a parcel. Pulling it nearer, she inspected it in the quiet lamp light. It was the lace her father had brought earlier, the paper wrapping fresh and crisp. Had she even thanked him for it? Unable to remember, she carefully unfolded the packaging and found a letter on old, yellowed paper on top of the lace. Opening it carefully, she read the strong, unfamiliar handwriting:

My Dearest Child,

There is so much that I would tell you, so much I would like to see. Old Nana says that you’ll be a girl, and she is never wrong. I feel so strongly that I will not be there for you, though I dearly wish to be. Who will teach you how to be a woman? Who will give you the love that you will need the first time your heart is broken? Who will show you your way?

It breaks my heart, knowing I will miss so much, but I trust my dear Ciro to take care of you the best that he knows how. Old Nana will be with you, too, to watch and guide you. Trust them, for I know they will never lead you wrong.

My heart is so full with love for you, though for me, you are still unborn. You move around inside me, kicking me restlessly, but I love you all the more. Know that when you read this, I will still be loving you.

I hope, too, that someday you will find a man worthy of your love. When you find that man, if he is worthy of you, he will cherish you as I know your father cherishes me. You must remember to love him with all of your heart. Your father and I have known such love. It is a force that overcomes all opposition, all obstacles, and even death will not long hinder it. I know my dearest Ciro will find me when his turn comes. I shan’t be far from him, either. Or from you.

A lifetime of experiences I would impart to you, my daughter, a lifetime and more of hard-earned wisdom. But that would take longer than I have, and more pages and ink than there are. Old Nana and an old letter are poor substitutes, I know, but they are the best that I can give you.

I love you so!

Your loving mother,

Ayelen Cordova Zyanya

Maria set the letter down with tears in her eyes and looked back to the dark lace, running her fingers over it. She pulled it out to try it on, and another, smaller bit of paper fell out. Setting the lace mantilla carefully across the table, Maria picked the paper up. Her mother’s handwriting flowed across it, this time weaker, crooked, and painstakingly written.

My dear Maria,

I had hoped to last longer than this, a few years at least. You are such a beautiful baby, and you amaze me so.

This lace is for your veil when you are wedded to the man aforementioned. I have instructed my dear Ciro to buy the finest veil he could find, holding nothing back, as soon as he approved of your choice. I believe in his judgment; so, since you are reading this, know that you have my approval and best wishes, too.

Your loving mother,

Ayelen Cordova Zyanya

Maria touched the lace again, hardly able to believe these letters had been waiting for her. They had been somewhere in this house her entire life, waiting, like a held breath, to speak to her. She again lifted the lace, folding it carefully and draping it over the back of her chair. Then, taking both letters and moving the lamp to her bedside, she slid to the floor beside her bed. She read and reread her mother’s last words, memorizing them and trying to soak in whatever of Ayelen’s essence they held.

NANA CAME LATE IN THE night to clear away the food, hoping the fool girl had had enough sense to stop and eat at least. The lamp on the nightstand illuminated the sleeping Maria, sweet Ayelen’s letters clutched to the girl’s chest. The gaping pain of loss tried to push its way wider in Nana’s chest as she took the letters from Maria and lifted the fool girl into her bed. Maria stirred, and Nana hummed the quiet lullaby she’d sung to Maria as a child, and the girl stilled. Gently, Nana moved Maria’s hair from her face, an echoing pain of all the children who’d come and gone before, bearing those same eyes, those same lips...

Nana drew back. She’d loved each of those children as dearly as she loved Maria. Snorting, she shook her mind from its pensiveness. She had work still to do. Fold and put away the veil, clean up the dishes, blow out the lamp. She shook her head, and her wordless song stopped. Weddings were harbingers for the life to come and deserved great celebrations. Such dark events would bring nothing but trouble.

MARIA WALKED THROUGH a field of grass. Before her the distant mountains loomed, a silent sentinel over the noisy jungle that spread from their feet. Behind her, just as distant, lay Lake Maracaibo and home. A warm breeze flowed over her and brought with it the scent of roses and water. The wind playing with her hair, Maria turned her face toward the sunny sky. It would rain soon, but it always rained here.

The jungle noises intensified, and a sound she’d never heard before seemed to thread its way beneath it all. Curious, she turned toward the distant dark foliage. A familiar growl made her turn and she threw herself at her dog, wrapping her arms around Alistair’s strong body.

Everything is changing, she sobbed to him, spilling her emotions as he pressed against her as though trying to knock her to the ground. She only held him tighter, the feelings of being left behind by those she loved flowed around her, forming into waves of deep blue. The water had carried away her mother. It had carried away her beloved Alistair. Now her father was leaving her, and each one had been her fault.

Alistair pulled away and cocked his head as if to disagree. Maria settled herself onto the ground, and Alistair flopped across her lap, his tail making a dull thump on the ground as he wagged it. She leaned back, bracing herself with one hand and running the other across the large dog’s head.

It’s true, though, she said, scratching him behind his ear. My mother died because she had me. I lost you because of my own foolishness, demanding you come, though you knew better. Alistair huffed at that and nipped at her hand. Maria gave a sad smile and gave his shoulder a voracious rub until he flopped over again. Now Papa is leaving because I couldn’t stop him. She leaned forward again and gathered him up in her arms, burying her face in his warm fur. Everyone leaves me, and it’s my own fault.

The noise from the jungle reached out for her again and Alistair stiffened, growling. Maria stood, looking toward it, but her dog pushed against her legs, pushing her back toward the lake. Toward home. With one more glance back at the jungle, she let her dog guide her away.

Chapter 5

SUNLIGHT SPILLED INTO Maria’s room, waking her. An unease lingered in her mind, but she washed it away with the water she splashed across her face. She smiled into the mirror. Today she was getting married. For this one day, perhaps, she would set aside her worries. It didn’t matter now that they’d had to rush. Nana swept in with her breakfast, and the morning moved past in a blur. Throughout the commotion, Maria swung from giddy to nervous to nearly breaking down in tears over her father, and back again.

When a servant brought up a tray of fruit in the early afternoon, Maria was more emotionally drained than she’d ever experienced. Her stomach fluttered as she looked at the food, and she opted for a drink instead, afraid anything she ate would find its way back up. She sent the now-finished shirt to Miguel, and still her mind gnawed at the many possible outcomes for the day.

Nana cackled from the doorway, joking with the servant about young brides. Maria glared at her blatantly good mood and paced the room.

“I know better than to tell you to eat.” Nana grinned as she turned from the now empty doorway. “But I am going to anyway.”

“What if he changes his mind? What if I’m making the wrong decision? What if he decides I’m not... to his liking?” Maria said in a rush, her hand pressed against her rebellious stomach.

“What if, what if, what if!” Nana huffed. “The future will take care of itself. Do you love the boy or not?”

“Yes. Well, I think I do. I mean—I don’t know!” What if she only thought she loved him? “How do you know you’re in love?”

“You’re asking the wrong person, chica, I’ll tell you that.” Nana moved to the table and looked thoughtfully at the food. “But I do know how to see if someone else is in love, and if you’re not, then I’m a frog.”

“Well, you do kind of look like a toad from certain angles....” Maria grinned.

“Also, he won’t change his mind. You’ve caught that boy so securely, he couldn’t not love you if he tried.”

“Do you really think so?” Maria looked skeptically at the fruit, poking at it.

“Why must you always second-guess me?” Nana asked, waving her green chirimoya at Maria. “I hardly know why I bother telling you anything. You always ask if I’m sure, or if I really think what I’m saying. Of course I do, girl!”

“Well, what about that other....”

Nana heaved a sigh and took Maria by her shoulders. “You have nothing to worry about, chica; now stop fretting. Since you won’t let an old woman eat in peace, I suppose we’d better get back to getting you ready. Go, sit!” She waved in the general direction of Maria’s dressing table.

Maria’s nerves calmed a little as they set her hair. They were just settling her black silk dress on her shoulders when her father knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Maria said while Nana worked the laces closed.

“Ah, you’re looking beautiful,” Ciro said as he entered. “Miguel insisted that I give these to you.” He held out a small bouquet of beautiful orange and white flowers that filled the room with their fragrance.

“Oh, they’re lovely!” Maria took the flowers. “Are there many guests here?”

“Not as many as you deserve, mi querida.”

“Would you help me with this, please?” Maria asked, holding the necklace with her mother’s stone to her father.

“Certainly, child.”

When he finished tying the necklace, Maria turned around to show him her entire ensemble with a face-splitting grin.

“You are a vision,” he said to her, gesturing for her to look in the mirror.

Maria’s face practically glowed, framed by her long dark hair that blended with the black of her wedding dress. The red and silver of her necklace was the only color she wore. Nana placed the elaborate black veil over Maria’s face, and Maria watched the tears form in her father’s eyes.

“What is it, Papa?” She turned back to him, laying a hand on his arm.

“I can hardly believe you’ve gotten so old. When did that happen?” He smiled down at her, his face full of love, and took her hand. “I remember holding my newborn little girl in my arms as though it were yesterday. You were so very small.”

Maria smiled up at her father through the veil. Dom knocked on the doorway to let them know it was time before dashing off again. With her hand on her father’s elbow, she followed him out. A small jolt of surprise stopped Maria at the top of the stairs. The open, tiled foyer before them stood empty. Miguel was not there. It seemed that in every important part of her life he had been there, waiting for her. Smiling up at her.

“What is it, my dear?” Ciro asked at her hesitation.

“It’s silly.” She tried to wave him away. He refused to move forward until she spoke. “It's just that...” Maria gave him a sheepish grin. “Just that it seems like Miguel has always been there, waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs.”

Ciro squeezed her hand, tucked it more firmly into his arm, and started down the steps. “Today, he will be waiting for you at the chapel. A better place, perhaps, to wait for one’s bride than the foot of her stairs.”

With a discreet look at her father, she caught the sad smile on his face. Had there been a place like that for him and her mother? “Miguel has some strange notions, being English. Did you know that Doña Olivia offered to escort him down the aisle, as he did not have a mother to do so?”

Ciro nodded and helped her into the carriage. “He asked me about it, saying he preferred to wait at the chapel with the priest, and wanted to make sure there were no hurt feelings.”

Maria shook her head at the unconventional behavior of the man who would soon become her husband. But she’d come to expect that sort of thing.

Before Maria knew it, they had arrived at the church. Then she walked beside her father down the aisle. Miguel broke into a brilliant smile as she reached him. She smiled back, heat in her cheeks as her father placed her hand in his. She hardly heard the words spoken by the priest, caught up in Miguel’s intense gaze. He wore the shirt she had embroidered. Was it only yesterday? Surely an eternity had passed between then and now. Her hands should be sore from sewing the day before, but she felt only joy.

She soaked in the vision of Miguel, unable to look away. Every small detail seemed to fill her mind. His dark hair was pulled back neatly, for once, none of it falling into his eyes. The dimple when he smiled. His beautiful green eyes that she always lost herself in.

It seemed like a dream when Miguel handed her the small bag with the thirteen arras, when she said the words in the right places, as she slipped the ring onto his right hand and he did the same for her. The moment seemed to stretch out forever, filling Maria with a sense of all being right in the world, while the entire world was comprised of only her and Miguel. All else was insignificant and merely existed around them as Miguel led her back down the aisle, through a shower of rice, and into the coach.

She leaned contentedly against him, and the coach started forward, taking them home. He stroked her hair, his fingers trailing over her ear and down her neck. Warmth flowed through her as he reached her collar bone and traced it across her shoulder. She shivered and took his hand, setting it in her lap, and ran her fingers up his arm. The muscles in his arm tensed under her fingertips as she pushed back the sleeves of his shirt and dress coat.

With a small groan, he kissed the top of her head and moved his hands up to her shoulders, moving her away from his chest. “I have something for you,” he said before she could protest.

Seemingly from nowhere, Miguel revealed a long strand of deep red flowers and held them out to her.

“Amaranth.” She smiled, taking the posy and repositioning herself more properly in the seat beside him, the flowers easing the sting of his rejection. “It is said that they never die.”

“Did you know they’re found around the world? Different varieties and colors, for sure, but the same flower.”

Maria laughed and shoved at him playfully. “Of course they are. You wouldn't have the slightest interest in them if you hadn’t seen them everywhere.”

“On the contrary.” He caught her hand and pulled her back to him. “Nothing is as unique as my dark angel, and she interests me most of all.”

Maria blushed and looked down at the flowers in her hand. “And what do you know of these?”

“‘We that with like hearts love, we lovers twain,’” Miguel began in English, pulling Maria onto his lap, his words whispered into her ear. “‘New wedded in the village by thy fane. Lady of all chaste love, to thee it is we bring these amaranths, these white lilies, a sign, and sacrifice.’” He slid one hand around her waist and the other trailed down her arm toward the flowers. “‘May Love, we pray, like amaranthine flowers, feel no decay. Like these cool lilies may our loves remain, perfect and pure, and know not any stain. And be our hearts, from this thy holy hour, bound each to each, like flower to wedded flower.’”

As he finished the poem he touched her jaw, turned her face toward him, and kissed her. The flowers fell from her hand, and with them the world around them.

When they parted and Maria opened her eyes to find the world still there, she smiled. “And just how long have you been preparing that one?”

He returned to her a rakish grin. “I can’t take too much credit for the poem. I found it in a book many years ago. By a fellow named du Bellay, as I recall. As for the rest, you’ll never know.”

Miguel picked the flowers back up and set them into her hair as she pulled out the bag of arras he’d given her.

“And will I find anything half so romantic in here?”

“Open it.” His grin grew even wider.

Maria opened the bag expectantly and spilled the coins onto her lap. They were not the traditional gold coins, and not even all of them were gold. She spread them across her lap, the metal brilliant against the black cloth of her wedding dress. Not a single one was like another, varying as much in size as in design. She grinned. They were exactly the sort of thing she expected from Miguel.

“What are they?” she asked.

“Coins from around the world,” Miguel said proudly, moving the coins on her skirt so that each lay separate from the others, his arm around her waist to steady her on his lap. “Your father offered to lend me some money, saying I’d earned it, but I refused. I didn’t want it to be an empty gesture, giving you something that was already yours. He laughed and said he understood that.”

“That sounds like him.” Maria ran her fingers through the coins, enjoying their variety. “Tell me about them.”

“They’re from my travels, the most valuable of each country’s coin that I had. This one here is from China,” Miguel pointed to one with odd symbols on it, “and this one is from India—”

Abruptly the carriage pulled to a halt and the door opened.

“Ah, there you are!” Ciro bellowed merrily at them, holding the door. “We’d worried that you two lovebirds had run off already, and we couldn’t have that, now could we?”

Maria blushed, hurriedly setting the coins back in the bag before she could get off Miguel’s lap. Miguel simply waited, grinning at his new father-in-law.

After Maria put the precious coins back into the bag, Ciro helped his daughter from the carriage and walked between her and her new husband. As they entered the hacienda’s small ballroom, already full of guests, Ciro shoved them in gently and whispered, “Good luck!”

The crowd pushed them to the center of the room, and the musicians started the traditional wedding dance. For a moment, she froze. Did Miguel even know how to do this dance? She’d forgotten about it entirely, or she’d have made sure it wasn’t done. Too late now; the music had begun. They would be the center of gossip by the end of the night. They’d be—

Miguel reached for her hand and led her through the dance. Her surprise immediately quieted her thoughts as they moved through the steps. He was graceful, as though he’d been practicing all his life.

“When did you learn this?” she asked as she relaxed into enjoying the dance.

“The moment I decided that all I wanted was to make you happy.” Miguel smiled down at her. “Or, that is when I would have started learning, but I didn’t know it would be required until Betania’s wedding, and by then I had a lot of lost time to make up for.”

Once again, time slowed and the world disappeared as she danced with her husband. For a moment, she wondered why that was, followed quickly by the wish that it would never end. But, like all things that begin, it also ended. They applauded the musicians and moved off the floor to allow others to dance.

They made the rounds about the room, enjoying the company and general good cheer, though there was not even half the number of guests as there had been for Betania.

“I can’t say I mind the smaller wedding party,” Maria whispered to Miguel in between well-wishers.

“Why is that? You deserve something much grander.” He smiled again as an elderly couple approached them.

“It’ll cost less,” Maria said once the couple had moved on. “And there will be less work all around for the staff.”

Miguel chuckled at her as a boisterous group of young men approached.

As he talked with them Maria looked around, relieved to realize they’d spoken with almost everyone at this point. As the men spoke, she mentally added “getting off my feet sooner” to the list of benefits of a smaller wedding party. Despite the engaging conversations, she could not help but note the absence of a certain disdainful personality. Elisa had made an appearance shortly after Ciro had abandoned them near the door, looking haughty and indignant, and Maria had not seen her since. Good riddance, Maria thought, drinking from a glass she didn’t remember picking up.

“Here, you drink this.” Maria handed the glass to Miguel when the men moved on. “It’s sangria. I’ve never cared for it.”

Miguel sipped it. “I’ve had better,” he said with a shrug.

“Miguel, have you seen my father?” Maria asked, suddenly realizing she hadn’t seen him.

“No. Now that you mention it, I haven’t seen him since right after the dance....” Miguel looked around the room and set the glass on a table.

Maria clutched at Miguel’s sleeve. “We must find him. I can’t have him leave like this.”

Miguel nodded. “I’ll see if I can find him. I’ll check the stables first and work my way back. It’ll be easier for me to slip out than you, mi morena.” Miguel kissed the top of her head and strode off.

She watched him go, frustrated by the sudden press of well-wishers. Maria spoke with each of them as briskly and politely as possible as she made her way to the nearest door, which seemed miles away. An extremely old lady waylaid her three feet from the door, the only person between her and escape. Maria managed to catch the attention of Rosia Garcia, Betania’s sister-in-law, who foolishly came over. Maria introduced them and turned the old lady’s conversation over to Rosia. Insisting that she felt faint and needed a little air, Maria finally slipped out.

She practically ran to her father’s study. The room, which had always seemed warm and inviting, felt unusually barren. The weapons she’d always thought merely decorative were missing. With a deepening feeling of dread, she rushed from room to room, hoping to find her father. With no other reasonable places to search inside the house full of guests, she headed to the courtyard.

The sound of Miguel’s angry voice around the corner stopped her abruptly, and she crept closer to listen.

“... realize how this will affect Maria?” Miguel demanded.

“I have thought it through and think this will be easiest for all of us. No drawn-out goodbyes, no more fretting about what will come, no more seeing her tears,” Ciro said quietly.

“Easier for you, perhaps. Ciro, the whispers have already started. They’re claiming scandal. What else would they think of a rushed wedding? Then a strange disappearance from you the same night and your entire estate left to us? You may be a distinguished person here, but there are rumors already about Maria’s lineage, and I have no past here.”

Maria peeked around the corner to see Miguel facing Ciro. Her father was dressed for travel with a pack over one shoulder, bulging saddlebags on the other, and two rifles under his arm. His horse pranced nervously behind him.

“I have full faith that you two will manage. Ignore rumors, and they will die down.” Ciro tossed the saddlebags onto his horse and tied them on deftly.

“There will be questions,” Miguel hissed, grabbing Ciro’s arm.

“You mustn’t tell them where I have gone, or we all will lose everything.” Ciro shook his arm free and strapped the rifles down across the saddlebags. “Tell them I have gone on a journey to give you two some time to yourselves. That my feet have been itching to go, and that if I wait any longer, I’ll be too old. Tell Sergio it is the journey I have talked about taking for nearly twenty years. He’ll understand.”

“Papa,” Maria said softly, stepping into view.

Both men turned toward her.

“Maria, I’m sorry. I wanted to leave quietly without further heartache.” Ciro looked miserable.

She walked over to him and hugged him. “It’s all right Papa, I understand that you must go. I just wish it weren’t so soon.” Tears filled Maria’s vision, threatening to overflow as she blinked.

“As do I. I had always hoped that an end had been made the last time, but people can’t seem to live in peace. I shall miss you, mi querida.”

“I will miss you, Papa.” Maria buried her head in his shoulder. “Come home to us when it’s done.”

“I will try my best.” Ciro held Maria out at arms’ length.

She felt that he looked at her as though trying to memorize each feature. She tried to commit his face to memory, too.

Ciro turned to Miguel. “You’re a fine man, Miguel. Take care of her.”

“I will do my best.” He drew Maria from her father and into his own arms.

Maria watched her father mount the horse and walked him out of the rear gates without a backward glance. He rode tall and confident, guiding his horse expertly.

“I fear that is the last time I will ever see him,” she whispered, feeling Miguel’s arms tighten around her waist.

“So do I, Maria. So do I.”

THE SPECULATION IMMEDIATELY flared up around the young couple before all the guests had left for the evening. Neither Miguel nor Maria could find it within themselves to put on happy faces and return to the party, so they retreated to Ciro’s study to talk. Sergio found them there looking for Ciro himself.

“What are you two lovebirds doing, hiding in here? You have guests!” Sergio gestured expansively, his speech somewhat slurred. “Have you seen your father?”

“He has gone,” Maria said.

“Whatever do you mean, girl?” Sergio picked up a decanter of brandy sitting on the sideboard.

“He left earlier tonight.” Miguel stood, pulling Maria up with him. “He wanted to give us time alone and decided that it was the perfect time to take that journey he’s always talked to you about.”

“Ah, I see.” Sergio’s voice turned serious as he returned the bottle unopened. He stood there, looking at the bottle a moment longer before muttering to himself. “You’ve finally gone and done it, have you, you old scoundrel?”

“Señor?” Miguel asked.

Sergio took a deep breath and turned back to the couple, a devious grin on his face. “Well, in that case, I suppose the party is over, eh? As I’m sure neither of you wants to disband the guests, I shall do it for you!” He puffed up his chest and swaggered out of the room.

Miguel and Maria looked at each other, trying not to laugh, and snuck after him to see what he would do.

Sergio barged through the doorway to the ballroom acting more drunk than he was, and bellowed, “Felicitaciones to the new couple!”

Cheers rose from the guests, who all raised their glasses and drank.

“It would appear that our dear host Don Álvarez has decided that his old bones have one last adventure in them, so he has gone and run off to have a little fun, leaving our guests of honor to themselves. Now they’ve gone and run off, too!” There were chuckles and a general buzz, and Sergio motioned them to quiet down before continuing. “So, let us all have one last drink and make our ways home before we are all too drunk to stand!” He made a performance of doing just that and staggered down into the crowd toward an extremely disapproving Doña Olivia.

“Well, he certainly has a flair for the dramatic, eh?” Miguel said to Maria, who giggled.

“I’ll say. Doña Olivia seems none too pleased. We’d better go before anyone sees us; we’d be in danger of being here all night.”

“In that case, my Lady, please allow me to lead you from such a danger,” he whispered into her ear.

“Where shall we go, my Lord?” she replied, hoping she’d used the correct English term.

“Anywhere you wish, mi morena,” he replied, his voice turning husky.

“Anywhere you lead,” she said quietly, caressing his face.

Miguel took her hand and they snuck away to their own world.

Chapter 6

THE ENTIRE FIRST WEEK of their marriage, neither Miguel nor Maria saw anyone else. The household staff seemed to make a game of it. Meals were always fresh and ready for them on the dining room table, their rooms clean and orderly no matter how short a time they were gone from them, fresh flowers in all the vases.

The first letter from Ciro came during that time, cheery and full of false information, for which Maria and Miguel were grateful. They found it sitting prominently on a table where they would be sure to find it, but with a poorly disguised broken seal. The letter had been read. They returned a letter equally cheery, with their sincere hopes that Ciro was well and that he wouldn’t get himself into trouble, and included some of the relevant news. When they couldn’t find anyone to give the return letter to, they simply left it on the table, and it wasn’t seen again.

Nana was the first to let herself be seen, and the rest slowly followed suit. Sergio visited a few days later to help them catch up on business affairs. At first, Maria thought it was mere kindness that Sergio came to help, but as she and Miguel worked with him, they began to see how deeply enmeshed in Sergio’s assets her father truly was. When they asked about it, Sergio indicated that Ciro had far more interests in various things than even Miguel had been made aware of. It was as much to Sergio’s benefit to keep Ciro’s affairs in order as it was to the Álvarez family’s.

Ciro’s letters continued to arrive every week or two, much like the first one, and Miguel and Maria always promptly replied. The days turned to weeks, and the weeks into months. Maria’s anxiety for her father lessened as she became used to his absence, though he was rarely far from her mind. She tried to keep herself occupied and found it easy to fill her days with meaningful work and her nights with Miguel.

Life in Maracaibo continued at its regular pace, and even the third Wayuu rebellion could do little to stop it. The fighting took place far to the north, and though supplies were diverted to the troops, and skirmishes broke out in the streets, it seemed little else changed. Crops were planted. Ships came in, traded, and sailed. Betania came more and more often to visit, and it was to Maria that she first confided when she became pregnant. Maria found new depths in her friendship with Betania, who had blossomed with marriage. Elisa, on the other hand, showed herself less and less in Maria’s circles. Maria commented on it once to her friend.

“You know, I hardly ever see her anymore either.” Betania did not look up from the tiny dress she was embroidering. “She used to come calling almost daily. Now if I want to see her, I have to go back to the Casa de la Cuesta. Not that I mind, of course; it is always so relaxing going home, but then it isn’t really my home anymore. I can’t imagine home anymore without my Benito. You’re so lucky to have inherited your childhood home. I’m not really sure who will inherit ours. My father never talks about it, though I’m certain Elisa will never get it.”

“Why is that?” Maria asked, though Betania would have told her even if she hadn’t.

“Well, if it were me, I wouldn’t give it to her because she thinks she is so high and mighty, thinking she knows everything about the world there is to know.”

“And this is a new trait?”

Betania shook her head and continued. “She imposes herself on all the upper-class circles—not that she shouldn’t be there, my family is perfectly qualified for them—but she goes as if she deserves to be there, and I never could stand people who think they deserve what they have in life, unless they earn it, of course.”

“As if Elisa has ever earned anything in her life short of a slap in the face,” Maria said dryly before Betania could start again about how wonderful her husband was.

Betania snorted, trying not to laugh. “You know, I don’t think she ever really got over Miguel choosing you over her. I remember she would pine about him all the night long until I’d hit her with my pillow and tell her to hush up and go to sleep. Of course, I only did that so that I could dream of my own Benito....”

Maria smiled down at her own stitching as Betania went on and on. Betania would continue until stopped, once she started talking about her husband. Nevertheless, Maria always enjoyed Betania’s company; it was a welcome relief from helping Miguel with her father’s business. Her family’s business, Maria corrected herself.

Not long after Betania revealed her pregnancy, Maria woke feeling strange. Not wanting to worry anyone, she ignored it. It was nearly seven months since her father left. They had been seven wonderful months and Maria was happy, content, and finally feeling comfortable in the new pattern of her life. But the odd feeling didn’t go away.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Miguel asked, sitting on the bed beside her and gently rubbing the small of her back when she insisted he go to breakfast without her for the third day in a row.

“I’m fine, just tired still.” She gave him a smile and a quick kiss. “Just have Nana bring up some food later. I’ve got some work here to do, so I’ll see you this evening.”

With reluctance, Miguel stood and put on his coat. He paused at the door, turning back to her again. “You’re sure you’re not hungry?”

“Yes, go!” She snatched a pillow off the bed and threw it at him, and he ducked out of the way. With a sigh of relief to have him gone, Maria lay back in the bed. She was actually hungry, but the thought of food made her nauseous. She must have eaten something bad. Every day for the last week? Well, it was possible. Except that she’d eaten pretty much everything Miguel had up until a few days ago, and he wasn’t sick. Maria sighed and put her arm over her eyes to block out the bright morning light. Really, she just wanted to sleep.

“I could be wrong, but hiding from him won’t stop him from worrying,” Nana said, waking Maria abruptly.

She sat up, trying to get her bearings. The shadows had moved considerably since she’d closed her eyes. How long had she slept? The older woman set a tray of food down and brought over a bit of bread, which Maria ate.

“And it certainly won’t change anything.”

“What do you mean?” Maria tried desperately to keep down the small bit she’d just swallowed.

“Really, chica, I thought we’d taught you more about life than this.” Nana shook her head and helped Maria over to the table. “But I suppose since you’ve never been around other pregnant women, and Betania has had such an easy pregnancy thus far, you can’t have been expected to put it together on your own.”

“I thought being pregnant was supposed to be this great and wonderful experience. Are you sure I didn’t just eat some bad fruit?” Maria tried to be defensive and succeeded only in rushing over to a pail into which she could vomit.

“I wouldn’t know, having never been myself,” Nana said calmly, holding back Maria’s hair. “But all the women I’ve ever talked to insist that it was. It seems they all forget, after a year or so, how miserable it made them.”

“Right. So am I going to have to fast until the baby comes?” Maria asked irritably as Nana helped her shakily back to her seat. The wonder that she now carried a baby, Miguel’s baby, slowly blossomed across her mind, subdued by the rebellion of her stomach.

“Goodness, no!” Nana laughed. “The worst of it will pass within a month or so. Then you won’t be able to stop eating. Miguel will be running to the kitchen at all hours of the night to find food for you, and when he brings it to you, you will turn it down because it doesn’t look good anymore.”

“I’m not that picky.” Maria looked at the tray of food with loathing and longing.

“It’s not you who is rejecting it, but the little one. As I recall, Ayelen had every bit as much trouble with you,” Nana said with a warm smile.

The knowledge didn’t make Maria feel any better. She lay back down on the bed, Nana rubbed her back, and the conversation turned to ideas on when the baby would come, if it would be a boy or a girl, and how best to tell Miguel.

MIGUEL SAT AT CIRO’S desk staring at a ship’s manifest in one hand and a ledger beneath another. Dutifully he penned in the appropriate numbers, but his mind wandered.

I ought to quit for the night. He looked at the remaining pile waiting for him to get through it. His head ached, as it always did lately after reading for too long. Maria sat on the other side of the room, intent on some domestic project. Perhaps she’d want a break?

But if you keep going, you can finish that stack and not have it looming there. Miguel finished with the manifest and ledger and dutifully reached for the next item awaiting his attention. He stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders, settling in for another boring document. Maria had been acting strange with him lately. It was unlike her to let him handle the paperwork alone. He’d only made it a couple lines in before he realized he wasn’t paying attention.

It is late, you should stop, he tried to convince himself.

I can finish this, he growled back.

You’ve read that line three times now, at least. And you’re talking to yourself.

Miguel sighed and set down the pen, glancing at his wife in the corner quietly sewing. Or embroidering. Tatting? He rubbed his forehead; he’d never gotten it straight. She was beautiful, though, whatever it was she was doing in the soft candlelight. Working hard. Like you’re supposed to be doing.

Miguel picked up his pen again, but still couldn’t focus. Why had she been so off the last couple of weeks? She even refused to eat with him, though she smiled and seemed friendly otherwise. Maybe she was angry at him, and there had been that time she hadn’t spoken with him for weeks. But she seemed beyond such a degree of pettiness now. Then again, she was female, and if there was one thing he knew about women it was that they were unpredictable.

She glanced up and caught him staring. A grin lit up her face for a moment before she blushed and looked away. No, certainly she wasn’t angry at him. Maybe it was just the custom here that married couples didn’t eat together for a month out of the year? The Spanish had such odd customs, and he certainly hadn’t figured them all out. Miguel shook his head with a smile and looked back to his ledger. That, at least, was something he understood. If he could manage to focus.

“Miguel, I have something to tell you,” Maria said, breaking their comfortable silence

“And what would that be, mi morena?” he asked without looking up from his books.

“In about seven months, you’re going to be a father.”

Miguel’s heart stopped, and his mind went completely blank.

A father? His numb fingers dropped the pen as the world seemed to lurch beneath him, shifting beneath his feet like a deck in a squall. He stood, gripping the desk for balance. A father. Me...? Waves of emotion crashed down on him, each vying for space. Fear and betrayal, the ghosts of a past that he refused to remember taunted him. How could you be ready? How could you do better? How could you possibly be enough? He looked at Maria, his beautiful, brave wife and was nearly brought down again by a new wave of emotion. Joy. Complete and utter joy. He could be better, he would be better than those who had come before. He was going to be a father!

Maria just grinned as she watched him work through his emotions.

“Are you sure?” he asked when he was able to speak again.

“Not so much about the timing, but yes, pretty sure that we’ll be enjoying an addition.”

Miguel dropped back into his chair, running his hand through his hair. Maria laughed lightly as she came over to him and kissed the top of his head.

“I’m not sure I’m ready for this.” He pulled her around and set her on his lap.

“I would doubt that anyone ever is. Besides, you still have a few months to get ready. The baby’s not coming tonight.”

“Do you think it will be a boy or a girl?” he asked, setting his hand on her belly, wondering if he’d be able to feel the child move.

“I’m sure I have no idea!” Maria laughed again.

“Well, what should we name him, if it is a boy? Or a girl?”

“Ciro Miguel Álvarez del Mar for a boy?” Maria suggested, leaning against him.

“I like it, but I thought the father’s surname is supposed to go first?”

“Well, I figure that since you took surnames that meant nothing, we should give our children a family name that has a history.” Maria ran her fingers through his hair.

“What is wrong with my surnames?” Miguel pulled back, looking her in the eye.

“Well, both Blanco and del Mar are generic names given to children who don’t have parents.”

“Then they are appropriate for me.”

“What is your real name, Miguel?” Maria leaned against him again, toying with his hair. “If you tell me, we’ll put your surname first.”

“I don’t mind your family name first.”

“Someday you will tell me what your real family name is, Michael.” The English version of his name sounded harsh and foreign on her tongue.

“Someday,” he agreed, and kissed her.

MARIA COULDN’T WAIT to tell her own father the good news, hoping that perhaps it would convince him to come home. The expected letter didn’t arrive, and without a carrier who knew where to find her father, they could not send one. Things happen, she told herself. Horses lose shoes, riders lose their way or get sick, letters get misplaced. There would be another letter soon, no doubt filled with her father’s concern that they hadn’t responded to his last. She was certain of it. So she waited. Two months passed without news and slowly the morning sickness ceased, but in its place, the dreams began in earnest.

Chapter 7

AUTUMN 1741 - MARACAIBO

MARIA WALKED ALONE NEAR the edge of the jungle, waiting for her canine companion. A warm breeze flowed over her, and she looked at the sunny sky. It would rain soon, but it always rained here. The jungle had always fascinated her with its dark colors and the strange sounds. Even the smells were different from home. She had not been so far from Maracaibo for many years, but the jungle didn’t worry her, despite its many dangers.

She walked peacefully along the loose treeline for a time, the trees sliding out of her path as she moved forward. A rustling from within the green depths gave her pause. Curious, Maria turned toward the sound. The breeze, carrying on it the smells of hibiscus, roses, and fresh rain, flowed around her, whispering its nonsense to her soul. Pushing her way through the undergrowth, Maria stepped into the cold jungle, leaving behind the safety of the fields.

A branch snapped back into place behind her, and Maria looked back. For a moment, fear stilled her heart as she searched the dark entanglement of foliage for sight of the field. A glimmer of light caught her eye, and she stepped to the side for a better view. Before her, in the distance, through an opening in the trees, shone the warm, clear daylight, and the fields beyond. Maria rubbed her numb, damp hand on her skirt. Surely she could go a little further and still find her way back.

Maria turned back to the darkness of the jungle. She needed to know what had made the noise. She stepped forward, only to find her way blocked by a large dog. A wave of warmth and joy washed over her at the sight of her Alistair. She dropped to her knees, throwing her arms around his neck.

Where have you been, you scoundrel? she asked him as she rubbed his ears. His only response was a whine and a wag of his tail.

The rustling came again and she looked up at it, standing.

What do you suppose that is? Maria asked, taking a step forward.

Alistair growled and pushed her back.

Alistair! Move! She tried to get around him, pushing his head away, but he wouldn’t let her go. Step by step, he herded her back out of the jungle. Peering back into the dark foliage from the warm sunny fields, she tried to glimpse at what had been making the noise. She realized with a shudder how cold and full of dread she had been.

A loud scream pierced the air around her. An all-too-human scream, coming from the jungle. Perhaps it ought to have filled her with fear, but instead she felt only a deep sense of sorrow. Alistair growled, and Maria mounted the horse that had not been there before. Looking back for Alistair, she saw him bristling at the foliage. He charged in on the attack as Maria’s horse carried her away.

MIGUEL WOKE ABRUPTLY to find Maria sitting up, her head in her hands.

“What’s wrong?” Miguel mumbled, trying to clear the fog from his brain.

“Nothing. I had a bad dream; that’s all.”

“You sure? Want to tell me about it?” Miguel asked, sitting up.

“It was about Alistair. You know, my old dog?”

“Mmmmhmmm.” He rubbed his eyes and stretched. It was still hours until dawn.

“It’s strange. I’ve dreamed of him so often, but never like this. I was out near the jungle, and he stopped me from following a strange sound. As I left, he went in after it.” Maria paused and shuddered.

“And?” He put his arm gently around her shoulder.

“And then I woke. It was just a silly dream. Go back to sleep, mi amor.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

Maria shook her head and lay back down with her back to him, her head pillowed on his shoulder. Miguel draped his arm over her, resting his hand on her gently rounded belly, and wondered if she could feel their child move yet.

He felt her slowly relax in his arms and finally her breath evened out into the pattern of sleep, but sleep did not yet come for him. He traced her curves with his fingers and watched her in the gentle moonlight that spilled into their room. He loved the scent of her, the shine of her silky hair across the pillow, and the weight of her in his arms.

As his hand returned to her belly, he wondered about the life they had created there. The thought of a son whom he would teach to ride horses and to sail thrilled him. Or perhaps a daughter he would spoil and dance with. Of course, if they had a girl, she’d be as beautiful and amazing as her mother, so naturally she’d learn to shoot and ride, too. He would carve them wooden toys and carry them on his shoulders.

Would he be a good father? Would he know what to do and say to teach his child the right things? The responsibility for so much of a life terrified him. Would he be able to teach them respect without cruelty, manners without meanness, loyalty without loss? He had learned life’s lessons from a cruel master and from the unforgiving mistress of the sea. He barely remembered his mother, just the memory of love, really, in the shape of a woman. His own father had been a good man, but after his death....

Angrily Miguel turned from the thought. There’s nothing but pain there. Leave it. But what if? What if he, too, was taken from his child? How could he possibly allow them to bear the pain of being alone? Maria was a capable woman, and if it came to it, he had no doubts she could manage well enough without him. But growing up without that person who should have been there yet wasn’t—that was something he knew too well. When the person who was supposed to teach you, guide you, protect you, comfort you, work with you, and love you was simply gone.

“I won’t do that to you,” he whispered, pulling Maria tighter against him until she fidgeted in her sleep and pulled away, murmuring.

But what if you can’t stop it?

MARIA STOOD IN A FIELD near the edge of the jungle, waiting for her canine companion.

This is a dream, a distant voice whispered in the back of her mind. A warm breeze tugged at her hair, whispering that it would rain soon despite the sunny skies. Maria smiled. It always rained here.

The same dream for weeks now, the voice sighed.

She walked along enjoying the deep colors and the exotic sounds from within the trees. A strange rustling, unlike anything that could be made from leaves or fur, beckoned to her from within the dark depths of the trees. Curious, she followed it in, unconcerned as all sense of warmth and security drained away. She paused beside the tall roots of a Ceiba tree, touching its smooth, cool wood. She turned back through the darkness, looking for the path back to the light. She knew that was important.

This is getting predictable, the voice said, bored. Ignoring the voice, Maria turned back toward the unknown depth of the jungle, only to find a large dog blocking her path. A wave of warmth and joy washed over her at seeing her Alistair.

Why didn’t you meet me sooner, you scoundrel? she asked. She dropped to her knees to hug him but he bristled, growling. Shocked at his alarm, Maria stood, backing into the root of the Ceiba. What is going on?

The leaves rustled again, drawing all her attention. As she moved to step around Alistair, he growled at her and blocked her path. In a moment of lucidity Maria knew what would happen next. There will be a scream, and someone I love dearly will die, the voice whispered.

Maria glanced behind her, looking for the way back out of the jungle, her heart in her throat. Perhaps she could change things, prevent the inevitable. The warm light from the field slanted into the forest, showing her the path back. She could make it out, back to safety. Pointing back toward the depths of the jungle, Maria ordered Alistair to attack. With a growl, he leapt past her, deeper into the darkness, and she ran toward the light. The sounds of fighting followed her through the trees. Alistair's growls were cut short by a chilling impact and a heart-rending whimper. She nearly turned back, but the trees seemed to push her forward into the field and onto the waiting horse. Together, they fled.

The world passed Maria in a blur, and she found herself standing on the docks of Maracaibo late in the night. Strange, the ethereal voice echoed in her head, I’ve always woken up before....

The lights from the palafitosi, the floating villages on Lake Maracaibo, danced on the water’s surface while the nightly Catatumbo lightning worked itself into a frenzy in the distance. Below her, Maria saw Alistair as she had last seen him in her waking life: laid out on a makeshift barge, wreathed in flowers, and entirely lifeless. Pain seared through her chest, a sharp emptiness that threatened to consume her, a missing piece that had once been the source of all the joy in her life along with a tearing of guilt at knowing it was her fault it was gone. Maria looked away and found her father standing beside her, his arms resting pensively on a stanchion. A vague sense that someone was missing nagged at her, but they stood alone and watched as the funeral barge drifted slowly toward the ocean.

Maria woke with tears on her cheeks and an ache in her heart. Someone was missing. She glanced to her side and found Miguel asleep. She touched his outstretched hand, desperate for the tactile reassurance. He was there; he was alive. But it was not enough to release the tension inside her. Trying not to panic, Maria lay back, rested her hand on her belly. Forcing her breathing to be deep and even she waited. The gentle flutter of feeling pushed within her, and she nearly let out a sob at the release of tension. She still had her child.

It was only a dream. Maria wiped the tears away and stared at the canopy above their bed, unable to fall asleep again. Thoughts about what the dream with its new ending could mean tumbled about her skull. She remained in bed, thinking until the baby began dancing on her bladder. Sighing, she threw back the covers and got ready for the day.

“BETANIA, DO YOU FIND you have strange dreams?” Maria asked her friend a few days later, the new version of the dream reprising itself nightly. She had thought of asking Nana, but found that between her morning sickness and managing the business, she had little interest or energy for Nana’s tales.

“No, not particularly. I certainly dream more often now, and more vividly, but the dreams are not unusual. Why?” They walked slowly through Betania’s small garden that lay beside her modest home.

“Oh, I’ve just been having this dream every night for the past few weeks. It’s usually the exact same thing over and over.” Maria tried to make it sound uninteresting.

“Is it about your baby?” Betania asked hopefully as she leaned over to cut a flower for the bouquet she was building. “I’ve heard that when you dream about your child, you’ll know things, like if it will be a boy or a girl, or what temperament it’ll have.”

“No, actually it’s about my old dog, Alistair. Do you remember him?”

“Oh, yes.” Betania laughed as she straightened, setting the flower in the basket Maria carried. “I remember that time we went swimming and Elisa refused to get in the water, so he pushed her in. It ruined her dress, and she was furious!”

Maria couldn’t help smiling as she remembered the incident.

“Oddly, the dream seems to center around him. We’re out for a walk near the jungle—”

“Oh, how brave!” Betania grinned at Maria, then reached for another flower.

“—and there is a rustling in the trees. He doesn’t let me near it. Then, as I ride away, he attacks it. After that, I am standing with my father on the shores of Lake Maracaibo and he, Alistair that is, is dead. It’s just like the funeral we had for him, except that you, Elisa, and Selena are not there.”

“That is odd, but I don’t seem to remember that being the way that he died.” Betania reached for a rose, then shook her head, moving on.

“That is what is so bizarre about it. That isn’t how he died. He was run over by a carriage in town.” Maria leaned against the trunk of a rain tree, reluctant to share the details about the scream that sounded far too human. “It’s so peculiar. It feels so real, especially when I’m watching Alistair go out to sea. When I wake up, I still feel like I’m there and it’s just happened. Even with dreaming it every night, I still wake up confused for a minute....”

“Well, I’m sure it is just a dream and will pass in time,” Betania said cheerily and changed the subject.

Maria let her, but the dream and the feelings it evoked were never far from her mind. The feelings it evoked had started to affect her waking hours, too. She looked out toward the distant hills with their carpet of green jungle, and a dread cold enough to chill on even the hottest day crept down her spine.

TWELVE LONG WEEKS HAD passed since the last letter from her father. Maria stood on the jungle’s edge, acutely aware of the silence, the total lack of sound from any of the fauna, the stillness of the flora. Its darkness beckoned her, more beautiful and entrancing than ever. A warm wind rustled the grass at her feet, and she could taste the rain that would come. The sunny skies didn’t fool her; it always rained here. A rumble of thunder rolled through the dream. The strange rustling pulled her attention back to the silent trees. She walked in, following the sound, stepping around fallen logs and thick undergrowth.

Maria looked back to ensure she had not gone too far to return to safety. The window of sunlight waited for her at the edge of the trees. Between her and the depth of the jungle stood Alistair, larger than life and bristling with warning. Her heart filled with love for her friend and she stepped back, prepared to run when the rustling came closer. Alistair growled, and she drew a breath to send him in to save whoever was going to scream, even at the cost of his own life. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the low branches of the roble beside her were perfect for climbing.

The world seemed to pause as she hesitated. She could run for safety, or she could finally see what had been haunting her dreams for so long. Perhaps if she knew, she would be free of them. Maria ran to the tree and scrambled up to watch, hiding in the oak’s broad leaves.

The trees rustled, their leaves moving slowly, as though reluctant to give up their secret. With a grunt of effort, the leaves finally parted, and out stumbled a man, emaciated, old, and hardly recognizable. Maria gasped, and realization washed over her. It was her father. She’d always known it was her father. He locked eyes with her.

Run! he croaked, falling to the ground. Without waiting for her command, Alistair leapt over her father’s body and into the dense foliage. Without consciously moving, Maria was on the horse, racing for town. She stood on the lake’s edge in the darkness. Her father strong, whole, and sad stood beside her, as the martyred Alistair floated out to the sea.

“No!” Maria shouted, bolting up in bed.

“What, what is it?!” Miguel jumped out of the bed wielding a knife, immediately dropping into a defensive stance. He looked over at a very startled Maria, the sound of the rain on the window filling the silence.

Where does he keep those knives? He’s not even wearing anything! Maria smiled through her tears despite herself.

“What? What is it, mi morena?” The knife disappeared. He crawled over the bed and wrapped his arms around her. She sank into the calming comfort of his embrace as the wind rattled the shutters.

“My dream. My father is in terrible danger, I just know it, Miguel!” She looked up at him through her still-wet eyes. “I can’t go to him. I can’t help him; I can’t save him. It’s one thing to worry about what might happen, but it’s so much worse to know!” Maria buried her head into his chest and sobbed as a great feeling of helplessness washed over her. He held her until she began to quiet, feeling helpless himself.

A knock on the door made them both look up.

“Don Miguel? Doña Maria?” Nana’s voice came through the door.

“Yes, come in,” Maria said in a choked voice, dread weighing on her chest as Miguel quickly covered them with the blankets.

“There is a letter just arrived for you.” Nana entered, shutting the door behind her. “The messenger said it was urgent that you receive it as soon as possible. I did not think you would want to wait until morning.” She set the letter on the bed in front of Maria and lit a lamp. Nana turned to go, but hesitated in the doorway. “If you need anything, I’ll be waiting in the hall.”

Maria did not wait until the door was shut before tearing open the letter. It was from her father, as she had hoped, but the message did nothing to relieve her fears.

Maria,

I am well. Do not seek me out, I am content with my lot. Know that I will always love you.

Don Ciro Álvarez Bosque

“He sounds like he means to die out there,” Maria said, her voice thick.

“There is certainly something strange about that letter.” Miguel held the lamp closer to get a better look. “The writing is Ciro’s, of that I’m certain, but everything else is so odd. To send such a short note such a long way, then to sign it so formally, without any ado.”

“Miguel,” Maria said, her voice tense, “there’s a stain on it....”

A dark, splattering stain marked the bottom half of the page. Miguel took the paper from her to get a closer look.

“It’s blood, isn’t it?” Maria watched his reaction. His silence, the way he tightened his mouth, confirmed that he thought so too. “What will we do?”

“What can we do?” Miguel asked, shaking his head. “He told us not to go looking for him and that he is content. We should let him be.”

“I know he is in danger, Miguel,” she said. When he started to protest again, she told him about the dreams.

“Maria—”

“Miguel, listen to me. Those dreams I’ve been having, for months now... I haven’t told you everything.” She searched his eyes, trying to convey her urgency. He nodded, and she told him all the details rather than the vague non-answers she’d always given before. But still... Guilt and fear washed over her as she told only the first half of the dream. She shied away from the second half, fearful of what it might mean. They were only silly dreams, she told herself, and that wasn’t what had happened anyway.... When she finished, a silence fell between them and Miguel looked her in the eye as though trying to gauge the veracity of the matter. She waited with baited breath, watching emotions war within him.

“If it is what you want, I will go find him,” he said finally. He stood and pulled on his breeches.

“Not without me!” she said immediately, throwing on a robe of her own.

“Nana!” he called out. She was in the room in an instant. “I am going to retrieve Don Ciro. Please explain to Maria why she cannot come with me.”

“No,” Nana whispered in shock. “No, you mustn’t go.”

“I will go!” Maria argued, speaking over Nana.

“You will not!” Miguel shouted at her and she shrank back. Miguel had never raised his voice to her. He immediately softened when he saw her look of shock and hurt, and gathered her into his arms. “Amor, you are with child. I cannot risk it; you cannot risk it. I will go and find your father for you, but if I were to lose you on the way, I would have nothing to live for. If your dream was true, then your father is in danger, and you would be, too, if you came. If it is not, then I will bring your father back, kicking and screaming and tied to a mule if I have to.” He drew her closer, holding her tight. “I care about him, too. He’s been like a father to me since the day I arrived.”

When they broke apart, he began packing, telling Nana to have supplies and two horses readied.

“You are going now?” Maria asked softly.

“Do you really believe the danger is as imminent as you say?” Miguel asked.

She nodded reluctantly.

“Then why would I wait?”

“It is just so sudden.” Maria shook her head and sat down on the edge of their bed. She picked up her mother’s necklace from the nightstand and gently spun the red stone in its setting. She felt as though she were falling slowly off a cliff, as though something had started and she had no way to stop it or slow it. Sighing, she worked the stone and its setting off the necklace and held it out to Miguel.

“Take this,” she said. Miguel shifted his gaze from the stone to her and back again. “Please. I don’t know why, but I feel that you should have it with you.”

“Then I will take it, mi amor.” He took the pendant from her outstretched hand and set it into one of his pouches.

She watched quietly from her seat while he put together the things from their room. He armed himself amply; she had been surprised when they were first married and had realized just how many weapons he carried. She was still amazed at how easily he concealed them all. When he finished, he looked over the room slowly, checking that he hadn’t forgotten anything. There was nothing to do now but wait until everything else was ready.

His eyes came to rest on his wife, who looked forlorn. Miguel led her from the bed to the window seat and pulled her down onto his lap. He rubbed his hand over the bump of her belly, wondering at the life that was growing there.

“Can you feel him move yet?” he asked, hopeful.

“Sometimes I think I do, it’s like a fluttering. It’s hard to describe, but Nana says it should become more certain within the next few weeks.” They fell again to silence while they sat, holding each other.

“I’m so sorry, Miguel.” Maria started sobbing again, turning her head into his shoulder. “I don’t want you to leave. I want you to be here to feel him move, to see your son born....”

“So you think it will be a boy?” Miguel said softly, trying to cheer her up.

“I don’t care! I just want you here with us.” Maria held him tighter.

Carefully, Miguel raised her face to his as her crying subsided. “I will do everything I can to be here for that. With any luck, I won’t be gone more than a few weeks. One way or another, I will return for you. For you both. I won’t leave you alone, I promise.”

They stayed together, soaking up the feel of each other, memorizing every detail of the other that they could, both sensing that it would be a long time before they were together again. All too soon, a knock came at the door, telling them that Don Miguel’s horses and supplies were ready. While he finished dressing, Maria wrapped the robe more tightly around her night dress, a weight pressing on her shoulders at the future that lay before them. Without a word, she helped Miguel into a greatcoat he’d been given at their wedding and walked with him to the stables. The warm rain fell onto her hair and face, and she wiped it from her eyes, watching silently as the last bags were tied onto the horses.

Miguel mounted the tall steed and nudged him forward. Maria walked beside them through the courtyard, barefoot and ignoring the rain that plastered her dress and hair to her body. They reached the edge of the main house, and Miguel reined his horse to a stop. He reached down, caressed her hair, and touched her face gently.

“You look like a drowned rat, mi morena.”

“And you, a mangy dog.” She held his hand to her face. He leaned down and kissed her one last time, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“And I love you,” she whispered back as he straightened in his saddle, unwilling to release his hand. She kissed his palm and he pulled away.

Then, reluctantly, she let him go.

Miguel started the horses forward, the pack horse behind him tugging at its lead. As he reached the hacienda’s gate, he stopped and looked back at his wife. Even barefoot, soaked to the bone, and pregnant, he thought she had never looked so beautiful. Then, to escape the feeling of his heart being torn from his chest, he kicked his horse firmly and galloped into the rainy dawn with the messenger trailing closely behind him.

Maria stood in the rain watching out the gate. She reached up to touch her face where he had laid his hand and felt something in her hair. She pulled on it and found a long sprig of amaranth in her hand. She stood in the rain holding the flower, her tears mixing with the rain, until long after the gates had shut and someone had thrown a heavy blanket over her shoulders.

Chapter 8

DECEMBER 1741 - MARACAIBO

THE DISTANT CACOPHONY OF unidentifiable jungle sounds drifted across the still night and filled the dark halls of Maria’s home. Ghostly moonlight illuminated the hall she walked through, bright enough that she felt no need for a candle. Sounds that had for the more part of her life brought her a sense of comfort, tonight seemed only to underscore the tension that had filled the hacienda since she had sent Miguel to find her father.

Maria ran her fingers along the cool, polished wood of a hall table as she walked, her other hand on her belly, waiting for the baby to kick. The grain of the wood stood out to her in the dim light, running along the line of the table until the top dropped off, abruptly redirecting the line, forced by an unseen hand into a shape the tree had never intended to be. A shudder ran through Maria and she jerked her hand from the wood.

At first, the pain of missing Miguel had tried to consume her. She felt his absence everywhere and constantly berated herself for so foolishly sending him off. But she came to accept that what was done was done, and short of going after him herself, there was nothing more she could do. In the moments she felt most honest with herself, Maria knew the only thing that stopped her from actually leaving was that she had no idea where he had gone. And what if he returned while she was away? So she stayed.

“At least the dreams have stopped,” she said to the baby in her belly who had begun to grow in earnest the last few weeks. “Who knew growing a child could be so exhausting?”

And yet she wandered the large, empty house in the darkest hours of the morning, restless and unable to sleep. With a resigned sigh, she turned toward the stairs. She may as well get an early start on the day’s work, and perhaps she’d be able to nap later.

The morning sunlight slanted across the room, illuminating glittering bits of dust when Maria woke, her neck stiff from sleeping in her father’s chair. She rubbed her neck, groggy, trying to think of what had woken her. Hoofbeats clattered in the courtyard and Maria’s heart jumped at the sound. A commotion outside the house jerked her further into wakefulness, and she rose to see what was going on.

“Probably some merchant discontent with his shipment,” Maria mumbled to herself as she reached the front door. Then, louder, as she stepped outside, “What is going on?”

“Doña Maria! Come quickly and see! Your father is returned!” a nearby servant exclaimed.

“What?! Papa!” Joy lifted the lingering haze from her mind as she ran forward, moving through the press of servants. She scanned the horses that had come in, led by a native man she didn’t know, but none carried her father. Then, with a wave of understanding, she dropped her eyes lower to the cart that rumbled behind them. She rushed to it with her heart pounding. Within, lying pale and unmoving, was her father.

“Papa? What happened?” she asked, momentarily relieved to see him turn toward her voice. A chill stole through her stomach. “Where is Miguel?!”

“One thing at a time,” he said weakly, trying to wave her away.

“Doña Maria, get out of the way,” Nana ordered. Maria held her ground stubbornly, holding her father’s hand. Nana turned to a group of servants standing nearby. “You, take her inside. You and you, go get some hot water. You three, help me get him inside.”

Maria fought to stay by her father’s side, but somehow her hand was removed and she found herself sitting outside her father’s room while servants bustled in and out. She looked up, her stomach in knots, when the doctor passed by, then again when he left. And what about Miguel?

Finally, Nana emerged and motioned for her to go in. “He is asleep. Don’t wake him and don’t worry him with questions if he does wake,” she admonished, then swept away down the hall before Maria could ask about her husband.

Maria went in and sat by her father’s side. His shallow, noisy breathing belied the deathly pallor on his gaunt, pale face. He looked as though he had aged twenty years in the single one he had been gone, a mere husk of the man he had been. The similarities to the version of her father she’d seen in her dream wrenched her gut. She took his hand gently and he stirred.

“Mi querida,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Shhhh.” She swallowed back the questions that fought their way up her throat. “Nana says you must sleep.”

“I didn’t think I’d make it back, but I’m glad I did,” he said, nodding. When she said nothing more, his breathing evened out again as he fell to sleep.

She waited by his side, insisting on doing as much of the nursing as they would let her. Nana maintained that Maria must at least sleep in her own bed, and it wasn’t until she cited the baby’s health that Maria acquiesced. When the fourth day dawned, Maria rushed to her father’s bedside, fearful that he would be gone, remembering clearly that Alistair had died after three.

“Ah, there you are, mi querida.” Ciro smiled, his voice still weak, but his eyes wide open and lucid. Maria paused, shocked to see him so improved.

“I have hardly left your side, Papa.” She smiled for the first time in days and took his hand.

“I see you have news for me.” He gestured toward her belly. “When will you make me a grandfather, do you think?”

“Not for four more months, at least.” She smiled broadly. Then, as quickly as it came, the smile disappeared. “Where is Miguel, Papa? What happened? Why did he not come back with you?”

“I told you not to come for me.” Ciro’s face darkened. “I was dropped from my horse during the fighting, and one thing led to another, and I never really recovered. I stayed in your mother’s village for a while. It was good to see so many old friends....”

Maria waited impatiently for Ciro to continue, and when he didn’t she prodded him on. “Miguel, Papa. What happened to my husband?”

“Your what? Oh, yes, Miguel. That’s right; you two were married before I left. Felicitaciones.” Ciro fumbled back into silence.

Maria looked at him in despair, for the first time realizing that it was not just his body that had been damaged. “But where is Miguel?” she whispered as her father slipped back into unconsciousness.

CIRO’S BODY BEGAN TO heal, but his mind continued to slip away. Sergio often came to visit his old friend. Ciro usually remembered him but talked like it were years ago. After one such visit Sergio, sat down heavily beside Maria, who had been waiting in the hall.

“It is getting worse, isn’t it?” he asked her, pulling a small flask from a pocket.

“Most of the time, in the beginning, he knew that I was his daughter, but after a while, he began to call me Ayelen.” Maria waved away the flask when he offered.

“Ah, his wife. I never met her but I’ve never seen a man so deeply in love with a woman as your father is with her. After nearly twenty years, he still holds true.” Sergio nodded thoughtfully and took a quick sip.

“One good thing about this, I suppose. I’ve come to appreciate a little better how proud he is of me.” Maria smiled. “He’ll often talk to me like I am her, telling me his version of all my adventures. Sometimes he talks as though I haven’t been born. I suppose my pregnancy is to blame for that.”

“I hope you humor him.” Sergio leaned back. “I’m sure it does him good.”

“I do.” She nodded again. “At least once every day I ask about Miguel, but I’ve found that talking about him, or anything related to what happened, sends him into a deeper confusion.”

“Have you learned anything about him yet?”

“I am not entirely sure, but it does seem that Miguel found him and sent him home to us.” She hung her head fighting for control of her voice. “But I still don’t know why he didn’t return.”

AS THE DAYS PASSED, Ciro’s body seemed to decide that if the mind wasn’t going to heal, it would not either. The turn was gradual but quickly apparent. Maria sat at his bedside late one night, trying to keep her hands and mind busy as she adorned a tiny dress. She couldn’t believe that a child would ever be small enough for such a thing, but all the women she talked to assured her that it was the right size.

Beside her, her father twitched, caught in a bad dream. She waited a minute, hoping it would pass, but he only tossed worse, as though fighting off some evil. Setting her sewing aside, she reached for his frail arm, hoping to rouse him. At her gentle touch, he sat upright so quickly that she gasped, jumping back. The candlelight flickered across his face as he turned to her, his eyes staring at some distant thing only he could see.

“He took my place, but he was not prepared to die as I was.” Ciro’s voice remained weak and paper-thin. “He sent me away, but a replacement was demanded, and he foolishly volunteered. Do not go to him.” Ciro exhaled heavily and lay back in his bed.

“Papa?” Maria asked cautiously, creeping back to his bed. He smiled up at her, his eyes focused and clear, and touched her hair tenderly.

“Do not go to him,” he said softly. “Stay here and raise your baby. Be happy.” His breathing rattled and weakened, and his chest heaved. “Do not go.”

Maria’s breath caught in her throat. He knew where Miguel was. He could tell her, and she could find him. She leaned closer as he struggled to draw breath.

With a final whispered breath he said the last thing she expected. “Run, Maria. Run....”

She froze, looking at her father, hoping that she was wrong, that he had not just died. Her world waited, a breath away from shattering at the loss of her greatest pillar of strength and stability. She listened intently and watched desperately, hoping for anything. Stillness filled the room as the distant sounds of the jungle crept into the open window. Sorrow, hopelessness and the sense of being left utterly alone overwhelmed her and left her gasping for breath. Maria dropped her head onto the edge of the bed and cried.

Nana appeared beside her and led Maria to her own room, insisting that she sleep, but Maria could not. She did not sleep again until her father was interred. When sleep finally came again it brought with it the dream.

Chapter 9

JANUARY 1742 – GUAJIRA PENNINSULA

MIGUEL WIPED THE sweat from his brow. The heat rose from the barren ground; a more drastic change from the green jungles near Maracaibo, he couldn’t imagine. He’d been away from home far too long, but soon he’d be headed back. Soon. If he pushed himself, he would be home in time to greet his son when he came into the world. Maria seemed to think it would be a boy, so that was what he hoped for. But a girl would be fine, too. No doubt she’d be as lovely and sweet as her mother.

The horse plodded along the path Miguel’s native guide had nervously set him on the day before. What a silly thing, Miguel thought as he rounded another hill. It had been a task to convince the dying Ciro and the village elders to send Ciro back home. His father-in-law had never actually agreed, and the village elders had only permitted the sick man to return home if Miguel would take his place on this absurd task. Miguel doubted they’d expected him to agree to it.

There was some native god or other who demanded a sacrifice of a man every month or so, or so the elders had explained through a translator. The only thing required was that a person enter a certain cave far to the northeast. The person didn’t need to go all the way in, or stay, or even die if they could manage it. They only needed to go. Typically, older and already dying men were sent. Seems like a good way to get rid of the burden of the old, Miguel scoffed. If they didn’t die on the way, they probably died on the return trip.

Once again, Miguel was tempted to just return home, certain there would be nothing there but an empty cave. But he had given the elders his word, and perhaps there would be some old shaman waiting to make sure he actually arrived. Miguel sighed as he resigned himself once again to completing his task. Dishonesty and cheating were not things he tolerated in himself.

A sudden drop in temperature surprised him as the sun sank below the desert hills behind him. A creeping sense of foreboding worked its way up his back and scalp, and Miguel stopped his horse for a moment to recheck his weapons—his pistols ready to shoot, his knives accessible, and his cutlass loose in its sheath. Just because there are no people here doesn’t mean there’s no danger. What kind of predators did this strange, lifeless land hold?

Moving forward again, Miguel’s sable gelding rounded a turn, and there it was—a dark, yawning opening in the hill. There could be no mistaking it. A feeling of darkness and evil emanated from the cave. Miguel dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby bit of scrub. The gelding snorted and edged sideways, every bit as uncomfortable with the situation as Miguel felt.

“I know how you feel, mate.” Miguel patted the horse’s neck. “I’ll only be a minute, then we can get on our way home.”

The horse pawed at the ground, and Miguel stepped away. Just to the entrance, Miguel reminded himself, rechecking his weapons. Then I can go home.

Cautiously, Miguel approached the entrance. One more step. He moved into the darkness. He stood there for a moment, his eyes adjusting. He had fulfilled his promise. He could turn around and go home.

He should have felt relief, but instead his senses only heightened as though searching for an unseen predator. Miguel tried to turn, to step back, to leave, but he couldn’t move. His body seemed rooted to the spot, and fear crept up on him, slowly overtaking his previous sense of foreboding.

Steeling himself, Miguel forced himself to take a step back, but found, instead, that he had taken a step forward. He froze, his heart beating faster. Something was definitely wrong. He thought of Maria, of returning to her, and to their child. He focused his entire mind on it and took another step back, only to find himself again moving forward.

Come to me. A dark, silken voice caressed his mind, and Miguel took another, involuntary step in the wrong direction. Panicking, Miguel fought for control of his body and forced himself to stop once again.

Come to me, the voice repeated, stronger this time, compelling him forward.

Miguel fought it desperately, knowing with his whole soul that nothing good would come of following the voice. But, despite Miguel’s strength, he could not overcome the power of the voice. The harder he fought it, his muscles straining against themselves, the stronger the voice became.

He fought each slow step until his muscles trembled with exhaustion, but he remained standing, as though an unseen force held him upright. Miguel found himself in a barren, dirty, moonlit chamber. Desperate, he drew his sword only to fling it away. He tried his knives to the same effect. Finally, he drew a pistol, determining that if he was to die, it would be by his own choice.

“I can’t have you doing that, now.” The voice tsked at him, and he lowered the unshot pistol. Miguel looked around the room, startled to hear an actual voice in the emptiness. In the shadows a form coalesced in his vision, a grotesque...thing that resembled a human torso and head, shrouded in the darkness. Miguel’s hand dropped the pistol.

“Come to me,” the thing said again, and against all will, Miguel approached the thing. He refused to give up hope, to stop fighting. He could not abandon Maria; he would not abandon their child so long as his heart beat. Pain seared through him, and Miguel realized the thing had bitten him. He felt himself grow weak and realized with a surreal shock that the thing was sucking his blood. He wanted to laugh, but his body refused to respond.

Vampire...? Miguel’s thoughts were blurred as fire spread through his limbs.

Why, yes, I am in fact, the voice responded gleefully in his mind.

Miguel was too far gone to feel surprised. Instead, he felt a tear fall hotly down his cheek. I promised I’d come back to you, he thought as he fell into a burning darkness, slumping to the floor, an image of his dark-haired angel appearing before his eyes. I’m so sorry, mi morena....

MARIA PACED, ANXIOUS. The room was too small. The house was too small. The entire hacienda was too small. She wanted to get out, to go do something. Anything. But she’d just returned from her daily ride, and it was raining now. The rain was light, but the wind was strong and driving, howling through the courtyard and pulling against the doors.

The year had turned, and Maria had to face it alone. Her father was in his grave, and Miguel had not yet returned.

As though in protest, the baby kicked her, turning in her belly.

“You’re right, of course.” Maria rubbed her belly where he’d pushed. “I’m not alone, not with you here.”

A knock on the door was followed by the small, timid voice of Ana, one of the newer servants. “Señora? Don Díaz has come to speak with you.”

“Yes. See him to my father’s office. I will be right down.” Maria paused and took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm the growing nervousness inside her. “Well,” she said, addressing her baby, “I wanted something to distract me. It may as well be this.”

She held her head high and walked confidently down the hall, trying to push away the unease that had begun the day before and had only increased with the passage of time. She entered her father’s office to see Sergio helping himself to a drink.

“Sergio!” She smiled and gestured to the decanter he held. “I hear that is a good vintage. From a wonderful local plantation I know of.” She winked at him as he drank.

“You’d better believe it. I always save the best for the Álvarez family.”

Maria noted that his smile seemed forced as he downed the entire glass at once. She placed her hand on his arm and looked up at him.

“Sergio, what is wrong?”

“Bah, it is nothing.” He gently shook her hand off and sat in one of the overstuffed chairs, and she followed suit. “Betania’s time has come, and I never could stand to be around such things. Men only get in the way.”

Maria raised an eyebrow at him. “Surely there are better places to wait than here?”

“Nothing like business to keep your mind occupied, I always say. Keeps a man out of trouble.”

“So you’ve come on business then?”

Sergio stood and helped himself to more wine while Maria waited patiently for him to speak. She wondered if Miguel would be so distracted when her time came to have their baby. She didn’t think she’d want him gone on business; she’d want him there with her, to support her and to see their baby come into the world. Surely her father would have been with her mother.... The baby kicked again and she hid her discomfort.

Heaving a sigh, Sergio set his glass down and Maria looked up at him. “Truth is, girl, your father was a good and generous man. A much better man than myself, of that there is no doubt.”

Maria watched curiously as Sergio searched through the older records. He pulled out a couple of dusty tomes and set them heavily on her father’s desk. My desk now, she reminded herself as she went over to inspect them. They were from a couple years after her birth.

Sergio pulled a large folded document from his jacket and laid it out above the books. Maria peered at it.

“This is the subject of one of your father’s wills. As you know, we were partners for a long time, and the fact is that your father holds considerable interests on my plantation.”

Maria opened the parchment and scanned through it, shocked at what she found. “But, this... this is most of your property. How did...?”

“Ciro was a good man, honorable and excellent with finances. And he had the wiliest brain I’ve ever seen in a man. When I was a younger, more foolish man I... got into some trouble, made some poor decisions—” he waved at the accounts on the desk “—and your father bailed me out of my quickly sinking ship. The terms resulted in this. His interests are now yours. We agreed to keep it a private matter between us. Livvy doesn’t even know how much...” Sergio cleared his throat. “Ciro asked that on his death you be made aware of our situation.”

“So, what is it that I need to know?” Maria asked.

“The way I see it, there are two options for you. You can either pull out of my plantation—that is I pay you your share and you will no longer have any hold on the Casa de la Cuesta or its associated lands and incomes—or we can continue as before.”

Maria glanced through the paper as Sergio waited, tense. She didn’t know much about Sergio’s assets, but considering his current distress, buying her out was not something he hoped to do.

“I see no reason to change what seems to be working,” Maria said slowly as she read through the paper again, pushing back against a bump in her belly.

Sergio let out a breath, his face relaxing. “I am glad to hear it.”

“Tell me, how is Elisa doing?” Maria asked, handing the document back. “She’s avoided me this last year, and I haven’t seen her at all lately.”

“Hmph. That childish girl.” The papers disappeared into Sergio’s coat, and he poured himself another glass of wine. “For as much animosity as she had for you and Miguel, she sure is mopey about his leaving. When he left to find Ciro, she railed on about you for a while. She spends most of her time now sulking in her garden, lamenting to anyone within earshot about Miguel not being hers.”

“She needs to move on. You should send her to Spain for a few years; it would do her good.”

“I’ve suggested it to Livvy, but she’s having none of it. My wife’s frightened out of her mind of the ocean passage. My only hope is to find Elisa a nice, sensible young man who can take her in hand. In the meantime, though, I’ve had her removed from direct inheritance from the plantation until she either comes to her senses or finds a sensible man.”

“Which, aside from a dowry for Selena, leaves only Betania and Benito to inherit. Have you told them yet?”

“I just...” Sergio shook his head, sipping at the wine. “Everything is happening so quickly. Ciro was always better at handling these things than me. Besides, it was always my hope, and Ciro’s too, that one day our children would unite this little business venture. However, as we both only had girls, it did not seem likely. Now, though, with some luck between your child and Betania’s, perhaps that can one day be a reality.”

“I hope so, but know that I do not want to force my children to marry because of a business deal.” Maria moved toward the door.

“Of course not.” Sergio raised his glass to her and downed the remaining drink before bowing and turning to leave. He passed Nana on his way out the door.

“Did you want any supper tonight, Maria?” Nana asked as Maria looked out the door after Sergio.

“Did you know that my father owns the majority of the de la Cuesta plantation?” Maria asked absently, rubbing her belly where the baby continued to kick against it.

“I’m not surprised.” Nana crossed her arms and leaned against the door jam.

“You are being a downright nuisance, child,” Maria muttered as the baby rubbed disconcertingly across her abdomen.

Nana cocked her head as she looked at Maria. “Are you all right, chica?”

“Hmm?” Maria started and looked back at Nana. The anxiety she’d felt before pushed back into her chest. “I’m just a bit distracted. Sergio surprised me with this, and the baby is restless. I’m not sleeping well, and I’ve felt so anxious all day. As though I need to go, but I don’t know where. Like something is pulling at me to leave.”

“Is it Miguel you are worried about? Or the baby perhaps?”

Maria sat and leaned back, closing her eyes. “I don’t know. The baby seems as anxious as I am, but aside from driving me to distraction he seems fine. Perhaps it is Miguel.” Maria looked over at Nana. “If I just knew what was going on, if I knew that he was well, I think I should be content.”

The older woman hesitated a moment, then knelt beside the chair. “Do you trust me, child?”

“Of course I do, you crazy old bat. You’ve always been there for me, as long as I can remember. You’re family.”

“Then perhaps there is a way I could help you.”

Maria raised a skeptical eyebrow. “How is that?”

“You have been having recurring dreams?” Nana stood and walked around to stand behind Maria’s armchair.

“How did you know about those?” She turned to look back at her duenna.

“I listen, silly girl.” Nana smiled and chucked Maria’s chin, before turning her head back to face forward. Nana’s hands were cool as they rested on Maria’s temples. “Close your eyes, child. There is someone you meet when you dream, is there not?”

“Alistair. He is always there in the beginning.” Maria closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. “Alistair and the wind.”

Maria felt Nana’s surprise in her hands, but the older woman’s voice was calm and steady as she continued. “I want you to think of them, then. Concentrate on how he looks, how it feels in the dream.”

Maria thought of the way Alistair had jumped on her in that first dream, so long ago. She tried to picture it in her mind: Alistair sitting patiently for her in a field that danced in the breeze. The image came to her, dim and fuzzy, as she sat, fully aware of her surroundings. Nana’s cool hands on her head, the weight of her hair on her neck, the chair at her back, the cushions’ support, her uncomfortably tight shoes.

But, there, too, was the breeze. She could feel the grass beneath her fingertips.

“I see it,” she said.

Good, Nana’s voice was there. Now, picture your husband. Can you feel where he is?

Maria thought for a moment, the feel of her father’s office solidifying around her, but also a pull. A sense of urgency that spun off to the north. She grabbed hold of it. Urgency. Anxiety. Fear. Pain!

Maria gasped and opened her eyes, jerking from Nana’s hands. “What was that?” she cried, as the echo of fire running down her limbs faded.

Nana stood with her eyes downcast. “That is what you seek.”

“That was Miguel? What is going on? What if he’s hurt or dying?” Maria grabbed Nana’s hands and looked up into her eyes.

“There is nothing you can do, child.”

“I have to know. I have to help! Please, Nana!” Maria searched the older woman’s eyes. “Please.”

Nana’s shoulders slumped. “I would there were another way, child. Sit, and think of your dream.”

Maria obeyed. The cool hands calmed her worried mind as again she found the shadow of her dream world waiting behind her eyelids. She grabbed the rope of pain and pulled it towards her. She pulled and pulled, and with each effort the scorching heat grew more intense until she looked down and found it was an outstretched hand that she grasped.

Miguel! She could almost see him, through the clouded shadows in her mind and the mists of distance.

Maria! His anguished cry, distant and weak, pulled at her, and for a moment, she could see him clearer. He lay curled in agony, a breeze rustling his hair. Maria could feel his searing pain wash over her. She could feel his muscles tense, burning, threatening to crack the bones they pulled against as the fire within him licked and scorched his mind. She felt his heartbeat race as he thrashed and twisted and screamed, fighting back the inferno that was destined to consume it.

She cried out, reaching toward him, fighting the grey mist that lay between them. If only she could reach him, she could help! Together they could stand against the flames! But even as she strained forward, Nana’s cool hands held her back, pulling her away.

NO! Let me GO! She strained against the hands that thickened the mist, shielded her from the flames, and pulled him from her view. She twisted and strained and could still feel his heart, desperately beating.

I can help him! She pulled, but Nana was unrelenting. Maria felt his heart begin to slow, to falter.

MIGUEL!!

Nana pulled her back, and his hand slipped from hers. Maria’s heart raced, trying to remind his how to keep beating, to fight. She felt his heartbeat fading.

Faltering.

Stopping.

Nothing.

Maria screamed and pulled herself from Nana’s grip, falling to the floor as pain like a searing knife stabbed through her heart. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think.

That was not his death.

Miguel could not be dead.

If she could find him, pull him back, surely he would be there. Anything to prove it wasn’t real.

Maria pulled herself up and ran blindly to their room. She threw open the closet and dug frantically until she found it. His greatcoat. The one she’d given him before they’d begun courting. She held it to herself and breathed in the smell of him. There was a moment of bliss in the scent, a wave of memory filled her. He couldn’t be gone, it simply was not possible.

“Maria...?” Nana’s voice came from the doorway, breaking her reverie and laying bare the fresh, burning wound in her heart.

“Leave me alone!” she cried, and fell, sobbing, onto the bed, clinging to her husband’s coat.

MARIA WOKE FROM A DREAMLESS sleep, feeling drained. She reached out to the deep blue coat and pulled it to her, inhaling the smell of it. She curled up on the bed around her growing belly and the folds of cloth, certain that if she held it close enough, she would feel him there with her. All she felt was a hole in her chest as though her heart had been ripped out, leaving her ragged, bleeding, and empty.

The baby kicked restlessly, forcing Maria to get up. After relieving herself, she wrapped herself in the long coat and sat in the chair to stare out the window. Her mind and heart were at war. Her mind insisted that Miguel was gone. She had felt it, felt the fire that had consumed him, felt the moment that death had arrived and stopped his heart. Her heart rebelled, knowing that he couldn’t be gone; she’d know he was gone, she would feel it in her soul. But wasn’t that the emptiness she felt? But shouldn’t it feel worse?

But she had been there, hadn’t she? Had she? How could such a thing have been real? So perhaps she was working herself up over nothing. Around and around her mind chased her heart, both swinging from hope to despair and back again as she watched out the window.

“Child?” A hand on her shoulder startled Maria from her reverie. She wiped her tears onto the soft, stained sleeve of his great coat, which nearly set her to sobbing again. She wiped her nose on a handkerchief she found in her hands and looked back out the window.

“Was it real?” she whispered.

Nana stood at her side. “Yes.”

The word was like the banging shut of a door that could never again be opened. Maria struggled with her warring emotions. She swallowed down the fear, the pain, the disbelief, and the tears. She swallowed again for the sobs that filled her throat, making even breathing a struggle.

“Then he is dead,” she said, unsure if it was a statement or a question, but she was alone in the room.

MARIA SAT IN HER PARLOR, lost in memories. Teaching Miguel to play chess on the table over there. His triumphant smile when he thought he’d done something clever. The feel of his hand over hers and his breath on her cheek when he’d taught her to shoot. A bright morning walk in the garden. The feel of his scruff at the end of the day rubbing against her neck. Miguel spinning her while they danced until she became dizzy and fell into his arms as they laughed. The feel of his palm on her face in the rain, the last touch they’d shared before she watched him ride to his death.

“... I just know you’ll feel the same way, Maria,” Betania said.

“Hmm?” Maria startled back to the present. “I’m sorry, Betania. I’m afraid my mind had wandered.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ve spent this entire time talking about my little Emilia and haven’t even given you space to talk.” Betania looked a little ashamed as she drank her chocolate.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m afraid I’m not very good company right now.” Maria looked down to the cup she’d been holding since Betania arrived but that remained otherwise untouched. The idea of sweetness made her stomach roll, and she set it back onto the table.

“Yes, I heard that you’d received bad news about Miguel, but not the specifics of it. You know how I don’t like to put any stock in rumors, but the word is that he’s...” Betania looked suddenly abashed and whispered, “... that he’s died?”

Maria braced herself against the wave of pain that came with hearing someone else suggest it, and Betania gasped at her silence.

“Oh, my dear! I am so sorry! Here I have been going on and on about my baby while you’re trying to deal with... with....”

“It’s all right. It is only a rumor; we don’t know anything for certain.” Maria’s voice choked on the lie as tears ran down her cheeks.

Betania sat beside her friend and Maria leaned onto her shoulder, letting the tears come again.

Chapter 10

MARIA WALKED NEAR THE jungle, admiring its deep, dark beauty. She was so tired of crying. Here there was a semblance of peace; here there were no tears. A warm wind blew her dress around her legs, and she knew it would rain soon. The sunny skies didn’t fool her; it always rained here.

Something warm bumped against her hand, and she looked down to see her faithful canine companion at her side. Dropping, she hugged his neck and felt his love wash over her. They sat and looked up at the sky, so profoundly full of stars shining through the blue expanse. Alistair nudged her belly, and Maria looked down.

Her baby bump was gone, but in its place shone a ball of light, about the size of her fists together, and pulsing with life. It twisted and twitched for a moment, and Maria could feel the corresponding movement in her distant, sleeping body.

Hello there, little one. She rested her hand on the ball of light. She felt love return up her arm.

He’s a sweet little thing, isn’t he? she asked Alistair, as she rubbed the dog’s ears. He whined and laid his head on her lap. What do you think about Álvaro, for a name? The dog said nothing but the baby kicked out again, and she laughed for the first time in days. Álvaro then.

They sat there and waited. She was expecting something, but she also wanted to ask about Miguel. Alistair raised his head and looked into her eyes. I’m afraid to ask, she explained. I’m afraid because I know I will believe, and I don’t know which answer would be harder to bear.

She stared into the dog’s soulful brown eyes until he jerked his head away, looking toward the sound they’d been waiting for. She strained to hear it, too. A strange rustling coming from a place just out of sight. This was familiar, and Maria knew what to do. She stood and followed the sound in, careful to mark the way back to the light.

They paused, and she rubbed the dog’s ears absently, waiting for the strange noise to come again. Alistair wagged his tail happily, thumping it against her leg as he waited with her. When the rustling came again, it was closer than it ever had been. Maria’s mouth filled with the taste of fear as she bolted back out of the trees, hearing the sounds of brave Alistair protecting her and dying for it.

She was on the horse, practically flying over the ground and felt the familiar stinging behind her eyes. He died because of her. Her throat constricted, and her heart ached. Next time, she wouldn’t be enticed by the sound! She wouldn’t!

She stood on the docks in the night, and her father, whole, healthy and sad, stood beside her as they watched the funeral barge float off into the darkness through the dancing lights reflecting off the water. He is dead, and it is my fault, she thought. I am all alone, and it is my own doing. Maria looked off into the darkness, entranced by the jumping lights, wishing she could follow. She would wake up soon. She could feel herself sliding back toward consciousness.

Then, floating back to her over the water came a sound that chilled her to the bone. A long, plaintive howl, a cry that seemed to echo her own feelings of loss, loneliness and longing. She knew that voice, knew it so deeply. It was the voice of Alistair. If he was alive when she’d thought him dead...

Maria’s eyes flew open. Miguel was still alive! Somehow, she knew that was what Alistair’s howl meant! He was telling her that Miguel still lived, and that she could still save her husband, could still go to him. Maria had no choice; she had to go find Miguel. Her mind raced through preparations that would need to be made before she could leave.

Suffused with excitement, Maria flung back her bedding and leapt up from the bed, only to crumble to the cold floor as a spasm of pain shot through her abdomen. She doubled over with the sudden pain and eased herself back onto the bed.

“Fool girl,” she muttered as she waited for the pain to subside. There was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” she called, standing up again, but slowly this time.

Nana walked in with a breakfast tray. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I just tried to stand up too quickly.” Maria took a deep breath and held her back, finally upright. “You never used to knock,” she teased.

“You never used to be married,” Nana shot back. Maria sat to eat her breakfast as Nana bustled about the room. “You are in surprisingly good spirits this morning.”

“Indeed.” Maria set down her napkin and went to her closet to dress. “I have decided to leave.”

“And just what has brought you to that decision?” Nana asked, helping her with her underpinnings.

“You say the dreams are real, but do they show the truth?”

“They are real and the truth can be... subject to interpretation. As can any dream,” Nana answered cautiously.

“The babe is kicking!” Maria smiled and grabbed Nana’s hand to feel the movement. “Do you think my baby will be a good person someday?”

“If he has good and loving people to care for him and guide him, I have little doubt that he will be a good man.” Nana smiled down at her hand as it was kicked and prodded.

“A boy, then.” Maria nodded to herself, content with Nana’s confirmation of her suspicion. “I saw him last night when I dreamed. He was a small ball of light, but I knew him.”

“So I have heard it described before.” Nana pulled away and set to work folding Maria’s night clothes.

“His name will be Álvaro,” Maria said as she brushed her hair, “and Miguel will be here to meet him.”

Nana snatched the brush from her and turned Maria to look directly at her. “What are you thinking of, child?”

“He is alive, Nana. I know he is.” Maria stood and held Nana’s hands in her own. “The dream. It told me that he lives, and if he lives, I can go to him. It’s my fault that he went. I have to fix this. I can still save him!”

“Oh, Maria, please understand. Where he is gone, there is no returning from.”

Tears of joy filled Maria’s eyes. It was even better than she’d hoped. Nana knew where he was! “See! You know where he is! You can take me there, and I can save him. You know what is there. Surely together we can find a way to rescue him!”

“And what of your little Álvaro?” Nana folded her arms, her voice angry. “Do you think you can go adventuring without any concern for his well-being?”

“You are absolutely right, Nana.” Maria smiled in a way she knew Nana would not like. “That is why you will guide me to where I need to be, lest I be caught out adventuring by myself. You know where he is, you know how to get there, and I do not. So, you will take me there or risk breaking the trust my mother placed in you.”

Nana’s eyes narrowed, and Maria recoiled a bit at the harshest look she’d ever seen from the older woman.

“You are a foolish child. Be it as you say.” Nana stormed from the room, leaving Maria startled and alone.

THE CLOCK TICKED, EACH second compounding upon its predecessor. Maria paced the parlor at Casa de la Cuesta, waiting for Betania and Benito. At long last, the door opened, and Maria looked up to Betania rushing into the room.

“I am so glad to see you!” Betania wrapped Maria in a hug. “I was so worried before. You were so very upset that I feared for the health of you and your baby. You look much better now.”

“I feel better.” Maria pulled back, taking Betania’s hands.

“Did you see?” Betania held up her right hand, flashing her wedding ring. “I’ve finally been able to put it back on. I felt so bare without my ring those last few months, but my hand was far too swollen to wear it.”

Maria laughed, rubbing the warm metal of her own ring with her thumb. “I hadn’t even noticed, but I’m glad you’re wearing it again.” A servant carrying a bundle entered the room, and Maria gestured to it before her friend could speak again. “You brought your little Emelia?”

Betania beamed as Maria took the baby into her arms. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

Maria swayed and rocked the newborn, looking at her fresh little face, her calm, closed eyes and surprisingly red lips. “Yes, she certainly is. I’m sure they will be perfect playmates.”

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if yours was a boy? Perhaps they would marry someday, and then we would be sisters in truth.” Betania reached back for her daughter, and Maria reluctantly let her go.

“He likes her already. He kicked me when you took her back.” Maria laughed as she sat down, rubbing at her sore belly.

“You’re hoping for a boy then? What will you name him?”

“Álvaro Michael Álvarez del Mar.”

“Oh, that’s a beautiful name.” Betania handed the infant back to Maria as she took a seat beside her friend. “A little strange, using an English name and then your surname first instead of his, but I tell you, I’ve never thought that was his real name. Didn’t we make up the surnames? Has he ever told you his real name?”

“Yes, we did, and Miguel - Michael - is his real name,” Maria answered, laughing and running her finger along Emelia’s tiny, sleeping face.

“I think it is good to use unusual names from time to time, that way they don’t grow up with everyone else having the same name. Why, Benito and I had such a hard time finding a name for our little Emilia, it took us three days after she was born to settle on one.” Betania smiled warmly as Benito entered the room. “But isn’t this just wonderful? Our two little children will be born so close to each other and mine a girl and yours perhaps a boy. We could be family someday, Maria. Wouldn’t that be just the greatest thing?”

Maria managed to concede that it would indeed be great to be related to her friend before Betania’s mouth could take off again.

“Doña Maria! Welcome! I’m glad you have come,” Benito cut in giving Maria a small bow. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company today?”

Maria took a deep breath and steeled her nerves. “Benito, Betania, as you both know, Miguel has been gone for some time. I sent him out to find my father, and, though he managed that, he did not return. Despite the rumors, I have reason to believe that he is both alive and in grave danger, and I can no longer do nothing. I must go after him.”

“You’re an amazing and capable woman, Maria, but you are just a woman,” Benito said hesitantly. “What can you do?”

“I can do anything a man can do, Benito. I have run my father’s business for months and have learned to use a pistol and sword as well as any sailor.” Her voice broke as the memories of hours spent training with Miguel flashed through her mind.

“What about your baby?” Betania asked. “You can’t go adventuring off in the jungle in your condition.”

“As for my baby—” Maria’s voice caught in her throat a moment as she rested her hand across her belly. “As for my son, I shall have Nana with me. I’m sure things will be fine; children come into the world all the time. But, given that my own mother died so soon after my own birth—”

“Maria...” Betania started, but Maria waved her away.

“Please, let me finish. I’m sure things will turn out fine, but if anything should happen to me once he’s been born, even after I’ve returned, I would very much like you two to care for my son.”

The couple looked at her in stunned silence, then at each other.

“We would need to discuss it,” Betania said after a moment.

“I understand.” Maria stood, hesitating. “There is something else you should know. Most of Don Díaz’s plantation belongs to me. If I do not return, and you have adopted Álvaro as your own, you will not need to worry about Emilia’s future.”

“I don’t see what Emilia has to do with this,” Benito started, but Betania put a hand on his arm and looked up at him.

“Papa has removed Elisa from the will. When he dies, we will inherit, but the truth of the matter is that the Álvarez family owns most of it anyway. Maria would be doing us a great favor, and if perhaps they married, someday everything would be worked out.”

“And if they don’t?” Benito asked.

“I don’t mean for this to sound like a threat,” Maria said, “but the fact is that I need to know my child will be cared for. To that end, I would need to pull my interests in Casa de la Cuesta now to find someone else to care for him and the business, and that will ruin Don Sergio. There are a hundred reasons that I don’t want to have to take that route, but most of all, I trust you.” Maria stepped toward him, pleading. “I know that you are a good man, Benito, and I trust that you will be good to my son. I am certain that you will raise him to be a good man. Especially, if you hope that our children will marry, you will raise him to be a great man.”

Maria handed Emelia to her father. “I’m sure this arrangement will hardly be necessary, but if for whatever reason Miguel doesn’t come back, and I... If I should die, like my mother did, I would like to know that he will be cared for.”

Betania looked at her husband who nodded in acquiescence. “We will, Maria. We will.”

Maria gripped Betania’s hand in thanks, desperately fighting back the tears. “Please, come stay in my home while I am gone. The hacienda is spacious and beautiful, and you would have it all to yourselves. My staff will remain there and they will take good care of you. I already have a steward arranged for the business until I return, so between him and Sergio, you should be able to manage anything that comes up.”

“Of course,” Benito said.

With tears in her eyes, Maria hugged Betania.

“I hope to see you again soon,” Betania said through tears of her own.

“I hope so as well.” Taking a deep breath and steeling herself, Maria pulled away and brushed off her dress. “Well, then, I must be on my way. I still have some things to put in order before I leave.”

“Good luck, Doña Maria.” Benito gave her an encouraging smile. “Things will be fine.”

Maria thanked them again and returned to her home, stopping at the office in town to finish things there. She trotted her horse part of the way home from the town, her mind full of the few loose ends that remained. Both she and the horse were sweating as she reined him in at the gates of the hacienda. Despite her caution, Nana was there to scold her.

“You foolish girl! Here you are preparing to leave on a long journey, and you go off trying to wind your steed. Get off and get him rubbed down, and be sure to do it yourself. You’re going to be doing it every day for who knows how long, so you may as well start now.”

Surprisingly tired from the day’s efforts, Maria didn’t have the energy to protest. She did as she was told, as quickly as her changing body would allow, checking and rechecking in her mind that she had covered everything to allow for her absence. When she had finished and turned the horse into his box, she returned to her room to pack her personal items.

A glance at her reflection in her bedroom mirror gave her pause. There was hay in her hair and dirt smudged across her cheek. Her dress was even worse, with horsehair, dirt, and rain splatters across it. Irritated, she pulled it off and threw it into the corner. Her anger only grew as she rifled through her dresses, looking for something more suitable. Growling, she grabbed at the dress she’d thrown on the floor and tripped over her chemise, muttering an epithet she had unwittingly picked up from her husband.

She caught her balance on the chair that sat beside her bed, the very one Miguel had sat in, faithfully watching over her so long ago. Sorrow and love welled up inside her, but she crushed it back with her anger. Anger at everything. At the stupid dreams that had started all this, at Miguel for not refusing her, at her father for sending the note and not just dying in peace, at being thought less of for being a woman. At stupid dresses! She tore the chemise off and threw it into the fireplace, following it with the filthy dress on the floor. She watched them burn with a sick satisfaction.

“Well, now what will you wear?” she said, disgusted with herself. Sighing, she sat on the edge of the bed and leaned against the cool, tiled wall. Beside her lay Miguel’s coat, and she pulled it to her, breathing deeply the scent of him that lingered in the cloth.

With a sudden realization, she threw open the wardrobe. Miguel had left plenty of clothes. She was smaller than he was, so it would all fit well enough, and she could roll the tops of his pants down to accommodate her ever-growing belly. Eagerly, she tried on each reasonable item. Each garment that fit comfortably, she threw on the bed, and the rest she returned the wardrobe. It was exhausting, but she pressed on.

Once she settled on the last outfit, Maria did her best to conceal weapons the way she had seen Miguel do. In the end, however, she removed nearly half of the knives and kept only two pistols in addition to the two pistols her father had given her. As she returned the unused weaponry, a pair of boots hidden in the corner caught her eye. She pulled them on, and aside from being a bit snug in their newness, they fit perfectly. When had he thought to have boots made for her? Were they meant to be a surprise?

She sniffed back her emotion and, removing the boots for the time being, sat back to look over the room. Dressed in her husband’s clothes with her commandeered clothing packed, there seemed to be nothing more for the moment than to wait. The kitchen would be preparing provisions, her horse was resting, and the business was in order for management by a steward. Maria sighed and laid her head back to rest just as Álvaro decided that he was bored and began to stretch within her.

“Today has been an exciting day, hasn’t it?” she asked him. Looking around the room again, her eyes came to rest on two papers sitting on the table. Her mother’s letters. Reaching out to them, she patted her belly and asked, “Shall I read these to you?”

Her voice was soft and thoughtful as she read them aloud in the empty room. When she finished, the emptiness seemed to fill her, bringing with it the pangs of loneliness. Maria let the sorrow wash over her. When she had cried herself out, she pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and penned her own letter to her child, just in case.

She wanted to believe that she and Miguel would return, but deep down, the fear that they wouldn’t gnawed at Maria. She wrote of how she and Miguel had met and of the circumstances that led to her decision to leave. Then she wrote of her parents and her hopes for her son. As she neared the end of the sheet, she paused and read over her mother’s letters again, wondering if she’d forgotten anything important. Filling her quill with ink, she continued.

Álvaro, I hope and pray that you will be as good a man as your father. We love you so very much. I hope, too, that someday you will give your love to a woman worthy of it and be worthy of hers in return. When you find that woman, you must cherish her as I know your father cherishes me, and as my father cherished my mother. You must remember to love her with all of your heart. If she is worthy of you, she will do the same. Your father and I have known such love. It is a force that overcomes all opposition, all obstacles, and even death will not long hinder it. I will find your father again, in this life or the next.

A lifetime of experiences I would impart to you, my son, a lifetime and more of hard- earned wisdom. But that would take longer than I have, and more pages and ink than there are.

With all the love of a mother,

Maria Álvarez Zyanya

Maria dried and sealed it, addressed it to Álvaro, and set it on her dresser. She looked at it a moment, twisting her wedding ring around her finger. With some difficulty, she pulled off the gold band, the dark blue enamel and carved flowers warm and smooth beneath her fingers. She pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and wrote a simple note.

Álvaro,

Your father gave me this ring. I hope someday to reclaim it, but if I should not return, it is for you to give to the woman you would not only face down death for, but who you would also live the rest of your life for. May you both have a long life of joy together.

Maria Álvarez Zyanya,

Your loving mother.

Before she could lose her nerve, Maria folded the note and slipped the ring into it, addressing it to her son on his eighteenth birthday. She pushed back from her table and looked again at the note on her dresser. It will be fine. We’ll all return home together. He’ll never even read it. She shook herself and strode to the office to spend a few hours writing directions for Dom, who would continue as steward, and Sergio.

She stretched her cramped hand and folded the last of the papers for the care of the hacienda in her absence, and set out in search of Dom to entrust the delivery of her ring to him. When she had finished tying up all the loose ends, she shouldered her gear and returned to the stables to load it onto one of the pack mules. Nana soon joined her, followed by a groom leading their horses.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay here?” Maria teased her.

“You don’t have a guide,” Nana countered, her voice flat.

“I can get one in town.”

“You don’t even know where you are going.”

“I will start at my mother’s village.” Maria gathered her reins to mount up.

“Again, you don’t even know where that is or what it is called. You can tell a guide you want to go to your mother’s village, or even to a Wayuu village, but how would you tell him which one? You don’t even know for yourself.” Nana gathered the mules’ lines as Maria heaved herself up into the saddle.

Nana paused until Maria was settled in her saddle. “You speak only rudimentary Wayuunaiki, and you have never in your life slept in a camp, out in the open. All you know are things you’ve heard or learned in books. My responsibility is to you, so with you, I will stay.”

With a laugh, Maria turned her horse to face Nana. “Well, either way, I’m leaving, if you’re finally finished fiddling with your gear.”

Nana snorted. “I have been waiting for you.” She pulled herself onto her own horse with far more grace than a woman her age deserved.

“Sure you have, old woman.” Maria turned her horse back toward the gate and clicked it forward. Over her shoulder she asked, “How long have you been waiting?”

“All my life.”

Shaking her head, Maria led them out the gate of her home. As they rounded the first bend in the road, she looked back to see her home disappear from view and thought she heard Alistair’s howl echo through her mind.

“I’m coming, Miguel. I’m coming,” she said, turning back to the road before her.

Chapter 11

MARIA’S HEAD DROOPED in the dark, suffocating heat of the jungle, her wet shirt clinging to her sweaty back. The large, dangling leaves of the canopy blocked out all direct sunlight, painting everything with a green tint. Progress through the thick, noisy jungle felt painfully slow, and she wondered how far they managed to travel each day. The claustrophobic closeness of the trees removed all sense of distance travelled, and occasionally she swore they were travelling in the wrong direction entirely. Time melted together as Nana had them on their way before sunrise and kept them going well into the night. Maria slapped at a bug on her neck, and for a moment, her horse picked up its pace.

“Why don’t they bother you?” Maria called out, readjusting her kerchief that had slipped yet again.

Nana laughed. “Some people just taste better than others.”

Annoyed, Maria stood in her saddle, trying to stretch her weary legs. She hated to admit it, but by their first night she knew she’d have been completely lost without Nana. She’d been sore, hungry, and tired when Nana had finally pulled to a stop in a small clearing.

“This will be a good place to rest for the night,” Nana had declared.

It was almost too dark to see anything. Maria slid off her horse, her legs nearly buckling from the unaccustomed exercise. She held to the saddle for support as she dug around in the saddlebags for some food. Sitting down heavily on a log, she took a bite, not really caring what she had pulled out.

“What do you think you are doing?” Nana asked. Stung by the woman’s tone, Maria looked up. “Put that food back. Your horse has worked harder than you today. You must always take care of your mount first, or you will not long have one.”

Maria stood despite her protesting feet and aching back, returned the food, and cared for her horse while Nana gathered wood and built a small fire.

“Now, take care of the mules, too.” Nana gave the order more gently this time, not allowing Maria a chance to rest until they’d finished their small camp. Finally, Maria dropped onto her blankets, too exhausted to eat.

“Here, eat this.” Nana nudged her with some food.

“I don’t want it,” Maria mumbled.

“There will not be anything warm for breakfast, and you will wish you had. Besides, you have a baby to take care of.”

Maria smiled at the memory. Little Álvaro, it seemed, had the power to make her do anything. She rubbed her belly as he stretched across it. The sounds she’d grown up hearing at a distance were far louder here. To actually be surrounded by the constant chatter and chirping sometimes unnerved her. When she’d asked Nana about the likelihood of being attacked by a jaguar, the old woman had laughed darkly but reassured her it wouldn’t happen. Nevertheless, sudden noises in the dense foliage still made her heart skip a beat.

Well after dark, Nana stopped them for the night, and they fell into the now-familiar rhythm of setting up the camp under Nana’s direction. The first two days, Maria had been too tired and sore to be irritated by the change of roles, but as her body had adjusted to the new schedule, she’d realized that Nana was teaching her how to make a camp, and, in a way, how to survive. Now she looked on each new task as a chance to learn, no matter how she longed to collapse onto her blankets and sleep.

Maria stirred a pot of dried meat and vegetables in water while Nana gathered enough wood to last the night. The heat beside the fire was still stifling, but it kept the relentless jungle insects at bay. What she wouldn’t give to feel the breeze from across the lake. A gentle breeze flowed through the thinning trees, just enough to blow her hair into her face, as though it had heard her. Laughing at the thought, she moved the hair and sighed at the feel of the dirt and grease that clung to it. She’d always loved her long hair. Miguel had loved it, too. What she wouldn’t give to give it a good washing.

The breeze stilled, and Maria paused and cocked her head, half waiting for it to begin raining, the way it always threatened to do in her dreams following the breeze. When it didn’t, she chuckled and continued stirring. Quiet singing made Maria look up as Nana returned to the clearing. The older woman sang a song with hauntingly familiar melody, but the words were in Wayuunaiki, many of which Maria didn’t know.

“What are you singing?” she asked. “It sounds so familiar, but I know I don’t know it.”

Nana went quiet for a minute, kneeling to add the wood to the fire. “It is an old Wayuu lullaby,” she finally said, not looking up from her work.

Maria watched the old woman as they lapsed back into silence. “I’m glad you came with me. I certainly wouldn’t have made it one night if I’d gone alone.”

Nana grunted. “You’re stubborn. You would have figured something out.”

“I’m sure I would have.” Maria laughed, imagining herself cold, miserable, wet, and hugely pregnant, lying on the bare ground and getting swarmed with insects because she hadn’t known the tricks to keep them away. That most certainly would have been the case without Nana’s help. Nana was right, though. She wouldn’t have given up.

Nana went back to her singing.

Maria watched the old woman over the fire as the stew boiled and wondered just how old Nana was. There was something about her that spoke of age, but Maria could not pick out exactly what. She didn’t move like old women did. After a day on horseback, she walked well and moved surely. Maria had shown more signs of soreness than old Nana ever had. But then again, Maria was pregnant, which put her at a distinct disadvantage.

“Teach me,” Maria said suddenly.

“Isn’t that what I’ve been doing?” Nana asked.

“Teach me to speak Wayuu.” Maria feigned exasperation. “Not just the smattering of words you’ve given me over the years, but how to really speak it.”

“I thought you would never ask.” Nana gave her an impish grin.

Nana started going over the words Maria already knew. It surprised her to realize she knew far more than she’d thought. By that evening, Maria had begun stringing them together into simple sentences. Maria dutifully repeated everything Nana said and tentatively rephrased the words into responses until her head went fuzzy and she fell asleep despite herself, the foreign sounds of the language swirling through her mind.

Maria woke with a start, the echo of a howl ringing in her ears, the way it did every morning. The colors of the world remained indistinct in the pre-dawn light as Maria looked over to where Nana had slept. The old woman was already up, sitting on a log near a neatly stowed pile of gear.

“You’re awake. Good. Let’s get moving,” she said.

“Well, a good morning to you too,” Maria mumbled, climbing out of her blankets. They wasted little time breaking camp, while Nana kept up a constant stream of simple chatter in Wayuunaiki. As they traveled, Nana began working new words into their conversations, refusing to use Castilian to translate while Maria worked on understanding, trying to use the new terms as often as possible.

“They Wayuu are matrilineal,” Nana said when Maria asked about the culture. “That is, the mother’s name is the one that is passed to her children.”

“So my mother’s surname, Zyanya, was her mother’s name?” Maria clarified, relieved that she could make the entire sentence out of Wayuunaiki words.

“Yes, and her mother’s before her, and her mother’s, and so on.” Nana nodded. “It is actually not inappropriate to name your son the way you’ve suggested, giving him your surname, since you also have the Wayuu heritage.”

Maria nodded, and her mind wandered to her child. Perhaps she, too, would have a daughter someday. It seemed a shame to let such an old name die out. She realized Nana had begun talking again and forced her attention back to the conversation.

THEY HAD TRAVELED WEST at first, but once they’d entered the jungles and mountains, Maria lost all sense of direction, trusting Nana to lead her true. The endless green of the jungle thinned, but instead of feeling reassured, the increasing openness left Maria feeling exposed. The jungles gave way to low, rolling hills, and from there into arid desert, she wondered just how big the land was. Her father’s maps had made it seem a very narrow stretch of land, traversable in a matter of a few days, but she and Nana had been travelling for over two weeks. Surely, they should have reached the shores of the Caribbean by now.

“We should reach your mother’s village today,” Nana said one morning as they broke camp.

Maria smiled, her ears still ringing with the sound of Alistair’s howl. It had seemed to grow louder and more urgent as she travelled, pulling her on. Maria hadn’t noticed the change at first, but it had made her edgy and increasingly impatient.

At the same time, each day was more wearying than the previous. Her hips ached with the weight of her child, her feet were often swollen at the end of the day, and her back never stopped aching. More than almost anything, Maria wished they could just stop and rest, but the dreams spurred her forward. With luck, reaching the village would provide some relief from the feelings of unease as well as the increasing heat. However, as the small village came into view, the feeling of urgency only increased.

“So this is where my mother grew up?” Maria fanned her face for a minute with her wide-brimmed hat before returning it to her head, grateful for its shade. Unusual buildings dotted the landscape, some with mud and wood walls and others merely thatched roofs with no walls at all, and many with brilliantly colored hammocks hanging within. Children ran around the open spaces, chasing goats and chickens, while the adults, dressed in beautifully patterned clothing, focused on their tasks. She wondered if a young Ayelen had played the same games and run about the same way. Would she, Maria, have grown up here if her mother had lived?

“It is indeed,” Nana said with satisfaction. “It was my home once, too. I’ve missed it.”

The children noticed the visitors first and came running up to greet them, shouting and waving their arms. Maria tensed up in the saddle, hoping that her horse wouldn’t spook at the rushing children. She understood a little of the children’s chattering before Nana sent them running back with a few stern words.

The adults were slower to look up at them, noticing the changed timbre of the children’s near-constant noise. They glanced up at the two newcomers, and Maria could swear she saw a look of recognition in their lingering gazes. Could they really remember her mother so well after nearly twenty years?

As they passed through the village, word spread ahead of them, and a crowd gathered, gazing at them in an almost reverential awe. It made Maria uncomfortable until she realized that she wasn’t the one they were watching. She peered over at Nana and tried to see her the way villagers saw her. There didn’t seem to be anything special, just an old woman sitting proudly atop a horse. Maria shook her head.

Nana stopped her horse before a building, larger and better put together than the others, and dropped smoothly to the ground. Maria followed suit the that best she could. Three boys came to take the horses and mules. Nana didn’t seem concerned about their ability to tend the horses so Maria let them go. An old... person stepped out to greet them. Maria couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. He—or maybe she—was so old and bent that the body was practically shapeless and his—Maria decided to consider him male for now—his long silver hair nearly touched the ground.

“Welcome home, old one,” he said. Maria was surprised and then disappointed; the voice wasn’t as low as she expected, a perfect pitch to be either male or female. Perhaps a better look at the face would clue her in.

“It is good to be home.” Nana swept the ancient into a familiar embrace.

“What news do you bring, waré?” the old... person—Maria found she wasn’t comfortable thinking of the elder as a he, either—asked. She recognized the traditional greeting, the word waré meaning ‘friend.’ Inside the home, a pair of children rushed to hang two additional hammocks under the roof.

“Much is the same, but there is some troubling news that I would speak with you privately about,” Nana said in a low voice to the silver-haired elder and gestured toward the doorway. They spoke quickly, and Maria had to concentrate to translate the Wayuunaiki. She grinned ruefully. Nana had spoken slowly and distinctly to help her learn. But she’d done a good job; Maria kept up well enough.

“Of course, of course, Old One. Come, let us go inside. You are tired from your journey, I am certain.” The elder gestured them inside. “There is food and drink for you both, though we were not aware that you would be here so soon or we would have had... things prepared for you.”

Though the hesitation before the word ‘things’ was very minor, Maria had noticed it. She wondered, once again, who was Nana to these people?

“Do not worry about it too much, old friend. My patience is nearly endless,” Nana said with a serene smile as she sat down.

Everyone in the room chuckled, and Maria wondered if she had understood correctly. She sat next to Nana and smiled her thanks to the young girl who handed her a plate of food. It smelled warm and distantly familiar. She was both famished and exhausted from the travelling, and though her stomach rumbled, she watched Nana, waiting for her to eat first.

Nana took a bite, and the rest began to eat. The roasted meat nearly melted in Maria’s mouth, filling it with a warm, subtly spiced juice as she chewed, closing her eyes to better enjoy the flavor.

“Time has treated you well,” the elder said approvingly.

“It has been far kinder to me than you,” Nana said with a smile, and they all laughed again.

Maria hid her confusion at their strange way of joking behind another careful mouthful of the delicious food.

“This, then, is the child of our dear Ayelen?” The elder gestured to Maria, setting the plate of food to the side.

“She is indeed.” Pride showed in Nana’s voice.

“Well, well.” The elder nodded thoughtfully, appraising her, and Maria shifted under the scrutiny. “And the Zyanya line?”

“This is her first. It will be a son.” Nana kept her eyes on her food, but Maria could feel all the eyes in the room turn to her. A hush fell, and Maria shifted once more, acutely uncomfortable at being the center of a conversation she didn’t understand. She set her arm defensively over her belly. Whatever was going on, she did not want Álvaro to be a part of it.

“Then it is time.” It was as much of a question as a statement and came from an elderly woman on the other side of the room. Nana said nothing, and Maria concentrated furiously on her food. After a few minutes of silence that seemed to stretch forever, a buzz of quiet conversation started up.

Maria remained wrapped in her own thoughts, trying to puzzle out the conversation that had passed between Nana and the elder. As the sun set, a group of giggling children, not older than seven or eight, led her outside. The smallest of the children took her by the hand, and a couple more pulled at her jacket, ushering her, into a central clearing already full of villagers. An elderly woman chased them away from her and Maria smiled, amazed at the simple joy that surrounded her.

In the middle of the clearing, a large pile of wood smoked, just waiting to become a bonfire. With a pang of nostalgia, Maria remembered the times her father had built such a large fire in the courtyard when she was little. She had sat on his lap while he’d told her stories and they sang together.

Nearby, the elders and Nana sat together. Nana motioned her over as the flames caught the dry wood. The sweet, tangy smell of the woodsmoke, along with the scents of dirt and goats, moved around her as she sat beside the elders, too tired to give them more than a polite smile as she did so. For the most part they ignored her, talking amongst themselves, and she ignored them in return, watching the dancing flames.

It reminded her of happier days. Mostly of days with Miguel. But then again, it seemed like every day with him had been a happy day. She thought of the sun on his dark hair, his mesmerizing green eyes that she often lost herself in, and the way time had seemed to slow whenever he’d been near. Snippets of conversations floated across her memory, along with times he’d laughed or smiled, or of the dark look in his eyes whenever he sensed danger.

Maria smiled as she thought of the way he always left flowers for her on the bed when he rose before she woke. She reached a hand into her pocket and opened the pouch she always kept on her person. Maria ran fingers through the thirteen coins he’d given her for their wedding; he never seemed quite so far away when she touched them.

A hand on her shoulder jolted her from her thoughts. A girl a few years younger than herself stood beside her, looking at her shyly.

“Old One says you sleep now,” the girl said in halting Castilian.

“Thank you,” Maria replied in Wayuunaiki, hoping her accent wouldn’t be too thick. The girl gave her a bright smile and said something Maria could not catch. Heaving herself to her feet, Maria allowed herself to be herded to a hammock hung under the elder’s roof.

Despite her exhaustion, Maria had difficulty falling asleep. Laying in a hammock felt so strange, so very different from anything she’d ever slept in. The world rocked and swayed gently beneath her as she stared into the darkness. Miguel had told her that sailors often slept in hammocks aboard their ships. Was it like this? The muffled foreign sounds of the village—goats, quiet chatter from the bonfire, the breeze over the arid land—wrapped themselves around her as she drifted to sleep.

In the early hours of the morning, when the sounds had finally settled for the night, Maria thought she came to. Or perhaps she dreamed. From a distant place in her mind, she thought she saw Nana return with a small group, and a cup with a strangely salty and metallic smell. Nana accepted and drank, and seeming to lock eyes with Maria for a moment before Maria fell into a deeper and dreamless sleep.

Chapter 12

MARIA WOKE BEFORE THE sun rose, rested and anxious to be on her way. She tried to roll over, but the rocking of the hammock held her tight. She struggled a moment more before flopping back in momentary defeat. Closing her eyes, Maria listened to the sounds of the village waking up around her, and another sound filled the back of her mind. Why, if they’d made it to the village, did the howl still echo so urgently through her mind? Wasn’t this the place Alistair had been urging her to?

Her courage bolstered by the reassurance that Miguel still waited for her, Maria stretched and yawned. Then, by carefully alternating her weight between her limbs, she scooted closer to the edge. With the relative solidity of the edge of the hammock beneath her, Maria finally managed to roll to her side. She let out a breath, already exhausted from the effort. Who knew that hammocks could be such work?

Maria dropped her hand over the side of the hammock and jerked back in surprise when it brushed against a dog’s back. The movement upset her precarious balance, and she flapped around wildly for a moment as the hammock slowly, unstoppably, flipped over. Panicking, Maria flung one arm back into the hammock, grabbing it desperately to keep herself upright as she landed hard on her knees beside the dog. Someone chuckled behind her. Maria turned and glared at Nana while her hand sought freedom from the fabric. The old woman watched with humor in her eyes as she lounged on a nearby hammock.

“You’ve found a friend.” Nana chortled as the dog flung himself onto Maria, trying desperately to lick her face clean.

“I think he found me.” Maria shoved the dog off with one hand before he could knock her off balance.

“Are you hurt?” Nana asked as Maria freed her hand and slowly stood.

“Just my pride, I think.”

Nana grinned and settled back into her hammock. Maria stood, looking at her again. She seemed different today, fresher somehow. Perhaps it is sleeping in a familiar place, Maria thought as she wandered off to relieve herself.

When Maria returned, she found Nana with what Maria had come to assume were the village elders, eating breakfast and talking. She seated herself among them and ate in silence, wondering what the ever-present morning howl could mean. Obviously, Miguel wasn’t here and, therefore, she could not stay here either. But where would she go next? Perhaps the elders would have a suggestion.

“Maria!” Nana hissed, nudging her. She looked up, startled. Nana gestured to an old woman who was looking at her expectantly.

“I’m sorry. I guess my mind was elsewhere,” Maria said in her best Wayuunaiki. All the elders nodded as if her comment had a deep and important meaning.

“We were wondering what you plan to do now,” the old woman said in a creaky voice. “The Old One has told us the events that have brought you here, but we believe that you have not told all, yes? We would give our assistance but cannot until we know in what form to give it.” Again, all the elders nodded thoughtfully.

Maria looked at her hands and collected her thoughts, hoping her grasp of the language was enough. “I hadn’t really made any plans beyond coming here.” She fiddled with the cuff of her sleeve. How was she supposed to know what to do next? She needed to find Miguel, but she had no idea where to go from here. “I was hoping that you might have some information that could help me, some direction on where to go next.”

“So you are not staying.” An old man spoke this time. His statement caused mixed responses from the other elders around the circle. Maria looked toward Nana, who was concentrating on her food.

“As I said, I hadn’t really thought about it, but no, I don’t suppose I will be staying.”

“What drives you forward?” the elder with an uncertain gender asked. Everyone around the circle looked at Maria.

“It is childish, I suppose.” Maria hesitated. What would they think of her following a dream? But Nana had taken it seriously, so perhaps they would as well. She swallowed, gathering her courage, and spoke. “I have been having a strange dream for a very long time.”

“Listening to dreams is not childish,” the first old woman said. “What happens in this dream?”

“I am standing at home, in Maracaibo, near the jungle.” The words came out, almost without her thinking. “I hear a noise, but when I try to see what it is, I am stopped...” Maria trailed off. The last time she’d told anyone about the dream, bad things had happened. She ought to have just forgotten about it and never mentioned it again.

“By what?” the woman prodded when Maria didn’t continue.

Maria kept her gaze firmly on the cuff of her sleeve as she smoothed it over her arm. Best to just get it out quickly. Besides, what else could she lose? “By a dog I used to have. He protects me and dies doing so, but it isn’t how he died in real life. Then I am by the lake, sending his body out to sea. Once he is out of sight, I hear him howling, and I know he is still alive. Then I wake up.” Maria finished with a shrug, moving her eyes to the floor.

The silence that followed was deafening. She gathered her courage and glanced up, certain that they’d be staring her down with disapproval. But not a single one was looking at her. They were all exchanging knowing looks with Nana.

“Thank you, Maria, I think that is all we need from you for now.” Nana gestured in a way that made Maria feel that she was being sent out the door like a child who’d said too much. “Go amuse yourself or find something useful to do. I’ll find you later.”

Maria stood without comment. Being sent away like a silly child stung, but then again, having someone else make decisions was a relief. Maybe they would send someone for Miguel for her, then she would not have to decide. Everything she did ended in disaster, anyhow. What would she even do? She wasn’t even sure what direction to go. Obviously, there was much more going on between the elders and Nana than she had ever imagined.

Maria wandered to the large corral that held their horses. Beside it, in an open shelter, lay her tack and saddle bags, and she rummaged through them for the horse brush. Its stiff bristles scraped and prickled her skin before she grasped the smooth wood handle. Grooming the horses had always had a soothing effect and let her focus her thoughts. With a whistle, she called her horse over and tied him to a picket line to begin the ritual of pulling the dirt from his coat.

What if they did make her decide? Or if they wanted to send her home?

Everything in her rebelled at the thought of turning back. She simply couldn’t. There had to be a logical way to go about this. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to find out where her father had last been when Miguel found him. Hadn’t he told her that he had spent time in the village here? She decided she would ask the elders.

When the horse’s deep brown coat gleamed, Maria stepped back to admire her work and sneezed. Stupid dust. She wiped her nose with a handkerchief and realized for the first time that she was still covered in grime from the trail.

“I’ve never been this dirty in my life,” Maria muttered as she returned to her packs to look for some clean things to wear. Everything was filthy, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust. They had not stopped long enough for anything as trivial as laundry.

Irritated, Maria gathered up her clothes and followed the nearby sound of running water, determined to clean them, and if at all possible, herself. She wasn’t surprised when she crested the small hill to find a group of women already there, washing clothing. They chatted amicably amongst themselves and only glanced at Maria as she knelt at the water’s edge and began her laundering, plunging the first of her shirts in the cool water. For the first time in her life, she was grateful for the times she had helped Nana with the wash back home.

The rhythmic, methodical pace of washing her clothes soothed her tumultuous thoughts. Before she was quite ready to be done, her pile of dirty clothes had disappeared, and she stood slowly, stretching her back. Her wet hands brushed over the still-filthy cloth of her shirt and she cringed. There was nothing for it though, all her other clothes were still wet. She’d just have to wait until they dried before she could change.

Lifting the pile of wet things, she straightened, wishing she’d thought to bring a basket. Well, she’d know better next time. As she situated the clothes in her arms, a shy-looking woman about her age and enormously pregnant approached, holding out a neatly folded bundle of native clothes.

“For me?” Maria asked, reaching out tentatively. The woman nodded, painfully shy as Maria took the deep red cloth. “Thank you. Do you know where I can bathe?”

The young woman nodded and pointed downstream, then returned to her own washing. Maria tucked the clean clothes under her arm and went to bathe. The cool water that moved over her skin, rinsing the soap and dirt from it, felt glorious. Even managing to work some of the scented lye soap through her hair was calmingly straightforward. For a few minutes, life seemed simple.

When she was finished, she pulled on the loose tan pants and draped the long red dress with its lovely yellow geometric patterns over herself. The loose, relaxed cut of the clothing made her smile. It was so much more sensible than the corsets and layers of skirts she’d been raised in. She washed her last set of clothes, then draped her laundry across the scrubby trees that lined the river to dry in the warm sun.

Satisfied that they would be safe to dry there, Maria made her way to a large rock to sit on, and brushed through her wet hair. With that out of the way, she set to work brushing the dirt and horsehair from the heavy cloth of Miguel’s greatcoat, enjoying the warmth on her face and the rest for her travel-weary muscles. Álvaro did his typical little dance and Maria laughed at his rambunctious nature. Wrapped in the warmth of the sunlight, her thoughts wandered.

Nana found her there later that afternoon, staring to the northeast.

“Have you been here all day?” Nana asked, pulling Maria from her reverie.

“I suppose I have.” Maria reluctantly returned her attention to the present. She stretched and groaned as her stiff muscles complained of having not been moved for hours.

“I brought you something to eat.” Nana sat down, handed Maria a brilliantly patterned pouch, and set a basket at her feet. “And a basket for your clothes.”

“Gracias!” Maria pulled the bag open, her stomach growling with hunger, and immediately set to eating. She offered some up to Nana, who declined.

Maria watched the older woman glare at the grass while she ate. “What’s got you so upset?”

“What makes you think I’m upset?”

Maria laughed, inadvertently spitting out a bit of her food. “Your teeth are clenched tight enough to crush rocks, and if you glare any harder at the grass you’ll start a fire.” She flicked the bread crumb onto the ground.

Nana snorted and opened her mouth to speak.

“Oh no.” Maria cut her off. “You don’t get to sit next to me with that sort of attitude, and then tell me it’s none of my business. I’m betting you’ve had a disagreement with the elders’ council.”

“Have I ever told you what a nuisance you’ve become?” Nana asked wryly.

“I learned from the best.” Maria grinned and took another bite of food.

“Must have been your father,” Nana grumbled. “It certainly wasn’t me.”

“Either give me something, or I’ll have to start guessing.”

“Have you decided on a course of action?” Nana asked.

“No.” Maria shook her head, her eyes flicking to the northeast. “I only know I can’t go back, but I have no idea which way is forward.”

“There is a legend among this people.” Nana paused, but when Maria did not say anything, she continued. “There is a place to the east, considered sacred to the Wayuu. It is said that the dead walk there. If your dream is any indication, perhaps you should begin your search there.”

“Who are you here?” Maria gave Nana a hard look.

“What do you mean?” Nana responded cautiously.

“I mean that you are revered here. Even the really old people seem to defer to you, and you haven’t even been here for twenty years.”

“Twenty years is but a passing breath for those my age, and our people have a long enough memory that what is a lifetime to you is negligible to us. And though I always have a spot in the council, they certainly don't defer to me.”

“Is that what you’re so grouchy about? That you’re not getting your way?”  Maria’s eyes glinted with amusement. How often had Nana lectured her about that same thing growing up?

“This is their home, their village, and their duty to serve their people.” Nana gave a dismissive wave. “They must make decisions based on what they feel is best for those they are responsible for. I must do the same.”

“And sometimes those things are at odds.” Maria rubbed her belly where the baby kicked against it.  “I know the feeling.”

Nana leaned back and turned her face to the sky, remaining silent.

“But you didn’t answer my question,” Maria continued. “Who are you to the Wayuu? The only thing I’ve heard anyone here call you is ‘Old One,’ though you don’t seem half as old as some of the elders.”

“You notice much,” Nana chuckled. “Let me tell you something that might help you on your search.”

“You’re avoiding my question,” Maria said in defeat.

Nana continued as though she hadn’t heard. “There is a legend among us of two powerful, competing beings.”

“You’ve told me this tale before.” Maria picked at the remaining food.

“There is much more to this tale than I have told you before,” Nana said. “The first came among us a long, long time ago. He entranced many of our people, seduced many of them into following him without realizing that they had lost their individual wills. It was a dark time. The Slaver, we call him now.

“After many years of this, another creature with similar coloring and prowess came, offering to fight the Slaver on our behalf.”

“The Noble One.” Maria leaned back and closed her eyes.

“Indeed.” Nana sat forward, her elbows on her knees. “A cunning agreement was made with this Noble One, in which each side believed they got the better deal. In return for subduing the Slaver, the newcomer agreed to help us and protect us from all future threats. It was he who provided the knowledge of horses and guns when your father’s people first landed here. It was he who protected us from the plagues that all but wiped out our cousins. Or so he likes to be credited with.”

Maria opened one eye and gave Nana a skeptical look. The woman spoke as if this Noble One was still around.

“Our continued freedom, however, was conditional,” Nana continued before Maria could interrupt. “A sacrifice is required each and every new moon. The sacrifice being that one of our people, only one, from any of the Wayuu, was to be sent north to die. But even that was to be conditional. Our sacrifice was to be one who was already weak and ready to die. One nearly dead already. He would go and die peacefully, and the body would be burned.”

Nana turned to Maria. “Not a traditional burial by any means, but the bones always made their way back to us. ‘Hardly a sacrifice,’ we thought.”

“My father was to be one of these, wasn’t he?” Maria sat up, resting her weight on her arm.

“Yes.”

“Is that what my father meant when he said that Miguel had taken his place?”

“Yes.” Nana nodded again.

“I know he is still alive.” Maria stood and gathered her dry laundry. “I must go north and get him.”

“No.” Nana shook her head and silenced Maria’s protests with a gesture. “East is the only way for you to find him, the only chance for you to be with him if he still lives.”

“Why east?” Maria asked cautiously.

Nana sighed and looked up to the sky. “According to our tales, the powerful ones were friends once. The nobler of the two could not find it in himself to completely destroy our Slaver, his old friend. Those who go north go to serve the Slaver until they die. The Noble One can be found to the east.” Contempt began to creep into Nana’s voice as she spoke, drawing Maria’s attention. “The other concession from us, though we did not realize it a concession at the time, was that any woman who was discontent, who had lost her way, who had lost a loved one, who had lost her will to live, or for any other reason wanted a different life, was to go to the Noble One, and he would ‘help her find her way.’”

Who had Nana lost to this tradition? Maria didn’t dare ask. “If you feel so strongly about it, why would you want me to go to him?”

“As I said, he is the more noble of the two. You have a better chance of obtaining his assistance than you have rescuing your husband from the Slaver on your own. Assuming he still lives.”

“And if Miguel does not?”

Nana stood and smoothed out the folds of her dress. “Then, when you are ready, it is to the east that you will find what you seek.”

Maria set the last of her clothes into the basket. There was something Nana wasn’t telling her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. “Have any ever returned?”

“Only one.” Nana shrugged and walked away.

Maria watched her go as lethargy from the meal and the warm sun settled on her. There was no need to haul her clothes back to the village yet, so she spread Miguel’s greatcoat on the grass and lay down on it. It was too late to do anything useful today, anyhow. Surely tomorrow would be soon enough for her to leave. The familiar smells of the coat surrounded her, and she drifted off to sleep.

MARIA AWOKE SLOWLY, her mind full of the fuzz of sleep.

“Majayülü,” a voice said.

“Mmmmhhhm?” Maria responded, forcing her eyes to open.

“Majayülü?” she said again.

Maria’s brain slowly crunched the word. Señora.

“I’m awake,” she mumbled, pushing herself up awkwardly off her side. The voice belonged to the shy, pregnant woman who had helped her earlier. Maria repeated herself, this time in Wayuunaiki.

“It is good.” The shy woman ducked her head from Maria’s gaze. “It will be dark soon, and you should not still be out here.”

Maria agreed and heaved herself up to her feet, picking up Miguel’s dark coat from off the grass as she rose. When had standing become so difficult? No doubt it was still just soreness from traveling. They each took a side of the basket, and Maria asked the woman her name.

“Muusa,” she said as they began to walk back to the village.

“Cat?” Maria asked in Castilian.

Muusa nodded and mumbled. “Because I am so nervous.”

“When are you expecting?” Maria gestured to the other woman’s very large belly.

Muusa’s smile lit up her face, and she looked at Maria fully for the first time. “Soon. He doesn’t move as much now, but I can tell it will be soon. And you?”

“Not for another couple turns of the moon.” That would be enough time to find Miguel and return home, right?

“You look sad? Are you not happy to have this child?” Muusa asked.

“I can hardly wait.” Maria forced a smile back to her face. “I am only fearful that his father will not be here to see it.”

“I understand that.” Muusa’s face fell, and she again hid her face. “My child’s father will not return. He was lost in the fighting. I know it was a good thing, and we are proud of him, but the pain of his absence is great.”

Maria switched hands with the basket and wrapped her arm around the woman’s shoulders. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

Chapter 13

THE NEXT MORNING, MARIA woke with Alistair’s usual howl in the back of her mind and a determination to not fall out of her hammock. She stretched slowly, careful of the precarious rocking with each movement. Ever so cautiously, she edged her leg over the side as the hammock tipped further and further. Relief washed over her as her foot planted firmly on the ground. Now she had only to work up the courage to get her other leg off.

After much careful maneuvering, she sat upright. Her triumph was short-lived, however, when she tried to actually stand and couldn’t bring herself far enough forward to get out of the hammock. With a sigh, she lay back, rocking gently.

“Álvaro,” she said with a hand on her belly, “you’ve got to help me out a little bit here, and not get any bigger.”

“That’s never a wise thing to ask,” Nana said in her native tongue.

Maria turned her head toward the other woman’s hammock. “Do you just lie there, waiting for me to wake up?”

“You’ll never truly learn your mother’s language if you insist on speaking your own.”

Maria took Nana’s suggestion and switched languages. “I think you delight in not answering my questions.”

“You’ve at least another two moons before he comes, maybe even three. Now he begins to grow in earnest.”

Maria groaned and sank further into the hammock. “Don’t tell me that.”

“What would you like me to tell you? That you’ll never fit into your dresses again? That your body will never be the same? That your world will shift when your son is born, so that everything is weighed against the wellbeing of your child? These are things you will not really understand until they come to be.”

Curious, Maria looked again at her mentor. “And have those things happened for you? Did you ever have children Nana?

“No.” The older woman laughed, but her voice was somewhere between wistful and bitter. “No, children of my own were never in my stars.”

“Then, if you say that it cannot be understood until it is experienced, how do you know?”

“Child, there is a difference between knowing a thing and understanding it. I know it because I have seen it hundreds of times, but having never been through it, I cannot truly understand it.”

“Surely not hundreds, unless you were a traveling midwife before you attached yourself to my mother.”

“Oh yes.” There was a smile in Nana’s voice. “Hundreds. All the children here—before you were born, at any rate—and their parents, and theirs before them. Each one of them, completely enamored with their new little babes, as I’m sure you will be, the moment he is first laid in your arms.”

“I think your memory is faulty, old woman. There are not nearly enough people here for you to have attended hundreds of births.”

Nana laughed again. “Have you made a plan yet?”

“I suppose I will go east. However, if you think it is not imposing on their hospitality, I’d like to stay here and rest for a few more days. I’m so sore still that the thought of getting back into that saddle so soon almost makes me want to cry.”

“You must stay,” the voice of an elder cut in. A woman with hair as white as Nana’s, and who stood just as proud despite her weathered face and gnarled hands, stood nearby. “We were not expecting you quite so soon. The other families won’t be here for a few more days, and you will need to be here for that.”

“The other families?” Maria asked.

“Each community is mostly made up of family groups, so as to avoid mingling their herds. This one is one of the larger groups,” Nana explained.

“We are blessed here with an unusually good water source and good grazing for our flocks,” the elder added, “so it is natural that when we need to meet, it is here.”

“The additional rest will be welcome.” Maria leaned forward to try to heave herself up again. “But for now, I think I am done resting. I need to...get...up.” She flopped back into the hammock once more as her latest attempt at standing failed. She closed her eyes to the swaying world as the older women chuckled.

“Try walking backwards, chica,” Nana suggested before turning to converse with the elder.

Backwards. Maria’s bladder informed her that it would burst if she didn’t figure something out quickly. What could it hurt to try?

Leaning forward until her feet touched down, she carefully scooted her feet further and further back until she was standing, crouched over, with the hammock draped across her back.

“So undignified,” she muttered as she slowly straightened herself, mindful of causing cramps in her abdomen.

Later, as she ate breakfast, Maria called out to Mussa as she walked past with a bulging, beautifully colored bag under her arm and an elderly woman walking beside her.

“Good morning,” Muusa returned with a smile. “Have you met my maachon?”

Grandmother, Maria realized after a moment of searching for the translation.

The elderly woman gave Maria a warm smile, and though her hands shook as they took Maria’s, they were strong. “You may call me Maachon, as the Old One tells me you have none of your own.”

“Gracias.” Maria’s heart lifted at the offer. She nodded to the bags they carried. “What have you got there?”

“I am going to begin weaving another mochilas.” Muusa ducked her head from the attention.

“Did you make that bag, the mochilas? It is very beautiful.”

Muusa nodded, blushing.

“Would you mind if I watched?” Maria asked as she stood.

“We’d love the company, but why would you want to just watch? Did you not bring your own to make?” Maachon asked as they began walking and Maria fell into step beside them.

“No, I didn’t think my crochet needles would be something I’d need out here.” She laughed. “Besides, I’ve never made anything as lovely as that before. Could you teach me?”

“You mean that you don’t already know?” Muusa looked surprised.

Maria shook her head. “No, not like that.”

“Not even the Old One? Surely she would have taught you these things after your mother died.” Muusa stopped beneath a tree, and Maria helped her spread out a blanket on the grass.

“I never even knew my mother was one of the People until recently. The Old One helped raise me, but she never offered to teach me anything other than what any other Spanish girl might learn.”

“So you were raised entirely as alijuna. You know nothing of Si’a, Pulowi and Juya, or Wale´kerü?” Muusa helped Maachon take a seat on the brightly woven blanket.

“Nana told me tales of Si’a as a child, stealing jewels from the sea goddess, and a few words here and there, but not much else.” Maria shrugged and took a seat beside them. “What is Wale´kerü?”

“Who,” Muusa corrected. “Who is Wale´kerü. She is the one who taught us how to weave. She is a....” She trailed off, trying to think of a simple way to explain herself. Putting her hands on top of each other, Muusa wiggled her fingers, crawling them up Maria’s arm. “One who weaves?”

“La araña!” Maria said, suddenly understanding. “The Greeks have a similar tale, of how Arachne angered the goddess Athena by being a better weaver, and Athena turned her into a spider as punishment.”

“How terrible!” Muusa looked truly shocked. “No, Wale´kerü taught women to weave. She was a spider first, and she fell in love with a Wayuu man.”

Maria sat back, watching and listening as the other woman began her new bag and told the story of how weaving came to her people.

ON THE DAY OF THE CELEBRATION, Maria found herself set to simple chores alongside the older children. Even the young women were doing more involved tasks than she. Not that she minded, though. Her attempts to assist with cooking or other preparatory work had only served to showcase her ineptitude at such things. The women had been gracious about it but clearly relieved when she asked how else she might help.

The last few days had been both relaxing and enlightening. Maria felt she had picked up far more of the language as she spoke with and listened to the other women and the children who played about them. She had also felt a sense of inclusion and warmth that she’d never before known. She and her childhood friends had been close, but not like this.

Back aching, she took a seat on a stool beside a young tree to rest for a few minutes. She watched the boys on the outskirts of the village minding the livestock herds, and listened to the young girls giggling as they sang children’s songs. The songs held a sense of familiarity about them, stirring in her a ghost of a memory. A distant echo of a song floated through Maria’s mind, and though she grasped at it, it eluded her like a wisp of smoke dancing around her hand. Perhaps she would ask Nana about it the next time they spoke.

After a few minutes, Maria’s back began to ache horribly. Sitting on the stool was clearly doing it no favors, so she heaved herself to her feet. Her belly grew daily, and she could not imagine it getting any larger, yet somehow it did.

“How big are you planning to get in there?” she asked ruefully, rubbing her back with one hand and supporting her belly with the other. In response, Álvaro stretched and Maria was treated to pain in both her rib and above her hip. “Enough of that!” she said with a smile. “We’d better go—”

A searing pain shot through her back and wrapped around her stomach, cutting off her breath. Gasping, she reached for the tree for support. The muscles in her belly felt as though they wanted to tear themselves from her body. The pain passed after only a few seconds, but Maria stayed crouched over, leaning against the sturdy tree for a full minute. She breathed heavily, more from the shock of the experience than from the pain.

“Are you well?” a young voice asked, concerned.

Maria looked up and saw a young woman with very short hair, fresh from childhood, looking at her.

“I think so.” Slowly, she stood, straightening her back. “But I think I had better lie down. Would you help me to the piichi?”

“Of course.”

Once in her hammock, Maria’s body finally relaxed, but her mind raced. She counted back in her head, and again, and a third time. At best, she was only seven months along. Ice clutched at her heart with realization—it was too soon!

“Maria?”

Maria turned her head toward Nana as she entered the room.

“It’s too soon,” she whispered. “I can’t have him yet.”

“Was it only the one pain, or have you been having them often?” Nana’s calm level voice did nothing to soothe Maria. She’d heard that particular tone too many times.

“Only once. I stood up. Sometimes I get cramps when I stand, but not like this. This was... different. It was like a cramp over my entire belly.”

“How long did it last?”

“Only a few seconds, I think.” Maria shuddered inwardly. Only a few seconds. A few torturous seconds.

Nana nodded. “I was afraid of this. Your mother had this problem, as had her mother and her aunts. The others, not so much. Perhaps, if we keep you rested, they will not start in earnest for at least another moon.”

Maria nodded and closed her eyes, hot tears forming in her eyes. The reality of her condition had not truly set in with her until the moment the pain began. Up until then, she had still harbored some foolish idea that she’d go gallivanting off on her horse tomorrow or the next day, dash in to some place, snatch her husband out of the hands of folklore demons, and be back to Maracaibo, safely in her home before the child came. And everything would be a lovely, happily ever after.

Reality dashed that dream like a boulder dropped in a still pond.

She would be here until her son was born. And then what? Hopelessness welled up inside her as she struggled to find her path forward. She couldn’t just leave her infant son to go adventuring, yet nightly, her dreams reminded her forcefully that Miguel was alive. Alive and in need of her help. They both pulled at her, and she held them tight, for their lives depended on her strength. The howl that echoed through her mind each morning urged her forward, pushing her to go. Her son required that she stay.

I’m not meant for this! she cried out to whomever might be listening. You never taught me how to hold people’s lives in my hands!

She opened her eyes to find herself alone in the room, the door left open. Through it stretched a sea of gentle grass, running straight from her heart into the unknown distance. She couldn’t stay. But leaving her son was as impossible as taking him with her.

Despair washed over her and she turned to her side and wept.

MARIA STOOD IN A FIELD of gently waving grass. The jungle was nearby, dark, and green, and inviting. But today she did not care. Peace tried to wrap itself around her like a blanket, but her problems were too great and the peace too thin. She could still feel the bitter tears on her cheeks. A warm wind tried to stroke them away, lifting her hair, but she turned her face from it. She did not seek comfort tonight. The skies darkened, and she awaited the rain. It always rained here.

A warmth pressed itself against her hand, and she dropped down to her Alistair, hugging his neck tight.

What am I to do? she asked, feeling hollow inside.

As if he knew her inner turmoil, Alistair pressed himself against her, and she hugged him closer.

As they sat, she heard a tune from the distance. It was the elusive memory she’d had while the children were at play. She could hear it now and could tell that it was a lullaby, but it rose and faded as though carried away by a breeze.

When the inevitable rustling came from the jungle, Maria simply turned her back on it and stepped out of her dream. Alistair’s howl followed her to consciousness.

MARIA SPENT THE NEXT couple of weeks resting as much as she could. The thought of her son coming before he was ready terrified her. Occasionally, her pains would begin again if she exerted herself, and only immediate rest calmed them.

As she grew ever larger, Álvaro moved less and less. There were times when she’d suddenly realize that she couldn’t remember the last time he’d moved that day. It felt as though the entire world held its breath as she stopped whatever she was doing and waited for him to move again, hoping desperately that he remained alive. He always did, eventually, flooding Maria with relief.

Maria passed the time with Muusa, abuela Maachon, and the other women, learning more of the language and listening to their legends. Often, she worked on crocheting a bag of her own as they patiently instructed her, but her mind seemed to refuse to retain their words.

Looking down at the mess of material she currently held in her lap, Maria sighed. No doubt she would figure it out some day, but right now, she simply couldn’t think.

She was just so tired, so uncomfortable, and so stressed. The dreams could not be stopped, and she tossed and turned in her hammock at night whenever she wasn’t in the dream. The days crawled by in misery, alleviated somewhat by the company of the other women, but the nights ran even slower. Each night she was torn with the wish that she could just be finished with pregnancy, cursing her lot to be a woman and the terror of birthing him before he was ready. Each morning, she dreaded another day, but in the evening, felt blessed they had made it through another day.

The days became rainier and rainier, and one day Muusa and abuela Maachon were not with the other women.

“Her time has come,” one of them told her when Maria asked after her friend.

“I hope it all goes well,” Maria said.

“I’m sure it will be fine.” The woman patted Maria on the arm.

It was not until the next day that she received the news. Maria was resting in her hammock, listening to the rain, when Nana came in with a smile.

“Your friend Muusa has been delivered.”

“What did she have?” Maria asked, sitting up carefully.

“A boy and a girl.”

“Twins!” Maria was astounded. Carrying one was bad enough; she could barely imagine carrying two at once. “Imagine that. Are they well? When can I see them?”

“So it seems for now. It will be a while before they are ready for visitors. The new ones can catch illness so easily the first few weeks.”

“But her family at least is with her, aren’t they? She’s not alone?”

“Goodness, no!” Nana took a seat on the edge of Maria’s hammock. “Her immediate family is all gone, but she has cousins, aunts, and her grandmother here to care for her. When she and the children are strong enough, she will take them to her husband’s mother so that they also may know his children.”

Maria lay back down and felt tears stinging her eyes. “I’m glad she has family to care for her.”

“What is this, child?” Nana leaned forward to wipe the tears from Maria’s cheeks. “Do you think you have no family here?”

Maria turned away. “There is only you.”

The older woman sat back and folded her hands in her lap. “I am sorry, chica, I have been remiss in my responsibilities to you. May Ayelen forgive me of it; there has just been so much to do now that I am home.

“Did you forget that this was your mother’s home as well? It’s true that her brother and parents are long dead, but she had aunts and cousins. When your time comes, you will have family with you as well.”

“Who? They are all at best my cousins. Yes, I eat with them and listen to their stories, but I still don’t feel like I belong.”

“That is because you don’t. This is but a stop on your journey. You are not meant to stay here.”

“Is that what the council has decided? Or you told them to decide? I’m to just do whatever they tell me?”

“The elders make decisions independently of me, and I of them.” Nana touched Maria’s shoulder gently. “You must move forward from here. You can’t go back.”

Maria turned back to look at Nana, her eyes narrowing as bitterness turned in her stomach. “You still believe that? That I’m supposed to somehow free this people from a supernatural force? Me, all alone with a baby slung across my back against an immortal—what did you call him? A blood-sucking viper? What does that even mean? That he’s some snake you want me to stomp on? Or maybe some faerie-tale vampire? What other absurdities should I believe while I’m at it? The hydra, perhaps, or the duende?”

Nana’s reply was sharp. “Well, he certainly isn’t a snake, and whether or not you take your baby is entirely up to you, but I certainly wouldn’t advise it.”

“Then what would you advise, oh great and wise Old One?” Maria’s irritation flared up within her. “Do you actually believe he is real? You do, don’t you? You think he’s really out there, and that some ancient vampire feud exists. How do you know it’s not just some other clan at this point who kills everyone you send? Have you ever been there? Ever seen him? Has anybody? You keep saying that no one ever returns. If that’s so, how do you know this creature even still exists?”

“I have not seen him myself,” Nana answered quietly. “But there was one who has.”

“Who?”’ Maria demanded.

Nana stood and walked toward the door. For a moment, Maria thought that she wouldn’t answer, but Nana stopped and turned back.

“My mother,” she said quietly, before slipping out of the room.

Maria snorted and rolled over again, irritated, uncomfortable, and lonely.

Chapter 14

WHEN MARIA’S PAINS finally came in earnest, she found she was unprepared for them. As each round of pain intensified, her anger and sense of loneliness grew. She gritted her teeth through the agony that doubled her over and cursed Miguel for not keeping his promise to return. As the vice-like grip loosened its hold on her body, she caught her breath and turned her anger toward her father.

She walked across the small room, aware in some small part of her mind that her anger was unjustified. As another contraction tightened her back, she cursed her father for leaving the first time, for getting sick, for returning, and then, finally, for dying. With each round of abdominal torture, she grabbed hold of something to be angry at. Her mother. Her father. Miguel. Mostly, though, Maria berated herself for allowing any of this to happen. For causing any of this to happen. For being so stupid as to leave home while she was pregnant instead of just waiting.

When Nana came to prepare her to deliver the baby, Maria was less than helpful. Maria snarled at her through the pain and threw whatever came to hand at her until Nana retreated, shaking her head. Nana waited just outside the door until Mother Nature won the argument for her before returning to assist.

The labor continued, long and difficult, and Maria lost track of everything beyond the next contraction and Nana’s voice guiding her through them. Then, suddenly, it was over. Maria held her beautiful, perfect, tiny son in her arms, and despite her exhaustion, she couldn’t stop looking at him, full of wonder. He was the most perfect thing she’d ever seen. She marveled at his little features, his perfect, tiny hands and feet.

Eventually, she allowed Nana to take him to get cleaned, and she dozed off almost instantly.

She awoke to her son lying on her chest. His weight was so perfect, the way he breathed, the shape of his head, his beautiful dark hair. It all pulled her in. There was nothing in this world but her little Álvaro.

“Hello, little one. My little Álvaro Michael Álvarez del Mar. It is so nice to finally meet you.” Maria cooed and turned him over to admire his face with its exquisitely tiny eyes and lips. He squeaked, scrunched up his face, and started crying.

She looked helplessly up at Nana, who instructed her on how to nurse him.

“He’s a good, strong boy,” Nana said proudly as he settled to his task.

The little bundle in her arms entranced Maria. “He’s beautiful. So perfect.”

“He looks just like you did when you were born, and you look so like your mother. I remember her looking at you the same way. It’s that look all mothers get.”

“Are they always this small?” Maria asked as he fell asleep in her arms.

“No, not usually.” Nana said. “He’s a bit early. I worried at first that he would not breathe on his own, but he has a fine set of lungs and is eating well. It’s too early to say anything for certain, but I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

She patted Maria’s knee and took the sleeping bundle. “Get some rest, I will watch over him while you sleep.”

Maria wanted to protest, but the exhaustion overwhelmed her, and she slept.

THE NEXT FEW DAYS PASSED in a haze for Maria, an endless cycle of feeding Álvaro what seemed like every hour, and falling—exhausted—back to sleep. Occasionally, she ate and saw to her own needs, though it seemed that every hour of her day was shadowed by the nearly constant cramping of her womb. Nana assured her that the cramping was normal and would go away, but it made Maria uneasy.

Álvaro, however, made every bit of the pain and sleeplessness worth it. She found she loved him more every time she nursed him, looked at him, or held him. There was nothing in the world she wouldn’t give to keep him safe. She would learn to live with the ache that her dreams left her with each morning, begging her to find Miguel. Maria smiled down at her sleeping son, and for a moment he smiled back, then relaxed again in sleep. She would even face Nana’s disappointment. She would keep him safe no matter the consequences.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you here to help me with him,” she said to Nana one day after she had finished nursing Álvaro. “I can’t imagine if I’d been left to manage this on my own.”

“I don’t think we were ever meant to do it on our own.” Nana gazed at the little baby she held. “I know you’ve been preoccupied, but have you given any thought to where you will go from here?”

Maria nodded, leaning back in the hammock. “As soon as we’re both strong enough, I will go home. It is strange, the way the world changes when you have a child. It’s like I never knew the meaning of love before. It’s overwhelming and feels as though there is nothing in the world that I wouldn’t do for this precious little one. Then I think about my parents and can hardly believe they felt so strongly about me, though I’m sure they did. I think I understand them a little better now.”

“That sounds about right.”

“Do you think that feeling ever goes away or lessens with time?” She watched the thatched roof sway above her as she thought about her father, seeing his actions across her childhood in a new light.

“I wouldn’t know, never having had children of my own. But, from what I’ve seen, I don’t think that it does. You just learn to live with it better. It’s similar to pain in that regard, I think.”

Álvaro began to cry, and Nana walked around the room, bouncing him on her shoulder until he let out a loud belch.

“I couldn’t ever put him in harm’s way, and Miguel wouldn’t want me risking our son for his sake. We’ll go home.” Maria gave a wry grin. “As soon as I can sit down without wincing, anyway.”

Nana chuckled. “Give it time, chica.”

“I’m going to try to sleep.” Maria pulled her feet up onto the hammock with a shiver as a light rain began drumming on the roof. “Could you get me another blanket? It’s a little chilly.”

“Certainly,” Nana said as she left.

Maria was asleep before she returned.

MARIA SLEPT FITFULLY. She was so cold. She tossed and turned in her bed, and something tangled about her, cocooning her legs and spinning the world beneath her. She tried to stand, but the rain beat down from an empty sky and the grass tripped her feet. Maria clung to Alistair as he fed her warmth, but it wasn’t enough, and still the world spun. Words whispered around her on the wind. Green eyes watched her from within her heart, and an infant cried for his mother. The world turned, and with it the bone-deep chill turned to heat, muggy and unbreathable. And finally, she slept.

HER LIPS HURT. MARIA tried to lick them, but her mouth was too dry. “Water,” she tried to say, but her parched throat merely croaked. Nana was by her side instantly, sitting her up and pressing a cup to her lips.

“Slowly now,” Nana said. “You’ve been ill with a childbirth fever for some time.”

Glorious and cool, the water touched her lips, and Maria let it sit, soaking into her mouth before swallowing. She tried to drink deeply next, but Nana allowed only sips. The next thing she knew, the light had changed and Nana offered broth. It, too, was wonderful. When she was finally able to stay awake for longer than it took to swallow a few bites she asked about her son.

“Don’t worry about him for now, chica,” Nana told her softly. “Get your strength back first.”

At first Maria was too weak to fight about it, but as her strength grew, so did her insistence about seeing her son. One day when she didn’t fall immediately back to sleep after eating, Maria drew her strength together and rolled from her hammock, dumping herself on the floor. Her arms and legs collapsed under her weight, and she lay stunned for a moment, shocked at her inability to catch herself. She gritted her teeth. That was not important right now. Finding Álvaro was.

Clutching onto the wall for support, she drew herself to a stand and hobbled to the door. Nana looked up at her from where she sat just outside the door and waited for Maria to speak.

“Where is Álvaro?” Maria asked, slow and concise.

“You’d best sit down, Maria.” Nana came and took her arm, helping her to a chair. “How are you feeling?”

Her limbs felt heavy and everything inside her said that lying on the floor and sliding into unconsciousness would be best. “Wrung out. Sore all over. I can’t take a deep breath without pain. Where is my son?”

“You’ve improved quite a bit, but you’re still ill. I was worried you might not make it for some time.”

“I don’t care about that. Where is my son?” Maria tried to put force behind her words, but they were still weak.

Nana knelt down before her and took her hand. “Maria, I am so very sorry—“

A chill stole through Maria’s chest, and she jerked her hand away, dropping it uselessly to her lap. Her heart sank beneath the fear that welled up inside her. “What are you saying?”

“I’m sorry, mi querida. Your son is dead.”

Her heart seemed to stop, and she shook her head in disbelief, but Nana continued on.

“He died in his sleep. It happens, sometimes. No one really knows why.”

“I don’t believe you,” she whispered as the chill in her chest turned to pain. Images of his tiny, perfect fingers curled around her own flashed through her mind. “Let me see him! I need to see my Álvaro.”

“We’ve already buried him. He died while you were ill, and we couldn’t wait for you to get better.” Nana choked up. “There were a few times we thought we’d lose you, too.”

“Then take me to his grave.”

Nana stood and helped her to her feet. Darkness threatened to consume Maria as she walked, but she held it at bay, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other on the soggy ground.

They stopped before a mound of earth, still relatively fresh, and to Maria’s eyes, impossibly small. Too small to be a grave. No one should ever have to see a grave so small. She dropped to the ground beside it, her pain exploding out of her chest, and screamed in wordless agony. Never had she known pain like this, and she curled into herself on the cold ground, allowing the darkness to swallow her.

TIME PASSED, AND THE season turned, but Maria didn’t care. She had nothing left. Death would have been a relief, but her body defied her. It wanted to live, and the people around her conspired to make it so. She ate. She drank. She slept. She grew stronger. She envied Selena’s mother, who was said to have just turned her head to the wall and died after birthing a daughter instead of a son. Who knew that death was not so easy?

The spark of life was in her, banked but warm, as she lay in apathy and depression. Sometimes, when the wind touched it just so, it flared a little, and for a moment Maria would awaken to the world around her. But then her arms would remember holding her baby, or another child in the village would cry, or her hands would brush her deflated belly, and the darkness would wash over her again.

ONE DAY THAT WAS NO different from the ones before it, Maria sat, staring out over the fields to the northeast, as she often did. A breeze sauntered past her, running its fingers through her hair. She closed her eyes and inhaled, half expecting to see ever faithful Alistair beside her when she opened them. But there was only Nana.

Maria could hear the children playing in the distance around the village, and for the first time it didn’t hurt. She didn’t want it to not hurt, but it didn’t care what she wanted. It never had.

“How could this have happened?” How had so much gone so wrong so quickly? Maria stared into the distance, her mind running through the events that had brought her here, the path etched into her brain like ruts in the road, and just as inescapable. “A year ago, I had everything. I had Miguel, and my father. My home. Dreams and a future. Now I have nothing.”

What had brought her to this? What a fool she had been, to risk Álvaro’s life. “And what was it all for?” Maria asked. It was for Miguel. She had told herself that a thousand times, and with each time the excuse wore thinner. And this time she saw through it. Maria shook her head. “I did it for myself. My own selfishness.”

Tears blurred Maria’s vision as the truth tumbled through her mind. Her own shortsightedness had brought her out here in the middle of a pregnancy. Her own arrogance had convinced her she would be fine. Sobs pushed their way up her chest and out her mouth. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have not taken five seconds to really think things through?

She dropped to the ground, breathless as though she’d been punched in the gut. She’d sent Miguel to his death. She could have stopped him. She could have simply held her tongue and not needed to stop him. Everything she had lost had been her own fault.

“Why couldn’t you have let me die?” Maria whispered.

“Because you are needed.” Nana gently touched Maria’s hair.

“I don’t care about your legends.” Maria’s arms ached with their emptiness. She had nothing left to hold to. “I just want my son back.”

Nana crouched down beside her and lifted Maria’s chin. “All things that begin must end. Your son is gone, mi querida. But you remain. You can make their sacrifices worth something.”

Maria looked away from Nana’s intense brown eyes. It was selfishness that had brought her to this point. Perhaps it was justice that she let go of her own will and allowed herself to be swept along by fate. She snorted at the childish absurdity of the thought. No, it was responsibility Nana asked of her. Something she had avoided all her life.

Miguel still needed her help. And how would she tell him she had lost their child? The numbness within her spread. She had to find him, he deserved to know what had happened to their son. She couldn't undo what she’d done, but perhaps she could begin to pay for it. Taking a deep breath that served only to amplify the emptiness of her heart, Maria stood.

“I’ll go,” she said in Wayuunaiki. “I’ll leave tomorrow, if you will show me the way.”

Nana nodded, and together they returned to the village.

THE NEXT MORNING, MARIA and Nana were on their way before the sun had risen.

“I’m glad you came,” Maria said after a few minutes.

Nana only grunted.

They rode in silence for most of the day and didn’t speak much when they stopped for the night. As the sun neared its zenith the next day Nana pulled her horse to a sudden stop. Maria pulled up and looked back at her.

Nana looked pale and her face taut. “This is as far as I dare go, child. I should not have come this far.”

“You are a strange woman, Nana. Thank you for all you’ve done.” Maria leaned over to give her old nurse a hug, ignoring the moment of lightheadedness it caused. “Take care of yourself, old woman.”

“And you, child. I shall miss you.” Nana smiled a sad smile. “This will be the first time in many, many years that a Zyanya woman was not in my care. Things are in your hands now. Be wise, and follow your heart.”

Maria nodded and kicked her horse eastward. Behind her, a haunting Wayuu melody rose into the air. The music seemed to follow her longer than it should have. The song began with a sorrow that spoke to the pain in her heart, but it turned to a joy that Maria did not want to understand. Then it was lost in the sound of her horses’ hoof beats.

Chapter 15

RIDING ALONE FELT strange. Though she had not spoken often of late, Maria missed knowing that she could talk, if she wanted. She tried talking to herself or the horse, but found that more often than not, she lapsed into silence, her mind as blank as the rolling desert before her. Exhaustion pulled at her constantly, and more than once, she fell asleep in her saddle.

The land dried out, and the vegetation became sparse as she traveled deeper into the arid land. She tried to keep her course due east but often found herself veering to the north. Maria wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for, though she felt certain she would know it when she found it. Her thoughts inevitably circled around to hopelessness, and she would close her eyes and simply try to breathe, trusting the horse to continue forward. Forward was the only direction that held anything for her. There was nothing to return to.

Perhaps she was foolish for holding to her husband so tightly. She paused near a stream as the sun sank against the distant hills to her back. Her horse dropped its head and drank noisily. Perhaps everyone would have been better off if she had stayed home. Perhaps Álvaro would have died anyhow. She drank from her canteen, the warm water unpalatable but better than nothing.

Perhaps, with time, the feeling that a part of her was elsewhere—to the northeast— would fade and she would no longer be drawn inexplicably toward it, compelled toward it. The pull that kept her alive and moving forward might finally weaken, and she might return to that life from before. She mounted the horse, nudging it away from the stream. If she went back... The idea that some other man might come and take Miguel’s place, might try to replace her Álvaro with another child, filled her with fury. Kicking her horse into a gallop, they nearly flew across the landscape until they were both spent, as though she could outrun such haunting thoughts.

In the dark, starlit night, Maria’s horse stumbled to a stop, and she dismounted, clutching the saddle for support as she got her feet beneath her. This was as good a place to stay as any. Her horse grunted in relief as she unsaddled him. Maria had felt no need to track the time since her son’s passing; one day was like another to her, blending into a singular stretch of blurred actions and inescapable thoughts. The dreams had not stopped, either. She took comfort in the presence of her protector in her dream, often talking to him as she would have spoken to Miguel. In a way, the dreams had become more real to her than her waking hours, for they filled her senses vividly in ways the desert could not.

Her fingers moved with a strange disconnect as she untied her saddlebags. She watched them as though they belonged to someone else. A bone-deep weariness filled her, but she looked forward to sleep with a mixed sense of relief and dread. Perhaps tonight, when she searched for Álvaro in the dreams, the way she had known him before he was born, she would at last find him. She had never caught anything more substantial than the sound of a cry lost in the breeze. But still she hoped.

She set her horses to grazing and stared over the land as the moon rose, illuminating the terrain. The soft chirping of crickets filled the desert landscape as she ate her meager dinner. She ate only because she knew she must. Taking stock, she looked across the landscape. To the south there were small mountains, and more to the distant northeast. To the west and north lay the desert she had come across. Maria tried to picture one of the maps her father had hung in his office. She’d looked at them so often in her youth that she thought she knew them, but she’d never thought the land was so big. The maps had made everything seem small and close together.

Her eyes were drawn again to the mountains to the northeast. Was that where she would find Miguel? Was she going in the wrong direction? What if she had missed it, whatever it was that Nana and fate had directed her toward?

Maria finished her food and stared into the darkness, absorbed in her thoughts. A woman stepped from the shadows and into the dim light of her fire, startling her.

Maria leapt to her feet and pulled out her pistols, fully cocked almost before they were free. The stranger stopped abruptly and put their hands out slowly, empty palms up.

“Who are you?” Maria demanded in Spanish. “What do you want?”

The shadowy figure—a woman—shook her head, so Maria tried again in Wayuunaiki.

“I’ve been sent to collect you,” the woman said.

Maria peered over the fire, trying to make out details in the near darkness. “Come around so I can see you.” She gestured to the side with one of the pistols.

The woman complied, moving slowly and deliberately. As she rounded the fire, her features and dark hair proclaimed her Wayuu. She wore strange clothes, unlike either the Spanish dress Maria was used to or the native dress the people of the village had worn. Maria guessed the woman to be about her father’s age.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Iráma. I have been sent to bring you to your new home,” the woman said, her voice calm and smooth.

“I am not searching for a new home.” Maria’s pistols remained trained on Iráma, who smiled blandly.

“You seek something you cannot find. I wish only to take you to one who can help.”

“The Noble One?” Maria asked, hesitant.

“Yes. He’ll be glad to know they still call him that.” Iráma sounded amused. “Come now, we must get moving.”

Maria uncocked her pistols but put them at the ready before tucking them away, sending a grateful thought to Miguel for his lessons. She wished he could receive it. Maria packed the camp as quickly as she could manage, her horse grunting with displeasure as she resaddled it. Iráma watched quietly, then led the way into the darkness.

At first, Maria feared for the animal and herself, and led the tired horse behind her. What if one of them misstepped in the dark? But Iráma guided them without hesitation. Maria watched the land pass by for a while before it occurred to her that they were headed south.

“We are going back south?” Maria asked.

“Yes. You always seemed to turn toward the north, so the ‘Noble One’ decided to wait a little longer to retrieve you to make certain it was he you searched for.”

“I see. Is that how you know who is looking for you?”

“Not me. No one is looking for me. They come for him and what help he might give,” Iráma said.

Maria gave her a curious look. Iráma did not volunteer any further information, and so they lapsed into silence.

As they walked through the night, the mountains loomed closer, and the moon traveled across the sky. Maria felt she was going to collapse with each step when Iráma finally stopped.

“We will rest here for a little while. The land begins to climb soon, and I don’t want to stop again.” Iráma slung her pack off her back with an absurd amount of grace.

Maria rubbed her eyes and exhaustedly followed suit, pulling the saddle from her horse and dropping it unceremoniously on the ground. She brushed, fed, and hobbled her horse, then lay her blanket on the ground.

Iráma, already in her own bedroll several feet away, gave her a warm smile. “Sleep soundly. We have a long walk tomorrow still.”

Maria mumbled a response and dropped onto the blanket. Once on the ground, she stayed awake only long enough to look up at the stars and wonder what Miguel was doing.

MARIA WAS HOME IN MARACAIBO. The day was warm and she stood alone in the fields. The clear sky, full of stars, shone above her, but it would rain soon. She missed the nearly constant rain of home. The wind blew the fresh, clean smell of the lake to her, and she inhaled it, savoring the taste. It washed away all the emotions that surrounded her, leaving peace in its wake. She looked around for Alistair but didn’t see him. Shrugging, she took a seat on the long grass and started plaiting a few blades into a whimsical design. He would come when it was time.

As she braided the grass, she stretched her mind toward Álvaro, hoping to sense him, or perhaps call his spirit to her. As before, she found nothing. Maria was disappointed but not surprised.

A rustling in the grass drew her attention, and she looked up to see Alistair standing over her. Maria stood and threw her arms around the dog’s neck, hugging him tightly. When she let go, he licked her face, and together they turned toward the jungle.

Tonight was different, somehow. The rustling didn’t draw her. Instead, she found herself looking to the south, back toward the city. Curious, she started toward it and found herself riding her horse. They walked at first, but a sense of urgency overtook them and they broke into a gallop. It wasn’t to her father’s hacienda that the horse took her, but the Casa de la Cuesta. She reined the horse in when the large house came into sight. What in the world were they doing here?

She dismounted and ran up the front steps. Maria stepped through the front door and onto the balcony that overlooked the gardens. Dancing music came from behind her—someone was having a party. Was she dressed for a party? Looking down, she found she wore the red and black brocade gown from that night so long ago. It seemed like another lifetime. Couples walked in the gardens beneath her, oblivious to anything beyond each other.

Suddenly, a familiar shape in a familiar coat moved down the path. He had a familiar gait and a familiar cutlass swinging at his side. Maria could hardly believe it.

Miguel! she shouted and waved her arm. Miguel! Up here!

But he did not seem to hear her. She lifted her skirts and charged down. When her feet touched the path, she looked for Miguel, but he was no longer there. She raced down the path she had seen him on. She turned the corner and came to an abrupt halt. She was back in the old dream, on the docks, sending her dead protector back to the sea.

Though neither her father nor Miguel stood beside her, Maria knew she was not alone. Animosity surrounded her and she spun, looking for the source. A glint of gold in the shadows caught her eye; a figure stood there, just beyond her sight. Maria turned back to the lake to wait for the howl that would relieve her fears and return her to the waking world.

The howl came and wrapped her in its embrace, depositing her back into her own body while urging her forward.

MARIA AND IRÁMA WOKE before the sun rose and continued on, keeping up a brisk pace and resting only occasionally.

Maria replayed her dream over and over in her mind, amazed and thrilled at the new turn of events. Perhaps next time, she could find a way to wait in the garden for Miguel, to follow him. Perhaps even stop him. She imagined his look of joy when he turned and saw her. It would be so good to see his face again, even if it was just in a dream. His dark hair, always so smooth to run her fingers through, his beautiful smile and his entrancing green eyes. She remembered all of it. She remained lost in her daydreams until a turn around a switchback presented her with a sight she could not ignore.

The sun had touched the low horizon behind them. Before her stood a cliff face, with a large, central section smoothed and carved to resemble an ancient building around a dark entrance. Maria was stunned. To think someone would have gone through all the trouble to cut such a likeness into the very stone!

Maria rifled through her memories of her father’s books, trying to place the ancient style. Greek, perhaps. Two multifaceted pillars stood on either side of the entrance. On either side of the pillars, several feet up, circles had also been cut into the stone—presumably to allow light into the cave. Above the pillars rested a triangular façade with figures worked into the edges. As they drew closer, even more extravagant details became clear.

“What is this place?” she breathed in wonder.

“Home,” Iráma said with a little smile.

Maria dismounted, pulling Miguel’s greatcoat from the saddle. She pulled it on and Iráma took the reins, leading the horse through the dark entrance. The woman and horse disappeared abruptly into the darkness, leaving Maria alone on the outside, still staring at the intricate stonework. Her horse nickered from within, and Maria gathered her courage to follow.

Maria expected it to be dark inside, but her eyes adjusted quickly. The entrance hall, either carved from or lined with the same stone that made the façade, funneled her toward a dark hall. Iráma had disappeared, but Maria could hear the horse’s unshod steps clopping on the hard floor.

She followed, the hard stone floor unyielding under her boots, trailing her hand along the rough stone wall as the light faded. The hall twisted a couple times before light appeared before her. Without meaning to, she picked up her pace. The hall opened into a large chamber, and the amount of light that filtered down across the stone, nearly as bright as the evening outside, surprised Maria.

Iráma waited for her while another Wayuu woman led the horse away. Maria stared at the room, trying to take it all in. It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen elegance before—she had practically been raised in the extravagant halls of the Casa de la Cuesta—but this was different.

Torches lined the room, but none were lit. Instead, it seemed that the light was coming from the arched ceiling. She looked up, trying to figure how it had been done, but could not pinpoint a source; the circular windows from the facade did not open into the room. The room itself was round with many doors, some of which were open, and the walls between each door had figures carved into them. Most were human figures in all sorts of poses, but none entirely free of the wall behind them. As her gaze swept the room, she caught sight of Iráma watching her with her arms crossed.

“It is an impressive sight, is it not?”

Maria agreed with a nod.

“Would you like to meet him now, or rest a little first?”

Maria’s stomach growled that it would like some food but she ignored it. “Now, I think, would be best.”

Iráma led the way through the door immediately to their left. This hallway was darker than the round entrance chamber and curved slightly, but did not twist like the first one. The passage through the darkness was much shorter. Light from another chamber ahead appeared almost as soon as the light from the previous room vanished. This time, she felt no need to trail her hand along the wall.

They continued through a long, straight hall with the same stretch of darkness. They continued back into the light, and Iráma stopped at a large, ornate door. She pushed it open and motioned Maria through.

Maria tried not to appear impressed as she stepped into the large, long room. The pale stone, with its mineral staining of tans and greys, had been smoothed almost to shine along the walls. More of the half-finished statues lined the walls, with halls and doors interspersed among them. As she stepped forward, her eyes rose to the ceiling. The room had the same gentle fading daylight glow as the round chamber, though surely they were far deeper into the mountain.

Unwilling to be caught gaping, she dropped her eyes to the far end of the long chamber and paused. Sitting on a raised stone platform sat a large, gaudy chair draped with pale cloth and cushions; the first decorations she had seen here not made of stone.

Iráma swept past her, stopping a short way from the throne—Maria could think of no better word for it—and dropped into a graceful, sweeping bow. A momentary twinge of jealousy that Iráma seemed to do everything with such grace and poise struck Maria, but the feeling passed as she looked back at the throne, unable to make out an occupant.

“My Lord Sophus, I have brought one who seeks your assistance,” Iráma said, rising from the bow.

“Bring her to me.” A resonant, low male voice echoed through the chamber. Maria saw a hand moving and from there, the figure seated amid the mass of silk and cushions became clear to her. Iráma turned back to Maria and gestured her forward.

Maria walked tentatively forward with her head held high, trying to make out further details of the man on the throne. The nearer she came, the further the illusion dissolved, but he held so still that when she blinked, his figure nearly disappeared back into the draped cloth.

The click of her boots sounded unnaturally loud in her ears, and she stopped before reaching Iráma. Sophus stood and gave her an appraising look. His body was draped in pale cloth the same colors as the cloth on his throne, and his skin was even paler. It was no wonder she’d had difficulty making him out. His face, as sculpted and beautiful as any of the statues she’d seen, was framed by light blond hair in short, tight curls that cascaded languorously to his shoulders. Beautiful was a good word for him, Maria decided, but his smile, and the look in his eyes spoke of a dark place within.

“Welcome, child,” he said, and Maria felt a chill steal up her spine despite his warm and welcoming tone. “I am Lord Sophus, the Noble. And you, my dear?”

“I am Maria Álvarez... del Mar.” Maria hesitated a moment over the last name. A fear seized her heart when she thought of giving her mother’s name of Zyanya.

“A Spaniard! And you speak the native tongue so well, considering. How very interesting.” Sophus stroked his chin as he stepped toward her, looking her over. “What is it that you seek?”

Maria held her ground before him. “I am searching for my husband, and I was told that you might give assistance. That it would only be with your assistance that I would find him.”

“Tell me, Maria, what if we are unable to find him? What is your plan then?” he asked with obviously feigned interest.

“I will continue to search for him until he is found.”

“If that is your wish.” Sophus sighed and returned to his throne with a flourish of his long, pale robe. “I would gladly assist you, but I fear that now is not a good time for me. If you are willing to wait and stay with us for a few days, we will see what we can do.”

Maria curtsied, flourishing the greatcoat as though it were a skirt. “I thank you for your kindness.”

“Iráma, please show Maria to one of the guest rooms and arrange for something for me to drink in my chambers. Maria, we will speak again later.”

“As you say, Lord Sophus.” Iráma gave another graceful, sweeping bow. She motioned for Maria to follow and swept past her back toward the door they’d come from. The dark part of the hall seemed longer going back than it had coming in. When they emerged into a small chamber rather than the intersection she had expected, Maria paused. Certainly they’d taken the same passageway? She shook her head. There must have been a turnoff somewhere.

“You’ll learn,” Iráma said warmly.

“Do they all branch in the darkness?”

“Yes, but at night we use torches if we must walk the halls, and you will learn where the turnoffs are.” Iráma continued.

Maria followed closely, worried that she’d take a wrong turn as they entered another passageway. “Was this place carved straight out of the rock?”

“Not entirely. Lord Sophus carved out most of it himself following the natural passages that were already here. Most of the artwork is his doing, though.” Iráma paused to stroke one of the statues with admiration.

“It is very beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence until they came to another large chamber with doors lining the walls. These doors all had symbols on them, which Maria recognized as Greek characters.

“Yours is this one.” Iráma motioned to one of the doors.

“Theta,” Maria noted, and the other woman nodded in approval.

Iráma opened the door and stepped back. “I’ll have some food sent up to you, and there is clean water within. Please be aware, also, that it is against the rules we live by to send anything downstream.”

“Thank you,” Maria said, trying not to let her confusion show as she entered.

“For now, it would be best that you stay in your room unless you have a guide. These halls are very extensive, and more than one newcomer has become lost in them. Often, those who get lost are not found alive,” Iráma added before closing the door.

“I’ll remember that.” Maria closed the door. She had no trouble believing that she would get lost the moment she stepped out her door without someone to guide her. These caves must be huge. She shook her head. A single person could not have carved them out in one lifetime, especially one who looked as young as Sophus. No doubt he’d had a crew to help him, and he’d planned and directed it. Or perhaps Sophus was a title, and men through the generations had gone by that title, carving and expanding their domain. But what an undertaking, nonetheless!

She looked over her room. It was, of course, made of stone like the rest of the caves and had similar ambient lighting coming from the high ceiling, now colored with the blue hue of just past sunset. The room was nearly the same size as her bedroom back home, and light-colored drapes and tapestries hung on the walls, giving it an almost cozy look. The lightness of the colors made it seem larger and less confining than it really was.

The sound of running water caught Maria’s attention and she searched for the source. Niches and shelves of stone lined the walls, most of which appeared to have been carved, though a couple appeared as natural formations. A couple held books or wooden statues. One held towels, and another a set of two cups. Beside the cups was a niche with a V-shaped bottom that went back further into the wall, and as she looked in, she realized that that was where the sound was coming from. Reaching in her hand, she felt a cool stream of water running over it. She snatched her hand out again, remembering Iráma’s instruction about sending things downstream and thought about how dirty her hand must be.

She looked around for something to wash up with, as the cups were too wide to fit back into the hole. She ran her hands over the smooth wood furniture, admiring its beauty as she looked. There was a dresser with drawers and a nice-looking bed frame with a mattress, though no linen had been put on yet. A small bit of excitement rose in Maria at the realization she’d be sleeping on a real bed, rather than her travel roll or a hammock.

On the dresser sat a large pitcher and an equally large bowl, both of which were empty. The question now was how to get the water out of the wall. Perhaps something to divert the water. She searched through the drawers of the dresser and all the shelves, and found some linen for the bed. Unable to find anything for the water, she set to work making up the bed, wishing she at least had her gear so that she could put on something clean.

As Maria smoothed the covers, her door opened, and a small, middle-aged woman with dark but greying hair entered backward. She carried a wooden tray with cloth covering what looked like food dishes, and a younger woman followed her with Maria’s bags and some other bundles.

“What news do you bring, waré?” the older woman gave Maria the traditional greeting. She smiled warmly, exuding an overall feel of contentment with life.

“I have no news of your people,” Maria answered apologetically.

The younger woman seemed to slump a little as she set Maria’s bags on the bed.

“It is unfortunate,” the old woman said, “that you do not bring news with you. We do not get much here, secluded as we are from the world.”

“What do you mean?” Maria asked as she began unpacking her bags, placing her effects about the room.

“Only that we do not leave, and the few who do leave do not return. Coming here, it is a commitment to stay, to obtain the peace this place can give you. And of course, there is a price to stay here.”

“A price?” Maria had not brought anything of value with her, at least, not valuable to anyone else.

“It is different for each of us,” the younger woman replied, taking a seat on the bed. “It’s also rather personal for some, and so not something we talk about.”

The older woman nodded. “You should get changed and cleaned up—Lord Sophus will probably want to see you soon. Someone will come to lead you to him.” She nodded toward the tray.

Maria's stomach growled as she looked toward the tray.

“I’d eat lightly, though,” the young woman said. “Lord Sophus can be pretty intimidating, especially the first time you meet him.”

Maria nodded. The man’s strangeness wasn’t easily overlooked. As the two women turned to leave, Maria blurted out her question. “How do you get the water into the pitcher?”

The younger woman giggled. “It’s all right, I couldn’t figure it out for the longest time, but I was too shy to ask anyone when I first got here.” Still laughing, she walked over to the water niche. “There’s a lever just on the inside that you can move up to divert some of the water.”

Maria watched as the young woman demonstrated and a small stream of water flowed down and into the indent of the shelf. “I’m glad I asked.”

The two women smiled again and left, shutting the door behind them. Maria washed herself in the basin and realized with chagrin that she hadn’t asked their names. Irritated at her rudeness, she tried to pick out the nicest outfit she had. There wasn’t much to choose from, as she’d only packed traveling gear. Who’d have guessed she’d need a dress? Not that she’d fit into any of her dresses now.

Tears tried to form in her eyes, and Maria paused, closing them. Not now, she told herself over and over, breathing deeply, until she had managed to push aside the darkness and lock it back up. For now, she needed to keep her head about her. Maybe later, but not now.

She sighed at herself and pulled on some clean pants, hesitating over her pistols. She had the distinct feeling that they would be inadequate here, but she holstered the two her father had given her anyway, and strapped on all of her knives. In an effort to keep busy, she brushed out her long, dark hair, then had some of the food, careful to eat slowly and not too much. When no one had come for her, she polished her boots, rearranged the drawers, and finished unpacking.

Her chamber grew darker and darker, until she nearly couldn’t see. Why hadn’t she brought candles? She stopped herself from answering, knowing that way led to the void of self blame, and she didn’t have time for that. Clinging to her composure, she took measured breaths, willing her mind to be still.

Without warning, her door opened and torchlight flickered into her room. A different woman stood in the doorway; cold, aloof, and erect, her features sharp in the light of the torch she carried. Maria’s stomach tied itself in knots when the woman spoke with a voice as cold as her demeanor.

“Lord Sophus has asked for you. You will follow me.” She turned on her heel and strode away.

Maria didn’t even have time to grab Miguel’s greatcoat as she rushed to hall, trying to catch the woman before she could disappear down the long, dark corridor.

Chapter 16

THE SHORT WALK TO THEIR destination surprised Maria; Iráma had taken her a longer route.  Her cool guide gestured to a large, closed wooden door and walked away abruptly, leaving Maria in the dark. She watched the woman’s retreating figure a moment, taken aback—she was the first person Maria had met here who hadn’t treated her cordially.

Light spilled into the dark hall from beneath the ornate door. Maria swallowed, her mouth dry, as she stood beside it.  What might he ask from her? She had nothing of value to give; she’d left her entire world behind to find whatever was left for her future. She rubbed her sweating palms on her pants. The rough, practical texture reminded her of Miguel. The thought of him steadied her as she rapped loudly on the wood.

The door swung open with an eerie silence.

“Come in, come in,” Sophus’s unbelievably beautiful and melodic voice called out.

She stepped into the light, and the door swung silently shut behind her. She looked around for her host but found herself taking in the room at the same time. It was large, four or five times bigger than her room, though smaller than the throne room Iráma had first led her to. Lavish decor and furniture filled the space, along with statues in random places—some even hanging from the ceiling—and the ever-present figures that seemed to be trying to emerge from the very walls.

What a room! Maria stepped further in. Curtains, tapestries, and several doors lined the walls. In one corner, portioned off by the placement of the furniture, sat a large desk and bookshelves lining the walls. At least a score of lamps lit the space. The extravagance of it all, especially in a cave miles from modern civilization, astounded her.

“It is quite a sight, isn’t it?” a voice said from right next to her ear.

Maria whirled.

Sophus leaned back, amused.

“It is indeed,” she agreed, relieved in a way she couldn’t quite define.

“Come now, you said you were a Spaniard.” He gave a warm, friendly smile that seemed to show too many teeth. “Let us speak in your native tongue. It has been so very long since I have spoken a good Latin dialect.”

“Of course.” Maria switched to Castilian with a smile. “It feels nice to speak it again.”

“It is a beautiful language.” He motioned her to take a seat among a set of overstuffed chairs. “Come and sit down so we can talk. I trust you found your room comfortable?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said, grateful to sit, but still on edge.

He settled himself gracefully onto a chair opposite her. “And the food was to your taste?”

“Yes, everything was fine. Thank you again for your hospitality.”

Sophus looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, as though he were sizing her up. His eyes, which had seemed dark and foreboding before, seemed different now. They were lighter, silver with a reddish-brown rim, the color in them almost alive. Finally, he seemed to come to a conclusion and nodded, looking pleased.

“Well, my dear, I am rather excited to have a visitor such as yourself here. It has actually been a very long time since I’ve had the pleasure of meeting another European. Truly, the natives get a little dull after a while. Come now, tell me about yourself!” Sophus leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other.

“Thank you again.” A need to keep the meeting as formal and proper as possible pressed on Maria. She needed to impress him if she was to obtain his help. “I’m flattered that you think so highly of me, but I must confess I have never been to Europe. I was born near Maracaibo to a merchant family. My mother died when I was very young, my father passed recently as well, and my husband has disappeared on a trading mission. Though I had every creature comfort and a secure future before me in Maracaibo and my father’s merchant business, I simply had no reason to live without my husband.”

“Ah, young love.” Sophus’s words contrasted with his unimpressed expression. “And how did you come to learn of me?”

“My old nursemaid, a Wayuu woman, saw my distress and insisted on accompanying me in my search. I think it was a good thing she did, because I really didn’t have the slightest idea what I was doing.” She smiled and gave a laugh to emphasize the absurdity of it. “Can you imagine a well-off city girl trying to survive a night on her own in the jungle? She ended up taking over and leading me to her village. She was the one who taught me to speak Wayuunaiki and suggested I come to you for assistance in my search.”

“I see,” he said flatly.

Maria felt she had just failed an important test. “But you asked me to tell you about myself. Let’s see...” She quickly fished around in her head for something about herself that might interest the strange man. “Well, when I was a young girl I rescued this pup from certain death. My dear Tía Olivia, the woman who raised me after my mother died, nearly fainted when I told her, but my father, he let me keep it as long as I cared for it.”

She told him some of the episodes with the pup and of her difficulty finding him a suitable name. Sophus’s interest increased as she told the story, so she kept on, telling him of the time she’d been attacked on the docks and her dog came to the rescue. “It wasn’t until he’d made it back home that night, all battered and beat up, that I found a name for him. I decided to call him Alistair.”

“A Gaelic name, if I recall. Means ‘defender of man,’” Sophus said.

Maria grinned. “It seemed appropriate.”

“Now tell me, my dear, do you have any unusual talents? What is it that makes you interesting?”

Maria laughed. “No, not really. I managed my father’s business in his absence, so I am skilled in math. I read and write well and can keep a business running.” She dug a little deeper. “I’m a decent shot with a pistol.” She pulled out the matching pistol set her father had given her and offered them to Sophus, who took them, studying the carving with interest.

“These are lovely. I am rather fond of beautiful things, as I am sure you can see.” he gestured at the artistry of the room. “We shall have to try shooting them some time.”

“Thank you. They were a gift from my father, and I should greatly enjoy practicing with them more,” Maria said as he returned the pistols, his interest again waning. She would need to do better if she was to ask for his help. “I don’t know that those are particularly unusual talents, though most women I know couldn’t handle that kind of stress. As for what makes me interesting, well... I’m not sure if you could call it interesting, but I have strange dreams.”

Sophus leaned toward her. “What kind of dreams?”

“Well, one dream really, over and over. Usually it is the same, but it has changed over time. Sometimes I almost think I can manipulate it.”

“Tell me about it.” It wasn’t a request but it wasn’t quite a command either.

Hope flickered through her. Looking into his perfectly formed, pale face, and the bright silver and brown eyes, Maria could not refuse.

MARACAIBO WAITED, GLITTERING in the distance. Maria turned her face toward the familiar landscape. Home. The sun shone warm in the clear sky as she stood alone in the fields. She missed the cool rain. Soon though, the rain would come, cool and refreshing. But there was no more time for waiting.

The wind blew an alluring scent into her face, a scent that drew her to its source while chilling her to the bone. She could not wait for Alistair, she couldn’t risk looking for Álvaro, and she would not wait for the jungle noise that she knew would distract her.

She raced south on horseback, away from the dangerous edge of civilization and toward the Casa de la Cuesta. She glanced back. Behind her, Alistair defended her retreat with a threatening growl and threw himself into the jungle. The grand plantation house came into sight, and Maria pulled the horse to a stop.

The sound of her own hard breathing filled Maria’s ears, and urgency filled her chest as she leapt from the horse’s back. The dangerously tempting scent clung to the air around her even as she ran up the front steps. She raced through the halls of the house and onto the balcony that overlooked the immaculate gardens.

Muffled dancing music came from inside the house, but Maria didn’t have time to consider it. Desperate, she looked at the shadowy people strolling in the gardens below her. The skirts of her dark, deep red dress moved sluggishly about her legs, the same gown she’d worn so long ago in another life. She searched the couples walking around beneath her, oblivious to anything beyond each other.

There! A familiar shape in a familiar coat stepped into view. He had just the right gait and the distinct cutlass swung at his side. She could hardly believe it.

Miguel! she shouted, waving her arms frantically. Miguel! Up here!

But he did not hear her. Maria lifted her skirts and charged down the steps, but Miguel was no longer there. She raced in the direction he’d gone, but when she turned the corner she came to an abrupt halt.

Maria stood in the darkness of the night on the docks, sending her dead protector back to the sea, the waves murmuring gently below. The emptiness of the place filling her as the scent of flowers entwined with lavender drifted through the air. Her father was not there, and neither was Miguel.

She stood alone.

A rustle of cloth from the deep shadows behind her made her turn. A figure stood in there, just beyond her sight, radiating negativity at her like a spear. Maria turned back to the lake to watch the lights of the floating village dance on the water and wait for her beloved’s voice.

A WORLD OF GREY AND a fading wolf song filled Maria’s mind when she woke. The grey began to take form as she blinked the sleep from her eyes. She lay on a bed in her room, or rather, Sophus’s visitor’s room. Steady light from the ceiling filled the space as she stretched.

As she brushed her hair, Maria mulled over the events of the previous evening. She had told Sophus about the dream in general detail, the ways it had changed, and at his urging, the major events in her life that had happened around each change. Then he had switched the topic to books, and they had discussed various authors and philosophies deep into the night. At some point, food had been brought in. Sophus had insisted that she eat but ate nothing himself, claiming a fragile appetite. It had been a pleasant evening of intellectual banter and had woken a part of Maria that had lain dormant since Miguel had left. Though it felt almost like a betrayal to admit, really using her mind again had felt good.

After finishing her hair, Maria paced the room, uncertain what to do with herself. While she had been with Sophus, someone had washed her clothes, and it felt good to wear something clean. What she really wanted, though, was to soak in a warm bath for a while. And something more appropriate to wear than her husband’s clothes, though she would not have given them up for anything in the world except for the man to whom they belonged. She settled on eating some of the breakfast that waited on her dresser.

As she ate, a quick knock came at her door which opened before she could turn around.

“Don Sophus!” Why had he come directly for her?

“Buenos días, Maria.” The beautiful, strange man gave her a wry smile.

A chill stole down Maria’s back at his look, and she had difficulty thinking. She felt trapped by his powerful gaze.

“I... uh... didn’t expect... you,” she said, trying desperately to fill the silence, to escape the force that seemed to be trying to subdue her. She rushed on, “I mean, it’s just that... uh... I didn’t think... I mean, I thought that only the other women....”

She paused, closing her eyes. In that moment of darkness she centered herself, taking a deep breath. Opening her eyes, she threw on a gracious smile. “Don Sophus, it is a pleasant surprise to see you this morning. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon with all the pressing matters to which I’m sure you need to attend.”

A frown flickered across the pale man’s face but was gone as swiftly as it had come. He smiled again, the broad smile of a predator who realized he can have fun with his prey. She stood up taller; she would not be easy prey.

“Actually, I took care of much of it last night after you retired.”

It must not have been as late as I thought.

Sophus held out a hand to her. “I came to see if you would like a grand tour of my home.”

“Certainly.” She slipped her arm into his and repressed a shiver as they walked down the cool hall. Despite his rather lean appearance, his muscles were hard and unyielding under his long sleeves. Fitting, she thought, for a stone carver.

Sophus took the lead with the conversation, explaining to her how the caves had been formed when he found the place, how he was inspired to change them, to make them his own. He explained that the entire society was self-contained. Above the caves, they raised livestock and crops, and there was a water reserve.

He led her to various rooms and through many halls, most of which were punctuated by stretches of complete darkness. When they circled back toward his rooms, Maria began to recognize things, but they had not gone through the round entry chamber from her arrival.

“So, tell me, how do you get the light in here like this?” she asked, the chill beginning to bother her.

Sophus gave her a large, pleased smile. “That, my dear, is a secret. But I’m sure with your highly educated mind you will figure it out. In fact, I’d be a little disappointed if you didn’t.”

He led her into the room they had spent most of the previous evening in, and Maria disengaged from his arm to sit in the same chair she’d used before. She immediately felt warmer as she moved away from him. Had he been the source of her chill? Surely not.

Sophus inhaled deeply as he took his seat across from her. “You are so beautiful. It really is a shame you have nothing better to wear than that.”

Maria looked down at her shabby but clean traveling clothes. She shrugged. “I didn’t believe I would need anything better.”

Sophus nodded, his pale curls moving carelessly around his face. “I have decided that while you are my guest here, you will have the best that I have to provide.”

“That is very kind of you, Don Sophus, but entirely unnecessary.”

Sophus waved away her concerns, cutting off her protest. “It is nothing. I already had your things moved to a new room, much closer to mine. I am afraid I have some things to attend to for the next few days, so we will not be seeing each other, but I do look forward to seeing you again once I return.” He stood and gestured to his room. “Feel free to use anything here that you wish, most especially my library. Now come, my dear, I will show you to your new room.”

Maria followed him out, trying to discreetly avoid taking his arm again. His use of familiarity with her unnerved her; he had done so twice now and she was not pleased about it. “Don Sophus, if you please, I was sent here to ask for your help in finding my husband.”

He looked down at her, compassion in his eyes. “I will be happy to assist in any way I can, however, there are things I must attend to first. I promise we will speak of it when I return.”

She longed to protest that she needed to move on if he could not help her, but Doña Olivia had trained her too well to press the matter. Miguel had been gone for months now, and she felt she was so close. The possibility of true help in recovering her husband was worth a couple more days’ wait. She tilted her head in acquiescence. “Gracias.”

He stopped at a wooden door just as large, heavy, and intricately carved as the one to her host’s rooms. Though some distance down the hall, the door was the first along the smooth stone wall.

“Closer is a bit of an understatement,” she said under her breath.

He chuckled and pushed open the door, gesturing her inside. She stepped through and gasped.

The room, though not nearly as large as Sophus’s chamber, was huge. Fine furniture sat among plush rugs on the stone floor, and tapestries hung on the walls. In the far end stood a large four-post bed with ornately carved posts and hung with rich, draping cloth. Like many of the larger chambers, this room held statues and carvings in random places, many of people reaching up to matching statues reaching down to them.

“Did you...” She gestured to a nearby set of statues. “These were carved out of the natural formations already here, weren’t they?”

Sophus, still standing near the door, smiled smugly, every bit an artist basking in the admiration of his work.

Her eyes wandered back to the statues. “It is a beautiful room. I’m honored with its use.”

“It has a beautiful occupant; I am honored for you to use it. Feel free to wander through my home—there is nowhere you can go here that I cannot find you. But, please, be careful in the dark passageways. Many of them are as yet unfinished and have dangerous footings and drop-offs. I would hate for you to get hurt.” Sophus bowed and left, shutting the door behind him.

Maria felt a pang of uneasiness at the repeated compliment, but it was quickly lost to wonder as she took a closer look around the room. It held a few additional doors leading to side chambers; one was a large closet that held her meager supply of traveling clothes as well as a handful of out-of-fashion dresses, another led to a large bathroom that had a tub already full of steaming water. Maria decided to hold off further exploration in favor of a warm, relaxing bath.

She found some large towels and nice-smelling soaps and oils in the niches on the wall alongside the bath. Once she had scrubbed herself clean and washed her long, dark hair, she lay relaxing in the warm water, thinking over all that had happened since her arrival only the day before.

Her mind wandered, as it inevitably always did, to Miguel. What was he doing? Was he safe? Was he hurt? Was he lost, wandering alone, cold and hungry, or had he found a refuge, a place to stay? Perhaps he was held captive somewhere. Knowing it would break her, she did not allow the thought that he might not be alive. She knew he lived, she was certain of it, more certain of that than anything else. She would find him if it took her the rest of her life, or beyond, if necessary.

The water grew tepid and she got out, wrapping one of the large towels around herself, and dried her hair, working a sweetly scented oil into it. The stone floor beneath her feet chilled her as she dried off. A gentle but cold draft moved across the room, and she shivered as she returned to the closet to dress. The bath had refreshed her, clearing her mind, and she found herself loath to return to her stained and worn clothes. Would her host mind if she wore one of the dresses in the closet?

Maria searched the shelves and found a long, cotton chemise, which she pulled on. Turning back to the dresses, she inspected them, running her fingers across the material. A few were far older than she’d realized, the cloth crackling in an alarming way when she touched it. She jerked back, afraid to damage anything. Amazed, she examined them without touching or moving them. The dresses appeared to be centuries old, the fabric so faded she could hardly tell the original color or pattern, and the style was just as old-fashioned.

She was pulled from her inspection of the curiously old clothing by another draft that chilled her and a soft, rhythmic, and oddly familiar sound that seemed to come from everywhere at once. She cocked her head and listened, trying to place the source. As she did, the rooms darkened, though she knew it was far too early for evening. Truly, the lighting baffled her. It was obviously sunlight, but a direct shaft opening to the sky was unreasonable, given the intricacies of the caves.

A rumble of thunder growled softly throughout the chamber and she rolled her eyes. Rain! Of course.

A shiver drew her mind back to the problem at hand. None of the ancient dresses would work, so she chose a newer dress at random. The dress had a fairly simple cut and was wrinkled, badly out of style, and poorly fitting. Not that she cared. Maria smiled at it as she looked at herself in the mirror. She’d never been very fashion conscious, unlike the Senoritas de la Cuesta and their cousin.

For a moment, she wondered how they were doing. Likely, they were all sitting in one of Doña Olivia’s rooms, doing embroidery. Elisa would be by the door, chatting away, with Selena butting in on occasion. Betania, sitting quietly in the corner where she could get the best light, would make a quiet comment, and the four of them would burst out into giggles. Doña Olivia would smile indulgently, and Miguel would be waiting to escort her home.

She and Miguel would go home together, to their son, and raise him to be a fine man. He would look like his father, marry his childhood playmate, and they would live a happy and peaceful life.

Homesickness filled Maria, a longing to return to her friends, to their camaraderie, to a place and time where she was safe and where everything was right in the world.

No, they wouldn’t be there like that. Even if she could return home, it would never be what it was. Betania had her own family now, a man whom she adored, and a beautiful daughter to raise. Selena had run off. Elisa sulked in her garden when she wasn’t unabashedly chasing high society men, or perhaps had been sent off to Spain by now. Maria’s father was dead.

The walls seemed to press in on Maria as her thoughts followed their inevitable pattern. Maria had sent the man she loved into horrible danger. Her lungs could not pull in enough air, and her heart raced. A huge, gaping wound lay across her soul that had once been her son. She dropped her knees as she gasped at the pain. Álvaro was dead. Her son was dead. And it was her fault.

She couldn’t do this. Not here. Maria focused on her breathing. The room had enough air, she only needed to relax and inhale. This place was dangerous; she couldn’t be seen breaking down. The entire weight of the mountain above her seemed to press against her chest, demanding she submit to her own worthlessness. She took another deep breath and pushed the accusatory thoughts down deep. What mattered now was to keep her wits about her and find Miguel. Focus on the problem at hand. She was here, now. She didn’t even know how to leave the labyrinthine caves if she’d wanted to.

What a mess. She took another deep breath and stood, trying to steady her shaking limbs before leaving the closet. We can do this.

Maria returned to the main chamber of her rooms just as the middle-aged woman from before brought in a tray of food. Maria hadn’t seen anyone save Don Sophus since her first interview with him the previous day, so the woman’s presence was a relief.

“Good day!” she said as the woman set the tray on a table.

“Good day,” the woman returned with a smile. “I hear you are the new one. Lord Sophus must have taken a liking to you to put you in these rooms.”

Maria nodded. “So it would seem. He is very generous.”

“That he is, though most of us believe that his gifts are not without a reasonable cost,” the woman said, her voice almost playful. “Ah, where are my manners. My name is Wuchii.”

“I am Maria Álvarez Zyan—del Mar.” Maria tried to cover the slip in her name as Wuchii looked at her in shock. She’d have to be more careful.

“Of course.” Wuchii’s voice turned serious. “Maria Álvarez del Mar it is, then. If there is anything I can do for you, please ask.”

“Well... I would like to get to know this place better, perhaps even go outside.” Maria said, unsure what to make of the woman’s changed manner.

“Of course.” Wuchii gestured toward the door, but then looked back, a friendly twinkle in her eye. “Unless you’d like to eat first.”

Maria’s growling stomach gave her away, and she grinned as she sat at the table. “I suppose the cave won’t go anywhere while I eat. Have a seat.” She looked at the strange food, chose something at random. “It appears that I’m not the first to stay in these rooms. Are there visitors here often?”

Wuchii shook her head as she sat. “No, there has not been anyone in here since before I came, which was years ago when I was still a young and beautiful woman.” Her eyes twinkled. “However, I do believe there was one some years before that. There have been a few, here and there, throughout the history of this place.”

“What happened to them?” Maria asked, her interest piqued.

“They either left or grew old and died, same as the rest of us, I’m sure. They’re not often talked about and so not much is known about them.”

Maria picked up a roll. “You make it seem as though this place has a long history. How old is it, do you know?”

“Our legends say that it has been here for many generations, since before the white men invaded our lands.”

“I’ve heard of that, but I’m afraid I’m a little confused. When I first got here, Iráma indicated that Don Sophus carved all of this himself, but I don’t see how that is possible if it has existed for as long as you say.” The same sense of unease as when the strange man looked at her crept up Maria’s spine. “Perhaps it was one of his predecessors?”

“No, Lord Sophus did it. It is his work and his work alone,” Wuchii said.

Maria’s irritation flared up. This was just the sort of thing Nana would have tried to imply. Maybe I just don’t understand the language as well as I thought, she reasoned, trying to keep her temper in check. She’d just ask Don Sophus about it later.

“I think I am finished eating. Don Sophus said the animals are kept outside. Can you show me how to get there? I’m yearning for the sun and some open space.”

“I understand that.” Wuchii grinned. “It sounds like it is still raining, but I’ll show you the way anyhow.”

They stood, and Maria grabbed Miguel’s greatcoat. Wuchii led the way slowly, letting Maria take her time looking at the passageways and statues as they went. She also lit a torch and showed Maria how, in many of the darkened passages, the stone halls branched. She seemed nervous about the fire though, and when Maria questioned her about it, Wuchii just shrugged and said that Don Sophus didn’t like the smoke staining the walls.

They climbed several sets of stairs and turned so many corners that Maria lost her bearings entirely. Clear daylight, the smell of wet earth, and the whisper of rain reached Maria, and she rushed forward. It wasn’t the door Iráma had led her through when they arrived, but Maria didn’t care. She ran out into the open air and gentle rain, excited to be outside.

Maria breathed in the clean air, allowing it to fill her, calming all the turmoil she had so recently pushed aside. With a small smile, she took in the view. The mostly flat ground sloped a little, stretching away to the west and north. Goats and sheep huddled under bushes and overhangs, trying to take shelter from the storm. A few women sat in a distant shelter out of the rain beside several fenced-off areas that appeared to be gardens. Beyond the fences, the world fell away.

She walked forward through the warm rain to get a better look at the rest of the land. The water soaked into her hair and ran down her neck. She ought to have grabbed a hat as well. Behind the door, the small mountain rose to a ragged peak. Walking cautiously to the nearest edge, Maria peered over—the world dropped precariously away from her at what she was sure was a deadly distance. She quickly stepped back.

“It’s like that the entire way around,” Wuchii said quietly, walking up behind her, her head thoughtfully covered in her shawl. “There is no way down.”

“What about the other entrance, the one Iráma brought me in through?”

“Iráma and Lord Sophus are the only ones who know where it is. Very few people ever leave here, Maria, and none ever return save Lord Sophus and Iráma.”

“I was told that there was one once....” Foreboding settled over Maria.

Wuchii gave her a significant look. “One way or another everybody leaves this life, but there has only been one who survived the journey.”

Chapter 17

MARIA STOOD IN the rain, enjoying the feel of fresh water on her skin and the smell of the ocean breeze. The desert terrace above Sophus’s labyrinth was high enough that she could see the water, but it was too far to hear. To the south, about ten miles away by her estimate, stood another large plateau formation, its slopes angled sharply downward. It couldn’t have been more than a few miles wide—she could see the ocean on either end of it. She swept her eyes over the land before her, turning in a slow circle.

With a feeling of testing the bars of a cage, Maria walked to the northern edge of the terrace, trying to find a way around the large rise that held the entrance back to the labyrinth below. There was none. The rise here sloped more gently than the cliffs on the northern side. Birds sang their random bits of broken melody from the scrubby bushes behind her. She gave the steep slope a rueful look. As much as she wanted to know what was at the top, climbing it was too risky.

She stood, staring northeast until the rain stopped and the sun returned in the western sky and warmed her back. She was drawn to the north. Something nagged at her mind—what did Wuchii mean that only one had survived? Clearly, she hadn’t meant Iráma, who came and went as she pleased. The comment was too similar to something Nana had said when Maria had asked if anyone ever returned from seeking Sophus. Only one. From what Maria had seen, none of these women seemed to want to leave. They seemed content with their lives.

“Wuchii?” she called, turning to see if the woman was still there.

Wuchii stepped from the doorway where she’d been waiting out of the rain. “Yes?”

“Before I left the Wayuu village, where I was told that Don Sophus could help me, I was told of an old legend of the Wayuu being held captive by a strange and powerful man, and then being saved by another....”

Wuchii nodded, watching Maria’s face. “Yes, it is an old tale, and quite true. Lord Sophus would confirm its authenticity, if you were to ask him. It is why we are all here. In return for his assistance generations ago, Lord Sophus declared that any Wayuu woman who wished for a great change in her life, or a different life, or for a life of peace, was to come to him and he would provide it. Each of us came for our own reasons, and many did not expect what we found. However, we are mostly content here.”

“But doesn’t anyone ever want to leave?”

“We are free to leave any time we wish,” Wuchii said carefully.

Maria chewed her lip and looked at the short woman beside her. “I don’t understand. You said that only Iráma and Don Sophus know where the entrance is. I don’t see how anyone can leave if they can’t find the way out.”

“That is a dilemma, isn’t it?” Wuchii patted Maria’s shoulder. “If a person wishes to leave, they need only find the door, or ask the Noble One himself and he will render his assistance in the matter. However, with the exception of Iráma, once a woman leaves, she cannot return.”

Maria shook her head. Something about this just didn’t sound right. Why would Nana have sent her here if she couldn’t leave? Did she think that finding Miguel was a lost cause, or that Maria could never find joy again after the death of her son and simply wanted her to find peace? No doubt this had to do with the crazy idea that Maria was key to destroying this whole system, but how was she supposed to do that if she couldn’t ever leave?

“There’s something else I still do not understand, Wuchii. You speak of Don Sophus as though he himself was the one to carve out all those caverns and free the Wayuu generations ago.” Maria wasn’t certain she believed that Don Sophus was immortal. “But he seems so young he can’t be more than a few years older than I am. Perhaps you mean that it was his father or grandfather who did all that, and he bears their title?”

“No,” Wuchii shook her head. “He is the same one. He is generations old; he does not age. I have seen it. When I first arrived as a young, heartbroken woman so many years ago, he looked as young and beautiful as he does today.”

Maria looked thoughtfully at the other woman. Wuchii’s greying hair was well kept and her colorful Wayuu dress trim and clean. She hadn’t given Maria any reason not to trust her, but it all seemed so fantastic. There were people who lived to extreme old age—Maria had seen some among the Wayuu elders—but everyone aged. No one stayed in perpetual youth. I wonder how he’s tricked them.

“No, I haven’t lost my mind, young one.” Wuchii’s eyes twinkled with mirth, and Maria blushed.

“The first time I really met with him, he asked me if I had any unusual talents. Does he ask that of everyone?”

“Not that question exactly, but I believe he is always hoping somebody interesting will come along.” Wuchii leaned against the heavy wood door frame and crossed her arms. “Those who do pique his interest tend to get more attention from him. Iráma is one such. I’ve never found out why, but he trusts her so completely that she is his special assistant. He has obviously taken quite a liking to you, putting you in the rooms next to his.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“That really depends on you. If you knock some of the other women out from their favored places, you might find some trouble with them, but I doubt that it would be much. Lord Sophus does not tolerate troublemakers in his realm.”

A breeze passed though the doorway, and Maria shivered in her wet clothes. “There is something else bothering me; perhaps you can explain it. My nursemaid, the woman who practically raised me, was Wayuu. She led me to her home village, then from there sent me to Don Sophus for help in finding my husband, Miguel. She seemed very certain that it was only with his help that I would be able to find Miguel again.”

“Tell me, how were you received by the elders when you arrived?” Wuchii asked.

“Well, at first they just seemed excited to get some visitors, but then the village elders took to her as though she were one of them. ‘Old One,’ they called her.” Maria shrugged. “I can’t understand why a woman who had such a high standing among her people would leave to help raise another woman’s child.”

“I remember her, actually,” Wuchii nodded, then lowered her voice and Maria leaned closer. “It was not long before I came here. My family had sent me to live with some distant cousins who resided in the same village as the Old One. I was there when the Old One’s charge died just after giving birth to a girl child. The Old One left with the baby’s father.” Wuchii’s voice dropped lower and became more urgent. “I remember him well, a Spaniard merchant, but it is not something that should be spoken of here.”

“Why not?” A knot formed in her stomach, but Maria needed to hear Nana’s story from another’s point of view.

“There is more to the legend of the Slaver and the Noble One. The Wayuu received the bitter end of the deal, and we remain as subtle slaves to both of them. There is a legend that one of our own will bring about the utter destruction of them both. Born of a line of women whose firstborn is always a girl to continue the line. It is said that when that chain breaks, we will all be freed. Though we all suspect that Lord Sophus knows of this prophecy, we dare not confirm its existence with him. Whatever you do, you must not let him even suspect you may be a part of it.”

“If it is so imperative that it not be known, it would have been wiser not to share it.” Maria grinned, trying to convince herself that it was just a joke. “The fewer minds that know it, the fewer the mouths that can speak it.”

“Hush!” Wuchii hissed at her. “These walls have ears, and Lord Sophus’s are the best of them all. I would not have told you had you not given me the name, and were Sophus himself not here. Know this: Sophus will kill you if he ever learns your secret, or your name.”

“What secret?” Maria whispered skeptically.

“Your firstborn was a son, was he not?”

Maria nodded—lucky guess.

“The Old One raised you, and your mother, and her mother before her, going back generations. Now the chain has been broken. The Forever line has been broken.”

Maria stiffened and looked again to the northeast. This woman knew about her son, or seemed to; knowledge Maria did not want shared. Deep inside, she knew it would be a mistake to let Sophus know she was any part Wayuu. She knew, too, that he was dangerous, and she did not want him to have any connection to her past life, most especially her son. The imperative pressed on her to the point that she hadn’t even sought out Álvaro in the dream.

Nana had told her that Wayuu surnames passed from mother to daughter and that the Wayuunaiki word forever was the name Maria’s mother had passed to her: Zyanya.

Maria shook herself. Perhaps there was some legend out there about the Wayuu freeing themselves from this admittedly odd situation, and she could understand why people would hold to such a thing. Hope seemed to be a way of life for the Wayuu, and she found both beauty and comfort in it. And, as Nana had told her, everything that begins must end. But it seemed far too unlikely that Maria should be the one to make it happen.

Besides, she couldn’t allow herself to get distracted. Chances were that the entrance was just a loosely guarded secret, and anyone could find it or figure it out. She would just ask Don Sophus when he returned. Until then, Maria supposed, the best thing to do would be to become familiar with this place. Perhaps peruse some of her host’s books, as he’d offered.

“Let’s go back inside,” Maria suggested, again shivering as the sun began to set. “It’s getting late, and I’d like to see if I can remember the way back, if you’ll let me lead?”

“Certainly,” Wuchii said with her regular warm smile.

Maria thought she did a fairly good job of remembering which directions to go, with Wuchii correcting her only a couple of times. She recognized the area around Sophus’s chambers and walked with greater purpose as she became more confident. Wuchii left her to herself once Maria assured her that she knew the way, and Maria was glad of the chance to be alone. She passed the occasional woman or two as she walked, and they all smiled and greeted her but hurried about their tasks. In her rooms, Maria changed out of her rain-dampened dress and found a warm supper waiting for her. She settled down at the table and ate.

There was an undeniably dark side to this place despite all that the friendly smiles tried to hide. Perhaps many of them were content to live out their days in peace and quiet, but what about those who weren’t? She still couldn’t understand the cryptic remark about not surviving the journey when you left.

Maria found ways to keep herself busy while she awaited Don Sophus’s return. The first day, she spent most of the morning working up the courage to go into his chambers alone and look through his library. Once she did, she spent about as much time examining the contents of the room as the collection of books. In the end, she picked a few books and returned to her room where she could read them at her ease. Feeling restless, she then tried to remember her way to the pasture. She was pleased that she’d needed directions only a few times before she found herself beneath the open sky. She spent a majority of the day there, enjoying the sun and unintentionally facing north as she read one of the books she had borrowed.

The next day was much the same. Maria continued to explore and spent some time talking to Wuchii, who refused to say anything more about Wayuu legends. Maria was careful to always take a torch with her into the unlit parts of the tunnels and didn’t explore far from the tunnels she had become familiar with. She also managed to need directions only once on her way to the pasture.

When the third day followed the same routine as the first two, Maria became irritable and restless, feeling as though she was wasting precious time. She woke the fourth day with Alistair’s customary howl flowing through her mind, and a determination to leave. If Sophus had returned, she would request his assistance. Otherwise, she would get a torch and start searching for the exit.

Maria washed in the cold water from the wall, appreciating the way it removed all traces of lingering sleep and energized her for her day. She paused at the closet, debating on wearing some of the nicer clothes or her worn traveling attire. After a moment, she chose the traveling clothes, not knowing how the day would end. She stacked her meager collection of belongings on one of the tables and noticed with dismay that the only food she’d have was some leftover fruit. I will find a way.

Picking up the books she had borrowed, Maria walked with a brisk pace to Sophus’s chambers. She stopped just short of going in, with her hand on the door. What if he was already in there? It would be rude to just barge in. Perhaps she should knock first?

No. Maria shook her head. I am determined to do this. I will do it full of confidence, and if he is in there, I will not let him know I feel anything less than sure of myself. She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

She stepped into the brightly lit room with her head held high and looked straight forward. When she didn’t hear anything after a moment, Maria looked around tentatively and let out a breath that she didn’t realize she’d been holding. The room was empty of anyone but her. She relaxed a little and strode to the shelves to return the books. Content that they had been put away correctly, she swept her gaze around the room once more to convince herself that its occupant had not yet returned. She was both relieved and disappointed to conclude that Sophus was still gone. Feeling a little sheepish, she left the grand room.

Well, there’s nothing to do now but start searching. She returned to her room for a lamp, grateful that her room used lamps rather than torches.

Maria had once heard a riddle about a blind man in a maze. The solution for how he found his way through it was to keep his hand on one of the walls, and he would eventually be led out. She felt very much like that blind man in this labyrinth as she shouldered her gear. But where to start?

“Best place to start searching is where you are, I suppose,” she said to herself as she stepped out her door.

She stood outside her door, hesitating over which way to turn. To the left was the way to the pastures, so she chose to go right. She placed her hand firmly on the wall to her left. The stone beneath her fingers was chill and finely textured as she moved forward with sure, even steps. In the first dark passage, she turned left, following the wall. The hallway curved back around, rising in some places and descending in others. It was lit often enough that at the end of one pool of light, the next area could just be seen with an ominous stretch of darkness between.

Before long, Maria came to a well-lit chamber with four doors. She tried the first door on her left, but it was locked. The second and third were open but led only to small storage rooms. The fourth was another hall. She took a deep breath and stepped into the new tunnel, continuing to follow the wall on her left-hand side, certain she would be able to find the same tunnel that she had come from.

There were more small chambers and more branching tunnels, but Maria did not stop. Occasionally, there were figures and statues carved into niches at random intervals, but always near a section of light. She continued forward, her fingers trailing over the cool statues as she walked past them.

Her stomach growled, and she slowed, noting the light had begun to dim and the walls had grown more coarse. She leaned against the wall, pleased with herself. Her method appeared to be working well enough. She still had her lamp, unlit, and as long as she followed the wall to her right, she’d be able to find her way back.

Smiling to herself, she sat down with her guiding wall to her back and pulled out the fruit she had brought along.

Movement down the hall caught her eye, and Maria looked up. The long corridor to her left held gloomy shadows but nothing more. The silence seemed to press on her, but she shook off her nerves and took a bite of the fruit.

Again, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye, but instead of jerking her head up, she moved her head only enough to see through the corner of her eyes. Perhaps whoever it was didn’t want to be noticed.

A woman stood in the far end of the corridor, indistinct in the shadows. She seemed to be watching Maria. Maria took another bite of her food and looked back down at her lap. Should she say something?

After another moment of hesitation, Maria looked back up, ready to greet the strange woman, but she was gone. Maria was alone in the gloomy corridor.

Maria’s neck prickled. Time to go back.

She stood, pocketing the pit to throw away when she returned to her room. Thoughts of ghosts and vampires, haunted caves and disappearing women tried to crowd her mind, but she pushed them away in scorn. There were many women under Sophus’s protection; why wouldn’t there be some in this random, abandoned corridor?

Maria placed her right hand on the wall she had been leaning against and walked forward. She refused to give in to the imaginary feeling of being watched by glancing over her shoulder. For a long time, the course seemed familiar.

When the light grew too dim to see by, she stopped and lit the lamp with the flint she had brought. She continued to walk, carefully keeping her fingers trailing on the cold stone wall. Maria was glad for the lamp; the warm light kept her spirits high and dispelled her dark thoughts.

The ambient lights disappeared altogether, but Maria pressed on. She knew that, somehow, the light from the ceiling was sunlight. The question was simply how did Sophus manage to get it inside? Perhaps she’d crawl into one of the tunnels tomorrow to figure it out.

Maria turned a corner and stopped cold. There were stairs before her, curving down into the darkness. She had not climbed any stairs today.

A cold nausea clenched at her stomach. How could this be? She was certain she had kept to the wall on her left initially, and the same wall, now to her right, since she turned back.

Maria ran through her mind all that she had done when she turned around. Then she went very carefully through her memory. Had she climbed a set of steps? Maybe...?

Steeling herself, Maria began the descent. As she neared the bottom she saw a statue, a figure she was certain she had not seen before, carved into a niche in the wall. It was a woman in the pose of a crouching archer, her bow drawn. The lamplight flickered off its grey stone face, making the eyes seem almost alive. Despite her worry, she had to stop and admire the figure.

Slowly, Maria’s eyes were drawn to the darkness behind the figure, and a deep sense of panic began to well up inside her as she realized the space wasn’t a niche—it was another hall. A hall with just enough space between the wall and the statue that she could have passed next to the figure and not seen it in the darkness.

Her mind raced as she recalled all the other niched statues she had passed. Were they all tunnels? Unwilling to allow panic to rise in her, she took a deep breath. Obviously, she had taken a wrong turn somewhere. She would just have to go back to a familiar place and start again. Someone would find her.

Except that I haven’t seen anyone since I set out, a cynical voice in Maria’s head whispered.

You saw that woman in the shadows, she countered. But had she really? Even that might have been an illusion, or even her own fancy.

Iráma’s voice seemed to float out of the darkness as Maria tried to keep her breathing calm. These halls are very extensive, and more than one newcomer has become lost in them.

Returning up the twisting stairs, Maria laughed bitterly at the memory. I remembered, Iráma, just like I told you I would. She was certain she should have reached the top by now, but the stairs continued up. What is this place?

The figures carved into the walls and hanging from the ceiling, mocked her. A chill wind blew up from below, and her lamp flickered dangerously. When the stairs turned again to reveal a long, straight stretch of continued steps, Maria stopped.

She was going the wrong way.

Fighting the rising panic, she decided to return to the archer and try again. She started back down and movement caught her eye. She twisted, trying to see it. The empty stairwell rose behind her, reaching upwards. Another gust of wind echoed down the stairwell, buffeting her, and she reached out to the wall to steady herself but found only empty space. A stone slipped under her foot and she fell backwards, dropping the lamp.

Suddenly, she was tumbling through the darkness. The sharp edges of the steps shot pain throughout her body until she crashed into something solid. The darkness was as complete as the silence, broken only by Maria’s futile gasps for air and the pain bombarding her mind. She tried to call out but couldn’t take a deep enough breath. She tried to move, but the pain immobilized her.

As she felt herself fading into unconsciousness, Iráma’s warning echoed through her mind. Often, those who get lost are not found alive.

A wolf’s howl filled her mind as she slipped into the void.

Miguel....

Chapter 18

MARIA STOOD IN a field far to the west of Maracaibo, a place that was once her home. Fire tore through her body, throbbing in her leg and chest and arm. A chill wind whipped around her, and the sun flickered like a dying torch. The rain beat down, but the world remained dry. To her left, the jungle beckoned her forward, and to the right, home and safety—but a false safety, she knew.

A strange rustling from her left accompanied a cool, beautiful, fragrant scent that soothed the pain. The scent enticed her toward it, promising relief. A pale face materialized from the leaves, like an angel from the darkness with smiling silver-red eyes and careless, tight blond curls hanging around his face. She stepped toward him, but a tugging on her dress and a plaintive whine gave her pause.

Before her stood Alistair, larger than life, pleading with her not to go. He looked toward the north, and Maria followed his gaze. Something. Something to the northeast waited for her, something she needed to find. Alistair urged her on, but when she tried to walk, she fell in a crumpled heap, the pain resurfacing and crashing over her. Then Alistair was standing over her, bristling and growling at the pale angel who promised relief. The wolf-dog charged at the seraph, and they tumbled into the darkness as the dry rain continued to thunder down.

She tried to stand but found her legs entangled in her dress. The dress was too warm in the dry, hot rain, and it suffocated her. Maria thrashed about, trying to get free. Finally the encumbering garments tore away and she stood free in breeches, a shirt, and Miguel’s overcoat.

Miguel! She turned and looked to the northeast. I have to reach him!

She ran. She ran as quickly and frantically as she could, her heart racing and sweat on her face, but the landscape refused to move.

Alistair awaited her in the distance, but as she neared him, he stood and was Miguel. He turned away from her, walking to the northeast, and she gave desperate chase. She stopped abruptly at the edge of the dark balcony and looked over the garden at the couples walking through the darkness, each lost in their own worlds, alone with each other. The dancing music—a haunting Wayuu lullaby— drifted over her, and the pain began to subside. Then she saw the familiar figure in that worn coat and the gait that was just so....

She tried to leap the banister to reach him, but her strength gave way, and she crashed to the floor.

Miguel! Miguel I’m over here! Don’t leave me! she called out to him, pulling herself up from the floor. A chill wind helped her to her feet and the otherworldly, entrancing scent enveloped her, giving her strength and easing the lingering pain. She tried to run down the steps, but the wind stole the light from her lamp, and she fell.

When she landed, Maria stood on the docks of Maracaibo Lake on a moonless night. The lights from the floating palafitosi danced on the water’s surface, and there below her, she saw the large, lifeless form of Alistair lying on a makeshift barge, wreathed in flowers. The pain in her chest was a sharp emptiness that threatened to consume her, a missing piece that had once been the source of all the joy in her life.

Maria looked over and saw that she was alone. Yet in the darkness, a force waited, watching her, envying her, hating her. The dancing lights on the water disappeared one by one, and the long, plaintive howl of her beloved sea dog floated across the lake.

I’m here. I hear you. I am coming....

MARIA AWOKE TO A BRIGHT room. The space before her was pale, and as her eyes and mind focused, the pale draped cloth came into view, hanging above her. She turned her head to the side and recognized Iráma sitting beside the bed.

“You are awake!” the woman said, sounding pleased.

It took Maria a full minute to process the sounds, realize it was Wayuunaiki, form a reply, translate it, and make her mouth say it.

“Uhhnng....” was all she managed. Maria closed her eyes, exhausted by the effort.

When she was able to open her eyes again, Wuchii sat beside her in the dim light, carving wood and humming that same Wayuu lullaby. This time, Maria took more care to form her word.

“Water?” she croaked.

Wuchii nearly fell off her chair in surprise, and Maria would have chuckled at the comical sight if she’d had the energy.

“Yes, of course! Certainly!” Wuchii hurried to bring some water. “It is so good to see you fully awake. You had us worried for a very long time.” She helped Maria sit up a little and tipped the cup gently onto her lips. “Iráma kept you sedated at first—the pain was too great for you—but after a time, you became feverish. You have been in and out of consciousness the entire time, usually just enough for us to force some broth down you, which is fortunate. The fever finally broke a few days ago, but we weren’t sure when you would truly wake up. Actually, this is the second time your fever broke, but you didn’t really wake before.”

“Gracias,” Maria said slowly as Wuchii lowered the water. Her head had cleared a little, and she could follow Wuchii’s speech if she concentrated. She carefully formed her words and asked, “How long?”

“Nearly a month, I’m afraid. You took a very nasty fall down some forgotten stairs. It is a good thing Lord Sophus had returned that day and was looking for you. He has such an uncanny ability to find people, and I’m sure it helps that he knows this place so well. He did build it, after all.” Wuchii helped Maria lay back on the pillows as she continued. “You did some serious damage to yourself, and it seemed to cause a relapse into an illness you’d been fighting. Your upper leg and a couple ribs are broken, but they seem to be mending. You should be glad you were unconscious for the worst of it.”

Maria’s fuzzy brain reeled. A month? It was too much time. That meant it had been at least four months since she’d set out, perhaps five. She had lost track of the time after Álvaro—

She stopped herself. She couldn’t go there. Not right now. She had to get up. Miguel needed her. She needed to leave.

Maria tried to swing her legs out of bed but fell back as a wave of pain engulfed her. What had Wuchii said? Broken leg and some ribs. She’d be immobile for months yet, and then she’d be on a crutch if she could even walk again.

“Careful now.” Wuchii took hold of her arm. “The fall itself, and even the broken leg, shouldn’t have made you so ill. I dare say you’d been seriously ill not long before coming here, and not entirely healed. Your accident has caused a relapse. You need to rest and regain your strength.”

Maria lay back in the bed, tears spilling from her eyes at this added difficulty. It was too much to take, and, with Wuchii’s gentle hands settling the blanket over her shoulders, she fell back into blissful unconsciousness.

The room was bright again. For some reason, that irritated Maria. She inhaled deeply, ignoring the stab of pain from her ribs, and opened her eyes. This time, Don Sophus sat beside her. He had been in her dream, promising her freedom from pain and sorrow. She felt a surge of anger toward him. He had no place in her dreams, they were reserved for Miguel, and Miguel alone.

Maria decided that she would not be the first to speak, but it was not necessary. He had been watching her, but she had the distinct feeling that he would have known when she woke, even if he hadn’t been watching.

“Good morning, Maria, and welcome back,” he said graciously.

Maria nodded. What had Wuchii said? He had been the one to find her. She knew she should show him gratitude, but she was still grouchy about the bright light and his intrusion into her dreams.

Sighing inwardly, she spoke, her voice low and scratchy. “Gracias, Don Sophus. It is good to be awake.”

Sophus offered her a cup of tea with an amused smile, and helped her when she struggled to sit. She noted again the chill of his hand through her dress, and how very unyielding his flesh was despite his gentleness. Determined to not be completely useless, she reached weakly for the cup. He hesitated for a moment but handed it to her anyway. She stared down at it, willing herself to have the strength to drink it on her own, and successfully brought it to her lips.

When she had finished, Maria handed the cup back to Sophus with a triumphant smile. Now, if only there was some food.

“I am glad to see you doing so well, my dear.”

Maria cringed inwardly at the term of endearment.

“Tell me, do you think you could eat something?”

“I think,” Maria said slowly, “that if I could stay awake long enough, I could eat a horse.”

“Most excellent!” Sophus walked to the door.

Maria blinked. She hadn’t seen him stand—perhaps she wasn’t doing as well as she’d hoped?

Sophus peeked his head out the door and spoke quietly to someone before returning to her side. A familiar rich fragrance swept over her as he neared, and for a moment Maria could no longer think.

“Food is on the way.”

Maria nodded, trying to clear her head.

“Now,” he continued in a more serious voice, “why don’t you tell me what brought you to this terrible mishap. If you remember.”

Maria considered lying to him, but the beautiful, muddling scent that she now recognized from her dream seemed to tell her that he would know. She could think of no dire consequences to telling the truth, but she hesitated. My brain is all jumbled. Despite her irritation with him, she found herself wanting to please him, which in turn irritated her further.

“I got lost exploring.” She explained how she had planned to follow a wall and return following the same wall but had misjudged the niches with the statues. Sophus seemed to accept her explanation, and for a moment, Maria felt relieved.

“Iráma should have warned you not to wander. It was careless of her,” he said with a bit of ire.

“No, it wasn’t her fault; she warned me not to go off on my own. Really, she did. Wuchii did, too. Don’t be upset with them.” Part of her worried that something very bad would happen to the two friendly women if Sophus became angry with them. Maria placed a pleading hand on Sophus’s bare arm. It was firm and far colder than she had expected, and she almost flinched away.

Sophus looked down at her hand and raised an eyebrow at her. Delicately, as though he was handling something very fragile, he removed her hand from his arm and set it back in her lap. “If you insist. Tell me, though, what is it that you were looking for?” He gave her a critical look.

Maria took a deep breath and plunged in, forming her words carefully. “As you know, I came here for your assistance in finding my husband, Miguel del Mar. The need to reach him presses on me even now. I was told that only with your assistance would I be successful in helping him, but when you had not returned, I felt that I needed to move on. I came to your chambers first, hoping that you, or perhaps Iráma, could show me to the exit. When I could not find either of you, I decided to search on my own. As you know, I misjudged, got lost, and then got hurt.”

There, it was out. She wanted to leave. She fervently hoped that Wuchii really was just a crazy woman when she had indicated that the only way to leave was to die.

“I see.” Sophus stroked his chin. “Ah, your food is here.”

Maria looked up, but no one had come in. Just as she was thinking that Sophus might be as crazy as Wuchii, someone knocked on the door and pushed it open without waiting for an answer. The wondrous smell of food washed over her, and, though her conversation with Sophus had been exhausting, she wanted more than anything to eat. Maria didn’t recognize the woman, but her disappointment lasted only until Sophus sat the tray before her.

The meal consisted of a bowl of steaming lamb broth and a piece of bread, but to Maria’s eyes, it was a feast. She ate as quickly as her tired body allowed, savoring each mouthful of the rich broth and the glorious plain bread. Her thin, wasted hands trembled as she ate. Gratitude at whatever fate had kept her alive through two such close, prolonged fevers filled her along with the hot broth. Eventually, she would need to work up the courage to see how badly her leg had been damaged. The bone in her thigh ached, even now. She lay back on her pillows, stuffed and comfortable, and enjoyed the warmth that spread through her.

When she opened her eyes again, the room was dim. An urgent need to relieve herself pressed on her consciousness. Somewhat frantically she looked around the room, hoping to see someone nearby who could assist her. Sure enough, Sophus sat in the corner, watching silently.

Anyone but him, Maria corrected.

She pushed herself up, and by the time she’d managed to get halfway up, Sophus had his arm around her, assisting. His dizzying scent washed over her again, befuddling her brain, but she shook it away with irritation.

“Would you like more food?” he asked, gesturing to a table with some food already set out.

“In a minute, perhaps. It is very kind of you to watch over me, Don Sophus, but right now I would appreciate some privacy. And the assistance of a woman.”

Sophus looked at her, confused, as though trying to determine if she was joking.

“Really, this can’t wait,” Maria said, giving him a meaningful look.

Understanding dawned on his face, and he nodded, striding away. Almost as soon as he was out the door Iráma came in, moving at a blessedly normal speed.

Iráma lifted Maria out of the bed and carried her to the washroom where she could relieve herself. Maria didn’t want to think about what had been done during the weeks she had been unconscious. Iráma hummed a quiet, soothing melody, but worry about Sophus gnawed at Maria. He seemed to be giving her far more attention than a guest deserved, and it bothered her. She would need to talk to him soon and make it clear that as soon as she could walk again, she would be on her way.

Iráma paused in her narrative to ask, “Would you like to bathe, Maria?”

“Absolutely,” Maria replied. “But what about this?” She gestured to the hard cast that had been put on her leg to immobilize it.

“We’ll remove it. The dressing needs to be changed anyway, but you may not want to look.”

Maria tried to follow Iráma’s advice as the cast was removed, but could not help herself. Her leg was hideous, the muscles withered and the skin wrinkled. The smell nearly made her sick, and she wrinkled her nose, trying to breathe through her mouth. Maria was afraid to move the leg but had to admit that it felt wonderful to air out the skin.

Iráma helped her to the bath. Soaking in the warm water felt glorious, and she knew it would feel even better to be clean and wearing clean clothes. Iráma seemed to sense her mood, and once they were both certain Maria wouldn’t slip under the water’s surface, she left to direct someone to change the bed linens. When she returned, she washed and oiled Maria’s hair and helped her out.

Maria stood on one leg, leaning on a second woman, before a large mirror while Iráma helped dry and dress her. She looked at herself critically. The signs of her recent pregnancy remained. The skin of her belly still sagged a bit, striped where her skin had stretched with her growing child, and her breasts—full before—now hung, reduced and listless.

She looked over the rest of her body. She was thin and boney, her hips and elbows and wrists jutting out at strange angles, and she could count her individual ribs. Her high cheekbones cast shadows on her sunken cheeks, and her hair fell limp and lusterless.

Once she was dried off, Iráma placed a new dressing and hard cast on the leg. The bandage across Maria’s ribs had also been changed. She tested out the rest of her joints one by one as they waited for the plaster to set. Some had sharp pains, and all had the dull soreness of muscles that hadn’t been used for too long. The pale remnants of bruising all across her body ached, too. All in all, she was a mess.

Iráma finished dressing her in a thin gown and soft robe, and then carried Maria back to the table as though she weighed nothing.

When Maria tried to protest that she could walk, Iráma scoffed and said “Nonsense. Your leg is broken, you’re recovering from a prolonged fever, and you would be better served using what little energy you have left to eat.”

“There’s food?” Maria brightened.

Iráma shook her head and chuckled in a way that reminded Maria of Nana as she brought over the food. Maria was delighted to see a bowl of broth—almost a soup this time, with small bits of meat—fruit and more bread. She ate the entire bowl of soup while Iráma patiently watched.

“How long before I am able to walk, do you think?” she asked between mouthfuls.

“Assuming the bone is healing, you shouldn’t put weight on it for at least another couple of weeks.” Iráma leaned back in her chair. “In the meantime, though, it is important that you exercise your other muscles so that the flesh does not weaken further and begin to die.”

Maria handed the other woman a piece of bread which she took, munching on it thoughtfully. Tall and slender, with smooth skin and long, straight black hair, Iráma had an air of strangeness about her. She moved with a careless, catlike grace, as though every move she made was a dance, and her eyes seemed focused on something only she could see. Maria wondered what had brought her here and why she continued to return.

Maria finished her meal. As she set her spoon down onto the empty tray, Sophus returned. Iráma stood and left, taking the tray with her in a single, smooth movement. Maria leaned back in her chair, acutely aware of the disadvantages of being immobile.

“Why, yes, I did enjoy my meal, thank you.” She grinned, anticipating Sophus’s question. He paused, his mouth open to speak, and just as he started to ask another question Maria answered it, too. “I’m feeling quite well and rather refreshed. I am treated very kindly here.”

Sophus smiled, catlike. “Am I allowed to speak yet, or will you be answering all my questions before I ask them? Am I so predictable?” he asked playfully.

“Not after the first two questions.” She returned the smile. “I do know, though, that you’d like to talk. However, I do have a request for you before we begin.”

“You need only ask.” Sophus eyes twinkled.

“Would you mind moving me to the couch? This chair is most uncomfortable—”

Before Maria could even finish her sentence, Sophus had swept her up into his arms. The way he seemed to be on the other side of the room one moment, then swinging her through the air the next, dizzied her. His beautiful, entrancing scent didn’t help much either, and she found herself again irritated. She shoved her ill mood aside as the cold, hard arms set her gently onto the soft couch. He sat across from her in a matching cushioned chair and crossed his legs.

“Now then, what is it that you would like to ask?” Maria said before an uncomfortable silence could set in.

“Such directness, my dear. It is a trait I’m beginning to like about you. You do not seem to be intimidated by me.” Sophus’s smile showed too many perfect white teeth.

Maria’s heart tried to beat a little faster but she took a deep breath to calm it.

His smile changed to one of amusement as if he knew what had just happened. “I understand your need to find this man of yours, and I’ve come to like you. I want to help in any way that I can, truly I do. However, as I’m certain you’ve come to realize, you will be in no condition to go searching for him for some time. Given the urgency of your quest when you arrived, I am afraid he is most likely lost to you.”

Maria shook her head. She wouldn’t believe that; she would never give up on finding Miguel, he was all she had left. She would go on, even if it meant dragging herself out of there with her bare, weak arms.

“Please, hear me out,” Sophus continued. Maria looked back at him. “What I would like is for you to remain here until you are healed enough to continue on. Should you wish to continue your search at that time, I would be happy to render whatever assistance is necessary.”

He leaned closer. “There is something I wish to share with you, though. I am a rather... unique individual. I have lived an extremely long life, and though I am often surrounded by kind, sweet women”—he gestured toward the door—“I find it a lonely existence. If you decide you do not wish to continue your search, I ask you to consider staying with me. I have found you to be a most intriguing person with a certain intelligence that I have not come across for longer than living memory. In return, I would give to you a life without pain, without sickness, without weakness. I would take away the frailties of your mortal body and give you youth eternal.

“Please do not answer now, wait until you are well.” He locked his eyes on hers. “This is not an offer I make lightly. It is also not an offer I have ever made before.”

Chapter 19

“I... DON’T KNOW what to say,” Maria stammered, taken aback. She had been willing to accept that the Wayuu believed differently than her, but this was more than she had bargained for.

Sophus shook his head. “I don’t want you to say anything now, just to think about it as you heal.”

“I think... I’d like to rest now,” she said weakly. She certainly did need to think about it. Could she really spend months trapped in some cave with a man who not only believed in eternal youth but thought to share it with her?

Sophus stepped over and picked her up, his annoyingly calming scent washing over her. His arms were as hard and cold as ever, harder than flesh should be. His entire body seemed to radiate cold the way a normal person’s radiated heat. The strangeness was undeniable.

She considered his face as he walked her to her bed, thinking of how the angles seemed just right and every feature was perfectly proportioned to the others. His pale golden locks were glossy and smooth enough to elicit jealousy from any woman. Maria felt without reserve that he deserved the word beautiful. Yet there was something sinister about him. The expression in his eyes and the way he smiled made her think of a predator, a very cunning predator who liked a challenge to his intellect. She would need to be on her guard.

He laid her gently on the bed and this time, she felt as frail as she appeared.

“Gracias,” she barely managed to say as he straightened. She was more tired than she had realized.

“De nada, mi corazón.” He gave a sly smile as he left.

It’s nothing, my heart. Maria bristled. The familiarity was getting out of hand. She appreciated his kindness and hospitality, but even if he did have the power to grant immortality—she cringed as she adjusted her leg and pain gripped her for a moment—and yes, even the freedom from her constant pain, she would never accept him. Behind his smiling eyes, she saw nothing but danger.

As the next few weeks passed, she grew anxious to begin walking on her own. She spent a great deal of the time in her host’s company either playing chess or talking, their topics ranging through everything from philosophers and theology to literature and science.

The lovely and intricate chess set in Sophus’s room had caught Maria’s eye, and the next thing she knew they were concentrating over the beautifully carved board. She wasn’t surprised when he won, but she insisted they play again so that she could divine his strategy.

When she was not entertaining the blond man she read, slept, and ate. The dressing on her leg was changed every few days, and finally Iráma claimed the leg to be well enough for Maria to begin walking with assistance.

“You will need a crutch of some sort,” Iráma told her as Maria hobbled around the room. “You are not to put any weight on the leg for at least another week, and then only lightly.”

Maria nodded, already enjoying the freedom of moving around on her own. She leaned on the chairs, the table, anything she could use to support herself as she hopped one-legged from one side of the room to another. It tired her, but her strength had been returning and she was restless and eager to begin building her muscles in earnest.

As Iráma finished cleaning up the mess from the old cast and dressing, Sophus appeared in the door, holding a long stick.

“Lord Sophus.” Iráma nodded to him without looking up from what she was doing. He watched her walk lithely from the room before turning to Maria.

“I have brought you a gift.” He held the stick out to her ceremoniously. It had been smoothed and polished, and near the middle there was a branch that had been cut away, creating a handle. One end was branched and wrapped in padded cloth.

“Gracias, Don Sophus.” Maria took the crutch from him and set it beside her.

Sophus helped her position it under her arm to see if it was the correct length. It fit perfectly.

“It is my pleasure, Maria. Try it out, and please, no titles, just Sophus.” He gestured for her to go.

She limped around with the crutch, quickly getting the feel for it and ecstatic at her newfound freedom.

“Infinitely better than hopping.” She reached the other side of the room, looking over her shoulder with a triumphant smile. The quick movement overset her balance, and she tried to lift the crutch to catch herself, succeeding only in catching it in her voluminous skirt. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the impact of the floor, but instead found herself in cold, firm arms.

He helped her back to her feet. The spike of fear from the fall released its hold on her as she balanced carefully between her foot and the crutch. Sophus remained behind her, his hands steady beneath her arms.

“I’m quite all right now,” she said, expecting him to give her some space.

He didn’t move.

Oh dear, Maria thought, this is not good.

She cleared her throat and tried to move from Sophus’s arms. His breath on the back of her neck chilled her as he moved his face closer to hers. Not good, not good, not good, she thought frantically as his strange scent immobilized her and set her heart to pounding. She tried unsuccessfully to push his arms away; she could sooner have pushed away the arm of a statue. His face brushed against her hair, and his chest pressed against her back as he inhaled deeply.

“You have a most appealing scent,” he whispered in her ear, his low, soft voice trying to draw her to look at him.

She refused. If she turned toward him, all would be lost. She stopped struggling and stood limp, staring straight ahead. “Don Sophus, this is really most inappropriate. As always, your kindness is extremely appreciated, but I must request that you leave for now,” she said as stiffly as she could.

Sophus released her with a resounding laugh, his hands hovering until he was sure she was stable.

“You know,” he said as he reached the door, “I could make this all go away. Think about it.”

She refused to turn until she heard the door close. Scowling and muttering to herself, she continued hobbling around the room until she had worn herself out.

The next morning as she ate her breakfast, Sophus returned looking very pleased with himself.

“I have something for you.” He took a seat across from her.

“Don Sophus, you’ve done so much already. I don’t believe I could accept any more of your generosity,” Maria responded, hoping to avoid any further advances.

“It is nothing, my dear. Actually, I had meant to give it to you before your accident,” he said with a mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

She stood as gracefully as she could manage, which in her mind, equated to that of a cow rising from the ground. “All right then.”

“No, no, please, it can wait until you are finished,” Sophus protested once she was up.

Maria rolled her eyes. “I’m up, I am finished.” She tried to not let the sarcasm through.

“Wonderful!” he said, practically leaping up from the chair, which, oddly, didn’t move when he stood. Maria had begun to get used to his idiosyncrasies, even his silvery eyes with the red-ringed irises and cold, hard skin.

He led her to the closet and gestured inside. Maria had not seen the inside of it since before she’d been hurt, as Iráma or the other women had always chosen her clothes and helped her dress. Now, as she peered into the side room, she hardly recognized it. It was filled, top to bottom and front to back, with clothing of every color, style and cloth.

Maria stepped back, overwhelmed. Even at home she had not had such an array. She hobbled through the small chamber. He’d even included a small selection of breeches and shirts. This must have cost a fortune, she thought.

She turned back. “I really can’t accept this.”

Sophus shook his head. “Whether you accept it or not is your choice, but know it is here should you wish to use any of it during your stay. Now, I have a request for you. Put on something nice, comfortable, and warm. I think you might enjoy spending the day out of doors; perhaps we can shoot those pistols of your father’s.” Sophus backed out of the closet. “I’ll be right outside your room once you are ready.”

Maria sighed when she heard the door to her room close. He was always around, always so close. She needed a break from him, but how could she get it?

She chose a nice, simple green dress and a green shawl with gold embroidering to go over it. The dress hung more loosely than it should have, though she was no longer quite so gaunt. No doubt as that improved, the clothes would fit better. Settling and tightening all the layers of the dress exhausted her, and she took a moment to rest on the chair before pulling on her shoes. Her leg remained both stiff and sore, but the improvement encouraged her.

Last, she brushed out her hair, pleased to see some of its original luster had come back. She watched her reflection in the mirror, only partly pleased to see her old self returning. How could she politely ignore him?

She picked up her pistols. Perfect, she thought. She could ask him to carry them for her as they walked, which would help to keep at least one of his hands occupied.

Her plan worked well at first, but it was a long walk to the pastures, made longer still by her lame leg. When they reached the stairs she realized, with chagrin, that she had miscalculated. Her hurt leg already ached from the exertion, and her good leg would not be able to jump up each of the many steps. Sophus swept her up into his arms before she had a chance to protest.

Exhausted, her body tried to pull her into unconsciousness, but she fought it. She would not fall asleep in his arms, no matter how relaxing his scent. She concentrated on her breathing and counting each of the steps as they went, refusing to relax or allow her eyes to close. The breeze from the open doorway filled her lungs as they neared. The smell of impending rain from the overcast sky stirred her to wakefulness.

“I’m fine now; you can set me down,” she said as they passed through the doorway.

He set her on a bench and handed her the pistols. “Prime these while I set up a target, would you?”

“Certainly.” She took the equipment, and the familiarity of the task heartened her. The feel of the guns reminded her of her father, and the smell of gunpowder brought back memories of Miguel. Happier times. She found herself smiling.

“Ah, that is what I like to see.” Sophus helped her to her feet and handed her the crutch. “You light up when you smile like that.”

She offered him the gun. “Would you like to shoot first?”

“Why don’t you go first?” He took the first pistol. “It has been such a long time since I’ve used a gun; I’m afraid they’ve developed a bit without me.”

Pleased at the chance to show off her marksmanship, Maria aimed the second pistol and shot, hitting the target nearly dead center.

Sophus nodded his approval. “Well done. Do you think you can do even better?” He took the spent pistol from her and held out the unshot pistol, hilt first, the muzzle directed toward his chest.

She reached out to it, a word of caution against ever pointing it at himself on her lips. When she touched it, the unthinkable happened: the gun fired. The weapon fell to the earth as Sophus crumpled.

“Don Sophus!” she cried, dropping down beside him, her crutch flung to the side. Maria touched his arm, steeling herself for the sight of blood as she rolled him over. Instead, she was treated to booming laughter.

“No harm done, mi corazón,” he assured her, sitting up. “Your worry is touching, however.”

“I thought you were killed.” Maria sat heavily on the ground, her bad leg outstretched. How had the gun gone off? She hadn’t even touched the trigger. “What happened?”

“I was shot, of course. Firearms are so temperamental, you know.”

Maria’s head spun. “But, there is no blood. I’ve shot a man before; they bleed so much....”

“Have you now?”

“You must not have been hit,” Maria said, still trying to wrap her mind around what had happened.

Sophus turned toward her and pointed to his shirt. The ragged hole over his chest was singed where the gunpowder had hit it at point-blank range. “Oh, it hit me, I can promise you that.”

Maria’s mind raced. There was no way he could have tricked her. She was certain the shirt had been whole, and she had loaded and primed the gun herself. She had seen him shot. What if Nana and the others were right? None of the tales had made sense because she hadn’t actually believed. But accepting, however it had come to be, that Sophus was immortal made everything fall into place.

It was too much to think about at once, and she asked him to help her back to her room. He picked her up before they began down the first flight of stairs, and her exhaustion overcame her protests. She was asleep before they reached the bottom.

MARIA WOKE WITH THE feel of the warm sun on her skin, the smell of damp earth in her nose, and the distant bleating of sheep in her ears. She stretched before opening her eyes, feeling rested, warm, and comfortable and unwilling to admit to herself that she had awoken. Sighing, she opened her eyes to the clear, brilliantly blue sky. It had been two months now since she had started walking again.

Her muscles had returned, but not nearly as fast as she would have liked, and her leg still pained her with every step. Maria often felt too restless to focus inside, and so she had begun spending most of the day out in the pastures. She especially enjoyed being out in the sun because Sophus seemed to avoid it, though she often caught him standing in the doorway, watching her. The daily trek through the twisting halls and winding stairs had helped to speed her recovery, and the sunlight and warm air lifted her spirits. She had also found a nice remote place on the northern side of the pasture where she could sit, leaning against a rock, and stare off to the north. It provided a good view of the low hills in the far distance. Was that where she would find Miguel?

Maria sighed again at the lengthening shadows. This evening, like most every other evening, she would be obliged to spend with her host. Typically, they played chess or conversed on any of the vast range of interests that they shared. Maria wondered idly what he would choose to speak about tonight. Perhaps he would tell her more about himself.

Maria had come to terms with the idea that he was, in fact, immortal, but only recently had been brave enough to ask about it. Her mind wandered to a conversation they’d had a few days before.

“I would hardly know how to describe it anymore,” Sophus had said. “It has been centuries since I was human, and I was human for such a relatively short time that I don’t really remember much of it.”

“What do you remember?” she had asked, trying to imagine what it would be like to not recall so much of her past

He smiled, leaning back. “My first memory is the change. It is a very vivid memory. Our kind are equipped with some amazing weapons, one of which is the venom from our teeth. It is that distinguished substance that changes the mortal into something extraordinary. The venom is introduced, usually through a bite”—Sophus gave her a sideways glance to gauge her reaction—“and works its way through the body, burning out the imperfections, pushed along by the heart. A strong heart is required, for if it stops beating before the change is complete, then death follows swiftly.”

“And you imagine my heart is strong enough?” Maria teased. She found the topic fascinating and wondered how much of it she could take at face value.

“Of that I have little doubt.” Sophus reached over and caressed her hand.

“Were your eyes always silver?”

“No, the silver is a distinct feature, one that marks us as Immortals. As for the outer ring, it is said that the more human blood one consumes, the brighter the red will shine.” He smiled again, inwardly amused. “It is not, however, a sign of power. Mine are a softer red, for I like to limit my diet and often partake of the blood of the animals that sustain the household.”

A vampire then, just as Nana tried to tell me. Maria smiled politely. Miguel had told her a story of blood drinkers once. Sophus hardly seemed to fit the picture of a grotesque monstrosity surrounded by foulness and death that Miguel had painted that night, so long ago. “What happened after you were transformed?”

“After my new birth, I had immense strength, vision, hearing, speed. Everything that I once was had become enhanced. Even my thoughts, dreams, and desires had become grander. Anything I wanted, I obtained; everything I desired, I had. It was a good life.”

“Was?”

“As with every young person, I had not learned the value of patience, of self-control or even self-denial. Power betrayed me and nearly destroyed me. It was a hard lesson to learn. So, instead, I took to learning. I learned all the things that I had not had time for as a mortal. I became an artist and a scholar. As I am certain you know, all the art here is my own. I am especially fond of working with stone.” He wore the smile of an artist who loved and found great joy in his work and Maria found that smile to be—for once—almost human.

“Can you show me?” she’d asked.

Sophus stood and went to a wall, considering it. Maria followed, carefully maneuvering her crutch around the furniture. As she neared, Sophus touched the wall and pulled down, curling his fingers. Maria was shocked to see the indents left behind, dust crumbling from his fingertips.

“How...?” she asked. The stone looked like someone had clawed into lightly chilled butter.

Sophus had smiled broadly. “The strength of the Immortal.”

A bird landed on a short, stubby tree beside her and chirped, bringing Maria back from the memory. She pushed herself up to a stand and looked once more in the direction she was certain would lead to Miguel. Sophus may have consumed her evenings, but the rest of her time belonged to the man she loved. Soon, she would be strong enough to ride, and she would ask Sophus one last time for his help. Then, with or without his help, she would leave to find Miguel.

She gave a rueful look to the smooth cane in her hands. She had traded in her well-worn crutch for the cane only that morning and was still getting used to putting more weight on her leg. The bone ached in the cold of the cave and still stung to walk on, which was yet another reason for her long days in the sun.

She limped back to her room. Limping on two legs is far better than hopping around on one, she thought, grinning at the relative speed with which she had returned. She changed into one of the nicer gowns Sophus had brought her—he insisted she look nice in the evenings—and rearranged her hair.

As she put the finishing touches in her hair, the worn bag of arras sitting limply on the corner of the dresser caught her eye. Gently, she picked it up and sat on her bed. She opened the bag and spread the contents on the quilt, counting them as they came out. Thirteen coins glinted in the fading light, more beautiful and precious to her than jewels. Miguel had given them to her at their wedding, a symbol of love and a declaration that he could and would always take care of her. She picked them up, inspecting them one by one, Miguel’s tales of how he had obtained them flitting through her mind. Some of the tales were elaborate or humorous while others had merely been change for food, but each had come with such a detailing of the country of origin that Maria could almost imagine herself there with him.

So engrossed was she in her memories that she did not hear Sophus knock before he entered the room, and so full of longing and heartbreak that she did not care when his shadow fell over her treasures. He stood in silence, waiting for her to speak first.

“It has been over a year now, since I last saw him,” she said without looking up. “Since I sent him away.”

“Your husband?”

Maria nodded, her throat too constricted with emotion to answer as she ran her fingers over the precious coins.

Sophus watched her for a moment then sat on the bed across from her. “I know it must be hard for you, but perhaps telling me about it would help ease the pain a little.” He reached out for her hand, but she drew it away, instead picking up the coins and returning them to her bag.

“That is an unusual collection of coins. Perhaps you can start there?”

Maria nodded, taking a moment to collect herself and her thoughts. She could see no reason not to ask Sophus yet again for his help now instead of later. “Miguel was a sailor before I met him. These were mementos of his travels that he gave to me when we were married, in place of the traditional gold arras.

“Shortly afterward, my father went off to war to assist with the Wayuu uprising. He wrote regularly, until one day he simply stopped. I’ve had that dream I told you of off and on for years, but it was then that I began to dream it in earnest.” Maria tightened the drawstring on the bag and stood to return it to the dresser. “In it, I always felt that someone I loved was in terrible danger, and the feeling grew as the dream changed and time passed. When we finally received another letter from my father, it came in the middle of the night and was covered with blood. In it, my father sounded as though he’d given up on life and was preparing to die, insisting that we enjoy our lives and not go in search of him.

“I didn’t listen.” Maria choked up, clutching the bag to her stomach rather than setting it down. “I sent Miguel out to find him. My old nursemaid, the Wayuu woman who sent me to you, insisted that I shouldn’t, that things wouldn’t turn out well, but I didn’t care. I sent him anyway.” She paused to regain her composure, swallowing hard and fighting to keep tears from spilling. Fighting to remember to hide that she’d had a child, even though he was gone.

“Eventually, Papa returned, but without Miguel. He was dying and delirious. He told me something about being prepared to die and a replacement being required.”

“And your husband was the replacement,” Sophus said, his voice thoughtful.

“Yes,” Maria whispered. “Papa told me not to seek him out, but I have no life without him. He is my heart, all my joy and my life. There is nothing for me otherwise.”

“Oh, dear.” Sophus shook his head and moved to stand beside her. “I do so wish you had told me all of this detail about a replacement earlier, when you first came. There may still have been time then, but I’m afraid it is far too late to help him now.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, looking up at the beautiful blond man.

“You know of the Wayuu legend of the Noble One and the Slaver?”

“Yes....”

“Then you should know that your father had been sent as a sacrifice to Theron, the Slaver. This is why your nursemaid sent you to me. I am the only one Theron fears; I am the only one to whom he would listen. All those who are sent to him die, some more quickly than others. I am so sorry, but I’m afraid it is far too late to save your Miguel now.”

Maria shook her head. What he said was simply not possible. “No. He’s still alive, I am sure of it.”

“Maria,” Sophus gently took her hand, “I know your husband is dead. I promise you Theron would not have kept him alive. It is a shock, I know, but you need to believe me and not hold to false hopes. Let him go.”

She just shook her head again, gripping the bag of arras more tightly, pressing it to her. Maria had lost everyone dear to her; she couldn’t let Miguel go as well.

“My dear, I know this is a bad time, but please, consider my previous request. Join with me. Live without pain, without death or illness. I could fix all your wounds, remove every pain in a moment, and we would live forever.”

Maria pulled her hand from the cold grasp and turned away. “I have no use for forever without him.”

Sophus reached out to touch her hair, but she jerked away, and he let his hand fall.

“At least stay here until you have finished healing. Then you may leave if you wish.”

Maria only nodded, clinging to her composure with her chin up as silence filled the room between them. After what seemed like a very long time, Sophus stood and left.

As soon as the door clicked shut, she crumpled. Dropping to the hard stone floor, her dress billowed out around her, she wept until her tears ran dry.

Chapter 20

MARIA STAYED CURLED up in bed all of the next day, facing the grey stone wall, lost in its blandness. Wuchii had convinced her to move to the bed, but she did not eat the food that was brought to her nor did she otherwise respond to anyone. She remained in her catatonic state the following day, clutching the worn bag of coins to her as though they were her hold on sanity or life.

When Maria still had not moved by the third day, Sophus had Iráma look in on her. When Iráma pulled on Maria’s arm to roll her onto her back, Maria jerked away violently and returned to her vigil of the cold stone wall.

“She was fine the last time I saw her. What happened?” Iráma asked.

“She told me the man she’d been following after had gone to Theron,” Sophus said, irritation coloring his smooth voice.

Iráma’s voice became sympathetic. “So he is dead after all. That would explain it; she held out so fiercely for him. There’s nothing wrong; she just needs time to grieve. You usually don’t see this part. We come to you after the first shock of death has worn off. She is resilient and will come back to herself with time.”

“I had such high hopes for her,” Sophus said with a snort. “I even offered her immortality. It’s a shame—she would have been so useful, but I can’t change her like this. I can barely abide the moping of mortal women. I need a companion who is strong.”

“She is strong, Lord Sophus,” Iráma replied, more sternly now. “Her loyalties run so deep that cutting her hope like you did hurts tremendously. It will take time for her to recover, and all you can do is wait for her fire to return. When it does, it will burn far more fiercely than before.”

“Well, we shall see, I suppose. It would be a shame if, in the end, she was just another one of you.”

There was a pause before Iráma responded. “Have you told her everything then? Does she know the darker side of your offer?”

“There is no darker side, Iráma. You eat the meat of your carefully managed flocks; I drink the blood of mine. What is the difference, I ask, between you milking your goats and me mine? At least I have devised a way to not kill my sheep unless they wish it, and they offer their blood willingly without the inevitable fatality of suffering my bite.”

“Your generosity is self-serving.“

“And yours is not? You house and tend dumb animals; I rescue lost people and give them a life of peace and happiness within halls of beauty. What I ask in return is a pittance, by comparison. You dole out death but I give life. And yes, I have told her.”

“We are your menagerie,” Iráma said carelessly. “I pity her, should she accept your offer.”

“She would be my prized pet, that is for sure. Ah, but I had such plans for her. Perhaps she will be useful yet.” Sophus sounded satisfied and walked out.

“Lord Sophus,” Iráma whispered once the door was closed and he was long gone, “I should warn you, she hears you just fine.”

MARIA DID HEAR, BUT she did not care. A part of her mind registered everything that was said and stored it for future processing. Maria’s will had gone out of her. It was too much effort to move, to think, to breathe. Her body, however, rebelled against her depression, and a part of her mind fought against the numbness, keeping her chest rising and falling and her heart beating.

On the fourth day, Wuchii came and sat beside her, running her fingers through Maria’s glossy black hair.

“I know how you feel,” she said softly. “The pain of loss. It is still sharp, especially when I’m alone at night. Like you, I don’t remember much of my mother, for she died when I was very young. I had brothers, though, and a father. And a husband. My brothers and father died one by one in battles. Each time, I felt a part of me die as I tended their bones. When my husband was killed, I was left alone. There were many people around me, the people of my village that tried to reach me, but I would not be reached.

“I was heavy with new life when they brought his body back for the funeral. I, too, would have turned my face to a wall and died, but I had a child to bear. I held on for him, lived my life for him. When he was born, he was so perfect, but he was anxious to travel. Before he was three days old, he joined his fathers in Jepira, the land of the dead.

“Then, I did turn my face to the wall to die, but my spirit was too strong. It would not let me die, and so the elders sent me to the village of the Old One, who, in turn, sent me here. Though death may be a beautiful release from the sorrows of this world, I realized I had a purpose to fulfill and distances yet to travel before I could sleep. You, too, have a destiny to fulfill, child of Zyanya.

“Time is needed, but time I have.” Wuchii leaned back in her chair. A comfortable silence fell between them.

Maria rolled onto her back, and Wuchii smiled.

“You need not be whole yet, but you do need to eat. Come, let us get you up.”

Maria allowed herself to be herded around the room, eating as she was told, bathing and dressing with Wuchii’s help. When she was finished doing a task she simply stopped, standing and staring into space until she was told to do otherwise.

Maria knew that time passed but time had ceased to have meaning for her. She slept as little as possible, for sleep brought with it vivid dreams of dashed hopes, tearing open anew the pain of her loss. Dreams that insisted she was wasting precious time here, that he still lived, that he was searching for her.

Despite herself, Maria began to improve. Though she wandered the halls aimlessly, a woman always trailing silently behind, she no longer slowed to a stop at random places, staring into space until someone suggested that she continue. She began to eat when she noticed hunger, which happened with increasing frequency. She began to get out of bed, bathe, and dress without being convinced, and then even began choosing her own clothes. At first, she just picked the first thing in her closet that her hand fell on, but then she began taking care what she chose. The pain in her leg never really went away, though she grew more adept at ignoring it.

One day as she walked by a table, a book lying open on it caught her attention. She stopped and looked at it for a long time, before picking it up and starting to read.

There was a knock at her door, and when she looked up, an elderly woman rushed in, falling to her knees at Maria’s feet.

“You must forgive me! I didn’t know you’d survived,” the woman cried, a coughing fit wracking her small frame.

“Please, stand up.” Maria took the woman’s hand and helped her up. Turning the woman’s face toward her, Maria gasped. Maachon, Muusa’s grandmother, stood before her. Excited to see a familiar face, Maria gently led her to a seat. “What do you mean? You’ve never been anything but kind to me, abuela Maachon. How is Muusa? Is she well?”

“Your son, I didn’t know. We had already left the village. The Old One told me you had died of your fever,” Maachon said. “I swear, I would never have done it. The Elder’s council would never have condoned it.”

Coldness stole over Maria’s heart as she brought Maachon a cup of water. “Drink this,” she said softly, forcing herself to wait until the old woman had finished before asking the question that burned in her. “What about my son?”

“Muusa’s son had never been strong. When he succumbed to the call of his fathers to join them in Jepira, the Old One came to Muusa, asking her to nurse your boy.”

“Muusa’s son died,” Maria repeated. As she began to suspect what Maachon would say next, the coldness in her heart solidified into rage.

“The Old One said that you had succumbed to a birth fever, and begged us to take your son back to your home. I didn’t know you had lived—I wouldn’t have taken him, I swear it. To steal a child from his mother, it is not done! But we did as she asked, and he is there, even now, with your Betania. They loved you so and were so grieved to hear of your passing. When I returned to my people and heard you’d come here, I knew I had to make it right. Even if it meant my death.”

Maria no longer heard what the woman’s words as the ground gave way beneath her feet.

Álvaro lived.

Maria grasped the table to keep from falling.

Nana had lied to her.

With an animalistic cry, Maria swept the ewer and basin from off the table top. They shattered across the stone floor as surely as Maria’s life had been shattered by the Old One’s lies.

How could Nana have ever said she cared for her? That woman cared more about a legend than she had for Maria or even for Ayelen. For all her talk and years of service and false love, had Nana just been biding her time until she could force Maria here? Maria had planned to take her son and return home, so Nana had stolen him. Had Nana manipulated her all along?

Maria’s knees buckled, and a sob stuck in her throat. Álvaro was alive. Maria had lost track of the days. How long had she been here now? What would he look like? What would he be doing?

Maria felt as though a fog had lifted from her brain, a fog she hadn’t noticed come, a fog she hadn’t even been able to see. The door stood open before her, and suddenly everything seemed so clear. Why was she still here? Miguel—she thought his name with difficulty, swallowing down a sob—was lost to her, but Álvaro still lived, still needed his mother. She would go back to him.

Maria calmed Maachon, helping her get her coughing under control and assured her that all was forgiven. Asking another woman to help Maachon, she sent them to find Wuchii for food and rest. Closing the door, Maria considered her ill-fated first attempt at exploration as she paced the room. That had been immensely foolish. She ought to have started in a place she knew was near the entrance—the throne room, the first place Iráma had taken her when they arrived—and started from there. She even knew where to find it now.

For the first time since she had arrived, she donned all her knives and pistols, callously cutting access points into her dress. She paused to look at her father’s pistols and smiled.

“These will be yours,” she said softly, thinking of her son. “I will teach you to shoot as your father taught me. His legacy will live in you.”

Carefully, she cleaned, loaded, and slipped them into her belt. Maria packed some warm clothes and threw on Miguel’s greatcoat, as comfortable as though it were his arms around her. The more she thought about it, the more certain she felt that she knew exactly where the entrance was. Last, she slipped the pouch with the thirteen arras into a pocket and strode from the room.

The throne room was in the opposite direction from the one Maria had taken when she’d gone exploring. She walked directly to it and stopped in front of the closed door. Turning her back to the door, she looked down into the dark corridor directly across the hall. When she had come in, they had walked in a straight line to this room. When they left, again going down the corridor, they had arrived in a vastly different chamber.

Maria grabbed a nearby torch and lit it, walking forward with confidence. Halfway through the darkness, the tunnel did, indeed, branch the way Iráma had said, but it was angled so that the branching would only be seen by someone coming from the throne room. She laughed derisively, realizing that the smaller chamber must have been merely a room behind one of the closed doors in the large round room.

Cunning, she thought, taking the path to the round room.

When she reached the room, she recognized it as one she had passed through often on the way to the pastures. She shook her head again and admired the deceptive architecture. The room was built skewed so that a person passing through from one end to another would think it was just another peculiarly shaped chamber. One side bowed away, the wall lined with the odd-sized but grand doors and statues, neither of which was uncommon in Sophus’s labyrinth. The other side had a deep overhang with more statues lining the edge of the complete darkness beyond.

She strode forward to the dark side of the oblong room and stood behind one of the beautiful stone seraphs, taking in the view. It was exactly as she had remembered it. From the center of the darkness, the room seemed perfectly round, curving into the distance with a bright, arched ceiling. Behind her was freedom.

Maria took one last look at the grandeur and turned to the darkness, her torch before her. There were walls guiding her way, but the torch did not light them well, and within a few feet, the darkness before her was complete. With her head held high, Maria started into the void.

Iráma materialized out of the darkness, walking toward her. She slowed as she neared.

“Now is not the time to leave,” Iráma said with a quiet but urgent voice. “You have found your purpose again I see, but danger is coming.”

Maria opened her mouth to argue, but Iráma cut her off.

“You will die if you leave now. Return to your room and stay there until someone comes to get you. Tell everyone you see to do the same.” She set her hand on Maria’s shoulder. “I will help you leave after our visitor has gone.”

“Why, what is going on?” Maria asked, skeptical of the strange woman. “Who is coming?”

“Death,” the tall, graceful woman answered, and walked on.

Maria hesitated. Freedom was just on the other side of the darkness. But Iráma had never been anything but a friend to her; why would she lie now? Maria returned toward her own chambers, pausing only long enough to tell anyone she saw what Iráma had said. Undercurrents of unease and excitement flowed through the labyrinth as the other women rushed to follow Iráma’s instruction.

“What is going on?” Maria asked Wuchii when they passed in the hall.

“It sounds as though another immortal has come to pay Lord Sophus a visit. This has not happened in living memory, but we have all been warned that it is certain and painful death to be about if one comes by. Quickly now, go.” Wuchii shoved Maria in the direction of her rooms then ran off in another direction.

Iráma stood beside Maria’s door, her casual stance marred by nervous, jerky movements as she opened the door.

“I ought not to do this for you,” Iráma said carelessly, as though she was speaking of gossip that she didn’t care for. “Lord Sophus will be angry if he finds out, but I think you need to see our visitor. I have been instructed to lock you in your chambers, but if you decide to solve the riddle of the way Lord Sophus has lit his home, you might find something worth seeing.”

Maria stepped into her room, and the lock clicked behind her. Why would Iráma care now about Maria knowing how the rooms were lit? Maria set her packs beside a couch and looked up at the lit ceiling. She had long ago figured that it was some network of mirrors but had never cared enough to confirm it.

Why not? she thought, looking for things she could climb to reach the lip in the wall that the lights reflected out of. Though she still had some issues walking, she had grown used to the pain, and her leg was strong enough. She could probably climb something to get up there.

With some effort, Maria dragged various bits of furniture around, stacking them under a light on the wall nearest to Sophus’s chambers. Once the makeshift tower was complete, Maria stood back and took in the sight, deciding that designing architecture was not for her. Steeling herself, she climbed the pile, peered over the lip into the light, and found herself blind.

Fool girl. Shaking her head, she reached her hand in to block the source of the light and found a very straight tunnel large enough to crawl through. She hoisted herself onto the ledge and felt the cracking of glass beneath her. Moving her skirt aside, she found a broken mirror. Mirrors had been set up along the ledge, one at each turn to send sunlight through the labyrinth and light the way.

Why had Iráma wanted her to see this? Perhaps she wanted her to see their visitor. But why?

As Maria sat on the ledge, the remnants of an overheard conversation came back to her.

“Have you told her everything, then? Does she know the darker side of your offer?”

“There is no darker side, Iráma. You eat the meat of your carefully managed flocks; I drink the blood of mine. What is the difference, I ask, between you milking your goats and me mine? At least I have devised a way to not kill my sheep unless they wish it. And to answer your question, yes, I have told her.”

“We are your menagerie,” Iráma had said. “I pity her, should she accept your offer.”

“She would be my prized pet, that is for sure. Ah, but I had such plans for her. Perhaps she will be useful yet.”

Was Iráma trying to warn her of something? Sophus was immortal, impossibly beautiful, drank blood, and was most likely a vampire. She’d already figured all that out. Perhaps he was really a hellish demon sent to destroy and kill for lust? He didn’t seem the type.

Though she had gone to church as appropriate, she had never believed most of what was taught. Even that tale Miguel had told her on that night so long ago did not seem to fit very well. She accepted that Sophus was immortal and could believe that he was a vampire, but a twisted hellish demon was not an accurate description. It was as Sophus had said: he provided beauty, life, happiness, and peace for the troubled. Being immortal, he had probably even freed her mother’s people from slavery as the legends said.

There was the issue of drinking blood, as Iráma had pointed out. But, Maria rationalized, in the months I have been here I have known of no deaths

As Maria pondered, she began to hear voices. The first she recognized as Sophus’s. The other was Iráma, probably reporting back to him. A sudden determination welled up in Maria to heed her friend’s suggestion and see what it was Iráma had wanted her to see.

Knowing Sophus’s penchant for mazes, Maria returned to her room for a ball of twine and something to clear the broken glass from the ledge. Tying the twine at the entrance, she crawled through the tight tunnel. The dazzling light from the mirror darkened as rain began and a clap of thunder echoed through the caves. She paused until she could hear the voices again, then followed them through the turns

“Because having a straight passage between the walls would have been too simple,” she muttered as she moved backwards from a dead end. Turning a corner, the voices sounded clearer. Certain now that she’d found Sophus’s main chamber, she peeked her head out as the echo of rainfall sounded through the cave.

Sophus sat languidly on his favorite and largest chair, sloshing a goblet of red liquid. Blood, Maria concluded. The air currents pulled the tangy metallic scent toward her. There was no one else in the room, though another goblet of similar liquid sat on a table beside him.

He really does drink blood, she thought absently. No wonder I’ve never seen him eat.

Maria jumped a little when the door opened, and she held her breath as Iráma entered and dropped into her graceful bow.

“My Lord Sophus, your visitor has arrived.” She gestured back to the door, signaling for the guest to come in. “May I present your old acquaintance, Lord Theron.”

Maria stifled a gasp as Theron walked in. He was beautiful, more beautiful than Maria had ever imagined a man could be, more so even than Sophus. His glossy black hair fell to his broad shoulders. He was tall, well-muscled and well-proportioned, obviously more than a match physically for Sophus, who looked slender by comparison. Eyes that ought to have been green showed silver instead. They looked pained as he stepped forward to clasp Sophus’s offered hand, smiling cruelly, a familiar dimple forming.

His handsome features were more pronounced and defined, than she ever remembered them and made him look all the more amazing. Maria could hardly breathe. The sound of the rain thundered in her ears. Or was it her own heartbeat?

“Drink?” Sophus offered, mischief in his voice. His guest declined and Sophus happily drank both drinks himself while Theron twitched. Sophus gave a wicked smile, gesturing for him to sit.

“Your hospitality comes at too high a price. I will stand,” Miguel said coldly.

Chapter 21

MARIA COULDN’T MOVE. She couldn’t breathe. Miguel lived, but how? Sophus had insisted that he was dead. She should have known him for a liar; things never felt quite right around him. How could she have allowed herself to trust him?

She feasted her eyes on the sight of her husband below her, heart aching with the joy of being so near. He was everything she remembered of him, but also more. He had changed since the last she had seen him, riding off in the rain, but in a way she could not explain. And his eyes. She could see them well from here—they were silver with a blood red border rather than the tawny red of Sophus’s, the eyes of immortality. Eyes that appeared to be in pain. Her heart went out to him, and she wanted to leap down from her hiding place and hold him, comfort him.

“You never did trust me much, did you, my old friend?” Sophus asked, chuckling.

“I did once, but as I said, your generosity has far too high a price,” Miguel answered briskly.

No, not Miguel, Maria thought. Theron. But how? The timbre of the voice was right, exactly what she remembered, but the speech itself was not as Miguel would have spoken. It carried an odd accent that reminded her of Sophus and used words and cadences that Miguel would not have.

What is going on?

“Come now, I’m sure you went to great lengths to acquire this new pet, though it is shameful that you would do so to a fellow immortal. Did you really think I’d take him from you so soon?” Sophus asked, sounding hurt.

“One can never be too careful with you,” Theron replied with Miguel’s voice.

Maria was entranced by the almost musical quality of her husband’s voice. He made Sophus seem dull by comparison.

Miguel inhaled deeply, twitching as though having difficulty keeping control of himself. “It was not so hard, really. It seemed after so many years of bad luck, always being sent men too old and sickly to survive a transformation—men useful only for a meal—things changed. I was blessed with this fine specimen who succumbed to me easily enough. It would seem you have a new pet as well. She does smell lovely.”

“She does indeed. You know what an effort it can be to get good help, what a hassle it is to train them. I would appreciate you not killing any this time,” Sophus said with exasperation.

“I would hate to be so rude. I would not have come if I was not certain of my control.”

“It is more like you would not have risked letting him so far away from you. You do appear to be having some trouble controlling him as it is.” Sophus gestured toward the twitching hand.

Maria took it in stride. In a world with immortals, vampires, and ancient prophecies involving her, what was the addition of mind control? She almost laughed.

“My strength grows with familiarity, as well you know, which is part of the reason I took so long to come.” Theron shrugged. “It always saddened me that you could not experience this. It is amazing to see the world through another’s eyes, see what they see, and experience what they experience. Her blood sings to this poor fool, an incredible feeling, one which I have not experienced before. You would be wise to ensure they do not cross paths, else I’m afraid he might take over and kill her. He fights fiercely, you realize.”

“I imagine he would, and that this is the reason you have waited so long to visit. He really is a fine-looking creature,” Sophus said. “He probably has a wife back home that he longs for.”

“That very thing.” Theron raised Miguel’s hand, showing the glint of his wedding ring. “He has caused no little trouble over it.”

Pride and love filled Maria to know he hadn’t ever given up. Keep fighting, Miguel! Her mind raced. She would need to return to Maracaibo before he did, she could meet him—

“Perhaps he would be easier to control if you had him return and find his bride. With any luck, he’ll kill her. People are always so much easier to control once they’re broken.”

“That might be just the way,” Theron mused, finally sitting down.

Maria paused. Surely Miguel wouldn’t kill her. Not after fighting so hard. Certainly, if he only saw her... She turned her attention back to the conversation, hoping they would give away how she could best them.

“I imagine you did not come just for the advice on doing what you’ve done for centuries. However, I could not fault you if you did. You may have the raw talent, but my way takes work and practice, and practice will always trump raw skill.”

Theron bristled. “I did not, in fact, come here for your advice, however good it may seem. I came to reclaim what is mine.”

“The natives? You can have them; they have begun to bore me anyhow. After a few centuries, you begin to see the same things over and over. I have taken to starting wars with the Europeans just to stir things up a bit.”

“You know I could not care less about your pathetic cattle,” Theron growled. “I have come for my limbs that you so kindly removed and hid. The danger to me has long since passed, as has the time to return them.”

“Ah, Theron, you never did trust me as much as you should have,” Sophus stood and wandered the room. “I have kept them safe and hidden, as I said I would.”

Suddenly, faster than Maria could see, Miguel crossed the room and held Sophus in the air by his collar. Maria held back a gasp at the unimaginable speed of it. “I want my body back,” Theron growled. “I will have it back if I have to find it piece by piece. I will have it back if I must tear you limb from limb.”

“How ironic that would be.” Sophus shrugged, unperturbed by his dangling feet. “Especially since I am the only one who knows where your orphaned limbs are hidden. Pull yourself together, Theron.” He raised an eyebrow before continuing. “If you dismantle me, I promise to remain silent on the matter, and you will never be whole again. Now, if you would return me to the floor.”

Theron lowered Sophus to the ground, pushing him away with disgust.

Sophus smoothed his clothes, disgust on his face. “I believe you have overstayed your welcome.”

“It was not much of a welcome.” Theron scowled as he turned on his heel and stormed out, smashing the door in his fury.

Maria felt the stone around her shudder and backed down the tunnel to return to her room, her mind racing. Miguel was alive! Sophus knew he had gone to Theron and that Theron would not have killed him.

It took far less time to get back than it had to find her way, and she quickly returned the furniture to its proper place, her heart pounding. She dismissed the idea of racing after Miguel. She could never have caught up to him with her weak leg, even if he’d been mortal. Once she was sure everything looked normal, she collapsed onto a couch with a book in hand and tried to look bored. Her heart continued to pound, waiting for Sophus to come in, angry at her for spying. When he did not come, Maria’s heart calmed but her mind raced, trying to process all she had seen and heard.

Miguel was alive, but he was changed. She should not have given up on him; even now he fought to return to her, and that knowledge filled her with a fierce joy. Outside, the storm continued, thunder echoing through the tunnels. He fought to return to her, but she was not in Maracaibo, she was trapped here. Iráma had promised to help her leave—perhaps she could go, even now. On horseback, she could make it home to Maracaibo in under a week.

“With any luck, he’ll kill her. They’re always so much easier to control once they’re broken.”

The impact of the words began to hit home. She shook her head. No, Miguel wouldn’t kill her. He couldn’t.

“... would be wise to ensure they do not cross paths, else I’m afraid he might take over and kill her....”

She was certain it was her scent Theron had spoken of. Maria saw again the pained look in Miguel’s silver eyes, almost that of a caged and tortured animal. She had seen boys do that once, cage an animal and tease it until it broke loose and attacked one of the boys. The animal had escaped, but the boy bore the mutilating scars for the rest of his life.

“With any luck, he’ll kill her.”

Could the bloodlust really be so strong that he would kill her and not even realize what he was doing? They couldn’t have known she was watching, so why would they have lied? Perhaps they meant to demoralize Miguel. Either way, it wasn’t worth the risk.

The wind whistled from beyond the overhead passages as the storm reached its height. There had to be a way. Sophus had referred to Miguel as an immortal, and Maria could see the change. As she thought about it, she realized how like Sophus Miguel had become. The strength, the speed, the beauty, the silvered eyes. If Theron could change Miguel into an immortal, perhaps Sophus could do the same for her.

The world around her fell into silence.

In fact, he had already offered.

Miguel could not kill her if Maria could not die. If they could not die, they could be together forever, as they had promised each other they would be. Hope blossomed in her chest.

And what of Álvaro? He was alive, and the knowledge of it filled her with joy. She could go back to him. She ought to go back to him; she was his mother. But she had come so far to find Miguel, and she was here now. It would be a waste to leave at this point, on the cusp of victory. Could she live with herself, knowing she had abandoned her son? Would Miguel hate her for it?

A good mother would have gone back to her child, but who had ever shown her how to be a mother? Maria shut the book with a snap. What she did know was that she could not live with herself, haunted for the rest of her life by dreams that compelled her forward, knowing that success had been within reach but she had not taken the final step.

To look her son in the eye and tell him she could have brought his father home, but hadn’t, was not something she could ever face.

Álvaro was with Betania and Benito. They were good people and could care for him a little longer. She was so close. She couldn’t turn back now.

Maria strode with purpose to the closet. She put on the most attractive and appealing dress Sophus had bought for her, red and black. She did her hair so that it framed her face perfectly, added the necessary adornments, and returned the weapons to their hiding places.

“I am coming, Miguel.” She kissed the bag of coins and hid it, along with Miguel’s greatcoat, behind a panel in the closet.

She returned to Sophus’s chambers, through the hall. She found his rooms empty, though the shattered door had already been cleared away. Maria picked a couch that gave her a good view of the open doorway and lounged in it, hoping to look alluring as she read a large book.

She didn’t notice him enter; he was just suddenly standing before her.

Maria peered up over the book, looking through her lashes. “I heard your guest left.”

“He has indeed,” Sophus said, testily. “Do you have a purpose for being in my room?”

“I wasn’t aware I needed one,” she said blithely. “But, since you ask, I do have a request for you.”

Sophus waved her away. “Iráma has already told me you have found the way out. Leave if you wish.”

Maria stood, letting the book tumble down from her lap. It hit the floor with a thud, and Sophus looked back to her. She locked eyes with him.

“I no longer wish to leave.” She walked toward him. “I have seen the power your kind has, the fear you instill in people. I accept your offer of immortality, if you are still willing to give it.”

“I am indeed.” He grabbed her waist and pulled her toward him, his befuddling scent washing over her.

MARIA BURNED. SHE WATCHED with a detached calm as her body screamed until her throat was too raw for further sound, her body arching and spasming on the cold stone floor. She watched in her mind, bodiless, in this place that was not a place. Here, she could not be trapped by cold cavern walls. Here, she was free.

A gentle breeze swept her away, and she felt it as never before. She felt the very particles of the air collide with each cell of skin-that-was-not, felt each hair on her head move as the wind tossed it around, whispering and laughing while it toyed with the grass. Turning her face to the sun—a projection of the physical sun’s very soul here in the dream world—she basked in its warmth. Her ethereal body, pale and sinuous, moved through a field of grass with such ease and power. Surely even gravity could not hold her down if she tried to fly.

The smell of the rain in the air and the ocean salt in the breeze washed over her. She loved the rain. In the distance, her body burned and her heart struggled to continue. Her voice screamed silently while her body fought its losing battle.

Maria, beckoned the wind, dancing through her long, dark hair.

Not too far off, a dark-haired man stood, magnificent, perfect, and breathtaking in the sunlight. His eyes, a deep claret-and-silver sent a shiver of joy down her spine. The eyes of a vampire. Soon, her eyes would match his. Rather than try to run to him, she simply wished herself by his side, and the dream world shifted around her. The dream world’s gentle buzz of birdsong continued, uninterrupted, as she moved. She stopped, and he turned to her. Maria raised her hand, reaching for him, but he twitched, turned back toward Maracaibo, and was gone.

She knew where he would be.

With a thought, Maria stood on the balcony of Casa de la Cuesta. The white, arching pillars of the large plantation home framed the gardens below. A haunting Wayuu lullaby drifted over her, and a small fire burned in the distance. Beside her, the old woman with long, silvered hair watched, a smile of satisfaction playing across her lips.

A shaft of hurt and anger pierced Maria’s heart. How dare that woman smile after what she’d done? But then he walked by, and Maria followed quickly. This time, she would reach him. She would not be distracted. She could not be stopped.

In the distance, in a cold, dark cave, her dying heart sped up in one final effort to live as the burning venom, having consumed the rest of her body, turned its full force on the noble muscle. Her body had long since stopped trying to scream. Screaming was useless.

Her dark angel stopped at the entrance to the garden and she reached for him. I’m here! she called. Miguel! But her hand passed through his shoulder as he entered the garden. Maria’s breath caught in her ephemeral body as he walked by. His gait, so familiar but now filled with an unnatural grace, made her ache. He wore different clothes, but wore them with that same ease as though they were a part of him. Miguel’s dark, shoulder-length hair shone in the afternoon sun, and his face was as handsome as that of a great seraph. She watched, transfixed with his beauty, as he walked silently on, his silver-and-scarlet eyes fixed on his goal, and his stride full of purpose. Not until he turned the corner did the spell of seeing him again loosen its hold on her

She ran after him, calling out. Miguel! He moved swiftly toward the garden, her garden at Casa de la Cuesta, where he would expect to find her. Sophus, that demon, had planted the idea for him to return to Maracaibo for her. Anger filled her gut, and Maria growled. She was not waiting for him in Maracaibo. Soon, though. Soon she would be strong enough to escape and go to him.

She again called to him as he reached for the gate to the garden. He stopped and cocked his head, a pained expression crossing his face. Certainly he had heard her this time.

“So much of my life before is gone,” he said. “I can’t even remember your name, only that I loved you beyond reason ....”

I’m here! She came to a stop beside him, and reached for him, but as before, her hand passed through his arm. I’m here! she tried again, desperate for him to hear her.

Far to the north on a cold stone floor, her physical body had ceased its struggle, gasping and twitching toward its final death throes.

He inhaled deeply, tasting the air, then opened the gate and stepped in. The scents of orchids, roses, lilies swirled around them. And lavender. She looked in after him, and ice filled her chest.

He hesitated, and for a moment Maria had hope. She knew him well enough; she could see the uncertainty hidden beneath the surface. But then he stepped forward, so sure of himself and full of purpose. NO! Maria threw herself at him but her ghostly form couldn’t touch him. Silently, he moved toward the seated figure, a young woman who absently twirled a violet orchid blossom.

Maria moved between them, trying desperately to regain his attention. No! Not her! Not her!

But his gaze, all his senses, were riveted on the young woman with golden-blond hair. He stopped, waiting in silence, until the woman looked up. If she was startled by his presence, she didn’t show it. He peered down at the woman, and Maria could read his hesitation.

A moment of silence crept by before the golden-haired woman gave out a joyful cry, reaching toward him, the flower falling unnoticed from her hand. “Miguel! I knew you would come for me!”

At these words, he lost all traces of uncertainty as he knelt before the blonde woman, taking her hand and kissing it gently.

You snake! Maria hissed at her old friend, trying without success to knock her hand away.

“Am I dead?” the young woman asked, reaching up to touch his face. “If so, you are a most beautiful Angel of Death.”

“No.” Miguel held himself very still. “Though an Angel of Death I may be.”

“You are changed. Have you come to take me with you?” the woman asked, peering into his penetrating eyes.

“I have.”

Maria despaired, sinking to the ground, as Miguel rose with the wrong woman. No....

Even in her anguish Maria felt clearly every blade of grass beneath her and every strand of her black hair that fell across her ephemeral back. Each rustle of fabric from the golden-haired witch in her husband’s arms hit Maria’s ears, sharp and clear. She lay on the ground, knowing all these things and wishing desperately for oblivion. The air around her stirred, caressing her face with its inaudible whispers. Turning her eyes to the garden’s gate, Maria found only darkness.

In the darkness beyond the gate, the lights of the floating village danced like stars on the lake’s surface. With the strange disconnect of this dream-like realm, Maria stood and found herself standing before the water’s edge. The relentless surge and pull of the dark waves sounded below her, and she could see the fish flitting about in the darkness. Nearby, a funeral barge waited, bearing the image of Miguel’s lifeless, mortal body beneath a shroud of flowers. The barge moved out, floating on the waves, dancing among the lights. One by one, they flickered and went out, and Maria was left alone on the dock in the darkness of her dreams.

From the darkness he stepped forward, new and perfectly glorious. The scent of the distant Caribbean wind mingled with lavender as Maria rushed toward her husband, but the blonde figure who had lurked for so long in the edges of her dreams stepped between them. Loathing, malice, and hate emanated from her, filling the space between them.

In a distant, cavernous room filled with reflected sunlight, Maria’s heart thumped one last time and stilled, finally succumbing to the venom. A final burst of burning pain through her chest pulled her back, and the dark void closed in around her.

As her mind returned to its new, perfect, immortal body, a voice that chilled her soul drifted with her across time and space, the voice of the hateful, silver-eyed shadow.

I saw him first, Elisa snarled. He will always be mine.

Aeonian Dreams: Book 2

DAUGHTER OF ZYANYA: BOOK TWO

MORGAN J. MUIR

Chapter 1

SPRING 1743 – GUAJIRA PENINSULA

MARIA, THE WIND WHISPERED, brushing its soft caress across her mind.

She lay in the empty darkness, still and cold and perfect and complete. She knew that lights danced on the water’s surface, and a jealous force waited just out of sight. Somewhere, elsewhere, there was pain. Death and immense pain echoed in her mind, but here, now, there was nothing but darkness and the floating lights and the wind carrying whispers in its wings.

Maria, the wind murmured, drifting past her ear.

Maria, she echoed with wonder. So I am.

Maria. A flutter of wings, an echo of whispers, a chorus of silence. Live.

Maria opened her eyes.

Particles the color of silver, storm, lead, and smoke swirled and danced in a shaft of sunlight. As she watched, their movements slowed, giving in to entropy within the light that existed between her and the stillness beyond. It was stone, she realized. She lay surrounded by cool stone. Inhaling, she took in the stone’s smooth, lumpy texture pressing against her back. Closing her eyes, she opened her mind to her senses. The tangy scent of rock mixed with the dry, stale air and a hint of salt from the distant sea blossomed in her mind. A distant, soft chorus of gentle drums beat, calling to her. The air moved across her skin in a reflection of the dance of the motes. She existed, feeling for the first time, hearing for the first time, being for the first time.

She again opened her eyes, and, for the first time, she moved. Her hand was before her face, strange and different, and yet the same. She flexed it, her supple skin sliding and stretching over her knuckles as she turned it over, examining it, and then raised her other hand. Content that they were hands, she pushed herself to a seated position, looking around.

She was in a cave? A well-appointed cave. Yes, she assured herself, this is a cave, and I should be here. Couches and rugs sat throughout the room, interspaced with tables and bookshelves. A large mirror stood not too far away. She rose and found her soul settling more firmly into her newly changed body. As it settled, her memories slipped along the fog of oblivion.

Maria stood silently before the mirror and examined herself. Her long black hair hung in glossy waves. The red and black dress she wore hung in tatters, destroyed by her pained writhing throughout the transformation. She pulled the shreds aside to see what lay beneath.

Her slender body was perfection itself; her skin a pale tan and smooth, contouring perfectly over the muscles and bone beneath, elegant as she moved. She shifted her weight effortlessly to a perfectly formed leg that, but a short time ago, had not been able to bear her weight at all. The absence of pain shooting through her leg and hip startled her; she hadn’t expected to have such a grievous injury healed. The whisper of a promise of all imperfections burned away slipped through her foggy mind.

Running her hands from her hips to her belly, Maria saw that the stretch marks, which had borne testament to her fertility and the trophy of a woman’s successful battle for life, were gone. Erased when the skin had been refined to trim smoothness. Up to her breasts, which had also done their part in bringing forth life and had shown their use. They, too, had been restored to perfect fullness and lift in the burning away of mortality. She ran her hand along an arm, and it whispered softly against the too-smooth skin. Gone was the scar that marked a moment of carelessness sparring with her own black-haired angel who flitted in the corners of her memory. All the marks of her previous life were gone.

Maria examined her face, recognizing it, but only vaguely. It was sharper now, the features more defined and the skin somewhat paler. She ran her tongue over her smooth teeth, the cutting edges sharper than they should have been.

The biggest difference, however, lay in her eyes. Eyes that had once been a deep, dark brown were now deep burgundy, with threads of silver working their way through the iris. Her dark-haired angel had eyes like these. It was her new eyes that pleased her the most.

“You are a sight to behold, mi corazón,” a musical voice said from behind her.

Sophus, the name grated in her mind. She watched him in the mirror as he stepped behind her, draping a large, ivory, silk robe over her bare shoulders. She remained still, refusing to cringe at his loathsome, lingering touch.

Maria turned away from the mirror to slip from the remnants of her dress, and tied the thin robe closed. She stepped away from the ruined cloth and turned back to the mirror. The pale cloth of the robe matched well with her dark hair and new skin—still several shades darker than his, she was glad to note—and had a comforting coolness. It hugged her curves and draped elegantly across her shoulders while baring her back.

Her eyes moved to the reflected face of the man behind her. His light blond hair hung in tight curls down his neck, over the loose collar of his shirt, and his tawny-red and silver eyes spoke of an age far greater than he appeared. His skin was lighter than hers, and not quite so smooth, with the relatively more rugged look common to men. The difference was stark; her mortal eyes had seen him as young, smooth-skinned, and perfectly beautiful. He was still those, but to her new eyes and compared with her, he seemed merely mediocre. Compared to the man in her dream, he was bland.

“Sophus,” she stated, confirming the name that had come to her mind.

“Yes, Maria?” A slow smile spread across his face. Devious, conniving. She despised him ... but why? The memory – more than a memory – the knowledge was there, on the cusp of her consciousness, but she could not recall it. She had to find the man in her dream, but the knowledge of it faded in and out. There was something else she was meant to do, a reason for all this, a reason Sophus could not be allowed to know. A mournful wolf’s cry filled her mind, pulling at her.

“I am like you, now.” She turned from the mirror to Sophus, flashing him her most charming smile.

MIKHAEL STOOD BEFORE a large plantation home. Wisps of swirling memories danced around him in the late afternoon sunlight as he walked to the back. A toddler giggled inside the house, followed by a peal of laughter from a second child. A strangely comforting scent wafted out to him, full of life and vitality, and yet it did not arouse his bloodlust—a first in his short, dark life as a vampire. He inhaled it deeply, smiling. It filled him with a sense of joy and satisfaction that he had never before known. He lingered a moment more, savoring the moment of peace before continuing.

Following where his feet took him, an instinct from the memories he held repressed, inaccessible to those who would steal them from him, Mikhael walked toward a wall of tall hedges. Tropical birds chirped and tittered. He knew, without thinking about it, that the wall of greenery surrounded a small garden, full of the massive trees of semi-tropical climate and, at the right time of year, bursting with flowers.

The sense of being so close to his goal, the thing he had pursued, fought for, died for, pushed its way through his chest. He spun the plain gold band on his ring finger with his thumb. Surely he was close to fulfilling the promise that had driven him forward and given him purpose. With no clear memories of his past life, this alone he knew for certain. As he turned a corner, the gate came into view, and a familiar presence wrapped itself around him; he could almost feel her standing there.

Miguel! a sweet, rich voice he thought he knew called softly from behind. The voice of an angel. Pausing, he cocked his head, not sure if he’d really heard. He didn’t need to look; all his senses told him no one was there.

The pain of longing seared through his still heart, and he closed his eyes against the pain. “So much of my life before is gone.” In his mind a shadow seemed to form in the shape of a woman, her dark hair falling to her waist. “I can’t even remember your name, only that I loved you beyond reason ....” Mikhael inhaled again, tasting the rich, wet air.

I’m here, the quiet voice pleaded, full of love. I’m here.

Opening the gate, he stepped in.

He did not expect what he found. A beautiful young woman, with hair like sunlight and her sorrowful eyes downcast, sat on a bench, her ivory and blue skirt spread about her like flower petals. For a moment he hesitated, disappointment filling him. Surely she wasn’t ...

The young woman looked up at him, and the very sunlight seemed to brighten as recognition filled her face. Mikhael’s doubt fled before her joy. He knelt and kissed her hand. She didn’t even flinch at his cold touch, but watched him expectantly. When he left with her, the twinge of disappointment gave way to a sharp edge of grief sliding through his guts. But that, too, faded as the gate swung shut behind them.

Chapter 2

1743- OUTSIDE MARACAIBO

MIKHAEL WAS AT HOME on the water. The feeling had surprised him at first, but the deep, tranquil expanse that surrounded them in the darkness soothed his agitation. The sails snapped in the breeze that propelled their small boat forward, guided by his deft hand. Mikhael gazed at the young, golden-haired woman sleeping near the bow, wrapped in a rough blanket. It was lucky he’d had one on board, as the breeze that blew across the water could chill a person despite Maracaibo’s oppressively warm weather. The bit of unbidden knowledge again surprised him.

Elisa, the young woman had said her name was. Shouldn’t thinking her name have made him smile?

You ought to have just carried her, Theron grouched, breaking into Mikhael’s thoughts and speaking directly into his mind. But I suppose you are correct. Poor mortal thing that she is, she would have wearied far too easily, possibly even fallen ill. And we wouldn’t want that, now would we?

Mikhael scowled. I promised not to dally.

So you did. The things I must endure for your sake, Theron sighed. She certainly is beautiful, though.

She’s mine, Mikhael growled at his unwelcome guest as he pulled a rope, adjusting the sail.

Come now, Mikhael, there’s no need to be so touchy, Theron replied, amused. I was merely observing and applauding your choice in women.

Mikhael’s scowl turned into a low growl.

Tell me, what are you planning to do with her, once you get her back here? Theron asked, hardly hiding his smugness.

What do you mean? Mikhael was not at all sure he liked where this was headed.

Well, you can’t honestly think she’d be safe near you forever, do you?

Mikhael shifted the sail again and said nothing.

Even if you were able to control yourself around her, Theron continued, do you think she’d stay once she has seen me? Or that she will be less than utterly disgusted with you once she sees you feed?

Mikhael refused to comment and, for a while, he seemed alone with his thoughts. He stared at the distant coast in the darkness, listening to the slap of waves splitting against the bow. Had it been selfish to come back for her? He had promised though, and he owed it to her. He had an obligation to his wife. To care for her, provide for her, and to return to her.

But what would Elisa think once she understood what he had become? The yawning abyss of facing the rest of eternity alone, with Theron crawling through his mind, devouring his identity bit by bit, spread before Mikhael. He’d held to the edge of sanity this long with his single-minded determination to return for his wife. He couldn’t lose her now.

Mikhael looked back to Elisa’s sleeping form, her chest gently rising and falling with each breath and her heartbeat, warm and visible in her neck. She smelled of lavender, roses, and warmth. He swallowed back the venom that began to fill his mouth. What if he lost control? What if he accidentally killed her?

I’ve never known anyone with such a dreary addiction to navel-gazing. Theron said with a chuckle. I’m half-tempted to kill her now to stop your agonizing rumination.

Mikhael’s grip tightened on the rudder until he felt the wood begin to give. Was there no way to keep that bastard from watching his every thought? They both knew there was no way to prevent Theron from seizing control of Mikhael’s body, and the best Mikhael had managed to do in return was annoy his captor. While annoying the older vampire could be an effective tool for leverage, it had backfired on Mikhael before. Theron was temperamental, and Mikhael enjoyed his limited freedom too much to risk irritating his captor needlessly. What assurance did he have that Theron wouldn’t kill her himself?

Since you’re taking the long way home, Theron added, be sure to bring home something to eat.

No doubt you’ll remind me if I forget, Mikhael responded acerbically. At least he had thought to bring food for Elisa when she woke. Rounding up food for himself and Theron, though, would not be a pleasant experience. He’d come to terms with the fact that he lived by taking the lives of others. Theron had quickly disabused him of the notion that he could kill himself through starvation. Along with the extreme power and enhancement of his senses came a sense of self-preservation, strong enough that he would kill and consume anything with blood if his body was desperate enough. Theron himself was proof of that.

Mikhael looked at Elisa again. When they landed he would find someone to take with them to Theron, and then he would see if the girl showed any mettle. He would tell her the truth of the matter, he decided. Then, if she wanted to stay with them, he would find a way to protect her. If not, despite the fear that filled him of being alone, he would return her to her home. Either way, he would have kept his promise.

In the soft glow of the pre-dawn light, Mikhael began preparing Elisa’s meager breakfast while she slept. He sliced a soft mango, setting it on a dented plate, and wiped the sweet-smelling juice from the blade. I’ll need to provide food for her if she does stay, Mikhael realized, pulling apart a loaf of day-old bread. He liked the thought of providing for her, but what would he do about Theron? I won’t be able to leave her with him ....

“Miguel?” The soft voice broke into his thoughts. He liked the way she said his name, so much softer than the way Theron said it. It sounded right.

“I’m here,” he replied, looking toward her.

She beamed at him. Her happiness was catching, and it lifted his spirits.

“Are you sure you’re not an angel?” Elisa asked, her voice as rich and golden as her hair.

“I’m pretty sure.” Mikhael chuckled, glad for a reprieve from his dark thoughts. “But, if I am an angel, then I am not the type you think.”

“I truly doubt that,” Elisa’s stomach growled. “I suppose I must not be dead if I am hungry.” She heaved a mock sigh and held her hand out for the food that Mikhael had forgotten he held. He passed it to her, and her fingers brushed against his. For a moment, the glorious warmth of her hand flowed up his arm.

Mikhael turned away, breaking the contact and pretending to adjust the ropes. He’d touched living humans before, but had never had a reaction like that, sending warmth through his cold, stone-hard body. It was almost enough to touch the void in his chest where his heart lay still.

A gentle warmth swept across him as the sun rose. Behind him, Elisa gasped, and he glanced at his hand. In the sunlight it appeared to have a gentle glow, as though lit from within. No wonder she thinks I’m an angel, he thought. Quickly, he donned his hat, cloak, and gloves, checking to make sure he had all his flesh out of the direct sunlight.

“Why did you cover yourself?” Elisa asked between bites of food, the sunlight glinting off her rich blond hair. “Does the light bother you?”

“Not really.” Mikhael shook his head. “I can see so much more clearly with the sun out; it can be...” He paused, struggling to remember the Castilian word instead of his native English. “Distracting. And sometimes a little overwhelming, if I think about it too much. Theron, my master, insists no good comes of being in the sunlight. Besides, he told me not to attract undue notice.”

“Yes, I’m sure a shining, angelic sailor with a golden beauty would do that.” Elisa chuckled.

“Nah. I imagine most sailors would think we were merely an apparition of some sort, but I’d rather not take chances.”

“Why? What would happen?” Elisa asked.

“I’m not really sure, but I’m not in the habit of ignoring the advice of people with more experience than me. I don’t have any intent to find out.”

Elisa nodded and returned to her food. Mikhael decided he liked that about her—she didn’t push things. He was surprised she didn’t seem to be bothered by any of this ... strangeness. She appeared to accept him as he was, oddities and all.

“Tell me what happened to you. Why didn’t you return?” Elisa looked up at him with her large eyes.

Emotions rushed through him at the question. Would she want to hear of how he’d stubbornly fought his gut feeling to flee, bound to a sense of loyalty? Of the chasm through his soul carved by regret for things he couldn’t remember and anger over things far too fresh in his mind? Did she want to know of the pain of being burned alive as he’d been changed?

Probably not. He couldn’t remember all the Castilian words for it right now anyway, though the language seemed to be returning as they spoke.

He gave her a wry smile. “I was captured and became ... ill.”

“How dreadful! What do you remember about it?” Elisa held her plate out to him.

Mikhael took the plate and scraped the crumbs overboard before stowing it. “Not very much. It was just a fever. I’m better now, though.” But that was not true. The first thing he remembered clearly was the fire. He had been consumed by it, the pain going on and on, burning through even his bones. The burning had intensified with time, searing away all thought, all memory, all sense of self. When he had come to, everything was perfectly clear. Clear and blank. Out of the blankness, Theron had emerged, filling his mind and—before Mikhael had even realized what was happening—taking over his body. Mikhael was most definitely not better.

“I see. Well, tell me about being captured, then. That sounds exciting! How did you escape?”

Mikhael barked a laugh. “Who said I escaped? Perhaps I died and am simply a...” He hesitated again, searching for the right word. “El espectro, come to take you with me?”

“Why did you come back for me then? After all this time ...?”

“The truth, Elisa, is this. I don’t remember much about my life before I became ill, before I was captured. I feel I’m barely conversant in your language, and I’m sure I was fluent once.”

“Well, you never did get rid of your English accent,” she said quietly.

He ran his hand through his hair. “I knew I had to return here for you, but I hadn’t expected to be able to. My master allowed me this unexpected trip, and...” He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s as though being here has unlocked scraps of hazy memories and bits of knowledge at every turn.”

Elisa looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, then turned her gaze to the sea.

There was one thing, though, that he had not forgotten. He remembered as powerfully as he’d felt that burning fire that he had a wife to whom he needed to return at any cost. The need to do so had driven him like an angry taskmaster for the last year. It was this single, clear thought that he had clung to like a drowning man to a lifeline. That tenuous hold had been all that had allowed him to keep his grip on himself.

At first, Theron had nearly convinced Mikhael that he himself was nothing more than a thought, until Theron had made a mistake. The memory made Mikhael smile wryly while he checked the rigging. Theron’s curiosity about his new acquisition had gotten the better of him, and he had tried rifling through Mikhael’s memories.

The first he had come upon was that of a woman standing barefoot in the rainy darkness, her thin nightdress clinging to her body. The words “drowned rat” and “mangy dog” had been associated with the image, spoken with such tenderness and love that it had made even Theron stagger in Mikhael’s body. The intensity of the feelings, the intimacy of the moment, and the precious nature of the hazy memory had spurred Mikhael to action. He had risen up in his mind, slamming closed his memories.

That is not for you! he snarled to the intruder in his mind, now as he had then.

Temper, temper, Theron replied, coolly, brushing Mikhael’s mind lightly. Return to your rumination. I have more interesting things to attend to than listening to your short-sighted dreams. After all, we agreed: you don’t annoy me and I let you walk freely.

I will free myself from you yet. Mikhael clenched his fist on the rope.

Surely you don’t still maintain the delusion that you can escape me? Theron loosened Mikhael’s hand on the rope. Lifting his hat, he ran Mikhael’s fingers through his dark hair, tucking a loose strand back behind his ear, as casually and perfectly as if it had been Mikhael himself. I control you. For all that you ever need be concerned, I am you. We are the same.

We are not the same! Mikhael bent all his will to lowering his arm as it replaced the hat.

Come now, it’s not all bad, Theron taunted, withdrawing from one arm, only to take control of the other and began carving a word into the smooth wood railing with his fingernail. Mikhael bristled at the continued intrusion. You must admit that had you gone berserk and killed all of Sophus’s dear little pet women, things would not have gone well for you.

I could have controlled myself, he snarled as Theron returned control of his arm. He rubbed his hand begrudgingly. It had been an interesting experience, visiting Sophus, the only other vampire Mikhael had met. His home was built into the rock of a cliff, a labyrinth of tunnels and corridors and filled with living humans. It had nearly overwhelmed Mikhael to be near such flowing blood, pulsing through so many veins. Such a chorus of heartbeats, echoing through the maze-like stone halls Sophus had built in the mountain’s heart. Theron had immediately taken control of Mikhael’s body, and, despite his bravado, Mikhael had been grateful.

He hadn’t doubted he could hold off from killing the other vampire’s women, drinking their warm, delicious blood. Though the death of a mortal was occasionally necessary, it wasn’t something Mikhael enjoyed. Not like Theron did. Mikhael shuddered.

But there had been something else there. A bright, brilliant scent had wafted through the large chamber of his host, wrapping itself around his mind, confusing him, pulling at him. It was a scent that sought to complete him, drawing him to it, begging him to join with it. It had taken the combined efforts of himself and Theron to keep his body standing firmly where it was as the elder vampires had discussed business. That scent had been the first and only thing that had overshadowed the memory of his wife, standing in the rain.

You should be grateful, Theron cut in again. It was Sophus, after all, who convinced me to let you retrieve your wife.

You are not that generous. This mission benefited Theron, somehow, and was likely meant to break down Mikhael in some subtle way that he could not put his finger on. He looked at the carving Theron had made in the wood.

Mine.

Mikhael scowled and chipped off the word, leaving a raw scar on the finished wood. He wished he didn’t have to hold himself back. Were it not for Elisa’s presence, he’d have ripped the wood away, thrown it into the sea and let the boat sink, himself with it, into the darkness of oblivion.

Theron laughed at him in the back of his mind. Even then, you would not be free of me.

Mikhael turned his thoughts back to his task at hand, unwilling to be Theron’s entertainment any more than strictly necessary.

The entire side trip, added on after Sophus’s suggestion that Mikhael be allowed to retrieve his wife, had gone smoothly. Theron had instructed him to go overland to Maracaibo, and as soon as the city had come into view Mikhael had begun to remember things, the first of which was the knowledge that this place had been his home, more so than any other he’d ever had. Was it not always my home, then?

He had been drawn to the docks first and would have been lost in staring out across the narrow neck of water that linked Lake Maracaibo to the Caribbean if Theron, ever waiting in the wings of his mind, had not spurred him on. He’d purchased this small but sturdy sailboat, much to the disgust of Theron, who would have simply had him steal one, and made it ready. As he’d leapt from the deck onto the dock, a memory had come unbidden to his mind, a vision of four señoritas, young angels, watching him and giggling. Suddenly, he’d known one of them had become his wife.

Mikhael followed his feet from that point, thinking of the four young women, wondering how much of his life he had forgotten. At nearly every point along the way, he had recalled something else, a thought, an impression of softness, a word, a night-time chase on horseback, a necklace with a red stone, a gunshot, a red dress. The memory of a beautiful smile.

He turned from the rigging and looked toward the distant shore to the north.

“What?” Elisa asked. “What do you see there?”

“I don’t know. I feel as though something out there is waiting for me, searching for me. Calling to me,” Mikhael answered, oblivious that he had answered out loud.

“Is that where we are going?” She moved to stand beside him, turning her gaze in the same direction.

He could feel the warmth from her body and looked down at her. “No,” he said after a moment and pointed northeast. “We’re headed over there. We’ll sail out onto the Caribbean shore, around to the northern side of the peninsula. From there, it is a little ways inland.”

“Isn’t that all savage territory?” Elisa questioned, the first note of fear in her voice. When Mikhael nodded, she slipped her arm into his and looked up into his eyes. “I’m sure I’ll be safe with you.”

The large, light hazel eyes drew Mikhael in. They were framed with thick, long lashes that she managed to look through as she stared. She smelled nice; her blood a rich, enticing scent that the breeze blew away from him, replacing it with the salty smell of the sea, a smell Mikhael knew he’d always loved. He knew, too, that from this moment, he’d never be able to disassociate the two, Elisa and the sea.

He felt almost normal as he ran his fingers through her smooth hair, drinking in her beauty. He leaned toward her upturned face and caressed her neck. Her warm pulse raced beneath his touch, just under her skin, and, like every other part of her, rich and sensuous. He pulled her close, and she leaned her soft body in against him. Her breath caught when his fingers traced along her neck and across her shoulder. She closed her eyes and tilted her head up, expectant.

Abruptly, as though in anger, the wind changed directions, filling Mikhael with the scent of her. The bloodlust pulsed through his body, and his mouth watered with venom as he crushed her to him. All he knew was thirst, the dry fire in his throat, and that he held the object of his desire before him, full of life, full of blood.

“Miguel!” Elisa cried out, struggling futilely against his vice-like hold.

Laughter echoed through Mikhael’s head, bringing him forcefully back to himself. He froze, poised with his mouth over the delicate skin of her throat, his teeth bared, ready to pierce the lovely flesh. He felt her breathing in his arms, heard her startled heart pumping in her chest and the soft, alluring sound of her blood racing through her.

Scowling, Mikhael held his breath and slowly, carefully, disengaged from her, pushing her gently away. But what was gentle for him sent her crashing into the bow of the small boat. She shrank into the corner, pulling the blanket she had slept in over her. As if it could protect her from him.

“Elisa,” he paused. What could he possibly say that would forgive almost killing her, then throwing her across the boat? “I’m sorry,” he finished lamely and turned his attention to the helm. The gentle breeze had turned again, carrying Elisa’s scent out over the water

It was a long while before Elisa spoke. “What happened, Miguel? You’re different from what I remember.”

Mikhael did not look at her, instead keeping his focus on the horizon and the rudder. “How so?”

“Well, aside from the obvious physical attributes”—Mikhael snorted as Elisa continued, still huddled in her blanket—“you’re distant and cautious, and yet, you seem on the verge of losing control. You were never like that before.”

Mikhael laughed ruefully. “Do you believe in magic, Elisa?” He brought his gaze back to his guest.

“Yesterday, I would have said no, but now ... I’m not really sure what to believe.” Elisa shook her head then locked her hazel gaze onto Mikhael’s. “I trust you, though. If you tell me, I will believe it.”

Mikhael changed the subject. “Why don’t you tell me about the way you remember me?”

“I suppose I remember you mostly as you were when we first met. I noticed you first, of course. You were coming ashore with a cutlass at your side and a knapsack slung over your shoulder. You made a dashing figure, all dark and dangerous and sure of yourself. That certainly hasn’t changed.”

“I remember something about the four of you being angels ....” Mikhael’s gaze returned to the shore just off the horizon that slipped quickly and quietly past.

“Three.”

“Three?”

“The three of us, you mean,” Elisa said with certainty. “It was my sister, my cousin, and I who you met there. My dear pet dog had died only the day before, and you managed to cheer us up so quickly. It was amazing.”

Elisa flashed him a smile as he digested the information. It fit with the scraps he had recalled before, especially the bit about the dog. Perhaps he had been mistaken about the fourth girl.

Mikhael was too absorbed in his thoughts to notice the satisfaction of his ever-present observer watching from the back of his mind.

Chapter 3

“WHAT A VISION YOU ARE, Maria,” Sophus said, walking around her. “It has been many long years since I have seen the like.”

“Come now, certainly I am more beautiful than any mere mortal,” Maria said playfully.

“Indeed you are.” Sophus took her hand and guided her toward the center of the chamber, gesturing to the couches. “Now tell me, how do you feel? How was the change for you?”

Maria picked the one that faced the heavy wood door. “It was ... interesting, almost like a dream.”

“Interesting has always been the word for you.” Sophus took a seat beside her and leaned forward. “Tell me, what made it so interesting?”

“There was the burning, of course. I’m sure I hardly need to describe that to you; I don’t know that I will ever forget it.” Maria shuddered, looking askance at the unlit torches lining the walls as the ghostly memory of fire moved through her arms.

“No, that is not something you will likely forget. There is little for an immortal to fear, if anything. But fire will always unsettle you.”

Maria nodded, rubbing her arms to dispel the memory and continued. “It was strange. Though my body felt all this and felt it acutely, I found that I just didn’t care. It was as though I were dreaming.”

Sophus arched a pale eyebrow. “That is most unusual. Our kind does not sleep, and so we cannot dream. This is the same dream that brought you to me?”

“I think so.” Maria looked down, trying to gather thoughts which had scattered like pearls dropped on the floor. Pearls that seemed to turn to drops of rain, evaporating on a hot stone faster than she could gather them. “It’s ... difficult, trying to remember. But this dream was so vivid. I could see, hear, smell, and feel in it like never before. I felt every little thing, the wind on my skin, the weave of my clothes, with the same clarity as I do now. I even thought I could feel the sun through the clouds.”

Sophus gave her a patient smile. “Just wait until you go outside. What then?”

Where was she in the dream? Outside? Maria caught hold of a thought and held tight. “In the dream I was ... home, standing in a field by the edge of the jungle. I didn’t know who I was. But the wind came, like it wanted me to know something. It called to me, wanting me to remember.” Maria paused.

What had the wind wanted her to know? There were so many thoughts in her mind, so many shadows. So dull in comparison to the vivacious colors of her dream. Bits of memory and knowledge appeared, then slipped away when she tried to catch hold. Over it all lay both dread and caution. There was something that must not be shared, but the form of it was fading and the reasoning indistinct. She shook her head.

“I saw a man in the distance. I was able to move there with this ... speed that I now possess.” Maria demonstrated, moving her hand so quickly that it almost blurred before even her eyes. A grin spread across her face and she did it again, then again with her other hand. A giggle rose up her throat and she cupped her hands to bring them together in what would certainly be a thunderous clap. Sophus cleared his throat, and she paused, giving him a sheepish grin. “It is rather thrilling.”

“I remember that.” Sophus smiled kindly, the silver in his tawny-red eyes sparkling. “I should warn you that you will slow down a little—though never as slow as actual mortals—and the speed will be replaced with strength. Enjoy it while it lasts. Was there anything else?”

“No.” Maria lied without hesitation. There was so much more, just beyond her consciousness. If only she could find it. “It was interesting, though, to feel lucid while dreaming. Like I said, I felt everything. I knew every time I moved, and heard every scream, but my mind was simply busy elsewhere.”

“That is most amazing,” Sophus mused. After a moment he asked, “Tell me though, what else do you feel?”

Maria set her hands in her lap, careful to not let them distract her as she took stock. She felt everything, all at once. She was aware of everything in a way that would have overwhelmed her mortal mind. The dust floating in the air, sparkling in the reflected sunlight, the sound of the stream that ran through the walls, the feel of the silk over her entire body, the stone beneath her bare feet. Surely Sophus hadn’t meant that.

What else was there? She felt amazement at her new body, but Sophus had already addressed her physical changes. Then it hit her. She felt amazingly, overpoweringly “... thirsty.”

“You are truly remarkable, my dear. To have gone so long before noticing, I have never heard the like.” Sophus grinned again, but Maria hardly noticed.

Now that she had acknowledged the thirst, it constricted her throat, burning with the pain of need, nearly overpowering all of her senses. Her eyes narrowed and she scanned the room for something to drink, poised, ready to dash at it to soothe the drive.

Sophus chuckled. “Now, that was the reaction I was waiting for.”

Maria’s mind fought against the waves of pain and thirst as she dashed toward the stream that ran through the wall. Cupping some water in her hand, she sipped at it, but her throat closed off violently, and she spat it out, disgusted. Her eyes darted, searching for something to satisfy the longing, but her mind looked at Sophus. She latched on to his self-satisfied smirk, an anchor among the crashing waves of need that strove to drag her under. With great effort, Maria reasserted control of her body.

She had not expected this when she had chosen to become a vampire. The stone-hard but perfect body, the strength, the silver-laced blood-red eyes; yes, those she’d anticipated. The amazing increase in vision and her other senses she could handle. But the thirst, the drive, was overpowering. It overwhelmed her, and she’d lost herself in her new body. The part that scared her most, though, was that she had enjoyed being lost. A part of her wanted to give in to the powerful urge to find and drink.

It frightened her.

Desire raged up again, trying to snag her and drag her down, luring her toward the promise of relief. She recoiled from it in fear, further solidifying control of her own body. She stood rigid as she fought within herself for control. For freedom.

Sophus leaned back, amusement playing across his face. “Whenever you think you are ready, we shall continue.”

Annoyance at his condescending tone sharpened her focus, and she began to relax. “Enjoying the show?” she asked wryly, walking cautiously back to her chair.

“Quite. It has been many long years since I’ve been so entertained. Well then!” Sophus clapped his hands with enthusiasm, sounding thunderous. The depth of the sound reverberated through the room, moving and changing in ways she had no name for. She lost herself in the harmonics and the way they spoke to the shape of the room itself.

“Shall we continue getting you introduced to your new life?”

His words snapped her out of her consideration of the sound. She would need to be more careful about paying attention.

The heavy wooden door swung open, and Maria turned, curious. A tall, mortal Wayuu woman with long black hair that hung loose and straight to her waist walked in. Iráma, the name presented itself to her mind. Sophus’s head attendant. The woman’s ease and grace of walk had always impressed Maria.

Iráma carried a bulging bota bag and Maria watched her, assessing. The beat of the Wayuu woman’s heart, slow and even, sounded clearly to Maria’s ears. She even thought she could hear the blood moving through the veins. Maria’s throat constricted at the thought as Iráma watched her with open curiosity. Maria fought back the rising desire to move toward her. This woman had been her friend.

“Iráma ....” she began through clenched teeth, not sure what to say.

Iráma shook her head. “Do not thank me yet, waré.”

Maria nodded and concentrated on remaining on her chair.

“Come now, my dear.” Sophus stood as Iráma set the bag on the table. “Do you not wish to give your dear friend a hug?”

“I’d rather not.” Maria focused her vision on a particular crack on the wall as Iráma backed away.

Laughing, Sophus stepped behind Maria, stroking her dark hair. “At least take in the woman’s sweet scent.”

Before she could stop herself, Maria inhaled through her nose and immediately started coughing, dampening her bloodlust further. “What in the world? That has got to be the worst smell in all existence!”

Sophus laughed again. “Yes, Iráma is one of a kind, that is certain. I’ve never encountered a worse-smelling human in all my long life.”

“At first, he refused to take me in.” Iráma gave Maria an understanding smile, though she remained where she was. “When he did finally agree to let me stay, it was with the stipulation that I stay as far away from him as possible.”

“So not everyone smells so ... my apologies, Iráma, but you smell horrid.” Maria’s cheek flushed at the candor of her statement, but Iráma did not seem bothered by it.

“No.” Amusement colored Sophus’s voice. “Most people smell delicious and alluring, some more so than others. You were among those. It stands to reason, then, that where there are some who smell overpoweringly wonderful, there must be some who smell amazingly repulsive.”

“Lucky me,” Iráma said dryly. “Eventually, once I had discovered what Lord Sophus truly was, I convinced him that I, of all people, was best suited to be his close assistant. He would never be tempted to kill me, and neither would any others of his kind.”

“If you please,” Sophus said to Iráma, gesturing to the bag on the table. Iráma nodded and walked briskly from the room, shutting the door behind her. He led Maria to the table. “Now then, about your ... need. I must tell you that when I was young, I spoiled myself, drinking only the best vintage. I found that gluttony, one of the seven deadly sins, while not deadly to me, was still extraordinarily ruinous. I have since developed my restraint and built up my self-control by allowing only occasional forays into the most delicious of foods.”

Maria stared at him mutely, struggling to keep her focus on what he said rather than the bag he held. A smell came from it, subtle, metallic and warm. So little lay between her and that which she desired. All she need do was reach for it.

“To say it in less elegant terms, my dear—to live the good life, one must sacrifice.” He gently took her hand and guided her away. “Away from the couch and rug, please; they’re so difficult to clean.”

Maria followed him mutely, much of her mind focused on the bag he had in his hand. She wanted to snatch it from him. He stopped her before the mirror, and the sight of her reflection quieted her animalistic—no, vampiric—urge. She was still Maria. She was still a civilized human. She took in a deep breath and centered herself before the mirror, the smooth stone floor cool beneath her bare feet.

Sophus held the warm bota bag out to her. She took it with trepidation. Its weight lay solid in her hands, steady despite the fluid contents. Would she be able to restrain herself once it was opened? Carefully, she pulled the stopper from the narrow neck, and the heady scent of iron and blood rose to meet her, far more pleasant a smell than Iráma’s. And yet, it seemed ... incomplete.

“It is goat’s blood, of course,” Sophus said as Maria’s throat tightened with need. “It is never wise to start with the best of life and then go without. It makes life so much harder.”

Maria tilted the bag to her lips. The first warm drop to touch her tongue felt like the elixir of life, like fresh water on parched soil, like warmth to a freezing soul. Need overcame her, and gravity could not deliver what she craved fast enough. She clutched at the bag, sucking the still-warm blood out with a fury. As Maria drank, the world fell away. Sophus, the man from the dream, the cave, the shadowy memories. All of it spun away unnoticed and unmourned. The drink of life slid down her throat like silk, warm and fresh, and filled her with a radiating joy.

The world slammed back into her consciousness the moment she realized there was no more blood to be had from the bag, and she staggered. Frustrated and unfulfilled, she looked ruefully at the empty bag.

Laughter jolted her back to herself. Sophus watched from his chair, as amused as ever. “You must learn to not be so absorbed, mi corazón. I am afraid you have made a mess of yourself.” He gestured to the large mirror.

Chagrined to be the source of his mirth, she looked at her reflection. Crimson splattered across the ivory robe. Blood dripped from her mouth and throat, standing out against her pale skin with an intensity that surprised her. She examined the blood on her fingers with a sense of displacement. A distant memory of horror at having a man’s life-blood on her hands tugged at her, telling her that she should be bothered by this. And yet she was not.

Sophus joined her and wiped the blood from her neck with a soft cloth. His long, pale fingers lingered where they touched her skin, and a fiery indignation rose within her at his presumption. She jerked away from him, swatting at his hand and grabbing the cloth, which tore between them.

“The second lesson is delicacy.” Sophus handed her the torn material. “You must remember that you now have the strength to destroy almost anything in this world, but with skill and purpose you can learn to create.” Sophus gestured grandly to the room in general, all filled with his stone creations, and indicating beyond, to the entire labyrinth he’d carved and filled with his own cunning.

“Delicacy.” Maria glanced back at her reflection and wiped the blood from her face. He had known she would do this and had dressed her in white to highlight his point, like a spider delicately spinning a trap.

“Yes. As I mentioned before, anything worthwhile requires sacrifice.”

Maria watched through the mirror as Sophus returned to his seat, draping his arms across the couch’s back.

“For us, the art of self-control is the greatest asset an immortal can have. With time and patience, anything we want will come to us. But to obtain the required level of patience, of self-control, we must learn to sacrifice our greatest desire.”

“Giving up something good for something better, I understand.” Maria turned to look at him directly. “But I don’t see how that applies to us. What is so wonderful that I need to give it up?”

“Blood.” Sophus leaned forward with a wicked smile. “Human blood. It is like a well-made wine, strong and addictive and delicious. Most live off it, becoming corrupted by their own selfish need of it. They live in a cycle of desire, lust, and overindulgence, satiating themselves only to succumb to the overpowering call of living blood again. It was that very greed that almost destroyed me once.

“So now I temper myself with animal blood, and though it may seem without substance and unsatisfying, I remain hale. And what is my reward?” Sophus stood and gestured to the room around him. “It is this place, it is servants waiting to fill all my wants and needs, to belay my loneliness and to provide on demand that most precious delicacy. That sweet nectar that is all the more satisfying and delicious for the abstaining from it.”

Maria nodded to herself as Sophus returned to her side. Given the wild creature that seemed to coil in her gut, just waiting to stir at the very thought of blood, the wisdom of maintaining strict discipline rang true. The want waited, poised, ready, and more than capable of wresting control from her. “But how does drinking human blood only rarely make it satisfy better?”

“Imagine, if you will, that you are suddenly home with your family around you.” Sophus again caressed her neck. “How would that be to you?”

“I would love it beyond imagining,” Maria said softly, ignoring his light touch as shadowed memories flitted forward, undefined but full of emotions, love, loss, longing. And guilt.

“Now, tell me truly, did you love it so well when you were there every day?” he whispered into her ear, looking into her eyes through the mirror. “When all that you had was at your fingertips? Or did you take it for granted, that it would always be there, safe, for you?”

“I did not. I should love it more now for the absence than ever I appreciated it when I had it,” He had dressed her up to put on a show, thinking he knew what to expect. For now, at least, she would play along. Maria lowered her eyes to the floor to hide her distaste. “I understand what you are telling me, Señor.”

Sophus smiled cruelly as she stepped away from him. It was the first time she had given him the courtesy of a title, always before finding a way to avert it. Homesickness filled her, and the memory of the warm sun with the smell of sea and rain heavy in the air tumbled through her mind. No matter how she longed to return, there was no going back. From here the only way to go was forward. For now, she had to stay with him; it was the only way to ... what? The thought slipped from her mind, but she knew it was important, desperately important. She would find a way to remember.

Chapter 4

THE WARM CARIBBEAN AIR filled the sails of the small boat as it made its way around the peninsula. Elisa chattered merrily about things of little consequence, telling Mikhael the trivial little adventures of the girls, which, as often as not, had involved him. Some of the antics they had used amused Mikhael, and he enjoyed it when a particular tale roused a faded memory. The memories were never clear, mostly passing impressions, but Theron watched closely, and Mikhael refused to share.

Mikhael guided the boat into a small bay while Elisa continued on with a story involving some heroic effort to obtain ribbons which had been subsequently ruined in a sudden rain. It felt frivolous to Mikhael, but he supposed things had been different when they were younger and could afford to care about things like ribbons.

Steering the boat almost automatically, he watched her. Elisa seemed a contradiction, the way she draped herself over the low railing to trail her hand in the clear water like a child in love with life, then sit up straight, prim and proper, casting him sideways glances. She was pleasant enough to talk to, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of a dark specter lingering on the edge of his memory, just beyond recollection. It reminded him all too much of Theron watching, silent, from the back of his mind.

He angled the sails into the wind to slow the boat as they approached the shore. The hull ran smoothly aground, and Elisa’s latest story cut off abruptly. Mikhael hopped overboard and dragged the little craft entirely out of the water, well beyond the reach of the tide. The land felt stiff and unyielding after the gentle rocking of the water, but he quickly adjusted and tied off the first of the lines.

“Toss me that rope there, would you?” He gestured to a line near Elisa’s elbow.

She threw it to him and he moved off to peg it down. Elisa watched silently, beautiful in the sunlight with her hands folded neatly in her lap. If she was surprised by his immense strength, she didn’t show it. Nor had she shown any surprise or concern over his changed eyes, unusual skin, or unnatural temperature. Mikhael found it irritating. Has she no sense?

“Where do we go from here?” She looked at him through her lashes as he pulled his pack from the boat and slung it over his shoulder.

“South. Home is just over that little rise there,” he said, pointing. “A little more than ten miles. However, we may need to make a detour, depending on the wind.”

“What do you mean?”

Helping her from the boat, Mikhael gave her an appraising look. “Theron, my master, wants me to bring back some food.” I suppose now is as good a time as any for her to find out, he thought, waiting for her response.

“So, you’re saying that if the winds are good you will go hunting?” Elisa gave him a playful grin. Mikhael nodded and she continued. “What is it that you will be hunting?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Try me.” She linked her arm in his free one. They started walking, the dry, uneven ground and low hills of the desert spread out before them. Mikhael supposed it was briskly for her, but the lack of speed galled him.

“Humans.” He looked down at her, trying to gauge her reaction. She continued walking, not saying anything, though her heart sped up. Whether from nerves or the exertion, however, Mikhael could not tell.

“So you’ve become a cannibal?” she said evenly, her eyes forward.

“Not precisely.”

“Then what ...?” She returned his look. Her light eyes were wide, alluring, and trusting.

Mikhael stopped and turned to face her. “I consume their blood. It sustains me; it is the only thing that sustains me. They die for me to live.”

Elisa searched his eyes. He couldn’t read her face but he found himself desperate for her to believe him. But to what end? Did he want her to run away screaming? Perhaps she would reject him. Part of him felt that would be for the best; she would be free and safe.

Another, much smaller part felt relief that she didn’t.

But, if she left, would he be destined to spend the rest of eternity alone? The thought made his chest tighten, as though to accentuate the aching void her presence had begun to fill. No, he wouldn’t be alone. His hand tightening around the strap of the pack he still held. Theron was always there, watching. Smirking.

Without a word, Elisa gave a satisfied nod and started forward again.

What had he expected to happen? Mikhael followed a step behind her. How had he wanted her to react? “How does this not bother you?”

She flashed him another of her too-bright smiles. “You’ve become so powerful, and beautiful. You could have anything and you chose to come back for me because you know what is important. I trust you Miguel; I know you’ll never hurt me.”

More likely, Mikhael thought with both relief and trepidation, she simply doesn’t understand. He sighed, adjusted his pack across his back, and swept her into his arms. Her long skirt, dirty now along the hem, draped over her legs, reaching nearly to the ground.

“With your permission, señorita, it will be faster this way.” He smiled, doing his best to ignore the warmth and softness of her body pressing against him.

“Oh, Miguel,” Elisa said coyly. “If you insist.”

The barren ground blurred beneath them as Mikhael moved. Suddenly the scent he’d been searching for came to him, faint in the dry air.

“What?” Elisa asked, breathless, as he paused to mark the place in his mind. “What is it?”

“I’ve caught a scent.”

Elisa gave him a wry grin and chuckled. “So now you really are a bloodhound.”

Mikhael didn’t understand the humor, and it annoyed him. He felt certain she was referencing a joke he had once been a part of, one that he hadn’t cared for. “I’m going to take you the rest of the way—it should only be a few more minutes—and then I will come back for him.”

“Do you have to leave me?” Elisa caressed his cheek, the warm smoothness of her hand on his skin nearly silencing his ability to think as his mouth went dry. He held his breath and thought with determination about a particularly ugly bit of wall in Theron’s lair. “Why can’t you take me with you?”

“Mostly, because it will be inconvenient to deal with both of you at the same time. Not that you’re inconvenient, but I doubt he will be willing to go peaceably to his death.” Mikhael picked up the pace. The sooner they reached the lair, the sooner he could put a little space between them.

“It’s not because I’m a frail, beautiful woman, and you’re afraid I’ll faint at the first sign of trouble?” She ran her fingers through his hair.

His breath caught in his throat at the caress of her fingers on his scalp and neck. He would have moved her hand from his neck if his arms hadn’t already been full of her. “You may indeed be a frail, beautiful woman, Elisa, but I don’t think I could imagine you fainting at trouble.” He laughed. “If anything, I think you’d be right in the thick of it.”

She grinned back at him, and they continued in silence. His mood darkened the nearer they drew to the lair, until he stopped some distance away from it. The empty, barren landscape spread out around them in gentle, rolling hills. The entrance, a dark, mocking gash in the hill, stood silent in the distance.

He set Elisa on her feet. “Wait here for me.”

“What’s wrong?” She straightened her pale dress with one hand, the other lingered on his shoulder. “What is this place?”

“Listen to me, Elisa.” Mikhael set down his pack and took her hand. “You must not go any closer to that cave until I return, no matter what. Do you understand me?”

“Of course, Miguel,” she said, a little too quickly. “But why not?”

“There is nothing good in there for you. There was certainly nothing in it for me,” Mikhael said. “Promise me?”

“I will.” She reached up and again ran her hand through his long, dark hair, pressing herself to him. “If you promise to come back to me.”

The request sent a pang of remorse through Mikhael. I should never have left her, he thought, and the dark shadow lurking in his memory seemed to agree. He pulled Elisa close. “At any cost, mi morena.”

The blond-haired woman stiffened under Mikhael’s hand, and her eyes tightened for a moment. She pulled away and gave him a radiant smile. “I’ll be waiting, Miguel.”

Mikhael kissed her hand and set a quick pace back toward his victim. Surely he could trust her to stay put while he was gone? The scent was easy enough to pick up; the man had not washed in some time, and the smell was strong.

In his short time as a blood-hunter, Mikhael had learned to distinguish from scent alone many characteristics of a person. Women tended to have a slightly sweeter yet salty scent, and men more feral; healthy people smelled clean and crisp, where the ill smelled rank and somewhat sour, though the tang differed by the illness; the old smelled different from the young, the angry from the peaceful, and so much more. The scents were as varied as those of nature, and Mikhael enjoyed guessing the traits of his prey before he came upon them.

The game was another compromise he had come to with Theron, who enjoyed playing a far more macabre game with his prey. To him, humans were no more than cattle, and, assuming control of Mikhael’s body, he would play with them as a cat plays with a mouse. It disgusted and infuriated Mikhael. Theron demanded that Mikhael provide him with some form of amusement, though, and the guessing game satisfied his master. But for how long?

Mikhael’s quarry came into view, and he paused, assessing the accuracy of his assumptions. An elderly Wayuu man wandered alone. He was not herding any animals and did not walk with the determination of a traveler. He was simply going. This is going to be too easy. Theron will not be pleased.

The traveler looked up, and his eyes widened in shock at Mikhael standing before him, beckoning him to follow. The man said something in a language Mikhael did not understand, and again he cursed his faulty memory. The knowledge of several languages teased him, hiding in the recesses of his mind, as unreachable as a mirage. His own native English remained solid and real, though, and he retained a limited amount of Castilian. A bit of Greek, courtesy of Theron’s constant presence in his mind, had also made itself known, but the rest... Mikhael shook his head, and gestured for them to walk.

Like so many things, speaking Castilian frustrated him. He found himself forming words without knowing their exact meaning, only their general idea. “Mi morena” had been one such. The term had come to him almost as he spoke it, some kind of term of endearment, he’d thought. It felt right to say, yet Elisa reacted as though he’d insulted her. She hadn’t meant for him to realize it, of course, she was far too well-bred for that, but he still knew.

The traveler followed Mikhael with an indifferent air. The sound of his feet on the dirt, the air of each breath, even the hushed whisper of the moving cloth, was noisy enough that Mikhael kept track of him reflexively. He didn’t recognize this Wayuu, and for that he was grateful. Once, early on, he had been unfortunate enough to come across a man he had known briefly in his previous life. He had fought Theron with everything he’d had, but in the end, his own body, spurred on by Theron, had betrayed him. Mikhael had killed the man.

Mikhael’s jaw tightened at the unpleasant memory. At least some good had come of it. The fight, and subsequent loss of control, had done much to strengthen Mikhael’s resolve to recapture mastery of his own life. How that would happen, he wasn’t sure yet. He clenched his fist. But it started with Theron. He would remove that parasite from his mind, even if it was only a small bit at a time.

After all, what did he have but time?

The barren landscape before Theron’s lair came into view, desolate and lifeless as always. Its emptiness broke through Mikhael’s cloud of thoughts.

“Elisa!” He dashed forward. Where could she have gone?! “Elisa!”

The area around the cave was too open and barren for her to hide. The native spoke quickly, gesturing to the ground near the cave. Dread settled in Mikhael’s gut. A very clear set of dainty tracks led into the lair. Tracks that lead to Theron.

You had better not have hurt her! Mikhael shouted mentally at Theron, racing into the cave. Haunting laughter filled both his mind and his ears as he turned through the dark corners. The native man followed at a far more mortal pace.

“I have not done anything she did not wish me to do,” the deep, silken voice said from the room ahead of him, sending chills up Mikhael’s spine. The voice was oilier in person than in his mind, and it made Mikhael feel like he’d bathed in grease. “You’ve only yourself to blame, anyway. You chose to bring her here.”

You loathsome beast, Mikhael sent back, entering the gloomy, filthy chamber. A fallen torch lay flickering on the floor before him, and Mikhael slowed, walking a wide circle around it.

Grinning from across the room, the object of Mikhael’s hate sat in a large chair set on a dais. Mikhael glared back at him. Theron had been a man once, and then a vampire, whole, beautiful, and powerful. Now he was little more than a grotesque torso and head, broken and wrong, and barely able to move without assistance. The ragged remains of where his limbs had been torn from his body remained hidden within the draping shirt he wore. Whatever had possessed Sophus to leave Theron in such a state, Mikhael neither knew nor cared. But it was the vile look on his face that repelled Mikhael, and he turned away.

A soft whimper from the corner drew his attention. Elisa knelt near a pile of rotting corpses and bones, her arms held tight around her stomach. Mikhael knelt beside her and gently touched her shoulder. In the torchlight, the carved images in the pillars that held the ceiling seemed to dance with glee at her agony. She looked up at him and her perfect, golden hair gleaming in the fire light contrasted starkly with her pain-filled, tear-stained face.

“It burns,” she whimpered as he gently pulled her hands away from her body. On the inside of each wrist were mirrored crescent cuts. Venom-filled bite marks, courtesy of the limbless fiend sitting on his throne. Seeing them on her delicate wrists was like a punch to the gut. How could he have brought her to this?

“It will,” he said softly. Pulling her into his arms, he tried to give her what comfort he could as the venom spread through her veins, burning her mortality away one layer of tissue at a time. He glared over her head at the smirking remnant of a vampire.

You can’t be upset with me, Mikhael, Theron told him, brushing gently through his mind. You left her here knowing that I would try to lure her in. You even tried to warn her. You’re lucky she asked to be changed, or I would certainly have killed her.

Don’t try to justify yourself, you devil! Mikhael bared his teeth and growled. Behind him, the man entered, having rushed in to help.

Ah, dinner has arrived! Theron announced, gleeful. Well, what are you waiting for? Go get him.

“Someday, Theron, I will destroy you.” Mikhael unwillingly disentangled himself from Elisa, who whimpered and tried desperately to cling to him. He strode over to the unfortunate traveler and dispatched him without any ado, taking the limp body to the dismembered one to drink.

Theron sighed. “Why do you do this to me? You know I hate it when they’re already dead.”

Mikhael drank what was left after Theron had finished, and carried the body out for the carrion eaters with the rest that he’d removed. He would have buried them; he wanted to, but it was another thing Theron simply would not allow. No respect for the dead, as only the weak die.

Mikhael shook his head at the stupidity of the philosophy. It had been a relief when Theron had allowed him to start cleaning the centuries of death from the cavern. As he lay the corpse on the ground, Elisa gave in to the pain and began screaming. He rushed back to her, his heart breaking for what she was about to go through.

This is the worst part, Theron lamented. We’ll have no peace for days. The things I do for you, Mikhael.

Mikhael glared at his tormentor and gathered the woman into his arms, giving her what little support he could.

PAIN DEFINED EXISTENCE. Nothing existed but pain. No light, no warmth, no cold, no darkness. No memory, no time. Just pain. The all-encompassing pain, and then the voice.

It will be over soon, the dark, sweet voice emerged over the consuming agony, a counterpoint to it. She clung to the voice. It steadied her, orienting her in the darkness. So there was darkness, something more than pain. Pain and darkness was better than pain alone. And the voice ....

There, it’s starting to get better now, isn’t it? the voice came again.

It is true, she realized. The voice spoke truth. The pain was diminishing. As the pain waned, it made room in her mind.

Are you feeling better now? the voice asked.

Am I? she responded. I?

“Elisa?” a different voice called. It was not so sweet as the voice in her mind, did not caress her being as it spoke.

I am Elisa.

“Elisa?” the not-as-sweet voice called again, sounding worried. Sound. She could feel it, an entirely physical sensation beyond the confines of her mind, and with that realization came a sweeping awareness that she had a body. After the intensity of the burning torture that had consumed her, her body felt almost numb, but it could feel. Something supported her back, holding her limp body up. Soft, warm, and strong. An arm, she thought triumphantly.

A laugh echoed through her mind, sweet as spring nectar. Well, don’t dawdle, the deep, sweet voice said, jovial. Open your eyes, get up, experience your new body. It is time to discover the gift I have given you.

Desire to obey the voice filled Elisa. To please it would bring meaning to her existence.

She opened her eyes and the world emerged from the darkness. A dark-haired man held her, supporting her in his arms, watching her with silvery-red eyes that should have been green. Eyes full of concern and worry.

Mikhael, the voice informed her.

She wanted to agree, but something within her refused, tearing at her heart to refuse the silken voice. She almost gave in, but she could not refuse this truth. “Miguel?”

Relief washed over his handsome features.

“Is it done?” he asked, and she paused to consider her response. Before she could give any, however, he nodded, satisfied. Miguel pulled her close. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he whispered into her hair with a firm hug.

Up, the voice in her mind prodded her. On your feet.

Miguel stood and helped her up. Not that she needed assistance. She rose, her body full of strength and grace, noticing her surroundings for the first time. The walls were bare stone, the floor covered in dirt and decaying filth. And she had been sitting in that?

Disgusting little cave, Elisa thought as she wrinkled her nose, brushing off her filthy skirt. Despite the darkness, Elisa could see into every nook and cranny as clearly as though it were lit with sunlight. The cave may be less than impressive, she thought with a grin, but at least my sight is something.

The sight of you is certainly something, the voice responded to her with a smile.

Elisa warmed at the compliment. You are most kind, she said, pleased. Who are you?

Ah! How rude of me not to introduce myself! the voice said. I am your master. My name is Theron, and I created you.

Created me? Again, a part of her rebelled at the comment; something in her knew this was not true. She had existed before.

Transformed you then. Theron’s voice held an amused smile in it. You came to me, seeking a change, and I gave it to you. All that you now are, I have given to you.

“Elisa.” Miguel gently caressed her cheek, drawing her attention back to the world around her. “Elisa, you must not trust everything he says. He will try to confuse you. Do you remember coming here?”

Elisa paused, searching for memories from before the pain. Concentrating was difficult; there was so much to see. Every movement of water dripping down the walls distracted her, every smell was distinct, though unrecognizable. She wanted to explore each one. She felt and heard every little movement of the stale air through the cave, and it mesmerized her. There was so much and rather than let it overwhelm her, Elisa soaked it all in. But she was supposed to be doing something ....

“Elisa?” Miguel prodded again, breaking through her reverie.

“Yes,” she answered, determined not to be sucked in by her senses again. “Yes, I remember, I think.” She did remember, now that she tried to think about it. “When I try to think, the memories are all faded, as though I experienced them through a numbing fog.” Miguel nodded in reassurance and she continued. “I remember waiting for you outside, but something compelled me in.”

“Theron,” Miguel hissed.

Elisa shrank back. How could he have such contempt for that beautiful voice? The only thing she wanted more than to obey that voice was, perhaps, to please it. Him.

You’re not telling him all, Theron observed.

I am ashamed. She looked away from Miguel. He was so beautiful and so perfect, so much more than I was. I came in because I thought you could help me become something great enough that he might forget her. Elisa wasn’t sure who that ‘her’ was yet, but the memory of a dark woman whom she despised flitted through her mind. She would remember.

And so I have, Theron said, she could feel him nod in her mind. Working together, the two of us with time, we will help him do just that.

What should I do?

He fights me. Despair colored his voice. It tires me so. Soothe him so that he won’t fight us so hard.

“Don’t say it like that,” Elisa crooned to Miguel, reaching up to his face. “Look at what he has done to me. Look at what he has done for us.”

You are indestructible now, immortal, Theron coached her. You two will live forever.

“We can be together now without fear. Nothing can hurt or separate us now.”

Miguel held her closer.

Chapter 5

SOPHUS WALKED PATIENTLY around the room while Maria studied the chess board. She’d read several of the books Sophus kept on the game but still could not divine his strategy and had not yet beaten him.

The shadowy figure in her mind tempted her, wanting her attention. In a little while, she promised herself, as she had already several times before. First, I need to complete this game. Then, I'll have time. Gingerly she moved her rook into position, determined not to break this one. She’d gone four games now without inadvertently breaking any of his pieces, and that was nearly as exciting as winning.

Sophus returned to the table, deftly moved his bishop and, too late, Maria caught the split. It was either give up her queen or lose the game. Sighing, she moved her queen obligingly, and Sophus swept up the piece nearly before Maria had let go.

“Checkmate,” he said, stroking the contours of the captured queen.

Frustrated, Maria scowled at the board, trying to see where she had gone wrong. She had moved her queen and lost her, and the game, anyway. There was something I needed to remember ....

“You came at me too strongly.” Sophus took a seat beside her, setting her queen beside his king.

Too close. She managed not to cringe away as he leaned back with a grin.

“Tell me more of this life.” Maria asked, trying to divert his attention. “What else should I know?” She slid to the side of the couch, putting what little distance as she could between them, and faced him.

He raised an eyebrow, eyeing her critically. “What is it you wish to know?”

“Everything.” New information settled into her mind far more bright and clear, and accessible than the things from before. Perhaps they weren’t so important? “What are our strengths, our limitations, our purposes, what should I be watchful of?” She despised being so close to him. That had not faded. “I’m sure there is much to know, and who better to instruct me?”

Sophus closed his eyes thoughtfully, resting his head against the couch-back. “Where to begin ....” he murmured. After a few moments, his eyes popped open. “Ah yes, come with me.”

Maria stood gracefully, aware of Sophus watching her. He smiled and moved to the door almost faster than a mortal eye could have followed. Maria missed a beat, but by the time he’d opened the large wooden door, she had caught up to him, and they sped down the hall together. Maria recognized the passages; he was leading her to the pastures. Again she marveled at the effortless speed with which they walked and wondered if they could outrun a galloping horse. Or perhaps even a hawk?

“Señor, what is required to change a person into an immortal?”

“First and foremost, it takes a great deal of self-control,” Sophus said without looking back. “In this life, self-mastery is power.”

Maria rolled her eyes; she should have expected such a non-answer. They reached another large, heavy wooden door before Maria could respond. Sophus threw it open and stepped back to allow Maria to pass through first.

Beyond the door lay a large meadow atop a plateau, bathed in sunlight, and sprinkled with grazing animals. No fences kept the animals in, but the impassably steep drop-offs that surrounded the pasture had the same effect. She wondered how often an animal wandered over the cliffs. The breeze moved over the field, bringing her the earthy smell of the goats, and she wrinkled her nose. They smelled as weird as they tasted.

To Maria, the bright sunlight made everything appear to glow. The colors were deeper than she remembered, more intense, and another color emanated from the sunlight that she’d never seen before. The almost-purple hue lent a somewhat magical aura to the view.

Every movement of the vegetation, every wavering blade of grass, every twitching leaf registered all at once. The sound of the goats chewing, the birds flitting among the branches. The scents of the earth, the flora, the fauna, the wind. Even the salty tang of the distant sea all registered in her mind, and all of it at once. Maria inhaled deeply, taking it in, mesmerized by the beauty of it all.

The shadows shortened, then lengthened across her view as she experienced the sights and sounds of the world before her. Time meant nothing here. Slowly, as though from a great distance, Maria became aware of someone watching her.

“You should remember to blink,” a voice said.

Maria dragged her eyes and sluggish mind from its revelry in her senses toward the voice. There was a man there. He was familiar. He was dangerous ....

Maria blinked as the man had instructed, and her mind cleared.

“Your eyes do not require you to blink, of course,” Sophus continued when recognition returned to her eyes. “Neither does your body require you to move. However, I have found that, like so many other things, the lack of work deteriorates oneself. In the case of your eyes, if you do not blink, they will get dusty and your vision will slowly cloud, and you won’t even notice it until one day you decide to blink.”

“You sound as though you know.” Maria turned her gaze beyond the cliff edge toward the distant ocean, careful to keep part of her mind focused on his voice. Something pulled at her, tugging gently at her heart, spinning away to the east.

“Indeed I do. One of the many follies of youth, I’m afraid. My colleagues and I believed that we were greater than the world, greater than nature, and not beholden to her laws. We thought that we were super-human, super-natural. Surely anything so mundane, natural, and human as blinking was not only beneath us, but degraded us. Many of our kind have ruined themselves one way or another by thinking that their prominence was both inherent and permanent.”

Crests formed on the warm Caribbean waters in the distance while he spoke. Their white lines moved along the pale blue depths, running up against the shore to fade then retreat, only to have the next wave crash over it. The water moved relentlessly, with little rhyme or reason in its pattern, and yet there was a pattern, if she watched long enough—

“To answer your previous question, our strengths are as many and varied as we are.”

Maria grasped onto his words, anchoring herself, but continued to watch the water.

“There is almost nothing in this world that can damage our kind. Our only real threats are other immortals and nature, and nature is only a threat if you allow it to be. In regard to weaknesses, as you have so aptly demonstrated, we are easily distracted.”

Maria closed her eyes and turned from the view of the ocean. How would it be to stand on the sandy shore and let it move around her? She needed to focus. Taking a deep breath, she reopened her eyes.

Sophus stepped closer to her. “We are also vain, selfish, and greedy as a whole.”

“It would seem that we are what we were before, only more of it.”

Sophus nodded his agreement then gestured out to the sunlit pasture. “After you, my lady.”

Maria stepped into the afternoon sunlight, careful not to let the feel of the warm sun distract her, but it was like she was seeing for the first time. She continued out into the meadow, relishing the feel of the grass beneath her feet. She turned back to Sophus, who had stopped outside the doorway, and gasped.

“You’re ... beautiful!” Maria struggled to find a better word for what she saw, and Sophus smiled benignly at her. It wasn’t just that he was beautiful; he had always been that. Something about the way the light shone off his skin made him almost glow, as though his skin captured the sunlight before releasing it back into the world. The patterns of light that moved across his smooth and lustrous skin—like silk, she thought—were mesmerizing. The pale curls in his hair held even more shine, if that were possible. She yearned to reach out and touch it, to know if it would be as sleek and beautiful to touch as it was to view.

Did the dark-haired angel from her dream look like that in the sunlight, too? Maria smiled slightly at the thought. Would she? Maria frowned at the unbidden thought of that woman—an unshaped figure of frozen gold and eyes filled with hate. Quickly, she turned away, unwilling to let Sophus see the shift in her mood. Sophus stepped in behind her and put his loathsome hands gently on her shoulders.

“So are you, mi corazón,” he whispered into her ear. Maria looked at her hands, irritated to realize that she was still wearing the ivory robe, the blood stains on it now dark. How long had it been? To her chagrin, she remembered that she wore nothing else beneath it. Growling she moved to rip off the bloody sleeve. The sight of her skin arrested her mid-movement, glowing with pale health under her tan pigment in the sunlight.

Dropping the sleeve, she turned and flexed her hands in the evening sunlight. Mesmerized by their beauty, she was lost in watching the skin slide over the bones and muscles, and the ways her tendons moved just beneath the surface, like a child with a pretty new trinket. Maria held her hand still and, to her amazement, discerned what appeared to be the slightest movement in her veins.

“I thought our hearts didn’t beat,” she said.

“Indeed they do not.”

“But ... I see movement.” Maria gestured to her veins.

“So there is, and it is moved along by our hearts.” Sophus nodded, moving to stand before her. “Nature is a master artist and engineer. She designs bodies to be efficient, fabulous machines. The transformation that we undergo doesn’t change the general layout of the machinery all that much, just the alchemy. It makes us more efficient in many ways, more perfect. As you so aptly put it, we are what we were before, only more.

“For example our mouths still produce saliva”—he brushed his fingertips across her lips and she stood still, refusing to pull away—“but now it is venomous to mortals, poisonous to other creatures, and yet healing to yourself. We still have blood that moves through our veins, delivering life to our bodies.”

His fingers ran along her jaw toward her neck and she turned away. He dropped his hand and continued as though he hadn’t noticed. “However, our blood is so powerful a healer that, were you to rip off a limb, both ends would seal and not a drop of blood would be spilt. Any tear or rip that could be made in our flesh would heal almost instantly.

“Would an amputated limb be restored, do you think?” Maria asked, wondering at the implications of instantaneous healing.

Sophus shrugged. “I would imagine so, but I have no interest in testing that theory. Do you?”

“To live forever missing a part of myself for no reason?” Maria looked back at her hand and shuddered at the thought. “Not really.”

“Sensible of you. As for your initial question, I do not know the exact mechanics of how our hearts move our blood, but I do know that if you sit still long enough and focus on that impressive muscle, you will sense its movement. It is, however, very subtle and takes a great deal of effort to find.”

Maria nodded, contemplating this new information, watching the grass flow in the gentle breeze. The light changed, and she noticed for the first time that the sun had set.

“Easily distracted,” Sophus chuckled. “Come, let us get inside before you notice the stars come out.”

“Why?” she asked. “What would happen if I looked too long at them?”

Sophus smiled and opened the door. “You might find them looking back.”

Maria stepped away from him, moving to the edge of the cliff. An old fear, dulled by the transformation squirmed in her gut. The heights had frightened her. No, that wasn’t it. It was falling. Unconsciously, she rubbed her hand against her thigh as the faded memory of falling through the dark came forward. And the pain that had filled her as she’d lain on the cold stone, unable to move.

“What are you thinking?” Sophus stood beside her, the breeze from the distant ocean ruffling his loose shirt.

“If I fell, would it kill me?”

“It wouldn’t even hurt. You’re immortal now, nothing can kill you.” Sophus laughed, and set his hand on her shoulder. “In fact, with a running start, you could probably clear the cliff entirely and land on the flat ground at the bottom.”

Without a second though, Maria took several steps back, then ran and leapt from the cliff’s edge. For a moment, fear tried to worm its way up her throat, but sheer joy pushed it aside. She moved through the air, weightless, embraced by the wind. It toyed with her long hair, a feeling so familiar that for a moment she closed her eyes, reveling in the feel of home. Of freedom. Of pure joy.

Opening her eyes, she found the ground coming up on her swiftly. She landed, dropping into a tucked roll to help absorb the impact. She rolled to her feet in a single movement and looked around in triumph. That one was perfect; he’ll be so impressed.

Maria shook her head, trying to follow the thought. Who? Someone had taught her to roll if she fell. The figure in the shadows, walking away from her. Waiting for her.

Sophus landed lightly beside her, running to absorb his momentum. The suddenness of his appearance distracted her, and she took off, running toward the distant surf. The growling rush of the ocean’s waves filled her ears as she covered the couple of miles in mere minutes. She lost herself in the layers of their sound.

The wet sand gave way beneath her feet for a few steps before the clear water welcomed her. Its foamy warmth rushed over her feet and around her ankles, and she laughed at its playfulness. The retreating water sucked the sand from beneath her feet. In the darkening evening light, Maria spun in the water, reveling in her senses. The joy and power of her body, and her existence, filled her. There was nothing she couldn’t do.

Sophus joined her, slipping his arms around her waist. “You are beautiful in the starlight, mi corazón.”

Not even his touch could dampen her spirits. Maria twisted away from him and shot him a playful smile before running further down the surf. Even in the moonless night, she could see with astounding clarity. Water sprayed with each step, and the larger waves tried to knock her over with the gentle, unrelenting force of the ocean behind them. She lost herself as she ran, immersed in the feel of the ground, and the water, and the wind.

The shadowy pull on her heart returned, calling her to turn. Promising her the answers she sought. She ran toward it, leaping without thought or effort over the scrubby bushes that dotted the landscape. She angled away from the beach as the moon rose before her and the stars winked into existence above. A part of her noted that someone followed, keeping a steady pace with her in the distance, but she did not care.

She ran without slowing across the flat terrain, undeterred by the small variations in the ground, the simple rise and fall that guided water from the distant hills to their salty end. The shore to her right angled back toward her. Beyond it lay the Caribbean Ocean. The pull on her heart grew stronger. He was out there. She scanned the dark horizon, scanning it for the ship that held him. Her body knew no weariness, and neither the water nor the distance could keep them apart.

Behind her, someone called out in words that had no meaning, in a voice that had no hold on her. Before her, the shores of a lagoon cut through her path, and she slowed, judging the fastest path around it. Stopping atop a small knoll beside the water, she glanced again to the horizon, searching for the boat she knew would be there. As though called by her thoughts, it appeared. Small, but not too far distant, it seemed the most beautiful thing she could imagine. Wind from across the water rose up, spinning around her. He was there, she could feel it.

Abruptly, the wind changed direction. The scents it carried seared through Maria’s senses. Smoke. Flesh. Blood. Human blood, fresh in the night air.

Her body took over, shifting effortlessly into the apex predator it knew itself to be. She moved effortlessly to their encampment, her pupils dilated to take in every detail. Three of them sat around a small campfire, not too far from a dingy pulled ashore. They laughed and cursed, waiting for their meat to cook. A couple more walked, doing whatever meaningless task they’d set their hearts upon.

Maria moved silently toward them, a nagging sense that this was wrong pestering her mind. She swatted it away.

“Hey there, lovely,” one of the men called, his voice rough. All the others paused, their eyes turning to her. “You searching for a good time?”

She looked them over, their chorus of heartbeats ringing in her ears. Hearts that moved warmth through their bodies. A warmth that she craved. She continued forward.

No. Maria struggled, pausing. This wasn’t what she wanted. Her throat tightened as the man who’d spoken stepped toward her. But it would taste so good. Her mouth watered. She did want it; it would sooth the burn that filled her.

No! Maria took a step back. I don’t want this!

“Come on, sweetheart. Don't get shy on us now.” The men laughed, and the foolhardy one reached her, grabbing her wrist. The warmth of his touch flowed up her arm like fire, filling her with need. Without thinking, she pulled him toward her and sank her teeth into his neck.

The glory of it filled her. The warm blood of life soothed her aching throat even as it filled her with ecstasy. The man screamed, struggling, and she crushed him to her. Shouting, the others raced toward her, weapons in hand. Anger filled her at their nuisance as they struck her, attempting to steal what was hers. She growled, shoving her meal to the ground to swat at the pests. Horror washed over Maria as blood sprayed across the ground. The scent of it filled her, and she was helpless to stop herself. She fought the others, breaking them and searching out their blood, one by one. After the first couple, the others tried to run. They were no match for her speed. Her strength.

She took down the third, and the fourth, enjoying their first rush of adrenaline-filled life before dropping them and chasing down the next. She grabbed him by the front of his shirt as he begged her to stop, his green eyes glinting wetly in the firelight.

Maria paused. Green eyes. Something about green eyes.

A gunshot shattered her thoughts, ripping through the man she held. Someone had stolen her prey. A scream of frustration tore through her throat as another gunshot rang out, and then another. She turned to see the blond man attacking her kill. Trying to steal it for himself! Infuriated, she rushed him, tackling him and clawing at his face.

They fell to the ground with her momentum. By the time they struck the sandy dirt, he’d snaked his arm around her, immobilizing her arms. She screamed, anger filling her, and struggled against him, trying everything she knew to break free. Using his other arm, he stilled her further, bending her neck uncomfortably as she struggled.

“Calm yourself, mi corazón,” he whispered, his face near her ear.

She tried to jerk her head back to strike him, but he moved faster than she could. She pulled and twisted against his grip, but he remained unyielding.

“If you cannot,” he continued softly, calmly, “I will destroy you.”

She grit her teeth and tried to still her body. The scents of the fresh blood, each as varying and distinct as the lives they’d supported surrounded her. It made her throat ache, and she whimpered, but stopped struggling.

“Good. Now stop breathing; it will help.”

Maria did as instructed. The scent still lingered in her nose and mouth, if not as strong. She looked around. The tangled, lifeless bodies surrounded them. What had she done? She shuddered and closed her eyes.

“Ah, yes, there you are. Are you in control?”

Maria nodded, and he loosened his grip. A part of her wanted to turn and attack; how dare he try to hold her? But she stomped it down, curling her body together and grasping her arms around her knees. She wouldn’t move from here.

“Good. Stay put while I clean up your mess. You must never leave behind such a mess, Maria.”

She shuddered, listening to him hoist the bodies and toss them into the dinghy. What had she done? How could she have lost control like that? Neither the goat’s blood, nor even Iráma, had affected her so strongly. “Will it always be like this?”

Sophus dropped another body into the boat. “In a way, yes. The desire never lessens. But you will grow stronger at resisting.”

Maria opened her eyes and turned to watch him walking toward her. “And if I can’t?”

Sophus took her hand, and she stood. “Then I will have no choice but to end you.”

Maria looked over the bloody sand. Would that be better than risking another slaughter?

Sophus patted her hand. “I know what you’re thinking. And while it sounds good at the moment, I assure you, there is much to gain by perseverance. If you will trust me, you need not fear.”

Maria nodded.

He led her to the dinghy and gestured for her to climb in. She did so, reluctantly, carefully avoiding stepping on the corpses with her bare, muddy feet. He shoved off, and climbed in with her, rowing them across the lagoon and out to the water. The waves lifted and dropped the boat as they rowed.

He pulled in the oars, and began dragging the corpses overboard. To Maria’s disgust, a part of her pined for the blood that she could have consumed before he did so. And though a whimper of protest slipped from her, she gripped the sides of the boat and held herself still. She needed control.

Sophus looked up at her as the last corpse was dragged beneath the surface. “When you are ready, you may venture out on your own, but I would ask that until then, you stay with me. I will protect you.” He reached for her hand. “And I will protect others from you. Until you are ready.”

Maria looked over the water, the pull on her heart faint. But the boat that had held the answers was long gone. Leaving Sophus now was out of the question. She needed help to learn control over the vampire she had become. She dropped her eyes to the blood-stained wood of the small dinghy; the once-white silk lay limp over her knees. “I’ll stay.”

ELISA TURNED FADED memories over in her mind as she brushed her golden hair in the evening sunlight. Theron had warned her that, unless she intentionally revived them, the memories would disappear entirely. Elisa didn’t want that. If she forgot about her then she might slip up, might forget an important detail that would tip off Miguel that Elisa was playing him false. Theron insisted that Miguel didn’t know of her deceit and believed what she had told him. But there were times that she wasn’t so sure. When he stared off into the distance. When he had called her his ‘dark one.’

Elisa went over every memory she had of her nemesis, the old hate flaring as each pass drew her closer to the name.

“Maria,” she hissed. With the name came memories, one after another, like a rope pulled from a fog.

Maria had always had it better, always stealing what should have been Elisa’s. It was more than the stupid dog; Elisa wouldn’t have wanted that ugly mutt anyway. Maria stole everyone’s attention. They listened to Maria when they wouldn’t hear Elisa. They praised Maria when Elisa had worked just as hard. And to add insult to injury, Maria had hidden the fact that she was mestizo, and no one seemed to care.

Elisa was better than Maria, inherently, but the stupid cow had never understood to show her the deference she deserved. She’d never even shown appreciation for being tolerated in their privileged social circle.

When they were children, though it had pricked at Elisa, she hadn’t minded so much. They had been playmates, friends even. Maria had always tried to be nice, so Elisa had been forced to let it go. But then Maria had done the unforgivable. She had stolen from Elisa the only thing she had ever truly wanted: Miguel.

Elisa’s eyes flicked up from her musings to watch the man in question, her man now, step out from the cave. He smiled at her, and she returned his greeting.

Maria had abused him, cast him off, rebuffed him, and he had come to Elisa seeking solace. They had suited each other and were becoming close. Miguel had even kissed her in the moonlight on a balcony. Then, of course, Maria had interfered and ruined it all. Jealous, the stupid cow had swooped in and swept him away. Maria had trained him so well that she needed only to beckon and Miguel dropped everything to run back to her like a stupid little puppy.

Well, what did it matter now? Maria had run off to find him, and if she wasn’t dead yet, she was probably wandering around the wilderness hopelessly lost while Elisa had Miguel. Elisa stretched her flawless body, her golden hair rippling over her perfect skin. Maria would never compare to her now and, with time, Maria would fade not only from the Earth, but from Miguel’s mind.

She smiled as he took her hand. Elisa had won. He is mine.

Chapter 6

“COME.” SOPHUS BECKONED to Maria, rolling the loose sleeves of his pale shirt to the elbow. “Tell me what you think of this bit of stone.”

Maria tucked the book she had brought under her arm and joined him near the wall, the long, heavy skirts of her dress rustling as she moved. The empty section of the labyrinth stood blessedly silent from the heartbeats of the many mortal women who lived there. They’d been given strict instructions to stay away from any place Maria was expected to be. It was lonely, but Maria was grateful.

The stone in question was a particular stretch of the grey-speckled wall that he had smoothed in preparation for sculpting. He had been trying to teach her how to pick good material; no doubt he wanted to see what she’d retained.

She looked at it critically, observing the patterns in the flecked stone, and ran her hand across, searching for flaws. “I don’t feel anything that would give concern.” She continued to run her eyes and hands over the grain. “The pattern in the grain is beautiful, though. I feel almost as though I could understand its very history, if I could only look ... deeper.” Maria’s voice trailed off as she watched the frozen flecks of mineral in the wall. They called to her, like a voice she couldn’t quite hear, and then a flowing, sinuous line appeared before her, leading into the stone. Nothing in the rock had changed, but her mind caught the pattern.

“There’s a vein here.” She traced her finger across the smooth wall. “And it’s shaped just ....” She trailed off again as she tried futilely to express the movement of the vein with her hand. Suddenly, she had to know where it went, how it flowed, and her mind followed it through the stone. “It’s so beautiful, like a silk scarf in the wind, but frozen in stone.”

She followed it in her mind, lost the form of its twisting, flowing paths until it ended. A hand on her shoulder snapped her abruptly back to her body, and she staggered with the shock.

“What was that?” Sophus asked, helping her to take a seat on the stone floor.

Maria tucked her skirts beneath her and leaned her head back against the wall, trying to wrap her mind around what she’d done. “I am not really sure. I got so caught up in the pattern, and then suddenly I understood it. I wanted to see more of it and so I simply ... went. I don’t know.”

Sophus took a seat beside her on the smooth, clean floor. He is always so fastidious, she thought as she fought against the incongruity of this refined, elegant man sitting on a stone floor. His dark breeches would have dust on them when he rose. Come to think of it, she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him sit on anything besides his throne and couches. Of course, they had no need to sit; so far as she could tell their muscles never fatigued. She laughed despite her mental exhaustion, and Sophus gave her a questioning look.

“We’re like the stone itself, aren’t we?” she said.

“And how is that?”

“We could stand still forever, frozen like your statues, and no one would know the difference.”

Sophus gave her a cunning grin. “You could indeed, but that would get terribly dull.”

“Have you ever tried it?”

“Terribly dull.” He leaned his head against the smooth rock, a distant look in his eye. “The mind, if given the freedom to wander where it will, is an amazing thing, but without stimulus, things get very repetitive and dreary. The mind yearns to do, not just to be.”

“Is that why you sculpt?”

He laughed. “Never ask an artist why he creates. If he could tell you in words all that he feels, he wouldn’t be compelled to his art.”

Maria looked at the book in her hands. To what was she compelled? Blood, the vampire part of her answered immediately. She shoved it aside. She was more than that. Annoyed at the rustle of hunger in her gut, she stilled her mind and looked past it.

A distant memory stirred and she could feel that wind-that-wasn’t, the voice from when she woke, pulling her gently toward it. Without moving her body, she stood and looked around. She could still see the book in her hands as she sat on the floor of a cave, and yet in her mind’s eye, she now stood in a field of flowers, mountains to one side and a city to the other. She inhaled and could taste the sea beyond the city, and the coming rain in the air.

The gentle breeze that had beckoned to her before now caressed her face, calling her forward. She turned to follow it, but her physical body, trying to obey her mind, toppled sideways. With a start, she reached out to break her fall and found herself back in Sophus’s cave, his hand on her arm to steady her.

“Again?” he asked with humor in his voice. “I’m hoping this won’t be a regular thing. As much as I enjoy being near you, I’m afraid that constantly breaking your falls will grow tedious, and I can’t have you gouging my floors.”

Maria shook her head. “I’m sure I’ll get used to it. Until then, we can just wrap me in blankets seven layers thick, and the floors should be safe.”

Sophus chuckled. “Tell me, though, what are you doing that makes you lose your balance? That sort of thing is most uncouth in an immortal, you know. Of course, we can forgive you because you’re still so young.”

Maria ignored the taunt and thought about the question. What had she done? Telling him seemed safe enough. “It’s almost like daydreaming, I suppose. There was a memory that tickled the back of my mind, and when I thought about it, it was like that dream from when I changed. Do you remember? It’s like a waking dream, but when I tried to move, so did my body and ... well. You see how that turned out.”

Sophus nodded. “Waking dreams, and an ability to see things beyond your sight. Well, as far as talents go, I think I did well with you.”

“Talents?” Maria gave him a playful smile. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

Sophus stood, holding his hand out to help her to her feet, which she took. “It is as you said before—we are what we were, only more. A person who is, shall we say, very charismatic, might be even better at manipulating or even controlling people as an immortal. You, perhaps, had a way with dreams and seeing things; now you can do it even better. Time will tell. You will need to practice and learn the extent of your abilities.”

He released her hand and gestured toward the wall. “Well, I think I know what I’m going to do with this now. There’s no point in hanging around here watching me work. I don’t enjoy talking through the noise.”

“I’ll see you later, then,” Maria said, glad of the dismissal. She had things to learn.

Maria ran her fingers over the item on her dresser. Some of them were simply part of the décor, but some, she knew, were hers. She needed to know what had brought her here, why she had needed to become a vampire, and what it was that she needed to do. Surely something here could lead her into her past. The objects must have been important, or else why would she have brought them?

It frustrated her that no matter how she grasped at the dull memories from the life before, she couldn’t catch hold of them. Even the shadowy figure who had pulled so strongly at her heart that night—Maria cut off the thought. If only she could find something solid, something real she could hold. Surely that would allow the memories to return.

Choosing a jewelry box made from carved wood and inlaid with ivory, Maria took a seat at the table to examine it. The box itself appeared to be just a box, and when she tried to concentrate on it the way she had with the stone, nothing happened. It simply wasn’t interesting enough, despite its elegant carving. Maria opened the box and rifled through the jewelry. There were sets of earrings—Maria touched her ears to find that no holes remained, rendering the earrings useless—and matching necklaces, in addition to a few rings and barrettes. She paused. There had been other changes to her body, but she couldn’t remember them now. They were important, but nothing sparked her memory. Exasperated, Maria closed the box.

A knock on the door made Maria look up. She tensed, holding her breath. Who would dare risk their life coming into her chamber? She hadn’t even seen Iráma since that first day. Didn’t they realize what she was?

A middle-aged Wayuu woman entered, a peaceful look on her face.

Wuchii. The name came to Maria easily. “I remember you.”

“I’m glad of it,” Wuchii said in Wayuunaiki.

Maria understood, both surprised and gratified to have retained the language. She had not realized until that moment that Sophus had spoken to her only in Castilian, as had Iráma.

“I remember that we were friends, too,” Maria responded in kind, using what little air remained in her lungs. The hunger reared its head, and Maria held herself still against it.

“I’d like to think so. It’s much safer for me that way, eh?” The woman elbowed Maria and laughed.

Maria gave her a tight smile. “Could you tell me, what of all this is mine?”

“If Lord Sophus gave it to you, then I suppose it is yours, isn’t it?” Wuchii shrugged and began moving things about the room, straightening the already-clean area.

Maria pursed her lips. Aside from the obvious need for self-control, she didn’t feel the same sense of caution with Wuchii that she felt around Sophus. However, the woman’s sideways answer made her hesitate. Perhaps this was a test of her control. While Sophus had claimed that he planned to sculpt and was supposedly on the other side of the vast labyrinthine lair, she wouldn’t have put it past him to return to his rooms to spy on her.

But Wuchii had also been her friend. Perhaps she knew where Maria could start looking.

Maria pulled in a small breath to speak, the woman’s scent arousing the hunger further. She held her hands firmly in place. “Would you mind helping me with something?”

Wuchii nodded.

“I’ve a mind to wear a certain necklace; really, it’s my favorite one, and I just can’t remember where I put it.”

Wuchii grinned and gave her a knowing wink. “I think I know the one you’re thinking of.” She rummaged about for a moment or two before picking a box from the top of the dresser. “I think it’ll be in here.”

“Thank you.” Maria reached for the box, but Wuchii slipped something else into her hand without touching her, and set the box on the table. What is this? Maria asked with her eyes.

“Not to worry, waré.” Wuchii shook her head with a finger to her lips, then slipped out of the room.

Relaxing her breath, Maria looked at her hand. In it lay a small, brightly woven bag. The colors jumped out at her, like a story begging to be heard. They pulled at her mind, encouraging her to open it. Maria loosened the ties and a small, red stone, carved in the shape of a bird, tumbled onto her hand.

Tu’uma. The word came to her mind. A sacred, precious stone to the Wayuu. She ran her fingers gently over the bird as memory teased at her. Focusing on the figure in her hand, she allowed her mind to wander.

As before, Maria found herself in the field, this time bursting with flowers. The scent of impending rain and a breeze holding whispering voices washed over her. Determined not to fall over this time, Maria concentrated on keeping her feet planted. Raising her hand to inspect the figurine, she found instead a living bird who flitted around her, his elegant black feathers glinting with gold.

Well, hello there, she said, and he trilled at her, dancing in the air.

He darted around her head, and as she turned, she saw in the distance a fire burning, like a large campfire. Her stomach knotted at seeing it. It waited for her.

The bird fluttered before her eyes, drawing her gaze away. She turned again, trying to follow him, and found herself before a mirror, watching a man—her father—place a necklace around her throat. The necklace was a short strand of pearls with a silver pendant, and inside the pendant hung a red tu’uma stone; different from the bird-stone Wuchii had given her. Maria’s father was full of both joy and sorrow, mirroring her own emotions; the necklace had been her mother’s.

My mother was Wayuu, wasn’t she? she asked the bird. That’s what Sophus is not supposed to know. But why not? The bird dropped into her palm, and Maria found herself back in her body, holding the red stone figure.

The reddish gold of the setting sun kissed the cresting waves in the distance. Maria watched the ocean birds play among the waves and surf in the golden light. They were so many, and yet when they flew, it was with a mesmerizing pattern, the flock turning and twisting. How did one function among so many? How might one survive on its own? The birds were meant to be together. Rather like people.

Even here, in this separate, hidden place, they came together to form a community. Maria existed outside it, but it was there nonetheless. But you’re no longer really human, she reminded herself. What of vampires, then? Were they meant to be solitary, like the leopards that stalked the jungles of her home? Were there others nearby?

The sun set, and her gaze rose to the emerging stars, watching them appear and brighten. They pulsed and moved, and Maria felt that if she looked long enough, she’d know for sure of the distance between them, as the astronomers claimed.

“Maria.” A voice pulled her back to herself. Sophus stood beside her, touching her shoulder.

With a start, she realized that she hadn’t even noticed.

“Are they looking back at you yet?”

“No, but if I just looked longer ....” Her eyes returned skyward.

“Let’s go inside.” He gently took her hand and led her back as the sky lightened.

By the time they returned to his chambers, Maria’s mind had refocused on the present. He gestured her over to a bota bag that waited atop one of the tables. She swallowed back the lump that formed in her throat.

“You seem to be doing much better,” he said with a smile, bringing a pair of goblets to the table.

Maria raised her head defiantly, though her mouth watered, and the muscles in her gut began to tremble as he poured the warm goat blood into the cups. “I am a civilized woman who can control her own self.” She hadn’t hurt Wuchii, after all.

He raised his cup to her and held out the other. She would have liked to take a deep, steadying breath, but she knew that if she did, the metallic smell would overwhelm her, with its rich, if lacking, scent. Maria cut off her thoughts and reached for the goblet. The warmth of the liquid filled her mouth and slid down her throat. She managed to not moan with the pleasure of it, but when she pulled the empty cup away—refusing to try to lick the last drops from the metal or run her finger along for the rest—she realized she’d still spilt some on her face.

Discreetly, she turned away from Sophus and wiped her mouth on a handkerchief. The thought that she could suck the blood out of the cloth made her scowl, and she crumpled the cloth in her hand. At least she hadn’t gotten any on her dress this time. Cleaning blood stains from her clothes was not her favorite pastime.

Maria returned the cup to the table and dropped the soiled cloth into it, refusing to allow her eyes to wander back to the water bag. A part of her longed to grab the bag and suck it dry, but Sophus stood, waiting and watching, with amusement in his eyes as she struggled.

She tore her eyes from the tray and gestured to the seats. There was something she had wanted to ask him, she was sure. Shoving aside the thoughts of blood, she sat, and he shuffled cards for a game of quince. She ran through what she’d done before she’d been distracted by the stars.

“Are there others?” she asked, cutting the deck.

“I’m sorry?” He scowled at her low card, reshuffled the deck, and dealt a card to each of them.

“Are there other immortals around here? Where did you come from, and are there others nearby?” Maria looked at her card, a three. She gestured for another.

Sophus dealt them both another card and leaned back without looking at his own hand. “Where did I come from? What a question.”

Maria checked her new card. Eight, bringing her hand to eleven. Any card over a four would make her lose. She waited for him to speak again as he looked at his cards. Would asking again be too much? She gestured for another card. “Well you were human once, obviously, and from Greece.”

“What gave it away? The decor or the cuisine?” He winked at her and dealt them both another card. She left hers face down on the table.

“So what brought you here? How long have you been here?”

He tapped the back of his card but did not pick it up. “Chance brought me here, and here I have remained for centuries.”

“I see I’ll have to be persuasive.” Maria heaved a faux sigh. She moved to sit beside him, placing a hand on his knee. “Since when have you ever been reluctant to talk about yourself?”

“Because my life story is boring, and I only have interest in things that are not.” He set his hand, warm and unyielding, gently over hers.

“How could a person like you be boring?” Maria pulled away to pick up her card without turning it. “If I win this round, you tell me a story of my choosing.”

“Likewise.” Sophus picked up his card, his face shuttered. “You made the bet, you show first.”

Maria showed her three and eight, then flipped the final card. Four. She grinned. “Quince.”

Sophus tossed his cards carelessly on the table and leaned back. He’d gone over.

“You owe me a story.” She gave him an expectant look and gathered the cards for another round. “Tell me how you came to be here.”

Sophus smiled and stretched out on the couch, turning to face her. “I came here to escape my poor choices in Rome, against which I have already warned you.”

“You’re going to make me dig? Fine, then.” Maria shuffled the cards thoughtfully. “Were you a stowaway, or did you take a job as a deckhand?”

Sophus gave a harsh laugh. “A deckhand? People are stupid, but they’re not that dumb. After months in close quarters, they would have noticed my strength and beauty and envied me for it. Theron and I would no doubt have had to kill them all and try to manage the ship ourselves. Can you imagine how that might have ended?”

Theron? So there was another. “It would certainly have been a turning point for you, no doubt. You might have returned to land, claiming that illness had taken the others.”

“Yes.” Sophus gestured dismissively, cutting the deck. “That would have been an option, had escape not been the goal.”

Maria’s hands slowed while she thought. Despite a certainty that she’d never really sailed, memories of visiting the large ocean-faring ships with her father as a child came to her. Surely two men could not manage a ship like that on their own. She dealt the cards. “How might it have been then, on a large ship, on your own? Imagine if you’d run into a storm—how could a ship like that survive? You must’ve had to abandon it for something smaller and more manageable.”

“Just so. Fortunately we had no trouble with the shortage of supplies. Shark has an exotic flavor.”

“Did you part ways when you landed, then, or was that later?”

“Aren’t you the smart one, getting me to talk?” Sophus laughed again, but his voice grew bitter as he checked his cards. “No, Theron kept me close. Very close. Eventually the relationship soured, and we had a serious disagreement about his controlling personality. I’m afraid that it ended by my disarming him of that which he used against me. Our relationship has improved since then, though it remains a bit strained.”

Maria nodded and looked at her card. She’d won the first round with a perfect bit of luck. Fortune would not favor her again so quickly. Drawing a second card, she redirected the conversation to safer topics.

Chapter 7

MIKHAEL WALKED ALONG  the beach in the darkness, Elisa at his side. Despite her presence, he couldn’t help thinking of the dark angel that hid in the recesses of his mind. A memory he couldn’t quite reach. The dark angel whispered to his heart of emotions that made him feel truly alive. Her unheard whispers held a depth of grief to break his heart, and love so potent that perhaps tears might form in eyes incapable of them. But she was like the moon cradled on the horizon of the sea; utterly unreachable no matter how he might run toward her. Better for him to stay grounded, to see to the things that were real and present.

Beside him walked the blonde woman. The transformation had been good to her; Elisa was even more stunning than she had been as a mortal. He could talk to her about anything, and she always understood what he meant. He smiled at her, thinking how she constantly managed to get her way.

Elisa’s first strength had diminished, her own mortal blood supply finally running out, but it had not changed the gleam in her eye nor the bounce in her step. Truly, she was charming in every way. She had even managed to wheedle Theron. So far as he knew, Theron had never even tried to control her physically, though he knew the demon watched her mind as closely as he watched Mikhael’s.

“What are you thinking, Miguel?” Elisa pulled him to a stop.

He took her hand. “I am thinking about how lovely you are in the moonlight.”

“And there is nothing bothering you?”

Mikhael didn’t respond at first, looking out over the ocean to the newly risen moon.

“You’re thinking of her again, aren’t you?” Disappointment clouded her face.

“Yes,” he whispered. He could not lie to her any more than he could to Theron. “She is always there in my mind, a shadowy memory, like a half-remembered dream.”

“Why do you allow this dream to come between us?” Elisa asked mournfully. “Am I not your wife? I am here, now. You loved me enough to come back for me, to fight everything in your nature to not kill me so that I could join you. I died for you, suffering through the agony of the transformation. All this we have done for our love, yet you allow this phantom to keep you from me!” Elisa turned away from him, sobbing with her head in her hands.

“Elisa, sweetheart.” Mikhael had once called her mi morena, and she had flinched away. He still did not remember the meaning of the term, but he had been careful not to use it again despite how right it felt.

She was correct, of course. He had been thinking of another woman. Guilty, Mikhael turned roughly away from the shadow in his mind, and an intense pain ripped through his heart. He locked that away, too. He stepped up behind Elisa and wrapped his arms around her waist, whispering in her ear. “No phantom will come between us, mi amor.”

Elisa turned in his embrace and kissed him.

You little siren, Theron whispered to Elisa, once again clearly impressed by how she managed to control Miguel. Elisa smiled to herself, pleased to please her master.

THE GENTLE WIND TEASED at Maria’s hair as she stood near the edge of the pasture, looking past the cliff into the distance. The far ocean moved in its restless, relentless pattern, but despite its beauty she found herself turning from it to look to the north.

“What do you see there?” Sophus asked when he came for her.

“I don’t know. It’s like there’s something beyond the hills, waiting for me.” She fell silent and hoped he’d leave it at that. She didn’t want to tell him that it, whatever it was, was always there. That it had pulled her toward it that night she’d run along the shore, running toward an unknown promise. The feeling changed over time, ebbing and flowing and relentless as the tides below. Sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker. There were times, like now, when it was sad. As though her heart would break if she knew ... what?

“Have you tried going in your dream vision to see what is there?” he asked.

Maria shook her head. “I don’t think I could. So far I’ve not been able to go any place I don’t already know. Every time I think I’m someplace new, it triggers a memory, and I realize I’ve been there before.”

“You should try to follow it, I think. See where it leads, but be mindful to retire someplace out of the way. It wouldn’t do to have you tumble over the edge.” He put a hand around her waist and gently moved her back from the ledge.

“I thought we were indestructible.” She slipped deftly away from his hand, redirecting the discussion before her previous loss of control could be mentioned.

“So we are, but your dress is not, and I’m rather fond of that one.” He ran his fingertips down one of the blue split sleeves.

“Well, I would hate to damage anything you’re fond of.” She covered his hand with hers, and fire ran up her fingertips at the physical contact. She wished she had gloves. “Was there something you needed me for?”

“Not yet, I think, mi corazón.” He tucked her arm into his elbow, the stiff cloth of his jacket a much welcome barrier to his touch. He led her inside. “I will be leaving for a few days. I have some business to attend to.”

Both dread and excitement shot through her belly at the news. “Are you sure that is wise?”

“Do you mean am I worried that you will lose yourself and kill everyone here in a fit of bloodlust?” Sophus asked. “No, I am not. A few months ago, certainly, but I think as long as you’re careful, you should be all right.”

“Your confidence in me is astounding,” Maria said wryly, though his words encouraged her.

“I have instructed Iráma to have goat blood ready for you, should you need it. While I am gone, I want you to try to find what this thing that is calling to you is, but be careful. If you sense anything that might be another immortal, stay away from it, and let me know when I return.”

“You’re worried about Theron?”

“Yes.” Sophus stopped and turned to her, taking her hands in his. “I don’t know how his ability would interact with yours, and I don’t want to lose you to him.”

Maria searched his eyes. He seemed genuinely concerned, something Maria had not thought him capable of. “All right, I will be careful.”

“Good.” They continued on, and he opened the door to her room. “If you would be so kind, as well, I would appreciate it if you could walk the halls in your dream vision and see if you can find any more veins of beryl.”

“Of course I will.”

“There’s a good girl. I’ll see you in a few days.” He shut her in her room.

Listening to him make his way down the hall, she gave a rude gesture to the door.

But he would be gone! Not only would she have uninterrupted time to search her dream world, perhaps she could get some straight answers from Wuchii or Iráma about her past. She’d talked to both several times, and each time she’d had better control over herself. Did they know what had brought her here? Could they tell her why the need for secrecy pressed on her?

She found herself facing her northern wall as sorrow squeezed her heart. She had managed to hide the emotion for the sake of appearances with Sophus. Now it pulled her to the floor with its intensity. Reaching into a pocket, she pulled out the little tu’uma bird and let it guide her into her dreams.

The little black and gold bird flitted around Maria’s head as the whispering breeze tugged at her skirts and set the field to dancing. Maria’s body sat in the dim cave, her back against the bed. She could see it, feel it, smell it, and it threatened to pull her back from the field. Taking a deep breath, she folded her physical arms into her lap, shut her eyes, and stopped breathing. She stilled her body, and her mind was able to focus more fully on the vision.

Where to now? she asked the little bird.

Waterstars dance dance dance, the bird teased and disappeared.

Waterstars? Maria scoffed, trying to imagine stars dancing in the water. That’s not much—

The scene around her shifted. In the darkness, Maria looked at stars, dancing on water. No, she corrected, she stood on a dock, looking at lights floating on the water. The floating villages on Maracaibo Lake. She smiled.

The memory of standing here, talking to someone about dreams and life and deep thoughts, came back to her. She couldn’t remember what was said, exactly, but she had loved it. Resting her elbows on the rail, Maria realized that a figure from her memory stood beside her. He gave the impression of height with a low voice and a comforting presence. Who was he?

Maria turned toward him, but the scene fell away and they were at her home. She was angry with him, and the anger was overlaid by the thought that she was being an idiot. Then she stood at the top of a grand staircase, looking down at him as he waited for her, his hair swept back into a neat queue, and for once his clothes were new and fine, though the boots were already broken in. The adoration in his eyes warmed Maria, and she wondered where his weapons were.

She stepped toward him, but a viper stood before her, separating her from the man. Anger and hurt intermingled as the surrounding turned to blurred darkness, then fear seized her heart, punctuated by gunshots.

The partial memories assaulted her, coming faster and faster, and though her keen mind could process them, the emotions were full and pounding, overpowering her. Safety, adoration, green eyes, a kiss, a teasing smile. Tea with a blond snake striking out at her from her cup, and him, standing between them. The joy and the fear and the rain, a flower in her hair, and a last kiss, and the parting pain. Maria tried to slow them so that she could make sense of what she was seeing even as she crumpled from the emotional onslaught. Then, as suddenly as it had come, it was gone.

Miguel! She reached for him, her heart in her throat. He stood before her, a little ways away. He reached back for her, but between them rose the viper, the woman with the sunlight hair.

He is mine, the woman hissed, throwing herself at Maria, grabbing her by the shoulder.

Maria reacted without thought, snatching the wrist and throwing her assailant across the room before dropping into a defensive crouch. A sickening crash, the sound of flesh meeting stone that sounded far too real, made Maria open her eyes.

She was still in her room, but she was not alone. Before her, twisted in a shocking way, lay a woman Maria did not know. Horror filled Maria, and she felt she should have vomited, but her body remained as stoic as ever. A cold thought flitted through her mind that at least the woman was not yet bleeding.

Fear rose in her, and the thought of the blood constricted her throat. Before instinct could overcome her, Maria fled.

“Sophus!” she called out, running through the hall to his chambers. She threw open the door, but he wasn’t there. Desperate, she tried his bedchamber. Finding it empty, she rushed to his throne room, only to find the same.

“Maria?” a soft voice called to her, and to her relief it was Iráma.

“How long?” Her voice grated with her desperation, and Iráma drew back in fear. “How long has he been gone? How long until he returns?”

“It has been three days. He should be back very soon.”

Mentally Maria sagged in relief, but her body was after blood, and her anxiety only fueled it. Maria tried taking a deep breath, hoping Iráma’s stench would help quell the overpowering bloodlust, instead the woman smelled warm and human and—Maria held her breath.

“Blood,” she managed in a choked whisper, turning from Iráma and pressing herself into the corner behind Sophus’s throne.

Iráma ran to get the blood she’d been instructed to keep on hand. Maria dropped to the floor, focusing on the wall beside her and counting off the seconds in her mind. She fought to tune out the cadence of foot beats that turned to heartbeats, echoing through the tunnels. The smell of fear came to her as the warning spread and the mortals fled to their chambers. Not that such things could stop her. The doors were nothing, like sheets of cloth or layers of skin, so easy to tear away—

No! Maria slammed down on her mind, trying again to silence it. Instead, her mind pulled toward the dream world. The gentle wind caressed her face, as though trying to calm her troubles, and in the distance she saw the fire, nearer now.

Maria recoiled, back to her body. She couldn’t face that fire. The sound of Iráma running through the doorway, her pounding heartbeat full of adrenaline but not fear, helped ground Maria in her body. Iráma stopped several feet away and tossed the bota bag full of blood, not waiting to see if Maria caught it before retreating.

Maria caught the bag and tore it open, downing the tepid contents with wild abandon. When she had sucked every last drop from it she could manage, she clutched the bag to her chest as if to anchor herself to her sanity.

Thoughts swirled in her head of what if. What if she had returned sooner? What if she had reacted slower, what if Iráma hadn’t been there? What if, what if, what if ... Anything to hold her where she was, safely away from the others. Eventually her whirling mind stilled itself to silence, holding as still as her body. Waiting.

“What is this?”

Maria had never been so glad to hear his voice. His face appeared before her, and she allowed her eyes to focus on him, his tawny-and-silver eyes and perfectly curling pale blond hair. His presence had never been so welcome. He could protect her from herself. He could protect them from her. She turned away in shame.

“What happened?” Sophus asked, more gently this time.

She did not respond, but allowed him to help her to her feet and lead her to his chambers. She sat, huddled on her favorite chair, but she would not suffer him to take the now dried bag of blood from her.

“You will stay here?” he asked.

She nodded and he walked out, fury in his step.

His fury.

She had hurt one of his women. He had trusted her to be able to control herself, and she had hurt one of them. He would be furious with her. What might he do, especially if the woman died? The sickening sound of bones breaking when the body had hit the stone wall repeated itself in Maria’s mind, and she shuddered. How could she have done such a thing?

Maria sat, worrying the bag as she awaited his return and judgment. He entered the room, his anger palpable, swirling about him like a storm. She remained curled in on herself in the seat, her eyes downcast, as he smashed a chair into a bookcase, ranting in Greek. He continued, destroying one of his tables and even pummeling one of his beloved statues.

If she didn’t go to him, didn’t at least try to calm him, how far would he go? She couldn’t let anyone else get hurt. Would he destroy her now? Maria set the bag down and went to him. The moment she laid her hand on his arm, the fight drained from him.

“She’s gone,” he said, his voice flat. “Probably died within a few hours. What happened?”

Maria straightened her shoulders, prepared for whatever might come. “I was journeying, as you instructed. She touched my shoulder and I ... startled. I threw her across the room and then fled.”

“Foolish, idiotic girl.” He scowled, and Maria recoiled from his words. “I warned her, I warned them all to stay away from you, that you were dangerous. I knew she was jealous of you, she never could understand why I picked you over her.” He dropped into one of his chairs, running his hand through his hair.

“You’re ...” Maria’s mind raced. “You’re not angry with me?”

“You? No. You did precisely what I asked.” His expression hardened. “I fear I’ve been lax with them. They have forgotten how very powerful we are. Don’t worry, mi corazón, I will see to it that it doesn’t happen again.”

Chapter 8

THE LABYRINTHINE CAVES stretched silently in the darkness as Maria wandered them in her ethereal state. Searching for the mineral Sophus wanted was less painful at night. Daytime meant constant activity through the caves with the many women who lived there. More people than Maria had ever realized. Knowing how large the community was, and yet seeing almost nobody but Iráma, Wuchii, and Sophus was disheartening.

Maria trailed her hand along the stone wall, solid in its spirit state. It knew, without a doubt, what it was. More discouraging than the isolation, however, was knowing so many had chosen to give up their lives and commit themselves to this living death as a means of escaping their pain.

What pain had Maria been trying to escape? She couldn’t remember. She had recalled much of her previous life, mostly from her childhood, and images of Miguel, the shadowy figure that had waited in the edges of her memory. But who, exactly, was he? And what had brought her here? Perhaps her friends knew, but if so, they wouldn’t tell her until Sophus again left. That seemed unlikely to happen any time soon; he hovered over her like a doting nurse.

Maria scowled, climbing a set of stairs. A chill swept over her, and vertigo made the floor seem to tilt beneath her feet. Leaning against the wall, the shadow of her past-self caught her eye as it tumbled in silence down the steps. She cringed with the remembered pain, watching the image of her past-self come to rest at a landing, her thigh badly broken. With the strange flow of time, past-Sophus appeared almost immediately to rescue her mortal form from a slow, cold death. Surely he hadn’t arrived that quickly? It would have been far too coincidental.

Not that death was unusual here. Maria turned from the scene and continued up the stairs. Yet another of Sophus’s cunning tricks. It was known that no one ever returned from their journey to this place, for he allowed none to leave. The single entrance was well concealed, known only to Sophus, Iráma, and herself. Iráma had no desire to leave, and Maria would not leave until she controlled her bloodlust absolutely. No one else would die because of her.

Pausing, Maria pressed her ghostly hand against a likely wall and sent her thoughts searching through the stone. She found it odd, however, that so many of the women here believed they could leave any time they wished. They thought they need only ask and Sophus would free them with the stipulation of never returning. And yet ....

A memory-shadow of a silver-haired woman stood before her as Maria asked, “Have any ever returned?”

“Only one,” the woman replied, and the memory faded.

Maria paused, her hand slipping away from the vein of beryl. If it was a memory, why had she not been transported to a different location in the dream world, the way it had always happened before? She shrugged it off and continued forward. She knew enough of the ethereal dream world to understand that she didn’t begin to comprehend it.

Passing a statue of an archer, its elegant, muscled form frozen in a draw that would never release, Maria entered a much older section of tunnels. She remembered this one. Sophus had walked her through most of his labyrinth after she’d told him of her limitations on location. This was among the oldest sections of caves, and he had droned on about architecture. Perhaps, when she was centuries old, she’d care about such dry topics. But she very much doubted it.

At the end of the hall, a light flickered to life in the midnight darkness and moved toward her. As yet, she had not heard of anyone seeing her in her spirit form, but, as far as Maria knew, that didn’t mean they couldn’t. Maria slipped back behind the archer, hoping to avoid frightening whomever walked the old hall.

The long shadows, sharp from the single light source, swayed and shrank. Who would be awake this late, and in these halls? Maria closed her eyes, concentrating on the sound. The white noise of air moving gently through the tunnels, and the muffled sounds of sea birds on the distant shore blossomed in her ears. Strange that there was no sound of footsteps. Maria narrowed her focus. No heartbeat.

Curious, Maria peered around the corner toward the light. A woman, perhaps in her late thirties, walked toward her with a candle in one hand. She wore her long, dark hair in an intricate braid and was dressed in a strange version of Wayuu clothing. The dress’s beautiful, brilliant patterns rippled in the candlelight as the woman moved.

The woman stopped a few steps away, her eyes full of sorrow. Something about her felt familiar to Maria, and yet, she was certain she hadn’t seen this woman before.

The woman looked directly at Maria, a hopeful smile lit her face. I see you, waré. Why do you hide in this place?

Maria stepped from the shadows. Who are you?

I had hoped you were in the now, but I see that you are not. The woman looked back the way she had come, her voice sad. This is a lonely place. Even in my dreams I am alone here. But I suppose there is a sort of peace in loneliness and hopelessness. The peace of having given up utterly. And yet, still I come here and walk the world of dreams. What do I think I will see? The future? What can I do with that? The past? Here she laughed bitterly. What use have I of the past?

The woman shook her head and held out her hand. The little black and gold bird from Maria’s tu’uma figurine fluttered down and landed in the woman’s palm, and together they faded away.

Maria opened her physical eyes and found the small red stone bird resting in her palm. “To whom did you belong?” she asked, stroking it. Another question to add to the list.

Unable to get Wuchii or Iráma to talk to her about her past while Sophus remained nearby, Maria passed her free time rifling through everything in her chambers, touching them, trying to gauge if a thing had once held value to her. And it was truly everything, from the door, to the rug, to the table, to each garment in the drawers and shelves in her closet. She learned many interesting things this way; the newly carved wood of her chair still thought of itself as a tree and would appear to her as such in the dream world, whereas the door, which appeared centuries old, was the same heavy door no matter how she looked at it. In the dream world, however, the door stood always closed, unless she looked directly at it, in which case it opened, awaiting her passage.

Many things were nothing more than they seemed. The rug was nothing more than a rug. The pitcher and basin. A bowl. Each bit of jewelry. Most had spent the majority of its existence in this very room, and the little history any of it had showed itself to Maria like the momentary passing of ghosts. Annoyed, she moved on to the furniture, resisting the urge to clench her fist around the table’s edge. Surely she had not come here empty-handed. There had to be something of hers, something that would help her remember more of the man from her dreams.

Miguel. The name floated through her mind, along with the vague image of the dark-haired angel she had seen in her dream. He had appeared in that first onslaught of memories as well, but she had yet to untangle them all beyond a sense that he’d been important to her. How deeply her feelings had run and what had become of them teased her like an unread book. And, perhaps, when she could find her way through the memories of him she would learn more of the blonde woman who’d come between them. Maria crushed the wood in her fist.

Later, after an insufferably long time playing cards and chess while discussing the merits of baroque architecture with Sophus, Maria decided it was time to try the vast closet. Anything was more interesting than baroque architecture. Opening the door, she looked over the array of European fashions and colors.

One section held dresses with lace that had yellowed with age. Those she feared to even touch lest they crumble beneath her fingers. Why Sophus kept such old things, Maria didn’t understand. With a shrug, she shifted her view to the dream world and turned to dresses nearest the door. Running her fingers lightly over the cloth, the variety of textures filled her mind, threatening to pull her back into her body. Focusing instead on matching the texture to the spirit of the dress, she moved forward. Some of the clothes gave her glimpses of women; others had never even been worn.

One dress, a deep green with ivory brocade, practically sprang to life at her touch. It had seen more of life than the others, and in her mind’s eye, watching from the dream world, it flitted between fanning out as though spun in a dance and hanging limp in the closet.

The memory of life it held made her smile, and she moved on. Some danced, and one—Maria pulled away in shock. That one a woman had died in, her pain and fear still infused in the cloth.

Maria pulled back from her single-minded focus. Surely anything she brought wouldn’t be so old. Reining in her senses, she narrowed her focus and began reorganizing the closet. Clothes she knew Sophus had obtained since her birth as a vampire she moved to one side, while the seriously out-of-fashion clothing she moved to the other. Anything of more recent style and cloth, which included most of the dresses she wore, she gathered into the center. Those had a feel about them of familiarity, but not what she was looking for.

What, exactly, was she looking for? Maria stepped back, regarding the reorganized clothes. Surely she would see more than vague impressions with something that was truly hers. Carefully, she shifted partially into the dream world and searched through it again. She threw the last shift onto the floor, frustrated. Still nothing.

Leaning against the shelves, she ran her fingers through her hair. There had to be something. Taking a deep breath, she spread her senses again. The smell of impending rain teased at her, and long grass faded into view at her feet.

No, she thought, pushing back against the dream world. I need to be here. I need to see what is here. And she was back in her closet, watching her physical self lean against the wall. Maria smiled ruefully. At least searching the endless tunnels for Sophus’s minerals had been good for something. Controlling her location had become easier with practice.

Centering herself, Maria looked around, trying to see past the physical world. The colors of the dresses lost their vibrancy as she focused on the emotion of home. The room faded to a dull grey, even the shadows softening into featurelessness. Maria spun slowly in place, searching through the grey forms for a spark of color. As her rotation brought her to face her own body, a flash of color lit the shelf behind her. Snapping back to her body she spun, searching for what she had seen.

Dropping to the floor, she reached behind the shelf and found it—a false panel that hid a compartment. It fit snugly but was rough hewn. Not Sophus’s, then. So she was not the only one who’d hidden things from the old vampire. The thought made her smile.

Sliding the panel to the side, she looked into the darkness. Inside the compartment sat a worn pair of riding boots, a neatly folded set of men’s clothing, and a greatcoat. Hardly daring to hope, she scooped up the lot. She paused a moment before rising. What if Sophus found her with them? Why had they been hidden to begin with?

She straightened and tossed her head to move her hair from her face. She’d simply tell him they were hers. What did it matter why they’d been hidden? With a sure stride, she walked back into her room and dumped the armload onto her bed.

Taking a seat on the edge of her bed, she decided to try the boots first. She pulled the dark leather boot toward her, running her fingers over the smooth surface. They spoke to her of travel, and the scent of horses and dirt filled her mind. Of course. They’re boots, she thought, setting them down on the floor beside her. But memory tickled at her, and she felt reluctant to let them go. She paused, her fingers still lightly in contact with the supple leather. They’d been given to her, made without her knowing. They had been waiting for her to find them; a surprise and an act of love.

Maria waited, but when nothing else came to her she straightened and looked back at the pile. Looming over everything, like a mother hen over her chicks, lay the greatcoat.

Pulling the deep blue coat toward her, Maria took in the scent. It smelled of her, and horses, yes, but also beneath that, much older, was the scent of a man. Pushing away the newer smells, she held the coat close. The worn, heavy cloth lay rough against her skin, and the color had begun to fade across the shoulders. Closing her eyes, she could almost see him standing before her, in his well-worn coat and boots, his black hair escaping from its queue and his smile playful.

“Miguel.” She whispered his name, willing the image to be solid, really there in the dream world, but it slipped away. Only a memory. Unwilling to set the coat down, she slipped it on, its soft, sturdy warmth like his arms holding her. Maria leaned back against the post of her bed, curled up in the over-large greatcoat, and reviewed the memories she’d recovered so far. The way he’d looked up at her from the stairs. The feel of his hand on her arm, and his voice beside her as he taught her to shoot. Watching him ride away in the rainy darkness. With each pass new memories rose, and she became more certain that she was in love with this man.

But where are you, Miguel? And why am I here instead of with you?

A knock came at the door and, for a moment, Maria feared it was Sophus. The warmth of the coat reassured her, and she registered the heartbeat before the door opened to reveal Wuchii.

“Come in, come in.” Maria gestured the older woman over. The bloodlust muttered quietly, but remained properly subdued. “I have just been reminiscing.”

“About happy things, I would hope.” Wuchii shut the door and pulled a chair to the bed.

“I think I am in love,” Maria said with a conspiratorial whisper, gesturing to the greatcoat.

Wuchii made a face as she sat. “That thing looks absurdly warm.”

“Warm like an embrace.” Maria pulled it snugly about her, and a weight in one of the pockets hit her knee. Reaching in, her fingers wrapped around a small leather pouch. Anticipation clutched at her gut as she pulled it out. She looked at Wuchii. She didn’t need the dream world to know that this was something important.

“What do you think is in it?” Maria held it out for her friend to better see.

“Open it and find out.” Excitement colored Wuchii’s voice as she leaned forward.

Maria upended the bag and a small pile of mismatched coins tumbled onto her lap. She recognized some, and realized they were all, save one, foreign.

“Arras.” The word came to her.

“Thirteen of them,” Wuchii noted. “Is that a significant number for the Alijuna?”

“Thirteen arras ....” Maria’s heart lifted with joy, and she thought she might float to the ceiling. Bursting with the need to say it out loud despite the possible danger, she whispered, “The thirteen arras—they are a bridegroom’s gift to his bride. Miguel is my husband!”

Wuchii beamed at her.

“You knew!” Maria laughed as Wuchii nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We decided that it would be best if you remembered things on your own, in your own time.” Wuchii sat back. “We’ve learned that trying to tell you anything is like hitting your head on a rock to get it to move.”

“You could have told me this,” Maria said. “What else do you know that you’re not telling me?”

Wuchii hesitated then shook her head. “You will remember in time.”

Maria lowered her voice, willing to take the risk. “I need to know, Wuchii. Is he still alive? Why did I come here?”

Wuchii sighed. “He lives. You came here seeking Sophus’s help to rescue your husband.”

Maria sat back to digest this bit of news. She’d come to Sophus for help finding her husband and had found it necessary to become an immortal to do so. Yet she had nearly forgotten him, her very purpose for being here, and no one had seen fit to help her remember this. Not Sophus. Not even the Wayuu. Why?

She could understand Sophus’s lack of interest in helping her if he could get away with it. He’d likely known she’d have had trouble remembering her husband. He had deliberately kept her occupied consistently for the first few weeks. She scowled at the deceit.

But why the Wayuu, too? They were her mother’s people, and she had counted them as family, despite the way they kept themselves from her. Maria had not missed the “we” in Wuchii’s explanation. A group had decided it was best to take the chance that she would not remember, but in favor of what?

Maria ran her fingers through the coins while her mind worked. There was also the question of why she had needed Sophus’s help to find Miguel. The only reason she could think for seeking a vampire’s help would be to confront another vampire. Could she assume, then, that Theron had her husband? It made sense to her, unless there were more vampires around that Sophus had not told her of. And if Miguel, too, had become a vampire ... That explained why she had chosen the same.

Maria continued to examine the questions in her mind, spinning in circles. When she finally came back to an awareness of where she was, Wuchii was long gone.

She looked again at the thirteen arras, picking up a small, tarnished silver one covered with almost geometrical markings and dots. A memory stirred and she allowed herself to fall into it.

“Tell me about this one.” She held up a random coin.

“That one?” Miguel flopped onto the couch beside her. He took the coin, draping his arm across the back of the couch, and she snuggled in next to him. “That was change from this amazing kebab I ate in Egypt. I remember the woman who served it had the most amazing hazel-green eyes—” He cut off when she elbowed him playfully. He took the bag from her and rummaged through it, pulled a different one out, and chuckled. “Now this one is a much better tale. We had made port in Calcutta ....”

Maria smiled and found the coin he had mentioned. She didn’t remember the story he’d told, only that by the end they were both breathless with laughter. Eventually, he’d told her the origins of each of the thirteen coins; each from a different country he’d sailed to before his fateful decision to stop in Maracaibo. She sat, running her fingers over the edges of the coins, letting her mind drift away.

She stood in a field of flowers some distance north of Maracaibo. The wind blew gently around her, caressing her with the scent of impending rain. She loved that scent, familiar and comforting. She sat and dumped the coins onto her lap, looking at them with her strange double vision. She could see the real, physical coins lying on her dress in the gloomy light of the cave, their edges and markings worn and scuffed. At the same time, however, she saw them as they once were: new, shiny, and valuable. Perhaps they appeared that way in the ethereal world because that was how they were to her: beautiful and priceless.

She tucked the spirit coins into a pouch on her waist and began walking. Maria had explored her dream world for months now and didn’t have any particular location in mind for today. In the distance burned the fire, appearing closer now than it had before. Or perhaps bigger. Maria shuddered and turned from it, wiping her hands on her skirt.

Where else could she go? Sometimes, she could see the recent past of people she knew well, almost like listening for an echo. If she concentrated, she could even observe events as they unfolded. The thought of being able to spy on someone, entirely undetected, was intoxicating. She could know where Sophus was, what he was doing, if she was safe from him, and he’d never know. A knot of determination formed in her belly. She could not let him learn the extent of her ability, for surely he’d want to use it. She picked a random direction and began to walk. The black and gold bird who had accompanied her before fluttered up to her. Fortunate, then, she said to the bird, that I can still only go to places I’ve already been.

He trilled and fluttered around her, and she stopped to admire his gold feathers glinting in the light. She could go to her home and see what new memories she could unlock. The dream world had a way of helping her see them more clearly than simply thinking about them. Perhaps she could regain more of her memories of her husband. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought that this man she had so clearly loved had become her husband.

What do you say, my friend? she asked the bird. Should I show you my home?

The bird tipped his wings at her and moved toward Maracaibo. Maria laughed at his antics and followed. They crossed the space with the strange dreamlike quality she’d grown accustomed to. She now stood before her childhood home, and the ghosts of memories flitted past. Here she was a small girl waiting for her father to return home, there she was reading a book in the warm sun, and there she watched a ghost of Miguel help her past-self out of a carriage. She walked toward her favorite place in the gardens. Fond memories, all.

Except that one. A chill shot through her, and the sky overhead grew gray as the memory formed, threatening to rain as it had that day in the past. There, where that treacherous blond snake—Elisa, Maria spat the name—had confronted her. Annoyed, Maria turned away. She did not want to waste her time thinking about Elisa.

But that event had been a turning point. From it, Maria had learned of her Wayuu heritage and ... Maria struggled a moment to grasp the memory. The walls of her childhood bedroom formed around her, beside her stood a beautiful, silver-haired Wayuu woman. The woman looked at her as though she could see Maria, as though she wasn’t just a memory.

The dreams, the silver-haired woman said. You’ve started on the path toward the dreams.

Who are you? Maria asked, excited at the prospect of meeting someone she could actually talk to.

The other woman hesitated, a sad look in her eyes. You may call me Kasha. And you are Maria Álvarez Zyanya, daughter of Ayelen Cordova Zyanya, and the last of that line.

The name was different from the one Sophus knew her as—Álvarez Cordova, but it felt right to hear it. Excitement filled Maria. This woman could not only see her, but knew who she was. I’ve only seen one other here, a ghost in the halls. She seems aware of me, but can’t hear me. Can you? Hear me?

With great effort, yes, I can see you here, and speak with you, Kasha said, a warm smile growing on her face.

Why do you call me Zyanya? Questions rushed from Maria. Do you know why I gave Sophus my mother’s name of Cordova?

Kasha nodded. Zyanya is a dangerous thing to be around that creature. He will kill any who so much as utters the name. I’m sure you can see how imperative it is that he never even suspects it of you.

What is this place? Maria gestured to the world around them, even as the walls shifted them back to the fields beyond Maracaibo. Does it only show the past? Who are you? Do you know the ghost woman who wanders the halls?

This is a place of dreams and spirits, an in-between place. Kasha twisted an unseen something in the space before her, and an image of Maria’s home appeared in one hand, and a shaded garden in the other. A place between life and Jepira, the land of our fathers.

So the woman I’ve seen—is she a ghost stuck here? Maria asked.

No, it’s more like an echo of the past. Like looking through thick glass. Kasha shook her hands and the images disappeared, with a new one forming of a window with clouded glass. You can see her, and, to an extent, she can, or did, see you through time. It is easier to look back. One’s vision is always clearer looking back, but looking ahead can be ... disorienting.

You mean this place allows people to see into the future? The possibilities spun through Maria’s head. She could deal with disorientation. How bad could it be? Can you show me?

Kasha shook her head, allowing the image of the window to dissipate. Not until you are ready. Not until you understand what you’re asking for.

Though the woman spoke kindly, the condescension grated against Maria. She wasn’t a child. Who was this woman to treat her this way? As though she knew Maria’s thoughts, Kasha grinned.

You will always be a child to me, chica.

Who are you to me? Maria asked again, looking at her closer. Did she know this woman? If so, why hadn’t she remembered her yet?

Kasha’s smile faltered, her face falling into seriousness. When you remember, know that I hope you’ll forgive me. My time is ending, and I must wake soon. I will find you again.

Wait, Maria said, though she could see Kasha’s form begin to deteriorate. Do you know Miguel? Can you take me to him?

Kasha hesitated, concentration on her face and for a moment, she appeared more solid. I believe so ... I will take you to where he is being held, but you must be careful to not get caught. It is dangerous there.

The dream world blurred around them, solidifying in a dark cave that flickered intermittently with filth and death and barrenness. A miasma of darkness snaked throughout the chamber and Maria dodged it, crying a warning to Kasha, who disappeared, leaving Maria alone.

Maria ducked into a side chamber, holding her breath and hoping for the danger to pass. Darkness waited for her just beyond, she could feel it, waiting like a cat stalking a bird. Maria glanced around the small chamber, searching for something that might help. A glint caught her eye, the color almost surreal against the darks and grays of the dream world in this place.

With a glance back toward the doorway, Maria edged over to the light. Atop a natural shelf lay a heap of bric-a-brac, and on one side sat a pendant, the reddish pink of its central stone vibrant against the darkness. A sense of the rightness of it flowed through her, and she reached for it. Her fingers passed through it, however. A thrill went through her; this was the real world she saw, not merely a strange memory.

She reached for it again, laying her ethereal fingers against the real pendant of tu’uma. It spoke to her, of love, and of being handed down from mother to daughter for generations. Miguel’s strong hand held open, and she set the stone in his palm. Her heart breaking, she gently closed his hand around it. As though giving a piece of her heart to take with him. Maria had given it to him when they’d last parted. If it was here, then surely Miguel would be nearby.

Moving instinctively, Maria reached to her own neck. She willed the necklace to be there, remembering it the way it had been when her father first gave it to her. A carved tu’uma set in diamond studded silver. The necklace appeared around her neck, and she pulled it off, as bright and beautiful as she remembered. With great care, she lay the spirit stone over the physical one, adjusting it until they lined up perfectly. Perhaps she was only being silly, but she still hoped.

Miguel, let this be a connection between us. She touched the stones one last time. Exhausted, she felt her body pulling her mind back, dragging her away. The room melted around her, and hate-filled eyes glared out at her from the darkness. Elisa’s eyes. Anger snapped through Maria as she fell back into her body.

ELISA FIDDLED WITH the vine in her hand, twining it into a plait as she watched Miguel drag the last of the lumber to their new home. Well, her new home, at any rate, even if it was little more than a cave for now. With her vision of what it could be, Theron had allowed them to bring some semblance of civility to it. Perhaps with this wood, she could have Miguel fashion some doors.

Can you imagine doors here? she sent to Theron along with a picture of magnificent double doors, eight feet tall, opening into the entrance hall, with smooth stone floors and lush rugs, lit with torches in elaborate Gothic wall sconces.

The walls are not structurally sound enough for such elegance. Theron sent her a feeling of warmth and approval nonetheless. Scale it back a bit and perhaps, in time, we could manage it.

I have all the time in the world. Elisa smiled, watching Miguel drop his load atop the pile he’d made earlier.

He grinned at her. Tossing the harness carelessly on the ground, he walked over. “You know, it would have gone faster if you’d helped.”

“And dirty my dress?” She gave him a coquettish smile. “Whatever would I want to do that for? Have you any idea how tedious it is to do the wash?”

“No more or less tedious than hauling this wood for you. It’s a long walk from the boat.” He leaned against the rock that she sat on and took the plait from her, inspecting it.

Elisa pouted. “You don’t think it’ll be worth it, do you?”

“I didn’t say that.” He rolled his shoulders as though they were stiff, and Elisa grinned. As if he could get sore. Elisa took it for an invitation to begin rubbing his back, and he turned his back to her obligingly.

“You just don’t see the possibilities.” Feeling adventurous, she moved up his neck and began instead to run her fingers through his hair, unbinding his queue and letting it fall loose around his shoulders. “You should be more imaginative.”

He turned toward her, his arm wrapping around her waist and pulling her to him. Her breath caught at feeling the full length of his strong body solid against her; she’d never been held like this before. His other hand traced up her back and to her neck.

“I’m plenty imaginative,” he said, and drew her into a kiss.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, bringing herself closer. His hand on her neck moved into her hair and began removing her pins. “Hey,” she protested, pulling back just enough to break the kiss. “Do you have any idea how long it takes—”

“Long enough,” he murmured, running his fingertips along her neck while his other hand slid farther down her back, and suddenly her hair didn’t matter so much. She twined her fingers through his silken hair and inhaled, enjoying the scent of salt and wood that lingered on him.

Miguel moved his kiss to below her ear while his hand traced the low neckline of her dress. She could feel the lines and shapes of his body, and the newness of it all thrilled her. He moved with such surety, and she wanted to melt into him, allowing him to lead her through the steps of this new dance. She gasped as he began to pull knowingly at the laces of her dress. It was clearly not his first time. But it was hers.

It hit her like a kick in the gut. She had no idea what she was doing, and he would know it. She would do something wrong, say something wrong.

“Miguel—” she murmured, pushing gently against his chest. What if she gave it away and he realized?

He made a low sound in his throat that might have been words and continued.

“Miguel, stop.” She pushed harder. “Not here.”

“Why not here?” He slid her sleeves off her shoulders. “There is no one to see.”

Her panic turned to anger. “Are you just going to take me in the dirt? Is that all you think of me?” Elisa yanked her sleeves back into place on her shoulders, but Miguel didn’t let go fast enough, and the fabric tore. “And now you’ve ruined my dress, too. Honestly, Miguel, I’m your wife. Show me some respect.”

She pushed him out of her way and stalked off, half-enjoying the thought of Maria degraded and in the dirt, but furious at the thought of Miguel with her at all. Instead, she changed the image in her mind to one of ruffians and Maria’s wanton leer to terror. That satisfying image soothed her while she changed her clothes and inspected her dress, hoping it could be mended.

What a hot little viper you are, my sweet, Theron said as she returned to the main hall.

“Why, whatever do you mean?” she asked innocently, taking a seat beside her mentor.

“Don’t think I didn’t see that image you made. You were practically shouting it out.” He caressed her mind and she moved closer to him. “What are you going to do about Mikhael? You won’t be able to avoid him forever.”

Elisa blushed and looked away. I don’t want to avoid him, I ... he is so sure. What if I embarrass myself?

“You won’t, my dear. He’ll be dazzled by you, I’m sure.”

Chapter 9

MARIA OPENED HER EYES. Her irritation buzzed in her head like a bee, pestering her with the thought of Elisa so near her husband. She shook it away. There was nothing she could do about it right now, and she had more pressing things to address.

She remained sitting on the bed, the thirteen coins on her lap, as she had left herself. She didn’t know how long she’d been gone. The time out of her body rarely coincided with the real time, and her body didn’t give her any clues. Dropping the coins back into their bag, she took stock. Her body was neither stiff nor uncomfortable, she wasn’t hungry, and her eyes never felt dry. If she stayed still long enough, would she collect dust?

Probably. Sophus had warned her about dust in her eyes, and she determined that next time she would close her eyes before leaving her body. At the sound of the door opening, Maria jumped to her feet, straightening out her rumpled dress and removing the greatcoat. Sophus liked her to look impeccable, and life was easier for her if she humored him.

Before she could stash the coat behind a pillow, she recognized Wuchii’s scent, and let out a sigh. Her friend stepped in with a smile, carrying a cloth-covered tray.

“Ah, you have returned!” the older woman said. “See anything new and interesting today?”

Maria nodded solemnly, keeping her voice light. “Nothing interesting, just more exploring.”

“That is too bad.” Wuchii shrugged.

Maria liked Wuchii and trusted her. Other women in Sophus’s little domain avoided Maria, especially after she had killed one of their own. She really couldn’t blame them, and though it made things a little easier for her, the loneliness hurt.

“How long was I gone?” Maria asked.

“Not very long, less than a day this time,” the little woman responded cheerfully, setting the tray on a table.

“If I were gone for a long time, do you think I would get dusty?” Maria glanced at the covered tray.

“Absolutely not.” Wuchii crossed her arms defiantly. “I would be sure to come and dust you frequently.”

They both burst out laughing, and Wuchii gestured to the tray. “You’d best drink it while it’s warm.”

“Of course.” Maria nodded. The thought of something to drink made her throat contract and burn like fire. It always did, and each time was as powerful and painful as the first. Though she still struggled to control the drive and ignore the pain, she was getting better. “And Wuchii? Thank you for always being willing to talk to me. It gets tiresome to have everyone in a room tremble or rush off when I enter.”

“Bah, those others, half of them are afraid of you, and the other half are jealous that Lord Sophus didn’t pick them,” Wuchii said and left.

“They should be afraid,” Maria said quietly as the door shut behind her friend.

Maria lifted the cloth off the tray, and the tang of the blood wafted up. She opened the lid to the pitcher and wrinkled her nose. Goat. Again. They’d had chicken a couple of times, but that was downright nasty. She sighed and reminded herself that they had to be careful bleeding the animals and let them recuperate lest they get weak or sick; everyone in their little community relied on them. Sometimes, Sophus took his hunting rifles and brought back wild game or even turtles.

On special occasions, Sophus would have some of the women bleed themselves and add it to the goat mix, and there were plenty of the women who would volunteer for him. The fresh human blood was a heady addition to any meal. Not only did it add much-needed flavor, but she couldn’t deny the wonderful way it made her feel. But it was rare that he asked for it.

It was a good system, Maria supposed, lifting the pitcher. But still, she was tired of the monotonous goat blood. We should get some sheep, mix things up a little.

Maria drank directly from the pitcher, loathing the work she would cause by dirtying the provided goblet. The blood was already cooling, and that made it even more unappealing, but she couldn’t deny her thirst once she began. Despite her reservations, she did feel better afterwards, suffused with empowerment.

Tossing the cloth back over the empty pitcher, Maria looked herself over in the mirror. Once again, she had not spilled a single drop. Not making a mess had been a difficult skill to master, but she’d gone several weeks now without losing control when she fed. Sometimes, it was the smallest things that pleased her the most.

Maria picked up the tray and set it outside her door. The lingering smell of blood was distracting, even if it was goat’s blood, and the sooner she got the dishes out of her room, the sooner the smell would dissipate. The other women had been curious at first; none had ever witnessed or even heard of Sophus changing anyone. Curiosity, however, had quickly divided into fear and jealousy. Some feared that he would change them, too, turning them into the ferocious, silvery-red-eyed creature that they believed Maria had become. Others saw only her extreme beauty and the attention that their gorgeous Lord Sophus lavished on her, and resented Maria for taking what they believed should, and would, have been theirs. The one she had accidentally killed had been one of the jealous ones.

Sighing, she shut the door. Immediately, clumsy steps rushed to remove the tray. Not Iráma, then; she was always graceful, and not Wuchii, who never rushed. Maria returned her coin pouch to the dresser, and Miguel’s coat and clothes to the closet, tucking them between some rarely worn dresses. She returned to her dresser and brushed her hair, trying to think of an interesting new coiffure that she could manage on her own. As she set the last pin, the door opened. Sophus, of course. He was the only one who could walk through her door without being obvious.

“I do so love it when you put your hair up.” He stepped up behind her. “You have such a long, lovely neck. I have something for you.”

Maria watched in the mirror. Sophus smiled and produced a necklace as though from nowhere. It was a slight-of-hand he enjoyed performing, and the idea that she had not yet figured out the technique amused him, so she always acted surprised. With exaggerated care, he draped the elegant chain about her neck, running his fingers over her throat. He clasped the necklace, and she struggled not to flinch away from him when his fingers trailed down her spine before falling away.

She bore his lingering touches only because she needed Sophus. Somehow, he was the key to being with Miguel again, but his persistence had begun to worry her. She had grown confident enough in her new body that she could leave and go her own way. But where would she go, and how could she find Miguel on her own? Though Kasha had taken her to that cave in the dream world, Maria had no idea how to find it in the real one.

Maria touched the pendant that hung around her throat, a large emerald, but not as large as the tu’uma she’d given to Miguel. There was no doubt in Maria’s mind that the darkness she’d felt in her dream had been Theron, and Miguel was somehow under his control. She had to assume, as well, that if Miguel could have gotten away from Theron, he would have. Therefore, they would need to find a way to destroy Theron.

But how did one destroy a vampire?

A memory of an evening of telling ghost stories around a fire rose to the surface. Miguel had claimed that stabbing a vampire through the heart was enough. But then Sophus had indicated that nothing, really, could pierce their skin. It seemed that only a vampire could damage another vampire.

Even if I could find Theron again, he’d no doubt have Miguel protecting him. New memories flashed through her mind, of Miguel teaching her to defend herself. They’d practiced shooting at first, then hand-to-hand combat, which had often ended in kissing. Maria struggled to control her face as all the emotions associated with that time in her life hit her. One thought came through above the rest: she had never bested Miguel in a fight. Facing him directly would not be an option. Maria’s heart sank.

“Are you all right, Maria?” Sophus cut into Maria’s thoughts. “Do you like it?”

“Yes, sorry. It is so lovely, and it triggered some new memories.” Maria took a deep breath and smiled at him through the mirror. “I think it is wonderful. Gracias.” Truly, it was a lovely little trinket, and Maria wondered if he’d had it for a long time, stored in one of the myriad of hidden rooms, or if he’d bought it on one of his supply trips before he’d made her a vampire. “What is the occasion?”

“You are, mi corazón. Do I need an occasion to gift you with things?”

“It isn’t the gift, señor. It’s your smile. You’re smug as a cat in a bird cage.” Amused, Maria turned to face him. He really wasn’t too bad so long as he wasn’t touching her.

Sophus affected a pout. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I am never smug.”

“Well, if you have nothing planned, I suppose I’ll just have to go out again.” Maria stood to return to her favorite spot to meditate. Sophus put his hand on her arm to stop her.

“I didn’t say I had no plans.” He pulled her close to him. Before he had a chance to wrap his arms around her slender waist, she deftly stepped away.

“You see, there is an occasion.” She tapped him lightly on the nose and gestured to the door. “After you.”

Sophus grinned again and walked from the room with Maria following behind. He led her through the maze of tunnels to a rarely used section.

“Did you find anything new on your search?” Sophus asked as they descended a flight of stairs.

“I am not sure.” Maria hesitated. “I think Theron may have another vampire with him now.” If she could get Sophus to help her free Miguel from Theron, the odds would be better with fewer immortals on Theron’s side. She remained reluctant to share the extent and limitations of her new skill. So far, it seemed he believed what she told him.

“I believe I told you to stay clear of Theron,” he said flatly.

“I’m afraid I still can’t always control where I go,” Maria said, hoping to keep him from getting ruffled. “I’m not even certain it was him that I saw. It was more of a searching darkness that reached for me, but I managed to avoid it.” Maria gave an involuntary shudder. “I don’t plan on going anywhere near there again.”

Sophus nodded thoughtfully. “See that you do not.”

They continued in silence until he stopped at a large wooden door, a similar thickness to the doors of their chambers. He turned to her before opening it.

“I will be leaving soon for a day or so.” Sophus paused, waiting for her to say something.

Fear seeped into her heart, and she opened her mouth to object as the sickening sound of the woman hitting the stone echoed through her mind. No, she was better now. Had more control. She could do this. She nodded but didn’t say anything.

With a satisfied smile he continued. “Before I go, however, there is a task we must see to. One of our dear family has decided she no longer wishes to reside with us. I have agreed to help her on her way. I thought you might be ready to assist me, as a sort of treat.” Sophus swept the door open, and a shadow of foreboding fell over Maria.

The opened door revealed a small room with a short Wayuu woman no more than a few years Maria’s elder, dressed for traveling. Her long black hair, tied into an elaborate braid, gleamed in the lamplight. Near her on the floor lay a travel pack and food. She looked at them, her heartbeat speaking of nervousness and her face of excitement.

“Ah, my dear, you are sure you wish to leave us?” he asked in Wayuunaiki. She nodded solemnly, relief in her dark eyes. Sophus continued, stepping toward her. “We will all miss you, you know.”

“I shall miss you, Lord Sophus.” She lowered her eyes and blushed as Sophus caressed her cheek. The young woman’s eyes flashed at Maria. “What is she doing here?”

Sophus turned to Maria and grinned. Faster than mortal’s eyes could possibly have seen, he shut the door with a solid, ominous thud. The woman’s eyes darted from the door back to Sophus, fear in her face. He again caressed her neck before he spoke. “She is here to help me send you on your way.”

Sliding his hand around the back of her neck, Sophus swept down on the unfortunate woman, his hand muffling her startled scream. Shocked, Maria tried to look away when he bit her neck. The young woman’s heartbeat raced, pounding in Maria’s ears as Sophus pulled at her lifeblood. Maria willed herself to take a step toward the closed door. She would not be caught up in this. She had to get away. But the scent of the fresh blood was intoxicating.

Maria watched with a dazed fascination, remembering the feel of the sailors’ blood. Fresh and warm, and so very full of life. Her mind recoiled. She would not be complicit in this murder.

A voice in her mind, that predator part of herself, wheedled its way into her stunned thoughts, whispering. This is necessary for our protection.

The bloodlust rose in Maria, anxious to soothe its sharp ache in her throat. She tried to reach for the door. She wanted no part in this.

Everyone who’s thought it through knows no one leaves here alive.

Her hand paused above the doorknob. They did know.

Accept it.

Maria licked her lips. They had told her from the beginning. The girl had long since left her life behind.

She must have known what was coming.

Of course she did. Everyone knew there was no leaving this place. Maria watched as the young woman slumped in Sophus’s arms, her heartbeat slowing. But her eyes... She had been afraid...

She is already gone. It would be a waste to let her death, her fresh, warm blood, be for nothing.

Maria stepped closer, reaching for the woman’s wrist.

This is what I was made for.

ELISA STOOD BESIDE a scraggly tree that had struggled worthlessly for years to grow in the parched earth. Though the night was moonless, her keen eyes easily saw the shadows the starlight cast about her on the ground. She glanced at the heavens. Sometimes, if she was still enough, she could swear she saw even the stars move in the sky, dancing and sparkling through the void.

They do move. Theron’s voice caressed her mind.

Elisa closed her eyes and soaked in the feel of his touch. Not just across the night sky, then?

Not only across the sky, but across each other. We will watch sometime, just you and I, and I will show you. But not tonight. Tonight, you have work to do.

Elisa opened her eyes and nodded at the gentle reminder. Tonight she was hunting. She had gone hunting with Miguel before, but tonight was special. Tonight she hunted alone.

“Remember that you mustn’t use well-trafficked routes,” Miguel had admonished her before she left. “If people do not feel safe traveling them, they may choose different routes, or travel only during the day. It is by choosing the way of least resistance that makes men and rivers crooked.”

“But I am a woman,” Elisa had teased. She supposed she understood why he didn’t want her hunting the larger roads, though she couldn’t fathom how one or two missing travelers would make any difference. Really, it was Theron who had decided her. He agreed with Miguel, and so she obeyed.

She had searched the area, looking for a place she could wait, watching for a traveler or hoping for the breeze to bring her a scent. This tree was as likely a place as any, and it stood downwind from a less used, but still popular, crossroads. She longed to pace, to move, but Theron had recommended stillness. Elisa was a huntress; she could wait for her prey.

The moon climbed higher into the evening sky as she waited, her eyes closed. The night animals of the desert moved carelessly about their business, and she registered their noise with annoyance. The sound of weary footfalls in the distance brushed across her senses, and she smiled, opening her eyes.

What can you tell from their gait? Theron prodded.

It is slow; they’re in no hurry?

If they were in no hurry, why would they be traveling so late into such a dark night?

Elisa puzzled over it for a minute, but could not think of a reason.

They are weary, Theron answered for her. They will make for easy prey, too easy for your first kill. Wait for something better.

Elisa wanted to whine that she was tired of waiting, that she was bored, and worst of all, she was thirsty. Miguel had brought home his last catch days ago, and that was a sickly old man whose blood had tasted foul. Not that it had stopped Elisa, of course. While Miguel no longer needed to physically restrain Elisa while Theron took the first blood, she still had to fight herself for control as she waited. But this would be different. Tonight, the kill would be all hers. She wouldn’t need to share, wouldn’t need to wait. The thought of it excited her, and she held back a groan when her throat constricted with the desire for blood.

She could smell the blood of the travelers now, even hear it moving throughout their bodies. Warm and rich, and spiced with the scents of ocean travel. They continued toward her, unaware of their imminent deaths. She could almost feel the heat rising from their tired, strained bodies. Such very fragile bodies. Elisa crouched down, ready to attack. No one would notice these two, she argued to herself. If I take just one of them .... Just a little snack ....

Wait, precious one, Theron advised again, stroking her mind. There will be something better.

His words helped settle her and refocus her mind. She could wait. She would wait. The travelers passed her, and she suppressed a whimper at the burning in her throat. Elisa tore her eyes from their retreating forms and resumed her vigil, thinking about Theron’s words. Something about them wasn’t right. He wanted her to wait for something better, but better than what? They were tired; they would be easy to catch. No, that was not it. They weren’t even locals; there likely wouldn’t be anyone to even miss them. Secrecy, then, perhaps? He wanted her to pick someone who was alone in case she slipped up?

You’ve found me out, Theron replied, amused.

I thought you trusted me, Elisa pouted.

I do trust you, my dear. I don’t trust the vampire within you. You’re still so young and so very inexperienced.

I wouldn’t let the second one get away. She licked her lips, turning toward the travelers.

You wouldn’t mean to, I know. Theron’s words stroked her mind. However, I have known many who are new to this life, many young ones. For you, the bloodlust is still too all-consuming. You would kill the first and be so taken in that the second would be long gone before you came to your senses.

I could track him.

No, Theron said firmly. Elisa wanted to obey, to acquiesce quietly and wait for the next traveler. Again, the small part of her in the back of her mind rebelled, whispering to her. What if there was another way?

She mulled the notion over. Theron was concerned that she would be too preoccupied by her kill to take care of the second one. And what would happen if he did, anyway? It wasn’t as though he could harm her. But he could get away. And if he spread the tale of watching his companion getting killed in the wilderness by a strange and gloriously beautiful woman? The idea pleased her, but she felt Theron confirm her suspicions. He preferred his secrecy. She pursed her lips, thinking.

What if he doesn’t see?

What do you have in mind? Theron’s curiosity was piqued.

What if one of them simply wandered off in the night, disappeared without a trace?

You think you could get him away without a trace? Theron asked, skeptical.

Absolutely. Elisa exuded all the confidence she could muster. The silence stretched as Theron considered it.

Without a trace, Theron finally agreed.

Ecstatic, Elisa swept toward the crossroads to follow the travelers’ trail.

She found them as they were bedding down among the scruffy desert brush. They hadn’t unpacked anything other than their worn bedrolls and some hard trail food for their supper. Both appeared to fall asleep instantly. Elisa waited, watching from the shadows, trying to push the constant, throbbing need for blood into the back of her mind.

The soft breeze shifted the men’s scent away from her as she slowly approached. She watched one, a middle aged man with light hair and a pocked face. Adopting a façade of grief, she waited for him to wake under her gaze. His eyes opened slowly at first and popped open when he realized a woman stood before him. Startled, he sat up and rubbed his eyes. Before he could fully focus on her, Elisa slipped back into the darkness.

Mumbling, the man looked around. His companion stirred but did not wake, and after irritably adjusting his bedding, the man lay back down.

Confident now that the companion would not wake, Elisa returned to her victim. She knelt beside him, waiting for him to open his eyes. When her gaze again woke the man, he tried not to move or alter his breathing, but Elisa could hear the slight change of his heartbeat, could smell the scent of fear on him.

His hand snapped out to catch her but no mortal was fast enough to take her by surprise, and she moved deftly out of the way. His hand closed on empty space, and he started, seeing Elisa a few feet away.

Smiling on the inside, Elisa gave him a pleading look and beckoned him toward her. He hesitated, and glanced back to his companion. When his gaze returned to Elisa, she stood another few feet away, looking frightened and pleading, beckoning him more urgently. The man stood, transfixed by her beauty, and walked toward her. She maintained her distance, moving each time he glanced away to check his footing, luring him from his camp.

When they were out of sight of the camp, Elisa rushed him, clamping her hand over his neck to prevent noise. He choked quietly on his crushed throat as she lifted him off the ground and raced away.

He was weak but still clinging to life when Theron told her she had gone far enough, and she stopped to devour her prize.

Chapter 10

MARIA LAY ON THE BED in her room, staring at the ceiling of the cave. She wasn’t sure why there was a bed; she never slept anymore. She had simply never asked to have it removed. Sophus had a bed in one of his chambers, as well. He never slept either; it was simply a part of what they were. Like the blood.

Maria had not seriously thought through the implications of living on the blood of other people before now. They didn’t need to die. The animals didn’t die when they were bled; why did he need to kill the young woman? On the other hand, Sophus controlled his world tightly, keeping it shrouded in mystery. If he let people come and go as they pleased, he would lose what made the place a haven.

The way the girl’s dark eyes had widened in her sudden fear and nervousness when Sophus had shut the door remained clear in Maria’s mind. She hadn’t wanted to die. She hadn’t expected it. She probably wasn’t prepared for it. Maria shook her head—this was what she was now, and she needed to accept it. Didn’t she?

Hadn’t she been surviving fine on animal blood?

But the fresh, warm human blood had been so amazingly delicious, so consuming, so ... right. The power of it, from the first taste of pure, undiluted human blood, to the feel of the soft, yielding flesh beneath her teeth had nearly consumed her. Maria’s throat burned for more at just the memory of it.

She struggled to bring her thoughts back under control. The drive was so strong, and there was such joy in losing herself to it. And yet, it was so very wrong.

Maria slid her hand beneath her pillow to touch the bag of arras hidden there. Did Miguel kill, too? What was he like now? It had been so long since she’d seen him, talked to him, been with him. She wasn’t the same woman she had been; how could she expect that he had not changed too? But she still loved him. She loved him fiercely, perhaps more so than she had before. Would he still love her?

And what about Elisa?

Maria’s rage flared at the thought of the lying little tramp. She lay with her fists clenched across her stomach, fighting desperately against the urge to pulverize everything in her room. Maria burned to lash out, to destroy something, to take her vengeance to the round cave and tear the other woman apart, and then burn her to ashes.

Taking a deep breath, Maria tried to suppress her fury. She would deal with Elisa, someday. As she seethed, a knock came at the door.

Maria took a couple more deep breaths, refocusing on what was before her. “Come in,” she said when she had calmed enough to relax her arms and sit up. The door opened and Wuchii entered carrying a feather duster. The humor of it broke through Maria’s remaining tension. “There isn’t a speck of dust in here. I can see stuff like that, you know.”

“Of course.” Wuchii shrugged and started dusting. “However, it becomes difficult to find a good excuse to visit you. You don’t eat alone, your clothes don’t get dirty much since you learned to drink properly, and you rarely bathe.”

“I’ll have to have you help me with my hair more often, I suppose,” Maria laughed for a moment, then frowned. “I have a dress that should be cleaned, though I’d sooner burn it. Unfortunately, it is one of Sophus’s favorites, and I’m not sure I could get away with it.” She scowled, gesturing to a crumpled pile of pale blue brocade on the floor.

Wuchii picked it up and shook it out, inspecting it. The front of the dress was stained dark with dried blood. “I see,” she said quietly, bowing her head in silence for a moment. “Perhaps we should burn it. I don’t believe we could save it.”

Without waiting for Maria’s approval, she wadded it up and flung it into the fireplace. Maria could have stopped her easily but found she didn’t want to. Instead, she watched in relief, her nose wrinkled at the stench of the burning silk as the fire turned it to ash.

“Do you hate me now?” Maria asked quietly.

Wuchii walked across the room and sat on the bed beside her, laying a hand on her knee. “How can I hate you for doing what you were made to do? I could not hate you for that any more than I can hate a cat for killing a bird; it is simply the way the world has been made.”

“But I killed the girl.” Maria turned away.

“No, Sophus killed her,” a voice said from the doorway. Maria recognized Iráma’s voice and unique scent as she closed the door and sat on Maria’s other side. “She killed herself. We all did when we came here. Each of us gave up our lives for this. Lord Sophus has merely provided a way for us to live a peaceful, pleasant existence until we are truly ready to let go. The blood is the price we pay for it.”

Maria stared silently at her hands, laying still atop the deep indigo cloth of her dress. “It still doesn’t seem right.”

Wuchii sent a questioning glance over Maria’s head, and Iráma nodded. “He is gone.”

“It is not right,” Wuchii whispered fervently to Maria. “That is why you are here, to stop him. Him and the other one, too. They prey on us, and no one can stop them, except you.”

“But what could I possibly do to stop them?” Maria dropped her head into her hands. “I’m no match physically for Sophus. The way he handled me before—I couldn’t fight him, and he’d destroy me if I tried. And even if I could somehow get rid of Theron and Sophus, I would remain. As would my husband. And ....” She paused, thinking of the hate-filled eyes that had watched her, and of the dream where Miguel had searched for her and found Elisa. “And I think there is now a third as well. Even were I to destroy them, and Miguel and I left, eventually more would come. What is the point?”

“Freedom,” Iráma said emphatically. “If not for us, then for our children.”

Maria sat up, looking at her friend. “I didn’t know you’d had children.”

“I don’t speak of them much,” she said softly.

“Child.” Wuchii turned Maria’s head toward her. “When was the last time you saw yours?”

Maria gasped, her hand going to her flat stomach, afraid of their implication. “What do you mean?”

Iráma glanced at Wuchii before giving Maria a sympathetic look.

“You have more freedom than the rest of us put together. You can leave this place, leave your body and go anywhere, see anything.” Wuchii gently placed her hand over Maria’s. “There is much you need to remember.”

Maria’s mind reeled. She had a child. She remembered, now, running her hands over her smooth belly that first day. Had Sophus meant to keep her from remembering that, too? Or did he even know?

But she had a child! Her heart ached with longing, her arms with need. How could she have left a child for this place? But now that she knew what she was searching for, perhaps she could find the truth. The thought calmed the turmoil that had buffeted her mind. With a sudden surge of unexpected hope, she threw her consciousness into the air and found herself in the flowering fields west of Maracaibo.

“ELISA?” MIGUEL’S CALLED, walking through the doorway.

“A moment, love.” Elisa moved her chess piece. “I’ve just about finished this game.”

He waited obediently beside the board as Theron instructed her on his next move. She supposed Miguel was likable when he wanted to be. Elisa moved again. One more move to win ...

Miguel reached out and moved the final piece for Theron.

“Checkmate,” Theron said.

She clapped her hands in delight. “I didn’t even see it coming. You are always so full of surprises.”

“And I think Mikhael has one for you, my sweet one,” Theron returned with a kindly smile. Elisa rolled her eyes at the poisonous glare Miguel gave him.

“Well, come on then. What is it?” She put her hand out expectantly.

“It’s outside.” Miguel took it and helped her up. “Come and see.”

She allowed him to lead her outside. What might he have brought her? The fading light outside the doors skittered across the barren landscape surrounding the lair. Elisa paused, disappointed.

He laughed gently, and pulled at her hand. “Not here. It’s by the bay.”

“Did you make another repair to that boat of yours?” she asked as they made their way toward the bay. He was always so excited by every stupid little improvement he made to that thing. She understood how much he enjoyed sailing and all, but really! To expect her to be excited every single time about such a dull, lifeless object.

The beach came into view, and they slowed. The boat wasn’t pulled onto the sand the way Miguel typically kept it, but in the water, tied to a makeshift dock. In fact, now that she actually looked at it, it seemed it was an entirely different boat.

“Well, what do you think of her?” he asked, his pride obvious.

“It’s a boat,” she said flatly, taking in the rough wood and flaking paint. “And it’s ugly.”

“That’s only because she needs new paint. Come and see her.” He was as giddy as a schoolboy. She humored him, allowing him to lead her onto the deck. “I traded in the old one. I figured I could fix her up and she’ll be a real beauty. What do you say? Should we take her out?”

With an internal sigh, Elisa gave him a winning smile. “Absolutely.”

He grinned and began preparations to cast off. The moment his back was turned, Elisa dropped her smile and picked her way through the piles of rope and tarp and crates that littered the deck.

Is any of this the furniture I’ve been pestering you about? she asked Theron.

It could be. Look around a little bit more. You haven’t noticed the best part.

It’s a boat. How could there be a best part?

Theron chuckled, and she rolled her eyes but looked back over the deck. Miguel stood, powerful and handsome, at the helm as he harnessed the wind to move them out into the bay. She had to admit this boat was a bit roomier, and—

“Is that a door?” She moved toward it.

Miguel grinned, still looking at the horizon. “Sure is.”

“What’s inside?”

“Take a look. It’s for you.”

What’s inside it? she asked Theron, her excitement growing. He simply nudged her forward. She pulled the narrow door open to find a tiny cabin with old paint. What’s this? she asked, disappointed.

It’s a room. It’s private. It has a bed. Take a guess, Theron said kindly, and Elisa blushed as she heard Miguel lower the anchor.

You’ll tell me what to do? she asked, fidgeting with a button on her dress. Tell me what he expects? What he wants?

As soon as he knows himself, Theron confirmed, caressing her mind.

Elisa nodded and took a deep breath to calm the butterflies that had taken flight in her stomach. Miguel slid his hands around her waist and she felt a warmth filling her body. She turned to him, this time with a genuine smile, and led him into the tiny cabin. He pulled her into a kiss and shut the door behind them.

MARIA FELL TO HER KNEES amidst the beautiful flowers, a deep agony ripping through her chest. Something terrible had happened! A fear greater than the pain gripped her silent heart, and she rushed to the city, to her old home; if her child was alive, surely he would be there. She moved without thinking to the nursery, anxious and hardly able to keep from snapping back to her body.

There, in the darkness, were two cribs. The first held a little girl, peacefully asleep. Lovely though she was, Maria felt no attachment. Emelia, she realized. Betania’s daughter.

She turned quickly to the other. Inside lay a boy, beautiful and perfect, with green eyes and a head full of dark, silky hair. She felt the world shift around her, as though her heart and soul existed solely to love and protect this perfect little toddler. She reached for him but wavered, afraid of breaking the spell when she passed through him. Walking around the crib, she inspected him as best she could. His perfect green eyes stared as though watching her.

Just then, the boy let out a piercing scream, filling Maria with joy. To Maria’s immense surprise, he rolled over and stood in the crib, bouncing on his toes, and continued to cry. He was so big! A shadow of memory played before her, of her gazing at her newborn in her arms, so tiny and only a few days old. Álvaro Michael. The name was sweet in her mind and she smiled at him, the smile only a mother can give. Maria went over the time in her head. He had to be just over two years old. Could it really have been so long?

Shhh, don’t cry, she cooed, trying to quiet him. I’m here, my angel. She longed to pick him up, to hold him close and soothe him. She ached for the time they’d lost. How could she ever have left him? How could she have forgotten?

Gently, she put her arms around him, hoping if nothing else, he would feel that she loved him. His cries quieted, but he continued sniffling. The memory of a lullaby came to her and she began to hum it softly. The child lay back down, tucked his blanket under his chin with his chubby fingers, and drifted back to sleep.

Oh, Álvaro, do you know how precious you are? she asked, watching his chest move with slow, steady breaths. The door to the nursery swung open and a nursemaid—Maria’s heart warmed to see her dear friend Muusa—came staggering in, clearly still half asleep. Muusa checked on both the children and, seeing that they were fine, left again.

A sense that she should return to her body pulled at Maria, but to leave her son so soon after finding him again was agony. She would be fine to stay just a little longer. She took a seat on a rocking chair beside the bed, the same one she remembered playing near throughout her own childhood, and watched her beautiful, perfect, child sleep.

I would do anything in the world to protect you. She ran her fingers over his round cheeks and soft, dark hair. And you will grow to become a good man, like your father. He stirred and Maria began singing the lullabies from her own childhood, wishing she could hold the toddler in her arms as she sang. An urgent hand on her shoulder brought her back to her body.

A smile played on her lips when she opened her eyes, and her heart was light. Only the concern written across Wuchii’s face kept Maria from swinging her old friend around with joy.

“The master has returned and wishes to see you,” Wuchii said quickly and rushed off to her work.

Even the thought of Sophus could not dampen Maria’s spirits as she chose an elegant dress, light blue with embroidered brocade, and brushed her hair. She decided to place a comb above her ear, and the rest she left unbound, falling in gentle waves down her back. Feeling as though she walked on air, Maria put on matching jewelry and walked with a half-smile to meet Sophus. She would tell him she was leaving.

“Ah, you’re quite lovely today,” he crooned, giving an appraising look.

“Thank you,” she said with genuine warmth.

He took her hand and led her to her accustomed seat, and for once she didn't mind his other hand on the small of her back. “I noticed the terrible mess you made of your dress yesterday and figured that it would not be salvageable, so I have brought you one to replace it.” He sounded very pleased with himself as he displayed the new dress.

“Oh, it is beautiful!” She moved to inspect it. The pale ivory silk was cut rather low on the top and would hug her curves, but she didn’t mind. She liked silk the best; it felt smoother on her skin than any other material.

“Put it on,” he urged.

Maria took it and walked behind a screen he had put up for that very reason. She changed quickly, smiling as she did so.

“It would appear our little trial the other night agreed with you,” he said conversationally. Maria draped the old dress over the back of a chair and settled the new one over her ivory shift and petticoats as he spoke. “I’m glad to see it. So often, after the first one, all young immortals can think of is more blood. Or they turn gloomy and full of angst. That is part of the reason I made you wait so long for your first real taste. Longer, perhaps, than I might have, given your earlier indiscretion. I would have been very disappointed to return and find all my fine and carefully cultivated household dead.”

His words broke through Maria’s joy like a knife in the back, freezing her fingers on the button. She could have killed them all. She might have, too, though it would not have been for their blood. Not at first. Had Wuchii or Iráma come even a few minutes earlier, when her anger had run so hot that she’d barely been in control, she might have. The joy of seeing her son had been transcendent, but she would never truly be with him again.

For his own safety, she could not be.

Anguish rolled over her like a punch in the gut, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t leave. It wasn’t only that she couldn’t go home, knowing that her husband was alive and well and with that snake Elisa instead of her.

Slowly, she finished buttoning the dress. More than abandoning Miguel to Elisa, Maria couldn’t leave because one day her control would slip and she would take out her rage and frustration on whatever was near. Whoever was near. And what if it were her son?

No, if she loved him, she would stay away. Maria rolled her shoulders back and lifted her chin even as her heart shattered beneath the weight of the decision.

Wuchii’s words came back to her. She had freedom, in a way, from her hated form. She could still watch Álvaro, if from a distance. It was a paltry salve to her ache, but it was better than nothing.

Maria forced a smile back on her face as she stepped back into the room. She would use Sophus to get Miguel back; perhaps then, together, they could be with their son. Maria spun around slowly so that Sophus could appreciate the dress on her.

“You certainly make the dress, mi corazón. It is splendid on you.” He eyed her up and down. Putting a hand around her waist he pulled her close. Before she realized what he was doing, he kissed her neck. Reflexively, she pushed against him and he let her go with a laugh and twinkle in his eye.

“That was inappropriate,” she said angrily, crossing her arms.

He laughed and gestured to her to take a seat on the couch, which she did. “Don’t be too angry, mi corazón. I got what I wanted.” He held up a lock of her hair and she gasped, reaching to her head. Running her fingers through her hair, she could feel the small, shortened patch, just behind her ear.

“Will it grow back?”

Sophus laughed. “Women; always thinking first of their appearance! No, mi corazón, it will not. I want you to remember that you are permanent as you are now. Remember this whenever you brush your hair, and take a care for yourself. Now, tell me: what do you think holds detail better, stone or fired clay?”

Sophus tucked the lock of hair into his pocket, and Maria, with an inward sigh, allowed him to change the subject and joined in the conversation with determination. It would be a long day before she would be able to find a reasonable excuse to leave, and she was anxious to see her son again.

Chapter 11

1747 - MARACAIBO

EMELIA STARED, WIDE-EYED, at the large beast before her. It snorted its fiery breath and pawed angrily at the dirt. She had invaded its domain, and surely now it would charge her down and trample her underfoot at any moment. Her heart pounded in her throat. She could flee and save herself, but then the beast would be free to continue its rampage.

Keeping her eyes locked with the wild eyes before her, Emelia courageously reached for her sword and—

“Ahhhhhh!” Her young hero leapt between her and the beast. “I’ll save you, Emelia!”

The creature snorted again and turned away to nibble at the hay in its manger.

“I can do it myself!” Emelia protested as Álvaro pulled her from the stall.

“No, you can’t. You’re a girl, and heroes are never girls,” her foster-brother said with all the certainty of a five-year-old.

“Well, I can still run faster than you.” Emelia darted off.

“No, you can’t!” Álvaro called after her, trying his best to catch up.

They chased each other out of the stables and dashed into the kitchen, Álvaro snatching a roll as they went.

“Álvaro, Emelia, where have you two been?” a sharp voice called them to a halt. They stood still, abashed, while Muusa inspected them. “Playing out in the stables again? We must get you cleaned up at once. There is someone here to meet you.”

Emelia and Álvaro perked at the prospect of something new. Perhaps Belo had come to visit the hacienda with treats, or a new toy! Hopes swirled through Emelia’s mind as Muusa herded them toward the nursery.

“Who is it, Muusa?” Álvaro asked, but Muusa tsked as she changed their clothes and bathed their faces.

“Tell us a story while we change?” Emelia tugged on the woman’s hand.

“Oh yes, please.” Álvaro joined in tugging on her other hand. “You tell the best stories. Please?”

Muusa laughed. “Perhaps tonight before bed. We haven’t the time right now, and you have some place to be.”

Álvaro pouted, but Emelia was excited at the promise of a story later. Muusa led them down the hall to Mama’s room, stopping before the door. Emelia’s excitement grew and she tugged on Álvaro’s sleeve.

“Álvaro,” she whispered as he pulled his arm away. “Álvaro, I think Mama had her baby!”

His eyes widened. “You’re a big sister now!”

Emelia’s heart filled with joy until she thought she’d surely explode. “I have a baby sister to look after!”

Álvaro stuck out his tongue. “There are enough girls. You need a brother for me to play with.”

Emelia tried her best to mind her manners and not respond in kind. Mama always reminded her that she was a lady, so she pinched him instead. Not too hard, though, because she didn’t like to see him cry.

“Owww!” He pulled away from her as Sophia, Mama’s maid, opened the door.

“Come along,” Sophia said, gesturing them forward.

Álvaro held back, hiding behind the door frame. Emelia swallowed back her excitement, struggling not to dash into the darkened room to her mother. She hesitated beside the bed where her mother lay, looking frighteningly ... wrong.

“Come here, mi chiquita,” Mama said with a laugh, patting the bed beside her. “I’m only very tired, but don’t jump on me.”

Emelia scrambled onto the bed to throw herself onto her mother, relieved to hear her laugh. Mama held her tightly before settling her on the bed beside her.

“Guess what?” Emelia burst out as Mama settled in. “I’m a big sister!”

“Yes, you are, my bright little star,” Papa said, walking into the room with a bundle in his arms. “Would you like to meet her?”

Emelia’s excitement evaporated into timidity as she watched her father so carefully pass the baby to her mother. She hid her face in her mother’s shoulder at first, but her curiosity overcame her fear and she peered into the blankets.

“It’s squished.” She wrinkled her nose. That was not what babies were supposed to look like. Mama laughed again and pulled the swaddling back a bit farther.

“Just for now,” she said. “She’ll look better in a few days. You were much the same when you were born, and look how lovely you have become.”

“Álvaro, come in and meet your new cousin,” Papa said, trying to coax him into the room. Emelia looked up from watching her sister to see Álvaro back away and disappear into the hall.

Looking back to her sister, Emelia reached out to touch the baby’s impossibly tiny hands. When she touched it, the baby’s little fingers closed around hers, and her heart swelled again with joy.

“Look Mama! She likes me!” Emelia couldn’t take her eyes from the tiny face framed by fuzzy black hair. “Her lips are so red, just like my doll. Can we name her Muñequita?”

Her parents laughed at her suggestion, but Emelia really didn’t mind.

“Would you like to hold her?” Mama asked.

Emelia’s eyes widened in astonishment and she nodded.

“Be careful. She’s heavier than your dolls, and you’ll need to mind her head.”

Emelia did as they said, never taking her gaze from her sister’s tiny face. “You still look a little silly,” she told her, “but Mama says you’re going to be beautiful like me. I’ll teach you how to do my hair, and I’ll do your hair, and we’ll play dolls and have adventures. I’ll even let you ride my pony.” Emelia paused and pursed her lips, thinking. “But you still need a name since Mama and Papa don’t like Muñequita.”

“Leonora.” Mama gently took the baby back as the infant began to cry. “Her name is Leonora, my sweet Emelia, and you two will be the best of friends, I am sure.”

The baby was interesting, but the room and her parents could be so dull. “Can I go now? I need to tell Álvaro all about my Norita. Where will she sleep? She can sleep with me if she doesn’t cry too much.”

“Go on, then,” Mama said, already absorbed in Leonora.

Papa helped Emelia off the bed and walked her to the door.

“But Papa, where will she sleep?” Emelia asked again.

“She will sleep in the nursery, and you and Álvaro will move to new rooms.”

“Can I pick my own room?” Emelia’s mind blossomed with the possibilities and her father chuckled.

“Any in our family wing, mi chiquita. Go on, now. Tell Álvaro and pick some rooms.”

Emelia bolted out the door and ran straight into the waiting Álvaro.

“I have a baby sister and her name is Leonora but she cries a lot and her face is squished and she’ll sleep in the nursery so we get to pick new rooms!” Emelia grabbed his wrist, and together they dashed off down the hall, ready for their next adventure.

MIKHAEL STOOD AT THE wheel of his new boat, his gaze lost to the horizon. He was pleased with the way she responded to him, the time she made before the wind. Perhaps someday, Elisa would show an interest in sailing and, between the two of them, they could take their sailboat away. How far would they need to go before they could slip the bands of their captor?

The world is not big enough.

Perhaps if they went far enough to sea and a storm came upon them ... With enough skill and heart they could surely keep their vessel afloat as the squall carried them out and out. Beyond all contact, out of the grasp of evil incarnate. They would fish and hunt shark.

“Miguel?” The voice as sweet as honey spread over his thoughts, slowing them and pulling him back to the reality of his cage.

She stood beside him, touching his arm. “Miguel, what are you thinking?”

He smiled down at her and covered her hand with his own. He inhaled deeply, and the cleansing breath swirled his thoughts, dissipating them like fog in the sun. Something about freedom ....

“Nothing. Just enjoying the new boat and wondering what she is capable of.”

“I’m glad you like it.” Elisa stretched up to kiss his cheek. “I’ve worked a long time to get it for you.”

Mikhael actually laughed at that. “You mean you’ve pestered Theron for years for a pianoforte, and our last boat was far too small to have carried it.”

“What’s the difference?” she asked. “I got what I wanted, and you benefited from it.”

“I can still hardly believe he let you get something so extravagant.”

Elisa pouted. “He said I’d earned it. All that I’ve done for him. Him and you both, all these years. Do you remember what it was like before I joined you? You lived in a cave, like savages!”

“We still live in a cave—”

“It had dirt floors!”

Mikhael raised his eyebrow. And who was it who had carried the wood to lay the floors, or built the frames, hung the doors, even at times worked the docks in the night to earn the coin they needed for her lifestyle? But if Mikhael could provide for her the things she’d lost because of him, then it was worth the effort.

Elisa continued. “Thanks to me, we are civilized.”

Mikhael snorted. “We are slaves.”

“We are no such thing!”

Mikhael merely shook his head and turned back toward the endless horizon. He could feel Elisa’s agitation as she walked to the rail and looked the opposite way, back toward the shore.

Now look what you’ve done, Theron sniped at him. You’ve agitated my little pet, and she is so needy when she’s upset.

Four years, and you’ve only just noticed? Mikhael retorted automatically. I will free myself and her from you.

You can be so tedious, Mikhael. Haven’t you realized yet that there is no escaping me?

Without thinking Mikhael spun the wheel, jerking the vessel toward the open sea. The wind caught the sails and lurched them forward.

Theron rose up in his mind, snatching Mikhael’s very being into his claws and dropping him to the deck in agony. Distantly, he heard Elisa cry out.

You will remember your place, skylos! Theron held him down, crushing him with his will. You cannot escape what you carry with you.

If I carry you with me, Mikhael barked back, drawing himself into a ball of solid will, it is as a dog carries fleas. You are naught but vermin!

I’ll teach you to entertain ideas of sedition! Theron rose again, poised to strike at Mikhael who braced himself mentally for the blow.

“Stop!” Elisa cried, throwing herself over him, as though her mere physical presence could stop Theron’s mental onslaught.

To Mikhael’s surprise, she succeeded.

Theron still held him in a death grip but did not complete his attack. Mikhael waited, anxious, while Elisa spoke silently to Theron. The silence consumed him through the sound of the breeze in the sails, the creak of the boat, and the splash of the waves in the hull.

Finally, Elisa relaxed, and Mikhael felt Theron’s attention return to him.

You will stop the daydreams and thank your sailor’s stars for the woman. Theron dropped him with a parting mental kick. Mikhael flinched on the deck as the cold steel claws removed themselves from his mind. Still in shock from the pain, he remained where he lay, waiting on the edges between himself and ... everything.

“Miguel?” Elisa stroked his face. “Miguel, are you all right?”

Mikhael pushed himself upright and leaned against the rail, his entire body aching from the force Theron had used.

Get this boat back on course! Theron barked, prodding him viciously.

With a grunt, Mikhael pulled himself up, the glistening sunlight across the water mocking him with its unreachable freedom. He turned away and began the work of angling the vessel back toward Theron.

Elisa watched him silently and, once he’d again taken position by the wheel, leaned her head on his shoulder. Her presence soothed him, and the deep physical aches in a body that otherwise knew no pain began to ease.

“He hurt you, didn’t he?” she asked, trying to draw him out of his shell.

He clenched his jaw tighter, afraid of the words that might otherwise come out.

As the sun set, she pulled off his heavy jacket and began kneading his shoulders. He secured the wheel and turned around, pulling her into an embrace, hungry for a kind word and a moment of forgetfulness. He breathed in the smell of her hair, the softness of her body against his.

“Oh, Miguel,” she whispered, “this needs to stop.”

“Why?” he mumbled as he kissed her neck.

“I can’t stand seeing him hurt you like this.” She held him tighter, her hands stroking his back.

Mikhael’s gut tightened in fear at the words he had to say. If she was ready then he had to try, even if Theron waited for him on the other side.

“Then we must escape.”

She pulled back from him. “Escape? Escape from what?”

Mikhael pulled away and looked into her face. “Don’t you see how he holds us captive?”

“I see how you can’t abide by the rules,” Elisa said testily, “and we both pay for it.”

Mikhael stood, dumbfounded, as she continued.

“You know he’s touchy about certain things; you were the one who warned me about it! Why can’t you just control yourself and not make him so angry?”

“You think I lack self-control?” he asked flatly.

“Of course I do!” She jabbed his chest. “I can’t believe you’d be stupid enough to bait him on purpose!”

“Did the thought never enter into your pretty little head that I don’t want this life?”

“What’s there not to like about it? Theron gives us everything we could possibly want!”

“Except the freedom to think our own thoughts or choose our own directions,” Mikhael snapped back.

“I think anything I please, and he never forces me.” She crossed her arms defiantly.

“That is because you don’t see beyond your fashionable dresses and shiny baubles to challenge him with anything of import!”

“No, it’s because I’m not stupid enough to go at him head-on,” she retorted hotly.

“You’re missing the point, Elisa!”

“No, I don’t believe I am! I get what I want because he likes me. I follow the rules and don’t antagonize him. I bring joy to him, unlike you who constantly fights and pecks at him until he snaps, and you always wind up hurt. Then I have to jump in and soothe the both of you. It’s all your own fault!”

All his own fault. The words stung and Mikhael turned from his golden-haired companion. Of course it was. It always came back to this. He owed everything to her, because of the choices he’d made. Him and his damned honor. Honor had set him on his original quest. Honor had led him into the demon’s den. Honor to a half-remembered promise had dragged Elisa into this hellish life along with him. And now he wasn’t free to even choose honor or not. He wasn’t free to even think his own thoughts or dream his own dreams.

He sighed again and retreated a little further into the lonely prison of his mind as he returned to the wheel.

ELISA WATCHED MIGUEL, satisfied that she’d cowed him for now. She wished he would be sensible, but it was always the same pattern. He’d grow more and more discontent until he’d lash out, and then there would be an altercation. Miguel would sulk for a while, but then he’d behave, returning to his sweet, docile manner and foolishly expecting her to do the same. For a little while there would be peace, and then it would begin again.

I wish I could change him for you, she sent to Theron.

It is enough that you try, precious one. His sensuous, smooth voice embraced her mind.

I do try, she returned, reveling in the touch. I can usually head off his outbursts now.

You’ve done well. Theron stroked her like a cat. He almost never thinks of the woman anymore.

As it should be. Elisa smiled to herself and began humming as the shore slid silently by.

THE GENTLE WINDS TOYED with the field of flowers that surrounded Maria. Pointedly ignoring the distant flames—had they grown larger again?—she looked around her one last time, scanning the horizon for any sign of Kasha. Their encounters were few and far between, but whenever she had the time to do so, Maria searched for her. The woman had a wealth of knowledge about the dream world. Ability to walk it was rare, even among the Wayuu, and few were as powerful as Kasha. She always left Maria with new challenges that stretched her skills and often awoke memories.

As Maria thought about the memories, the dream world moved around her, setting her on the balcony overlooking the vast gardens at Casa de la Cuesta. Wisps of music and laughter leaked into the dream world, and Maria smiled. Kasha had met her here a few times, but even better, Maria had caught glimpses of Álvaro playing in the halls. The large plantation home was a good place for hiding games, and a couple of times Maria had managed to nudge him toward her favorite spots. She wandered the halls for a bit and then tried a few of the gardens. Unable to find either Kasha or her son there, she moved on to her home.

The Álvarez hacienda was probably her favorite place in all the world, and the dream world reflected her attitude. Everything was always bright and cheery when she visited. The flowers always in bloom, the courtyard clean and the walls white. Sometimes the shadows of the past would flicker before her, but the moment she saw her son, everything else fell away.

Maria lived for the times when she could visit Álvaro, and more and more the real world, Sophus and everything that came with him had begun to feel like the dream. Even finding and helping Miguel seemed futile and far away; she didn’t even know where to begin looking for him in the real one, and feared to get too near Theron’s darkness in the dream world.

Occasionally, she entertained fantasies of returning to Álvaro, despite everything, certain that now she could control the vampire that she was. But every time she began to really believe it, Sophus appeared with another dying woman whose blood reawakened in Maria the need to stay clear of those she loved. Maria scowled. Each death bound her closer to him.

But there had been countless days of joy watching her son grow. When he fell and scraped his knees, she was there to tell him it would be all right. She encouraged him when he had difficulty with friends or with his lessons. She saw him ride his first pony and whispered advice into his ear. And nearly every night, when he went to sleep, she was there singing her lullaby.

Maria’s reflections shattered as Álvaro, full of laughter, burst out the door, with Emelia close on his heels and little Norita toddling along behind them as fast as her legs could take her. They charged off to the stables, no doubt to ride their ponies.

Pushing all her other cares aside, Maria followed.

AS ÁLVARO GREW, HE knew that neither Betania nor Muusa was his true mother and that he had never met his real mother, Maria Álvarez Cordova. But he knew with a certainty that she loved and watched over him. And sometimes, just as he drifted off to sleep, he thought he saw her face, smiling at him, singing a beautiful lullaby.

Chapter 12

1750 – GUAJIRA PENINSULA

SMILING, MARIA WATCHED Álvaro’s face fill with joy as Benito led the docile gray mare around the corner and into view in the warm light of the stable. Benito had decided that, at barely eight years old, the time had come for the boy to have a real horse. Álvaro had long insisted that he’d outgrown the pony he and Emelia, his foster sister, had shared for so many years. Betania had furiously objected, insisting that a horse was far too large for such a young child. They had finally come to an agreement when Benito insisted that both Miguel and Maria would have done so, gently reminding his wife whose child Álvaro really was.

Maria had been watching Álvaro and Emelia play at the time, and though the children couldn’t have heard the adults, Maria had no such difficulties. She agreed with Benito; it was time her boy had a real horse, though she appreciated Betania’s caveat that he could have one only if it was docile. Much to Emelia’s dismay, her mother had staunchly refused to allow her daughter a horse of her own. Of course, if Maria knew her son, Emelia would be riding Álvaro’s mare so much that she wouldn’t need her own horse, anyhow.

Álvaro bounced on his feet, appearing to use every ounce of self-control he possessed to not charge up to the horse and his foster father. Maria listened with only half an ear as Benito gave instruction and reviewed rules for the new horse. The gentle jingle of tack drew Álvaro’s attention, and a manservant handed it to Álvaro. With a serious determination to do things right, Álvaro set his face and saddled the mare.

Benito provided gentle guidance, stopping him when things weren’t quite in place. He was a good man, and Maria liked him. He’d always been gentle and sensible, but stern when needed. He had a good head on his shoulders, and Maria had little doubt that he would raise Álvaro to be the kind of man Miguel would be proud of.

A stablehand brought around Benito’s gelding as Álvaro slipped the bridle over the mare’s head, and together they led their horses to the courtyard. Stopping outside the stable doors, Benito motioned for her son to mount. Álvaro had grown tall for a boy his age, but he was still not quite tall enough to easily swing into the saddle the way he’d been accustomed to with the pony. He struggled to get his foot into the high stirrup, and Maria chuckled as he tried hanging on with one hand while using the other to lift his leg. Once he managed to set his foot, he hopped around a few times, trying unsuccessfully to pull himself up. Benito waited patiently, holding the grey mare’s head and trying not to let his amusement show.

I remember my first horse. I had the same problem, Maria mused out loud. Álvaro paused, his head cocked to the side. Just take a deep breath and take your time. That’s what my father always told me. Get a good grip with both hands and pull. Just keep pulling until you make it.

Álvaro nodded slightly, tightened his grip on the saddle above his head, took a deep breath, and jumped. He struggled to pull himself up, unused to the method of transferring his weight up his left leg from so low.

You can do it! Maria cheered him on as he slowly pulled himself upward. Pull!

Suddenly, Álvaro stood straight in the stirrup. Shooting a triumphant smile to his foster father, he swung his free leg over and gathered his reins. Benito congratulated him and smoothly mounted his own horse. The clang of the horseshoes rang on the stones of the courtyard as together they rode out of the hacienda.

Full of pride, Maria watched them go, feeling the past pulling at her. The ghost of another man rode out of the same courtyard, away from her and into the rainy night ....

Shaking herself free of the memory she knew would pull her into the past, trap her in the cycle of mourning that she had fallen into so many times over the years, Maria returned to her body. The light from the bright cave filtered through her eyelids, turning her vision pink as she drew a deep breath. Opening her eyes to the bare wall before her, her mind immediately took stock of all the cracks and crevices. Had she left them open, her mind would have catalogued the details, even the movement of the shadows, in a strange visual overlay of the dream world. Seeing both at once was disorienting, distracting, and an unwelcome reminder of why she could not be truly in her son’s life.

Maria sighed. She had returned early. That meant a longer time with Sophus. It wasn’t his company she minded so much, but that she had so many other things she preferred to do. Entertaining him was more of a chore than anything. Necessary, but still a chore. Perhaps, however, she could find an excuse to avoid him tonight.

Well, we all earn our keep here one way or another, she consoled herself as she stood. After nearly a decade, it still unnerved her to never feel the least bit sore after sitting still for so long. Nevertheless, she stretched all her limbs and joints. The thought of getting stuck if she remained still for too long terrified her. If not for that, she’d have watched over her son indefinitely.

Footsteps moved down the hall, soft with a slight shuffling limp. Wuchii, and by the sound of it, she carried a load. Before she could knock, Maria opened the door for her old friend.

“Ah, you are kind.” Wuchii’s voice remained friendly, despite its weary tone.

“Let me get those for you.” Maria took the basket before Wuchii could protest. The last eight years had not been kind to her friend, and Maria had begun to realize she was old.

“Are you certain?” Wuchii grinned, limping into the room.

Maria shook her head and shut the door. “You know I like to have something to do. I spend far too much time still as it is. Go, sit down.” Maria gestured to one of the chairs.

Wuchii eased herself into it. “These old bones aren’t what they used to be,” she said cheerily.

“These damp, drafty stone halls don’t help you much either, I’m sure,” Maria voiced the complaint that Wuchii could not, setting the basket on a table and began to sort and fold the laundry.

“The work is good for me; it keeps me moving.” Wuchii shrugged. “It seems like more than it really is.”

“It is more, and you know it. You’re simply too cautious to say anything. Even Iráma takes a turn tending the sheep and goats now. I haven’t been able to decide if that makes her smell better or worse.” Maria grinned and Wuchii snorted in amusement.

A friendly silence fell between them as Maria whisked about putting the linens and clothes away. She shut the last drawer and turned thoughtfully to her old friend.

“It worries me, though,” Maria said, almost to herself. “Sophus always has me with him when a new girl comes to us, but the last few years we have lost more women than have joined us.”

Wuchii nodded sagely and stood up. “It is a good thing, Maria.” She picked up the basket of folded laundry and left.

Maria stared after her for a moment before changing into nicer clothes. Whatever did she mean by that? Wuchii knew full well that the other women had been leaving by way of the two vampires. Despite the years, Maria remembered each woman clearly. They had ranged from that first, scared girl, who had believed she was really going home, to the older women who were literally already on their deathbeds. Others had accidents they couldn’t recover from or illnesses that would have taken their lives anyway. The only truly odd thing about it, Maria supposed, was that the deaths were happening with increasing frequency.

Maria put her hair up and donned some jewelry. Of course, with fewer women to replace the ones that had passed on, the ones who remained were getting older and more fragile. But eight years shouldn’t make that much difference, should it?

Maria chewed on her thoughts as she moved to Sophus’s chambers. He would be aware by now that she had returned, and would come to her if she did not go to him first. Maria hated having the man in her rooms. He made her feel like prey being stalked.

If it came to it, who of the two of them were really stronger? The question made Maria bite her lip as her mind followed the familiar track, remembering the careless ease with which he’d subdued her, and how very powerless she’d been against his strength. Now that she was older, would that change the dynamics?

Which of them would win in a fight? That was the real question, of course. She sincerely hoped she would never have to find out.

Maria didn’t bother knocking at Sophus’s door; she knew he had heard her and the balance of power between them was a delicate and unspoken game they played. She detested giving him more power than necessary, and knocking was not necessary. Besides, Sophus never knocked before he entered her rooms, and she resented it.

Tossing her dark hair over her shoulder, Maria pushed the door open. The large room lay unoccupied. Strange. She thought for sure he’d be waiting for her. The room darkened as a cloud shifted before the sun, and the gentle smell of rain pushed through the cave. For a moment, Maria was tempted to go to the field instead and enjoy the rain. Who knew where he was or how long he’d be?

But, he expected her here when she returned from her time in the dream world. With a sigh, Maria took a seat on her favorite chair, opening a leather-bound book with gilded pages and flipping through it. Besides, he’d be happier, and easier to deal with, if she was waiting when he arrived.

Uninterested in the text, she set the book on the end table. Two goblets standing on the table caught her eye. What were they doing here? Curious, she picked one up and sniffed at it. The lingering scent of human blood jumped out at her. She wrinkled her nose in distaste and pushed back the unwelcome feeling of resentment that he hadn’t shared.

As she returned the cup, a discarded bota bag under the table caught her eye. She picked up the empty bag. Why would he have consumed an entire bag on his own, let alone one filled with human blood? He had lectured too many times on the evils of extravagant indulgence. Odd, too, that he would leave the bag to dry. The bags were time-consuming to make and needed to be taken care of. He didn’t like it when his things got damaged, especially through carelessness. Even his own.

Maria darted into the hall with the bag and gave it to the first woman she saw, hardly needing to instruct her to take care of it. They both knew Sophus would be upset if it was ruined. She’d have simply cleaned it herself if the strangeness of it all hadn’t worried her. Maria returned to the still-empty room, half afraid of what she’d encounter when he returned.

Had another vampire come while she was out? It would explain the consumption of an entire bag of human blood. Was it perhaps Theron? The thought lifted her heart. Had he sent Miguel? The chance of seeing him with her own eyes filled her with energy as she picked up the second goblet.

It, too, had been used recently. Maria sniffed it, and her shoulders sagged. It wasn’t blood. She pushed her disappointment aside; it had only been a momentary hope.

What, then, was in the second cup? She sniffed at it again. The scent was familiar, like a memory hidden just beyond her sight. Cringing, she touched her tongue to the metal. Metal tasted even worse now than when she had been human, and the goblet tasted very much of metal. Metal and ... grape?

Maria looked at the glass in shock. Wine? She sniffed it again. It was a fine vintage, but why ever would Sophus have wine here? But then again, he was Sophus. Why wouldn’t he? Still, she’d never known him to give anyone such a fine drink. Except her, perhaps. What was going on? The door to Sophus’s bedchamber opened and closed behind her.

“You’re back early,” the silky voice said.

“Can’t I do things differently from time to time?” Maria gently set the cup back on the table. “I wouldn’t want to be too predictable for you, not with your scheming mind.”

She grinned and flopped back onto the couch, flipping her book to a random page. She peered at him over the pages, watching him walk toward his chair.

He wore a light robe belted loosely about his waist, leaving his pale, muscled chest bare. His light curls shone with golden highlights even in the diffuse sunlight and hung lazily about his shoulders. Not for the first time, Maria supposed he was beautiful, perhaps even entrancing for someone who didn’t loathe him.

Sophus looked her up and down as he sat across from her in his favorite seat. “Did you need something?”

“No,” she said, her eyes on her book. “I’m not disturbing you, am I?”

“Indeed not. I have something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about for some time, and I think now is as good a time as any.”

“I see.” Maria faked a sigh and set the book on the side table. Folding her hands over her lap, she looked expectantly at him.

Sophus brought his goblet to his lips. He paused and frowned into the empty cup before replacing it on the table. “It has come to my attention that we are running low on some various assets. We seem to be going through them more quickly now that there are two of us.” He flashed her a smile and continued. “In the past, I arranged for a restocking on my own, but you could use some interaction out in the real world.”

“Are you suggesting I don’t get out enough?” She raised an eyebrow.

“You get out plenty, but your body doesn’t. You also don’t interact with anyone besides myself and the women here.”

“The ones who aren’t scared stiff by the very thought of me, you mean.”

“Indeed.” He smiled. The door to the bedchamber opened, and Maria heard the soft footsteps of bare feet trying to sneak out along the edge of the room behind her. She didn’t bother looking. Maria could tell who it was from the step and the slight sweet scent.

“I hope you’re not suggesting I need that kind of interaction,” Maria said once the woman had slipped out.

“It certainly wouldn’t hurt you any,” Sophus said suggestively, nodding toward the vacated bedchamber.

“Thank you, but no.” Maria hid her irritation. Sophus’s actions had often made plain his desire for her, but he had never made such a bold overture. The thought made Maria queasy. She hoped he would accept her refusal.

“You are missing out.” He gave a dismissive gesture. “At any rate, that was not what I was after. As you know, our most precious commodity is living blood. It is a convenience to have it so close all the time, so very accessible. I had a good balance established, but your addition to the family has thrown that off.” He put his hand up to silence Maria’s protest before she could form it. “I am not suggesting that I wish you to leave; I enjoy your company and look forward to many years more of it. However, to have that and continue in the lifestyle we have become accustomed to, we will need to establish a new balance.”

“I am listening,” she said cautiously, concerned that he referred to more than replenishing their herd of goats and sheep.

“The best way to maintain the life I have established here is if the women who come do so willingly and of their own accord.” Sophus moved to his desk and rifled through his papers.

Maria did not like the direction she saw this taking.

“As I am sure you are aware, most of these women have come to escape the sorrow of loss. The loss of their men, their sons, their loved ones.”

Anticipation crawled through Maria’s gut as she guessed at what he would say next.

“Ah, here it is.” He slid out a large map from a cabinet and unrolled it across his desk. “There are not enough women coming to us. It is time to once again set in motion events that will entice their return in greater numbers.”

“You want me to go and kill off a bunch of their men?” Maria's stomach twisted at the thought. Killing so that she could eat was abhorrent enough, but to kill, and not only kill but to destroy lives for the sake of maintaining a lifestyle ...? Maria repressed a shudder.

“Of course not. That would be far too suspicious.” Sophus shook his head and pulled his chair to the desk, taking a seat. Pulling a clean sheet of paper toward him, he dipped his pen into an inkpot and wrote as he spoke.

“In the past, they killed themselves off, but now there is something even better. A greater, more powerful enemy who wants nothing more than to dominate them. No, they will kill themselves in the pursuit of the most noble of causes: their freedom. We will help them keep it, as I promised them so long ago. And they will pay for it, as they promised me. We simply need to ...” He looked up at her, waving the pen dismissively. “Stir the pot a little. To speed things up.”

The pieces came together in Maria’s mind. Sophus was going to orchestrate another rebellion against the Europeans. It had happened three times before. Sophus must have given them the means to hold out against the invaders and fanned the flames that drove them forward.

Another piece fell into place for her like a lead weight in her stomach, cascading like blocks stacked too close to one another. It was because of Sophus that her father had died. Ciro had gone to help the Wayuu in their latest rebellion. Her father had been badly injured and sent to Theron as a sacrifice. Miguel had gone to bring him home but had taken Ciro’s place instead.

It was because of Sophus that Maria had lost her father, her husband, and her son.

It was his fault that she was even here.

Maria clenched her fist, hiding her anger from Sophus. It no longer mattered that Sophus was supposed to be the only way for her to rescue Miguel. She would get Miguel back, but she would also destroy Sophus. She didn’t know or care how, but she would do it.

Maria filled her voice with honey. “So what is it you want me to do?”

“I am going to the villages to fan the flames of emotion. I would like you to come with me to learn to do the same. Will you do that for me, mi corazón?”

“Of course.” Maria excused herself and walked swiftly from the room.

She wanted—needed—to destroy something. Anything. She ran down the hall, heedless of the direction she took. When she hit a dead end, she turned and fled in a different direction. The pressure of the earth above pressed on her as she descended farther and farther into the depths.

A chamber full of blank stone slabs and statues finally stopped her. She plunged her hands into the first slab she reached, tearing away the pieces, carving her pain and anger, her hurt, and her loss into the stone. Willing it to hold her emotions.

She lost herself to the work of carving.

When the face of her beloved husband emerged from the stone beneath her deft fingers, she sank to the floor, sobbing with dry eyes.

Maria did not know how long she remained beneath the half-finished form, sitting so still she might as well have been a part of the statue. She did not journey outward, merely remained still, staring across the room.

Time passed in what might have been hours or days. Slowly, bit by bit, her mind became bored and sought distraction, following the shadows’ movements amid the fading light. A mouse scurried across the floor. A part of her began to register sounds. The rapid heartbeat of the rodent, the click of its nails in its crevice, the footsteps from above echoing through the caves.

“What am I going to do?” she whispered softly. Only silence replied. Silence, and a rhythmic, purposeful stride coming toward her. Maria jumped up and pulverized the most distinctive features of the statue’s face, turning it into that of a rather bland-looking man.

“What indeed,” Sophus said from the doorway. He wore an immaculate white shirt with a ruffled collar and a rich, dark cloak draped about his shoulders. “He’s certainly not the most handsome creation you’ve made.”

“No, he isn’t,” Maria replied with a steady voice, grateful that her perfect, unchanging body meant her voice never creaked with emotion or grew hoarse from crying.

Sophus extended his hand to her. “Come, we have another sick one who needs our mercy.”

“There has been a rash of them of late.” She ignored the proffered hand. “Hopefully, whatever is making them ill will soon pass.”

“One can hope.” Sophus shrugged. He turned toward the living levels but stopped, looking back over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”

“In a minute.” She nodded. “I want to finish this bit, and then I’ll clean up.”

“Don’t be too long. She will likely die within the hour.” Sophus swept up the stairs, his elegant cloak floating behind him.

Maria went back to chipping random pieces off of the statue until she felt Sophus was far enough away. When she focused back on the statue, it had turned into a replica of the man who had just left. With a low growl she broke the bust from the stone and flung it across the room where it smashed into another statue, shattering both.

With a sigh, Maria began the task of moving the rubble to the corner. She moved so quickly that it took mere minutes, but for her it remained dreary work. Entertaining herself by guessing at the parts of each piece made it more bearable. This one was an ear, that one a nose, three-quarters of the head she had carved, a knee. Picking up the last knuckle of a finger, she froze.

Straightening slowly, she brought the piece closer to her eyes to examine it. It was as pale as the stone, and to every appearance may have been, but this was no stone. The smell, underneath the dust was ... subtle, odd. The feel of it ... so familiar, but Maria simply could not place it. She tucked the strange object into her pocket and quickly finished moving and sweeping the debris.

When Maria arrived in the room held in reserve for the sick, she recognized the young woman who had snuck out of Sophus’s room. How long ago was it? Maria had thought only a matter of hours had passed, possibly a few days, but the girl was thin, pale, and wasted. Most of the younger women they had helped to pass on over the last few years had been in a similar condition, though none of the older women had contracted this wasting sickness. The thought made Maria pause, and she touched the strange stone in her pocket, wondering.

Sophus waited for her, sitting by the side of the bed with the young woman’s hand in his. He looked up when he heard her enter. Maria shut the door gently, not wanting to wake the sleeping woman. She always felt better when they died in their sleep. The frightened face of the first young woman they had killed came to her every time they prepared to dine on one of the living. She shut her eyes and forced the memory away, back into one of the deeper recesses of her mind.

“I’m glad she is asleep,” he said in a low, quiet voice that the sleeping woman could not have heard. “She is frightened of you.”

“Most of them are.” Maria took a seat on the other side of the bed. Despite her sallow color, the girl was still very beautiful. Her face was turned toward Sophus, relaxed and happy. “It is a shame we have been losing so many.”

“It truly is.” Sophus met Maria’s eyes with a veiled accusation, as though the fault was somehow hers. He stared quietly at her for a moment that stretched on. Maria refused to drop her eyes, refused to give in to the power of his gaze.

The sleeping girl stirred, drawing their attention. Her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled at Sophus. “You will take care of ...?” she asked hoarsely in Wayuunaiki.

“Of course,” he replied sweetly.

She nodded and closed her eyes, the question having taken all her remaining energy while at the same time lifting a great burden. Maria could hear the girl’s heart strain, pumping, with great effort, the sluggish blood.

“Well, let’s get on with it,” Maria said impatiently. She hated taking the girl’s life, but it was obvious that her death was imminent, and blood from the dead was just plain unpleasant. Certainly worse than goat’s blood. Maria brought the girl’s wrist to her mouth while Sophus leaned over the neck. Maria’s mouth began to water, and her throat constricted with a burning thirst as she waited for Sophus to make the first bite.

As soon as his teeth split the young woman’s skin, she began to struggle weakly. Her heart struggled to speed up with the fear and pain, and Maria bit into the soft flesh of her wrist. It was all she could do not to pull away in disgust at the taste, but the blood called to her, and the need pulled at her.

It was living, human blood, delicious and entrancing almost beyond her comprehension. Even so, a lingering, foul tang lay beneath it, no doubt the sickness that had consumed the girl. All the sick women the last few years had tasted of it. An unnatural, yet familiar, flavor mingled with a lack of some sort in the blood itself. In a way, the goat’s blood was more fulfilling.

Maria gave herself over to her need. The flow lessened until there was nothing left for the body to give. Maria raised her eyes to see Sophus, a competitor, feeding from the body that was hers. It was all she could do to keep from lunging at him, to protect that which was hers. Maria knew he felt something similar. She looked away before he could meet her eyes, and each took a moment to compose themselves.

“There is something I would like to tell you,” Sophus said into the silence, a strange sound in his voice. “If you would meet me in my chambers, I will take care of the body.”

Maria nodded and left, still not trusting herself to look at him without attacking, her hands clenched and held firmly at her sides. It never got any easier; the urge was always so strong, but maturity gained over the years had taught her how to handle it. Maria composed herself, waiting in her customary chair

She pulled the knuckle out of her pocket, holding it up for further examination. What could it be? It was harder than stone and yet somehow soft at the same time. It gave when she touched it and returned to its shape when released. It couldn’t be wood or metal, and the detail was amazing. The skin texture was as detailed as her own skin. She stared at it, comparing it to that of her own hand. The answer eluded her, just on the edge of her thoughts, tantalizing and yet beyond her reach. She stashed the finger as Sophus entered the room.

“It is time to get to work,” he said briskly, without any of his typical ado. “I have an errand of sorts first. Then we will go together to the native villages and you will learn how this is done.”

His sudden change of behavior had thrown her off balance, and she did her best to mask it. “Where will you be going first?”

“I will visit Theron to tell him of our plans. His companion will be useful in this, and I wouldn’t want to leave them in the dark. I intend for them to sow discontent among the Europeans.” Sophus walked to one of his favorite statues and leaned against it, not looking at Maria.

Plans immediately began to form in Maria’s mind. If she followed Sophus in her spirit body, could she find the location of Theron’s home? She would stay clear of Theron’s reach, and perhaps she would then be able to find it again on her own. Maybe then she’d be able to find Miguel intentionally and not by chance. “How long do you think this will take?”

“Why? Do you have something pressing to do?” Sophus asked sharply, taking Maria aback. He had never been short with her before.

She walked over and gently touched his shoulder. “Sophus, what is wrong?”

He spun around and grabbed her wrist in a vice-like grip, but she held her ground and refused to pull away. “You.”

“I don’t understand,” she said hesitantly.

“I have always preached to you moderation and control, and always I practiced what I taught.” Sophus scowled, pulling her closer. “But you! You come and bewitch me, intrigue me, even ask me to let you join my world. My carefully built and balanced world. My lonely world. I brought you here, shared everything I have made with you. I made you my equal, my companion to belay my loneliness.” He snatched her other wrist and drew her in farther.

“But haven’t I been those things to you?” she countered, unease rising in her throat. “When have I done less than you asked of me?”

“You haven’t,” he said, “but you won’t let me get truly close to you. Instead you tease me, then hide from me and distance yourself, and it is endangering all I have built. I indulge more than I should to ease the torture you cause, and it is ruining me.” His grip changed from her wrists to wrap around her waist, and before she could pull away, he was kissing her fiercely.

She wasn’t prepared for her reaction. A flood of emotions and desires every bit as intense as her lust for blood washed over her. Then she was kissing him back, pulling him to her with a matching intensity. The passion and lust that had lain dormant inside her burst forward as Sophus pushed his tongue between her lips and she drank in the taste of him. Emotions she had never felt this intensely consumed her, things she had not felt since before she had entered this life. Feelings she had felt for ....

Miguel! His name seared through her mind like a fire. It pushed back the overwhelming flood of emotion, damming it back into its place. Maria jerked forcibly away from Sophus’s kiss. Pushing against his chest, she tried to break free from his arms, but they were vice-like behind her.

They stood there, staring at each other. Panic scraped her mind as she realized she was not strong enough to break his grip. She set her teeth in determination and ducked beneath his arms too suddenly for him to adjust. She straightened just out of his reach, ready to fend him off.

Sophus stood there, startled, then threw his head back and laughed. “How fierce you are, mi corazón! Truly, you do not disappoint. It has been centuries since I have had such a fabulous kiss.” Sophus chuckled again and gestured toward the door. “Go. We have much to do. This will keep until our work is done.”

Maria fled, wiping the taste of him from her lips the moment she was out of view. She found herself outside, in the grazing fields surrounded on every side by steep, sheer drop-offs. She climbed to the highest point and paced in agitation, staring off to the north. Miguel was out there still, somewhere, but she had stopped seeking a way to reach him. Over the years, she had found solace and distraction in watching their son grow.

She couldn’t even remember the last time she had spent time out in the warm sun, something she used to love despite Sophus’s aversion to it.

The sun was setting behind her as she pulled the finger from her pocket and examined it, but her mind wandered back inside. To Sophus and the kiss. She remembered every bit of it. The way he had felt, pressed against her, and the feel of his lips, the taste on his tongue, all burned in her mind. Anger welled up inside her.

How dare he! She scowled, poised to throw the strange finger she held. She checked herself as a thought worked its way into her mind. The way Sophus’s lips had felt against hers and the way the surface of the finger gave. The taste of Sophus lingered in her mouth as she brought the bit from the statue to her nose and tested the scent.

Maria stared at the knuckle in wonder, shaded from the setting sun by her own body. To be certain, Maria extended her hand into the sunlight, slowly turning it until the knuckle lay exposed. It shone, pale, translucent and almost luminescent in the fading light, matching her own skin almost like it was a part of her.

She dropped it as though it burned.

The image of a limbless torso and a talking head, surrounded in a miasma of darkness, came to her in a rush along with the remembered words. “I have come for my limbs that you so kindly removed and hid.” The limbless creature had not uttered the words, but they had come from him nonetheless. Sophus had even said he’d ‘disarmed’ Theron, but Maria hadn’t expected that he was being literal. This thing, this part of a finger, was Theron’s. Was Theron.

Sophus must have broken the limbs into manageable pieces and hidden them in his statues!

Quickly, Maria snatched the thing from the ground, and shoved it back in her pocket. Fear that Sophus might be watching, might see that she had found out his secret, sent a chill down her spine. What would he do to her if he knew she’d found out his secret? But how long would it be until he realized the statue she had destroyed had contained it? Before he realized it was missing? Sophus had been right. It was time to leave.

But first, she would follow him to Theron’s coven, to Miguel, and she would use his absence to gather what pieces of the shattered vampire she could. Then, she would find a way to destroy them both.

After following him to Miguel, Maria would need to find Kasha. She knew now what future she wanted to see.

Chapter 13

THERON WAS IN A GOOD MOOD. Mikhael wasn’t quite sure if he should be relieved or worried as Theron gave him little more than passing concern. Perhaps Theron was allowing Elisa the same privilege. Mikhael and Elisa strolled along the dark beach, the sliver of moonlight and the stars in the clear sky giving them more than enough light.

“You’re unusually quiet tonight,” Mikhael observed.

“It is such a beautiful night, I didn’t want to disturb it,” Elisa said in her light, musical voice, stopping to look out over the waves. Mikhael followed her gaze, a part of him longing to pull off his boots and walk along the water, feeling the way the waves would push and pull at his legs, sliding the sand out from under his feet. But he held back. Neither Theron nor Elisa tolerated such frivolous behavior. Instead, he lost himself in the mesmerizing rhythm of the water, his mind rippling over his thoughts.

It was a reprieve to have Theron occupied. For the first time in a long, long time, Mikhael allowed himself to wonder if it was possible to block out the intruder. He tensed reflexively, waiting for the backlash from his unwelcome guest. When none came, he relaxed, forcing his mind to move on to other things.

The moonlight illuminated Elisa’s skin, highlighting her gentle curves and glinting off her golden hair. They had been happy these several years, he supposed, and she was a good companion. But something had always bothered him, a sense that something was missing. She was sweet in her way, and she loved him, but Mikhael couldn’t help feeling there should be more, as though his world ought to shift every time he looked at her, yet it stubbornly did not. Instead, he felt love and caring and a protectiveness, but also, in the background, a poignant feeling of both loss and loneliness.

Elisa had long since filled in most of the gaps in his memory, and everything fit. However, she could not tell him what she didn’t know. What had his life been before Maracaibo? What, specifically, had “being her father’s assistant” entailed? Her answers always made sense, yet when he went over them in his mind, the dark ghost would flit through the memories.

The only explanation he could think of was that, perhaps, before he had come to Maracaibo and met Elisa, he had loved another woman. It explained the sense of loss he felt every time he looked at his blonde companion, and perhaps even the shadowy figure in his memory. Would he ever remember who she was? Did he even want to? Would she haunt him for the rest of his existence, always coming between him and the woman beside him?

No, he concluded. Whoever she was, I would never have left her. She must be dead, if she was ever even real. I should let her go and live the life I have now. Despite how many times he told himself this, his mind always returned to the dark angel of his memories.

“You’re brooding, Miguel.” Elisa gave him a gentle smile, cutting through his thoughts.

He loved the soft way she pronounced his name. He suspected she knew where his mind had been. With whom it had been. She always knew.

“Not anymore.” He flashed her a broad smile and drew her to him, hoping to head off her inevitable anger.

She reached around his neck and, twining her fingers in his hair, pulled him into a kiss. He pulled her closer and she pressed against him as he trailed his hand down her neck and over her chest, tracing along a delicate chain necklace. His hand came to rest on a pendant she had never worn before, tucked between her breasts.

“What’s this?” He pulled it out from the dress between kisses.

“Nothing.” She tucked it back and turned his face toward hers.

He pulled away. “Where did you get that, Elisa? I didn’t get it for you.” He found her refusal more interesting than the object itself.

“It’s just a necklace,” she purred, running her fingers through his hair.

Gently, he pulled her hand away, knowing that if he refused to give in she would become angry. Suddenly, her behavior seemed so impossibly juvenile. How had he put up with it for so long? “Let me see it.”

“Oh, fine! If you’re going to be that way about it.” Elisa’s mood changed like quicksilver, and he half expected her to stomp her foot. She unclasped the chain and handed it to Mikhael, pouting. “Theron gave it to me. He said he didn’t have any use for such a precious thing, and that he thought it would be pretty on me.”

Mikhael took the necklace gently by the thin gold chain and inspected it. The pendant was beautiful; a carved red stone hung framed in a worked silver setting studded with a dozen tiny, glinting diamonds. Something about the stone drew him in. Lightly, he ran his fingers over the pendant, examining it. The centerpiece appeared to be a plain, though beautiful, red stone. However, to Mikhael, it felt as though it was the key to some mystery waiting for him to solve. His eyes flicked back to Elisa.

She stood, her hands on her hips, clearly waiting for him to hand it back. “Are you done yet?”

In that moment, Mikhael found himself reluctant to part with it. He shrugged, tossing the necklace back to her, and turned to walk away. He could play her childish game, too. “It’s not that great, anyway.”

“What do you mean?” Following him, she turned the pendant over in her hands.

“I’m not sure where Theron picked it up. Probably some trinket of one of the natives. It’s cheaply made.”

“But it is so beautiful.” Elisa frowned. “Like it ought to be an heirloom or some such thing. And there are diamonds in it.”

“Elisa, do you really think anyone but the natives would put a dull red stone like that as a centerpiece to diamonds?” Mikhael shook his head. “No, they’re simply bits of glass.”

“Well, at least the metal is silver,” Elisa said defiantly. “Look at it again.” She thrust the necklace back to Mikhael.

He took a moment to look it over and rub his chin thoughtfully. “Nope. It’s just highly polished tin. Here, see?” Mikhael pointed to a random place on the silver, banking on Elisa seeing what she wanted to see. “The chain it is on is probably worth more than the whole thing put together.” He offered it back, but she waved it away.

“I don’t want it,” she said, disgusted, “but I will take the chain. I have better things to wear anyway.”

Mikhael shrugged again, gave her the chain, and tucked the pendant into his pocket. He turned away. What could ever have drawn him to such a childish woman? Guilt needled his mind as he started back to the lair. She was here because of him, and she loved him. He owed her his loyalty. He touched the pendant in his pocket. Didn’t he?

The next morning, Mikhael was fixing the hinge on a hatch in his boat while Elisa basked in the sunlight.

Suddenly, Theron crashed forcefully through his mind. Where are you?!

Elisa jumped; Theron must have yelled at her as well.

We’re coming, Mikhael responded quickly, leaping to the shore and rushing back toward the cave.

We have company; be swift, you wretch!

Mikhael ignored Theron as he ran, conscious of Elisa right behind him.

I can’t believe you two didn’t notice him coming. You’re supposed to be watching out for trespassers ... Mikhael didn’t have to listen for very long. He slowed to a walk and came striding into Theron’s round, dark hall.

“Ah, here they are now,” Theron said in a pleasant voice.

“Yes, I remember the male.” Mikhael recognized the man standing beside Theron, giving them an appraising look. The man nodded at Elisa. “But the female is new. What a fine specimen, old friend. Almost as lovely as your first set.”

“Indeed she is,” Theron agreed cordially. “And what of you? Have you acquired any new companions, or are you still torturing yourself with those mortal women?”

“Neither, actually.” Mikhael remembered the blond man’s name; Sophus, he was called. Theron had sent Mikhael to visit him once, but he had been too preoccupied at the time to pay attention to what was said.

“And what of the one with the scent of beauty that tortured my Mikhael on our last visit?”

Mikhael remembered that scent. It still had power to toy with his mind like a seductress, and he roughly pushed it aside, trying to think instead of Elisa.

“Sadly, she is no longer with me.” Sophus looked directly at Mikhael.

“What a shame,” Theron said.

What a relief, Mikhael thought.

Theron chuckled. “I hope you enjoyed her thoroughly.”

“She did not disappoint.” Sophus grinned, still watching Mikhael. He turned his gaze back to Theron with the same smile. “Your manners are lacking, old friend. You have not yet introduced us.”

“Of course, of course.” Theron gave him a cordial smile. “You will have to forgive me for not standing, though.”

“Naturally.” Sophus gave a gracious nod.

Step forward, Mikhael, Theron ordered roughly.

Mikhael quickly obeyed, appreciative that he had been ordered rather than compelled.

“This one, you’ve met before. His name is Mikhael. I took your advice from the last time and sent him to fetch his wife. Sophus, meet Elisa.”

Elisa stepped forward gracefully and curtsied, offering her hand, which Sophus kissed.

“I don’t suppose you have come to return to me the rest of my body,” Theron asked as Sophus straightened.

“With these two fine young bodies, what could you possibly want with a third?” Sophus asked.

Mikhael felt Theron growl in his mind, and he tensed, prepared to fight him, no matter how futile, if Theron should try to take over his body.

“Alas, I am afraid not,” Sophus continued with a sigh. “I have come on somewhat more pressing matters.”

“Of course you have,” Theron said dryly. “What is it this time?”

“As it happens, I’m planning on stirring up some trouble, and I thought you and your children would enjoy some fun.”

Theron’s eyes lit up, and Mikhael could feel his captor’s mind leap at the thought, diverting nearly all his attention to his old companion.

“Why, Sophus, whatever did you have in mind?” Theron asked.

Sophus’s smile was smug. “Though you have a great disdain for my well-balanced lifestyle, it is not without its merits. The last few years I have noticed a severe decrease in my income, and I believe it is time to replenish my stocks.”

Theron gave Sohpus a bored look, but the blond vampire ignored him and continued. “As I am certain you are aware, Theron, there have been a few skirmishes between the natives and the Europeans, and each has resulted in grand prizes for us both. Especially this last one.” Sophus cast a meaningful glance toward Mikhael and Elisa.

“Indeed.” Theron leaned his head back against the wall and followed Sophus’s gaze. “I can’t say you have left me wanting this time.”

“I would never forget about you,” Sophus said, his words smooth as silk. “As I was saying, however, my results from the last rumpus I stirred up have finally run dry. So now, I have come to see if you and yours would care to assist me in arranging more fun.”

Mikhael took a step toward them, incredulous and, inexplicably, angry. “Are you saying that you are the one who started all three of the rebellions?”

Theron slammed his presence back into Mikhael’s mind so fiercely that Mikhael stumbled, dropping to his knees. You will speak when spoken to, slave!

Mikhael couldn’t move. He could barely think under the tight grip of Theron in his mind. Panic welled up inside him. He was once again trapped. Enslaved. Controlled.

From the corner of his eye he watched Elisa walk up to the two men, swaying her hips gently and exuding allure. Gently, she stroked Theron’s cheek and smiled at him. “I know he can be insolent, but don’t hurt him in front of our guest. You know how I feel about violence,” she said into his ear in a way that made Mikhael feel like a voyeur.

Theron eased his grip on Mikhael, turning his attention more fully to Elisa. Silence filled the chamber while the two conversed, then Elisa sauntered back to Mikhael, pleased as a cat with feathers in her mouth.

Sophus looked from Elisa to Theron’s mindless grin, then back to Elisa. She shot him a large smile. Acknowledging her with a subtle nod, Sophus resumed his discourse.

Theron released his grip, and Mikhael slumped in relief. Mikhael’s thoughts spun while Theron snickered at him from a distant part of his mind. Hatred welled up within Mikhael at the parasite in his head. The lack of privacy, as though he’d been flayed and his innards laid open for the world to see, revolted him. And every bit as hateful was the way Theron toyed with him. He felt like a monkey trying to get at a fruit held just out of reach by a cruel boy.

Gathering himself, he glanced at Elisa. She stood beside him, her eyes demurely downcast and her smile pleased. He felt she was a complete stranger.

No, he corrected, rising to his feet and straightening his jacket, pretending nothing had happened. She stood beside him, her pale green gown draping with a false modesty, completed by her semi-elegant coiffure and jewelry. No, this is exactly who she is, I have simply never wanted to see it before.

Mikhael had always given Elisa complete devotion. He always considered her wellbeing, her interests, her happiness when he made decisions. Wasn’t that sort of loyalty love? She had joined him in this hellish simulacrum of a life because she loved him. And he, in turn, maintained a fierce protectiveness of her.

Yet she had seduced his captor, her captor, without batting an eye. And there she stood, entirely pleased with herself.

And it didn’t bother him.

Mikhael looked her over again. She stood primly, her long pale fingers fiddling carelessly with her many rings. He could not imagine pretending tenderness toward the monster who controlled him, but she had not the slightest distaste about it. Not so much as a wrinkle of her nose.

In fact, she was enjoying herself. What, then, seemed so off? He could not imagine her being anything but pleased with herself for once again getting her way.

And he didn’t even care. He was relieved and thankful, naturally. But shouldn’t he have felt something more? Surely, if he actually loved her, he would feel anger or jealousy. Or at least irritation.

Mikhael allowed the thought to go one step further, and realization dawned on him. He had never made her happy. Not like this. That’s not entirely true, he thought to himself, his lips pulling into a bitter smile. Giving in to her demands makes her happy.

And had she ever once done the same for him? For all the care he had taken for her happiness, she had not once had a concern for his, unless it was to get something from him. He straightened his spine and looked away from her, focusing his eyes on the wall beyond the older vampires. She used him as surely as Theron did.

The idea shifted the world around him, revealing a new thought. Perhaps he didn’t need to try so hard to always please her. The idea glinted in his mind like a dangerous promise.

Perhaps you don’t care about her to the extent you thought you did, Theron taunted him.

Mikhael scowled, forcing his mind to stillness, and despite the temptation to storm out of the room, he stayed. Theron expected him to be nearby in case Sophus decided to be less than cordial. So, like the good little puppet he was, Mikhael stood still and waited for a time when he could work through this new idea in relative peace.

Pale moonlight filtered through the crevice in the ceiling, casting a colorless luminescence across the rough-hewn stone. Mikhael laid the fresh corpse across the stone bier he had built in the small room, holding back the pressing hunger that clawed at his mind and body. Theron had allowed Elisa to feed with him but held Mikhael back, in punishment no doubt, for his misstep with Sophus. Nearly everything in him urged him to snatch at the body’s wrist and tear into it with wild abandon.

But he was not an animal. He would not be the monster Theron tried to make him into.

Mikhael arranged the body, leaving one arm hanging off the bier, and laid kindling around it, readying it for immolation once he, too, had fed. He sat beside it, determined to wait patiently for what blood was left to pool. Leaning his head back against the deathly bed, Mikhael looked into the star-strewn sky visible through the narrow ceiling.

What was the point? he thought bitterly, glaring at the moon. All that he had worked for, everything he had sacrificed for Elisa, in an attempt to atone for bringing her into this life, and she didn’t even need it. Elisa and Theron had worn away at him, chipping away at his existence with incessant demands as they tried to make him into what they wanted, and he had allowed it. And for what?

Mikhael rose and slammed his fist into the wall, his hunger adding to his fury. The wall before him cracked, and a large slab broke off, sliding toward him. They had taken his identity, twisting his nature to their will. He knocked the slab away and pounded the stone again, pushing with all that he had against the force of the mountain that lay behind the wall. They had preyed on his loyalty, his honor, the same way they fed on the blood of the living, sucking him dry. With a cry of anger, he threw his fist again into the wall, putting all that he had into the movement. Pain shot through his hand and arm, invigorating his mind. He drew back for another hit and froze, held in place against his will.

Quiet, Theron growled, or I’ll sit you in a dark corner somewhere and let you starve slowly, alone with your thoughts and forgotten like a broom in a closet.

The anger that had flooded Mikhael a moment before drained away, impotent before the unyielding reminder of his captivity. Theron released his hold and Mikhael collapsed to his knees. Defeated, he reached out for the corpse and drank the cooling blood that waited for him, disgusted at the way he clung to the body with a single-minded focus, desperate for more. Anything for more.

As the moon crossed the sky and the cavern grew darker, Mikhael gathered himself, reset and lit the pyre. Watching the smoking flames, he leaned against the wall that had refused to give in to his rage. Again, he wondered at the uselessness of it all. Why did he bother continuing to fight? Wouldn’t it be better to simply give in, to let Theron take over and just let himself disappear? The flames danced before him, like eyes watching, waiting to see what he would do.

Exhaustion pulled at him; he was so tired of fighting. Tired of the pain that came with everything he tried to do that was right. Despair beckoned to him, whispering for him to sleep. To simply let go. The warmth from the fire warmed his face.

Emptiness filled his chest as he sank further to the ground. He could give up, lay down his burdens like the corpse that burned before him. And who would care if he did? There would be none who would mourn his loss.

That’s right, a gentle voice prodded him. Just let go and rest.

He shifted his legs, stretching them out toward the pyre. Something fell from his pocket, clattering gently on the ground. Without thinking, he reached for it, his fingers wrapping around the delicate red pendant he had taken from Elisa. Immediately, a feeling of warmth and peace ran up his arm and through his body. It didn’t fill the hollow in his chest, but it softened the ragged edges of his pain, and he inhaled deeply, his mind clearing.

A jolt of fear ran through him as he slammed his mental barriers back into place. He could feel Theron in his mind, stalking him like a hungry jaguar on the other side of a gate. Horror, cold as the waters of the north Atlantic, washed through him, stealing his breath. He had nearly let that monster through.

He stood, tucking the pendant back into his pocket. The feelings of peace that had brought him to himself began to fade the moment he let go, but a stubborn determination remained. He brushed off his jacket and stood straight.

He would not let them, either of them, take anything else from him. The thought flowed through his mind like the scent of freedom.

Mikhael and Elisa left within the week. Theron had sent Mikhael out for food beforehand, while Elisa prepared things in the cave. The hunt had not provided any time for thinking. Theron found too much pleasure in watching, and if Mikhael wasn’t mindful, Theron would take over. The man’s killing drive was insanely strong, and it always left Mikhael disquieted.

They left the entire kill for their master and departed without further delay. The morning sunlight bathed the landscape in its golden glow as they made their way to the beach. Mikhael glanced at the pale blue sky, wishing they could have been on their way sooner. But Elisa had insisted on packing a large trunk of clothes that they absolutely had to take. She also insisted that Mikhael had to carry it. The trunk’s weight, which might have staggered him as a mortal, was a trifle now, but the trunk itself was still awkwardly large.

Unable to see the ground before him due to the excessive nuisance that was her trunk, Mikhael’s foot landed poorly, and he stumbled, cursing quietly. But I didn’t drop the all-important trunk, he thought mockingly.

“I think we should take the boat.” Elisa sauntered ahead of him, her voice lofty.

“Really? I thought we should walk the whole way.”

“Both Sophus and Theron said we would need to be subtle, and I can’t do that in a dusty traveling dress, and neither can you,” she continued in the same tone. “It’s not only my things you’re carrying in there, you know,”

“I have no need to wear a dress; I get by fine with what I’m wearing.” He liked his well-worn clothes and boots; they moved with him like a second skin. No doubt she’d have him dressed in fine pompery, clothes that didn’t give the right way and that demanded mindfulness of him to prevent tearing. As they reached the dock, he scowled and tossed the trunk onto the deck.

Elisa walked around the boat, wrinkling her nose at the faded paint. “You would think after so many years we’d have a better mode of transportation.” Regret colored her voice as she stepped on board.

Mikhael pushed the boat through the low tide and into deeper water before he pulled himself in, taking a soggy seat beside her. She cringed and stood, glaring at him.

“I think it’s a fine little boat, and so did you when we got her.” Mikhael pulled off his water-logged boots. “You should get that trunk of yours stowed away. We might have some bad weather and I’d hate for it to get lost overboard,” he added sweetly.

“If it went over, I’d send you in after it,” Elisa countered hotly, dragging the trunk into the hold belowdecks. “You and your miserable, wet clothes.”

“What makes you think I’d go?” Mikhael lay back on the deck and closed his eyes. He stretched out in the warm sunlight, content to let the wind and waves take the boat where they would until his clothes dried.

“You’d do it for me, Miguel,” Elisa said in a sultry whisper right next to his ear. He raised an eyebrow at her, but didn’t open his eyes.

“You’d have to be pretty convincing.” He refused to give in to her charms but enjoyed the game all the same.

What do you think you’re doing? Theron shouted in Mikhael’s mind. You’re wasting precious time. You can flirt all you want later. Get this thing on course now.

Mikhael leapt to obey the angry voice in his head, every bit as irritated at Theron as Theron was at him. Despite his mood, Mikhael had the rigging set and the sailboat moving along nicely in no time.

He enjoyed being out in the open water, though they were rarely out of sight of land. Elisa’s complaint about the ship had been unfounded; she was a sound, swift vessel and attracted far less notice farther out to sea than their small fishing boat would have. In fairness, she could use some new paint. Perhaps he’d be able to purchase some in Maracaibo and start getting her refitted.

“You look like a pirate standing there like that,” Elisa said from her seat near the bow. “A glowing pirate. You should wear something less conspicuous.”

“I like what I’m wearing. It is comfortable.” The crackling of the drying salt in the cloth made him cringe, despite his words. He liked the freedom he felt with the salty breeze tugging at his loose shirt and hair, and the warm sun on his skin.

“You know Theron will be angry if we don’t remain inconspicuous.” She tossed him a jacket, hat, and gauntlets, which he put on grudgingly. “Don’t forget your shirt,” she said, wrapping a neckerchief around his neck and doing the laces of his still-damp shirt.

He brushed her away with a scowl. Enslaved on one hand and henpecked on the other. Some days he didn’t know which was worse.

“Miguel, you’ve been in a horrid mood lately.” Elisa crossed her arms, determination in her voice. “What is going on?”

“Aside from not being allowed to let my clothes dry? Nothing.”

“Is it what happened the other day with Theron and Sophus?”

He kept his eyes on the horizon, his jaw set. The sail snapped and creaked in the breeze, pushing them forward over the gentle waves.

“You know I only did it for you!” Elisa continued, her voice plaintive. “I couldn’t stand to see him hurting you like that. Can’t you forgive me?”

“Forgive you?” Mikhael looked at her. “You think I need to forgive you for that? I understand what you did, and I appreciate it. You don’t need my forgiveness.”

“Theron then? Are you upset with him?” She met his eyes and before he could respond she continued in a whisper, as though volume mattered. “You mustn’t be angry with him. You know what he’ll do if you try anything.”

Mikhael laughed roughly, looking back toward the horizon. “I am always upset with Theron, and he knows it. No pleading from you will ever change that. But no, that is not the issue this time.”

“Then what?”

He turned back toward her and caressed her cheek. “It is nothing for you to worry your pretty self about, sweetling.”

Appeased, Elisa left to retrieve a book from the cabin. Settling down across the deck from him, she began to read. It always surprised him to see her read; she didn’t seem the type. He watched her fondly for a while, but it was a distant feeling. Almost, he felt he wouldn’t really mind if they went their separate ways.

He shook his head and turned his attention to the water and his boat. He could feel the mood of the ocean through the wood of the vessel, as though they were parts of a whole. Something was wrong. He ought not to feel that way about his wife. So why did he? His mind went to the strange amulet in his pocket, and his gaze returned to the horizon.

Chapter 14

SOMETHING HAD CHANGED. Maria could feel it pulling at her as she ran behind Sophus, their pace swift but easy, and the bulk of her skirts pulled up into one arm to prevent them from tangling or wearing out while she moved. She longed to return to her dream world to follow the call that pulled at her soul, but Sophus had insisted there was no time for them to waste.

Someday, Maria promised herself, the wind slipping past her face. I will be able to do both.

Sophus had not been gone nearly as long as Maria had hoped, but she had successfully followed him in the dream world to Theron’s lair. As they had neared, Theron’s reaching tendrils of darkness moved through the air like smoke in water. They frightened her, filling her with a sense of foreboding, and she’d looked for a place to hide. Sophus continued forward, either unaware of the danger or unconcerned by it. The darkness recoiled from the blond vampire. Seizing her chance, Maria instead clung close to Sophus, hoping that whatever protected him would shield her.

The way Theron had brutally taken over Miguel’s mind shocked her. She knew Theron controlled her husband, but actually seeing Theron reach his dark hand into Miguel’s head, seeing him take hold of her husband’s mind and squeeze it until Miguel could no longer even move ... It made her shudder.

She had heard Theron’s voice, whispering to Miguel and Elisa just beyond her hearing. Seeing Elisa, in her pale green dress, and golden hair, made her seethe. She had no right to be anywhere near Miguel. For a moment, Maria forgot about the danger, concerned only with trying to strike at the viper who had stolen her husband.

The darkness reached out toward her, searching. It moved like Theron knew she was there and sought to ensnare her, too. Maria dodged it in fear, clinging closer to Sophus. The experience frightened Maria more than she cared to admit. She was relieved, even grateful, when Elisa, of all people, convinced Theron to ease off.

At least there is one thing to be grateful to her for, Maria admitted grudgingly, trying not to dwell on the anger that she’d been right about Elisa and her husband.

Maria had set a marker there, as Kasha had taught her, to guide her back to him through the dream world. She would need to be cautious of Theron when she did, especially without the mitigating force of Sophus’s presence. Theron’s powers appeared to work similarly to hers, and she worried it made her susceptible to him. On the other hand, given that he could control things in the physical world from that ethereal plane, then perhaps she could, too.

Her mind wandered through the possibilities. What could she do, if she could speak to others at a distance, more than the gentle whisperings with her son, to whom she’d always had a connection? What if she could speak to someone outside the dream world and have them speak back? Maria smiled, and her heart ached at the thought of being able to actually talk to Miguel again. She would have to ask Kasha about it the next time they spoke.

“Maria.” Sophus cut into her thoughts, and she looked over at him, running several yards away. “You should follow closer to me, mi corazón.”

Maria adjusted her course to run within a few feet of him. She’d been veering away again as they ran. Maria had gone running before, but never for such a distance, and it still amazed her that she never grew tired. “Do you really think Iráma had enough time to get there before us?”

“Her horse is swift. So long as she left when I told her, she has had plenty of time,” he said pleasantly. “She will likely already be on her way to the next village by now.”

“That woman always amazes me.” Maria dodged around and scruffy trees and leapt nimbly over the low brush. Her mind turned again to Theron’s knuckle, which she had hidden safely away in her room. Before Sophus had returned, Maria had made a cursory search for more but had found nothing. She needed to find a way to check the statues that didn’t involve damaging the stone. Not that it mattered at this point; she still didn’t know what to do even if she did find them. Gather them together perhaps, but then what? Experimenting on how to destroy them seemed the logical thing.

Though, if Theron wanted them back, then perhaps they were still viable. Also, she had no idea how, or even if, he was still connected to them. Would he feel it if they were damaged? Did he feel it when she touched the knuckle? The thought made her shudder.

“Maria,” Sophus warned, and Maria realized she’d veered away again.

“Of course, señor.” She angled back, annoyed with herself. She needed to focus, but she was drawn southward by some unseen force. In the past, she had often found herself staring off into the distance, usually north. The direction, she had long suspected, that would lead her to Miguel. Following Sophus had seemed to confirm her theory. Presumably, then, Miguel was now to the south.

That same, strange call had pulled her from her home while still pregnant and set her on this path. She still didn’t understand how it could have been strong enough to make her leave her son. She loved Miguel, and even though her love for Álvaro was incomparably stronger, everything between his birth and her arrival at Sophus’s lair remained blank. But now, something about her connection to Miguel had changed, and it wasn’t just the direction. Now it was like a beacon in her mind, a bright light in the darkness, luring her toward it.

Again she had strayed, and Maria turned her concentration to following Sophus before he reminded her. The sounds and smells of a village beyond the next rise reached her before they saw it, and Sophus slowed to a more mortal speed. Maria shook out her skirts, letting them settle as they would. For a brief time before they left, Sophus had considered having her dress in native clothing. The thought terrified Maria. What if once in the flowing, simple dress of her mother’s people, he recognized their features in her face? He would be furious that she’d lied about her heritage. Would he insist she tell him her real name—her Wayuu mother’s name, Zyanya? But what is the worst he could do, even if he did know?

The faces of the people of her mother’s village had flashed across her mind, followed by Kasha’s warning look. He was not to know, and Zyanya remained a forbidden word in his presence. So she had cajoled him into letting her keep her European dress.

“I always prefer to walk the last bit into the village,” Sophus explained, though she had not asked. “It gives them time to see us coming and finish their preparations.”

She expected him to swagger with arrogance in his every step. Instead, though he walked with confidence as they approached, the blond man held himself with a degree of humility. For a moment, the act of friendliness surprised her. She shook her head, too excited at the chance to be back among her mother’s people to worry about his eccentricities.

Although, if I knew what he could do to me if he found out, at least I’d know how to destroy him in return. Maria sighed.

As they entered the village, people swarmed out to greet their visitors. Abruptly, Maria realized there were no children in the crowd that greeted them. Strange. Her mother’s village had been full of children.

A village elder greeted Sophus warmly and directed them to his home.

“Ah,” Sophus said in Castilian once they had settled, “if there is one thing I truly like about these people, it is their hospitality. They are quite possibly the most accommodating I’ve ever met.”

“They were to me, too, when I first met them.” Maria smiled at the young woman who brought in cups for them. The girl quickly bowed out again as Sophus eyed her. “The thing I can’t seem to get over,” she continued, “is that so many of these, probably that girl, too, were still small children the last time I was outside your home. I can hardly believe it has been so long.”

“Indeed, my dear. The time can pass so unnoticed sometimes. I’m often surprised whenever I notice that Iráma has begun to show her age.”

Maria laughed. “I’d hardly say that, just because she has a couple of wrinkles now. She is still the most graceful and efficient person I’ve ever met.”

“If you insist.” Sophus gave a dismissive wave as the elders began to arrive.

Once everyone was present and settled, Sophus addressed them in Wayuunaiki, thanking them for their hospitality and introducing Maria. He continued with pleasantries, asking them all about their crops and herds, illnesses and general village news. As they talked, other villagers began filling the edges of the room, anxious to hear what the Noble One had come to say.

Almost before Maria realized it, they were speaking of the Spaniards and the trouble they caused. Subtly, Sophus found a way to lay all the village’s troubles back on the Spanish, and the mood of the crowd changed. Even some of the elders nodded. As Maria wondered if Sophus intended to incite a mob, he abruptly changed the subject to the planned festivities. The tension broke, and most of the younger men wandered out, too bored to remain after the change of topic.

Maria continued to watch, finding the ebb and flow of the conversation intriguing. She participated when addressed directly, but found herself content to merely listen. To her surprise, Sophus did not mention the Spaniards again.

Night fell, and the festivities began. Maria was drawn into the experience, reveling in the culture that was hers by birth. The beat of the dances around the bonfire resonated inside her chest like a missing heartbeat, and the imagery during the telling of legends pulled her in. So vivid were the tales that she could see in the flames the bright colors of the Si’a bird. His black and gold wings flitted and danced in the shadows and flame.

She recognized Si’a from the story as the figure in the tu’uma stone Wuchii had given her. The story continued, claiming Si’a was pulashi—magical—and had been sent from the jealous Pulowi, Goddess of the Land, to steal a bag of jewels from the sea goddess. Maria watched flame, seeing the bird carry the brightly decorated susu bag back to his mistress, amazed at the detail she saw there.

Surely it was a trick of her own imagination?

But what if it wasn’t?

Curious, she threw her consciousness up and out of her body, hoping to better see the little bird in the flames. The spirit world around her burst to life, the vibrant colors moving and swirling like a painting that could move. She grinned, taking in the vivacious sense of life and joy the Wayuu had unknowingly cast into the dream world with their music and dance.

Before her, Si’a rose from the flames, the colorful bag filled with jewels and the precious stones. The golden tips of his wings and crest outlined the deep blacks of his body, and Maria recognized him as the little bird who had first guided her in her dreams. Si’a circled the flames, dancing across the updrafts of heat that lifted him higher.

Maria stood in her ethereal body, and he dived toward her, a dash of red falling from the susu bag he carried. Without thinking, her hand darted out to catch the falling drop, and he sped past her, off to the southwest. The spirit bird disappeared into the night, and Maria dropped her gaze to her hand. What had he given her?

Slowly, she opened her pale fingers. A raw drop of red jasper lay within. Tu’uma, the precious stone valued so highly by her mother’s people. The stone changed, its sharp edges blurring, softening, and an intricate, carved pattern emerged from its polished surface. Around it formed a setting of worked silver, studded with a dozen tiny diamonds that sparkled like a frozen fire ...

You are pulashi indeed, Maria said to the vanished bird. Closing her fist around the stone pendant she had inherited from her mother, she followed Si’a through the dream world, south and west.

MIKHAEL STOOD ON THE balcony of a large plantation home, enjoying a break from the bustle and noise of the party within. Elisa had gone to great lengths to ensure they would be both admitted to the event and the society, but not recognized. Theron warned them that if they ever cut their hair it would never grow back, so, short of that, they had done everything she could think of to help with the disguise. Elisa donned copious amounts of makeup and rouge and darkened her hair, while Mikhael had added a sort of chalk to lighten his. Even his clothes felt foreign, tight and ill-fitting with the addition of some padding around his waist.

It was a relief to get away.

Elisa had given him a look on his way out that demanded he stay with her and assist. He only smiled, gave her a polite bow, and turned on his heel. Every small act of defiance against her pettiness pleased him, and he found his disinterest in her happiness liberating.

And thus far Theron hadn’t interfered. Mikhael suspected he enjoyed the drama it created, though he couldn’t help the fear that pricked at him with each act of defiance. A backlash was inevitable. Mikhael had no doubt about that.

But for now, for this moment, he had peace.

The balcony overlooked the northern fields and, despite the darkness of the cloudy night, Mikhael could see the movement of each plant in the breeze. Resting his elbows on the railing, he pulled out the mysterious pendant and regarded it, turning it over and over in the darkness. Something about it, something in the feel of it, drew him in, pulled at him.

“What are you?” he asked the red stone softly.

It remained silent in his hands. Warm and silent.

Sighing, he looked back into the darkness. The rows of cocoa plants swayed in the dark shadows, void of the bustle of human life that attended them throughout the day. All except for a single lone figure, moving slowly along the row.

Odd. Mikhael focused on the figure, a woman in a fine, dark dress, her hair unbound and flowing in the gentle breeze that swayed the plants. A familiarity about her struck him.

Why would a woman be out in the fields alone, and so late at night? It was well after midnight, and most of the household had gone to bed, save the few who remained to wait on the guests for the lingering party. With a glance around the balcony to make sure he wasn’t being watched, Mikhael leapt nimbly over the banister and dropped the two stories to the ground. He landed on the stone below in a graceful silence.

He could no longer see the figure in the distance, but moved in her direction. As he walked, the pregnant clouds decided they’d waited long enough and let loose their bounty. Elisa would be angry about his clothes getting wet, but he didn’t care. The lack of interest in her mood made him smile.

The wind stilled as the rain fell, and now Mikhael could see the woman, there in the rain. Something about the rain made her seem to blur in his eyes. He altered his course to approach her from the side, not wishing to frighten her before he could get a clear look.

As Mikhael drew closer, her dark dress, a red so deep it seemed nearly black, came more into focus. She had stopped walking and begun dancing in the rain, moving to a beat he could not hear. Her graceful movements entranced him. Her dark, gently curling hair flowed around her like silk as she turned. The skirts of her red dress spun and twisted, moving like they were a part of her.

He stood, captivated, while the rain matted his hair and ran trails of chalk over his face. Watching her movements, he thought he could feel the primal rhythms to which she danced beating within his still chest.

The sight of her drew him forward. Without thinking, he stepped into the row, wanting nothing more than to close the distance between them. The flowing lace sleeves of her dark dress flitted through the air with her movements. Mikhael glimpsed her face as she moved, peaceful and lovely. It tugged at his heart. Something about her put him at ease, and he crept nearer, and yet, some elusive sense of wrongness niggled at his brain.

He drew closer, surprised that she had still not noticed him, even in her reverie. His wet clothing stuck to him, and he tugged at it, annoyed. Her dance ended with her face turned toward the sky as if to catch the rain. The breeze played with her hair while the still, humid air pressed on him.

There was no breeze. The realization sucked the breath from his lungs.

Her dress swirled in wind that was not there, and her hair was not wet. He understood now what it was that had him on edge. Though he could see her, he could neither smell nor hear her. Was she a ghost, then?

She lowered her eyes and turned, looking right at him. Mikhael’s gaze locked with hers, and the world stopped.

Her dark eyes, almost black in the darkness, held him. Long, flowing hair that he longed to run his fingers through; hair he knew would be softer than anything else he’d ever touched.

She smiled at him, full of joy. A glinting at her throat drew his gaze, and he saw the red stone in the silver setting. Slowly, with the feeling that this was nothing but a dream, he pulled the matching pendant from his pocket. An impossible dream. The stone and silver felt real enough in his hands, and he looked questioningly at the mysterious woman.

He needed to know she was real. The thought fought through all else, like a drowning man searching for the water’s surface. He stepped toward her. He needed to know she was not a figment of his mind. Not a cruel trick of his captor’s.

She opened her mouth to speak, reaching toward him. He reached for her, certain that if only he could touch the red necklace that rested just below her throat, he would know.

A single word rang through his mind, like a memory being made in a voice that any angel would envy. A word that shook him to the core and filled him with life beyond anything he’d experienced.

“Miguel!”

Then, like a candle snuffed out, she was gone. Not even an indent on the wet earth marked where she had stood. Mikhael stared at the empty space that a moment ago had held a woman. Or the image of one.

Who was she? He turned the red stone pendant over in his hand. What even was that? He turned slowly back toward the house, indifferent to the deluge he walked through, his boots sinking into the mud with each step.

It couldn’t have been Theron. Mikhael could feel him in the back of his mind, like a cat waiting for a mouse, though his attention was turned away. Theron was incapable of playing such a trick without his glee showing at the pain and confusion he’d caused. No, this was something else. But what?

He stepped onto the gravel path as his mind replayed the memory. Taking a moment to scrape the mud from his boots, he considered every aspect of the woman. She’d had high cheekbones with a French sort of chin, her red, full lips had held a smile and a secret. She’d moved with a mystery and grace in her slender arms and neck, with the flawless olive skin of the Spanish. But her eyes, so dark, had been so full of life and emotion. Her eyes had captured his soul.

He walked automatically, engrossed in thoughts of her. Every thought brought a wave of poignant joy crashing through him, filling his chest, making him feel that he would burst. It was intoxicating, and he walked without notice or care, climbing back to the balcony where he’d first seen the dark figure. He stood in the lessening rain, leaning against the banister.

Staring out across the darkness, he smiled the first real smile of his new life.

WHERE IS THAT INFERNAL man? Elisa huffed, impatient. Here she was, working hard at the task dear Theron had set them to. Miguel was supposed to be working on the other men, but they had returned without him. She scowled at the sound of the storm outside, knowing what the rain would do to her dress if she went out in it.

“Oh, you can’t think it’s that terrible!” declared some inane woman with whom Elisa had been stuck for the last quarter of an hour. Elisa immediately smiled and laughed, pouring on the charm and redirecting the conversation.

You have such a way with people, my dear, Theron chimed in, brushing her mind gently.

There you are! Have you been enjoying the party? Elisa teased.

I have been studiously avoiding it all. When you’ve lived as long as I, they all become the same dull thing. No one ever thinks of anything new. I prefer to avoid all the chatter, anyway, and simply cut to the heart of things.

Yes, if you like things to be easy, Elisa cooed at him, returning his mental caress. But nothing easy is ever interesting. Speaking of interesting, do you know where our wayward puppy has wandered off to?

Theron laughed. Do you realize how much he hates being called a dog? I find it absolutely delicious that you continue in that way. It makes him so flustered. He is out on the balcony, attempting to be introspective, no doubt.

I suppose I’d better go fetch him. Elisa heaved a sigh and excused herself. She found Miguel standing in the rain, careless, as usual, of what it was doing to his clothes. His wet hair had grown shockingly dark, and the chalk had nearly washed away. Elisa wrinkled her nose at his thoughtlessness. It really wouldn’t do for him to track such amounts of water all through their host’s home.

“Miguel!” she called out to him, attempting to be patient.

He turned and smiled at her, a smile full of love and memory. And not for her.

Elisa’s ire flared; he was thinking of her again. How could he possibly still be so infatuated? She was either a corpse, dead from wandering the wilderness—or perhaps eaten by a jaguar—or at the very least an ugly hag by now. She couldn’t possibly compare with Elisa.

Miguel walked over, and Elisa scowled but pitched her voice to sound concerned. “My dear, what have you been doing? I can’t believe you’d stand out in the rain like that. You’ll catch your death!”

He only shrugged stupidly and followed her inside. Unable to raise any other response from him, she made her farewells to their host pleading fatigue, graciously accepting a blanket to wrap around him. Once settled in their carriage and on their way back to their rented rooms, she tried a different tack. Clearly concern for his own wellbeing was not going to get through.

“What were you thinking, standing out in the rain? Your clothes are practically ruined, and the chalk is nearly gone from your hair. You could have been recognized! Don’t you realize the cost to launder these? We don’t have an unlimited budget, you should know. How many nights of working the docks will it take to pay for this, Miguel? We have to maintain a style.”

He only smiled. She continued on, but nothing she said got through to him. He merely nodded from time to time, staring out the window with that smirk of a smile on his face.

Annoyed, Elisa fell silent. Why waste the effort? He obviously wasn’t listening. She’d just have to work harder at keeping him occupied, too busy to think of her.

Chapter 15

“MIGUEL!” MARIA BREATHED. The fire had died down, and only a few villagers remained, talking amongst themselves. She barely noticed them. He had seen her! Somehow, he had found the necklace, and it had brought them together, and he had actually seen her. Her body tingled with the joy of it, as though there were nothing she couldn’t do. After all this time, they would be together again!

When the pull had led her to a plantation on the northern part of Maracaibo, she hesitated a moment, but followed anyway. The call grew as she neared, like a promise about to be fulfilled. The Wayuu villagers began a new song, its rhythm more powerful than the last, and it called to her through the dream world, asking her to join its dance. Her physical body remained still, but her soul could not help but move to the music, dancing far away in the rain.

Then, as if the music summoned him, he had appeared.

Holding her elbows, Maria smiled at the memory. He had stood before her, his black hair wet and falling into his eyes over his dark brows. His broad, muscular shoulders strained against the ill-fitting coat as he held himself, poised and cautious, like he feared frightening her away.

The sight of him, so much like she remembered, and the longing in his eyes, filled her with poignant emotion. It was almost more than she could stand, and she froze, locked in his gaze, her heart in her throat. His eyes, no longer green but a maze of silver chased with dark red, held her immobile while the rest of existence fell away. She wanted to throw herself into his arms, but found she couldn’t move. Then he had reached for her ....

... and she was back in her body, miles away, standing in the flickering light, reaching out toward the darkness. He had seen her. There was hope.

“Maria?” The unwelcome voice cut through to her, and the world crashed back into reality. Quickly, she schooled her face, trying to hold back the joy that threatened to burst from her chest. Despite her efforts, she couldn’t quite hold back a small smile.

“Are you all right?” Sophus pressed.

“Yes,” Maria said, trying to not sound breathless. “Yes.”

“You look a little ... pale.” He gave her a wry grin.

Maria couldn’t help but laugh, a real, genuine laugh that Sophus had never heard from her before.

He raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“The music was amazing.” She hoped the half-truth would suffice. “I’ve never heard anything like it. What can I say? It moved me.”

“Indeed.” A grin tugged at his mouth. “Well, if you are ready, it is time to be moving on to the next village.”

“So soon?”

“Yes. Though Iráma will have been there already, it lends a sense of mystery if we disappear in the night and are in the next village by morning.” Sophus stepped away into the darkness, and Maria fell into stride beside him.

“What about the gifts from the villagers?”

“I do not want to be burdened with things as we go from village to village. They will be left outside the villages, and either Iráma or I will collect them on our return. But they did give us this, which was kind.” Sophus tossed her a waterskin.

She caught it deftly and sniffed. Goat again, this time with a marginally better hint of sheep. With a shrug, she drank, and they continued on.

They did not spend more than a day in any village, sometimes arriving only hours after Iráma left on horseback. Each village had its own personality, though their welcome varied little. More and more often, Sophus pulled her into the conversation with the elders, though he continued to take the lead. The festivities in the evenings continued to be interesting, sprinkled with stories that Maria had never heard along with the ones she knew. When appropriate, she joined in the dancing and occasionally even convinced Sophus to as well. Then, when most of the village had retired for the evening, the two of them would leave, often with a gift of blood, to arrive in the next village by sunrise.

Sophus had kept her closer since that first night, and Maria was afraid to search for Miguel again. She did not want her companion to suspect anything. But even Sophus could not dampen her high spirits. Maria smiled warmly to everyone, felt that she was walking on air, and laughed at all of Sophus’s jokes. She even cracked a few of her own.

“I’m glad I brought you,” he said to her one morning as they walked.

“I’m glad you’re glad,” she said. “But what brings this up?”

“You seem so much more”—Sophus paused—“alive than I’ve ever seen you. It is nice.”

“I’m glad it agrees with you.” Maria gave a sarcastic smile. “I think it’s even rubbed off on you a little. Don’t look now, but I think you’re genuinely enjoying yourself.”

“I am indeed. For the first time in a very, very long time,” he said thoughtfully.

“Sounds to me like you’re the one who needs to get out more.” Maria nudged him with her elbow. He laughed, and she couldn’t help but join.

EMELIA WAITED, WATCHING from her window for Papa and Álvaro to return. She'd been luckier than she’d realized when she picked this room after Nora was born. It had the best vantage of the hacienda’s front gate, and she would be the first to know when they arrived.

“What are you waiting for?” Lani asked. “Come play with us.”

Emelia sighed. “It just isn’t fair. Why does Álvaro get a real horse and I have to stay with a docile little pony? I’m older than he is, already nine. There’s no reason I shouldn’t have one, too.”

“You know your mother is against it,” Muusa said from her corner chair where she knitted a brightly colored native bag.

Emelia dropped her chin onto her hands on the casement. “Álvaro is lucky. He doesn’t have a mother to tell him no when he wants things.” The moment the words were out of her mouth, she knew she shouldn’t have said them.

“Álvaro’s mother was a dear friend of mine,” said Muusa sharply. “I’m sure she would rather be here with him than dead.”

Emelia tried to interject an apology, but Muusa continued on, her voice stern.

“A mother is not a thing that can be replaced. We all do our best to make up the lack for him, but I’m sure he’d trade places with you any day. Be grateful for your mother, child.” With that, Muusa quietly folded her work, swept up Norita, and left the room, gesturing to her daughter to follow.

Lani gave Emelia a sheepish grin as if to apologize for her mother before following her out the door.

Emelia sighed again. Now she waited in the room alone. It was not an improvement. She ought to read or work on her embroidery—goodness knew Abuelita Olivia would be cross if it wasn’t finished—but all Emelia could think about was horses.

What was the use of staying here in her empty room any longer? Emelia strode from her room. The stables were better anyway, and what she really wanted right now was the silent, understanding company of her pony.

Golden whickered and stuck her nose out of the box expectantly as Emelia entered the stable. Smiling at her trusty friend, Emelia held out one of the apples she’d brought. The pony’s velvet muzzle brushed Emelia’s palm, and she rubbed the white star between Golden’s docile brown eyes. Life would be easier if it were just people and horses. Or maybe just horses. Horses didn’t have to fight with their Mamas to run. Chomping noisily, Golden dropped a slobbery half-apple back into Emelia’s waiting palm.

“If I wait around like they expect me to, do you think Mama will ever let me move on?” Emelia asked. “I’d bet if it were up to Papa, it’d be a different matter, but he’ll never do anything against Mama’s wishes.”

Golden responded by taking the remaining apple from Emelia’s hand and depositing more slobber in return.

“After all.” Emelia was careful to wipe her hand on a nearby sack rather than her skirt this time. “Mama will certainly not let me have a real horse if she thinks I’m being careless. Not that you’re not a real horse, of course.”

Golden lipped at Emelia’s pockets for more treats, and she laughed. Pushing Golden’s nose away, she brushed the pony’s neck.

“It’s only that you’re a pony, and your legs simply aren’t long enough to keep up with Álvaro’s Wind, that’s all. Besides, it’ll only be a few more years before Norita will be old enough to ride, and she already loves you.”

As though on cue, Emelia heard the characteristic sounds of her little sister entering the stable, and a beautiful idea formed in her mind.

“Wanna ride Golden Pony!” Nora cried, running down the way with Anna, her nursemaid, hurrying after her.

“You want to ride my Golden?” Emelia asked as her sister crashed into her legs. “I’m sure Golden would love to take you around. Stay here while we get her saddled.”

Nora reached toward the pony, and Golden lowered her head, inspecting the familiar newcomer.

“Señorita—” Anna, the nursemaid, began to protest.

“It’s all right. I don’t mind if my favorite little sister rides. I’ll even lead her around.” Emelia winked at Nora and called a stablehand to saddle the pony with the small saddle.

“But you’re going to Casa de la Cuesta this afternoon for your lessons, and you know the little señorita will scream for an hour if you take the pony away.”

“Well, I’ll just have to leave Golden here with you, then.”

Nora bounced from foot to foot, clutching her skirts as the pony was saddled. Finally, Emelia helped her up.

“Hold tight, now,” Emelia warned as she took the lead rope and walked them out into the courtyard. Nora squealed and kicked wildly at the saddle, but the thick leather absorbed the impact, and Golden heaved a sigh.

“You know, you’re doing me a huge favor,” Emelia whispered to Golden as they began the first circuit around the courtyard. “And it means you’ll be back in your stall munching hay sooner, besides. Mama always likes to say that a little extra work now means less later, and that’s what we’re doing here.”

They had finished the third round and begun the fourth when the call came to open the gate, signaling her father’s return. Emelia couldn’t help the grin on her face as he and Álvaro came in on their horses with the cart not far behind.

“Go! Go!” Nora called, waving the reins and kicking the saddle again. Emelia obliged her by turning Golden to meet the riders. “Hola, Papa! I’m riding!”

“So you are, my little Leonora.” With a laugh, her father swung from his saddle and handed the reins to a stablehand.

“I thought I’d let her ride Golden a bit before Álvaro and I needed to go to Abuelita Olivia’s for our lessons today,” Emelia said, carefully nonchalant.

“Is it that time already?” Her father stretched his back. “The day has gotten away from me. Álvaro, don’t worry about the ledger for now; I’ll take care of it. You’d best wash your face and head out with Emelia.”

“Yes, Tío Benito.” Álvaro shot Emelia a conspiratorial grin.

“I’ll wait here.”

He gave her a nod and ran off. Emelia continued leading her sister and pony on their placid trek around the courtyard. She avoided eye contact with Nora’s nursemaid, who stood, fuming, near the stables.

She had not made it back to the stables when Álvaro reappeared, leading Wind.

“Well, let’s go.” He swung onto his mare.

Emelia looked to Nora. “Norita, do you want to keep riding Golden?” she asked.

Nora nodded.

“Then you’d better scream and fuss when I tell you to get down. Can you do that?”

Her sister’s eyes widened, but she nodded again.

“Time to get off then.” Emelia reached up.

Nora hesitated a moment, then gripped the saddle with both hands and shrieked. Both horses shied at the sudden sound, but Golden was too placid to do much more than take a couple steps to the side. Emelia chuckled as Álvaro got Wind under control.

“What is going on?” Nora’s nursemaid demanded, marching up to them.

“Leonora doesn’t want to get down. I suppose you’ll have to lead her around some more, because it is time for me to be off.” Emelia planted the lead rope in the nursemaid’s hands.

The nursemaid’s mouth worked in silent fury.

Not waiting for the reprimand to form, Emelia started toward the gate. “Come on, Álvaro. It is time to go.”

“Hold on, now,” Álvaro objected, nudging his horse to walk beside her. “You can’t walk all the way there. Tia Olivia would have kittens.”

“Well, you’d better let me ride with you then.”

Álvaro was silent for a moment as they passed out of the walls of the hacienda. “Your mother will kill me if she finds out.”

“Mama worries too much. Besides, if she’s that worried about me being on Wind, then she should just get me a horse of my own.”

“I don’t know ....”

“Álvaro.” Emelia stopped outside the gate and turned to him, her hands on her hips. “Are you really going to make me walk all the way to Casa de la Cuesta while you ride? I did get you out of doing ledgers, so you owe me.”

“We’d better not get into trouble.” He removed his foot from the stirrup so she could climb up.

Holding him tightly, Emelia situated herself. “Just ... don’t do anything stupid to make me fall off.” She tried to be brave as she looked down. The ground was so much farther away than it was with Golden. But she was on a real horse! Her heart beat in her throat from equal parts fear and joy, and despite her best efforts to relax, she clung a little tighter to Álvaro when Wind started forward.

Chapter 16

WHEN SHE WAS FREE TO let her mind wander, Maria split the time between thinking of Miguel as she had last seen him, and experimenting with moving her physical body while in the spirit world. Seeing Miguel had ignited a fire in her, and she wanted, needed, to be able to see, and not just when the opportunity arose to safely leave her body.

Maria decided to start small. Every time she felt she could do so without notice, she picked two objects near each other. Focusing on one of them, she would throw herself into the dream world, then try to move her eyes to look at the other. After several weeks of practice, as they moved from village to village, Maria developed the skill for it. By the time Sophus turned them back toward the labyrinth, she had begun trying to actually focus on the second object. However, doing so still snapped her back into her body. It was painfully slow progress, but it was progress nonetheless.

Iráma waited for them by the front entrance when they arrived back at Sophus’s caves in the predawn hour of the morning. Though Maria refused to call the place home, she was glad to be back. She said as much to her friend while they walked toward the carved pillars that lined the entrance. Sophus left them to walk at their sedate pace.

Maria and Iráma spoke of their travels. Maria had enjoyed herself immensely among the Wayuu; they had been so welcoming of her. Sophus hadn’t seemed to notice the difference between their kindness for her and their simple fearful respect for him, for which she was glad. Iráma laughed in agreement.

Iráma spoke of her journey, too, and Maria listened, grateful for the opportunity to be away from Sophus’s ever-watchful eye, even if she couldn’t completely avoid him here.

The sun broke over the horizon, and a sadness washed over Maria as she and Iráma passed from its light into the labyrinth’s initial section of darkness. The open, boundless space of the Wayuu lands seemed to recede from her grasp more completely with each step into the caves.

Sophus had designed his labyrinth to confuse anyone who came in, and more especially, to keep them from finding their way out. Had the sense of hopelessness it evoked been intentional, or did she only sense the emotions of the centuries of women who had passed through this way only once? Only Iráma, Sophus, and herself knew how to find the entrance from the inside, though Maria would gladly have told anyone who asked. She had learned through painful experience what happened to those who wandered; she had been lucky to survive her foolishness.

They continued through the halls to Sophus’s room. Maria gave her friend a farewell hug, before opening the door to his lavish chamber. She walked in, and the walls felt as though they closed in around her, and the closing of the door felt like the snapping shut of a cage.

In the center of the room, laid out on a large table that normally was not there, were all the gifts Iráma had collected from the villages. Maria tried to shake the feeling of being trapped as she looked through them. There were beautiful woven baskets and native jewelry, precious stones and crop seeds, tools and herbs. Noticeably absent, however, were the tu’uma, the red stone that was most precious to the Wayuu. The same stone her mother’s necklace was made of. If Sophus was unaware of its absence, however, Maria would not be the one to bring it up.

“What will you do with all this?” she asked Sophus who stood nearby, watching.

“The practical things, the seeds, tools, animals, and the like, will be given to Iráma’s care and utilized as she sees fit. The rest I will use for trade, mostly on firearms and horses to give back to the villages to assist with their rebellion. It is in our best interest for them to remain free from the Europeans, after all.” Sophus picked up a random object, inspecting it briefly before setting it down again. They stood in silence for a few moments longer, looking at the various things on the table.

“Well,” Maria finally said, “I think I’m going to go clean up.”

“Of course,” Sophus said, dismissively, almost sounding glad to have her leave.

Maria hurried to her own room, shutting the door behind her in relief. For the first time in weeks, she was alone. Though joy had filled her since the night she found Miguel, she had still been tense. The idea of starting a war for Sophus’s benefit disgusted her, despite the altruistic justification of freedom he gave.

There was a knock at the door. Maria opened it to Wuchii and a group of other women carrying steaming hot buckets of water.

“That looks wonderful.” Maria took Wuchii’s load and beckoned the others in to fill her tub.

“It’s good to have you back.” Wuchii smiled, overseeing the preparation of the bath. “You look as though the travel did you good.”

“It really did. It was a nice change of pace.” Maria shut the door after the other women left with their empty buckets. “But, surprisingly, I am glad to be back.”

Wuchii took a careful seat on one of the nearby chairs. “What happened while you were gone?”

“What do you mean?” Maria asked, pulling off her dress.

“You’re changed. You seem alive in a way that I have rarely seen from you.”

“That’s what Sophus said.” Maria laughed and gestured “later” to Wuchii with her hand, ever aware of the possibility of Sophus overhearing them.

“Of course.” Wuchii smiled and changed the subject while Maria settled into the bath, washing the dust from her hair. They chatted amiably while Maria relaxed until the water cooled, which happened quicker than she would have liked. It wasn’t so much that the water relaxed her muscles as that it calmed her mind; her muscles never became sore or weary, never needed to rest or relax. Wuchii helped her dry and brushed her hair before leaving, claiming pressing chores that remained to be done.

Finding herself alone and with nothing to do, Maria sat and resumed her self-imposed training.

Maria had tried searching for Miguel again and had been able to easily follow the beacon of her necklace. He’d returned to the north, but Theron’s reaching presence stopped her before she got close. Instead, when Maria grew weary of training, and her son was asleep, she spent her free time searching for more of Theron’s body.

She started in the room where she had found the first piece, hopeful of finding more in the statue that had held the knuckle. Maria worked her way through the pile of stone, carefully examining each pale rock chunk. For the first time, she came to truly appreciate the artistry and skill of her companion as each piece of stone held incredible detail, though none of it quite so fine as the finger she kept in a pouch at her waist.

The quickest way to tell them apart, Maria found, was to gently squeeze each piece. The cold, stony flesh had give to it, but actual stone crumbled between her fingers. She was disappointed to find nothing in the rubble.

Determined to find something, she moved on to the statue closest to her. This will be a little more difficult, she thought to herself with a wry grin. Sophus will be bound to suspect something if I go around damaging his art.

Gently she ran her hands over every inch of the stone concentrating on the texture and temperature, searching for seams. When she was certain she had not missed anything, she stood and glanced over the work room, thinking. The Wayuu stories had indicated that generations, if not centuries, had passed since Sophus had freed them from Theron’s tyranny. Could she then assume that the most likely hiding places for the parts would be in the older statues?

She walked through the long corridors to one of the oldest parts of the labyrinth, noticing for the first time how his style had changed over time. Stopping in a large chamber that every possible surface smoothed and carved in some way, Maria felt a moment of despair. What if he’d put them in the wall carving here?

She shook her head; he was far too arrogant for that. He enjoyed having his work praised, and hiding his success that way would curb his ability to gloat. Certain that what she wanted would be in the statues, Maria began observing their every detail. Long before she could complete her inspection of that first, vast chamber, Sophus sent for her with a new request.

“I have decided that you are ready to venture out on your own for a time.” Sophus gently swished the blood around his goblet like a wine, savoring the smell. They had been playing cribbage in his great room.

Maria held a winning hand, her own portion of blood already consumed. Startled, she set down her cards. “You’re sending me away?” Freed from his supervision, she would go immediately to rescue Miguel. No, first she needed a way to protect herself from Theron. She would need to find Kasha—

“Not permanently. I have a job I would like you to do. Then, when you are finished, you will return to me.” He finished off his drink and watched her over the cup.

Of course it wouldn’t be that simple. Maria kept her face impassive. “And just what would this entail?”

“Well, you got so much out of our last outing, and you seem to care a great deal about the natives. So, I thought you might enjoy helping them out with their little rebellion, now that it is imminent. We’ve gone through so much effort to stir it up, and it is to our advantage for them to maintain their independence from the Europeans.”

“You’re asking me to fight for them?” Maria asked, confused. “I could destroy both armies before they knew what had hit them. I don’t see how—”

Sophus cut her off with a wave of his hand. “I wouldn’t dream of fighting their battle for them, or having you do so, either. This is their fight, and we must never reveal ourselves on a large scale.”

“Why not?” The absolute command in his voice on this made her pause. If it was such an essential rule, why had he not told her of it before?

“It is the one rule you must always follow, the one rule that applies to each of us.”

“Why?”

“Maria, mi corazón.” Sophus chuckled, playing a card. “If you have a flock of sheep, you don’t want to slaughter them all at once or do anything that would make them fear you. It would simply make life so much more difficult, and the chances are exceptionally good that it would destroy you.”

Maria thought about that for a moment. After all these years, she still did not know everything she needed. Knowing Sophus as she did, there was likely more to the comment about its destroying her. Sophus’s habit of withholding information until he felt it was pertinent annoyed her.

“Just what is it, then, that you want me to do?” she asked, taking her turn in the game.

“I want only for you to assist them,” Sophus said innocently, spreading his hands.

“In what way?”

A cruel smile spread across Sophus’s face. “Assist them to die.”

Maria stood, horrified. To murder in cold blood? “I can’t! You can’t ask me to go to the battlefield—”

“I can and I am.” He cut her off, moving his peg to the winning position. “They chose to fight for home and country and to die for those ideals. You are helping them fulfill their wish.”

“No.” Maria shook her head, backing up as he stood. The deaths here were bad enough, but to intentionally add to the tally was too much to bear. “I can’t ....”

Sophus sighed and walked to one of the lanterns. “I had hoped to convince you to go on your own. I don’t hold with compelling my subjects, but sometimes one does what one must.” He poured some of the oil onto the stone floor and set it ablaze. Then he pulled something from his sleeve. “Do you recognize this?”

Maria peered at it, and her hand went to her head, to the small patch of hair behind her ear that he had cut from her so long ago. He nodded his approval.

“This is but a single hair of yours, not even all that I have. You could barely feel it when it was attached to your head; your connection with it is slight. One might think that the connection has been severed, but I can assure you it has not.” He held it over the flame, and Maria began to grow nervous. She could still remember burning for days ....

“It’s only a hair.” She tried to sound nonchalant. But why would he use this for a demonstration if it wasn’t to be effective? Perhaps he was bluffing? He set it in the flame. Almost immediately, it flared, lighting the chamber with an eerie glow. Just as suddenly, Maria felt as though her scalp behind her ear was on fire, the pain of it dropping her to the floor.

Panicked, she reached instinctively to her head to try to smother the flame, but there was nothing there but her hair. She couldn’t suppress it, she couldn’t stop it. A thought surfaced through the pain: it was only a single hair; how long could it burn?

It’s only a little pain. I can endure it. She tried to reason with herself, sinking to the ground. But the burning pain lingered and began to sink down through her skull. Her scalp burned, her skull burned, and tendrils of flame reached into her brain. She screamed and writhed while Sophus watched, and eventually, after far too long, the burning began to recede.

Maria lay on the floor, shaking, as Sophus crouched down by her head. “And that was only one disconnected little hair. You will do as you’re told, Maria.”

He walked away and she lay there, curled in on herself, trembling.

THE FLASH OF LIGHTNING from the far end of the lake, though it lit the clouds nearly continuously, was not enough to illuminate the dark night. Mikhael waited at the end of the pier, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the natural phenomenon. Its nearly nightly occurrence oriented sailors on Lake Maracaibo like a lighthouse. Like the red pendant steadied and oriented Mikhael. He resisted the urge to reach for it, for the reassurance it gave that he mattered. Elisa watched him from their small ship, and he didn’t want her asking questions.

“He’s late,” Elisa hissed from on deck, her hand on her hip.

“And only yesterday you were glorying in how time is unable to touch you.” Mikhael kept his eyes on the lightning. The way it arced through the sky, so random but so persistent that it felt like a dance of power in the sky, captivated his imagination. Perhaps one day he would find an excuse to travel to Mérida and watch the mighty Catatumbo lightning up close. Would the land there be wasted and scorched from the centuries of fury that raged above it?

“Aren’t you supposed to be some mighty sailor?” Elisa snapped back. “Time and tide wait for no man, and all that?”

“The tide will return.” Mikhael shrugged. It’s as inevitable as your whining, he thought, but didn’t say it.

“Miguel.” Her voice softened. He couldn’t help but turn toward her at the genuine emotion in that single word. She moved to walk down the short gangplank. “What is wrong? You’ve been so distant from me the entire time we’ve been here.”

She touched his elbow, and Mikhael’s stance softened. Despite how much she nagged and pecked at him, for so long she had been the only one who cared. But, he reminded himself harshly, she is only kind when she wants something from me.

“Is it this place? There are so very many memories here, I’m sure they’ve been bothering you,” she said before the silence between them could grow. She turned toward the docks, sweeping her eyes over the view and trying to slip her arm into his.

He deftly maneuvered away from her. She hesitated a moment, then let her arm fall to her side. The hurt on her face pricked at him. It was one thing to avoid her machinations, but to deliberately hurt her ...

“I’m sorry, Elisa.” He touched her shoulder. “I’ve just ...” He gestured helplessly and turned away. “I’ve been trying to figure some things out is all.”

“What is there to figure out?” she asked, stepping beside him and snaking her arm around his waist, resting her head on his arm.

Habit demanded he put his arm around her shoulder and let her rest her head on his chest, but, even though it had been months since that vision of the woman in the field, he could still feel the pure joy the ghostly apparition had given him. And to hold Elisa seemed almost sacrilege to its memory. He kept his arm awkwardly at his side.

“I followed you through death so we could be together. I am always by your side, supporting and helping you. Am I not all that a wife should be to you?”

“Yes,” he said quietly. Everything on the surface, but being with you is like drinking salt water to quench a thirst. But she would never understand such a thing.

“And you, in turn, have promised to care for me.” She met his gaze, her soft eyes full of trust. “You won’t abandon me, will you?”

“Elisa...” Mikhael searched for the way to tell her what he felt that wouldn’t end with her shouting at him. He was so weary of it all. He couldn’t fight both her and Theron every time he turned around. The pendant felt heavy in his pocket as he sighed. “No, I won’t abandon you.”

She snaked her hand down his arm and squeezed his hand. Reluctantly, he returned the gesture. At least it would give him some peace from her temper.

“Ah, there he is,” Elisa said brightly, gesturing to a heavily laden wagon that had turned into view. She stepped away and blew him a kiss before turning back toward the boat. “Until we cast off, then, mi amor.”

Ignoring her, Mikhael strode along the pier of the nearly abandoned waterfront to meet the wagon. Atop it sat a dirty man in a ratty cloak, but whose rugged hands bore heavy rings.

“Señor,” the man said, the hoarseness of his voice genuine. “The lightning is fierce tonight.”

“But well removed from us,” Mikhael responded by rote. The man gave an abrupt nod and swung from the wagon to begin unhitching the horse. Mikhael gestured to an unmanned wagon waiting nearby. “Your payment, as agreed.”

“You’re not going to check the goods?” the contact asked, setting the tongue of his wagon noiseless on the ground.

“I’m sure there’s nothing amiss, but if there is, you and I both know restitution will be made.”

The man’s feral grin glinted in the darkness. “Restitution’s not for the likes of me, nor you either. Better for us both to be struck down by lightning than face the wrath of your master.”

“Should be easy enough to manage if you can make it to the wasteland beneath the Catatumbo before he finds you.”

The man laughed as he hitched the horse to the waiting wagon. “Good luck with that, amigo. That storm may rage at the end of the lake for centuries, but the land beneath it is as lush as any garden. You’ll need to look elsewhere for reprieve.”

Mikhael nodded a farewell and watched in silence as the man left with the wagon full of supplies. Elisa had purchased them for the sake of appearances, but they would have been wasted on three vampires.

Imagine that. Glancing again at the lightning streaked sky to the west, he began unloading the wagon of its tradable goods and weapons; gifts to aid the Wayuu in their fourth rebellion against the Spanish. Life there thrives beneath the eternal storm.

“Aren’t you finished yet?” Elisa snapped, watching him stow the cargo.

He bit back the retort that they would be on their way sooner if she’d help. He didn’t need to show her affection, but he could maintain calm, and perhaps find joy, beneath her storms.

Chapter 17

1751 – GUAJIRA PENINSULA

THERE WAS DEATH. AND BLOOD. Maria was still miles away, waiting for the sun to set. The smell of gunpowder and smoke and the screams of dying horses reached her across the landscape. But mostly, she could smell the blood, and now, as the sounds of fighting died off, the smell of death filled her nostrils.

Finally, the sun touched the horizon, relentless in its descent, and Maria started toward the battlefield. She did not know which side had carried the day. She did not care. It took all her focus not to rush down and give herself to the bloodlust, killing every living thing in her path.

She could see them now, most lying where they had fallen. The less wounded had been removed and the rest given up for dead, many with enough breath left in them to moan in pain, beg for water, or cry out to loved ones. There were many who might have survived had they not been left behind.

Maria moved from soldier to fallen soldier, dispatching them quickly and painlessly. At least Sophus had given her instruction on how to manage that. A small kindness. Many smiled at her, thanking the beautiful, dark angel of death for their release. Others cried, begged, or pleaded. She killed them all.

The tales quickly began circulating that any man left on the battlefield at sundown was sure to be dead by morning. Some had even seen her, the Ángel de la Muerte, moving swiftly among the fallen left on the field, speeding them on their way. She had no regard for one side or the other, native or foreigner, young or old. All who were not gone by the time she reached them died before she moved on.

If a man stayed up late into the dark night, and was brave enough, he could see her enter the camp and dispatch those nearest to death.

In every man she killed, Maria saw a father, a brother, a son. A wife or mother or sister who would not see her man alive again. An empty place at a table, a cold bed, a void in a heart, a child left alone. The fear of the fire, to her great shame, pushed her forward. Though she killed every man left on the field, she limited the killing to the worst off in the camps, in defiance of her orders. She would not take more lives than she absolutely had to, taking only what concessions she dared. Despite her reasoning, in every man who died, Maria saw the shadow of her father, of Miguel, of Álvaro, and lost a piece of her heart. In every corpse she left behind, she heard the smug laughter of Sophus.

The day that dawned with no sounds of impending death lifted Maria’s spirits as incrementally as the rising sun. She sat, huddled against a scrawny tree some distance away, her cloak covering her face while she sat with her head in her hands, her knees pulled to her chest.

The sun had risen, but the noise that accompanied it had a different timbre—one of weariness, certainly, but also of hope. Perhaps she had finished her butcher’s work. If it was true, then those who had survived this fight over ownership of the land would return to their homes.

She, however, would return to her prison.

Even if Sophus never burned another part of her again, there was nowhere else for her to go. She had no home. Her son was too fragile for her world, her husband was held by a force beyond her power to overcome, and she, too, had become trapped. Any hope she once nurtured had been extinguished bit by bit. Each life she had ended picked at her core until nothing remained but a void where her soul had once been.

Curious, she lifted consciousness outward, searching, hoping. Were the contenders truly leaving, or just moving on? Stretching across the field before her marched an army, whole, hale, and healthy. She stood in the dream world, stunned to see so many where she had rarely ever seen anyone.

They moved along through the tall grass, and the gentle wind swirled about them. Some marched with pride, some merely trudged along; some filled with joy and others bent in sorrow or agony. Many simply stood, looking forlornly about themselves. As they began to pass her by, she recognized first one face, and then another and another. They were, she realized with a jolt, an army of the dead.

So many.

They marched north, toward the lands of the dead.

One young Wayuu man, not much older than Miguel had been when she’d first seen him, met her eyes, turning toward her. He was one she had killed, and she struggled not to turn away in shame.

What news, waré? she asked him shakily.

I go to the land of my fathers, he said with a warm smile, and reached out to her. Will you come with us?

I have no place there. She lowered her face, her disheveled hair falling forward as though to hide her shame. There is too much blood on my hands.

No, I suppose you could not find a place to rest under the roof of our fathers. He gave her a deeply pitying look. May you find redemption, waré.

She glanced up as he rejoined the others. Another group of men approached him, and they embraced each other joyfully before continuing on toward the North.

Maria watched others of the dead fade into the distance, feeling a mixture of joy and deep sorrow. How many of them might have remained for a time longer, were it not for her? Her knees went weak, and she clutched at the tree for support. How many might have returned to their wives and children rather than joining their fathers this day? Her heart cried out as the remaining restless shades drew nearer her, whispering inaudibly of love and loss and untimely death. Of lives unfinished.

Who might have found a way to survive, if not for her?

Maria fell to the ground, their pain overwhelming her as more soldiers drew nearer. She could not speak to defend herself, for there was no real defense she could give. She raised her cold, death-filled hands to cover her face but was shocked to see them wet with blood.

Shocked, and yet not surprised.

Maria could feel the blood, running down her arms and over her fingers. She could hear it, splattering on the stones beneath her. The blood of innocent men covered her. Blood she had stolen, not for survival, not for a noble cause she believed in, but for greed. For Sophus’s greed, but in a way, also her own.

Filled with despair, repulsion, and disgust at herself, Maria turned away from them. Instead, she faced the fire. It burned but a few strides from her, the flame flitting like the tongues of a dozen snakes searching for their prey. The shades behind her crowded her, whispering of their lost lives. She stepped away from them, only to find herself that much closer to the bonfire, its heat searing her skin like the shame of her guilt.

She retreated to her body, desperate to hide from the eyes and pain of the dead soldiers. She needed to hide from the blood that covered her and from the truth that had reflected back at her in the flames of the dream world.

Safely back in her body, Maria could no longer see the ghostly soldiers on the battlefield, though their corpses and the smell of their death remained. She could no longer feel the sticky blood on her fingers, but she could not keep the searing pain of the truth from her mind as she trekked back to her prison.

Maria moved mindlessly forward across the land. It was as the young soldier had said. There was no place for her among the mortal or the dead. She was a monster, a wretched murderer, stuck forever between life and death. There was no happiness waiting for her, no place to rest when she was done. She thought of the statues and of the women she’d killed, of her inability to stop her father’s death. Of sending her husband to his death.

She continued to walk. Her throat tightened with pain, and not with the desire for blood. Her guts twisted, and she wanted to curl in on herself and scream. All that she touched, she destroyed. Her son was among the living, and she would destroy him, too, if she ever went back.

She destroyed everything she touched yet still had no power. She couldn’t help her husband, she couldn’t even help herself. All she had managed to do in her attempt to rescue her husband was to abandon her child, become a killer, and give Miguel to Elisa.

What use was there in trying?

Maria reached the caves, too despondent to care how long it had taken. She reached her rooms and stood there. What was the use of moving?

At one point, she stood before the fireplace and wondered briefly how long she would burn. Would the wet feel of the blood burn off before she was consumed?

She was aware of her concerned friends around her, stripping her of her soiled clothes, washing her, and dressing her again. They brushed her tangled hair and asked her questions, but she did not speak except once, to tell them she’d destroy them, too. To that, though, they simply patted her hand and continued their ministrations.

When Sophus came to her to have her report, she answered his questions tersely. She smiled when appropriate, though it never reached her eyes. She moved and did the tasks set before her, answered questions when asked, and stood beside Sophus’s throne as he welcomed the first wave of desolate women to his home. In her free time she even continued, vainly, to search for the broken pieces of Theron’s limbs.

She did all this, but inside, she lay curled in a corner of her mind still covered in blood, staring numbly at the wall of flame before her, and wished for oblivion.

THE MAST OF THE SHIP creaked amid the wind, and Mikhael leaned against the helm, enjoying the peace of the moment. He’d pacified Elisa, and she was content to let him alone, likely engaging with their captor in some asinine conversation about how slowly Mikhael worked. So long as Theron’s attention was off him, everything else was blue skies as far as Mikhael was concerned. With Elisa safely out of the way, Mikhael pulled the red stone pendant out from his pouch, turning it over in his hands.

What had he done that had made the dark-haired woman appear? He closed his eyes, remembering the shape of her face and the brilliance of that smile when she’d seen him. He smiled to himself, hoping that when he opened his eyes this time she would be there, standing at the bow of his sailboat with the wind playing with her dark hair. His heart lifted at the thought, hope warming it for a moment, until he opened his eyes and saw only the empty deck.

He gave a rueful chuckle. It hadn’t worked once in the months since he’d seen her dancing in the rain. He hadn’t really expected it to work this time either, but something in him had to try. Hope fluttered around his heart like a playful thing, and, rather than the pain of disappointment every time she didn’t appear, he felt only amusement. He’d probably only imagined her, anyway.

He couldn’t help his surprise, either, that Theron never mentioned his attempts to recreate his vision. In fact, his captor and permanent voyeur to Mikhael’s mind had never even remarked on the dark-haired beauty. Never tried to make him think it was a delusion or simply hadn’t happened. It was as if Theron didn’t even know about it. And that small bit of control, of a tiny rebellion of his own, brought Mikhael a spark of joy, kept carefully hidden in his heart.

He returned the pendant to his pocket and adjusted the wheel. Perhaps someday he would see her again, his dark angel. He was certain now that she was the one who hid in every memory he had of his life before. It was her face he saw when he thought of love, life, happiness, or freedom. But the years passed, and she did not return.

Chapter 18

1754 - MARACAIBO

EMELIA WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE in the study, or even indoors for that matter, but she simply had to finish this book. Besides, this was the best chair for curling up in; the light from the window was perfect, and no one ever bothered her here so long as they didn’t see her.

“I just don’t know what to do about it anymore,” her father’s voice said from the hallway.

Emelia hunched lower into the chair, hoping he would keep walking and not notice her there.

“I don’t know that there is all that much you can do,” her mother said as they both entered the room.

Drat, Emelia thought. They’d find her here for sure. Maybe she could sneak out.

Her father sighed. “I never meant for this sort of thing. When Doña Maria asked me to watch over things, I thought that with Dom’s help we’d manage until she came to her senses and returned. I never anticipated managing such an estate long-term.”

Emelia heard her father sit heavily and was glad that her wing-backed chair faced away from the door.

“I don’t think that managing the estate is what’s bothering you,” her mother said softly.

“You know it isn’t. Dom’s wonderful, as is your overseer, and I suppose I could manage both the Álvarez estate and your father’s plantation—heavens know that with his constant state of inebriation, I practically do anyhow.”

“It’s only for a few more years. Álvaro will be old enough soon to start shouldering the burden of his own estate, and then it will be Casa de la Cuesta for us.” Emelia heard her mother sit and could imagine her placing a calming hand on her father.

“I’ve already begun taking the boy with me so that he can get a feel for his future business contacts. He’s got a good head for the politics, and he may yet learn to negotiate, but I fear he’s too brash to manage the intrigue.”

“And you’re too honest.”

Emelia stared hard at her book, trying to read it, but found that her attention remained fixed on hearing more. Business was boring, but intrigue? Her mind filled with images of mysterious messengers and daring sword-fights.

“I don’t know how Ciro and your father got involved in such things or with such disreputable people,” her father continued, “but I’ve done my best to distance us all from them. It seems, though, that each net I pull myself from leaves me ensnared in two more. There’s just no advantage to this sort of business. Ciro, Miguel, Maria. They all became entangled in this, and all it got them was dead.”

Emelia stifled a gasp. She’d never heard her father sound so upset. And what was this about Álvaro’s parents?

“Benito,” her mother admonished, “you don’t really believe that.”

“The more this continues, the more I believe it. It’s this endless entanglement with Gonza that’s really at the heart of it all. Lately, every time we negotiate to suit us both, he undercuts me, and it’s not as though I can simply avoid doing business with him. He’s stolen the Ortiz contract, and despite my best efforts I can’t get him to reconsider. It would be one thing if it were honest business, but every last one of Ciro’s long-time partners who has given in to Gonza’s duplicitous lies in the last five years has fallen into ruin. It makes it seem like I’m attacking them because Gonza’s other clients manage to get by.”

“You should go to my father about this.”

Emelia’s father made a bitter sound. “He was the one who pointed it out to me last year. I couldn’t believe him at the time, but now ....”

“Surely you can approach some of your other partners and clients? Warn them about Gonza?”

“Not without appearing desperate or slanderous. I can’t risk letting them know we have trouble of any sort; look at the way we hide your father away.” He sighed. “I’m not meant for such intrigue. Give me good, honest business any day.”

“Why can’t you simply stop doing business with Gonza?” Emelia’s mother asked.

Emelia wondered the same thing.

“His old man had it out for Don Ciro—everybody knows that—but I think the son has all the bitterness and none of the compassion. He’s a snake, and it would mean more than it’s worth to turn my back on such a menace. I don’t know what he’s planning, but as long as he has his eye on the Álvarez company, it is best to keep a close eye on him. I wouldn’t be surprised to find it was old Gonza who was behind all that trouble with Doña Maria all those years ago.”

They continued talking, but Emelia had stopped paying attention, her imagination whirled with what she’d learned. The Álvarez house had ancient enemies, and her father was holding them at bay until Álvaro could take his place as rightful heir and vanquish the enemy!

And then there was the tidbit at the end about this Gonza person being responsible for “trouble” with Álvaro’s mother. Whatever could that be? While Álvaro’s parents were no secret, Emelia’s parents rarely mentioned them. The household staff was always willing to tell stories, of course, so she and Álvaro knew some things, but nothing that Emelia knew matched this description. Perhaps Muusa would know. She would have to ask.

Eventually her parents left the room, and Emelia waited extra-long before making her way out to find Álvaro.

It wasn’t until the next day that she even had a chance to speak with him. They were riding into town with her parents. Emelia had begged to be allowed to ride Stardust, citing what a beautiful day it was, and Nora, sensing her chance, had jumped in with pleas to take Golden. While her mother could refuse one or the other of her children, they had learned that if they faced her together, she always gave in.

Emelia’s horse pranced, sensing her excitement, as Emelia nudged her closer to Wind.

“Álvaro, guess what I overheard my parents talking about yesterday?” She waited for his response with bated breath, but he only shrugged. Emelia watched him with concern. How could she not have noticed earlier? His slumped shoulders and downcast gaze. She chided herself for being so self-absorbed.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Muusa is going away and taking Lani with her,” he said, dejected.

Emelia was shocked speechless. Muusa leaving? Did her parents know? It was so sudden. Was she angry that Emelia had asked about Doña Maria last night?

“How could she leave?” Emelia asked, finally finding her voice. “She’s practically family.”

Álvaro shrugged and turned away, but not before Emelia caught the gleam of tears on his face. Emelia turned her head to allow him to compose himself.

“She says it is time for her to go home.” Álvaro’s voice cracked on the last word. “That Lani ... that it was time for her to be among her own people. That it is a woman’s thing and that I shouldn’t worry about it.”

“Oh, Álvaro, I’m sorry.” Emelia reached over to pat his knee.

He shrugged and squared his shoulders, wiping his eyes again. “It’ll be fine. Muusa says that sometimes people leave, and that’s why we have memories. So, tell me what you heard, eavesdropping on your parents.”

Emelia glanced up. Papa and Mama were far enough ahead that they wouldn’t overhear. “I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was there first, and they walked in on me.”

“But you didn’t say you were there,” Nora's childish voice cut in. They both looked over at her, surprised that she’d been listening. “You’d have gotten in trouble. I wouldn’t have said anything either.”

“You wouldn’t have been able to keep from giggling about how clever you are,” Álvaro said.

Nora stuck out her tongue in response, and Emelia was pleased to see him smile.

“Well, either way, I heard them talking,” Emelia began. “They said there’s an evil man named Gonza whose father hated your grandfather, Don Ciro.”

“I know Gonza.” Álvaro nodded. “When he smiles at you, it feels like there’s something wrong with his eyes. Tío Benito pointed him out to me and warned me to mind myself around him. Says he’s sneaky.”

Emelia nodded. “Just so. Well, Papa said that Gonza, the old Gonza, had been behind some trouble with your mother a long time ago. I asked Muusa if she knew what he meant, but she didn’t know. It sounds so exciting. I think we need to find out more about it.”

Álvaro agreed, and they speculated on possibilities until they reached the town and Roberto Hernandez, along with a couple other boys called to him. Álvaro broke off to go with his friends, saying he’d meet up with the family later. Emelia’s parents let him go, and Nora asked questions about ribbons and treats.

The sisters were given an allowance and wandered about the shops looking at things to buy. Emelia purchased a book that she had been saving for, and they both bought some ribbons to share. Nora spent what she had left on treats.

They returned to the wagon where old Dom was helping a couple other men load a few more packages, and Emelia looked around for Álvaro.

“Álvaro’s not back yet.” Nora tugged at her hand.

“I know. I asked Mama, but she didn’t seem worried.” Emelia looked up the street again.

“There’s Wind!” Nora pointed down the street the other way.

Emelia looked, and sure enough, it was Wind with Álvaro limping beside her. Without a second thought, Emelia handed her packages to the footman and hurried to him, mindful to not run, exactly.

As she neared, he caught sight of her and grinned, a large welt showing on his face.

“What happened?” Emelia asked when she reached him. “You look like you’ve been in a fight.”

“Maybe I have,” he answered, squaring his shoulders as he looked at something behind her.

Emelia turned to see her father, who was clearly displeased with Álvaro, behind her. She motioned Nora off to the side as Álvaro approached her father, but remained close enough to listen without being obvious.

“You have been fighting?” her father asked in a quiet, but stern voice.

“Yes.”

Pride filled Emelia’s chest as Álvaro held his head high rather than looking down and scuffing the ground like he always used to do.

Her father appraised Álvaro silently for a moment longer. “You know I don’t hold with violence.”

“Yes, sir.”

Another silence. Emelia felt there was nothing else in the world right then but Álvaro, her father, and the space between them. She held her breath, waiting for someone to say something.

“What was so egregious that you allowed yourself to lose your temper then?”

“I didn’t lose my temper, sir.”

Her father’s face darkened. “Then you willingly threw away your regard for me and my rules for, along with all the care I’ve shown for you? Tell me what it was for, Álvaro.”

“They were—” Álvaro paused, glancing at Emelia, and lowered his voice, stepping closer to his father. She strained to hear. “They called Emelia mousy, and said ... they were being rude about her ....”

“And so you hit him?” Her father’s face was unreadable.

“I told him to stop first, but that only made him more foul. I couldn’t let him keep saying that sort of thing about her, so”—Álvaro looked back at her father—“so I stopped him.”

Emelia’s heart was all aflutter. She could just see them, surrounding Álvaro with their cruel taunts, and he, unable to walk away, turned on them, beating the ringleader soundly. Then, turning from his vanquished foe, Álvaro had looked up at the others who then fled in fear from his righteous glare. She grinned as her father patted Álvaro on the shoulder.

“Well done, son.”

Emelia smiled at the admiration in Álvaro’s face as he looked at her father. He was a good man, and she was lucky he was her father. She was a little disappointed, though, when he and Álvaro spent the rest of the outing together, preventing her from speaking with Álvaro again. Of course, with Nora’s constant chattering, she probably wouldn’t have been able to, anyway.

ELISA SAT AT HER PIANOFORTE, practicing the latest bit of music she’d ordered, a sonata in F major by an Austrian named Haydn. She loved the speed and intricacy of the notes that it asked for; so many others had such long rhythms that she grew bored or played them much too quickly. She was fond of her pianoforte, which responded so well to her touch that she could play these quick notes nearly as fast as she pleased, and still the strings would sound. She’d even hollowed and smoothed out a side of Theron’s main chamber to help the sound resonate more fully. Miguel had done a lovely job of it, too. Perhaps someday, she could have Miguel install an organ.

I think not, my lovely, Theron interjected into her musings, causing her to miss several notes. Scowling, Elisa started the line over.

And just why not? Don’t you think I could learn to play an organ just as well? Elisa sent back to him to avoid speaking over the music.

I think you could manage anything you set your mind to.

Elisa beamed at his praise. Even after all this time, it always made her smile. Then why not? Do you think Miguel isn’t up to the challenge?

Theron laughed, his deep silken voice carrying over the sound of her music. Occasionally, she’d convinced him to sing while she played, and the music they made enthralled her. I’m certain that, had we proper instructions, we could build you an organ, and we could even use Miguel to power it. No, the problem is a simple case of location.

Elisa stopped playing and turned to her master. “What do you mean? There’s no one here for miles, I could play the organ as loudly as I chose, and no one would ever be the wiser.”

“No, my lovely.” His voice was like that of angels. “People already know this is a haunted place and have become wary of our expanded hunting grounds. I perhaps ought not to have given you the pianoforte—”

“But you love it when I play.” Elisa pouted. “Besides, if the issue is location, why don’t we leave this place? Come with us the next time we go to the city. There’s no need to stay here. Let’s go back to civilization.”

Theron laughed heartily at her. “And how well, do you suppose, would I be received in polite society?”

Elisa paused a moment, thinking. “We would have a large, grand manor with a view of the lake on one side and the mountains on the other. It would be so elegant that no one would question the whereabouts of the master of the house.”

“So you would keep me hidden away, out of sight, like some inconvenient, ailing relative?” A wry smile played on his lips as he spoke.

“Well? And what if we did? You’d be able to go wherever you wanted, see whatever you wanted through our eyes. We could go to concerts and operas, balls and parties!”

“And what if, while you and Mikhael were out enjoying yourselves, some servant happened upon me?”

“You would take control of him, of course.” Elisa crossed the room to sit beside him. “You’re so silly sometimes.”

He looked at her with his piercing silvered eyes. “And would you have me control the entire household, one at a time? Or the entire city? Would you relegate me to being your house steward so that you might go and do as you like?”

Elisa pulled back, appalled. “Of course not! There would be no need for such a thing anyhow. Just kill the poor fool.”

“And then how many could I kill before no one would be willing to replace them?”

Elisa was troubled. She hadn’t thought of that.

“The household staff aside,” Theron continued, “what if, while you were gone, the unthinkable should happen and there should be a fire?”

Elisa shuddered at the thought. Fire still frightened her. The thought of burning again ....

“No, my sweet Elisa,” Theron continued. “It is simply not practical to live among the humans the way I am. You must be content to stay with me here, bringing beauty into this forlorn place.”

A thought skittered across her brain, and she snatched for it, thinking out loud. “But if you were whole once more ... would that make a difference?”

Theron laughed again, but this time it frightened Elisa with its darkness. “If I were whole again, Sophus would rue the day he thought to betray me.”

His anger leaked into Elisa’s mind, and she found herself enraged. “Then let us get your limbs back! Can’t you simply take over his mind, like you did ours? Force him to return them. Then tear him apart and leave him to wallow in eternity.”

“I cannot; his mind is closed to me,” he said bitterly. “It wasn’t always that way—”

Theron cut off as Miguel entered the chamber with their dinner in tow, an elderly European man this time.

“Where’d you get him?” Elisa asked.

“Found him with a caravan. He had wandered off during the night. I’m not sure his mind is still intact.”

The old man tugged on Miguel’s sleeve and pointed to Elisa. “Est-ce qu’elle est ma Sophia?”

“Non, monsieur.” Miguel shook his head and led the man closer to Theron, maintaining eye contact with their dinner.

Elisa could only suppose he was trying to keep the man from fleeing, and she made a sound of disgust in her throat. Miguel shot her a glare as the man continued.

“Quand vais-je la voir?” When will I see her? Elisa rolled her eyes and stepped closer. She took the man’s hand in hers, and the fear began to gather in his eyes.

“Bientôt.” She laid her other hand on his neck and shoved it to Theron. He struggled and let out a wet, weak scream. “Très bientôt,” she said softly before biting into his wrist.

MIKHAEL FELT THE MOMENT the man died, the way the body went slack. He pulled away first, maneuvering to hold the body. Theron disengaged, and Elisa dropped the man’s wrist. Hefting the corpse into his arms, Mikhael carried it from the chamber. Neither spared him a glance as Elisa pulled out a handkerchief to dab at her perfectly clean mouth and then moved closer to dote on Theron.

Adjusting his awkward load, Mikhael navigated the passageway to the open-air ossuary. The space was difficult to get to from outside the lair, but it afforded a quiet place to burn the corpses. Every few years, he would get a wild spurt of ambition and build improvements in the area. The first few years had been dedicated to cleaning out the centuries of filth that had accumulated in Theron’s den. Disgusting, twisted corpse that Theron himself was, he wasn’t half so disgusting when he was no longer surrounded by the decaying remains of his food.

Mikhael laid the body on the pyre, between a pair of short stone walls he’d set up nearly a decade before. Piling the last bits of brush and kindling atop the body, he sent a prayer to whomever might be listening for both the man’s soul and any loved ones he’d left behind, and lit the fire. He could feel Theron’s smugness at his sentimentality, but it was distant. Theron was obviously still occupied with Elisa.

Sighing, Mikhael settled down with a chunk of wood and a knife from his belt, content to whittle away the time until the pyre had burned itself out. He didn’t really mind tending to the burning. While both Theron and Elisa were skittish around fire, he enjoyed the heat on his skin. It stirred a deep and primal fear in his stomach, making him feel alive in a way that Theron was unable to repress. That underlying emotion, held as though behind a glass, kept him believing there was more to his continued existence beyond Theron’s imprisonment. It fed the courage that kept him rebelling in whatever small ways he could and whispered for him to fight.

Mikhael turned the block on his hands while he carved, gently stripping away each thin layer of wood. Each turning of the world wore on him, stripping away his ability to feel, one thin layer at a time. Theron let him be, so long as he behaved in mind and body, so long as he controlled his spirit. After each brutal beating, Mikhael found it harder and harder to gather himself again. But so long as he could stand, just one more time, in his own mind, his spirit was not yet broken. He built each fire a little bit bigger than the one before, as though in defiance of this diminishing.

Would there ever be an end? Was this his eternity, to lie beneath Theron’s smothering power, worn away by time like a rock in the surf, until one day he could find the courage to end it?

He looked for the first time at the figure he’d carved into the palm-sized bit of wood. It was the woman again, the memory of her still flickered in his soul like a flame of hope. Could she release him? “Where have you gone?” he whispered, caressing her cheek.

“You know, I can’t stand this place,” Elisa said from the doorway, and Mikhael quickly cut a few random strokes into the wood, obscuring the face. “Theron sent me, said you were brooding again.”

“And if I am?” Mikhael didn’t take his eyes from his work. “What is he going to do, force me to be happy? Dance a jig?”

“I don’t know why I can’t be enough for you,” she pouted, draping herself onto his lap. “I work tirelessly to keep Theron from pushing you around, to create a better life for all three of us. Can’t you simply be happy for once?”

“You are, Elisa. You’re wonderful. It’s just that—”

“And what’s this?” she asked, snatching the carving from him, now different, but still distinctly a woman. “Do you really wish you had some other woman? What could any other woman be to you, Miguel, that I am not? Do you have some lover that you visit when you go out ‘hunting?’ Is that really what you’re doing?”

“Elisa,” Mikhael started, gently moving her from his lap so he could stand.

“Well?” She glowered at him.

“No,” he snapped at her, his temper finally breaking. “And you can verify it with Theron. He would know, though I’ll thank you not to go about putting ideas into his head. If you want any sort of peace between us, you’d better do whatever you need to in order to keep him from forcing me into something like that. Know that I’ll fight him with every last ounce of my being until either he or I go free of the other, before that happens.”

“Let go of me, Miguel!” she snapped back at him, and he suddenly realized he’d taken her by the shoulders. “You don’t need to threaten me! Do you think I want to see you with someone else? Didn’t I give up my mortality to be with you? I’ve lived for years in this filthy hole in the middle of nowhere, just to be with you. Can’t you have some sort of appreciation for any of the things I do around here? If it weren’t for me, Theron would have overshadowed you long since.”

Anger welled up within him, and he struggled to hold it back. Nothing he could say would improve the situation. Scowling, he moved to walk past her, but she grabbed his arm.

“You hold us back, Miguel. We could all live in comfort and plenty if you could just get over yourself.”

He jerked his arm out of her grasp and stalked out. Theron immediately chastised his behavior. Rude, uncaring, ungrateful, slovenly, slothful. Mikhael stumbled into a side chamber where Elisa wasn’t likely to find him, and slid to the floor under Theron’s relentless anger. Theron’s will beat against him, pushing him to withdraw, to hide from the onslaught, but Mikhael knew that every bit he gave was a bit of himself he would never regain.

Instead, he clung with a single-minded focus to the distant light of hope that waited for him on the other side of the attack, his hand tight around the handle of his carving knife. Theron couldn’t maintain his anger indefinitely. Mikhael needed only to wait out the pain. And so he bore it in stubborn silence.

Chapter 19

1757 - MARACAIBO

EMELIA STOOD BEFORE THE MIRROR in her room. Her heart made a lump in her throat as her maid fussed with her hair and Nora went on about which jewelry she should wear.

“I think you ought to wear this one; it’ll match the blue of your dress.” Nora held up yet another necklace.

Emelia barely noticed as she fiddled with the gorgeous mantilla in her hands, specially ordered from Spain for her quinceañera ball. In all her fifteen years, she’d never had so much attention paid to her. It made her uncomfortable, to say the least.

“How can you stand the excitement?” Nora continued. “After tonight, you’ll be able to court, and attend the balls and parties, and speak with all the handsome young men. And best of all, tonight they’re all here just for you. And the dancing ....” Nora sighed.

It was the dancing that had Emelia’s nerves on edge. She was sure of the steps—that would be no trouble—but ... what about dancing with Álvaro? Her heart fluttered, and she felt sick to her stomach. What if he wouldn’t dance with her?

“Emelia,” Mama said gently, taking the mantilla. “Relax. You’re beautiful and everything will be fine.”

How did she know? How could she possibly know? Mama had Papa, who loved her and was devoted to her. She never had to stand, waiting nervously for the one she wanted to speak to her, frightened that he wouldn’t and terrified that he would.

Emelia tried to focus on the ceremony, to put him from her mind. It worked right up until she stood outside the ballroom at Casa de la Cuesta and her attendants were announced before her. Finally, she was called in, escorted by her father.

After the traditional dancing and toasts, the young men and women took the floor, and Emelia was immediately sought by suitors. She smiled and thanked each one after each dance, and found that she felt she was truly herself.

During a pause, she looked for Álvaro and found him dancing with Delores Garcia. He saw her and gave a sheepish smile and winked, and it made her laugh as her most recent dance partner returned with her drink. He asked about her mirth, and she waved it away, changing topics. As they stood there, more suitors joined them one by one. Emelia blushed when she noticed, and clung to her glass, afraid of getting pounced on if she set it down.

One of the men at her side asked a question, and she turned to respond. When she turned back, Álvaro was there with his dark hair and lively green eyes, reaching for her.

“Señorita, if I may have this dance?”

Without thinking, Emelia took his hand, handing her glass to whomever would take it, and then they were on the floor. She curtsied as the music began, looking into his eyes. Had he always been taller than she? As they moved through the dance, he sang softly to her.

“I liked, but never loved, before I saw thy charming face.

Now every feature I adore, and dote on every grace.

She shall never know the kind desire which her cold look denies,

Unless my heart that’s all on fire should sparkle through my eyes.

Then, if no gentle glance return, a silent leave to speak.

My heart would forever burn, alas, I must sigh and break ....”

The dance seemed to go on forever, and every time their hands touched, it felt like magic. She tried to say something to him. Anything, really, but her heart was too full of joy at the moment to allow her to breathe, let alone speak. Instead, she soaked up the sound of his singing, the melody made just for her.

All too soon it ended, and he held his arm out to her.

“Shall we get some air?” he asked.

Emelia nodded.

As they moved toward the balcony, Abuelita Olivia angled toward them.

“That was some lovely dancing,” Abuelita said, with what sounded suspiciously like genuine approval.

Emelia raised a skeptical eyebrow. Abuelita never gave such easy praise unless she wanted something.

“Thank you.” Álvaro nodded, “but it was due mostly to my lovely and talented partner.”

“Of course,” Abuelita said as Emelia blushed. “May I be so cruel as to steal her from you for a moment?”

“If you must.” Álvaro grinned and gave Emelia a wink which said “Good luck” before continuing without her.

“What a nice young man he is turning out to be,” Abuelita said, watching him go. “Looks more like his father every day.”

Emelia nodded. There were portraits of his parents in the house, but she thought he looked a lot like his mother, too.

“How is your evening going, my dear?” her grandmother prompted.

“Well.” Emelia glanced around to see who Álvaro had paired off with.

“What has been your favorite part so far?”

“Dancing.” Emelia was already annoyed at being held up so long.

“I have been speaking with your mother, and now that you are a young lady—Emelia, are you listening?”

“Hmm?” Emelia dragged her eyes back to her grandmother.

“Your mother and I think that you should come live with me here, at Casa de la Cuesta.”

Emelia’s attention snapped to her grandmother. “What?”

“It’ll be just you and your sister at first, of course. But your mother and father will return as soon as things at the Álvarez estate are settled.”

“But why would I come here?” Emelia liked the plantation well enough, but the Álvarez hacienda was her home.

“Why, because it is your home. Your mother grew up here, and it will be her inheritance when Belo and I die, and it will be yours and Leonora’s someday, too.”

Emelia’s head spun. She’d always known, of course, that the hacienda belonged to Álvaro, but had never thought she’d need to leave. The idea was as strange as a person flying.

“What of Álvaro?” Emelia asked. “Surely he won’t want to live here.”

“And why should he?” Abuelita responded tartly. “There’s no reason he should leave his home.”

Abuelita Olivia excused herself to talk with someone else, leaving Emelia stunned. Did Álvaro know yet? What would it be like, living in a new place? Emelia searched the dancing couples for Álvaro. She needed to talk to him, her thoughts racing between excitement and trepidation.

As he turned through a form with one of his partners, she caught his eye and nodded toward the balcony. He grinned before turning back to his partner, and Emelia made her way out to wait for him.

The air outside was a nice reprieve from the warmth, bustle, and noise of the ballroom. She leaned against the banister, her back to the door, and looked at the gardens below. The pathways were lit here and there, but the moonlight cast enough light to illuminate the occasional couple strolling along the paths.

“Can you imagine the stories those gardens could tell?” she asked as Álvaro came to stand beside her.

“Probably the same story over and over.” He shrugged. They fell into a comfortable silence while inside the musicians started another song.

“Have they told you yet?” she ventured after another minute.

“Told me what?”

“We’re moving out of the hacienda, my sister and I. Mama and Papa will, too, once you’re old enough to live there alone.” She watched him, trying to gauge his reaction. He betrayed nothing as he continued to look out to the gardens.

“No, they hadn’t told me, but I always knew it would happen.”

“What do you mean?”

He leaned more heavily on his elbows before responding. “Everybody leaves eventually.”

Emelia remained quiet, knowing he had more to say and that if she spoke he wouldn’t say it.

“Muusa used to sing me songs when we were little. I sat on her lap and learned to read. She was always there when I needed someone to talk to. Until one day she wasn’t. She was”—Álvaro’s voice caught but he soldiered on—“family to me. And she left.

“Before that ....” He turned and leaned back against the banister, shaking his head.

“What?”

“Naw, it’s stupid.” He took her hand. “Come on. Let’s go dance again.”

“Not until you tell me.” She gave him a playful smile.

He gave her an appraising look. “You’ll laugh.”

“I won’t.” She made a deliberately serious face, and he grinned despite himself. Emelia touched his shoulder. “I promise I won’t.”

Álvaro tilted his head toward the sky, fidgeting with her hand. “When I was little, I used to dream that I could hear my mother singing to me in my sleep. I could never bring myself to believe that she was really gone so long as I could hear her. Sometimes I even thought I heard her when I was awake, encouraging me, and I always knew she loved me. Then, all at once, it stopped.”

“We all imagine things. Maybe you simply grew out of it—”

“I didn’t imagine it, Emelia. It just stopped, all at once, like a blanket yanked off on a chilly morning. And I knew. I knew this time that she was really gone.”

Emelia didn’t know what to say. Álvaro would never lie to her, or make up something like that but ... the idea that he’d been visited by his mother’s ghost. It made her smile.

“Well, come on then.” She took his hand. “I’m only going across town, and that’s hardly anywhere.”

She led him through the doors, and from there, he led her back to the dance floor.

THE PYRE BURNED THE corpse of the young woman Maria and Sophus had just fed from, in a hidden room with extra ventilation, saved for that purpose. Maria stood as far back from the flame as she could while still tending to it. It was a thankless, miserable task, but it was hers to do. The flames still made her stomach drop away with fear of what might happen if they touched her, but somehow, they were calming at the same time, allowing her to think.

The sickness that had run rampant among the women in their household before had never gone away, never even lessened. Hoping that giving her responsibilities would bring Maria back to herself, Sophus had given her the task of disposing of the bodies. He insisted that burning them was the only safe way to do so. This she did with the same ease, efficiency, and listlessness that she had for anything else.

Maria recalled a time not long after her return when Sophus had come to her, concerned about her health.

“You look as though you’ve had the life sucked out of you,” he’d tried to joke.

“I have,” she said simply, shrugging and staring at the wall behind him.

“Come, now. You have done great things! You helped ensure the continued freedom of the Wayuu and worked to maintain our home. You should take pride in your accomplishments,” he said, stroking her cheek.

“I have no pride.” Her voice was flat, and she ignored his advances.

“You should let me put fire back into your soul.” Sophus pulled her close to him. When she did not resist, he kissed her, deeply and passionately. But even that failed to stir any life in her. When he released her, she sagged slightly and dropped her gaze to the floor.

“It will get better with time, mi corazón,” he reassured her, lifting her chin to look into her eyes. “I can see that you are broken, and your spirit lies in pain, but it is not dead. It will come back, eventually. I can wait.”

She might have rebelled at the thought, if she had cared. But she did not.

The fire warmed her skin despite her distance from the pyre. So long as she kept her distance from the flame, she could control her fear. The fear made her feel alive, and Maria had no wish to feel at all.

She did not dream anymore, either. The last time she had pulled her courage together to face the dream world again, she had been swamped by the shadows on one side and the wall of flame on the other.

Maria hardly needed to leave her body now, anyway, to know that the spirit of the young woman stood beside her, watching her mortal shell be consumed by the flames. Sometimes the ghosts lingered; other times they rushed away to reunite with their families.

Maria never bothered trying to talk to them. Not even to the ancient shadow of the woman who wandered the halls. Once, when they had crossed paths in the halls, the woman met her gaze. Maria froze and they stared at each other for a long time, the woman scrutinizing Maria’s dead eyes.

With compassion in her face, the woman reached out as though to touch Maria’s face, and Maria jerked away. The ghost had disappeared, but Maria thought she heard the echo of the woman’s voice, a whisper through time. I’m sorry ....

“It is happening again,” Maria said out loud when the door behind her opened.

“What is?” old Wuchii asked. If she was surprised that Maria had spoken first, she did not show it.

“The influx of women has tapered off. There are more dying than joining us.” Maria’s voice remained flat. Emotionless. “Soon, Lord Sophus will go out again to stir up trouble, and I will again be his Ángel de la Muerte. It will happen again and again until there are none left.”

“No, it won’t.” Wuchii’s old, shaky voice filled with certainty.

“How can you know that?” Despair creeped into Maria's voice.

“Because, for the first time in years, I hear emotion in your voice,” Wuchii said warmly, setting her hand on Maria’s arm. “Because you will stop it.”

“What makes you think I could do anything?” Maria turned back to the flames.

“You will, because you are the last of the Zyanya line. You are destined to destroy them. And I have faith in you.” Wuchii shrugged and walked away.

Maria stood alone, watching the fire until it died. What did her being Zyanya have to do with anything? She shook her head. It had been years. It was clear in the faces of the women around her. Most of the women who’d been here when Maria had first come were dead, and the ones who remained had aged considerably, Wuchii being the most prominent example. Maria feared that her old friend wouldn’t be around for more than a few more years. Even Iráma was showing her age, her confident step a little less sure, her movements a little less graceful, and her dark hair long since streaked with gray.

But Maria had remained the same, frozen in perfection at twenty years old. How old would she have been had she not changed? Thirty? Forty? The years flew by so quickly, and she had long since lost track. Maria returned to her room, lost in thought.

There was a knock on the door and Maria glanced up as Iráma let herself in.

“Wuchii tells me there is life in you again,” Iráma stated, closing the door behind her.

“The cycle is repeating but I don’t want to do it again,” Maria confessed to her aged friend. They stood in silence for a while until Maria continued. “I saw them, Iráma. I saw the spirits of the dead before I left. So many of them were men I had killed. They follow me still, and I can feel them in the corners, waiting in the shadows. Their blood stains my hands.” Maria held up her clean, pale hands to show her friend.

“I know.” Iráma took a seat next to Maria, putting her arm around her shoulders. “You must do what needs to be done. You are our only hope of freedom. If not for us, then for our children, and if not our children, then our children’s children. When the time is right, you will free us.”

“How?” Maria could not keep the hopelessness out of her voice. “I could never beat Sophus in a match of physical strength, nor could I outmaneuver him in a battle of wits.”

“After all these years, you know more of your opponent than you give yourself credit for. Things will come together in your favor. You will see.” Iráma gave Maria’s shoulders a squeeze, as much as one could squeeze a rock.

“And even if I did get Sophus out of the way, what of Theron? He controls the bodies of three, where I am only one.”

“Then you will simply need to even the odds.”

Maria stood, looking back at Iráma. “How? I feel like such a child, so sheltered and ignorant.”

“When one of our people needs advice, they seek the wisdom of a village elder. In your case, there is only one who could help you.” Iráma gave her a cryptic smile.

Maria thought about all the elders she had known; most of them were probably dead by now. Which one could possibly know anything about vampires or have the skills to help her destroy them?

Amused at Maria’s puzzlement, Iráma stood and walked to the door. She paused and turned back to Maria. “You really can’t think of one?”

Maria shook her head.

“Why, the Old One, of course.” Iráma chuckled and left, shutting the door behind her and leaving Maria alone.

Maria felt a flicker of light flash in the darkness of her life. Did she mean Kasha? But where would she find her? One of the villages, probably, though a random guess at where would be as good as any. For the first time in nearly a decade, Maria’s spirit lifted her head from the floor in her mind, eyeing the scrap of light flickering through the looming shades.

She could still feel the blood, fresh and flowing across her hands, and the heat of the fire of her sins scorching her back. For the first time, rather than hide from it, Maria ignored it, imagining a wall of ice, as cold as her heart, guarding her back. Might there be hope after all? Perhaps Kasha would have some answers, but if she didn’t ....

Maria shrank from the thought that she might never be free. The light within guttered like a candle in the wind. What if her hope was false? What if the pain of the deaths she had caused never ceased?

But what if it worked?

She had to try, didn’t she? The light within stabilized. Maria stood straight and looked out at the world with her head held high, her emotions still held in check behind a still-solidifying wall.

What if it worked?

Maria put her hair up with more care than she had for a long time. She donned a dress she had no memory of having worn before and matching jewelry that she couldn’t remember receiving. It was time.

She walked along the hall towards Sophus’s chambers, and the women stopped what they were doing to stare. Most had never seen her like this before, full of life and purpose. It was an astonishing difference from the ghost of a woman, haunted and sad, whom they had always seen before. Her eyes, perhaps, were still haunted, but they were the eyes of a woman determined to free herself from her prison.

Maria didn’t knock on Sophus’s doors but pushed them both open so they crashed on the walls behind her. It felt good to use some strength again. She glanced around for the master of the lair, but he was not in the room. Undeterred, Maria strode to the door of his bedchamber and knocked loudly, careful to not dent the hardwood.

“Lord Sophus, I would like to speak with you,” she said. “I will be out in the pastures when you are ready.” She turned on her heel and strode across the room. She hadn’t made it to the hall when she heard the bedchamber open. Pausing, she turned back to see Sophus close the door behind him, immaculately dressed and his blond tresses curling carelessly, beautifully, down his neck.

“You know I don’t like to be in the sun.” He smiled as he approached.

“You may not, but I do. I’ve spent far too much time these past years moping inside this cave,” she said flippantly. She had to stay distracted from the pain that still threatened behind the wall in her mind.

“It is good to have you back, Maria.” He took her hand and kissed it gently. “What is it that you would like to speak with me about?”

“Though I have been lost in my own world for so long, I have been unable to help but notice that, once again, our income is less than our outgoing,” Maria said briskly.

“Alas, it is true. I was planning to leave later today, in fact, to start meeting with the villages. I had decided not to take you as it disagreed with you so very much the last time.” Sophus raised an eyebrow at her.

“I am going with you, and you will not be able to stop me,” Maria said with what she hoped was more of a playful smile than a threatening one.

“I wouldn’t want to stop you even if I could. I do so love your company.” Sophus pulled her close and kissed her. The words Iráma had spoken earlier ran through Maria’s head. You must do what needs to be done. And she let him.

Chapter 20

1759 – SANTA MARTA

LUSH, GREEN JUNGLES covered the tall mountains that rose above Santa Marta like a Persian carpet. The clear blue waters of the Caribbean lapped against white, sandy beaches to the north of the bustling port town, shimmering with the colors of the sunset. Elisa ran ahead, stripping off her shoes and stockings, to reach the water’s edge and run through the surf. Mikhael followed along more slowly, picking up Elisa’s discarded items and shaking the sand from them. He was half-tempted to leave them, hoping they’d be washed out to sea and that he’d be the one to chide her about being careless this time.

Except that things don’t work that way for me, he thought, shoving her shoes into the sack he carried. Elisa would be angry he hadn’t thought to pick them up, and would complain to Theron, who then would come after him for his carelessness. Probably make him swim out into the surf to try and find them, laughing at him all the while. Mikhael’s stomach clenched at the thought of Theron’s attention, and he forced himself to take even breaths and focus instead on the colors of the sunset.

Mikhael watched Elisa play in the surf and pick up shells, tossing the occasional starfish back into the water. He longed for such a moment of carelessness, of release. To feel the sand beneath his feet, the way the grains slid out from beneath him with the warmth of each subsequent wave retreated back to the ocean. To simply stand and let go of everything, to truly relax and have peace. To be alone in the silence of his own mind.

Will you never stop dreaming of freedom? Theron scoffed. She has given in to the reality of her life, and see how much joy she finds in it. You do nothing for her but weigh her down, dragging her along the ocean bottom like a barnacle-encrusted anchor.

Mikhael stilled his mind rather than responding. Confronting Theron was as useless as trying to hold back the sea with palm leaves. The creature was like a hornet’s nest; so long as Mikhael didn’t antagonize it there would be no further attack. Most of the time, anyway.

Mikhael continued to walk along the beach behind Elisa while the last of the sunlight glinted across the cresting waves. Before him, the waning crescent moon hung in the velvety sky, unreachable as ever. Not unlike the candle of hope his dark angel kept alive in his mind.

He touched his pocket, feeling the contours of the pendant that lay within and looked at the moon. Will you ever return to me, mi morena?

“Miguel!” Elisa’s sharp voice cut through his thoughts, and he looked over at his golden-haired companion. She held her hand out impatiently. “Come take these already, I can’t hold everything!”

Nodding, he caught up to her. She waited impatiently while he took the handful of shells and dropped them into the sack he carried. For a moment, he considered suggesting they dive for pearls. It would be an easy thing with their enhanced vision and ability to stay underwater as long as they chose. But no, it wouldn’t be ‘them’ but ‘him.’

Mikhael could already hear how she would protest doing actual manual labor. Oh, my hair would get all salty. I can’t, my dress would be ruined. Oh dreadful day, I might chip a nail!

Theron chuckled at Mikhael’s thought. That’s not a half-bad idea.

Except I don’t know the first thing about pearl hunting. That, and Elisa would never give up any pearls we found.

True, Theron said, thoughtful. She’d probably become preoccupied with them and then that is all she’d ever talk about.

She can be quite single minded. Mikhael agreed, taking the next handful from Elisa.

You have no idea.

For a moment, Mikhael almost felt sympathy for his captor, but Theron brushed the emotion roughly aside and turned his focus back to Elisa. Mikhael looked back up at the sliver of moon, now surrounded by the first, shy stars of the evening. He ought to simply let it go. He had not really hoped to see the woman from his vision for ... well, for a long time, anyway, though he still kept the pendant always on his person.

The dark angel had guided him through rough spots. He’d held on to his sanity by thinking of her, but she was like the moon. Only observable from a distance, and entirely unreachable. She was only a memory, and one he ought to let go of.

Was he better off trying to find what peace he could in the existence he was trapped in? The future stretched out before him, plain and colorless as the white beach he stood on, stretching off toward the horizon, endlessly the same. But perhaps with less pain.

Distant laughter reached them from the bank, and Elisa straightened. Mikhael could feel the change in her energy, the tensing of her muscles at the thought of food. He stepped in front of her, ignoring the warm water that lapped at his boots, and gently took her arm.

“Let’s wait and see what comes,” he whispered to her, blocking her view of the bank. She looked abruptly up at him, and he could see in her eyes that she cared more about him touching her than about their potential prey. Abashed, he slid his hand into hers, entwining their fingers. He hadn’t held her hand for years. What a fool he’d been to think she hadn’t noticed.

Hating himself, he stepped around behind her so that she stood, held in his arms before him, as they watched the laughing couple run onto the otherwise deserted beach. The young woman wore her dark hair loose and clearly only had eyes for her beau. Laughing and holding each other up, they removed their shoes and socks and dropped them heedlessly onto the sand. Then, hand in hand, they took off, chasing each other through the shallow surf.

Mikhael held Elisa tight, hoping to keep her mind off chasing the couple down. Something about them touched him. Their stories should not end on a night like this. He set his head on Elisa’s shoulder and whispered to her. “Were we ever that young?”

Elisa laughed. “What are you talking about? We will always be that young.” She turned toward him, but he loosened his hold on her and led her back up the bank. He kept hold of her hand, and she followed him willingly.

“Do you ever regret it?” he asked when she stopped to replace her shoes and stockings. “Following me, I mean?”

“Why would I?” She arched her brow at him. “You’re mine, I would follow you anywhere.”

“I mean what you gave up.” He took her hand and helped her up. “Living, having children, growing old together.”

This time her laugh was harsh. “Childbearing is nothing but torture, and for what? A whining, mewling brat to always demand your attention. Why would I want to destroy my body for a child? And growing old is no better. With you, like this, I am eternally young. Free from illness or pain or even death.” She turned toward him and stroked his cheek. “There is nothing I regret. Here, like this, I have everything.”

Mikhael slipped his hand into his pocket as they returned to their rented room. The image of the young woman and her beau kept coming back to him. The way they had laughed together, oblivious to the world around him, pricked at his heart.

Elisa really was fine with things as they were.

“DID YOU ACCEPT?” LEONORA bounced into the room, either unable or unwilling to control her excitement.

Emelia was unable to repress a grin and kept her eyes firmly on the sampler she was embroidering.

“You did! You did! Are you going to be married? Will I get to dance?”

“I thought you didn’t like Don José.”

“Is that who it was?” Leonora made a face and dropped into the sofa beside her sister. “I thought Roberto was coming today. I like him; he brought me flowers one time.”

Emelia laughed. “I don’t think you care who I marry; you just want to get to dance at a ball.”

“That’s not true.” But Leonora blushed anyway.

“It never is when you’re involved, Norita,” Abuelita Olivia said, sweeping into the room, as large as life, as always. She took a seat across from Emelia. “So, did he make an offer?”

“He did, but I turned it down.”

“I’m glad of it,” Abuelita Olivia said. “Roberto is nice enough, but I don’t believe he’d have it in him to run so large an estate as this.”

“But what if she loved him?” Leonora asked.

Abuelita Olivia sighed. “Love is a grand thing. If set up right in the beginning it will age well, but if not, it becomes nothing but vinegar.”

“I shall marry for love,” Leonora mused, oblivious to Abuelita Olivia’s words. “He’ll be wonderful and smart and kind and so handsome.”

“How is Belo today?” Emelia asked, trying to be tactful.

Abuelita Olivia’s lips formed a tight smile. “As well as can be expected. Thank goodness I’ve your father here to run things.”

Emelia nodded and Abuelita Olivia went on. “This old house ... Did I ever tell you that I was raised in Spain? In fact, I had no intention of ever coming to the colonies until I met your grandfather. Even then, I refused him. He had to offer me all this before I came.”

Mama entered the room as Abuelita Olivia finished. “You’re not going on about Spain again, are you?”

“And what if I am? You can’t go around telling an old woman that she can’t miss her home.”

“You’re not old,” Leonora piped up. “You’re still too pretty to be old.”

“Bless you, child.” Abuelita Olivia gestured Leonora to her side. “I shall have to take you with me if I ever go back, I think, simply to keep me feeling young.”

“Would you really, Abuelita? Would you really take me to Spain?”

Abuelita Olivia smiled. “Absolutely. It would be good to see my family home again. We may even get a chance to present you to the crown.”

“Now, Mama,” Emelia’s mother cut in. “Don’t make promises to my girls that you’ve no intention of keeping.”

Abuelita Olivia gave Emelia’s mother a sharp look. “I have promised nothing yet, but you listen here, all three of you. If I go back to Spain while there is breath in my lungs, all three of you have a place beside me. That is a promise.”

Emelia’s mother sighed as Leonora began spouting questions to Abuelita Olivia. What would Spain be like? she wondered. Certainly bigger and more beautiful than Maracaibo. How would it be to visit a place where everything is both strange and familiar?

ELISA RAN HER FINGERS along the smooth edges of the dressing gown. Its deep green silk flowed across her skin like water. It fit her loosely; it was Miguel’s after all. She pulled the robe more tightly around herself, knotting the sash at her hip so that the collar draped loose across her shoulders. Turning in front of the mirror, she smoothed the cloth down, admiring the way it accentuated her curves and offset the gold of her carefully coiffed hair.

We should order hand-painted silk from the East, she told Theron with one last glance in the mirror.

We could, perhaps. Theron stroked the back of her mind, and she leaned into it like a cat. But you might have to be less of a spendthrift for a while, my dear.

Elisa laughed, setting her hand on the doorknob. What is money for except to be spent? Besides, Miguel enjoys working. I provide the dinner; he provides me a fitting lifestyle.

Yes, you have quite the domestic arrangement there.

Elisa tsked playfully at Theron’s wry tone. It’s hardly fitting that I have to tell you patience, when you’re the one always keeping me in balance. We’re nearly finished here, and I’ll be back with you.

“Señora?” A man’s nervous voice called from the other side of the door. “Are you all right?”

Elisa pushed open the door. “I am quite well.”

The man stepped back, gaping at her in shock. Like a fish out of water. At least he doesn’t stink like one. He appears well enough off. Do you suppose if I played with him a bit, he’d order me hand-painted silk?

You don’t think anyone would be suspicious of his sudden demise?

Elisa sauntered over to him, swaying her hips as she slid the silk sash between her fingers. “What about you? Are you well?”

The man took another step back at her approach, his heartbeat accelerating. “I ... I am. Thank you,” the man stuttered. The scents of fear and excitement mingled and rose off him. “I’m afraid you mistake my intent.”

“No,” she said sweetly. He edged around a side table, cornering himself. “I believe you have mistaken mine.”

She stepped closer to him, their bodies nearly touching. The man held his hat to his chest, as though such a silly thing could protect him. She could practically taste the heat rising from him. She reached out and ran her fingers through his hair. Where is my little sea dog, anyhow? He’ll miss all the fun and his dinner will be cold if he doesn’t hurry up.

Theron chuckled, his voice smug. I’ve been prodding him along. I wouldn’t want to miss the drama. He is coming up the steps now.

Elisa drew her finger down the man’s ear and slid her hand behind his neck, her throat constricting at the warmth of his flesh. The man held his breath, pressed as far back against the wall as he could manage. She leaned in to kiss his jaw as she heard Miguel unlock the front door. She slid her lips along his warm, trembling cheek toward his lips, and the sound of the door shutting echoed down the hall.

Feigning utter surprise, Elisa jumped away from the man. “Oh no! My husband has returned early!’ She grabbed his wrist and dragged him into the small closet. “You must hide in here while I deal with him.”

“But I...!”

“Hush you must not talk or make a sound,” she whispered, clutching his hand to her chest. “My husband has a great temper, and we shall both suffer if he finds you here. Worry not, for I know this will all end for the best.”

Elisa pulled him forward and kissed him full on the lips while he flailed helplessly. The moment he began to relax she pulled away and shoved him into the closet, barring the door.

“Elisa?” Miguel entered the room.

Elisa spun around, blocking the closet door with a sultry pose. “Yes?”

He raised his eyebrow at her, and she straightened, carefully arranging the robe to keep one shoulder revealed. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, dropping onto a chair.

Well, if he wasn’t going to ask, she’d just have to prod him along. Elisa draped herself across his lap, her arms around his neck. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m all dressed up?”

“Dressed up doesn’t quite seem like the right way to put it.” Miguel reached across her and covered her exposed shoulder, pulling the robe modestly closed.

She leaned closer to him, putting her hand through his dark hair, and whispered. “I thought we could share a snack.”

Exhaling, he took her hands and set them in her lap. “You’ve brought someone here?”

Finally. He’s a little slow some days! Elisa smiled at him, keeping her voice low. “We’ve been getting on so much better the last couple months. I thought I’d surprise you.”

He moved his hands, far more solid and firm than any mortal’s, to her back and knees. He stood, lifting her into the air, and she preened. Success!

Theron watched, unusually quiet, but Elisa sensed his amusement.

Miguel set Elisa on her feet, and stepped away. “We’re not supposed to bring people here, you know that.”

Elisa pursed her lips. That was not how this was supposed to go. Couldn’t he smell the adrenaline in the room? Wisps hung in the air like an expensive perfume. She reached out for him. “We won’t be here much longer, my dear husband. What’s the harm of dining in before we go?”

Miguel brushed aside her hand. “I have no interest in the extra work it will make for us. You never think about the future, Elisa.”

How dare he accuse me of that! Elisa crossed her arms. “How can you say that, standing there in this elegant room, in your fancy clothes? Until I came around, you were still in the shreds you died in. It was my desire, my will, my planning that brought you all that you have.”

Miguel gave a disdainful snort. “And that’s just it. You can’t see anything beyond you. Your desire, your will, your plans. There is nothing else in the world beyond you!”

“Just because you’re not intelligent enough to see—”

“I’ll tell you what I see.” Miguel’s voice rose over hers. He’d never shouted at her, not really, and for a moment she was shocked into silence as he ranted. “I see that you love this life. You love the power and the sadistic games he has you play. And I see that you remain blind. Ever blind to the reality of your existence.”

This dance she knew. “Let’s not start that one again, Miguel. You’ve worn such a deep rut in the mud of your mind that you can’t get out of it. We’re prisoners, we need to escape, life is terrible, Theron is evil.” Elisa walked past him, pushing him daintily on the chest so that he tripped on the couch and dropped to a seat. “And then Theron will beat you nearly senseless until I step in and calm him down, and then you remember your place. Please, it is so tedious. Can we skip to the end?”

“No, Elisa, this time it isn’t about him. It’s about you. And it’s about me.” Miguel stood and grabbed her wrists, and she let out a squeak of protest. Cue the other fool.

The closet door rattled, and out jumped the man. “Unhand her, you fiend!”

Miguel rolled his eyes and dropped her hands. “Leave now, and I’ll pretend you weren’t here alone with her.”

The man hesitated, his fear nearly overpowering his adrenaline. She so loved courageous fools.

“Not until I know she’ll be safe! You speak of such strange things, and I fear you will lead her—”

Miguel stepped forward, grabbing the man by his collar and lifting him off the floor. “I said get out, or the next breath you take will be your last.”

The man’s courage gave way to fear, and Elisa’s mouth began to water. Miguel tossed the man gently toward the door. He scrambled to his feet and Elisa lunged toward her prey, but Miguel tackled her. She fought him, struggling to break free of his solid grasp, as the man bolted through the front door.

You couldn’t have stopped him? she sent to Theron, annoyed.

And what fun would that have been? You’ve been trying to get his arms around you for months, and here you are.

Elisa sent him an eyeroll, and stilled in Miguel’s arms, twisting around to face him. “So, you had something to say about you and me?”

Miguel immediately let her go and stood.

She reached her hand up to him. “Won’t you help a lady up?”

“I’m not all that convinced you’re a lady.” He pulled her to her feet.

She batted her eyelashes at him, letting the robe fall from her shoulder again. “What would you call me then?”

“A vixen.” He pulled the robe over her shoulder. “Or perhaps a snake.”

Elisa pulled the robe tightly around herself, her mood soured by her unfilled hunger. “You sure know how to give a compliment.” She took a seat on the couch, crossed her legs, and glared. He needed to know he had messed up. Again.

“Look, Elisa, I wanted to be gentle about this.” He took a seat in the chair across from her and leaned forward. Always trying to be so sweet and kind after a show of temper. Like clockwork.

“Spit it out already, Miguel.” Elisa looked out the window, wondering if she could still track down the man tonight.

“I’m done.”

She looked at Miguel sharply. “Excuse me?”

He stood, his hand in his hair and began pacing the room. “We’re done.”

“Of course we are, that’s why I had dinner all planned out for us. We’re leaving.” Honestly, he had such a knack for stating the obvious.

He swept back to her and knelt, taking her hand. “I mean us. Please try to understand, Elisa. I’ve been fighting with this for so many years. I’ve tried to make it work. I’ve really tried.”

What is he babbling about? Elisa wanted to pull her hand away so he’d stop, but at the same time, she loved the way it felt when he touched her, even if it was just her hand.

“You and me, Elisa. I’m sorry. I simply can’t do this anymore.”

“You’re trying to leave me?” Elisa snorted, incredulous. “As if you can. Do you realize how absurd you are, Miguel? You can’t even keep your arguments straight. For years, you go on about how trapped you are, and you think that suddenly, easy as a couple words, you can be rid of me?”

Miguel sat back on his heels, his face hardening as she stood.

“And now out of nowhere you think that, because you’re unhappy in your marriage, you could what? Appeal to Theron’s kind and loving nature, and he’ll just let you go?” She spun and glared at Miguel, reaching for Theron’s touch. He pulsed in her mind and in her soul, solid and reassuring. “Or did you think to turn him against me? That he’d just cut me loose? I, who makes him laugh, and smile? I, who brings joy into his very existence? You’re a fool, Miguel, to think you’ll ever be free of either of us.”

Miguel stood and shook his head, his voice hard. “I’ve been a prisoner for as long as I can remember. I don’t know what circumstances brought us together, and I’ve done my best to live up to what you’ve expected of me. But I can’t lie anymore. Not to myself, and not to you. Our marriage is a farce.”

Elisa’s chest went cold. “Don’t.”

“I’ll keep doing my best to do right by you. It’s my fault you’re in this life, and I will pay for that, but I’m sorry Elisa.”

“Don’t say it.”

“I don’t love you.”

The words hung in the air between them. Elisa felt like the air had been sucked from the room. How could he say such a thing?

She searched his eyes. His stupid, honest eyes. He believed it.

He broke eye contact and turned to go.

“I won’t do it anymore,” she whispered, fire filling her chest.

He paused, his hand on the door frame.

“I won’t interfere between you and him anymore.”

Miguel’s head dropped.

“You’ll feel the full force of his anger and I won’t do a thing about it.”

Miguel looked back at her, his lips tight, and shook his head. “I don’t care.”

He walked into the hall and out the door, and she ran after him shouting. “You will care! You’ll come to me, begging for my help! And you’ll grovel at my feet, saying how much you love me before I’ll help you again!”

The night swallowed him before her voice had faded. He’d go to his stupid boat and sulk there. Let him be hungry, what did she care? She had escaped prey to find.

Chapter 21

1761 – GUAJIRA PENINSULA

“THERE IS SOMETHING I don’t understand,” Maria said as they travelled toward the first village.

“What is that, mi corazón?” Sophus asked, his voice cheery.

“If the only time you visited the villages was to sow the seeds of discontent and rile them up to war, wouldn’t they get suspicious?”

“No doubt they would assume my coming was an ill omen,” he agreed.

“Yet they seem to always welcome you.”

“Do you really believe that I would chance them coming to see me as a harbinger of evil?” Sophus cast her an amused smile.

“So you have been to visit them since then, without me?” Maria could hardly believe it.

“Of course. I couldn’t very well have brought you along, acting the way you were. We are practically gods to them, and a god with such gloom about her as you have had these many years would certainly put them ill at ease.”

He’s right, of course, Maria admitted to herself.

“We’ve actually been behind on our stock for some years now, though I’m glad you finally noticed it. I’ve been trying to nudge them toward another rebellion, and Theron’s coven has been working in the towns, but we’ve both run into problems.” Irritation rose in Sophus’s voice.

“What could possibly keep the Spanish from continuing their conquest?” Maria asked, genuinely surprised.

“The Spaniards are afraid of the land; they claim a demon steals the souls of the fallen. I am hoping that by now there is a crop of men young enough to not remember the last rebellion and restless enough not to believe the stories.”

“And the Wayuu?”

“The Wayuu are waiting for a messenger from the land of their fathers.”

Maria’s step faltered.

Sophus glanced sideways at her as she caught herself. “I suspect the two are related.”

“I don’t know about the Wayuu messenger, but I am certain the demon the Spaniards speak of is me. They took to calling me the Ángel de la Muerte, because there was not a single man who felt my touch and lived.”

Sophus stopped in mid-stride and turned to her angrily. “You let them see you? You were not supposed to let them know you were involved! For centuries, I have doled out their deaths and they never suspected. Now they know it was you!”

“I never engaged in the battles.” Her anger flared defensively. Anger protected her, kept her from thinking of what she did not wish to remember. “You sent me there to be a butcher, and that was what I did. At sunset, any man left alive on the battlefield died. No doubt, many of them could have survived if it weren’t for me. I even killed the sickest ones in the camps.” Maria’s voice turned bitter. “I did what you instructed. I helped them die.”

They stood in silence, glaring at each other, each sizing the other up. Finally, after what seemed an eternity to Maria, a slow smile spread over Sophus’s face.

“I believe we may be able to turn this to our advantage,” he said, half to himself. “Come, mi corazón. They will be waiting for us.”

Maria took a moment to calm down before hurrying after him. It had been so long since she had felt anything. She had forgotten how powerful her emotions were, how deep the anger and hate could run. That morning she had been numb, hiding in the darkness from the horror of what she had done so long ago. If she played her cards right, she would not be the Ángel de la Muerte again.

As they neared the village, the silence felt uncanny. Where before the villagers had rushed out bearing gifts, this time they waited solemnly outside their homes as the vampires passed. Most surprising, for Maria, was that they allowed their children to be seen, by way of little faces peeking out at them from behind the walls.

“How long have they been like this?” Maria asked too quietly for any but Sophus to hear.

“This is the first time,” he replied as they reached the home of the village elder. They stopped and stood before it, waiting to be greeted. Despite how he tried to keep it hidden, Maria could sense Sophus’s annoyance. They were small tells. A tightening in the eyes. A twitch of his wrist. How long would he suffer the lack of deference before sweeping in and making himself at home? Just as she was sure he would make his move, they heard a movement within, a shuffling of old and weary feet. It took a few minutes, but eventually a man, old beyond reason, stepped out to greet them.

Once the formalities had been observed, at a pace so painfully slow that Maria would have laughed at Sophus’s discomfort had she not feared his anger, the old man gestured for them to come inside. Before he had even finished the gesture, Sophus had settled himself within, his speed mocking the frailty of the mortal.

Maria gave their host a thoughtful look, entering at a more respectful speed. What might a man like Sophus learn, if he were as frail as the elder before her? What might he experience, if death were as certain as the rising sun, as it was for the old man? As it was for any mortal?

Maria thought of the young spirit-soldier who had spoken to her after his death, before the others had surrounded her. He had spoken of peace and rest. Perhaps that was what she had given up—the chance to assuage her fears by learning of that which was unknown. Roughly, she pushed the thoughts back behind the wall. She didn’t want to think about that, to feel about that.

“We have been waiting for you,” a younger village elder said to Maria, abruptly pulling her from her thoughts.

“For me?” she asked.

Everyone in the room nodded solemnly.

“You are the messenger from our fathers, the one we have been waiting for,” another one said.

Sophus raised an eyebrow at Maria.

“I don’t understand.” She begged silently for him to believe her.

“You have spoken with the dead.”

“It is you who will lead us to victory.”

“It is for you we have been waiting.”

The elders spoke, their statements overlapping, but only barely, making it feel like a single, continuous thought.

“No,” Maria said, shaking her head as the old fear rose of what Sophus might do if he knew her to be Wayuu. “You are mistaken. I’m not who you think I am.”

“But you are,” the oldest one croaked. “You were seen, ten years ago, assisting our warriors on their way to the lands of their fathers, and on the last day, you spoke with them. Even now you are surrounded by spirits of the dead.”

Maria was stunned into silence. She hadn’t thought anyone on the battlefield had seen her so clearly. How did the elders know she had spoken with the spirits? Everyone she had seen that last day was dead. She felt a moment of panic as the emotions she had penned up surged forward and tried to break through her barriers. Scowling, Maria shoved back, forcing the thoughts, emotions, and fears back into their place.

Sophus raised an eyebrow at her. “Is this true?” he asked in Castilian, too low and quick for the mortals’ ears. When she nodded slightly, he continued. “There appears to be much you have kept from me, mi corazón.”

“It is decided, then,” the eldest continued. “We follow you; if you would have us to war, then to war we shall go. The preparations will begin tonight.”

Maria and Sophus were alone in the home of the elder, each with their own flask of goat’s blood.

“That was amazingly easy,” Sophus declared smugly. “I should have made use of their own legends long ago, rather than creating my own. Tell me though, my dear, have you really seen the spirits of the dead?”

“I think so.” Maria had no interest in discussing it with him.

“Well? Tell me about it,” he prodded. “What do they say?”

“I only spoke with one,” she said reluctantly. “He told me he was going to the land of the dead, and then he left.”

“But what about the ones who follow you? What do they say?”

“I ....” Maria’s voice caught in her throat at the thought of going back to the dream world. She felt vulnerable there, afraid. There was no place there to hide, not from the shades nor from the fire that sought her. The place had once been her refuge, and it had turned to a place of fear. “I’ve never spoken to them. I haven’t been to the dream world since before I returned.”

“Truly?” he asked, astonished. “Yes, I can see that you are telling it true. That is remarkable.”

They both fell back into a brooding silence. Sophus gazed at his flask of blood, and Maria stared blankly at the wall of the elder’s home, her mind wandering. She thought she could see them, surrounding her. She thought she could feel them pulling at the barriers in her mind. Abruptly she shook her head and stood.

“I’m going for a walk.” She stepped out into the sunlight. “I’ll see you tonight at the fire.”

Maria managed to keep the ghosts at bay throughout the day by watching the wildlife and exploring the land. She made some discreet inquiries of where she might find the Old One, but the villagers only shook their heads. The Old One would not be found here.

Maria refused to get to know any of the villagers for fear that she might yet end up killing one of their beloved in the upcoming battles, or, just as upsetting, that they might come to Sophus and she herself would kill them.

As night fell, Maria relaxed. The darkness held far less to think about than the light. Silently, she joined the village around the celebratory bonfire. Standing at the outskirts of the crowd, she watched the dancers call on the spirits of their forefathers and listened to the stories of the ancients and the magical creatures that made the Earth the way it was.

The images that danced for her in the flames reminded Maria of a night, years ago. Little black-and-gold plumed Si’a had led her through the spirit world to her husband. She had seen him, and he had seen her. How she missed Miguel! For a moment, Maria thought she again saw Si’a flitting playfully in the flames, beckoning her forward.

That she might search him out once more made her heart ache with longing.

That she might find him, perhaps even to touch him, if only for a moment, pulled her toward the dream world.

The spirits that followed her hemmed her in on every side, pushing her toward the waiting flames. She could go straight, into the heart of the fire, but the searing heat kept her back every time her heart reached out for her beloved.

Finally, the painful night of longing brightened to the dawn, and she and Sophus moved on.

Each village echoed their experience in the first, with the solemnity and the promise to follow Maria, and the lack of information on the Old One. Each night at their fires, she suffered through the longing to find her husband with Si’a beckoning her into the flames. And each time, the fear and pain kept her trapped within herself.

When they approached the final village on their route, Maria recognized it as her mother’s. If the villagers recognized her as one of them, they made no show of it, and she made none in return. By evening Maria still could not find anyone who knew how she could find the Old One.

So where is she? Maria needed the woman’s help, if she was even still alive. Perhaps if Maria could find her, and if she could speak with her without Sophus around, Maria would have better luck.

“My old nursemaid was from this village,” she said idly to Sophus. The words came to her without thought. Though she couldn’t actually remember her nursemaid—Nana, the name came to her—and the statement rang true.

“Indeed,” he said without interest.

“I haven’t seen her yet, but I’d like to try to find her. At least find out what happened to her, before we’re expected by the fire.” Memories began to fill in her mind. An old woman brushing her hair, teasing her, teaching her to work, to speak her mother’s tongue. Holding Maria’s newborn son—

“If you must.” Sophus sighed. “Actually, I have some business to attend in the city and will likely not return for a month or so. Besides, I don’t think I could stand listening to those dull stories yet again. Stay as long as you like. If they take to battle before I return, I will expect you to stay and do your duty like you did before.”

“Of course, my lord,” she said demurely.

“What a woman you are.” He stroked her cheek. “I shall miss you while you are gone.” He pulled her close to him and kissed her deeply, and then was gone into the night.

When she was certain he wasn’t coming back, she spat and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“I’m glad you think so,” said a voice from the darkness.

Maria spun around to see who had spoken. The scent was human but not quite, a woman of great age yet not old. The woman Maria had come to find.

“Nana.”

Chapter 22

THE NIGHT HELD FEW MYSTERIES for Maria’s enhanced eyes, yet despite their power, the darkness still robbed her of a sense of true color. Sophus had never said it explicitly, but she knew that the vast richness of color and movement that their eyes picked up so easily was largely the reason he disliked being out in the sunlight. In a very real way, their home of rock, stone, and reflected sunlight was a haven for them, the colors less vibrant, the sunlight less direct, and the surroundings holding far fewer distractions. Maria, however, found it disconcerting.

There were few things Maria enjoyed more than sight, in all its rich detail. She was especially fond of finding patterns in nature and reveled as much in the beauty of the natural world as in masterful works of art in any form. The darkness, by the simple virtue of the lack of physical light, stole much of the vibrant dimension of color from Maria’s sight. Thus, when she saw Nana for the first time in so very long, she wasn’t sure she believed her own sight.

Nana—Kasha, Maria realized—remained where she stood, just far enough away that any human would never have seen her in the starlight. She stood straight, and her elegantly simple, flowing dress hung to her ankles, and her long, pale hair hung loose to her knees. She held her head high, her eyes sparkling with life and her face unworn by the passing years.

For a long time, neither moved. Nana looked down at her from the distance, appraising her, unsure if she could be trusted.

As you should, Maria hissed as rage rose inside her, filling in the memories she’d thought lost. Nana had pushed her toward Sophus, every time she had thought to turn back. Nana had shown her Miguel’s death and then turned around and filled her with hope that he was still alive. When Maria had realized that her place was with her son, Nana had stolen her infant from her, lied about his death, and then, when Maria was at her most vulnerable, Nana had pushed her into Sophus’s path.

Grinding her teeth, Maria recalled the ways Nana had manipulated her all those years ago. But she needed her help now. Maria could never free the forces that entrapped her without Nana’s help. She sensed that if she moved wrong, if she moved at all, Nana would disappear back into the night, and she might never see her again. The thought that this last chance to stop the pain, to understand why she was here, might be lost forever, filled her with despair.

“Why?” Maria finally broke the silence, but so quietly that Nana should not have been able to hear.

“Because I had to.” Nana’s quiet voice carried to Maria’s ears as though they stood beside one another. “The same as you.”

“Because I had to?” Maria’s voice quavered. “You betrayed me. You sent me to my death.”

“I had no choice.” Nana still sounded like she might flee at any moment, though her body appeared relaxed.

“There is always a choice,” Maria cried out, holding back the hysteria.

“Just as there was for you and the men whose lives you ended?”

Ice swept across Maria’s rage, smothering it. “I had no—I couldn’t—Sophus, he ... forced me.”

“There is always a choice.” Nana spat Maria’s words back at her.

Maria swallowed her anger and bowed to the woman. “I have need of your assistance, Old One.” She hoped desperately that Nana would still be there when she looked up. What would she do if her only hope for understanding what was going on, her only hope for guidance, her only real connection to her past, didn’t want to help?

“I don’t know what to do! Nana, please help me,” she pleaded, her eyes still on the ground.

Silence filled her ears as an eternity passed away waiting for something to happen. Maria longed to crumple to the ground, for human frailty to allow her to give in to her despair, but after two decades, she knew that her body did only what her mind commanded.

Maria longed to curl up and cry, but after so long, she knew that there would be no tears, nothing—a hollow emptiness rather than any sense of solace.

No, she would not give in. She would remain prostrate, begging a strange old woman for assistance. She had nothing but time.

Another eternity passed, and Maria began crying anyway, though no tears stained her face and no sound came from her mouth. The first set of carefully constructed barriers that Maria had built around herself burst, and she was flooded with all the emotions she had hidden from for nearly a decade.

Her soul cried out in pain, anguish, and hopelessness. Her body did not move, but mentally she pulled in on herself, holding her arms around her sides, kneeling and bent over on the ground, oppressed by the weight of bloody guilt that covered her. There was no help, there was no hope, there was no redemption. No path to follow, no future to reach, nothing but pain and regret. She was alone, and she always would be.

A warmth under her chin tilted her face upward. Maria lacked the will to resist or the life to raise her eyes. But her eyes were not closed and, try as she might to avoid it, she could not hide from her body. She could not stop Nana’s hand, lifting her face.

Conflicting emotions warred within Maria. Anger that she had been pulled from her solitude, shame that she had shown her anguish, but most of all, fear. Fear that, if she dared to hope, Nana would see her for what she was. She would see the blood that covered her, the shadows that stalked her, and tell her that she deserved loneliness and the despair. Deserved to burn in that fire that awaited to devour her.

She did deserve it; of course she deserved it. Without meeting Nana’s eyes, Maria drew carefully back, stood, and turned away. Where do I go from here? she wondered briefly. It didn’t matter, so she began walking.

“Where do you think you are going?” Nana said in that familiar tone.

The voice swept over Maria, touched her, woke her up. It was the voice of the one who had reared her, taught her lessons, cautioned her, befriended her, argued with her, loved her. Maria stopped and turned back, unable to lift her eyes from the ground. A child facing a scolding.

“Nowhere.” Maria’s heart remained filled with hopelessness.

“Well, stop sulking, child, it doesn’t become you at all,” Nana chided.

Despite herself, Maria’s heart lifted ever so slightly.

“That might be better, but I wouldn’t know, the way you keep staring at the ground.”

Maria couldn’t help the smile that pulled at her lips, and she looked at the familiar face of her old nursemaid. My oldest friend.

“Well, come give me a hug,” Nana grumbled, holding her arms out, and Maria rushed into their welcome embrace. Nana grunted at the impact. “Really, old as you are now, and I still have to tell you what to do. I leave you alone for a little while and all your manners go to the dogs. Good heavens, girl, I teach you all I know, and you still don’t know anything.”

“Just goes to show how much you know,” Maria said to Nana’s shoulder, comforted by the familiar banter. She had been so alone for so long. Nana’s arms were like coming home.

“Well now, that’s about enough of that.” Nana pulled away from Maria’s embrace. “We have much to talk about, and it's best done someplace other than here.” Maria nodded and meekly followed as Nana strode away.

ELISA SAT AT HER DESK, chewing on her pen.

“Your ink will dry if you don’t write something soon,” Theron said irritably.

He was cranky today. Without thought, she turned and gave him a large smile. “You’re always out of sorts when you’re hungry.”

“Go back to your list.” He snorted and brushed her away. The impact on her mind made her flinch, but she knew he hadn’t meant to hurt her.

She turned back to her paper to hide her emotion. She’d have to wait until Miguel had his attention; then she could worry about it. Then it wouldn’t be so bad. She had a list to finish. She knew he enjoyed watching her work. It didn’t matter what she worked on, it had only to be more interesting than staring endlessly at the walls of the cave. She’d suggested a few times early on that they take him out, let him change his view, but the backlash from such a suggestion had lasted for months. It was better not to draw attention to his ... state.

That drew her mind to a different problem. What she really needed was a chance to search through Sophus’s lair, but to do that, she needed to know where it was. Theron knew, but he wouldn’t take her. He said he couldn’t risk her safety. The thought that he cared so much for her warmed her cheeks and soothed her hurt. No, she’d have to be invited somehow. Perhaps the next time she saw Sophus, she could get him to invite her for a drink.

Smiling at her cleverness, she turned her mind back to her list, only to find that she’d nibbled her pen nearly to uselessness, and her ink had indeed gone dry. With a sigh, she closed the ink pot and cleaned the feathery mess she’d made. As she finished, she heard Miguel outside.

“Dinner is here,” she chirped, smiling again at Theron. “Do you suppose he brought us a treat?”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Theron replied gruffly.

Elisa stood beside him, tucked a lock of his soft hair behind his ear, and straightened his shirt across his broad shoulders. “You should let me hunt more often. I always hurry our food in. The tang of adrenaline is such a nice bit of spice, don’t you think?”

“That’s enough.” Theron pushed her away, and she straightened, but she could feel in his mental touch how her attentions pleased him.

Elisa crossed her arms, impatient, as Miguel and their dinner made their slow way into the main chamber. I swear, Miguel goes out of his way to make our food as bland as possible.

Variety is the spice of life, Theron returned with a grin.

Eventually, an elderly and frail man appeared, and despite his blind eyes, he held himself with pride.

Elisa’s eyes glinted. Let me frighten him just a little?

“He says he has a message for you.” Anger colored Miguel’s voice as though he knew what she’d been thinking. He was so boring sometimes.

The man spoke in the unintelligible native gibberish, swaying on his feet as if he’d die before finishing. At the ponderous rate he was speaking, he probably would. Finally, he finished, and Miguel said something to the man before lifting him gently and taking him to Theron. Elisa didn’t care; her throat was on fire and she could hear the weak, uneven beating of his heart. She held herself, tense, waiting for Theron’s signal that she could begin. He nodded to her, and she took her place beside him, joining in the meal.

“What was it he said?” she asked afterward, carefully dabbing Theron’s mouth with a napkin.

“He can tell you,” Miguel muttered, with a gesture to Theron.

“Miguel!” she cried as he flinched. “Mind your manners!”

Miguel glared at her, gathered the remains of their meal, and stalked off. Elisa turned to Theron expectantly.

“I’d much rather hear it from you, anyway. Is it good news? Do we get to go into town again?”

Theron gave her a charming smile and she squealed, throwing her arms around him.

“You’d better get that list of yours put together.” He chuckled. “I can hardly wait to see what crazy things you bring back this time.”

“WON’T WE BE MISSED at the festivities tonight?” Maria asked, as Nana settled herself on a cushioned seat. They were in a little hut hidden away by itself, a good distance from the village. Nana lit a fire and bustled about, giving Maria time to compose herself. Nana moved with grace and ease that spoke nothing of the aches or pains that afflicted Wuchii and Iráma.

“No. They will all assume you are with me, and those that still believe will be celebrating.” Nana leaned back in her chair, and Maria watched the firelight dance across her face. There was something different about her, something Maria was having a hard time pinning down.

“But why? They’re going back to war. Why would they celebrate more death?”

“I thought you would understand by now.” Nana sipped from the cup she held in her hands. “You remember the legend I told you of the Slaver and the Noble One?”

“Of course I do. The Slaver was Theron, who came here and enslaved and killed your”—Maria stopped herself and smiled, it had been so long since she allowed herself to tell the truth about her heritage—“our people. Then Sophus came and made a deal with our ancestors. If once a month, a sacrifice was made to Theron of a dying man, and if our discontented or unhappy women would go to live with Sophus, then he would free our people from Theron. We agreed, and somehow Sophus convinced Theron to let him remove all his limbs. How voluntary that was, I have no idea. Sophus then hid what he’d taken for collateral. But we were deceived as well, and, in the end, we traded one master for another.”

“Sophus stole Theron’s limbs?” Nana asked, surprised. “I never knew that, though I suppose it explains how he keeps Theron from attacking him, and why Theron never leaves his lair. Do you know what he did with them?”

Maria nodded. “They’re torn apart and hidden in Sophus’s labyrinth. I’ve one small piece, and I’m fairly certain burning it would destroy it ...” Maria suppressed a shudder at the thought. “But I don’t think they can be destroyed without Theron knowing.”

Nana looked thoughtful as Maria continued. “But you haven’t answered my question yet. Why are they celebrating?”

“What do you remember of your previous life?” Nana asked.

“I remember my father and that dog I used to have, and some childhood experiences still stand out. Things come to me in waves, sometimes. For example, I couldn’t remember you specifically until I saw you. It’s so frustrating to know that there might be more that I just don’t recall. Most of the time though, it feels like memories of memories. What I remember most clearly, though, is Miguel. Miguel and Álvaro ....”

Nana nodded. “I told you once, long ago, of a legend among our people. You might style it a prophecy, that tells of the end of our captivity to these ... creatures,” Nana practically spat out the word.

Maria lowered her eyes to the flames to hide her shame at being one of those very creatures. Did Nana feel as betrayed as Maria did?

“What did it say?” Maria asked, hoping to draw attention away from what she was.

“The prophecy—made by an ancestor of yours, actually, a woman by the name of Ka’í Zyanya—states that there will rise a woman with the ability to wield the power of the spirit world—a dream talker, yes, but also more than a dream talker. She will destroy these slavers, freeing our women and brave men and saving our children from suffering the fate of those who went before them.”

“And everyone thinks that I am that woman,” Maria said skeptically.

“Maybe so, maybe not.” Nana shrugged. “But there is a family whose firstborn of the firstborn, going back generations beyond remembrance, is always female. It is said that, when that line is broken, when the firstborn daughter’s firstborn is a son, she will free us.”

“The Forever line,” Maria said slowly. ‘Forever’ in Wayuunaiki is ‘zyanya ....’

“The name that had passed from mother to daughter for countless generations,” Nana said. “The name your mother Ayelen Cordova Zyanya had passed to you. Maria Álvarez Zyanya.”

“And my firstborn was a son, breaking the line,” Maria said.

Nana nodded. “You are the sign that they have waited for, the sign that she will come who will free us all.”

“Is that why you stole him from me?”

Nana sighed and passed her hand through her platinum hair, letting it fall around her face. “I never wanted to hurt you. When Muusa lost her son while you were sick ....” Nana shook her head with a pained expression.

Maria was struck by the realization that this was the first time she had seen wrinkles on the woman’s face. In fact, Nana seemed almost youthful; it was her eyes and her expression that aged her.

“I keep forgetting that you’ve changed,” Nana continued. “I keep forgetting that you’re not the girl you were the last time I saw you, no matter how you look. You’ve grown; you’ve changed in ways I can’t imagine. But I think, in the ways that truly matter, you’re the same woman you’ve always been. At least, I hope that you are.”

Maria’s guilt beat against the flimsy wall she’d built, and she shored her armor with rage. “I want to know what really happened. Why did you lie to me? What part do you have in all this that was so important that you would betray me?” Her heart filled her throat with the pain of it. “And what is so special about you that everyone calls you ‘Old One?’”

Nana leaned back in her chair, sipping her drink. “When we left, or rather when you decided to go in search of Miguel, I would have had you wait until your son was born. To have arranged for his care, but you would not. You had to leave immediately, against all advice, thinking yourself unconquerable. I had to come, not only because you had no idea where you were going or what you were going to do, or even because you would not have lasted more than a few days on your own. I had to come because you were my responsibility. I have always looked after the women of your line.”

“And what of my son?” Maria struggled to keep her voice level.

“You decided to return, to quit and avoid your destiny. You are our final hope, and I waited for you for centuries.” Nana looked into Maria’s eyes, a hope for understanding clear in them. “I saw an opportunity, and I took it.”

“That is no excuse for the pain you put me through!” Maria stood, knocking over her chair. “How long were you plotting this? Tell me, the birth sickness I had, was it real or did you poison me?”

“I did no such thing.” Nana regarded Maria calmly from her seat. “You truly fell ill, and Álvaro was so weak at first. It seemed the answer to everyone’s problems when Muusa offered to care for him when her son went with his fathers to Jepira.”

“Why could you not have talked to me instead? Reasoned with me? Did you truly have to ruin my life and the life of my son without so much as—”

“And how many lives has he ruined?” Nana’s calm voice overpowered hers, bitterness making it hard and cold. “How many lives of your people does it take to equal the value of your own? How many generations of broken families? How many centuries of murders? How many, Maria, have to pay so that you could turn a blind eye and deaf ear and live your happy, peaceful little life with your son?”

The silence between them was full as Maria righted her chair and dropped heavily into it. She looked up at the stars through the window and wondered at their numbers and at the numbers Nana had spoken of.

With a sigh, she turned back to Nana. “So you’re telling me that you are some kind of immortal?”

“Would that be so hard to believe?” Nana smiled. “Aren’t you one such yourself?”

Maria scowled, but perhaps it was true. Why not? Though she had not believed it was possible in her previous life, she herself was proof of it. Yet there was something that bothered her. “I remember thinking you were so old. I remember you eating, even now you drink, and I can hear your heartbeat. You are not like us.”

“You’re quite right,” Nana smiled enigmatically. “Like a ring, only things which have no beginning have no end. To everything else, to everything with a beginning, there is an end. Both Theron and Sophus began once, and so they will one day meet their end, as will you, Maria. Likewise, I, too, will one day die. My heart beats, and someday, something will cause it to stop. I don’t know what that something will be, but I do know that it will not be time.”

“So, if you are to die, something will have to kill you?” Maria asked. When Nana nodded she continued. “But wouldn’t that mean you’re not really immortal?”

“It would indeed, but then, that’s the secret. Neither are you, Maria. Nor Sophus, nor Theron, nor any of them.”

Maria pursed her lips. Perhaps there really was hope that she could free herself and Miguel from their captors. She simply needed to find the way. Suddenly a new question came to mind. “Tell me honestly, Nana. Did you send me to Sophus because you really believed he could help me rescue Miguel, or did you send me there just to free your people?”

Nana did not answer, and as the silence stretched out, another thought fell into place for Maria. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew what was waiting for Miguel there, that he would meet his death. You knew that Sophus would not have done anything to stop it.” Maria shook her head.

“Yes,” Nana said softly, “I knew what fate awaited Miguel, and I knew that, even had he not already met it, Sophus was unlikely to intervene. But I had hoped he might try. If anything could have been done, Sophus was the only one who could do it. Truly, I am sorry for your loss, child.”

“I am not a child!” Maria’s anger pushed its way forward again. “So you figured that most likely Miguel was already lost, and subsequently, you just sent me out there in the hopes that I would, what? What could a mortal have possibly done against someone like him? He could have crushed my head with the flick of his finger. Do you have any idea the strength we possess? Did you just send me there to die, like every other woman there?”

Despair crept back into Maria’s voice as she asked, “Why couldn’t you have sent me home to live with my son?” She turned her face away so that Nana could not see the anguish in it.

“Perhaps I ought to have done more to turn you back, to convince you to await the birth of your son or even wait until he was grown. It seems it would not have changed anything and would have given you his childhood,” Nana said. “But you were so driven. Every night you dreamt of Miguel, and it pushed you on. I should have taught you more of the dream world, how to use it, how to control it. I should have tried harder to tell you of your heritage when you first discovered your mother was mestizo.”

“And so you came to me afterward to teach me,” Maria said, tracing the smooth grain of the wood table. “Is that why you didn’t tell me who you were, when I didn’t recognize you?”

“I was afraid you would reject me if I told you, and there is so much that you must learn. Where you have only been walking in the world of dreams for a few years, I have been doing it for lifetimes.”

Maria snorted. Nana had taught her how to navigate the dream world, but she still had not shown Maria what she really wanted to know: how to destroy her captor. She wasn’t even sure Nana could actually see the future. But then again, the night Miguel had left on his ill-fated journey ....

“The night my dream told me of my father’s death, I asked Miguel to go search for him, and you ... You said I mustn’t go.” Her hand paused, and she looked at Nana. “But you weren’t talking of me, saying I mustn’t go. You were saying he shouldn’t leave.”

“It was for both of you.”

“And it wouldn’t have changed a thing, would it? If we had listened, and he had stayed home? My father would still have died. The rebellions would still have happened, except that we would still be home, together—” Maria’s voice caught as the possibilities spun through her mind, of the years they’d lost, the memories never made, the children they might have had ....

“Child,” Nana said gently, “I do not know what might have been. Sometimes we are swept along by forces greater than ourselves. I do know, however, that how we direct ourselves within that force can make a difference. I have seen straw pierce boards when thrown by strong enough wind.

“I knew you would have a son, and I knew what it would bring, but I did not want it to be you who would fight Sophus. I cared for you from infancy, and your mother before you and her mother and hers ever since I was old enough to do so. I remember each of them so very clearly. Each loved their daughters so much, and I loved each of them.”

“Why?” Maria asked. “What is your obligation to us?”

“My mother died giving birth to me, and it was your ancestor, Kaláira Zyanya, who took me in and raised me, who saved me from certain death, and who loved me. To her, I owed my very life, and so I gave it to her, and to her daughters until the prophecy should be fulfilled.”

It seemed so odd to Maria to think that the woman before her, who was many times older than the oldest elder in the tribe and yet who looked as timelessly beautiful as the sea, had once been born. Had once been an infant, helpless, cold and hungry, dependent on a stranger’s kindness. Her heart felt a sudden yearning for her lost son, and she sent a prayer of thanks to Betania, good Betania, and sweet, patient Muusa, who had taken him in and loved him like their own.

“I think, perhaps, it is time to rectify that mistake.” Nana cut into Maria’s thoughts.

“Which one?” she asked acerbically.

“I think it is time we resumed training in the dream world,” Nana said.

If Maria’s blood had still flowed warm through her veins, she knew it would have turned cold. “I don’t sleep.” Maria said the first thing she could think of to deter Nana. “What use would dreams be to me?”

Nana raised an eyebrow at her skeptically. “You don’t sleep?”

“No, never.” Maria stood and looked out the doorway of the small hut, her mind racing to find a way out. She heard Nana rise and stand behind her.

“Then why have I met with you in my dreams?”

“I don’t remember how to do it.” Maria shook her head and walked out the door.

Nana followed quietly behind. “I know that you do. It has been many years since I have seen you there, but I know you still can. I can see you on the threshold.”

“You’re mistaken,” Maria growled and walked faster, but Nana pressed on.

“I’ve taken you places, shown you things.” Nana grabbed Maria’s arm and spun her around. “Listen to me, child!”

“I am not a child!” Maria hissed and pushed against Nana, throwing her forcefully into the darkness. A sickening crack rang through the night and cut through Maria’s anger like a hot knife. “No!” Maria whispered as she rushed into the darkness, dread clinging to her heart. “Not again ....”

Fear twisted her stomach, fear that she had killed the only one who understood her in this world, that she had lost her only chance for hope.

She found Nana a considerable distance away, lying limp next to the large stone that had broken the woman’s fall. Maria dropped next to her, holding her breath to listen desperately for breathing, for a heartbeat, for any sound to tell her Nana was not dead.

No, no, no, no! You mustn’t die! I still need you! After what seemed like an eternity, Maria recognized the slow, rhythmic thud of a heartbeat followed by a ragged, shallow intake of breath.

“Nana!” Gently touching the woman’s face, Maria lay her on the cold ground. “Oh, Nana, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. Please be all right,” she said miserably, clinging to Nana’s hand. “I can’t do this on my own, I still need your help. Theron has Miguel under his control, and Elisa has convinced him she’s his wife. He doesn’t even remember that I existed. I can’t possibly free Miguel from both of them and defeat Sophus, too. Not by myself, and Iráma told me to even the odds. That’s why I came for your help; I need to even the odds. Please don’t die, Nana. I need your help.”

Maria hung her head and sat back in the dirt, clinging to the older woman’s hand as the night wore on.

What will you give? voices whispered in Maria’s ear.

She leapt to her feet and spun around to see who had spoken. There was no one. Maria was alone in the dark forest with the unconscious woman at her feet. Convinced it had been her imagination, she dropped back to the ground beside Nana.

What will you give? the voices asked again, whispering in the gentle breeze that lifted Maria’s hair from her face.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered back.

What price are you willing to pay? What sacrifice will you make to obtain your desire?

“Anything,” Maria whispered.

Are you certain? The voices narrowed into a single, sad voice.

“Anything,” Maria repeated.

Then let go of your pride, let go of your body, and join me.

“I can’t.” Maria shook her head as the gentle wind stirred the world around her.

It is the price you must pay.

“I can’t ....” Maria repeated while in her mind she heard herself say, I won’t. The night deepened, storm clouds covering the stars.

Finally the voice returned. If you will not, then I have no reason to stay.

A peal of thunder shuddered through the air. Nana’s body took a deep shuddering breath that rattled her entire frame, exhaled, and was still. So very still. Startled, Maria dropped the hand and stood.

“No, wait! I’ll come,” she said frantically, as rain began splattering on the ground. “Please, I’ll do it.”

She scooped up Nana’s limp body. The woman’s sluggish heartbeat encouraged her. Maria rushed back to the hut, laying Nana near the hearth. “Breathe,” she begged, kneeling beside her. “You have to keep breathing.”

Come, child, or lose me forever.

Desperate, Maria reached out to the dream world. The spirits that followed her pressed forward, crowding her mind and soul. Frantically she flung herself out of her body, pushing forcefully through them, and into the dream world.

Chapter 23

LIGHTNING LIT THE DISTANT NIGHT SKY, resuming its endless dance above the mouth of the Catatumbo river. Clouds obscured the stars, keeping the choppy surface of Maracaibo’s port waters a dark, deep black. The deck of Mikhael’s fishing boat, almost a small ship really, swayed beneath his feet, familiar and solid. He stood beside the rail of his docked vessel, watching shadows move through the darkness.

The sinuous movement of the layered shadows within the water helped keep his mind still. Thoughts were dangerous, and stillness meant peace. The depths within the darkening water insulated him from the sharpness of his hunger and protected his mind from the pain in his memories.

Behind him, on the nearly deserted dock, folk walked, making their way through their lives. A group of young men, laughing and rough-housing passed by, entirely unaware or unconcerned with the truth that they walked on the edge of life. Mikhael turned to watch them pass. How free and unencumbered their lives were. Had he ever been that young? That free?

The breeze turned their scents toward him. They were healthy, hot-headed, foolish, and so incredibly alive. Elisa would have loved one. Something about them, perhaps their teenaged joy at living, made him smile. The wind changed direction again, tugging his hair from his queue and promising a storm. Turning his face to the wind, he inhaled the clean air. In a sense, he, too, had taken his first steps to freedom. He did not need to love Elisa.

He could feel Theron’s snort of condescension in the back of his mind. Mikhael turned his thoughts back to the waves. Boring his captor with a still mind had proven to be an effective way to avoid conversation.

Make ready to sail, Theron cut in sharply.

Aye, Cap’n, Mikhael replied tartly, accepting the blow that followed his impertinence with equanimity. He ignored the ensuing string of insults as he made the sailboat ready to shove off.

Before long, the off-pitch strains of a bawdy tavern-song sung in duet reached him. He didn’t bother looking up when Elisa boarded with a very drunk man in tow. She helped him on board, laughing at his drunken jokes and encouraging him to drink even more.

“If you’re not careful with that, he’ll soon have more alcohol in his veins than blood,” Mikhael offered dryly, leaning against the wheel.

“Don’t you have a job to do, dear husband?” she asked sweetly, grabbing the man before he could topple over the rail, and sitting him down abruptly.

“You’re a fool to want to go out in this. There’s a storm coming in.”

She glared at him, her hands set on her hips. “Is there no pleasing you? Or are you so broken that you can’t care about anything but this pile of kindling?”

“You like it well enough when it hauls all your precious trash back to our cave,” Mikhael shot back without thinking.

Enough of this. Theron raked his will across Mikhael, like an eagle’s talons in flesh. Stop bickering and take her out.

Mikhael fought back the snide remark and cast off, angling the sails to catch the growing wind. If he took them south into the open water of the large lake, they could weather the storm in relative safety.

“I just don’t understand what you see in this thing,” Elisa said, having taken a seat above her now-unconscious cargo. “What can this contraption offer you that I can’t?”

Several responses sprang to mind, from that fact that the boat didn’t talk to him, or that it actually listened to direction, or even that it was actually useful. Instead, he kept his mouth prudently shut, focusing on the task of sailing.

Or maybe your problem is you simply can’t handle a woman like her, Theron sneered.

I can’t imagine anyone fool enough to want to. Mikhael yanked a line, changing the tack of the ship and turning her away from the channel that led to the open Caribbean .

“We used to have such a special relationship, Miguel,” Elisa continued, smoothing the cloth of her fine skirt. “Don’t you remember how you came for me, so long ago? You knew exactly where I’d be. We were meant for each other.”

“Love and youth make fools of us all.” Mikhael wrapped the rope more firmly around his wrist, twisting the sail again as the wind’s power increased. Though he had incredible strength, he still had to gauge the strength of the rope, the sail, the wood, and his own weight, against the wind. Where fire filled him with a fear that made him feel alive, the wild winds filled him with the joy and sense of power that accompanied fighting a true challenge. A feral smile stretched across his face as he maneuvered the vessel.

“You see, when you’re not so stuck on your totally unreasonable misery, you do care for me.” Elisa held to a line, as unconcerned with the drastic movement of the small ship as if she sat on a swing in a garden, moving her feet out of the way as the drunk man slid across the deck.

“No, it means I was an idiot. I should have listened to my gut and left you there.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” Elisa gave a coquettish laugh that grated in his ears. “You loved me, completely and hopelessly, from the first moment you saw me. What we have is unique and unbreakable.”

“Unlike that poor fellow’s neck. Can’t you do something to keep him still?”

“Such a sweet, softhearted fellow you are, Miguel.” She stood and made her way toward Mikhael while he adjusted the wheel to keep them facing the waves. She ran her fingers though the hair at his neck, but his hands were too busy to shrug her off. “Would it make you feel better to know he’s a criminal? I caught him—”

“I don’t care what he was doing, Elisa. He doesn’t deserve to drown drunk. Get him stabilized, or I’ll turn the boat and allow us to capsize.”

Elisa froze, her fingers grasping his coat collar. “You wouldn’t!”

The winds twisted the sails and allowed him to shoulder her aside. “Theron isn’t practiced enough at sailing to manage this ship without my help. He may well control me and try to stop it, but his reaction times aren’t nearly good enough.” And you know it as well as I do!

Theron’s anger rolled over him. I will tear your mind to shreds.

Try me! You know that all it will take is a touch of carelessness and this ship will go over. Make her secure him in a berth, and I’ll get us safely hove-to to weather the storm.

A moment later Elisa was insulting Mikhael while she lashed the drunkard to the mast. Mikhael didn’t need to hear the words to know it was insurance. If he allowed the ship to capsize, the man would drown.

“You are such a fool to even care,” Elisa continued, her voice clear despite the noise of the wind. “He’s going to die anyway. I’ve done that town a service, getting rid of him. I’m an unsung hero, and you, my dear husband, should be proud to be a part of that.”

“I am not your husband, Elisa.” The words were out of Mikhael’s mouth before he knew they were there.

“Don’t be silly, Miguel. You’re mine, and you always will be.”

Mikhael clenched his jaw. They had run before the storm long enough. It was time to heave-to and stand their ground. He set to work trimming the sails and setting the rudder to work with the wind and the swell to keep them nearly stationary as first drops of rain hit.

“I mean it, Elisa.” Mikhael tightened the last knot and turned toward her. She stood beside the drunk, who seemed to be coming around. “I am done trying to make you happy, and I’m done trying to love you. I’m finished fighting impossible fights!”

“Only because you’re weak-willed,” Elisa spat back, unconcerned with the rain splattering against her fine dress. “If you had half a spine, you’d have given up all your idiotic dreams of a life you can never have, you would be happy. We would be happy.”

“Give it a rest already.” Mikhael moved to check the lines again, ensuring the boat’s relative stability as the storm drew nearer. “Don’t you ever get tired of hearing your own stupid nagging?”

Elisa shouted, and lunged at Mikhael. She knocked him back a step, clawing wildly at his face. Strong though she was, he was still stronger and faster. He grabbed her wrists and pushed her away. She crashed over the man, who shouted in pain.

The scent of his freshly drawn blood, warm and rich amid the tropical rain, wrapped itself around Mikhael. His hunger, held at bay for so long, crashed through his emotions, pressing and insistent, fed by his anger and resentment. His constant need to hold back. He had been able to employ all his strength and skill navigating the storm, why would he ever want to contain it again? What did he care about Elisa's shocked cry? She did not care a thing for him. He would eat first, give the man a quick and painless death, then let her pick at the leftovers for a change.

Mikhael lunged forward, his throat burning with pain and the need to drink. Pain shot through his spine, crushing him to the deck a handbreadth from the man. The man pulled his damaged limb in, cradling it like something precious.

Mikhael tried to scramble forward towards his prey, but another jolt struck him, burning along his nerves. He pulled in on himself, as if that could stop the pain, but every movement served only to intensify the jolts running along his spine.

He tried to shield his mind from the onslaught, hoping to confine the pain to his body. It will be over soon. Just hold on. It will be over soon.

Theron tore at his mind, pulling at him. A burning, clawing pain exploded through his skull as the deck twisted and swayed beneath him. The attack began to recede, and Mikhael took in a shuddering breath, opening his eyes.

Elisa crouched before him and tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. “I suppose you think this is where I ask Theron to stop, to pity you, and convince him that you don’t deserve this?”

He opened his mouth, a plea for help on his lips. Anything to make it stop. The words caught in his throat. For a time, he had been free. He would not go back into that cage. Narrowing his eyes, he snapped his teeth shut.

She looked at him a moment longer, then stood, straightening her soaked skirt. A spray of water crested the railing and doused him. Anger twisted her lovely features, and she kicked him square in the gut, sending him sliding across the deck. The pain of the kick ripped through his torso and was echoed with the impact of his body hitting the cabin door.

She wanted me to make sure you felt that, Theron whispered, stroking Mikhael’s mind.

Just get on with it already, you bastard. Mikhael spat at them both. Lightning tore through his nerves, twisting his body and burning through his mind until he thought he would break. Glorious unconsciousness seemed imminent, and Mikhael hung to the hope of it.

Just before he thought he would snap, Theron pulled back, stroking his clawed grasp across Mikhael’s ragged soul. I can’t break you entirely, you know. You have so much more to pay for.

Mikhael lay, trembling, on the deck of his ship in the waning storm. Distantly, the eastern sky had begun to lighten, and the smell of stale, congealed blood in a corpse hours old teased him, just beyond his ability to move.

The wind, still wet with gentle rain, flowed across him, soothing his hurt. He had weathered the storm. And he had survived. Hope remained.

MARIA STOOD WITH HER head bowed in the fields west of Maracaibo, her home. She waited, the blood sticky on her hands, as the fire heated her back, pushing against the wall she had built to keep it at bay. A gentle breeze twisted a few sparks from the fire into the air, dancing around each other like birds in love. The air smelled of rain, beautiful cleansing rain, but Maria knew it would never rain here. She could never be free of the blood that covered her or the fire that sought to destroy her.

I came. I paid the price you demanded of me! Maria cried out defiantly, expecting to be surrounded by the spirits of the dead. To her surprise, she found herself alone. She spun but saw no one.

No, the voice came again, right beside her.

She turned again and saw Nana—Kasha—standing beside her. There was something about the way the woman appeared here that just seemed right, as though what she saw was Nana’s true self. It was Nana, and yet it wasn’t. It was why Maria hadn’t recognized her before. Maria had never really understood that Nana was only a part of the woman Kasha.

You have only begun to pay the price. Follow me.

Maria followed carefully as Kasha stepped away and the world blurred around them, refocusing into a dark night in the desert. The only light in the darkness came from the bonfire at Maria’s back. Kasha gestured for Maria to turn. She froze, unwilling to face the flames behind her. Waves of heat assaulted her, and she hunched her shoulders to brace herself against the pain of it.

Kasha took her hand and gently touched her shoulder, guiding her to turn. Maria, chica, you must face it.

The world spun around Maria, and she kept her eyes firmly on the ground, watching the turn and flutter of the shadows dancing before the bright flames. Kasha touched her chin, bringing her head up. Now look.

Dread filled Maria as Kasha moved away from her, leaving her standing alone and forlorn before the embodiment of her fears. You have only begun to pay the price.

But the price for what? What was it she wanted? To be with Miguel again. Maria wrapped her arms around herself at the poignant ache of loneliness stung her heart. It had been a part of her so long. It wasn’t nearly enough to offset the agony that she knew, that Sophus had made sure she knew, came with burning.

She took a step back. Miguel wasn’t enough.

That, too, was Sophus’s doing. Anger rose in her chest, overshadowing the loneliness. What she wanted was to be free of him. He had done so much to ruin her life and had destroyed so many others. Her hate burned inside of her, echoing the sensations she’d felt as she’d become a vampire. Every time he’d touched her or called her his. Every time he had made her kill had fanned the flames of that hate.

She paused. Would she destroy herself for hate?

The thought of giving in to her rage fought against everything she lived for. As much as she hated Sophus, he had been right about self-mastery being power. To shore herself up with hate was to give in to the very monster she fought against becoming. And if she ever let go enough to use that very power, would she ever be herself again? Would she be able to live the rest of her existence knowing she could be such a monster?

Maria turned her head away.

Something different tugged at her heart, a connection that had not been of her own making and was nigh on impossible to break. She followed it with her eyes as it spun away, back toward Maracaibo. Toward her son.

If you are to protect your son, you must face the fire.

How long had it been since she’d last seen Álvaro? Images of him swam before her; the sounds of his laughter, his look of pride the first time he’d saddled his pony on his own. His sweet green newborn eyes looking up at her. So full of love. So full of trust. From that first moment she’d held him in her arms, looking over his perfect, exquisite newborn beauty, she’d understood what it was to be a mother.

She would face any fear to protect her son.

Squaring her shoulders, she tossed her head and stood straight, lifting her eyes to the bitter flames.

In them, she saw her guilt and pain. Like demons they danced toward her, reaching for her with their limbs of fire and blame. Cowardice that she would not stand up and do what needed to be done, for her own selfish fear of self-preservation. Faithless, for she had worked so hard and given up so much—her life, her home, her very own child—to rescue her husband, and the moment she’d found him, rather than pressing forward, she’d run away.

No, Maria whispered, clutching at her stomach, wishing she could turn away. The words beat at her soul. That isn’t what happened.

Murderess, the flames crackled, morphing into the twisting, writhing figures of the soldiers she’d killed. Mindless, worthless thrall, good for nothing but doing your master’s bidding without regard to who it hurts.

Maria fell to her knees, sobbing, feeling as though the fire flayed her open and tore at her innards, but she could not look away.

The figure in the flames consolidated, kneeling before her, a woman with long hair and a familiar face. Maria recoiled in horror, recognizing herself in the fire.

Worst of all. She reached a hand out to Maria. Worst of all is that deep down you enjoy it. You know what you are.

Maria shook her head, covering her ears with her hands, as if that could stop the voice she knew came from within.

Say it. The fire’s hand opened before her, inches from her face.

Monster, Maria whispered. She bowed her head, and the flaming hands reached for her.

A sharp trill and fluttering of wings beat around her head. Startled, Maria looked up to see the black and gold spirit bird, Si’a, beating back the flames from her, driving them back.

No child, Kasha said, gathering the sobbing Maria into her arms. That is not how it is done. You must face your fire and overcome it, not submit to it.

But ... the things it said. She looked at her hands, still stained with blood. Would the fire have burned away the feel of the blood? She tucked them into her skirts and pulled away from Kasha. Everything it said was true.

There is truth and there is Truth. Kasha stood. Until you learn to tell the difference, Si’a will help keep the flames at bay.

As Maria stood, the ghosts appeared again in the distance, moving toward her. And them? Why can they not have peace?

Because you carry their blood on your hands, and, as you said, it is there by your own doing. You carry with you the souls of those you have killed, not because they wish to come with you, but because you refuse to let them go.

How can I free them? Maria watched them move toward her, the sorrow in their faces nearly as painful as the flame’s accusations.

It is easier said than done. Kasha shrugged. And yet also very simple. You must forgive yourself.

Maria shook her head, giving the fire—now several paces away from her—a sideways glance. The fire-image of herself crouched in the flames, watching. The same images she’d seen before flickered through the flames. Will forgiveness make her go away?

It is never wise to try to eradicate a part of yourself. Kasha reached her hand out for Si’a, who landed on her wrist. Wiser to find a way to come to peace and create union within yourself. Enough of this for now, though. Let’s get back to our bodies. My bones may be made of stuff that can withstand vampires, but I can still catch cold.

Kasha disappeared, and Si’a again took flight. He fluttered around Maria’s head as she took another look at the fire. How could she become one with that?

Chapter 24

ELISA SAT PLACIDLY on the rail of Miguel’s little ship, watching the sunset behind her city and listening to the sounds of the busy docks. Miguel would be back soon with a place for them to stay, having already taken care of all the other tedious tasks, such as registering their vessel with the dock master. She twirled a parasol over her shoulder even though it looked to be a clear night. The city was different now than it had been when she and the other girls had run about it. Perhaps it was that she was older and more mature, or perhaps it was simply what time did to a place.

Or perhaps both, Theron interjected. She smiled at him, comfortable with his closeness.

Do things ever stay the same? she asked.

Only us.

She smiled again, gazing down at the water lapping at the dock to which they were tied. It was too agitated to show her reflection, but she could imagine well how she would appear. Young, flawless, and beautiful, exactly as she had been the day Miguel had returned for her. Wouldn’t it be grand to see her friends now? Imagine the shock on their faces when they saw her. They would be old and worn with wrinkles around their eyes and mouths by now, with aches that they would try to hide and failing eyesight, and she not looking a day past nineteen. Oh! they would exclaim, how did you do it?

Elisa gave her non-existent reflection a bashful smile and turned away modestly. Some people simply age better, I suppose.

Theron chuckled and sent to her an image of Narcissus endlessly gazing at his reflection, and Elisa laughed, embarrassed. She stood and straightened her skirts, then turned her gaze to the remaining passersby on the docks. To her surprise, she saw a man she recognized. Without stopping to think, she rushed down the gangway and dodged the traffic until she slipped her hand into his arm.

The man, with his gorgeous blond curls, jerked around, startled.

“Señor Sophus.” She dropped into a curtsy, flourishing her beautiful skirt.

“Señorita Elisa, what a pleasant surprise!” Sophus gave her a slight bow and held out his elbow to her. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this lovely evening?”

Elisa hid her annoyance at being called señorita instead of the proper señora. Miguel was her husband, after all. “I was made to wait aboard that dreary boat, when what I longed to do was take a walk among my lovely city. Perhaps you would care to accompany me? I could show you the sights.”

“I’ve seen all the sights, my dear, save for your lovely face among them.” He gave her a smile that charmed her through. “However, I should very much enjoy a walk with you. My business can wait until later. I think I would love to see the places that brought forth such a pearl.”

Elisa glowed at the praise as they walked. Theron, be a dear and let Miguel know I’ve gone out for a bit and not to worry.

Be careful of him, precious one. He is devious.

I will, she promised. I intend to get your body back. Theron’s response was like a pat on the head, but he didn’t stop her, so she went forward.

“Shall we take a cab?” she asked, looking about for a taxi.

“There is no need. There.” Sophus pointed toward a waiting trap with a glossy black horse.

Elisa allowed him to lift her in. She arranged her skirts as he gathered the reins and joined her.

“Where shall we go first?” He clicked at the horse and maneuvered them into the traffic.

“It occurs to me that in all this time, I have never been back to my home since the day I left it. Let’s take the scenic route and go around the city.” She gestured to him the way, and they turned.

“Tell me about it.”

“It’s a large plantation out to the west of the city, with a grand house. Casa de la Cuesta.” She smiled at the memory, and then prattled on, pausing occasionally to direct Sophus. She trailed off as they neared the place she had meant to pass by. She had hoped not to bring attention to it, but Sophus had already begun to slow the carriage.

“And what of this place?” He pulled the horse to a stop before the closed gates.

“The Álvarez estate.” She tried to sound dismissive. Sophus waited, clearly expecting more, so she continued. “The home of a childhood friend, nothing more. My husband worked for the family when he first arrived with nothing more than the shirt on his back. It was how I met him, actually.”

She smiled fondly, hoping it would be enough.

“And this friend?”

“We had a falling out when Miguel chose me over her.” Elisa waved dismissively. “She found herself some stray sailor to have a baby with and then ran away with him, abandoning her child. My sister and her husband took the foundling in and got to take over the house as well.”

“Indeed.” Sophus paused a moment longer, his voice suddenly lightening. “Well, if you’ve seen your fill, shall we move along?”

“Absolutely. There’s nothing but sadness for me here. Sometimes I worry that her sorry fate is all my fault, since Miguel ended up with me and not her, the poor girl.” Elisa tried her best to sound remorseful over the tragedy. “We’ve never come out this way, Miguel and I. His memory suffered horribly during his transformation, and he has difficulty sometimes letting it go.”

“No doubt.”

“I’M STILL DISAPPOINTED you didn’t bring any of Theron with you to experiment on,” Nana said as they walked along the edge of a stream.

The days with Nana had passed far too quickly for Maria. Her old friend and mentor had taught her so much, yet couldn’t shake the feeling of having only scratched the surface at what could be done. So much potential remained locked behind the wall of flame that Maria could still not pass.

“Yes, but I think Sophus would have been suspicious if I’d brought anything. He likes to travel light. Besides, I am worried that Theron can feel it when I touch them; I’m certain he’d know if we actually damaged anything.” Maria shuddered at the memory of the agony that had been the burning of a single hair of her head. Burning Sophus seemed like a fool’s errand. What could she do anyway? Tossing a lamp on him was far too risky; he had fast enough reflexes to avoid such a thing, and she’d only get a single chance. She didn’t even begin to have the strength or skill necessary to subdue him any other way, nor did she have weapons. No mortal-made knife or bullet would have pierced his skin anyhow. And Theron was even more inaccessible.

“You seem anxious today. What is on your mind?”

Maria shrugged, trying to dispel her nervousness. “I just feel that I should go back soon. I don’t want him to get suspicious, and it’s as though there is ... something coming.”

Nana crossed her arms, disapproval clear on her face, but Maria rushed on. “I’ve quite enjoyed it here, though. Especially assisting the healer.”

“I never thought you would take so well to something like the healing arts.” Nana accepted the change of subject with a shake of her head.

“It’s easy when I only have to see something done once and remember it perfectly thereafter. It saves a lot of time.”

“It does indeed.”

Maria walked quietly behind Nana, comfortable in the silence and knowing that, if Nana had something to say, she would say it when she was ready. Maria reflected over some of the things she had learned to do, or started to learn. Access to the dream world was limited to places she’d already been, which she already knew, and places she could get a guide to take her. She had already figured this out as well, following Sophus to Theron’s lair, and the Si’a bird who had first led her to Miguel. But it wasn’t only places she could see, but times. The past and present were simple, but though Nana had instructed her on the theories of viewing the future, but insisted that until Maria faced the flames, she would not show her how.

A large portion of their time was practical and spent in the real world, working and learning the responsibilities expected of an elder daughter of the Wayuu. Nana would also lecture her on the meanings and theoretical workings of the dream world, how to interpret things or guide her visions.

They also practiced moving in the dream world and the real world at the same time, but even with Nana’s help, Maria’s progress was slow. Intentional large movements or intricate small ones always brought her back to her body, however relatively mindless tasks—Nana had also finally taught her to weave—came with practice. To be able to move her body independently of her mind when she was in the dream world held so many possibilities, and Maria had committed herself to continuing to practice.

Maria’s favorite thing, though, was learning to manipulate objects in the real world with her thoughts. Nana had given some lengthy and highly detailed explanation about how everything possesses a spirit and her spirit being attenuated to certain types of spirit so that she could reason with it, or convince it, or some such thing. It was surprisingly confusing for Maria, who was unused to not understanding how things worked. For once, it was simply enough that it worked.

They reached Nana’s home and Maria immediately lit a candle. The small flame flared into life as the wick caught, and Maria set it gently on the table. Crouching down, she concentrated on the air around the fire. She could sense the movement of the air flowing through the room like a lazy stream of water. One thread of air eddied around the small flame and she tugged on it, hoping to extinguish the flame. Instead, as it had every time before, the tiny fire only flickered. She pulled harder, but still the flame did not extinguish. Irritated, she grabbed a handful of the streams and yanked on them.

“You know you can’t do it that way,” Nana said without looking up from sorting her herbs.

“It’s like trying to hold water with my bare hands.” Maria sat back on her heels.

“That’s more accurate than you realize. Several drops of water, or even a small trickle, you can direct across your hand. But trying to pick up an entire river?” Nana shook her head, wiping her hands on a cloth.

“Why can’t I move anything else?” Maria tried again, this time directing flows from further away from the candle. It created a breath-like breeze which stirred some leaves on the floor. Not quite what she had aimed for. “I’ve no luck at all with earth, water, or plants.”

“The fire and air are connected more closely to you than the others,” Nana explained, pulling out her yarn and the susu bag she was making. “Some people are artists; some are musicians. Some have a way with numbers and others with words.”

“Which is yours?” Maria focused on the flame this time, rather than the air, but Nana didn’t answer. The little flame moved and danced, a tiny life on a wick. An idea formed in her mind, and rather than destroy the little life, Maria decided to shape it. Could she perhaps use the air to bend it ...?

“The elders from the other villages should all be arriving sometime today,” Nana said solemnly, cutting in to Maria’s thoughts. “A war council has been called.”

“What?” Maria looked sharply at the older woman. “You mean they still intend to fight? Despite knowing that they’ve been manipulated? Despite knowing that the war was orchestrated so Sophus could own more of our blood? They’re doing it anyway?”

“Do you really believe that is all there is to this?” Nana asked in her usual soft voice as she continued her weaving.

“What more is there? Our men will die, their men will die, and when it is all over and done with, what will be left? No matter who wins, there will only be more orphans and widows, and Sophus and Theron will continue on as the victors.” The candle flickered along with the passion in Maria’s words.

“Tell me, what do you foresee happening if we do nothing? What if we stay here, in our homes and our fields, and do not prepare for war?”

“Then the crops will grow, and there will be enough hands to bring it in. There will be enough food to go around. There will be fewer sacrifices to our captors, until they will be forced to seek elsewhere.” Maria hit her fist on the table, making the candlestick bounce. “We would have peace!”

Nana set aside her weaving and regarded Maria for a long moment. Finally, she shook her head and turned back to her bag. “You are missing something of great importance, child.”

“I don’t see what. It is Sophus who starts these things, riling up the villages to anger until they organize a war. If Sophus were removed from the equation, these things wouldn’t happen.”

“How old are you again, child?” Nana asked acerbically. “Are you truly so innocent as to think that men, especially young men, are content to live in peace? Are you really so blind to the nature of your father’s people, so uninformed about your history?”

“My history?” Maria crossed her arms over her chest.

“Do you mean to tell me that, if we went docilely back to our herds and fields, your conquistadors would leave us alone?” Nana looked at her. “It wasn’t Sophus who drove them to our shores. It wasn’t a vampire who slaughtered our cousins, who stole their lands and their lives.”

“But they’re good people, as good as yours!” Maria defended. “My father was a good man!”

“Yes, he was.” Nana’s voice softened a little. “But he was rare. Most men are like Sophus. Like Theron. They yearn for power in whatever form they can find it. Sophus knows this, and he uses it against us all. He comes here and plants seeds of hatred in our hearts, but we are the ones who nurture the plant. Then he goes and does the same thing with the Europeans. Sophus didn’t start the wars. He merely fanned the flames.”

“Regardless,” Maria said, crossing her arms, “I will not support it.”

“You are not invited.”

LEFT TO HER OWN DEVICES and with little else to do while the elders met, Maria sought out the village healer. She found the healer in the home of a family whose elderly matriarch lay dying, the family waiting calmly around her. The healer motioned for Maria to stay outside. With a silent nod, Maria stepped back out into the evening sunlight, watching from the doorway. The eldest daughter, a woman with children of her own, waited patiently to dress the body once it had been vacated. She sang quietly a tune Maria was unfamiliar with, but, like all Wayuu music, it touched her soul.

While certainly not the first death Maria had witnessed, it was the first of its kind. The woman passed away quietly, and Maria watched her spirit rise from her body, a perfect younger version of the now-dead woman. She was at peace, and though her family cried quietly, the woman smiled radiantly, touching the heads of her children and grandchildren. This was the first death Maria had ever seen that had not been filled with violence. Even the women that she and Sophus assisted to die were always followed closely by the biting, the bloodlust, the tearing of flesh and consuming of blood.

The spirit of the deceased woman turned toward Maria, giving her a warm smile. Maria returned it and looked over the people in the room, her eyes falling on the eldest. The elder daughter, being considered closer to death, had the responsibility of caring for the body and burying it. Then, after so many years, she would, with due ceremony, retrieve the bones, clean them, and then they would be laid to rest permanently, again by that same daughter.

Maria wondered what had happened to her mother’s bones, if they had been cared for with due ceremony. It would have been her responsibility had her father not taken her away to a new life as a Spanish colonist in Maracaibo.

A commotion behind her told Maria the war council had concluded. Hoping they had thought better of things, Maria went out to search for Nana amidst the cheers and whooping from most of the young men, though, Maria noted, the older men remained somber. It seemed she had her answer before she’d even asked the question.

“This must stop,” Maria said when she saw Nana.

“It must indeed.” Nana walked past her without slowing.

Maria fell into place beside her. “I will do it. I will go tonight if I must. Tell me what the prophecy says for how to defeat Sophus, and I will finish it tonight,” Maria said quietly, urgently.

“No, I will go alone.”

“I don’t see why you—”

“I will go because I have as much grievance with that thing as you do,” Nana said harshly. “You said you came to me to help even the odds. Well, I’m offering to even the odds. Besides, if I fail, you will still remain to try again.”

“No,” Maria said firmly. “I won’t let you do it. You’re the only friend I have left in this world. I can’t lose you too.”

Nana stopped walking and smiled at her fondly. “You won’t.”

MUSIC FILLED THE ROOM, moving through the spaces between the crowd, riding on the warmth and underlying heartbeats of the dancers. Mikhael watched, uninterested in the conversation of the men beside him. When he and Elisa had first come to these events, the sheer press of living flesh had been overwhelming. They’d learned to feed well beforehand, often drinking from large livestock, much to Elisa’s disgust.

Mikhael had successfully argued that leaving a trail of bodies every time they were in town was less than prudent, but he couldn’t stop Elisa from taking a kill occasionally. She shared her kills with him less often since they’d fought in Santa Marta, and he found he liked it better that way. It didn’t stop her impression that he owed her—Elisa never let him forget it, either—but it did alleviate his feelings of obligation toward her.

Even more, she no longer interfered on his behalf with Theron. He had never felt so free.

He craved more.

“Ah, there he is!” Elisa’s voice chirped at him, cutting through the noise as she approached, a dour looking man beside her. “My dear husband, I must introduce you to a fine fellow. Don Rafael Vallejo, a man after our own interests, I think. His wife introduced us, she’s a poor thing though, doesn’t look terribly well.”

Mikhael gave the Don a curt nod, which Vallejo returned.

“You have a look of danger around you, señor.” Vallejo met Mikhael’s eye, not flinching from his penetrating gaze. Vallejo lowered his voice. “One who has spilt blood, I dare say.”

Elisa twined one arm into Mikhael’s and set her other hand lightly onto his chest. “He has the disposition of a bloodhound and the teeth of a wolf.”

“Would you care to discuss business in a more private location?” Vallejo turned, gesturing Mikhael to follow him while cutting Elisa from the conversation. “I have work for you, if you are interested.”

Mikhael set his hand to Vallejo’s shoulder and gestured to Elisa. “Don’t turn your back on that one. A viper dismissed is far more dangerous than a wolf passing by. She is the one you will want to work with, and I’d be glad to have her gone from me, to be honest.”

Vallejo glanced back at Elisa who was examining her nails with an empty-headed disinterest. “Indeed. Then perhaps I will call on you in the morning, Señora.”

Her eyes came into focus and she gave him a sharp smile, dropping a small curtsy. “My husband and I look forward to speaking with you further.”

As Vallejo slipped back into the crowd, Elisa turned toward Mikhael, pressing herself against him. “Dance with me?”

Mikhael delicately pushed her back, disentangling himself from her gasp. “No.”

Pouting, she crossed her arms, but kept her voice discreet as the crowd mingled around them. “You could at least pretend you care about me.”

Laughter erupted from Mikhael. A few of the people beside them paused, curious at his outburst. “I told you, Elisa. I am done spinning lies.”

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed, pulling on his arm and giving apologetic looks to the crowd.

“Or what?” A recklessness came over Mikhael. What had felt like a trap before now felt like absolute protection. What could you possibly do to me here, before all these people, that wouldn’t undo all you’ve worked for?

Elisa gave him a scathing look. “I’m feeling faint. Come with me to the balcony while I get some air?”

“I like it fine here.” He lowered his voice, but remained where he was.

Elisa fumed beside him, deciding what to do next.

No scathing remarks? Mikhael sent to Theron, who watched in silent amusement. No demands that I go with her?

Elisa still hadn’t spoken.

“Appealing to a higher power? I don’t think it’s going to work this time.”

“What do you know?” Elisa hissed in his ear, standing on her toes to reach.

“I know he enjoys the drama Elisa. And I know your only worth to him is what you can give him.”

“And where do you get off calling me a viper?” Elisa continued as though Mikhael hadn’t spoken. “How could you stoop so low as to embarrass me that way? Wishing me gone like that?”

“I can stoop lower if you’d like.” Instinctually he braced for the impact from Theron, but none came.

“I can’t believe you’re allowing this,” Elisa whispered, an appeal clearly not meant for him.

Mikhael felt the shrugging disinterest Theron sent back. What was he telling her?

A change fell over Elisa’s demeanor, instead of anger, she looked up at him with sickly sweet eyes, glassy, as though on the verge of tears. “I love you Miguel. If only you could say you’re sorry, too, we could go back to how things were before.”

He shook his head. How had he ever fallen for such a ruse? Neither of them could actually cry. Where that face had once stirred in him a deep pity and desire to help, now he felt only annoyance. And, perhaps, a touch of compassion.

“It’s not going to work.” He took her arm, turning them toward the doors. Moving them through the crowd while they talked was the least he could do for her now. “I do not love you. Truth is, I’m not sure I ever have.”

Like lightning, Elisa’s arrogant demeanor returned. “What do you think you could possibly do that will change what we have?”

“Well, my dear, if there is one thing I know about you, it is that you thrive on drama. That, and a need to seem acceptable in society.” He stopped near a crowded doorway, and Elisa drew back.

“You’re not going to get away with this.” Her sharp, quiet voice silencing the conversation around them.

“And what do you mean to do about it? Have me beaten?” He laughed again. “You’ve tried that already, and yet here I remain, ever the same.”

“You have nowhere to go! You can’t escape me.”

The silence in the crowd around them spread as their audience watched with baited breaths.

“Don’t you see? I already have.” Mikhael turned to go.

“You’re my husband!” Elisa shrieked, reaching for him. “You brought me into this life, you swore to take care of me.”

He turned back, throwing her hand from his arm and took a menacing step toward her. She stepped back amid gasps from the crowd. A few brave souls reached for their swords to challenge him, but a glare from his dark eyes stopped them in their tracks. He looked back to Elisa. “I don’t care what happens to me, or who you think will avenge your hurt pride. You are not my wife. You are never to touch me again.”

“But you’re my husband,” she protested, her voice full of fire.

“I am not your anything.”

He turned on his heel, and the crowd parted as he strode from the room.

THAT NIGHT THERE WAS a great celebration asking the spirits for help as they embarked on their war. Feasting, dancing, ceremonies, and tales filled the night air. Maria watched from the outskirts of the events, enjoying the sight of Nana in her natural element telling the familiar tales that Maria had grown up on.

Had the time truly come to face Sophus? She still didn’t know what Nana had planned, how she intended to win. But for now, Maria trusted that together they would succeed.

The warmth of the bonfire moved before her, its dance echoing the heartbeats of the dancers. The sound of the flames combined with their moving blood to create a sort of music, one that underlied the vivacious celebrations before her. Though the desire to drink, and even to kill, remained ever-present, being with her people cornered it in the back of her mind, as noticeable as the desire of a mortal to breathe.

She watched the flames, tugging experimentally on the threads of air that swirled around it, playing with them like a child swirling cloth in a stream. It seemed Si’a flickered through the lights and shadows, playing along. The last time she had seen him in real-world flames, he had led her to Miguel. Could she find him again?

Maria cast her mind into the spirit world and felt the heat again on her back. At her feet flitted her shadow, and Si’a above it, darting between herself and the flame.

I need to see him again, she told the bird. Will you guard my back?

The bird trilled his acceptance, and she bowed her head to him. Closing her eyes, she searched for the pull that had always drawn her toward Miguel. The pull that she had been hiding from for so many years. It was faint, but it remained.

She let out a sob, not realizing until that moment that she had feared the connection lost. Her need to see him again, and the desire to possibly speak with him filled her, lifting her spirit self into the air. Feeling light as a bird, her spirit took the shape of a falcon, racing over the land toward Miguel. She gave in to the faint pull which strengthened as she traveled, and let it guide her. The pull directed her toward the sea.

The dark water of Lake Maracaibo stretched out before her, and for a moment she faltered. Had Miguel abandoned the necklace, perhaps throwing it into the deep? Determined to see this to the end, she circled lower. She tipped her wings to circle back around a third time, and a small ship skimming along the waves resolved into view.

It was Miguel, she was sure of it, even from this distance. She tucked in her wings and swooped down, circling the boat once before landing near the stern. She arranged her dress carefully beneath her and sat, soaking in the sight of her husband.

Chapter 25

MIKHAEL STOOD IN THE DARKNESS, adjusting the sails of the tiny fishing boat, and enjoying his moment of peace and quiet. Enjoying the rise and fall of the waves, the feel of the ocean spray on his skin. Enjoying being alone. More alone than he’d been for nearly twenty years.

Theron still had not come to deal out Elisa’s vengeance, and Elisa hadn’t sought him out since he’d abandoned her at the ball. No doubt the two of them were attempting to control the damage he’d done.

Feeling daring, he had commandeered a small fishing boat and set out into the bay. The nightly Catatumbo lightning storm brewed in the distance. He had hours before he would need to change course. Mikhael had no fear for his own life, but he did wish to return the boat in one piece; he did not want to deprive some small family of their only means of income.

He inhaled deeply, tasting the salt in the air and feeling a clean breeze sweep in from the shore, caressing his shoulders as it passed and swirled about. He imagined this was what real freedom felt like.

Smiling, Mikhael closed his eyes and gave himself to his other senses, adjusting automatically to the rise and fall of the boat beneath him. Sailing relaxed him like nothing else could. It was peaceful. He could almost imagine that he did not remain a prisoner, a puppet of some twisted master, that he didn’t live by stealing the lives of others. He could almost believe that he hadn’t spent his entire remembered existence with a woman incapable of seeing anything beyond herself, while longing for a specter he wasn’t sure had ever really existed.

The thought of the dark-haired angel who haunted his memories turned his mind to the pendant. Often he had longed to rid himself of the thing nearly as strongly as he longed to throw off the ropes of Theron and Elisa, cords that existed only to control him. And now he had loosed himself from Elisa. Could he do the same to the pendant?

Many times he had held it out over the sea, needing only to twitch his hand and let it slip into the deep, but he could not. That such a small, insignificant little bit of rock could hold such sway over him galled him. As though it called to him, he reached into a pocket and pulled it out.

This stone—what had it ever asked of him? How had it ever tried to control him?

Opening his eyes, he looked at the pendant in its diamond-studded setting. What he really wanted, what he hoped for when he was being honest with himself, was that someday she would reappear. But she had not. Not since that first time. The only time.

“What power do you have over me?” he whispered into the night, touching the stone gently.

The same you hold over me, a gentle voice whispered in the wind.

Startled, Mikhael dropped into a crouch and looked around, searching for the speaker who had no scent and made no noise. When he found nothing, the thought crept into his mind that he had simply imagined an answer from the flapping of the sail, the crash of the waves, and the caress of the wind. A little irritated at himself, he sat down, leaning against the side of the boat.

“Not only can I not rid myself of you, now I think you’re speaking to me,” Mikhael said ruefully to the trinket. Sighing, he leaned his head back and gazed at the stars. “Perhaps I am finally going mad.”

I have sometimes wondered if immortals ever went mad, the quiet voice replied.

“I think you are the proof of it,” Mikhael responded with a smile, his gaze still on the stars.

No more than you are, came the enigmatic reply.

“What do you mean by that?” He decided he liked the voice; it was feminine, sure, and beautiful. At least this hallucination was pleasant. He’d had enough of pain.

If I am your madness, then you are mine. The voice had a smile in it.

Mikhael closed his eyes and the dark-haired angel appeared in his mind. Yes, he thought, the voice matches you.

MARIA SAT IN THE STERN of the boat, speaking to her husband. Miguel had not seen her yet, had not looked her way, and for that she was glad. The heat of the fire that Si’a held at bay still scorched her back. She did not want him to see her for what she had become, for him to risk a glimpse into the monster that lived in that flame. She was a murderess with blood on her hands. She slipped her still-wet hands into the pockets of her dark red skirt.

They spoke of inconsequential things until the distant storm had dissipated. She longed to ask him what he’d been doing in Maracaibo. Where he had been, what things he remembered from his life before. What would she do if he said he didn’t remember her? Her heart fell like a rock, and the world spun beneath her at the thought. Determined to avoid the question, she kept the conversation limited to recent years.

But she knew Miguel. He lit up when she asked him about his little ship and his plans for it. This one, apparently, he had ‘borrowed’ for the night. He spoke endlessly of his first boat, and how he’d worked and bartered for a larger one, and then his current one. She soaked it in, genuinely interested and thrilled to see his joy and pride in his own work. Standing and moving about the rigging, he told her in detail of sailing through a storm and fighting the wind, and how alive it had made him feel.

Maria could almost see the wind and the rain spinning around him as he spoke, hanging over the edge with his feet on the rail and a hand on a rope. She longed to stand beside him, put her arms around him and feel the thrill of life. But her hands. And the fire. She couldn’t let him see ...

As though he sensed her change in mood, he stepped back from the rail, returning his feet to the deck. The moon had set, and the night was at its darkest.

“I should be getting this boat back to its owners,” Miguel said quietly, taking his place at the wheel.

I’ve always loved that about you. Maria watched him from her place on the bow. You care so much for others, even an unknown fishing family.

“Who says I don’t know them? Maybe it is my sister’s family and her seven children.” A thread of repressed emotion shone through his voice, visible only to her.

I thought we established that I’m merely a figment of your imagination. Therefore I know when you are making things up.

“That, or a dark angel come to torment me.”

Maria turned away at the pain beneath his playful words. I hadn’t meant to hurt you.

He kept his eyes stoically forward. Would he see her if he looked down? “You didn’t. It is your kindness that tortures me, like a mirage of land to a sailor set adrift.”

I don’t want to be a mirage, Miguel! But she didn’t say it out loud. Pressure built behind her eyes and in her throat. He had been so alone all these years, and she had not sought him out. What horrors had he endured in that time? Yet he had waited for her.

She did not deserve him. Not the way she was. I am sorry, she said softly.

They fell into a comfortable silence while he navigated the boat back to Maracaibo’s port. She watched him, his movements achingly familiar as he twisted and pulled and worked the boat. They reached the docks as the sky began to brighten.

Miguel stepped back, letting the gentle wind bring the boat into the harbor, and looked at the dimming stars. “This has been the most pleasant evening I’ve experienced, even if it was a hallucination. I hope to do it again sometime.”

I wish I didn’t have to leave, either, Maria said. I ... I have to do something, and I’m not sure I will survive it. But I swear, even if I don’t, I will return to you.

“I’ll be waiting.”

She ached to reach out to him, to touch his face and hair and soften the hard look in his eyes. But the thought of what her hands would leave behind on his beautiful face held her back. Turning away, Maria lifted her ethereal body into the air and returned to her waiting flesh, which sat with a sad smile on her face.

“Productive evening?” Nana asked.

“I’d like to think so.” Maria blinked her eyes back into focus, brushing off her skirt.

“Are you ready to go, then?”

“Go where?”

“You told me you needed to return,” Nana said. “Is that not still the case?”

“Right.” Maria wilted. She had been so absorbed in the time she’d spent with Miguel that she had forgotten completely. She had forgotten about almost everything in the joy of being with him. Her resolve hardened as she recalled that this was why she was here. To be with him again. “Let’s go.”

Nana nodded curtly and shouldered a pack, walking to a horse saddled and waiting a few yards away. Maria followed her mentor, but the animal shied and tried to back away.

“What are you thinking, child?” Nana scolded, fighting for control of the frightened horse. “Don’t you think this creature knows you’re nothing good for it?”

Maria was shocked. In all this time, all these years, she had not really come in contact with any horses. Goats and sheep she’d been around plenty, but not horses. Maria backed away. The animal watched her, his head thrown high and his eyes showing white, while Nana mounted.

“Best not to follow behind,” Nana warned. “My bones may not be able to break, but my joints can tear and my flesh can certainly bruise. I don’t enjoy getting hurt.”

“Of course,” Maria acquiesced, and waited as Nana galloped on her way. She trailed behind after a few minutes, certain she’d be far enough back to keep the horse from spooking again.

Maria caught up to Nana as night fell, the horse snorting at her approach to the campfire. Nana tossed her a bag, a donation from the village, which she accepted gratefully, and took a seat.

“What is the plan, then?” Maria asked after draining the goat blood from the bota bag.

“I will wait here for your signal, no fewer than three days after that viper returns. I do not want him to be suspicious of you. Tell him that there was some deranged old goat who followed you, wanting to challenge him.”

Maria nodded, and Nana took her hands.

“When the time comes, you are not to attack until I give you the signal.” Nana looked her in the eye. “Will you do that?”

“I will.”

“Then go, chica, and remember that I love you.”

Maria left her sitting alone by her fire and continued toward Sophus’s caves. Buoyed by her time with Miguel and the sense of imminent freedom, Maria let go of all her inhibitions and ran, pushing herself to run faster than ever before.

The ground beneath her seemed to melt, and the flora and fauna blurred as she sped past. The mountains far to the south grew and swung around to her left, spinning slowly as she traveled. The speed exhilarated her; liberated her. If only she could go a little faster, perhaps she would fly.

Giddy with the feeling, she giggled and spread her arms like a falcon. Without thinking, Maria threw her consciousness into the air. And still she ran. She was there, in her body, controlling it, running with it, while at the same time flying free above. She had finally done it!

The dream world blurred along with the real world, and for the moment, there was nothing but the joy of running.

Feeling impossibly triumphant, she slowed to moderate her sound as she neared the cave’s entrance. The more she slowed, however, the closer she had to be to her body to control it, until finally she was securely back. Full of joy, she walked willingly back into her prison.

Iráma met her in the dark entryway, concern written across her face.

“What is so dire that you should look that way?” Maria asked. “You should be full of joy!”

“What have you done?” Iráma put a concerned hand on Maria’s arm. “I’ve never seen him so angry, so brooding. Calm yourself and try to placate him.”

Maria’s good mood evaporated in a flash, and she took a deep breath to calm her sudden nerves. “How long has he been back? What is upsetting him?”

“Only a day, but he insists that if you didn’t return quickly, he’d go find you. Tread carefully.”

“I will. Please let him know that I am back, am getting cleaned up, and will come to him soon.”

Iráma nodded and hurried away, giving orders for others to draw a bath, and Maria went to her room. The moment the door shut behind her, she cast herself into the dream world.

Nana! she called out across the windy fields, her voice carried on the stormy winds. Nana! He is here already and angry. I will let you know ..... A pounding on her door drew her back to her body, and she opened the door to find Sophus on the other side.

“I was just getting cleaned up before coming to you.” She gestured him into the room. He stormed in, ignoring the women who came in behind him to prepare her bath.

“What were you doing, being gone so long?” he snapped.

“I was enjoying the change of scenery, and I’m afraid I got sidetracked.” A plausible story.

“I never said that you could leave like that.”

She laid her hand on his arm, hoping to calm him. “But you gave me permission, don’t you remem—”

“You’re not to go out again without my express permission, do you understand?”

“Of course.” Maria bowed her head. “I’m sorry I worried you.”

His demeanor softened, and he stepped closer to her. “You did indeed. You won’t again, though, will you?”

“Of course not.” She flashed him a smile. “If you’ll excuse me, though, I would like to change into some clean clothes.”

She gestured at her dress, and he stepped back, appraising her. “Yes. Burn that when you’re done with it, and put on something elegant. We have plans to discuss.”

She smiled again as he walked out. “As you say.”

The door shut behind him, and Maria sagged with relief. Fretting that she’d called Nana prematurely, she began to brush out her hair and undress. Even the hot bath couldn’t take her mind off her worry.

She wished Wuchii or Iráma were there to give her someone to talk to, but then again, what could they have safely talked about? It was better to be scarce at times like these, anyhow. As the coming sunrise lightened her dark chamber, she wandered again into the dream world.

She stood, frozen, in the morning light before Sophus’s lair. Maria looked around the dream world, confused. She’d never entered it like this; always she began in the fields of Maracaibo. The wind buffeted her, pulling her attention back to what was before her.

It’s a vision! Maria realized, catching her breath. After all this time ... Her excitement was not dampened when she saw Sophus walk out from his lair with his pale golden curls and immaculate clothing, strutting with a surety that came from centuries of life. Across the entrance from her stood the ghost woman who wandered the labyrinth. Their eyes met for a moment, until the woman gestured back to Sophus.

Sophus walked past them, speaking inaudibly to Nana. Maria watched him stride to Nana and take her by throat, lifting her off the ground. Maria tried to rush to her aid but found that she could not move. In horror, she watched Sophus tear Nana’s head from her body but, instead of blood, fire spouted from the decapitated neck and consumed Nana’s flesh. The flame grew into the shape of a giant demon, sinuous with large wings. It tore itself from Sophus’s grasp and turned on him, as the wind swirled about Maria.

The demon skewered the ancient vampire with its claws and brought him close to its mouth. The whispering of the wind through the grass mingled with the hiss of the fire. The demon spoke angrily in a language Maria could almost understand, until Sophus, too, burst into flame. His ashes fell to the ground, and the fire serpent crouched low, sending flame and ash across the dirt in every direction.

Maria shrank back in fear that the flames would consume her, too. The dancing fire surrounded her, and Maria could not help the panic that rose in her throat. Frantically, she tried to move against the force that held her in place, but the flames rose until they were all she could see. Until they filled her very mind, pushing against her with their heat.

Then, with the sound of flapping wings in her ears, they were gone, and Maria stood in a place she had been only twice before: Theron’s throne room, dark and eerie with sculpted columns along the walls.

The floor was strewn with rotting carrion, and before her was his throne-like chair, not unlike the one Sophus had sat on for their first audience. In it sat a disfigured, limbless man, surrounded by a miasma of darkness. His hate-filled eyes flicked up to meet hers, and he gave her a feral smile that sent a chill of fear down her spine. His eyes told her that, had he been able, he’d have leapt at her and destroyed everything about her with relish.

Theron. The name echoed through her mind and filled it with anger. In the strange way of dreams, she felt herself walk up to him and raise her hands, which burned, covered in flame. The wind ran down her arms, scooping up the fire and covering the limbless demon. The flames grew until they consumed him the way they had Sophus.

As Maria watched the vision unfold, movement drew her eyes. The ghost woman stood beside her, looking thoughtful as Theron burned to ashes. A wind shot through the room, carrying the ashy dust to be scattered over the Caribbean ocean.

And then she was back in her room, her bath water gone cold and the morning light stronger than it should have been. She sat still a moment, shocked. She had been given a vision. A vision that told her Nana would die.

Chapter 26

NANA? MARIA CALLED OUT, partially reaching out into the dream world. Are you there?

I am coming as quickly as I can, child, the woman responded, though her voice seemed to come from across a great distance. Be ready. Try to have him distracted when I arrive.

No! You mustn’t! I did it—I saw a vision, but in it you die. Do you understand me? You’ll die! Maria struggled to convey the urgency to Nana while she dried off.

In your vision I destroy him, do I not? Nana asked, her voice subdued.

Yes, Maria admitted reluctantly, dressing in a dark blue dress with gold brocade that fitted her figure before flaring elegantly, but not unreasonably, at her hips.

Then there is nothing to fear. I have seen the same vision many times. I will see you soon.

Maria checked herself in the mirror, trying to get a hold of her frantic feelings. Nana said she’d be all right. She’s seen it too. She knows what she’s doing.

The sleeves of the dress left her shoulders bare, allowing her white lace chemise to show at her chest and flow past her elbows. Maria coiffed her hair, setting it with pearl and blue-enamel barrettes, and donned a matching necklace as she reassured herself. Checking herself once more in the mirror, she took a deep, steadying breath. Here we go.

Holding her head up and throwing her shoulders back, Maria walked from her room as though she had not a care in the world, and swept into Sophus’s chambers. He stood, perusing a bookshelf, more like a blond Adonis than any mortal man could hope to be. Yet Maria could feel his anger. The air seemed to vibrate with it. He shut the book and grinned at her, a smile another woman might take for charming, but she knew it meant danger. Her stomach clenched, but Maria would not let her fear show.

“What are you reading?” she asked, taking the book from his hands.

“Come. I have something to show you.” He took her elbow, leading her toward his large desk. She hesitated, unsure of his abrupt dismissal of her question.

“What is it?” She gestured to the several packages he’d stacked on and around his desk.

“My profits from the city. I had a most enlightening trip, you see.” His voice was dark. He led her around the table, his hand pressed firmly against her back.

Maria’s heart almost seemed to beat, she was so nervous. He’d never behaved like this before; always it was more like a boy showing off his exploits when he told her of the things he’d done when he was gone.

“My lord Sophus.” Iráma entered calmly into the room, but the suddenness of it startled Maria, her muscles tensing, ready for a fight. “There is a woman outside who insists that she needs to meet with you.”

“Leave us,” Sophus growled.

Iráma bowed and began to back out of the room. “She seeks to challenge you, my lord.” And she fled.

Sophus turned on Maria, grabbing her arm. “What is this?”

“Nothing.” Maria kept herself from pulling away.

“Is that what you’ve been doing? I give you a bit of freedom, of responsibility, and you throw it in my face? You went and found yourself some challenger to my rule, is that it?” He jerked her forward as she spoke. Controlling her fear, she laid a hand on his chest, attempting to charm him.

“No, who could think to challenge you?” She laughed. “It is but a daft old biddy I ran into as I returned. She followed me, talking crazy about how she couldn’t stand what you’ve done for so long. I thought I’d lost her in the night.”

Sophus pursed his lips. “You will come.”

With Sophus leading her by the wrist, they sped through the tunnels into the growing sunlight. The Greek columns beside the entrance were still in shadow, and Sophus pushed her at one. “You will stay there and not move.”

Maria nodded, and he glared at her for a moment longer. She tried to make herself appear trustworthy, contrite. She kept her eyes lowered so that he wouldn’t see that she had no intention whatsoever of obeying. He turned away, and her eyes flicked up, hoping to see Nana.

The old woman walked down the ridge, the morning sunlight gleaming off her long, pale hair. Carefully, Maria stepped away from her body to stand beside her mentor, the ghost woman already there by Kasha’s side.

I’m glad you made it, child, Kasha said. There is much you need to see and to know.

I told you I would, Maria said. I don’t understand, though. What is it that I need to know that you couldn’t have just told me?

Patience. All is as I saw it. Kasha’s spirit turned and looked at Maria, causing a strange double vision over Nana’s physical body. You must promise me, though, that no matter what happens, you will not interfere until it is done.

Not interfere? Until what is done? I thought we had planned to do this together, Maria said, beginning to worry.

Time is short. You must promise me. I will force you to if I must, but I’d rather not spend the energy on you. Promise me!

I will, I promise, but you must— Maria cut off as Sophus stepped out into the light.

I must nothing, child. Kasha waved her away. Maria found her spirit body forced back like she’d been physically pushed. Sophus walked cautiously toward the woman. His pale blond hair gleamed in the sunlight, curling, tauntingly beautiful, around his perfect face.

“Now, here’s a curiosity,” he crooned as he walked around her, looking her over and taking in her scent. “Your heart beats, blood flows through your veins, yet there remains something very strange about you. Your eyes speak of seeing ages.”

Maria struggled to move in the dream world, to continue forward with Nana, but a force held her where she was. Frustrated, she took a step back, hoping to find a path around the invisible wall. Instead, searing heat lashed at her back, and she turned. The fire that had waited for her so long now burned only a few steps away.

A softly keening song, full of tragedy, wove through the air, sung by Si’a as he darted between her and the flame. Maria turned back to Nana, frantic to know what was happening.

Nana stood still several feet from Sophus, unresponsive with her eyes forward.

“There is something terribly familiar about you,” Sophus completed his circuit and stepped away from her, tapping his chin as he thought. “Perhaps I housed a family member of yours once.”

A muscle flexed in Nana’s jaw, and Sophus nodded.

“Ah, I see. And you are here to ... what? Exact revenge?” Sophus said, amused. “I’ll have you know that everyone who comes here comes of their own free will. I force no one to accept my hospitality.”

“Of that I am well aware,” Nana said curtly.

“So you do speak.” Sophus grinned again. “Tell me, what is your name?”

Nana glared at him defiantly, her platinum hair glimmering in the morning sunlight. “My name is Kasha, and I am of the Zyanya line.”

Maria gasped, grateful that her physical body would not mimic the reflexive motion and give away her surprise. Nana was also a Zyanya woman? It made so much sense, but what was the relation? And more importantly, why had no one told her?

A hand, light as a thought, touched Maria’s arm.

She turned and saw the ghost woman beside her. The ghost woman gestured to the flame. It is the next step. You must face it or you cannot help her.

Maria shook her head and looked back at Nana and Sophus, but the fire now blocked her way. The spirits still danced among the flames, mocking her with their reflections of her sorrow, and along the edges of her vision, the spirits of the dead edged in. Maria craned her neck, trying to see around the flames.

“Zyanya.” Sophus nodded. “Now that is a name I have not heard in a long, long time. I have heard the tales your people cling to that a woman of that line will destroy me, and so I have a standing policy to kill outright any of that line who comes. Hope is a dangerous thing, after all. Honestly, though, what is it that you think you, a mere mortal, could do to me?”

A memory floated back to Maria of similar words she herself had spoken to Nana. What could a mortal have possibly done against someone like him? He could have crushed my head with the flick of his finger ... Did you just send me there to die?

Had Nana come only to be killed?

Or had she come because Maria had failed? Maria had failed so many. Her son and her husband. Her very people. Now even Nana. The fire before her moved closer, greedily lapping at her skirt, and she stepped further back, not taking her eyes off the scene beyond the flames.

“I have come to destroy you,” Nana said calmly, returning her gaze to the distance.

“Please, tell me, how do you plan to accomplish this feat? I do love a good joke,” Sophus said with a laugh.

“I am not a mere mortal.”

Sophus’s face darkened behind a forced smile, reappraising her. “And exactly what, pray tell, gives you that idea?”

Nana looked Sophus squarely in the eye before responding. “I am the child of the woman who prophesied your demise. I am the daughter of Ka’í Zyanya.”

The ghost woman beside Maria went still. Shock filled her face as the woman’s hand absently went to her flat belly.

Ka’í ... Zyanya? Maria whispered, the pieces falling into place. The ghost woman—Ka’í—stood beside her, stricken. She was Maria’s ancestor, and Nana had never had children. If I am from your line of firstborn daughters, then she is your younger daughter.

Ka’í took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, and Maria was unsure if she could hear her. But that still did not explain Nana’s more unusual qualities, qualities that, beyond the dreaming, Maria had not shared with her as a mortal.

“Ka’í,” Sophus mused. His voice remained light and flippant, but the dark look of danger remained in his eyes. “Yes, I believe I remember her; she was a most beautiful and amazing woman, for a mortal. I must admit, though, that I have a difficult time believing your story. First, you look almost nothing like her, and second, and more importantly, she lived at least two centuries ago. I’ll tell you what: you are obviously delusional. I shall give you this one chance to turn around and go home before I kill you and put you out of your misery.”

“And here all this time I thought you liked curiosities, delighted in puzzles,” Nana said scornfully. “Is there nothing at all about this that piques your interest, or has your mind grown dull and useless after all those years sulking in a cave?”

Why are you taunting him? Maria cried out. He will kill you! She tried to go forward again, but the flames spread out to the side, mocking her with her weakness, her cowardliness. She had been told to stay put, and she wouldn’t even risk herself to save her friend.

“I am hardly dull.” Sophus scowled. “And I do not appreciate being insulted in my own home. This is your last chance to leave.”

“Bah! You will kill me when my back is turned, you coward. Just as you kill all those who would leave. You’re afraid someone will find you here, that someone will take all that you have and leave you crippled and helpless as you left the Slaver.”

“You know nothing!” Sophus cried out and lifted her into the air by the front of her shirt. “Nothing.”

Maria looked around frantically, trying to find a way through the wall of flames, but the spirits hemmed her in. Before her stood her own reflection in the fire, mocking her pathetic attempts to pass. You’re too weak-willed; you’ve wasted too much time. You’ll never be anything more than what you are right now.

Ka’í reached out and grasped Maria’s wrist, her grip hard and frantic. And suddenly Maria knew. It didn’t matter what she had done or the choices that had brought her here. What mattered, right at this moment, was where she chose to go from here. She could not go back; the only way to do what needed to be done was forward. And that meant facing the flame.

She gave Ka’í a smile and stepped forward.

Time stopped around her, and Maria burned. It was so much the same as it had been before, and yet, not. Before the fire had burned along her veins, burning away each cell individually, but this fire burned through her one layer at a time. Both fires burned toward her heart. And she welcomed this one as much as she had the first. But something was wrong. She burned, but the flames did not consume; they remained burning her superficially, and they did not progress.

Why? she cried out. I have to go forward, why are you keeping me here. There is only pain here!

You must let go, the wind whispered in her ear.

You must let the refining fire in, another voice swirled about her hair.

You must forgive yourself, a third voice danced in the flames.

I can’t. Maria shook her head. A small voice in her head echoed the words, I won’t.

It is the price you must pay.

Maria curled in on herself, wishing to give in to the pain, to simply die, and again she saw the way open before her towards darkness, cool and empty. Surely she would be free there? The nothingness called to her, tempted her, but she closed her eyes to it with a sob. After sending Miguel to his death, abandoning her son and killing all those people, she did not deserve such peace.

At her feet lay a small bundle. She scooped it up from the heart of the flames and held the child to her breast. Love nudged at her heart. I am so sorry, so sorry, she sobbed as she burned, sheltering her infant from the flames.

You must let go in order to move forward, the voices in the flames gently whispered to her.

She clutched the child tighter, willing the pain from the flames to burn her, a penance for abandoning her son so many times. The echo of a voice came to her, nestling itself in her heart. The voice of her son. I used to dream that I could hear my mother singing to me in my sleep. I could never bring myself to believe that she was really gone so long as I could hear her. Sometimes I even thought I heard her when I was awake, encouraging me, and I always knew she loved me.

She had tried. Despite all that she had done wrong, Maria had still tried to be his mother, and he had loved her for it.

Determined to pay the price demanded of her, she hugged the bundle one last time before setting it back down and inhaled the scorching flames into her lungs. Finally, the last of the walls she’d built so carefully around her heart, her mind, and her soul, protecting her from the world, came crashing down as she released her hold on them.

Immediately, she felt a snapping and lightening. The chains that had tied her down for so long were loosed, dissolving and dissipating. The burning sensation spread throughout her, but now she found it a pleasant warmth, filling her heart with peace, determination, and light.

She stood, the flames dancing about her, and inhaled again, drawing all the light and power into herself, locking it into her heart. Maria stepped from the flames and found herself alone in the dream world, with only Si’a waiting before her. Ka’í again touched her wrist, and Maria looked down, startled to find her hands clean.

Welcome back to the living, Ka’í said, and stepped with her back into the stream of time.

Nana hung, her feet dangling several inches above the ground, held effortlessly by Sophus.

“I know that Ka’í escaped,” Nana gasped out, “and I know why she left.”

Both Maria and Ka’í looked up sharply at the words.

Sophus pulled her close to his face. “Humor me.”

“She left that I might live. You would have killed us both.”

Maria was too stunned to move. Ka’í had been pregnant when she’d escaped? But by whom? Men weren’t allowed in Sophus’s domain; they never had been, and the women weren’t allowed to leave.

“Of course. I should have seen it sooner,” Sophus said to himself. “The hair, the smell .... ” Dropping his façade and shifting his hand to her neck, Sophus demanded, “Who else knows of this?”

“There are none living who know.” Nana struggled for breath, clawing at Sophus’s hand.

They remained in silence, each studying the other even while Nana’s life slowly drained from her. She grasped futilely at the hand on her neck. Maria again moved to rush to them, to pull Nana from Sophus’s grasp. Surely that was why she was here, to save Nana, and together they would destroy the vampire.

Again, Ka’í set her hand on Maria’s wrist, and she found she could not move. Let me GO! Maria screamed, struggling to break free even as she turned back. Sophus’s face hardened into something that frightened Maria, a look that lay bare the darkness within the man.

“You are no child of mine,” he said finally, and with a sudden, jerking movement twisted Nana’s neck with a sickening crack. With a snort of disgust, he tossed her limp corpse to the ground and turned away.

The shock of it jerked Maria back to her body. Sophus stalked past, not bothering to even look her way. As he disappeared into the cave, she turned back to the body on the ground.

Maria was stunned. Just like that? After all of Nana’s assurances, the visions of fire; after all the lead-up, Sophus had simply killed her. Maria’s only remaining friend in this world was gone. She stared at the lifeless body below her, unable to draw a breath. What had even been the point of it all?

You were supposed to help me even the odds, she whispered bitterly, feeling alone.

And so I have, Kasha said from beside her.

Maria turned to find the spirit of her mentor standing beside her, appearing more perfectly like herself than Maria had ever seen her. A momentary relief washed over her. Kasha would still be there to help.

How?! You’ve merely angered him and gotten yourself killed. I thought your bones were supposed to be impervious to vampires.

My bones, I imagine, are made of the same stuff as yours. However, my flesh was, in many ways, granted to me from my mother. It was the flesh that tore, not the bones, Kasha replied calmly.

And yet you’re still dead! How is this supposed to help me destroy him?

I have given you all that you will need. It is up to you to discover how to use it to its best advantage, Kasha said softly.

What do you mean, ‘it is up to me?’ Maria shouted, her anger, pain, and frustration eddying about her like a wind in the dream world. How is this possibly any better than it was before? I need you here to help me!

I cannot stay. I am drawn to the land of our forebears.

But the others—they stayed for so long. They followed me, haunted me. How is it that they could stay, yet you cannot? Maria asked, desperately clutching for anything that might make Nana remain.

I am at peace. I have fulfilled my purpose here, and, more importantly, I know it.

How can you say that? Maria countered, even realizing it was a losing argument. Sophus and Theron still live. Miguel is still trapped. Nothing has been fulfilled, and I still need your help.

It was never my destiny to stop them or to free Miguel. The only person with that ability is you. Nana gently resting her hand on Maria’s shoulder. I have given you all that you will need. It is time for me to go.

Maria fell into the older woman’s arms. She hugged her tightly, as though she could hold her there. But she could not, and Nana turned from her with joy on her face as she reached out and faded, leaving Maria, once more, alone.

Chapter 27

MARIA STOOD FOR A TIME where she was, staring blindly toward the horizon. She heard Iráma come out and take Nana’s body from the entrance, presumably for the scavengers. Maria was Nana’s only family left; she would have to ensure the body was properly buried. Then, in a few years, she would dig up the bones and rebury them, following the Wayuu tradition.

But she could not do it right now. It was too dangerous. If Sophus realized she had a connection with this woman, with the Zyanya line, he would certainly destroy her, too. She needed to destroy him first, but how? Without Nana’s help, she was no better off now than before.

Iráma returned and handed Maria a letter. Without saying anything, lest they be overheard, Maria took it. Her name was on the sealed envelope in Nana’s stilted scrawl, with the words “for after” beneath. She didn’t want to read it now. She didn’t want to hear excuses, or reasoning, or kind words. The pain of Nana’s death was still too fresh, and Maria was too angry. She opened it anyway and two words stared up at her.

Carry on.

Maria snorted, bitter. What kind of advice was that supposed to be? It was no more helpful than cryptic remarks or getting killed for no reason. Maria blinked her eyes, wishing she could cry.

Carry on, Nana said.

Maria didn’t need empty words. She needed help to destroy Sophus.

Maria still knew of no way to actually destroy a vampire, save by fire, and even that was speculation. Nothing else in nature could damage them; their bodies were harder and stronger than stone. Sophus was so much faster and smarter than she; how could she possibly catch him on fire without endangering herself?

That assumed he’d even catch fire. Certainly, her hair had burned, but that did not guarantee a solid body would. What if he merely smoldered for an eternity? The image of a smoldering, raging Sophus made her shudder. Maria did not fear the fire the way she once had but still held out hope for a life beyond her fated task. No, destroying him by fire was too risky, too much of an unknown. Perhaps if there were no other alternatives.

There had to be another way. How had Sophus removed Theron’s limbs? Could it have been simple force? Perhaps she could manage to do the same to Sophus, catch him unawares and disarm him, so to speak. A memory floated back to her of afternoons spent with Miguel, learning to fight hand-to-hand. Surely they would apply here. Sophus was stronger and faster, but she had to try. Somehow, she would find a way to pull him limb from limb.

With a new determination, Maria squared her shoulders and returned inside. She would take care of Sophus first. Then she would be free to properly mourn and bury her friend and mentor, Kasha Zyanya, her Nana.

She passed a tired and worn out Iráma in the hall. Be careful, she signaled to Maria before sitting to rest on a bench. Maria nodded and continued into the labyrinth.

It bothered her more than she wanted to admit, to see Iráma so haggard, so old. Maria walked through the brightening halls. Though it had only been a few months since last Maria had seen her and the graceful woman still held herself with poise, Iráma seemed defeated. Her friend had grown old during Maria’s absence.

Returning her attention to what she was about to do, Maria opened the doors to Sophus’s chambers and smiled widely.

“What an exciting morning.” She approached him, flashing a smile.

He looked up at her from behind a desk where he stood, studying a map, the fireplace behind him lit and burning brightly. Before today, the large fire would have intimidated her, which was likely the reason he’d had it made.

Maria gestured to the map. “That is new. Is it what you wanted to show me earlier?”

“Indeed, it is.”

“It’s beautifully crafted.” Maria took a closer look and was genuinely impressed at the quality. The smell of the ink rose off it, reminding her of the sanctuary of her father’s office. It was a large map detailing the western shores that bordered the Atlantic Ocean. The islands, though small, were elegantly detailed, and the writing was exquisite and clearly legible. It was as much a work of art as a functional map, and obviously the result of a dedicated master mapmaker. “Where did you get it?”

“Maracaibo, actually. Your old hometown.”

Maria nodded. “So far south? When you told me you’d gone to the city, I assumed that was Riohacha or Santa Marta, but Maracaibo makes sense.” She resisted the urge to look up at him, feeling his eyes on her as she continued to study the map.

“Yes, it was quite a prosperous venture. I found many little trinkets and a few surprise gems that I’d never thought to find.”

“Like this?” she asked, giving him a smile.

“And some of far greater value.” He walked around the table towards her. She was startled by what she saw in his face. It was shockingly close to the expression he’d worn as he killed Nana. Dark. Dangerous.

“And what would that be?” She tried to keep interest in her voice rather than worry.

“Well, I was passing through a part of the city that I had not been to in years,” Sophus said. “I happened upon a well-kept compound with high walls and a beautiful home inside. I inquired as to the owner of the home. Can you imagine my surprise when he said it belonged to the young master Álvarez?”

“I can’t see why that would surprise you.” Maria kept her voice calm. How much could he have discovered? “You know very well my father was a wealthy merchant. Why wouldn’t my old home still be in the family?”

“Of course it would. I was merely surprised I had never encountered it before,” Sophus continued. “Naturally, I was overcome by my curiosity and decided to see the place that had produced a woman such as yourself, so I presented myself at the gate claiming to be an old friend of the Doña Maria Álvarez, and so they let me in.

“One of the household gave me a tour while we waited for the young Don Álvarez. When he finally met me in the gardens and introduced himself, Álvaro Álvarez del Mar.” Sophus paused in his narrative and chuckled. “I thought that surely I must be mistaken. Surely, if he was the child of my dear Maria and her lost husband Miguel Blanco del Mar, she would have told me.”

Sophus paused expectantly, waiting for Maria to deny it. Frantically, she cast about for proof that he was lying. Perhaps he had only heard the name and made assumptions ....

“Surely she would not have neglected to tell me something so important?” Sophus took one of Maria’s hands. “But I could see that it was true. He looked the spitting image of you. Certainly, his eyes were green and his dark hair had more curl, but everything else about him was so similar, even his scent. Then he was kind enough to introduce his foster parents, Betania and Benito, who had raised him after his mother died shortly after he was born.”

Maria’s mind spun. There was no way he could have guessed at this. Whether he had actually met her son or just seen him from a distance, he knew the truth.

“I never felt that it was any of your business,” she said flippantly, hoping to throw him off. “Honestly, I don’t even remember him much.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he hissed, tightening his grip on her hand. “What else have you been keeping from me? I trusted you with my world, my home, everything I have worked for, and you have betrayed me! Do you really believe I find it coincidental that you ask to stay behind in the native’s village to seek out an ‘old nurse,’ then some loony woman shows up here threatening to destroy me at the same time that you return? I’m not an idiot. What are you planning?”

“Nothing!”

Sophus twisted her arm around behind her, forcing her down.

“Please, Señor, it was a coincidence! I told you that some old woman muy loca, fanática, had found me, but I swear I had nothing to do with what happened!”

“Why did you lie to me? What else are you keeping from me?” he persisted, pushing her to the ground. The twisting of her arm didn’t really hurt, but she could feel the joints and the flesh straining, and she was frightened of what might happen if they gave.

Would she lose her arm forever, or was there a way to fix herself? There had to be, else Theron wouldn’t continue insisting that his limbs be returned, but would Sophus return her arm if she lost it to him? What if he burned it?

“I didn’t, I swear.” She pushed back a sudden surge of hatred for him,  gambling that the show of meekness would help allay his fears. “I never lied to you. I honestly didn’t think the child would hold any interest for you. He holds none for me. There is nothing else.” She dropped her head to the floor, struggling to control her face.

“There had better not be,” he hissed, loosening the tension on her arm but not letting go, “because if I find out otherwise, I will destroy your home, your family, and your son.”

It was the last straw. She could wait no longer. He had threatened her people for too long, and she could handle that. He had stolen her life, her husband, and her family from her, and she held that in, too. But the thought of him taking the life of her son was more than she would bear.

The fiery anger that had burned in her cold, still heart blazed up, and the fires throughout the room seemed to flare in sympathy. Enraged, she swung her free hand around toward him. Miguel’s self-defense lessons flashed through her mind. Before she knew it, a thunderous sound shook through the room, and Maria’s hand was caught in Sophus’s grip.

She tried to yank her arm free, snarling at the older vampire even as he twisted her arm around and over her head, forcing her face away from him, her arms crossed before her. She could feel the anger from him as he pulled her arms tightly across her body and trapped her against him.

She pushed herself down, dropping beneath her arms and attempting to spin away, but he was quicker and countered her move. She kicked out, hooking her leg beneath his knee to drop him while she yanked her wrists from his grasp, but he was stronger. Though she managed to kick his leg out from under him and knock him off balance, she could not break his grip.

As they fell, she felt him wrap his arms more securely around her, one pinning her arms, the other grasped her head, twisting her neck, and his legs immobilizing hers. When they hit the ground, Maria realized her situation had gone from bad to worse, and she struggled against him.

“You are no match for me,” he whispered into her ear. “Shall I destroy you?”

Maria froze, afraid of what would happen if she moved.

“You lied to me,” he continued, the anger apparent in his voice. “Tell me why I should spare such a traitorous, deceitful snake?”

A flicker of hope flashed through her mind. He didn’t want to destroy her.

“I am useful.” She let her body go limp as a show of surrender. “So long as you spare my son, you hold his safety over me, and all my skills are yours. I can go places and not be seen, learn things and not be known. I have power, and so long as my son is safe, you control me.”

The silence stretched out. The feel of Sophus’s breath on her neck while he thought made Maria nervous. Perhaps he had already made up his mind and merely wished to prolong Maria’s suffering....

“You will do only as I say. You will not go into this dream world of yours without permission, and you will tell me everything you find and every word you hear, from the living and the dead,” he finally said, whispering right next to her ear. “If you disappoint me again, in any way, your son will die and I will destroy you.”

Oblivion would be nice, she thought as he released her and stood.

“Remember, I said destroy, not kill.” He stood, looking down at her. “I would ensure you would live for all eternity, helpless and miserable, able only to remember how you caused the destruction and death of everything you cared for by your disobedience.” Turning, he stalked away.

Maria had thought herself trapped before, but she realized now she had not known the meaning of the word. What have I gotten myself into? She remained on the floor, staring blankly at the flames in the hearth until even the embers had died.

Chapter 28

FOR ONCE, ELISA DIDN’T CARE that Miguel ignored her. Oh, she had been furious at first, constantly pestering Theron to do something about it. But he had simply said her relationships were her own problem. It had taken a few days, but she had come to see Miguel’s absence for what it was. Opportunity.

The entire trip home from the city, their boat laden with new things for their home, they hadn’t said a word to each other. He had some stupid, happy-go-lucky grin on his face when he wasn’t paying attention. She should be jealous, she knew, but right now she was just too excited. She would definitely give him grief later, though. Their relationship aside, he needed to be kept in line.

Which dress should I wear? she asked Theron as she planned. What is his favorite color?

I think blue looks best on you, Theron responded, as eager as she was to make their upcoming venture a success. It would take more than once, she was sure, but that was all right. Elisa had no doubt that she could wheedle what she wanted out of him. After all, she’d gotten past the first step with little trouble. Sophus had invited her to visit.

EMELIA LET OUT A RELIEVED sigh and dropped the fake smile that had been plastered on her face for the last thirty minutes as the door closed behind her.

“That one must’ve been a real charmer,” Álvaro said from his seat on the stairs.

“If I never see Don Rafael Vallejo again, it will be a day too soon.” She handed the doorman her shawl.

“Isn’t he a little old for you? And newly a widower, besides.” Álvaro stood to walk her to the sitting room.

“Belo set it up; I didn’t have much choice.” Emelia shuddered and turned to Álvaro, taking his hand. “Take me away from here, Álvaro. Someplace I don’t have to think of dowries or politics or responsibilities and can just be happy.”

Caught off guard by her request, he hesitated a moment before smiling. “I know the perfect place. Order the horses while I let your mother know.”

Emelia watched him leave, his stride full of purpose and his normally neat hair a bit disheveled. He always looked his best a little mussed up; it reminded her of when they were younger and more carefree.

Once he was out of sight, she called for the horses to be saddled and hurried to her room to change into a riding habit. She wouldn’t have minded ruining the dress she wore if it meant never being reminded of Don Rafael’s pale, groping hands, but right now all she wanted was to be free of it. Emelia dumped the skirt onto the floor near the fireplace and began dressing in the habit.

There was a quiet knock on the door and Leonora let herself in.

“Álvaro says you’re going riding. I want to go, too,” she stated, her voice subdued.

Emelia looked her over. “Are you feeling well, Nora?”

Leonora nodded.

“Well, help me with my dress then, and send word to the stables.”

Leonora stuck her head out the door for a moment then joined her sister. “Your dress might get singed if you leave it so close to the fireplace.”

“That’s the idea.” Emelia checked her hair in the mirror. At Leonora’s look of shock she laughed. “You’re right. Grab it for me, and I’ll lay it on the bed.”

Soon the three of them were on the road, trotting between the plantation fields. They were too spread out to talk, but Emelia liked that fine. She could watch Álvaro, handsome as ever, astride Wind. She enjoyed the way his shoulders, which had begun to fill out this last year, moved beneath his jacket. Her eyes dropped to admire his legs in their tight-fitting breeches and boots, and she blushed, turning away at the thought.

“This way.” Álvaro slowed his horse abruptly and turned onto a track that led through a field, toward a distant stand of trees. He turned in his saddle to look back at them, his face alight. “What do you think, Norita? Are you up for a bit of a run?”

“Don’t call me that! I’m not a baby,” Leonora huffed, maneuvering her horse between them and smacking Álvaro with her whip.

He laughed. “Well, let’s see if you can keep up then, little Nora.” He shot Emelia a grin and he urged Wind on. The mare leapt forward and they were off.

“Well, come on!” Emelia laughed, urging Stardust after Wind. The track was fairly even before her, but Emelia did not dare look back to see if Leonora was behind her.

Emelia’s heart pounded to the beat of her horse’s gait over the dry ground, and all of her concerns fell away. There was nothing to worry about beyond the next turn, the next leap, the next fall of hooves and the beat of her heart. There was no time for emotion, not fear nor anger, not longing nor trepidation. Emelia’s mind fell into silence and peace as she and Stardust moved as one, following the gray flag of Wind’s tail.

Out of nowhere, Leonora’s chestnut horse landed between Wind and Stardust, a peal of ecstatic laughter from her rider. Emelia’s reverie was broken, and she pulled back. Álvaro and Leonora slowed to a cooling walk.

“Where are we?” Leonora asked as Emelia pulled alongside them.

“Well, a couple of months ago I was going through some older files in the office—”

Leonora groaned, and Emelia had to agree. “You sound like Papa.”

“That doesn’t bother me at all,” Álvaro responded. “As I was looking, I found some personal history. It turns out that my father kept a journal. It’s pretty terse and dry, though. Most of the entries are only a line or two long, plus a remark on the weather.” Álvaro affected a silly voice. “Damp today. Rain likely.”

Leonora snickered. “It rains nine months out of the year.”

“That’s just here,” Emelia reminded her. “Don Miguel had traveled the world before stopping in Maracaibo. He probably thought it strange.”

“Anyhow,” Álvaro continued, “he mentioned this place a couple of times. He said that a friend owned it. My father had planned to bring my mother some day, but I don’t know if he ever did.”

They entered a clearing in the trees. The serene beauty of it took Emelia’s breath away. The little glade was shaded and cool, with several stone benches placed artfully around. She could just imagine it as a place for lovers to come and confess their feelings for each other. How perfect to be here with Álvaro.

“Doesn’t it say in the journal?” Leonora asked, cutting into Emelia’s thoughts.

“No, not that I’ve gotten to yet,” Álvaro said. “I’ve only found the one book, but I’m sure there are more somewhere.”

“I’m going to gather flowers for Mama,” Leonora announced, sliding from her horse. Emelia watched her go and waited patiently for Álvaro to come assist her dismount. Not that she couldn’t have gotten off on her own; it wasn’t ladylike, but she could. However, any chance to have Álvaro touch her was not to be squandered.

Emelia gripped his hand for balance and shifted her weight to step from the saddle. For a moment she considered losing her balance to throw herself into his, just to have his arms around her. But then the moment passed and she was safely on the ground.

“Tell me, has Gretchen ever thrown herself into your arms while you’re helping her down?” Emelia asked, nudging his ribs playfully.

“Only every time. I swear that girl has no balance,” Álvaro said, as they tied their horses.

“How are things going with her, anyway?”

Álvaro shrugged. “I don’t think her father likes me much, and besides, she’s scared of horses.”

Emelia laughed. “Felicia was too loud. Donna giggled too much, Consuela was ... what again?”

“Too bouncy.” Álvaro picked a flower and handed it to her.

“Bianca, and before her it was Anna-Maria. Can’t you stay in love for more than a fortnight?” Emelia shoved him again, and this time he pushed back. She tripped, grabbing at him for balance. By the time they’d gotten straightened, out they were both breathless with laughter.

Álvaro led her to the bench, and they sat. Emelia’s heart beat furiously as she avoided his eyes. She busied her hands with putting the flower, a red amaranth, into her hair as he leaned back.

“I love how easy it is to talk to you,” he said, watching the clouds.

“Well, you know you can tell me anything.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever really known what love was before now.”

Emelia’s pulse increased, and she didn’t dare to look at him while he spoke. How many others had sat on this bench before her and confessed their love?

“It’s like I opened my eyes and saw for the first time what I’d seen a thousand times before.”

Emelia didn’t speak, her hope rising in her chest.

“I had bid farewell to Gretchen for the last time, and I turned and there was Hannah Martinez, standing in the sunlight with a flower in her golden hair.”

Emelia repressed a sigh, catching her heart before it could shatter at her feet, and tucked it safely back into its box.

“Hannah? Really? You know she doesn’t even read.” The flower in her hair drooped into her face, and Emelia pulled it away, setting it on her lap.

“She hasn’t got two thoughts in her head to rub together,” Leonora chimed in, a bunch of flowers in one hand.

“But have you heard her sing?” Álvaro said, not even listening to them.

“I give it two weeks.” Emelia said to her sister.

“One,” Leonora countered.

“You’ll have to let me wear your blue mantilla next Sunday.”

“You’ll have to let me wear your emerald necklace.”

“Done.” Emelia stuck out her hand, the amaranth falling from her lap.

“What time is it?” Leonora asked, handing Emelia the fallen blossom. “I don’t want to miss lunch again today.”

“You’re right.” Emelia put the flower into her sister’s hair. “We should get going before he starts reciting poetry.”

“Álvaro.” Leonora nudged his knee.

“Hmm?” He looked at her, returning from the clouds and impossible Hannah.

“Invite us to lunch. We’re hungry,” Leonora laid on the charm.

“How could I refuse a request like that?” He chucked her chin, and she swatted his hand away.

Emelia brought the horses over and held Leonora’s chestnut filly while her sister attempted to mount the sidesaddle on her own.

“Leg up?” Álvaro offered.

“I can do it on my own.” She took the reins from Emelia.

Álvaro shrugged and turned to Emelia, offering his hand. Emelia gathered her reins and took Álvaro’s help up. As she settled her skirts she turned back to her struggling sister.

“I thought you wanted lunch,” she said, “not supper.”

Exasperated, Leonora raised her chin and stuck her hand out to Álvaro. He grinned and took her by the waist, tossing her onto her saddle before she could protest. Grumbling, Leonora fumbled with her stirrup as Álvaro mounted Wind.

“Well, come on then.” He reined Wind about. “Last one there is a turnip.”

“No fair!” Leonora protested, but Emelia had already started forward and didn’t hear anything else.

Álvaro and Emelia waited for Leonora at the road and then set off at a quick trot when she joined them. As they neared the hacienda, each nudged their horse toward the lead until all three of them were galloping through the gates, merry with the thrill of it. Emelia allowed the grooms to take her horse and help her down, while Álvaro helped the ruffled Leonora, who had lost her bouquet along the way yet somehow still had the amaranth in her hair.

They lunched in the garden, chatting and laughing until the letter arrived. Álvaro read it and passed it to Emelia.

“It’s from Tío Benito,” he said, his voice flat. “Belo Sergio has passed away. Abuelita Olivia will be setting sail for Spain at the end of the week, and you are to accompany her.”

Emelia scanned the letter in shock. It was exactly as he’d said. Leonora pranced about, rattling off the things she’d need to pack, while Álvaro’s face was closed.

“We’re not leaving you.” She touched his arm.

“You can’t stay just because of me.”

“That’s not what I mean.” She waited, willing him to ask her to stay. She would give up Spain, give up the world, if only he’d ask her to stay with him. Say it, she begged silently, watching his face. Look at me and see that I want to stay.

But he didn’t. He looked at anything but her, before taking a deep breath and standing. She stood, too, putting her hand on his arm.

“I don’t have to go,” Emelia said in a burst of courage. “I would stay if you want me to.”

There. She’d said it. She held her breath as a moment passed, and then another. Álvaro turned back to her, a sad smile on his face.

“I could never ask that of you, Emelia.” He took her hand in his. “This is the chance of a lifetime. You can’t pass it up just to soothe me.”

“That’s not—”

“I can handle myself for a few years.” He gently let go of her hand and she let it fall limply to her side. When would she learn not to take her heart from its box? Emelia took a deep breath, the air in her lungs pushing the bruised heart back into its place, and a smile again sealed the lid shut. This time it will stay shut, she promised herself.

“Well, you had better write to me at least,” she said, “or I’ll have to come back early to put you in your place, even if I have to swim the entire Atlantic, and then you’ll owe me a new dress.”

“And you’d never let me live it down if it came to that.”

She took his hand again and looked into his beautiful green eyes. “Write me, Álvaro.”

“I will.”

THE STEADY SOUND OF rain filled Maria’s ears with music as she lay on the stone floor. She blinked and inhaled, unsure of how long it had been since she’d done either. Carry on. Purpose began its slow saturation of her body, and she gathered herself and stood. Where was Sophus?

A quick glance around the room confirmed that he was not there. A sudden need to see her son filled her. Sophus’s threats be damned; if Álvaro was hurt .... Maria entered the dream world to find the ghost woman, Ka’í, waiting for her, a hand resting protectively over a gentle light that now lay on her abdomen.

I’m sorry; I haven’t time to stay. I must find my son, Maria apologized quickly and sped through the dream world, the fields a blur, until she stood in the courtyard of her home. Another deep breath steadied her. She didn’t have time to search the entire house, but if she calmed herself enough she would feel him. She had known him in the dream world before he had been born, and though the connection had grown weaker with time, it was still there.

The wind whispered through her hair, telling secrets she thought she could almost understand. She turned her head to better hear and found herself facing toward the gates. A slight tug pulled at her, a different direction that her perpetual lead-line to Miguel, so gentle that she might have missed it.

Just as she began toward it, a footman rushed forward, throwing open the gates, and her son, now a young man, galloped through. He was rakishly good-looking, so much like his father that Maria’s heart melted. He was full of laughter as two more horses charged in, each bearing a young woman. He slid from his horse, tossing the reins to a groomsman, and went to help the señoritas down. They were obviously Betania’s daughters. The younger one blushed as Álvaro set her down and hid her face. The elder—Emelia, Maria reminded herself—took his arm, and they joked as they went into the house.

They’re so full of life! Maria thought. Were we ever that way, Miguel? Is this how we would have been had things been different? How much we have missed ....

A hand gripped her shoulder, and Maria jerked around to find herself face to face with Sophus, back in his room.

“I had to know he was still alive,” she said before he could say anything.

“And did you find me to be a man of my word?” he asked, letting go of her arm.

“Yes.” She remained where she stood.

Sophus sat and waited, sipping from a glass. “I have been patient; I have been kind, hoping that you would share these things with me on your own. I have given you this life and all the blessings that go with it. It is time to pay your price. You will tell me of your powers, but first, you must be disciplined. While I understand that you needed to know my word was good, you still disobeyed.”

He set a bowl of oil on the floor before her, and Maria shrank back, knowing what would come. He threw several of her long hairs into it and, then using the flame from a lamp, lit the bowl.

Maria lay on the floor, willing the pain to be just in her mind. Willing it to end. She had screamed at first, but afraid that she would damage her voice she had forced her body to stillness. Or, she had tried.

All things must end. Clenching her fists, folding herself as tightly into a ball as she could, she held herself still through the immense power of her immortal, vampire body. Her breath hissed through her clenched teeth. Several strands of dark, glossy hair that had once been hers lay in a shallow bowl, covered in oil, burning brightly. Slowly.

The hair had been cut from her after her transformation, and she could feel the fire consume them, feeding its ravenous hunger with each particle it touched. It whispered its silent laughter at her through the still air, rejoicing at the destruction. The fire was on her scalp, searing her skull, and reaching its ever-searching tendrils of want and destruction through her brain.

All things must end. The small lock of hair had been cut from her scalp years—decades?—ago. The memory of Sophus pulling her close, distracting her with his sleight of hand as he stole the bit of hair flashed through her mind. And his smug voice. His silken, smooth voice. As angelic on its surface as Sophus’s own golden looks. And every bit as vile and rotten beneath. The pain of the burning hair that somehow remained connected to her, seared through her, merging with her fury.

All things must end. The fire would consume the hair and burn itself out. She drew in another slow breath.

All things must end. The pale walls of her stone prison stood before her. Her son was safe for now.

All things must end. She had found Miguel. She would get her husband back. Slowly, she pushed the breath back out.

Sophus would pay for her pain.

All things must end.

She would destroy him.

Abiding Destiny: Book 3

DAUGHTER OF ZYANYA: BOOK THREE

MORGAN J. MUIR

Chapter 1

1761 – GUAJIRA PENINSULA

MARIA LAY ON THE FLOOR, willing the pain to be just in her mind. Willing it to end. She had screamed at first, but afraid she might damage her voice, she had forced her body to stillness. Or, she had tried.

All things must end. Clenching her fists, folding herself as tightly into a ball as she could, she held herself still through the immense power of her immortal vampire body. Her breath hissed through her clenched teeth. Several strands of dark, glossy hair that had once been hers lay in a shallow bowl, covered in oil, burning brightly. Slowly.

The hairs had been cut after her transformation, and she could feel the fire consume them, feeding its ravenous hunger with each particle it touched. It whispered its silent laughter at her through the still air, rejoicing at the destruction. The fire was on her scalp, searing her skull, and reaching its ever-searching tendrils of destruction through her brain.

All things must end. The small lock of hair had been cut from her scalp years—decades?—ago. The memory of Sophus pulling her close, distracting her with his sleight of hand as he stole the bit of hair flashed through her mind. And his smug voice. His silken, smooth voice. As angelic on its surface as Sophus’s own golden looks. And every bit as vile and rotten beneath. The burning hair that somehow remained connected to her seared through her, merging with her fury.

All things must end. The fire would consume the hair and burn itself out. She drew in another slow breath.

All things must end. The pale walls of her stone prison stood before her. Her son was safe, and she would keep him that way.

All things must end. She had found Miguel. She would get her husband back. Slowly, she pushed the breath back out.

Sophus would pay for her pain.

All things must end.

She would destroy him.

The last wisp of flame licked up the final bit of Maria’s hair. The immediate, consuming pain left in its wake a headache the size of a small mountain. She lay on the floor, continuing her even, measured breaths. Her body, immortal, perfect, unchanging, was not meant to experience such pain. And yet, here she was.

The room around her was still, like death. The reflected sunlight lighting the vast labyrinth had dimmed with the falling twilight, and no breath of air moved in her captor’s chamber. Bookshelves lined the walls, carefully arranged among the couches, desks, and decor. The many statues carved from the natural formations of the cave stared down at her where she lay on the floor, critically dispassionate.

You should get up, she told herself. Taking in another shallow, shaking breath, she began to relax her muscles. The long, heavy folds of her dress pressed against her legs, cocooning her from the rest of the world. She reached out to pull herself to her knees, but the memory of the pain flared through her mind, sharp and bright. Gasping, she curled back in on herself, shaking in fear.

It’s over. Get up before he gets back. But her body refused to cooperate. Cold, hard, and powerful, Maria had found nothing in her life as a vampire that could harm her body. Even the burning of her hair with all of its pain—this was not the first time Sophus had done it—had not left a mark on her body. She took in a deep breath, the threads of the corset beneath her dress straining against her unyielding flesh. Don’t let him have this over you, too.

She relaxed her muscles, one trembling bit at a time, and sat up. His footsteps sounded in the hall beyond the heavy wooden door, soft and nearly noiseless. Maria swallowed back the pressure in her throat as the door swung open.

The blond man, his face a mask of serene concern, met her eyes with his tawny-red gaze. Immediately she turned away, afraid he would see her impotent rage.

“How are you doing?” he asked, kneeling down beside her. Tenderly, he tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear.

Maria jerked back from him as though burned by his touch. She could almost feel her heart moving, the fear flowing through her as she scrambled to make herself as small as possible against the wall. She stared at his knees, her mind blank. His loose, fine-linen shirt fell casually over his dark pants, its hem nearly touching the immaculate stone floor. He swung a small, clear locket on a simple chain. Curled within lay the hair he had stolen from her. She looked up, again meeting his gaze.

“I can see the fear in your eyes,” he said. She looked away. “This is good. Remember that fear, that pain. Understand that no matter how far you go, I will always be able to inflict it on you.”

Maria nodded, unwilling to trust in her voice. He’d cut an entire lock of her hair and had thus far only burned a few of the long black strands. She clenched her trembling fists, but her fatigued mind could no longer stop her shaking.

“You hold up so remarkably well, Maria. I have known others who, well, let’s just say they couldn’t handle it.” Sophus spun the locket into his hand as he stood. “Get a hold of yourself. When I return, you will tell me about both your abilities and all you have done, or we may have to do this again.”

MIKHAEL SWUNG HIS CUTLASS with a vicious stroke. The blade whistled through the air, knocking away an attacker’s sword. The rain blurred his vision as his boots slipped over the soaked wood deck of his small ship. He dropped his weight lower to compensate. This would be so much simpler without the boots.

And when have you ever chosen the simple route? The oily voice of Theron, Mikhael and Elisa’s sire, twisted through his mind, mocking him. Shall we make it really challenging?

Before Mikhael could reply, Theron took control of Mikhael’s leg. Jerking it back, he sent Mikhael crashing to his knees. Cursing, Mikhael tucked into a roll and leaped to his feet, swinging his fist in an uppercut to the next man’s chin. The attacker’s teeth clacked shut with a sickening crunch. The man’s head slammed back, and he stumbled a step before toppling over the railing.

Well, that was a waste, Theron tutted while Mikhael swung his sword at the next attacker. Elisa will be so disappointed to not have something as wonderfully fresh as he would have been. You shouldn’t waste so much food, Mikhael.

She’s welcome to go in after it. Lightning brightened the dark sky for an instant, illuminating the ship in a brilliant white. Mikhael moved under the defense of the attacker and lifted him easily by his throat.

Kill him, Theron urged.

“Get off my ship,” Mikhael growled, and tossed the man into the dark Caribbean waters. Mikhael turned to face the last two pirates. One of the men ducked close and jabbed his knife into Mikhael’s gut.

Mikhael caught the man’s wrist as the knife tore through his shirt, leaving a ragged hole. The man’s eyes widened in horror at the realization the knife had not even nicked Mikhael’s skin. “You’d best get away before she realizes you tore the shirt.”

“They’re demons!” the knife-man shrieked to his companion, backing away from Mikhael. “Demons!”

Mikhael bared his teeth and swung his cutlass savagely at the men as lightning crackled through the sky once more. The men backed away from him. The knife-wielder tripped over a crate as his companion jumped ship.

Knife-Man scrambled to his feet, his heartbeat pounding in his throat and his fear palpable. Mikhael could smell it, even in the rain. The man’s blood, hot and rich and just below the surface, called to him. Mikhael stepped forward menacingly as the man cowered.

Mikhael put his finger through the tear in his shirt. “She rather liked this shirt. She will not be happy with you. Get off my ship while you still have breath.”

Not waiting another moment, Knife-Man leaped for the rail. A long, delicate hand, practically silver in the darkness of the storm, shot out, snagging his collar.

“Did I hear you cut his shirt?” Elisa’s sinuous voice sliced through the rain like a chime. She pulled the man to her, lifting him until his feet dangled an inch from the deck. “So not only have you made me come out into the rain, ruining my fine silk dress—”

“Señora, please,” the man begged, tugging at her arm. “Please, I didn’t mean any harm.”

Elisa continued as though she hadn’t heard. “—but now you have relegated me to having to stitch up his shirt.”

“Mercy, Señora. I beg you, mercy.” The man struggled, his eyes wild. “I’ll do anything; just don’t kill me.”

She paused, a smile spreading across her face. Mikhael turned away, turning his back on the bloodlust begging him to tear into the man’s throat and drink his blood. Behind them, the pirates’ small ship fled.

You’re not going to watch the show? Theron mocked him from within, turning Mikhael’s head back to look.

Why? You can watch through her eyes just as well, and she’ll enjoy it so much more with you there.

Theron loosened his grip on Mikhael’s mind, returning control of his body. Mikhael scowled, biting back a retort at his captor. Antagonizing Theron would only make things worse. He was fortunate, as it was, to be left to himself for the moment.

Oh, no, Theron said, sending a reprimanding strike to Mikhael’s mind. Mikhael staggered sideways at the mental blow, dizzy for a moment. You’re to go in after the one you broke and let fall overboard. Elisa will keep the other one warm until you get to me, but she’d like something to eat. Theron pushed Mikhael toward the rail.

At least let me take off my boots. She’ll never let you hear the end of it if they squeak from being ruined in the water.

Theron sighed and withdrew. Don’t come back without him.

As if I had a choice, Mikhael shot back, shucking his coat and boots.

Theron roared through his mind, but Mikhael grabbed the end of a coiled rope and dived into the water before his master could decide to retaliate.

Go suck fish, Mikhael almost said, but kept his peace as the inky blackness of the water surrounded him, cold and silent. He pushed through it to the weightless corpse standing drunkenly on the silty ocean floor. He knew better than to push his captor too far.

Chapter 2

MARIA STOOD IN THE center of Sophus’s chamber, facing a large mirror on the far wall. Her reflection watched her in return, identical to the twenty-year-old she had been when she’d asked Sophus to make her a vampire. Half a lifetime ago. The same deep olive skin and dark round eyes as her fellow Spaniards, though the irises were now tinged with red and shot through with silver. Had her son grown into her eyes? Or did Álvaro take after his father? So long as his eyes never became silver-and-red, she would be happy. All she did, she did to protect him.

Her long, dark hair curled and cascaded down her back, only slightly disheveled from her ordeal, and she attempted to fix it. The gold brocade on the heavy blue skirts shone dully in the early dawn light. The dress was cut low and square at the shoulders, hugging her figure before flaring modestly at her hips. The sleeves enveloped her arms in similar fashion with pale, elegant lace falling from her elbows. The latest fashion from Spain, Sophus had told her. Not that she cared.

She raised her chin higher, throwing back her shoulders. Her pride she claimed from her mother’s people, the Wayuu. It was for them she was here. For them. But also for Kasha. Her lip trembled. Kasha, who had helped raise her, and whom Maria had lovingly known as Nana, was gone. She had been Maria’s mentor and friend. Her last hope.

Kasha Zyanya—Nana—had come with Maria, determined to finally destroy the vampire who had preyed on their people for centuries. The visions in the dream world had promised it, and Nana had revealed she wasn’t merely human, but half vampire. Sophus’s daughter, her very existence hidden from him by her mother.

Sophus had killed her while Maria watched.

And then he had turned on her.

How am I supposed to do this alone? she cried out in her mind to anyone who might hear.

Only silence answered. Silence, and a simple breeze passing by the cave’s ventilation shafts, echoed down the rock.

The door opened, and Maria steeled herself to face Sophus again. Allowing her frame to drop slightly—she must appear defeated—she turned toward him.

He strode up to her, reaching for her elbow, and she flinched away, her stomach twisting itself into a knot. She half expected him to make a friendly remark and try to engage her in conversation. For nearly twenty years, she had been his companion, even as he’d spun his web of control and deceit around her. But now all pretense of friendliness was gone. He sneered and pulled his hand back. He walked a circle around her, and she could feel his critical gaze inspecting her. She wanted to shrink away, to hide, but stood her ground.

He stopped behind her, and she kept her gaze locked on a statue that stretched from floor to ceiling, carved from a natural pillar.

“You will begin by telling me of your powers.”

This was a dangerous game, with her son’s life as the stakes. How much could she gamble? He already knew she could see things beyond physical sight. She’d kept so much hidden from him. Would a simple answer satisfy him? “I can see things, places, that are ... elsewhere.”

Sophus resumed his circuit around her. “What of the dead? You have said you see them.”

“Yes.” Images of the souls of the men she’d killed at his command flashed through her memory. They had haunted her, hounded her for years, bound to her by her own guilt. But she had let them go. This seemed safe enough to be honest about. “I can see them, sometimes, right after they have died.”

“Can you speak with them? Command them?”

Maria shook her head. “Occasionally, they have spoken to me, but always it has been about the need to move on. I don’t think I could affect them much, even if I tried.” Maria kept her voice flat, her heart breaking at images of Nana’s death flashing through her mind. She’d come, despite Maria’s warning of a trap. She’d come, a daughter of Zyanya, braving all to face down Sophus and fulfill the prophecy her mother had made centuries before—and he had torn her apart like a dog with a rag doll. Maria had watched, helpless, from the dream world.

Her captor continued the interrogation. “What of the ones spoken of before, that follow you? Do you hold them to you?”

Nana had stood before her, a ghost in the dream world, already fading and telling her to continue on, with nothing but a cryptic remark that she’d given Maria all she would need to destroy Sophus. And then she had left. Left her alone to do the impossible. “They have gone and cannot come back.”

“What of your ‘dreaming’? Do you choose where you go?”

Cherished memories flooded Maria, of singing to her young son from the dream world, encouraging him, coaching him as she’d watched him grow. Sometimes, it even seemed he could hear her. “I can choose, if it is some place I have been before, or if I have a guide.”

His path took him behind her. “Can you hear what is being said, or affect things that happen?”

She held back a smile, grateful he couldn’t see her face. He asked if she heard them, but not if they heard her. Time for another gamble. “Sometimes I can hear what is said, but not always. I am not certain why that is, and no, I cannot affect the physical world.” He doesn’t know I can talk to others, Perhaps I will still get time to watch my son, and to speak to Miguel.

Sophus stopped in his pacing and watched her face. “What of Theron? Have you been to his lair? Do you know of his coven? Could you track their movements?”

“Yes, I have, but I think it is dangerous for me there.” Another truth. “I went there once, following you. What I saw there, sitting in his cave....” Maria felt a chill steal through her at the memory and shuddered. The broken vampire had once been Sophus’s closest friend. “I could see his body, but also what I assume is his essence. He was all tendrils and darkness, reaching out, groping for something he couldn’t quite see. He held the other two in his coven wrapped tightly, but he knew I was there. He searched for me, reached for me.” Maria locked eyes with Sophus. “I fled.”

“That was wise. You are never to go near Theron again.”

“Of course.” Maria bowed her head in submission.

Sophus nodded, steepling his hands against his chin. “Do you think you can get near the others without attracting his attention?”

This was another answer to hedge on. She couldn’t risk losing her only link to her husband Miguel. “Yes, when they are not near him the connection thins. I don’t think it is any weaker, but it is as though there is nothing left to spare for searching.”

Sophus nodded again. “He requires proximity to ensnare, but I don’t believe there is a limit to the distance the connection will stretch once he controls you. If I gave you the location and description of a man, would you be able to find him and watch him?”

“I’ve never tried it, but, again, if it is some place I have been before, it may be possible.”

The questioning continued, Sophus asking hypotheticals about her powers, and Maria carefully giving honest but occasionally incomplete answers. The reflected sunlight in the cave brightened, then began to fade before he had finished. She remained where she stood the entire time, keeping her face neutral and her eyes on the statue in the pillar. She heard the footsteps of the mortal Wayuu women who lived there, passing through the halls. Women who had taken refuge here from their previous lives until they died of old age.

Or were killed by Sophus.

But never her.

These women were her friends, and her people. The thought of their spilt blood no longer filled her with the overwhelming bloodlust, but rather with anger. She had lost everything she loved to save them from the angelic monster who now circled her. Was it fate or her own stupidity that had started her on this path? She had sent Miguel to rescue her father, and he’d been caught and turned by Theron. But Maria could not leave it there. No, fool that she was, she’d gone after him. Pregnant, young, naive, and without a backward glance. Was it fate that had pushed her out the door? Did it even matter now?

Maria crossed her arms loosely before her, answering Sophus regarding her inability to move her physical body while her awareness moved through the dream world. A half-lie this time. She had been practicing, but had no intention of telling him. Occasionally, the bleats of the goats and sheep they tended above the cave echoed softly in the spaces between words as Sophus considered her answers and found new questions.

No. All that mattered now was protecting her son. For the time being, that meant providing Sophus something useful, something he could not get any other way: access to her ability to dreamwalk. Her ability to move through the spirit world would not be enough to save her, or her son, if he ever learned she was Zyanya. It was said a Zyanya woman would destroy him, so he destroyed any who so much as spoke the name. Nana...

Finally, he gestured for her to leave. She moved for the first time in hours, as always, a little surprised not to be sore from standing so motionless for so long. Her head still ached from the fire, though; and Sophus’s hateful voice, smooth as honey, had not helped.

“One last thing, my dear,” Sophus said as she set her hand to the doorknob. “Do remember that I know about your little mortal son. I know where he is, and how to find him. Make no mistake, I will kill him. Slowly. Painfully.” He walked to her and ran a lock of her hair through his fingers. “Unless, of course, you do all I say. Any rebellion or disobedience will have dire consequences for your progeny. Do you believe me?”

She held back the desire to strike his hand from her hair. She could not beat him in a physical contest—she had tried with painful results—and he was not the type to lie. She was determined to destroy him, but until she knew how, she had to keep her son safe. “I would be a fool not to.”

“Then show me you are not a fool.” He dropped her hair and set his hand against the door, blocking her. “You are to stay in your chambers and await further instructions from me. The directive not to go into the dream world for any reason still stands, and this time you will obey.”

She lowered her eyes. “Yes.”

Sophus dropped his hand and let her leave.

ELISA TOSSED HER GOLDEN hair over her shoulder before entering Theron’s lair. She knew how much he enjoyed seeing it glint in the sunlight. If you’d come outside, you could see it even better.

If you came to me I could touch it in truth. He caressed her mind with his as she walked through the cavernous room, the heels of her shoes clicking against the polished wood floor. Theron awaited her, sitting on his enormous chair, his face flush and alive from the blood they’d just consumed. She took a seat beside his throne and stroked his flaxen hair.

“I never get tired of the way your curls bounce back,” she said with a playful grin.

Theron shook her off, pulling his head away. “I’m not a puppy for you to stroke and play with.”

Elisa draped herself across his throne as though sitting on his non-existent lap, and leaned her head against his broad chest. “Aren’t you?”

“You have Mikhael for that sort of thing.” He rested his chin on her head and sent her the image of him stroking her hair.

It almost felt real.

When she found his limbs that Sophus had stolen, when she returned them to Theron, it would be.

Theron chuckled. “You are so very single-minded, my dear. If anyone can wheedle their way into that man’s good graces and make me whole, it will be you.”

She traced the line of his jaw with her finger, down his pale neck to the silk ascot that held up the neck of his shirt. “I’m sure he’ll be far more reasonable to deal with than Miguel.” She slid her hand across the shoulder of his vest and over the empty sleeve tactfully folded and pinned away. It might have looked better to tailor the shirt to flow smoothly over the limbless joints, but then the clothes would have to be remade when she brought him his missing parts. And what waste of effort that would be.

“You’ll need a better tactic with Sophus than batting your eyes or trying to sit on him, my dear. Mikhael might have fallen for such things, but Sophus will not.”

Elisa sat back and looked at Theron, batting her eyes. “Are you sure? It works well enough for you.”

Theron laughed, and Elisa beamed at him. The sound of his laughter filled her heart with its depth the way it filled the cavernous chamber, echoing off its stone walls. “Your little false husband doesn’t seem too taken by your eyelashes anymore though, does he?”

Irritation washed through Elisa. How could Miguel not see she was the best thing in his life? She’d protected him from Theron’s anger, turned the filthy cave they’d lived in into this beautiful sanctuary. And yet he’d cast her aside, demanding she never so much as touch him again. Well, she’d show him. “He’s a fool. But just wait. He’ll come crawling back to me one of these days, begging my forgiveness.”

“Ah, but will you give it to him?”

“Eventually. When I feel he’s learned his lesson.” Elisa tapped Theron lightly on the nose and laughed at the playful irritation he sent to her. “Why isn’t he back yet? You said he’d return today.”

“He’s fussing over securing his ship. I can hurry him along if you’d like.”

Elisa returned her attention to playing with Theron’s hair. “We must be practical, unfortunately. The ship is convenient. Let him secure it, but harry him a bit for me. And please tell me you still haven’t let Miguel change his clothes.”

Theron’s devious smile sent a thrill down her back. “Of course not. As you say, he needs to learn some humility. You could help further, you know, by calling him Mikhael.”

“Instead of Miguel? Why?”

“He clings to his old name; it’s part of why he’s so stubborn. He needs to accept that he is only what I have made him. He is Mikhael and nothing more.”

Elisa made herself comfortable, thinking of what Theron had said. Calling him Mikhael had always seemed so wrong. But that woman had called him Miguel, and Elisa had never succeeded in wiping her memory from his mind. Had she simply been undermining her own efforts every time she said his name?

Yes, Elisa could see it now. Calling him Miguel had been a mistake. She ought to have cleansed every bit of his old life from his new. Theron had known this from the beginning. How could she not have trusted him? He’d never led her wrong.

She would need to go through the lair and find anything remaining of his that had a connection to her. Including the necklace with the red stone. Miguel kept it, hidden away somewhere. And she would burn it all on that precious byre of his in his room of bones. Her fingers clenched on Theron’s hair.

Careful there, my precious one. Theron gently released her fingers. “We both prefer my hair where it is, I think.”

She moved her hand, abashed at her carelessness. Instead, she stroked her fingernails down the back of his neck. The heavy wooden doors crashed open, slamming against the wall, startling her. She scowled at Miguel, who stood backlit by the bright morning sunlight like some dark angel bent on vengeance.

“You’d better not have broken anything,” she called out to him.

“You were in such a rush to get me back here, opening the doors slowly seemed like a waste,” Miguel snapped back. His dark, shoulder-length hair was slicked back, and his once-white shirt was stained and dirty.

She smirked at the finely stitched repair he’d done in it when they’d returned from Maracaibo. His breeches were tattered and his bare feet covered in mud and who knew what else. She wrinkled her nose. “I could smell your stench from the beach.”

“I can only imagine your insistence that I wear such perfume is because it reminds you so clearly of your own self.”

“Did you bring me anything pretty from Santa Marta?”

Miguel nodded and tossed a bag of coin to her as he stalked past.

She caught it lightly. “We didn’t say you could leave.”

Miguel stopped and turned back to her, crossing his arms. “You see? You are so taken by my repugnant funk that you must wallow in it for a bit longer.”

She glared at him. She should just make him stand there. His dark eyes burned their defiance at her in his pale face, a stark contrast to the man beside her. He clearly hadn’t fed in far too long.

I hope it burns, she hissed silently at him, her own throat constricting sympathetically.

It does. It pushes at him constantly. Theron’s smirk was palpable in her mind. He’s needed my help more than once to keep from losing control.

No doubt that galls him.

It does. However, despite how delicious his angst is when he rails about it, constantly monitoring him gets tedious.

Elisa knew a hint when she heard one. They’d tortured Miguel enough for now. After all, she wanted him humbled, not broken. She raised her chin. “Go back to your precious little boat and get cleaned up.”

Miguel gave her a sweeping bow that might have been perfectly proper, yet from him, it seemed perfectly mocking. “Whatever the lady says.”

“And Mikhael?” Elisa hid her pleasure as he started at the foreign name coming from her lips. “Shut the door on your way out. I wouldn’t want pests to follow your trail of filth home.”

DESIRE SEARED MIKHAEL’S throat and cast a haze over his vision as he stalked from his prison, urging him to break into a run. The heartbeats of the vermin in the arid landscape around him beat in his ears, calling to him with their succulent morsel of life. He kept his eyes forward, toward the distant beach. He would not give in to their amusement by chasing desert mice for a meal that would barely wet his lips. If Theron didn’t simply prevent him from catching them to begin with.

Mikhael clenched his fists and kept his pace steady. The malodorous smell of dirt and filth he’d been forced to work among emanated from his clothes. His need for blood pushed at him, demanding to be satisfied, unwilling to be ignored.

Should I let you loose, Mikhael? Theron whispered, caressing his mind like an oily snake. Theron pulled recent memories from Mikhael’s mind with the ease of flipping through a book. People he had nearly attacked. In crowds. In daylight. He’d been on the verge of losing control and Theron had held him back. Release you to be the monster I’ve created you to be?

The gentle rush of the ocean met his ears as he walked, and Mikhael focused on that.

Even your wife knows you to be a monster, now. Worse, she knows you for a liar.

Elisa isn’t my wife. The scent of seawater mingled with a warm breeze and encircled him before the bright blue of the ocean came into view. Hunger pushed at him. There was food to be had in the water.

You swore to protect and care for her, and yet you’ve turned her away. Theron sent images of Elisa’s hurt face, seeking to tear at his heart. You’ve become the very man you swore you’d never be. Faithless. Liar. Oathbreaker.

With a cry, Mikhael shook his head and broke into a run. Giving in to his hunger would blot out the images, if only for a time. He ran up the small ship’s gangplank and dove over the other side into the warm, deeper water off the stern. The water embraced him, blocking the unbearably repulsive odor they had made him carry with blessed nothingness as he held his breath. The water muted his senses, dulling the sounds of the world and warping his vision. A blessed relief.

Theron laughed, sharp and immediate, as Mikhael grabbed a fish and tore at it. Blood clouded the water, and Mikhael let it go as Theron withdrew, then repeated the process with another.

Within moments, the sharks appeared. Mikhael lunged for the largest, his shirt snagging and tearing on its rough skin. Theron had been wrong. Mikhael was a monster, but not for hurting Elisa. He bit into the tough flesh of the grey beast that writhed and fought in his vice-like grip. The animal’s warm blood filled his mouth, narrowing his world to that of a starving man with his food. Together, they sank to the sandy bottom of the murky water, the sunlight dancing in shafts above them.

Yes, he’d hurt Elisa. Broken their relationship beyond repair, humiliating her in public. It had been a calculated move. He’d needed to push her disdain for him into hate. And he’d succeeded.

Too quickly, the shark stopped moving, and he shoved it away even as more came to consume their companion. Kicking off from the floor, he grabbed another and continued his meal.

No, he was not a monster for hurting Elisa. Her pain gave him freedom. He was a monster because he was glad.

Chapter 3

IN THE DREAM WORLD, the walls of the room flickered around Maria, remembering what they had once been. A portrait had hung near the window until recently, and it thought it still belonged there, until Maria looked at it, then it recalled it did not and blinked out of sight. The wood paneling behind it was fresh, though lacquered to look aged, and it still recalled being a tree. It stretched toward the sunlight through the soul of the room, believing it was still a tree. The wood surrounding it was more resigned. That had been a wall for a very long time; it knew what it was and remained still.

Maria stood in the corner and watched the men before her talk, no more visible to them than the flickering portrait that had been removed.

It was dreary work, listening to a conversation she had no interest in for the passing of certain key words and phrases. She longed to find her son and see how he was doing. What he was doing. To know he was safe, but she dared not. Sophus did not tolerate mistakes from her.

One by one the men left the room until only two remained. The temptation to try to spook one into leaving made her smile. They were a couple of stuffed shirts whose entire existence seemed to revolve around the quality of the tobacco in their cigars and the flavor of their wine.

Finally, the host dropped off to sleep, and the other, giving him a disgusted look, left. With a sigh, Maria fell back into her body.

Opening her eyes to her dark room, she stretched. Her body didn’t ache—it never did, no matter how long she had been gone, but the fear that she might someday return to a body that refused to respond lingered. Quickly, she wrote a synopsis of the meeting for Sophus, and took it to his chambers.

A bota bag of cooling goat’s blood waited for her. She drank it quickly, doing her best to ignore the nasty taste. She rinsed it in the small stream that ran through the wall and poured the dirty water down a different channel. The patience it must have taken to carve such long, thin channels throughout the labyrinth still impressed her.

Turning the bag upside down to dry, she looked over the room. The emptiness of it made her smile. For a few days he would be gone, and she had the next few precious hours to herself. A rare moment indeed.

She left the room as she had found it and made her way to her favorite spot—the pastures above the caves where she could sit and watch the stars and the sunrise.

Supposedly, Sophus had left to oversee how the current rebellion of the Wayuu against the Spanish fared. He promised support to the Wayuu against their invaders, and though he kept it with exactness—providing them weapons, horses, supplies—he also did everything he could to incite the conflicts and keep them burning. This was, in fact, the fifth time in the last sixty years the Wayuu had risen up against the Spanish.

The dark, velvety sky began to lighten, diminishing the entrancing dance of starlight, and Maria blinked, breaking the stars’ pull.

When Sophus returned, and the fighting was done, there would be only more grief and anger. And one by one, the widows who could not find solace in normal life would come here, hopeless and broken and looking for peace, to spend the rest of their lives. Sophus was a man of his word, and many found the rest they yearned for. What they did not always expect, however, was the life sentence he enforced. One by one they died, more often than not at his hand. And then the cycle continued. Over and over.

“You’re thinking about it too much.” A thin but solid voice broke through her thoughts, speaking in Wayuunaiki.

Maria looked up and smiled at Wuchii, the woman who had first befriended her in this place. And who had remained her friend even after Maria had been turned. “I didn’t hear you come.” Maria enjoyed the chance to speak her mother’s language.

“That’s how I knew you were thinking too hard.” Wuchii winked at her and took a seat. Maria helped the older Wayuu woman gently to the grassy ground. “You always do when he leaves.”

“Shouldn’t you still be asleep? It’s far too early to be awake.”

Wuchii nudged her shoulder playfully. “I’ll tell you a secret about getting old: you don’t need nearly so much sleep. Just you wait.”

Maria rolled her eyes. She didn’t sleep; her body had no use for it. She turned her attention to the ethereal pattern of the air currents moving lazily over the grass. She nudged one with her mind, trying to get the grass to wave to the left. It ignored her.

“Tell me what happened.”

Maria leaned back, tilting her face to the brightening sky, and listened to the early birdsong. Running her fingers mentally over the air’s spirit threads, she quietly told Wuchii of finding Nana, though she left out her training in the dream world, and her attempts to manipulate the elements. Her skill there remained non-existent. She skipped to the vision she’d seen of Nana destroying Sophus as a fiery winged serpent even as he killed her.

Wuchii nodded and set her hand atop Maria’s when she fell silent. “I have heard of this detail of the prophecy before. It is not widely known.”

“But it didn’t work.” Maria’s voice thickened with emotion, and she dropped the air currents she’d been toying with. “She confronted him, and he killed her, just like the vision showed, but there was no fire, and he’s still here. And now things are worse.” Maria turned to her friend. “He knows about Álvaro, Wuchii. He forbade me from going into the dream world without his express permission, but I had to know he hadn’t hurt my son. So I went anyway”

Wuchii squeezed her hand. “You did it, then? You returned? What of the ghosts?”

Maria turned away. In her memory, she could still feel the heat of the bonfire that had waited for her in the spirit world, and the blood that had stained her hands there for so long. She had finally faced down her guilt and passed through the flame. She had forgiven herself. “I let them go.”

The sun rose over the distant horizon, bathing the ground in its golden light. A goat made its way over to them as it grazed, and nibbled at Maria’s shoe. She gently pushed him away and tucked her feet beneath her dress. He moved to Wuchii instead.

The older woman held a handful of grass out to the goat and stroked his nose as he ate it. “But you saw your son again? Tell me about it.”

“It surprised me to see how much he’d grown.” Maria smiled at the memory of her son, now nearly full grown, bursting through the hacienda gates on his horse, so full of joy and spirit and life. “He’s become quite the strapping young man; handsome as his father when I first met him.”

“Yes. Time has a way of doing such to children.” Wuchii gave a sad smile and pushed the goat away, her long, greying hair falling over her shoulder. “I sometimes wonder what mine would have looked like, had they grown.”

“As beautiful, wise, and kind as their mother, no doubt.” Maria hugged her friend. “It always surprises me when I go to the villages and it seems hardly any time has passed, but the ones who were barely toddling when I last passed through have turned to adults. I guess it was too much to expect Álvaro would not grow, too.”

“Tell me, what of your man? Have you been able to contact him yet?” Wuchii changed the subject, a twinkle in her dark eyes.

“Actually, I did,” Maria said with a huge grin, momentarily forgetting the troubles weighing her down. Just before everything had gone wrong, she had reached him through the dream world. She grabbed her friend’s hand, careful to not crush it in her excitement. “He heard me, too. I spoke to him from the dream world, and he actually heard me! I don’t know how it happened, but I don’t care.” Warmth filled her chest at the memory of his rich voice, and the easy way words came to her with him.

“Well, out with it, girl. Tell me what you talked about.”

Maria’s smile turned sad as she recalled the pain in his voice he couldn’t quite suppress. She knew that sound—the sound of being trapped. “The weather, his boats. Nothing of consequence, really.”

“Those are the best conversations. I can hardly wait to talk of nothing of consequence when I reach Jepria. How was it to speak again to your long-lost husband? Did he recognize you?”

Maria picked at a blade of grass. It broke easily in her fingers, releasing the scent of morning. “I don’t think he remembers me, not entirely, but when we spoke there was a familiarity there.”

“Did you tell him who you were?”

“No, we avoided speaking of the life before. In truth, I was afraid. Not of him not remembering me, but I’ve done so many things wrong.” Maria swallowed back the fear at the thought. So much of what she had done had been for love of him. What if it had all been for nothing? She gathered her courage and spoke the words aloud. “What if, once he knows me, knows all I’ve done, and all I’ve become... I’m not the woman he left behind. What if he can’t love what I’ve become?”

“He’ll have changed too, Maria, and you still love him anyway. You should give him the chance to do the same,” she said. “But until then, what do you plan to do about your other problems?”

“Plan?” Maria said with a bitter laugh as reality came back to her. “How can I plan anything? Lord Sophus will certainly discover any plan I make to move against him, and I will not risk Álvaro’s life. I’ve waited this long; what is a few more decades? Then everyone I knew and loved will be gone, and he will have no real power over me.”

“But that is not true, child,” Wuchii said with a sad smile. “For, if life runs its natural course, Álvaro will have children of his own, and they, too, will someday have children. Your power to see them is also your curse, for you will always know they are out there, your family, the children of those you loved. And so will he.”

Maria sighed. “You’re right, of course. Time will only make it worse, but what else can I do?”

“Continue the way you were, I suppose, and wait. Our people have been waiting for centuries for the right time. It will come, and when it does, you will know it.”

They watched a couple of yearling lambs chase each other in the warm sun.

“Iráma buried her, you know,” the older woman said.

“Yes.” Maria resumed fiddling uselessly with the air, wishing once again that she could have been there to help care for Nana’s body.

“I have things to do; we will speak later.” Wuchii patted Maria’s hand comfortingly and sighed again before struggling to her feet.

Maria helped her old friend stand and watched her disappear back into the labyrinth. Wuchii walked slowly, a slight limp in her step. Her frame had begun to thin. She had been a source of wisdom and strength for Maria from her first days here. What would Maria do once she was gone?

Absently, Maria pulled out a paper from her pocket and unfolded it. Nana’s careful scrawl looked up at her, her last words of advice before she’d gone to her death. Only two words.

Carry on.

With what? Maria resisted the urge to crumple the letter and feed it to the goats. With life? With spying for her captor and being tortured if she slipped up? With living in fear that at any moment he would return and drop her son’s corpse at her feet?

A breeze washed over her, carrying the scent of the ocean. Closing her eyes, she savored the taste. The image of Miguel, standing on the rail of his ship, the wind in his hair, came to her. He had not given up fighting for his freedom. And she had promised him she’d return. She had promised herself.

With a sigh, Maria carefully refolded the paper and slipped it into her skirt pocket. Carry on. She would continue to search for the parts of Theron that Sophus had taken from him, torn into small bits, and hidden within the army of statues throughout his maze-like lair. She still needed to figure out the most sure way to destroy them—she had no reason to believe that just because her hair burned, his flesh would as well. And if Theron could still feel his orphaned limbs, what horrors would he commit in revenge? But searching remained a solid place to start.

The sun shone bright in the cloudless sky, warming the ground before her. Her task felt daunting. She took a deep breath. She had some time before she had to be at her next assignment, and Sophus would be at that one, which meant she had a chance to do something worthwhile. Ought she search out more of Theron?

A familiar pull from within her tugged at her chest, and she turned her head to the North. Miguel had returned to Theron’s lair. So long as she didn’t get too close to the lair, she would be safe from Theron’s control. Perhaps she should return to Miguel and make certain he was well.

But could she risk it?

Sophus was not here, and he had taken the locket of her hair with him, so there was no use searching for that. She wasn’t expected anywhere, and if she was careful, no one here would know she was breaking the rules. Besides, she had promised.

A smile formed on her lips. She climbed the cliff at her back, a slope far too steep for the mortal women. Pulling herself into a niche near the top, she settled herself out of view. Closing her eyes to avoid the disconcerting feeling of seeing both the physical world and spirit world while she travelled, Maria cast her spirit into the dream world.

From her vantage point, Maria looked over the desert below. The landscape flickered between the lifeless tan of the dry season and the verdant greens of the rainy. The wind swept in from the north, whispering its secrets in a language she did not understand, and welcomed her with its embrace. The smell of coming rain, wet and rich and full of life, rode on the wind’s back. She inhaled it, taken back for a moment to happier times.

A bird, midnight black with a shimmering golden crest and a long, flowing tail flew up to her, twittering and chirping.

And a good day to you, Si’a. She bowed to the bird as he flittered about her, dancing in the wind. I am going to speak with my husband. I promised him I would.

Si’a moved to her side as she shifted the world around her, the landscape blurring and moving as fast as thought until she neared Theron’s lair. She slowed to reorient herself toward her husband’s location. A dark miasma like watery smoke lay over the area, becoming thicker and more concentrated near the lair. It moved, an undulating, intelligent sea, and its octopus-like tendrils of smoke reached out, searching.

She backed away, certain that if it touched her, Theron would take control of her as surely as he controlled Miguel and Elisa. How she would ever get close enough to Theron without falling under his control, she did not know.

The line to Miguel pulled at her again, veering away from the lair, toward the beach. With a breath of relief, Maria threw herself into the air, imagining her arms to be wings and her skirt a tail. Her spirit’s shape shifted with her thought, and she soared through the air, away from the trap of Theron’s lair and toward the barren Carribean beach. Below her, the brilliant blues of the ocean glimmered as she rose in the warm winds. Miguel’s ship lay docked at a small pier. Circling, she dropped toward it, the pull of her husband leading her down.

Murky water churned some distance from the ship, a group of sharks mindlessly devouring a meal. A man swam nearby, well below the surface, and Maria smiled. It was him.

Tipping her wings, she moved toward the ship and landed softly, her skirt billowing around her legs in the soft breeze that gently rocked the boat. She took a seat on the railing, running her hands across the solid wood, feeling its soul. Long had it been a rail, part of this ship. It was proud of what it was, crossing the water and fighting the elements. In its pride, she could feel Miguel’s influence and love. He cared for the ship, and the ship knew it.

She turned her eyes to the water and the shadow below swimming toward the boat. He rose and broke through the glistening surface. His flushed skin, brilliant in the sunlight, was a stark contrast to the nearly-black hair he flicked back from his face. Maria’s breath caught in her throat as she let her eyes wander across his shirtless body. He was more handsome than she remembered. Hungrily, she moved her gaze to his face and locked eyes with his. They were the same red and silver as hers, though perhaps a darker crimson than her tawny, but in the spirit world she saw them also the way they were meant to be. The green she best remembered and loved.

Miguel!

Chapter 4

MIKHAEL SWAM THROUGH the water, away from the mess the sharks had made. The fresh blood invigorated him, silencing the constant, distracting hunger that had gnawed at his body and mind for so long. He took what pleasure he could from knowing Theron had suffered it along with him, even if to a far smaller degree.

He worked his hands through his hair under the surface, letting the salty Carribean water strip away the accumulated filth. The remnants of his shirt floated before him. He tore the last of it off, using the cloth to scrub the remaining dirt from his skin. He understood what they had meant to do, making him work demeaning jobs and not allowing him to clean himself. What Elisa couldn’t understand, though, and clearly neither did Theron, was that honest work, even dirty work, would never dishearten him.

The smell, however, had gotten bad. Mikhael wrinkled his nose and snorted out a bit of the air he’d kept in his lungs. The reflexive action startled him. The last thing he wanted was to inhale water, then spend the rest of his existence with water rattling around in his lungs. Twisting lithely through the water, Mikhael angled back toward his ship and the surface.

The sunlight on the surface above him glittered as he broke through it, taking in a deep breath of the clean air. Even if he didn’t strictly need to breathe, fresh air always felt wonderful.

A gentle tug on his heart pulled at him, and he turned in its direction, smiling. It seemed his ghost awaited him aboard.

Mikhael pulled himself easily over the rail, the clear, warm water splashing over the deck and dripping from his body. For an instant, he tensed, hearing Elisa’s cynical comments before she could make them.

Instead, his mind was filled with joyful laughter. A merman has thrown himself aboard! Quick, we must douse him with more water or he’ll dry up and wither away. The rich voice of his ghost carried a smile.

Mikhael grinned back, emotions long dormant pulling at his heart as he wrung the water from his hair. “Maybe I threw myself aboard for a chance at being human once more.”

The ghost laughed again, but this time with a touch of sadness. Oh, to be human, she said, her voice wry.

“Sounds like you’ve a story to tell, yourself.” Mikhael walked to the cabin, wiping the water from his skin. He could feel her following him, though his physical senses confirmed he was alone on his ship. He only imagined she was there. She waited in the doorway while he pulled on a clean shirt and changed his tattered breeches. They didn’t need to speak; simply knowing she was there comforted him.

Buckling on his belt, he stepped back out into the sunlight. Turning his head toward the sun, he took a moment to enjoy its warmth.

I love the feel of the sun, too, she said.

He opened his eyes, looking across the deck. How could he hear her so clearly, and yet no one was there? Still smiling, he withdrew a block of wood from his pouch and took a seat in the sun. “I never can get enough of it.” He pulled out his carving knife and set the blade to the wood. The sharp metal bit easily into the hard wood beneath his skilled hands. “Theron doesn’t allow it much, though. It makes him nervous, but I don’t know why.”

What are you carving? Her voice now came from beside him, as though she watched over his shoulder.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled in response to her imagined nearness. Silly. “I’m not sure. The images come out of the wood as they choose to. I may direct the knife, but I could swear the wood shapes itself.

“What about you, though?” he continued. “You said you had a dangerous task to complete. How did it go? I’d say that clearly you survived, except near as I can tell, you’re still a ghost, so perhaps you didn’t?”

She laughed again, but he could feel the sadness in it. Survival hardly seems something worth worrying about when you’re not really alive. What is survival anyway?

Mikhael rotated the block in his hand and continued to smooth the edges. “Taking a stab at it, I’d say it’s living, without the living bit.”

She snorted in response, and he felt her settle down onto the deck beside him.

He could almost picture her, dark hair spilling over her shoulder as she tucked her long skirts around her legs. He kept his eyes focused on his carving, afraid that if he looked and found the space beside him empty, she would be gone.

Survived, then, is probably the right way to put it. I thought ... I thought things would get better. That they couldn’t get any worse. But they did, of course. So much worse. Her voice filled with emotions—pain, anger, resentment. He knew exactly how she felt.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” He wished he could give her some sort of comfort, but he wasn’t exactly a shining example of how to get out of bad situations. “What will you do now?”

I keep trying to figure that out, but everything seems so hopeless. I can’t even promise I’ll be able to talk to you again any time soon. I’ll come as often as I can, of course, but ... She fidgeted, as though steeling herself. It has become so very dangerous. And not just for me. If it were only myself, I wouldn’t care so much, but for ... someone who is very dear to me. Her voice caught. I shouldn’t have come this time, but I promised you I’d return.

Mikhael could almost feel her emotions, as if she were begging him to understand. Begging him to forgive her? He dismissed the thought. What would a ghost need forgiveness from him about? He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the rail, his still-damp hair dripping onto the back of his shirt. It would be nice to be dear to someone, though.

Can I ask you something?

He would have opened his eyes and looked at her, had she actually been there. “You’re a figment of my imagination, remember? You can ask me anything.” In his mind’s eye, he imagined her reaching for him, laying her hand over his. His arm tingled in anticipation of the touch that didn’t come.

What keeps you going, Miguel? Her voice was rich with emotion, and it broke his heart that she’d suffered such loss. What keeps you from despair?

Opening his eyes, he studied the wood he held. He had continued carving despite his closed eyes. The edges mimicked the sinuous flow of the grain, with the gentle outline of an angel’s folded wings. He changed the angle of the knife and began carving away at the center, roughing in outlines for a celtic knot as he considered her question. When it came down to it, there was really only one answer.

“You,” he said, carving deeper into the knotted heart. “You are my muse. When nothing in the world makes sense, and I think either the world or I must be mad, I hold to the thought of you. I feel the most sane when I’m talking to you. The entire world feels more sane when you’re here.

“Of course,” he continued, pausing to blow out the shavings, “being a manifestation of my own imagination, you’d think I’d be able to call on you whenever I wanted. But I suppose I can’t have everything in life.”

She laughed, the sound of it as calming as the waves on the beach. If only it were that easy! I’d have been with you so often over the years that you’d have been sick of me, telling me to go and haunt someone else for a change.

He chuckled at the thought, but bitterness stung his heart. He wasn’t fit to be a companion to anyone, not even a ghost. Theron had made him, in more ways than one. He remembered holding to morals with a youthful zeal. Be true, be honorable, be more than ... than what, or who, he couldn’t remember. What he had been no longer mattered, only what he was now. Liar, untrustworthy, a breaker of promises, a person who cared only about himself, and who was glad for it. For a moment, he held the knife over the delicate curves of the complex celtic knot, ready to break it off entirely. Why did he bother?

He could feel the ghost’s eyes on him, watching, waiting. He pulled the knife back a little and began detailing the wings. “Are you real?”

As real as you are.

“Why me?”

Aside from your dashing good looks? Her playful tone couldn’t fully hide the pain and loneliness beneath. You’re kind, compassionate, smart. You have a great sense of humor—

He shook his head, turning the figure over to work on the back. He had never once made Theron or Elisa laugh, except in contempt of him. “Kindness and compassion are nothing but weaknesses.”

Those aren’t your words, and we both know it.

He again shook his head, but the truth of her comment pricked at him.

I know you, Miguel. You’re a good person, down to your very core. You can’t give up on that. You have to keep going.

“So you can give up, but I can’t?” He carved deeper into the wood’s core, cutting an opening through to the other side. “You can give in to your captivity, but not me? I should keep fighting, even though I have nothing worth fighting for? But you, who by your own claim, has something worth fighting for and protecting, you can simply give in and hope you’re enough to keep them out of danger?”

Her agitation at his question was palpable. You don’t understand.

“Then tell me so I can.”

The warm sunlight darkened as clouds moved before it, and the gentle breeze returned, blowing the smell of the desert across the beach. His ghost paced across the deck while he waited. I can’t.

Exasperated, Mikhael stood, tucking his knife away. He wanted to reach out to her, hold her and stop her from pacing. But she was not really there. Instead he leaned his elbows on the railing and looked across the bright blue ocean. “Why not?”

She paused before answering. I’m afraid.

“If it’s so dangerous for you both, if you’re so afraid, why don’t you leave?”

I can’t—Emotion filled her voice.

“Why not?” Mikhael abruptly pushed back from the rail and turned toward her. “Are you in chains? Incapable of movement? Trapped in a cave with no door? Held captive by a mind-controlling monster?”

No, I—

“Then just leave!” He paced the deck angrily. “Stop toying with fire in the hopes that you can keep yourself and your loved ones from getting burned. If you’re so afraid, if the danger is as real as you fear, and you’re physically capable of going, then you need to leave. Staying and hoping things will get better is a mistake.”

His words hung in the air, and he ran his hand through his hair, trying to control his emotions.

She waited, silent.

Mikhael lowered his voice, trying to keep it steady from the longing that filled his heart. “I would give anything, anything at all, to escape this. You have nothing keeping you from walking away from whatever it is that’s holding you. You’re a fool to stay.”

Her silence continued, and the emptiness of his despair replaced the fervor that had, for a moment, filled him. He couldn’t even feel her there any more. He dropped to the deck, resting his arms over his knees and leaning his head hopelessly against the bulkhead. He’d made her angry, and she had left without even a farewell. It was no less than he deserved.

With a sigh, he looked at the carving he’d made. A half-finished bit of heart-shaped wood, angel wings with a tangled knot for a heart. He was so broken he couldn’t even keep an imaginary friend around.

He threw the carving into the water and buried his head in his arms.

Maria stood in silence, thoughts at war within her as she tried to find the words to answer Miguel’s question. Why couldn’t she just leave?

For so many reasons. Sophus and his threats, and he had her hair, and he knew about her son. How could she ever hope to protect her son from him when she couldn’t even protect herself? If she left, she knew he would simply hunt her down, or burn her hair, or maybe capture her son.

And all that to say nothing about her supposed destiny as the last Zyanya woman to destroy Sophus. Nana had believed in it, in what the dream world had seemed to say in its vision, and all her belief had done was get her killed. Sophus would just as surely destroy Maria if he saw defiance in her.

All the possibilities swirled around her mind as Miguel collapsed onto the deck, his anger spent, and dropped his head into his hands.

Maria let her body pull her back from the spirit world. How could she possibly even start explaining it all to him, all the stupid decisions she’d made? He would hate her for it. He could clearly see what a mess she’d gotten herself into, and he didn’t even know everything that had happened.

Opening her eyes, Maria ran her fingers over her hand, stopping at the knuckle of her bare ring finger. She needed him. She needed someone solid, someone real, to reach for and hold to. She needed the hope that he could still love her. She couldn’t lose Miguel, too.

She dropped her head into her hands, a part of her aware that elsewhere Miguel sat the same way. His last words stung.

She was a fool.

With a glance at the sun to gauge the time, she decided she had one more thing to do before her small window of reprieve passed. She needed to check on her son.

Chapter 5

1761

My dear Álvaro,

We’ve made it across, finally. I can hardly believe how much I missed standing on solid ground. The crossing was such an ordeal, and I dread even the thought of the return trip. Perhaps I will feel differently when the time comes, but for now, I’m just ecstatic to be off the water.

Leonora, of course, took to it like a fish to water. I swear, she’d have been climbing the masts and working the rigging if we’d allowed her.

Spain is so very beautiful. I had never imagined such a place as this! It is very different from home, and yet so very familiar. There is a sort of wildness to Maracaibo I had not understood until we arrived here.

It is cold, too. Abuela merely laughs and says we’ll become accustomed to it. She and Leonora are already planning Norita’s quinceañera here, despite it being more than a year off. They fit in so very well. It doesn’t surprise me for Abuela, since she grew up among the elegance here. It is hardly a wonder she refused to marry Belo unless he let her bring some of it with her. The Casa de la Cuesta is almost Spain in miniature that way. Except with palm trees.

I must write to Mama and Papa, too. I eagerly await your first letter. You must tell me how things are going with Hannah.

Yours,

Emelia Garcia Díaz, Señorita de la Cuesta

ARE YOU NERVOUS? THERON asked.

You know I am, Elisa replied tartly. She didn’t pace or play with her hair, but her stomach was still all aflutter. The hot sun shone on across the dreary desert landscape, beating down on the ugly plants and scrubby trees. Sheep and goats grazed nearby—she could smell their dirty scent but couldn’t see them.

As well you should be. If you anger him, he will not hesitate to destroy you.

Elisa snorted in disdain, straightening the cuff of her sleeve but remaining where she stood. As though you would allow it.

Why do you suppose he wouldn’t let you bring Mikhael? You, he could overpower easily. Theron shrugged. It is your decision.

Elisa raised her chin. It had taken over a year, but she’d finally convinced Theron to allow her to accept Sophus’s invitation. This visit was all about information gathering. Theron could still feel his disembodied limbs, so he knew they were someplace with airflow. He suspected he’d know if they neared them. Elisa need only sweet-talk Sophus into showing her around.

Elisa would continue to charm Sophus every chance she got, visiting whenever he’d allow until she’d found all of her master’s limbs. Then she’d lure Sophus away, send Miguel to fetch them all, and together, with Theron whole, handsome, and powerful, they would leave this place.

My plan is perfect. She just needed to keep walking forward. She would succeed, and she and Theron would be free to live the lives they truly wanted.

Well, there’s nothing for it. Just go in. Theron nudged her forward, guiding her steps until she found her courage and took over. She rounded the last turn before Sophus’s lair and took a moment to enjoy the view. Not that she was impressed, though.

The entrance to Sophus’s lair was immense, with beautiful Greek columns flanking the opening into the mountainside. She was most certainly not dazzled by it as she passed through the columns. Profoundly jealous, perhaps. The place was enormous, and when she rounded the hall into the entry chamber, she found she needed a moment to fully appreciate the artistry of the sculptures carved there.

“Can I help you?” a Wayuu woman asked in heavily accented Castilian.

Elisa wrinkled her nose at the elderly woman’s horrid stench. “I’m here to see Señor Sophus, on behalf of his friend Señor Theron.”

“Of course. This way, please.” The woman walked off without so much as a nod of deference.

Elisa tried to lag behind in order to avoid the smell, but it lingered. With a sigh, she stopped breathing and followed.

The woman led her to a set of wooden double doors and gestured her in. Elisa snorted at the presumptuousness of the room, from the doors’ ornate carving to the chair set on a dais at the far end, as though it were a throne.

The door creaked shut behind her, and, already bored, Elisa explored the room. She started with the throne, draped in beautiful pale silks. Elisa touched the smooth cloth and considered the impression it would make if Sophus entered to find her sitting there.

That would not go well, my dear, Theron warned. He would consider it far too aggressive a move for a first introduction. Let him get to know you first, then perhaps you could get away with it.

Elisa pouted a moment before moving on to inspect the statues. They stood at varying heights, most with an impressive vertical inclination, likely carved from already existent pillars. She reached out and gently ran her fingers over the closest one.

“They’re beautiful, are they not?” Sophus whispered in her ear.

She spun and gasped, her hand on her chest as if her heart had skipped a beat. “Señor Sophus! I did not hear you come in! I don’t think anyone has managed to sneak up on me like that before!”

Sophus smiled, pleased as a cat with feathers in his mouth. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? A message from your master, perhaps?”

“Just a social call. It is so dreadfully boring living with the same two people for years on end. You did invite me this time, after all.” She dropped a slight curtsey, hoping her skirts hadn’t gotten too dusty from the walk from the boat.

He enjoys chess, Theron suggested.

“Do you realize how difficult it is to play chess with a person who knows your every thought?”

Sophus laughed. “I do indeed. Theron and I are overdue for a game.”

Elisa slipped her arm in his, touching his hand gently, and gazed up into his pale eyes. “Lead the way.”

He led her through a side door into a large sitting chamber. It was almost cozy, with couches, bookshelves, a large mirror, tables and a desk. Several rugs covered the immaculate stone floor, and a large hearth that was complete with a crackling fire. Elisa nodded, genuinely impressed.

We could do this. She sent Theron an image of their lair filled with couches and tapestries. She took the opportunity to walk the room as though interested in his books, running her fingers across the wood and opening random drawers. It would be magnificent.

Theron gave a non-commital grunt, and Elisa laughed in her mind, sending him a gentle, reassuring touch.

“What do you think of my home?” Sophus pulled out an overstuffed chair beside a table, a smug look on his face as though he knew exactly what she was doing.

“I’ve never seen the like.” She gave the chair a critical glance and, finding it suitable, sat.

Sophus beamed, bringing a carved stone box with a checked pattern on top to the table. Elisa pulled open the drawer nearest her, and smiled at the chess pieces nestled within. Drawing the dark king from its velvet home, she took a moment to admire its lifelike carving and intricate beauty. Every piece had chips of real gemstones for the eyes with more in the queen’s jewelry.

“Where did you find these?” she asked, inspecting each piece before setting it.

“I carved them myself. It is a passion I have been able to pursue for centuries. When you have lifetimes to perfect a thing, it is pointless to strive for less.”

Theron sighed. After lifetimes to think about it, he might have found a better philosophy. A small laugh escaped Elisa and Sophus gave her an expectant look.

“My apologies. Señor Theron was reflecting on how he has missed your conversation.”

“Somehow I doubt that very much.” Sophus opened the game with his king’s pawn. “Now, let’s see if you can let the girl play me herself, old friend.”

“And how would you know if it were me or him?” Elisa reached to match his move, despite Theron’s grouching.

Sophus merely smiled and moved again. “Tell me about yourself, Señorita. What do you love to do to pass the long dreary days?”

Elisa again copied his move. “Oh, I have many entertainments. I quite enjoy music. I have a pianoforte, you know, and play it quite well.”

Sophus took his first piece, and she nearly took the attacker before realizing she’d lose her queen if she did. “Clearly you enjoy sculpting, though, to have been able to create such incredible details. What did you use to carve these?”

“Simple chisels, so tiny you wouldn’t believe it if you saw them.” Sophus moved again, and this time Elisa couldn’t see why. “They dull quickly, however. Some tools are useful only so long before they need to be disposed of. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Elisa noted Theron’s irritated silence as she contemplated her next move. What seemed reasonable? “I can certainly agree with that, though one ought to wring as much life out of them as possible first.”

“I like the way you think.” Sophus laughed good-naturedly.

Elisa grinned and moved her queen to attack.

Within three more moves, though the conversation remained lively, Elisa could see her game was in trouble. Well, I’ve made a lovely mess of things for you, she sent to Theron. Take my hand, and I’ll keep him distracted.

Gleefully, Theron leapt in, and the feel of his arm inside hers shocked her for a moment. It was only her hand and her arm, she could still feel it exactly as it had always been, and yet it was no longer hers. She faltered over what she had been saying.

“Are you all right, Señorita?” Sophus asked, sitting back in his chair.

“My apologies. I merely lost my train of thought for a moment, looking at the board.” She met his eyes and smiled, trying not to move her body awkwardly now that her arm no longer responded to her will. “What were you saying?”

Sophus repeated his last comment, and the conversation resumed. Theron withdrew his control of her arm between moves, and Elisa had to remind herself not to flex her hand each time, fighting the urge to make sure her hand was actually hers.

Look at the board, my dear, Theron chidded her as she laughed at Sophus’s quip and returned one of her own. Obediently, she lowered her eyes to study the board. Theron’s control spread further up her arm as his excitement of the game grew.

Nervousness grew in the back of Elisa’s mind. He’d never taken such strict control of her before. He’d never had to. How would it be if he refused to let go? The thought constricted her chest like cold steel, but she shook it off. He would never do such a thing to her.

Was this what he did to Miguel? No wonder the man was so skittish.

Pay attention! Theron barked, his excitement making him short.

Elisa turned her mind back toward the game and found herself riveted. When Theron stood her up to look over the top of the board, it was almost as if Elisa had meant to do it anyway. Sophus stood, too, the turns picking up speed. The game ended a minute or two afterward, but the intensity of it captivated her.

Abruptly the motion stopped and Theron sat them down, leaning away from the table, pleased. She smiled, knowing they’d won. A moment more and Sophus toppled his king.

“Well done, but I think you cheated.”

“Only the last half.” Elisa picked up the dark stone queen, again admiring the tiny, glinting jewelry. “But you will admit it was more fun that way.”

“It was certainly the liveliest game I’ve played in far too long.” Sophus set the pieces back into their drawers, taking the queen from her. “You shall have to come again some time, and we will try for a rematch. Now, tell me, what do you think of Pythagoras of Samo?”

“Who?”

“He was a philosopher who back in the—”

Theron groaned. Not that again. Don’t let him get started on philosophers.

“Pardon,” Elisa cut him off. “I’m afraid Theron insists we’ll need to leave if he has to listen to one more word about philosophers.”

“I’m heartbroken!” Sophus said, though his grin said otherwise. “Well then, shall we dance? You look like a woman who enjoys such things.”

“I would love to, but what shall we do for music? Surely you don’t have a chamber ensemble lurking among your halls?”

“I am a man of many talents. I will sing for you.”

Elisa stood and held her hand out to him. He took it, swinging her close to face him, her free hand landing on his shoulder. She gasped when he took her by the waist.

“What is this?” She tried to meet his gaze, but his face was so close his soft breath moved across her cheek. “Some old dance from your homelands?”

“Actually it is quite new, just arrived from Spain. It hasn’t caught on in the aristocracy yet, but I’m sure it will soon. You’ll be on the edge of fashion.”

Elisa looked down bashfully as he sang, exaggerating the three-beat rhythm at first before he began guiding her with gentle pressure from his hands. She soon found her feet, and before she knew it, he added flourishes and spins.

The room seemed to blur around them as they moved among the statues like fellow dancers. She hummed a counter melody, and in her mind she could almost hear the musicians. He led her deftly through the room, adding movements and steps into the form, which she picked up on quickly. She had never danced with another immortal before, not like this, with such speed, precision and complexity. It thrilled her with the challenge, and her partner’s tawny eyes sparkled with enjoyment in the fading light.

Gradually, the music wound down and he spun her one last time, the dance coming to a graceful end.

Elisa broke away, fanning herself, feeling she ought to be out of breath and dizzy, but of course she wasn’t. “That was ... nice. Thank you for the dance.”

“It was my pleasure,” Sophus said with a slight bow. “It is rare that I have such a capable and elegant partner. Would you care for another dance, or perhaps a drink?”

No, Theron asserted flatly.

Elisa could feel his jealousy seeping through the edges at the joy she’d had for a moment. Of course, she’d rather it have been him; Miguel was a terrible dancer.

She gave Sophus an apologetic look. “I’m afraid my chaperone is ready for me to return. Perhaps he would let me stay a little while longer if you were to give me a tour of your home?”

Theron perked up at the suggestion, but Sophus shook his head, placing her hand on his arm. “I’m afraid not. It is getting dark and things are best seen in the light. Besides, it is impolite for me to encourage you to disobey, even for such an event as a grand tour of my home.”

Elisa took his hand and sidled closer as she gazed into his eyes. “Not even a small one? I had no idea you were such a brilliant artist, and I would be heartbroken not to have seen at least a few of your masterpieces before I go.”

Sophus’s pressed his lips together, but Elisa headed it off by laying her hand gently along his jaw. “Please?”

Sophus’s face softened. “Heaven help the man who tries to say no to you. A short walk through the front chambers, then.”

She beamed up at him, draping her arm through his. “I’m sure it’ll be every bit as stunning as you are.”

He laughed. “Theron, my friend, you’ve got your hands full with this one, don’t you?”

Theron remained silent as they walked, and she shot him an encouraging embrace. We’ve succeeded! Now we need only look.

Sophus led her through the deserted hallways, and she made a point of slowing to fawn over each statue, complimenting various aspects, and touching things when it seemed appropriate.

Eventually they returned to the entrance. Stepping out into the fading sunlight, he paused before letting go of her arm. “Perhaps we shall meet again sometime in the city. Who knows, in another few years there might be some musicians who know that dance, and we can show them all how it is done.”

“I should like that very much. Mikhael never dances with me if he can help it, and mortal men are just so ... flawed.”

Sophus smiled, bowed again and returned inside.

That went well, she said, heading for the beach where Miguel and his little boat awaited her.

It could have gone worse. He didn’t threaten you, but he didn’t invite you back, either.

Oh, Theron, you simply need to be patient. I’ll get back in there; don’t worry about it. The real question, though, is did you find anything?

I did. He sent her an image of two of the statues she’d seen.

Elisa grinned as she travelled through the darkness. It was only a matter of time.

Chapter 6

MARIA WAITED IN HER dark room, sitting before a cold stone hearth with her eyes closed. She watched the door, knowing Sophus would return once Elisa was gone.

He entered the room in absolute silence, a trick he loved. Elisa might fall for it, or pander to him, but Maria would not.

“She went on her way as soon as you left her.” Maria opened her eyes.

“Did you see anything? Were you able to hear them speak? I know he was there.”

“No. I saw a darkness around her while you were playing chess, but no, I didn’t hear them speak.”

Sophus pursed his lips, thinking. “I am returning to Maracaibo. You will meet me in the regular place tomorrow night and await instruction. Remember that you are not to leave while I am gone, beyond what I have already instructed, else your family will suffer.”

Maria stood and looked him in the eye. “I’ll be there.”

She remained where she stood long after he left. He thought he could keep her from wandering, but he couldn’t engage her all the time. Whenever he wasn’t looking, she practiced manipulating the air in small ways, or watching the currents move when people walked by. When he wasn’t in the room, she practiced moving her body while in the dream world, well aware of the punishment she’d receive if he caught her.

Straightening her spine further, Maria lifted her consciousness into the air and took a determined step forward. She had found large, repetitive tasks, like running, were easy to manage while she soared above, but smaller, detailed things—such as writing—required more concentration on her body and remained difficult. Determined to practice whenever possible, she walked her body across her room and into the hall, even as her mind moved ahead.

The words Elisa and Sophus had exchanged about used tools concerned her. She needed something, some way of keeping Sophus to his bargain if he decided she was no longer useful. A tool, to be used and discarded. Maria pursed her lips. Watching Theron control Elisa had shocked her. She’d seen it once before, when Theron had punished Miguel for speaking out of turn—though she herself had been proud of his defiance. With Theron and Miguel, the relationship seemed that of a cruel predator enjoying tormenting its fighting prey.

But Elisa had made space for Theron willingly, and somehow that seemed much worse. Remembering the shadowy darkness that had seethed over Elisa’s flesh in the dream world made her skin crawl. She had watched Elisa touching things as they’d walked, and seen the way the shadow of Theron had seemed to jump at certain statues. They were looking for Theron’s body. Sophus had to know they were, and he had let them try anyway. But he didn’t expect she would be as well. And, now that Maria had seen more clearly the shade of Theron’s soul meeting itself in the stones, Maria thought she knew what to look for.

The time had come to find the rest of the missing pieces of Theron’s body.

Maria glanced along the hallways in both directions, extending her senses to ensure she was alone. Heartbeats, footsteps, and the general shush of movement from other parts of the labyrinth reached her but remained distant. For the moment, she was by herself. For added peace of mind, Maria checked again from the spirit world.

She was not surprised to find Ka’í watching her with her sad, thoughtful eyes. Maria knew what she saw was nothing more than an echo of a woman centuries dead. To Ka’í’s eyes, Maria was a vision of the future. Maria nodded solemnly to the shadow of her ancestor and continued with her task.

She picked the statue nearest her room and examined it. It was of a man, reaching toward the ceiling with one hand, the other falling behind as though to catch himself if he fell. His hair curled close to his head, held back by a headband, and a swath of cloth draped in elegant, smooth folds from his shoulder and across his waist. She traced the lines of the form with her eyes, finding nothing unusual.

Not surprising, she said to the empty hall. I’ve seen this statue thousands of times.

Closing her eyes, Maria focused further on her ethereal sight. The dream world maintained a neutral, comfortable level of light, but Nana had shown her she could control the intensity of the light to some degree. Brightening the area, Maria again looked the statue over. And there it was. A vague, pulsing black shadow, hovering around the exposed lower leg of the statue.

“Couldn’t have been the whole leg, could it?” she muttered, running her fingers over the dark shin. Sure enough, now that she knew where to look, she could see the seams between the stone and the flesh, hidden by the contours of the cloth. “No, that would be too easy.”

Furrowing her brow, she returned her body to her room. It was a mind-bending exercise to keep her spirit form standing in place while directing her body through the door, searching for a paper. The fine use of the pen was beyond her, though, and she returned to her body to mark her finding.

As she cleaned her pen, her door opened. Maria smiled as Wuchii entered. “Good evening.”

“Well, it is evening, anyway,” Wuchii said with a laugh. “But I suppose any evening where I’m still walking and breathing is a good one.”

Maria pulled out a chair for her friend, who took a seat. “What, no excuses about dusting this evening?”

“Don’t be silly. I’ve come to take stock and make sure your chairs are still in working order.” Wuchii lurched from side to side on her chair, testing the legs. “I think this one is still good.”

“That’s a relief.” Maria laughed and took a seat on the table. “So, what bit of wisdom have you come to provide me this time, old one?”

“I told you, I am here to check your chairs.” Wuchii gestured to the open doorway through which Iráma entered with a tray of food. “She might be here to pester you, though.”

Maria stood and took the tray from Iráma. The scent of warm food—fresh bread and a creamy soup—rose from it. Nice, but definitely unappetizing. For a moment, it nearly covered Iráma’s uniquely unappealing scent.

Maria set the tray on the table as Iráma pulled over a chair. “I miss being able to eat real food. The tastes, the textures. The sheer variety of it.”

Wuchii reached for the food and began eating. “I imagine it’d be like drinking milk your entire life.”

“More like fruit juice, I’d say.” Maria took a seat on her bed, leaning against the wall. “Fruit juice and the occasional wine.”

Iráma nodded. “Don’t forget the occasional spoiled milk.”

Maria laughed at her friend’s reference to her own scent. These two women were the only mortals who both knew what she was and didn’t mind. She wasn’t sure how she’d ever get along without their support. “Honestly, I miss being able to chew on things.”

“Have you tried bones?” Iráma asked, her voice serious.

Maria cringed. Wasn’t it enough that they killed...?

“I meant the goats, or the sheep.” Iráma cut off Maria’s thought.

Wuchii nodded thoughtfully. “The next time we butcher one, you should try pulling the marrow from the bones. If you don’t like it, you could simply spit it out.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll stick with what I know.” Maria picked at a loose thread on the quilt. “If it was a viable thing, Sophus would already be doing it.”

“Bah.” Wuchii waved a piece of bread at her, before dipping it in her soup. “That man is far too stuck in his ways.”

Iráma shushed her, glancing at the door. “You know as well as I that these walls have ears, even when he’s gone.”

Wuchii gave her a flat look. “What is he going to do to me, Iráma? Kill me? I was dead the moment I first stepped foot here. I have long since accepted this fate. And speaking of fate.” Wuchii turned her dark eyes on Maria. “How are your projects coming along?”

Maria shifted, uncomfortable with the hope they put in her. “I may have finally hit upon a revealing idea. But I don’t know how I’ll implement it, or a timeline to even begin.”

“Well, it’s still a step forward, Maria.” Wuchii pushed away from the table and stood, setting her dishes back onto the tray. “So long as you keep moving forward, one step at a time, the end will be that much closer. Don’t give up, child.”

Silently, Iráma stood as well. She seemed like she wanted to add something, but instead, followed Wuchii out the door with the dishes, shutting it behind her.

One step at a time. Maria shook her head. One step at a time to her supposed destiny to destroy Sophus and free her people. The task felt insurmountable. Sophus not only controlled what she did, but he’d proven stronger and smarter than her in every way. How was she supposed to have any hope of moving forward when he blocked her every step?

Maria dropped onto her bed, feeling dejected. Closing her eyes, she felt for her connection to Miguel. Knowing he was there reassured her. She could tell him she’d made progress. He would be excited for her, and perhaps even encouraged by the fact she hadn’t given up. Perhaps even have some better advice.

But what if he asked what she’d been doing? She couldn’t risk Theron finding out if she told him, though maybe she could give him ideas to drop for Elisa? As much as she hated the idea of working with the woman who had stolen and tormented her husband, the work would go faster with two. She’d have to think about it.

Shaking her head, Maria glanced at the ornate wood-and-gold clock Sophus had recently added to her room. She didn’t have enough time anyway. But perhaps she could check one more statue before her scheduled meeting.

ELISA SAT IN THE CENTER of Miguel’s ossuary, rubbing her right arm, remembering how completely Theron had owned it. It was her arm, and yet for a time it had been his, and nothing she could do would have released it. He had never taken her over so completely, and for the first time, his power scared her.

It shouldn’t, though, she tried to reason with herself. He only did it because I suggested it; it was my own doing and at my own suggestion. Despite her words, she could still feel the way Theron’s being had pushed its way through her arm, as unstoppable as a flash flood. She rubbed her left hand vigorously over her arm, trying to dispel the sensation. It didn’t help.

Did Miguel feel like this afterward, too? Perhaps, when he returned from hunting, she would ask. Elisa rested her hands on the edge of the stone bier she sat on, watching the shadows wave across the floor. She ought to have him remove the plants that grew at the edge of the cave’s opening above her. Didn’t he know they could catch fire? He probably did and was too lazy to care.

But what would he say to her if she told him what had happened? He’d probably start ranting about freedom until Theron punished him again. She stood and walked across the barren stone floor. Miguel kept it so clean, swept free of any dust or ash, or even stray kindling. She could imagine what Theron would do to punish Miguel for lashing out. The way he would take hold of Miguel’s mind and soul, and twist at them until he fell to the ground in agony. Knowing now, in a way she had never really comprehended before, a small piece of how that must feel, made her shudder.

She sank down against the wall in the far corner, pulling her knees to her chest. Talking to Miguel was out of the question. He’d probably just dismiss her concerns as paltry compared to his own.

And what if Theron heard? He had always trusted her to stand by him, and to help keep Miguel in check. He would feel so very betrayed, and she couldn’t bring herself to hurt him like that.

She held her legs tighter and rested her chin on her knees. What if he was listening to her now? He would never understand. She shouldn’t be thinking these things, anyhow.

Miguel was hunting out on the peninsula, though, and Theron probably rode with him; he enjoyed the hunt and Miguel was always quick to volunteer even though she knew he didn’t enjoy it. Theron probably didn’t know what she was thinking. She shouldn’t let it bother her. It was only the one time. And she had offered.

Elisa stood and brushed off her dress. She simply needed to get past it. It was only once, and it wasn’t really that bad. She ought to forgive Theron and be extra nice to him. He probably didn’t even realize it had bothered her. Elisa lifted her chin. Surely that was it. He’d always given her any freedom she wanted, whereas Miguel constantly fought with him and so had less. She simply needed to keep within the rules and things would be fine.

Elisa. Theron broke gently into her thoughts. Come and dine with us.

For a moment she considered saying she wasn’t hungry, but the vampire she was wouldn’t be silenced. I’m coming, she said with forced cheeriness. Checking her appearance in a small, hand-held mirror she kept in her dress, she left the ossuary.

Elisa enjoyed the meal, suffused with the joy of fresh human blood, multiplied by Theron sharing his emotions with her. She made light conversation with him as Miguel took the remains for disposal.

When Theron dismissed her, done with her chatter for a time, Elisa found herself returning to the ossuary. Miguel looked up at her entrance and tensed. She circled the room, staying as far from the hot fire that burned the corpse as possible. The flames stirred an intense fear that twisted in her stomach. She moved along the wall, aware of Miguel’s wary eyes following her. The greasy stench of the smoke made her wrinkle her nose. Would the stink of it linger in the cloth of her dress? Miguel made a small sound of disinterest and returned to his task.

The dark smoke billowed upward, rising into the twilight sky beyond the fissure’s edges. She rubbed her arms again as though trying to be sure they were hers. The heat of the fire pressed at her, and she found her back against the wall. She really had no business in here. The smell was revolting, greasy and thick, and was likely to ruin her dress if she lingered. And what if the heat singed her hair? She should go.

But she remained where she stood, pressed against the wall, watching the flames flicker across the bier.

Miguel looked up at her again and his face softened. “What’s wrong?” His voice held a concern in it that had been missing for years.

“Nothing,” she said stiffly, fidgeting with her sleeves.

Miguel rose and strode toward her, standing between her and the flames. “Elisa,” he said, gently lifting her chin up to meet her gaze. “You can tell me.”

He should hate her for what she’d done to him. How could she show Miguel her weakness now? She turned her head, ashamed for him to see the turmoil in her eyes.

She had offered. She shouldn’t be upset.

Miguel slipped his arms around her, resting her head on his chest.

How often had she criticized him for being upset about such things? Yet here she was doing the same. She broke. The injustice of it all, the pain and the uncertainty, pushed their way from her chest in quiet, gasping sobs. He held her tighter as she shook and clung to his shirt, safe within his arms.

“It will be all right,” he whispered, holding her close and stroking her hair. “Someday ....”

Chapter 7

1762

My dear Emelia,

Hannah was ages ago. In truth, I am heartbroken. I called on Isabella yesterday and found she had gone out with none other than your Roberto. I’d have challenged him, but the truth is they suit each other, and when I saw them together, she was so very happy. Perhaps with her level head she’ll help him grow into a solid man of business. Ah, well. I’m sure your parents have written you, but they are doing well.

In truth, I find myself with less and less free time. Your father and I have begun some serious negotiations to try to loosen Gonza’s hold over some of the others. We suspect he is blackmailing them, but I can’t put much more here; you never know who will read it before, or even after you. We ought to have developed a code before you left.

I’m sad to say I am retiring Wind from riding. One of the new grooms was less than qualified, and she became ill for some time. She might still do for breeding, though. It would be nice to have a full stable when you return. I miss talking to you; you could always make me smile.

Your friend,

Don Álvaro Alvarez del Mar

THE LARGE WAREHOUSE SMELLED of cacao and sugar, and the plants remembered the sun and the rain and the dirt in which they grew. Light filtered into the gloomy building, slanting across the dust-filled space. Sometimes Maria caught glimpses of the plants they once were, standing in fields, among the boxes. Sometimes even the wood would revert to its shape as part of a tree. But the longer it all sat in the darkness, the more it forgot what it had once been and accepted what it had become.

Maria waited in the darkness for Sophus to arrive, her body lounging in the pasture above his lair. She hoped it would rain while she was gone, and ruin her dress. It was spiteful, she knew, but it was a small bit of rebellion. How long would she be made to wait this time? Maria paced across the floor, along the wall. Did it matter?

She exhaled, turning at the corner of the warehouse and returning the way she’d come. It didn’t matter how long she had to wait, only that she had to be in the warehouse when Sophus arrived. He expected her to pay attention to what he did and would quiz her on it when he returned. Once he’d given a key word, she was to spy on whomever else was with him. If she missed anything, there would be hell to pay when he returned.

So she waited.

Folk came and went, moving cargo in and out of the warehouse, and days passed. The monotony of waiting in the dark building wore on her, and she wished she could see her son, if only for a few minutes. Maria stood by the door as a new shipment was hauled in, watching the dark storm clouds roll across the sky. She shouldn’t have left her body out in the weather.

Tentatively, Maria attempted to stand her body and move, at least to the hall. The mental dexterity needed to stand and still pay attention to the warehouse at such a great distance surprised her. When she returned her attention fully to the warehouse, the doors had been shut and the crates of goods were entirely different. A chill stabbed through her. She hadn’t even noticed anyone come in, let alone move things.

Maria rushed outside, holding back her panic, and cast her senses for Sophus, hoping he hadn’t already come and gone unseen. Finding nothing in the vicinity, she returned to her watch, pacing the length of the building. What if she’d missed him entirely?

Maria focused on pacing her breathing with her steps. Sophus had kept her on long excursions like this a few times before. It was unlikely that she had missed him.

The dark wall of the warehouse loomed before her, and she turned around sharply to stalk back the way she’d come. As she walked, her fear gave way to weariness. It always fatigued her to be so long from her body. Maintaining contact with her physical body, over a distance, became difficult over time in ways she couldn’t articulate.

Maria leaned against the cool wall of the warehouse, reminded of a time her father had once challenged her and Miguel to hold a book out at arm’s length. She’d laughed at the silliness of the challenge and accepted. At first it had been easy, but after a few minutes her arm began to ache, and then the pain had transformed. She found herself making excuses to give in and lower the book. It was how she felt now. Thoughts whispered in the back of her mind. Telling her to give up. To release the tension, just for a moment. She could rest, if she’d simply let go. She’d done enough. She’d waited long enough ... relax.

Rest.

Peace.

She loosened her grip.

A gust of wind slammed the warehouse door open, swirling through the crates and whipping past her. Its chill touch shocked her into wakefulness like a strike of lightning. Desperately, she pulled herself together, struggling to remember where she was, and why.

A pair of armed men rushed through the doors, looking for intruders. The light from their torch cast dancing shadows across the crates, and Maria focused on it, recalling her purpose.

The men complained to each other about the foul weather and left, securing the doors. As the currents of air swirled to stillness, Maria noticed that a portly man in disheveled clothes had remained behind, fidgeting nervously in the darkness.

“I-I’ve been s-sent here,” he stuttered, and not very loudly, but Maria could hear him well enough.

She made her way over. Be calm. She touched his shoulder. I will not hurt you.

The man shuddered and crossed himself, muttering about ghosts. Then in a loud, shaking voice he said, “The Cold Master said you would follow me forever in punishment if I did not do as he said. I’m to read you a letter and you will do what I say!”

The man unfolded the paper, and Maria peered over his shoulder to read it.

You will follow this man. He has instructions to leave the enclosed letter at a certain house with red pillars at the gate. You will note the location and return home.

“This is a good man,” the fellow pretended to read, with a bravado he obviously did not feel. “You will hide in this envelope until he delivers you to a new home and then you will leave him and his family alone forever.”

With shaking hands, he made a show of folding the letter back into the envelope, and shoved it into his pocket. Maria sighed and followed him out into the rainy night. He dashed into a waiting coach, and she lifted herself up to sit beside the driver

I’ll have to forgive the poor soul, I suppose, she thought as they rolled along. I imagine it took some time to work up the nerve to face a ghost.

The busy night revitalized her senses, helping her to grasp her being more firmly. The coach stopped for a moment before a large house in a nicer part of town. The man threw the crumpled envelope at the gates, thumped on the roof, and the coach rumbled away.

Maria dropped down and stood before the gates, smiling. I know this place. Elisa, Betania and Selina had all taken music lessons here as young girls. Maria had made excuses to avoid it, claiming disinterest, but had still accompanied her friends to their lessons.

Weary, and glad to return, she sank back into her body, taking a deep breath as one waking from a long sleep.

She lay on her side in the muddy grass. Her senses assaulted her; rain beat against her skin, debris from the wind clung to her and her eyes stung from the myriad of things that had hit them. Cursing herself for not remembering to close her eyes, she blinked, trying to clear her blurred vision.

She moved her arm, and for a moment it didn’t respond. Unwilling to give in to panic, she focused on the feel of the rain hitting her arm and the chill of the wind on her wet clothes, and tried again. This time her muscles responded, but clumsily. She managed to stand, but staggered when she tried to walk, colliding with the wall. Cursing herself for her prideful stupidity, she reached for the handle of the door and smashed her hand through the wood instead.

Gritting her teeth, she tried again and made her way back to her own chambers. Each moment in her body strengthened the faded connection, and she nearly felt like herself by the time she opened her own door.

Sophus awaited her, lounging on a chair.

Deeply aware of her disheveled appearance, she stepped inside and shut the door, holding her head high. Sophus stood and circled her, looking her up and down.

“You are such a disappointment. I give you everything you could possibly want and you throw it in my face!” Angrily, he yanked on the collar of the ruined dress, ripping it free, leaving her chemise clinging wetly to her body. “Is this how you thank me? I show you leniency and compassion, and you bring ruin.” He threw the destroyed dress at her.

She caught it and wrapped it into a bundle, her chin up and her eyes forward. “I returned as soon as your messenger completed his task.” She kept her voice flat. “He led me to the house of a music master, or at least it was so when I was young.”

“You are fortunate I didn’t keep you there longer. You will remain here, in your rooms, when you go out in the future. This—” he jabbed his finger into the mass of cloth she held, nearly pushing her off balance “—will not happen again.”

“No, it will not.” She refused to allow emotion into her voice, trying to tamp down the anger, lest it show in her eyes.

“Good.” Sophus gestured to a case sitting on her desk. “You will return to that house daily at ten o’clock and listen to instruction on playing that violin. Then you will return here and practice until I weary of the sound. If I am not here, you will practice until your next lesson. Now, get cleaned up. You will never come before me this filthy again.”

He swept out of the room, as aloof as ever.

Damn you, Elisa! Maria threw the ruined cloth into a corner of the room. Wuchii and a couple other women made their way into the room. Maria took the buckets of hot water from them and filled her tub. The others left, and Maria tore off the remains of the ruined dress before sliding into the hot water. Wuchii took a seat beside her and began combing Maria’s hair.

“I’ll do that,” Maria said, sitting up and reaching for the comb.

“Nonsense.” Wuchii slapped Maria’s hand lightly with the comb. “I need something to keep my joints moving, and besides, it reminds me of when I was a girl and my mother used to brush my hair.”

“At least let me clean my face first.”

“Always a good start,” Wuchii said with a smile, sitting back.

Maria dropped her face into the water, rinsing out her eyes, hoping the sting would lessen. She scrubbed her face clean with a cloth, then cleaned the mud and grass from her dark locks. Sitting back, she blinked the water away and closed her eyes as Wuchii began again on her hair.

“He wants me to learn to play violin.” A soothing coolness spread across Maria’s eyelids. “This is all Elisa’s doing. He’s going to have me playing for them the next time that nasty little vixen comes calling.”

“It won’t be so bad. There is life in music. Perhaps you can learn to play some of our songs, and we will know they will live forever in you.” The old woman’s hands were calm and reassuring as they worked their way through her hair.

“How long was I gone, Wuchii?”

“Nearly a week. I ... I can’t be too sure any more.”

Maria sat up, turning to look at her friend. “Are you well? Is anything wrong?”

“I remember, years ago, I promised you if ever you were gone long, I would look after you, but this time...” Wuchii dropped her eyes and looked away. “This time I failed.”

Maria took her hand gently. “No, no, you mustn’t think that. I was a fool, going outside. I knew Sophus might make me wait, and I thought to be spiteful. I shouldn’t have done it. What happened is my fault, not yours.”

Wuchii shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I tried to protect you the first couple of days, especially after you stood and tried to reach the door. But then the master returned and ordered us to leave you be. I tried to move you; I was the only one brave enough.” Wuchii looked back up and patted Maria’s hand. “I’m afraid I’m just getting too old.”

Maria got out of the tub, drying herself off on the towel Wuchii handed her. “You’re not too old. You’re just right the way you are.”

Wuchii only smiled sadly.

Chapter 8

THE VIOLIN SCREECHED like a tortured cat, and Maria scowled. How many months could she keep up the inability to make a decent sound? She longed to crush the delicate wooden neck and smash the instrument to bits, but what good would it do? Instead, she took a deep breath and tried the simple etude again.

“You need more rosin,” Sophus said from her doorway, tossing her a small package.

She caught it deftly with her bow hand and set the violin down. Within was a bit of amber-colored rosin. With a grateful smile to hide her irritation, she drew the bow across the hard substance. But she could play his game. To keep her son safe, and to keep Sophus from suspecting her, she could play his game.

“The lessons are going well?” he asked, watching her angle the bow and run it across the rosin again.

“You would be a better judge of that than I,” she said warmly, picking up the violin. “Have I improved?”

He flinched as she mangled her way through another etude, this time with slightly less screech. “Some, but I think you could do better if you tried harder.”

He entered the room, and, setting his hands over hers, lowered the instrument. She allowed herself to take half a step back and looked away, hating the show of submission. But she had to keep him from suspecting. He couldn’t know she had found parts of Theron, or that she continued to look, cataloguing each find safely in her mind. Even coded notes felt too dangerous, and she had burned the ones she’d made before. At best, he would re-hide them if he knew. At worst .... “I shall endeavor to do so.”

He walked a circuit around her, brushing his fingers over her dark hair that tumbled past her shoulders. She wished she had pinned it up.

“I am going to Maracaibo in a few days. Should I bring you back a souvenir?”

“If it pleases you.” Maria focused on the cold, empty fireplace before her, holding her fears at bay.

“What would please me is for that violin not to sound like a tormented animal every time you touch it. I’m sure there is some incentive for you in town?”

Maria spun to him, grabbing his hand in supplication. “No, please. That is entirely unnecessary. I will do anything you want, you know I will. But you must leave my son alone.”

He shook her hand off abruptly, and she stepped back. “I must do nothing. You, however, must have that etude sounding decent before I leave, or some new decor will find its way into your room to remind you of the price of my displeasure.”

He strode from the room, and she glared after him. Picking up the instrument, she set the bow to the strings. She supposed it was time to actually practice the way the maestro had instructed. She swallowed. She had no choice but to succeed.

In the dream world, the maestro’s home reflected his passion for music. Snippets of sound swirled around the room he taught in, the instruments lining the walls vibrating gently with the emotion their players had poured into them. They were engines that transformed emotion into sound.

Maria listened to the maestro instruct his student on technique, watching him critically as he practiced. Her fingers moved along an imaginary instrument of her own, going through the motions alongside. She had satisfied Sophus for the time being with the improvement in her playing, though she’d been careful not to improve too quickly. And, best of all, he’d bought her line about playing long tones helping with her sound. It was true enough, but she’d also found it simple to wander the spirit world—carefully—while she played long, single notes. She had found even more of Theron than she’d hoped.

The lesson ended, and the student put away his violin. Maria glanced at the clock on the maestro’s mantle. She still had several minutes before her next appointment—watching a meeting between Sophus and his underlings. She smiled. One of her small successes was convincing Sophus that travel through the dream world was not instantaneous.

She shifted outside the house where a nondescript porter waited just beyond the gate, picking his nails with a knife. He was her clock. He’d been instructed to wait until the student left before walking to the home of Sophus’s meeting. If she was not there by then, she was late, and her insurance would be forfeit.

She had, then, at least ten minutes.

She moved at the speed of thought to the hacienda. A connection tied her to Álvaro, like a lead line from her heart to her son. She found him in the stable, brushing out his pregnant grey mare, Wind. He stood tall, like his father, and his black hair hung to his shoulders, pulled back into a queue. From behind, he looked almost identical to Miguel, but he did not move the same.

She smiled as she watched him, watching other memories of him as a child playing in this same place flit through the dream world. Almost always, the ghost of his childhood playmate, Emelia, tagged along, and their laughter echoed through the room.

What are you thinking about? she asked him, moving forward to pat Wind’s nose. The horse snorted.

He sighed but said nothing, continuing to work the brush over the mare’s hide with strong but gentle, deliberate strokes.

Maria longed to stay, to see if he would tell her what had him so wound up, but it was far too easy to lose track of time watching her son. With a parting touch on his shoulder she moved away, returning to the musician’s house. She moved quickly along the streets until she found the porter, only a single street from the meeting place. She had cut it far too close.

As she walked alongside the man, a familiar presence crossed the street behind her. Joy shot through her at the coincidence. With a glance at the porter, she made her decision. A moment or two would not hurt. She flitted back to Miguel.

Hello again, she said, falling into step beside him.

He didn’t break his easy stride nor take his hands from his pockets. “And to you.”

Maria gave a glance back at the porter. Halfway to the last street. I can’t stay but a moment. Our paths happened to cross and I couldn’t just let you pass by.

“So you’re a local?”

Maria laughed. You might say that. I grew up here, you know. Anyhow, I’m often here this time of day. Or rather, about six streets back. Meet me there tomorrow? This same time?

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

Maria looked at the porter. He had stepped into the street. She looked back at Miguel, longing to reach out and touch his hand. Would he feel her, if she did? Would he finally see her and know all she had done? Would he turn away?

She stopped, and instinctively he stopped as well, still not looking toward her. I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow?

He nodded and continued forward.

Chapter 9

1763

My dear Álvaro,

I’m sorry to hear things didn’t work out with Juanita. Be patient, and I’m sure you will find the woman most perfectly suited for you.

Our little Norita finally had her quinceañera. She was disappointed it had to wait until after the new year, but I’m sure it turned out better this way, for all the reasons in my last letter. She has had two or three suitors calling on her every day since. Honestly, it’s a relief to finally have the popular eye turn away from me.

I’ve been made an offer. Again. Abuela gets more upset every time I turn them down, but she just doesn’t understand that, while Spain is beautiful to visit, my heart and soul remain in Maracaibo. I simply cannot imagine spending the rest of my life here. I miss the smell of flowers in the air, the breeze from the lake. I miss the lightning, the people, the food, the music ... In short, I am ready to come home.

Everything is fine here. I told you before that I felt like a country bumpkin, but now I want nothing more than to go back. I miss riding across the countryside with you and Leonora. I miss your wit; nobody here is quite the same.

I do need to tell you about this fellow ...

ELISA HUMMED SOFTLY TO herself as she ran her fingers over a bolt of cloth. It was a fine, deep blue silk. Very expensive, no doubt.

“The Señora has am excellent eye for cloth,” the chubby merchant crooned at her, trying to soften her up.

“It is lovely, but I’m just not sure it’s right for my coloring,” she said with a dismissive shrug.

The merchant rushed up to her, his beady eyes drawn to her beauty as he held the cloth up to her face. “I have never seen such a stunning pairing. This royal blue matches perfectly with your hair of such gold it would make even the young Queen of England envious.”

“Well...” She paused dramatically and lowered her voice, stringing the poor fool along. “I’m not entirely sure my dear husband would approve of such a purchase.”

What do you think? she sent to Theron. Do you think my ‘dear husband’ would approve?

When have you ever cared what he thinks? Theron snapped at her.

Stung at the reprimand, she lowered her eyes and reached out mentally to him. I care what you think. Should I buy it?

“You should not concern yourself with such things,” the merchant was saying. “I’m sure your husband, if he appreciates you an ounce, will be in awe when he sees you in a gown of this cloth.”

Elisa ran her fingers along the lace of her sleeve. She could afford it with ease; between her savvy business investments and Miguel’s working when they needed immediate funds, she had all she needed. But would he be upset if she spent his hard-earned money on something like a dress? He’d call it frivolous, certainly.

But what did she care about his opinion? Elisa’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t actually her husband, and aside from that time in the ossuary he’d made it clear he “wasn’t her anything.” She needed a new dress; staying up-to-date with fashion was important. True, he’d been less difficult lately, but that didn’t mean she needed to answer to him.

“I’ll take twenty yards of it,” she said. A good seamstress really only needed five, possibly ten yards, but with extra material she could get something truly amazing. “And have it delivered to la costurera Ramos, and tell her it is from me. She will know what to do.”

Without waiting for his response, Elisa swept out the door. Perhaps she wouldn’t tell Miguel about the dress. It would simply be waiting for her when they returned next, and she would surprise him with it. She’d have one of her business partners take care of the costs.

Elisa strolled through the street, her parasol lying lazily over her shoulder to protect her pale skin from the evening sunlight. She could just imagine his face when she walked into the room in the dress. She should find him a military uniform in a matching color. He would look very fine in it, with his dark hair pulled back, standing tall and exact in the fresh, stiff coat, with fine polished boots and not a single wrinkle in the entire ensemble. He would be taken aback by her for a moment, in awe of her beauty, and together they would enter a ballroom, and everyone would pause to look at them.

Your vanity never ceases to amaze me. Theron cut into her thoughts as she turned onto the street of her rented rooms.

Don’t be silly, Elisa responded, sending the image of her caressing his face. The best part is, you’ll be there to see it, through Mikhael. Besides, I have a reason for wanting to attract attention. I need to get our dear friend, Sophus, to speak to me again. I can’t very well find your limbs without an invitation back to his home.

Theron remained silent, and she laughed, sending him the picture of her in the ballroom, but with Theron, whole and standing tall and handsome beside her in place of Miguel. This is the goal, after all.

Elisa opened the door to their building and heard Miguel’s knife scraping across the wood in a back room. Whatever idiotic passtimes kept him occupied, she supposed. Shaking her head, she strode into the parlor.

My food has arrived, Theron said as she took a seat at the harpsichord. We’ll talk more of this later.

Of course. Elisa inclined her head to him. I only wish I were there with you.

Theron gave her a parting caress and withdrew as she struck the first chord.

MIKHAEL KICKED A STONE along the road before him, his hands tucked deep into his pockets and his hat pulled low over his face. The warm summer rain poured from the brim of his hat in a cascade that distracted his vision. Would she be here, even in the rain?

The streets seemed nearly abandoned, but to the discerning eye one could see all but the most desperate of folk waiting for the rain to lighten. In Maracaibo, one would starve long before the rain stopped. He grinned to himself, kicking the stone again. Desperate or foolish to be out in this sort of rain. He ran his fingers along the red stone pendant in his pocket. A joyful sort of foolishness in his case.

When she walked beside him, Theron fell silent in his mind. As though he didn’t see clearly into Mikhael’s mind when they spoke. When she was there, the entire world felt brighter, like somehow there was hope.

It’s a beautiful day for a walk in the rain, she said, falling into step beside him.

He didn’t look; he knew he wouldn’t see her. Wouldn’t see the cascading black hair falling carelessly down her back, or the red pendant necklace that matched the one in his pocket in every detail. Nor the curve of her back in her dark red dress, flowing gracefully over her hips, entirely unaffected by the rain. Most of all, he wouldn’t see her dazzling smile, or her playful eyes. Definitely better to imagine them than to look and not see.

“I love the smell of it the best. Something about the freshly cleaned air mingling with the flowers reminds me of home.”

His ghost-muse laughed, and he wished he could set her hand in his elbow.

“I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to come this way.” He hesitated, not sure how to ask what he wanted without offending her.

What is it? she asked, as if she could sense his hesitation.

He grinned. “I feel like such a school boy. I want to ask you something, but my tongue is more knotted than a ship’s rope.”

But a skilled sailor knows how to pull a rope just so—he thought he felt her hand on his arm—and the knots slip free.

His heart lifted, and the afternoon rain made the world around him shine. This was what he loved about being with her, the way they seemed to fit together so seamlessly. “I was hoping we might speak again, for longer than a few stolen minutes at a time. Can you meet me at my home? Tonight?”

He felt her hesitation, and for a moment feared he had asked too much.

I want to. More than I can tell you, I want to.

“Will you come then?”

He felt her smile up at him. It filled him with its warmth. I will if I can. If not tonight, then some time. I promise you.

“Sunset is usually best.”

I have to go. Her regret tugged at his soul.

“I’ll be waiting.”

Her gentle presence in his mind was suddenly swept aside by Theron’s sharp voice. Quit wasting everyone’s time and get back to the house. Elisa has an important engagement this evening—

I know her schedule, Mikhael shot back reflexively, irritated at the sudden invasion and braced for the strike that followed. For a moment his vision went dark from the attack, but he kept his measured pace, trusting his other reflexes to catch him if he stepped poorly. His mind rang as his vision cleared and Theron continued on.

You find her some food—

I’ll bring her a goat to suck— This time Theron’s attack made him stagger, and he dropped to his knee in the mud. Mikhael barked out a laugh. She’s going to haul us over the coals for that one. Should I roll about in it a little more, make her real upset? Bring her a nice muddy pig—

Theron attacked him again, and Mikhael staggered into the trunk of a samán tree whose branches extended over the road. The entire tree shuddered, and a branch cracked from above. He lurched to his feet as the branch fell, striking his shoulder and further unbalancing him. He dropped into the muddy grass.

Oh, I’ll be so late with her meal, he continued, laughing through the pain and bringing his entire will to bear on holding solid the defenses in his mind. The only thing keeping Theron from crushing him entirely. She’ll have to tell everyone it was her drunk husband fighting with his demons that delayed her departure.

The rain soaked through his clothes, warm against his deathly cold skin, falling from the darkened sky. Wild laughter filled his chest.

“Hey, muchacho,” a man called from the other side of the street. “Are you well?”

Desperate or fool? Mikhael waved him away. The man came toward him anyhow, pulling his hat lower over his head. A fool then.

Without warning, Theron seized control of Mikhael, lunging at the man. Mikhael fought back against his own body, as futile as it had ever been. He may as well be a flea on a dog for all the power he held over Theron when the fiend took control.

But he wasn’t the parasite. This was his body, and his life. Theron had no right to it. So he fought, even as Theron used him to take down the man whose only crime had been compassion. It was brutal, and far too quick for any mortal watcher to have seen clearly, especially through the rain.

Get him to Elisa before he’s dead, Theron hissed with a parting blow.

He hadn’t killed the man outright. Of course not. Mikhael slung the quietly dying fool over his shoulder. Theron never did. Pain and suffering were Theron’s milk and honey. Mikhael’s lip curled in disgust. The man’s heart beat rapidly, and the strong scent of his blood pushed against Mikhael. He could feel it soaking into his shirt, trickling warmly down the back of his neck.

He picked up his pace, leaving behind with the damaged tree the peace he’d found with his ghostly muse. He could feel her eyes on him, watching him jog away. She said nothing, and he turned his head away, ashamed.

MARIA WALKED THROUGH the long, dark halls, several steps behind Sophus. A woman, perhaps in her early thirties, walked between them carrying a torch, the only light to be seen. She had asked to leave.

Maria felt she ought to have known the woman’s name, at least. Ought to have asked her about her home, her family, about what had driven her to run away from her life and accept a living death here in this miserable prison. Several other faces flashed through her mind. Over the years, Maria had occasionally done so. Reactions had varied between disgust at talking to her, to smiles and reassurances that they’d found peace and healing here.

Maria wrinkled her nose. As much as she hated him, Sophus was a man of his word. Those who came to him found a life of peace and rest, and few were killed before they’d come to peace with themselves. So long as they followed the rules, anyhow.

Few of the younger ones really understood that asking to leave meant death.

As they walked, descending a gently curving flight of stairs, Maria kept her sight half attuned to the dream world, hoping to discover more of Theron’s limbs, but the darkness of the tunnel bled over even into the dream world.

Perhaps she ought to have spoken to Miguel about it, tried to maneuver Elisa into helping, but she couldn’t bring herself to give that woman any more of her husband. Maria flicked at the spirit-threads of air with her mind, twisting the shape of the torch’s flames. If only she could manipulate the fire itself, she would send it like a fiery serpent to devour the man before her.

Sophus stopped at a heavy door, pushing it open, and gestured the woman inside. Her heartbeat had increased incrementally while they’d walked, and at the sight of the barren room, it stuttered, then raced. Maria could smell the fear on her, even from the hall.

Sophus entered, speaking the same, calming words to the woman that he spoke to each of them. Maria leaned against the wall in the hall, her eyes on the floor. Sophus took a genuine, individual interest in each woman, so, though his words were personal to her, they were the same words nonetheless.

Maria hated the ritual, but was compelled to attend. Perhaps she could convince Sophus she didn’t deserve to share in the rare opportunity of human blood, or he deserved to have it all for his own. But he would rage at her about moderation, and how unappreciative she was, and how she owed him everything. He might even see fit to make an example of why she simply shouldn’t question his decisions. Maria shuddered, holding her arms around herself. It didn’t matter so long as it kept her son safe.

Sophus moved in for the kill. The smell of the fresh human blood surrounded her, making her throat ache for the soothing liquid, and her stomach cramp from want. She held herself tighter. Discomfort means nothing, she reminded herself, clenching her teeth and swallowing back the venom that filled her mouth. The strength of her desire for human blood had never waned, but her resolve was stronger. She would not take another life save one. Sophus—and no one else—would die at her hands.

The woman’s terror increased until it suddenly disappeared, having accepted her death. Maria turned the corner. Sophus stood, holding the corpse in his arms as he drank, the torch and the woman’s gear fallen to the stone floor. Maria looked to the side. The woman’s spirit stood beside them, watching the scene in shock and horror. This was the other reason Maria always came.

Rising fully into the spirit world, Maria held her hand out to the woman. I am sorry.

I... The woman shook her head, confused. I am dead? He said I could leave. I had so much more to do.

Compassion filled Maria. She had refused to understand for a long time as well. We both know there is no leaving this place. No one returns from Ouktaa, but you can still go forward. Maria gestured North.

As the woman turned, the world around them dissolved from the dark stone cave to a field of sunlight and flowers. And in the distance, people. I see them!

Then go, and don’t look back. Your fathers and mothers await you in Jepira.

Without a backward glance, the woman raced forward, and Maria dropped back into her body. Careful not to startle the older vampire, Maria reached for the slender wrist of the corpse and took her portion.

Chapter 10

1764

My dear Emelia,

I hope this letter reaches you before you depart. I can hardly wait for your return. Katerina has left a hole in my life I fear may never be filled, but I remember you always had a way of easing the pain and Leonora of making me smile. I think of all that has happened here these last few years and wonder how you’ve changed as well. I will be there to meet your ship, but I wonder if you will even recognize me now. It’s been three years, and I’m not the boy you left behind. I find it interesting, the way we think we’re so very grown up when we’re young, as though we could conquer the world.

I meant to wait until you’d returned to tell you the news, but I find I cannot hold it back. Gonza has gone out of business completely! Tio Benito tried to tell me not to, but when I saw the chance to crush him once and for all, I had to take it. Did you know old Antonio Gonza had tried, more than once, to have my grandfather killed? He even tried kidnapping my mother (You may recall overhearing such when we were young? I eventually found an account of it in my father’s journals—I found a few more of them. You'll enjoy reading them, I think).

I will do my best to heed your advice and try to not fall in love again until your return.

Your servant, etc ...

THE SMOOTH WOOD OF THE violin’s sound box felt warm to Maria’s touch. The instrument itself was young, but the tree it had been cut from was old. But it seemed to like making music; the tones resonating in the box echoed the sensation of wind in its branches and reinforced its sense of stately freedom. The lacquer, however, that made the wood’s rich, deep reds come through, lay as a muted barrier between her and the soul of the violin. Like so many other things she could get close to but never touch.

Maria stroked her thumb along the lacquered neck of the violin as she removed it from the case, her bow already rosined in her other hand. Sophus had tired of their conversation after several hours of cards and chess. She had missed her violin lesson—and the opportunity to speak to Miguel or check in with her son—but had pretended not to notice. If he thought she enjoyed it, he’d take that from her, too.

The details of her room, filled with fine furniture, beautiful sculptures, and decor, all of Sophus’s tastes, faded with the waning sunlight. The mirrors lighting the labyrinth within the network of tunnels could only do so much.

The distant rumble of an approaching storm made Maria smile. She loved the rain, even if she never got to stand in it any more. Setting her bow on the strings, she began a carefully controlled long note. Practicing her tone, should Sophus care to ask. The memory of her last time in the rain made her shake her head. She had been so very foolish. When would she learn?

The bow reached the end of her reach, and she set her finger on the string, changing pitch, and started again.

Definitely not today.

Carefully, Maria lifted herself into the spirit world, maintaining her hold on the violin. In the spirit world, the instrument shone, filled with sunlight and joy, but also with storms and rain. She continued the note on the violin’s spirit, listening for its echo in the physical world. It took concentration, but she could manage.

Not changing the position of her body, except to continue to draw the bow across the strings, Maria shifted to Maracaibo. The world around her blurred as she allowed herself to be pulled by the line in her heart that connected her to her husband. The dream world coalesced into a nondescript parlor. The evening sunlight still glinted through the windows here, peeking through the overcast sky.

Shifting her focus slightly back to her body, she glanced around the room. Still alone. Not that she expected to be disturbed, but she could not be too careful. Returning her attention to the dream world, she changed notes and played the next long tone.

Maria stood alone in the room, unwilling to divert any attention to taking in her surroundings. All that mattered was continuing the sound on the violin, and that Miguel was nearby. Carefully, she flicked her eyes up from the violin to look for him.

He stood beside the window, watching out the glass. He wore a stiff uniform of some sort, with shining brass on the buttons, and a false paunch stuffed into the gut. She allowed her eyes to travel over him. The trousers fit loosely but held a crisp crease, his boots hardly looked worn, and not a single weapon graced his hip. Aside from his dark hair pulled into a neat queue, everything about him looked wrong.

Maria moved her fingers to the next note. None of that suits you, you know.

Miguel looked up, scanning the room for her, but stopped quickly, looking aside, as though afraid to look at her directly. “You’re telling me?”

Her fingers itched to pull the tight, silky cravat from his neck. Instead, she lifted her fingers from the violin’s neck and angled her bow to the next string. Why the pompous toff look on such a lovely evening?

“Do you think I pull it off?” He straightened his jacket and dropped into an elaborate bow with his leg forward. “Maybe if I act ridiculous enough, they won’t make me go.”

You should find a cane. That way you can tap everyone you meet on the forehead and recite a line of poetry.

With a grin that transformed his face, Miguel swept up the poker from beside the fireplace and tapped the head of a portrait on the wall. “‘Wilt thou forgive that sin which I begin?’”

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may?”

“‘Night, welcome art thou to my mind’s distress.’” Miguel’s face sobered, and he returned the poker to its place. “He’d never let me do such a thing. Besides, a few moments of fun would not be worth the cost.”

I know what you mean. She paused, shifting her focus again to her room. The rain had begun, the sound of it pounding along the vast chambers of the labyrinth. Her violin barely sounded among it, but she dared not stop. Resetting her bow, she began the next note and brought her focus back to Miguel.

He had returned to his place beside the window, watching the world beyond. His eyes were shuttered and mouth slightly turned down. Despite the youthful twenty-something face he wore, his expression spoke of a greater age. Did hers as well?

I’m sorry you have to deal with this. Her heart ached to tell him it was all her fault he was here, frozen in time and utterly miserable. But what if he believed her? What if he never wanted to see her again? He was her anchor, the closest thing she had to a confidant. She couldn’t risk losing him.

He rolled his shoulders and put on a brave face, which she saw through with ease. “It’s not so bad. After a few decades, you hardly notice it anymore.”

I... She steeled herself. As much as she didn’t want to share him, it was time to bring it up. I need to talk to you about Elisa.

Miguel raised an eyebrow. “What about her?”

What could she say without giving herself away? It was imperative that Theron not know she existed. Sophus had gone out of his way to keep her hidden. How could she ask without making them suspicious? Maria began to lose her nerve.

The door behind her swung open, and the long tone Maria played skittered, souring. Miguel winced, and Maria focused on resetting the instrument to play again. When her focus came back around, she found Elisa sweeping into the room in an absurdly opulent blue gown, clearly looking for a compliment.

Vile snake, Maria hissed.

Elisa stopped short, lifting her head as though she smelled something foul. “The coach is here, Miguel. We must leave.”

Miguel cast a regretful look toward Maria’s side of the room and apologized to her under his breath.

“Really Mikhael, you must stop this muttering. What will people think of you?” Elisa held her arm out for him to take, but he sidestepped it brusquely.

“I will if you give me a cane for this absurd outfit, but be warned, I might knock some heads around with it.” He stepped out into the hall without looking back.

Elisa’s posture fell, slightly, and Maria almost felt sorry for her. But the little vixen gathered herself. “How dare you not even mention my dress.”

Miguel spun on his heel and looked her in the eye with a smile that looked more like an animal baring its teeth. “Terribly sorry to not notice, but I think you may have mistaken your current mishmash of opulent glory for a dress. Ah well, one cannot account for taste. At least I’ll get some time away from the misery of your company while I work to pay for it, no doubt.”

“You...” Elisa fumed.

Keep going. She might stomp her foot. Maria laughed, and a smile flickered across Miguel’s face. She almost felt bad for the comment, for encouraging Miguel to antagonize Elisa. But Elisa had no business being here with Maria’s husband. Her fingers tightened on the violin, pulling the bow across the strings angrily.

“You’ll regret this. I’ll have Theron hold you so tightly you won’t even be able to even think—”

“Last I checked, you and I belonged to him, not the other way round,” Miguel returned calmly. “But you go ahead and keep that particular delusion.”

“Fine!” Elisa gave a little stamp of her foot.

Maria gave a snort of laughter, and had to admire the way Miguel’s stone-faced facade didn’t crack.

“Keep your stupid little mutterings, but just don’t do it where anyone can hear.”

“Never fear.” Miguel repeated his absurd bow for her. “For thou couldst not find fitter company for thine own humor than I thus oppressed.”

Huffing, Elisa stalked out of the room. Rising, Miguel glanced toward Maria and shot her a grin before following the billowing sea of blue.

Maria fell back to her body. He would be fine. And so would she. As would their son. She simply needed to continue being careful, and things would be fine. Taking a deep breath, she began an etude.

EMELIA HELD THE LETTER in her lap, gently smoothing the folds that had been bent so many times the paper had begun to tear. She had penned her response the night before they’d left for home but had lost her nerve when it came time to send it. There had been just enough room on the precious paper to finally say what she felt.

Alecia, the only real friend she’d made in Spain, had badgered her every time Emelia had received a letter, insisting she should simply tell Álvaro the truth. As they had grown close, Alecia had done her best to pull Emelia out of her mousy shell.

Álvaro had been right about them changing.

Emelia missed her friend, but Alecia had accepted an engagement before Emelia had sailed. All the tears in the world would not have convinced Alecia to come to the colonies now. Emelia smiled. If her friend had known of the letter, she’d have been proud. Of course, she also would have stolen the letter to make certain it got mailed.

Emelia looked again at the words she had written.

My dearest Álvaro,

My heart soars to hear that you will take my advice, for I have a confession to make. I’m not sure when or why or how it has come to be, but there came a day when I realized you meant more to me than just a friend. A day when I realized my home was wherever you were, and my joy entwined with yours. The day came that I realized I had no wish to live if my days and nights were not to be by your side.

Ever have I held my heart at bay, waiting for you to see that the woman you had been looking for had been beside you your entire life.

I know you, my Álvaro, and you need never fear that I will leave you. For you are my one and only. I love you and will never love another.

Wait for me; I will be back to you before you know it.

Yours always,

Emelia Garcia Díaz

Emelia folded the letter and slipped it into her pocket, her emotions swimming wildly between determination—she would give it to him—and a frantic desire to throw it overboard.

Their ship was even now sailing into the port of Maracaibo. She was so close to finally being home. Everything that needed to be made ready had been, and there was nothing to do now but wait.

“Emelia! There you are!” Leonora burst into the tiny cabin. “How can you be sitting down here when we’re so close to home?”

“Because it makes no difference if I wait here or there; the time will pass the same.”

“But the air is fresher there!” Leonora pulled Emelia to her feet.

“But there are fewer people here.” Emelia allowed her sister to guide her up on deck anyway. They made their way through the like-minded crowd to the rail, and Leonora leaned out to watch the water. Emelia watched the shores of the lake slip by in the distance, the distinctive smells of home growing stronger with each minute. Soon enough she could see Maracaibo, the place she belonged.

Somewhere in that vista, Álvaro waited for her. They had grown up together; her parents had raised him. Emelia knew him better than anyone. How would it be to look into those green eyes again? To touch his hand? His cheek? Would he have a rougher look about him now he called himself a man? Would he still have that dimpled half-smile and that gentle touch?

Emelia imagined how she would stand at the top of the gangplank and he at the other end. The world would stop as their eyes met, and then she would run to his embrace. Emelia ran her fingers over the letter. There would be no need for such written sentiments then.

As they neared the dock, Emelia scanned the faces for Álvaro’s. He had promised to meet them, and despite face after face not being his, Emelia had no doubts.

When the ship was finally made fast and the gangplank lowered, Emelia held Leonora back. “Let’s wait for the crowds to thin a bit. No sense holding things up and standing about like sheep.”

“And here I thought you were anxious to be home.”

“We won’t get home any faster either way.” Emelia tried to contain her excitement, but Leonora gave her a sly smile.

“You’re looking for someone, aren’t you?” Leonora turned to scan the crowd. “It can’t be Roberto. He got married, didn’t he?”

Emelia kept silent, refusing to rise to the bait, but she couldn’t help the heat that rose to her cheeks.

Despite her intent to have a clear walk off the ship, the crowd herded them toward the gangplank, Leonora falling in a couple people behind Emelia.

As they passed over the choppy waters below, Emelia looked down at them. “You’ll never separate me from my home again,” she promised the water. Then her foot landed on the dock, and she stepped from there onto solid ground. She could feel in her soul that she was back where she belonged.

“Ever the dreamer,” a sonorous and familiar voice cut through her thoughts. She jerked her head around, looking for the speaker. “My Emelia. You never change.”

There he was! The dark hair, rakishly disheveled. The green eyes, the laughing smile. Joy rose from her chest and lit her smile as she made her way toward him.

“You’ve grown taller,” she said, noting, too, the wider chest that tapered to a lean waist, and—Emelia jerked her eyes away, suddenly too shy to go through with her plan of an embrace. He laughed and took her bag from her.

“Where are your sister and Tía Olivia?” He led her towards the waiting coach, where the footman took the bag.

“They’re coming. Leonora was a step or two behind me, and I’m sure Abuela will be along when she’s good and ready.”

Álvaro took her hand to help her into the coach. Its solid warmth was somehow more real to her than anything in the last three years had been. “Stay here and I’ll get them then,” he said, his playful smile still holding the dimple she remembered.

Emelia nodded and watched him walk away. The warmth from his touch seemed to radiate up her arm like fire until the tips of her ears burned. It was as though she’d felt his touch for the first time. Other men had held her hand, touched her face. She’d even been kissed more than once, but none of that compared to the thrill of his hand holding hers.

She ran her fingers across her palm where he’d held it, watching him work his way back through the crowd. Ah, there was Abuela. He bowed to her and she took his elbow, making their way to the coach. Why hadn’t she thought to do that?

Emelia pulled out her letter. Perhaps she could give it to him when they parted. Then he might read it in the garden, then return for her and—

Álvaro pulled open the door and helped Abuela in. The older woman was prattling on in a loud voice about some indignity or another, and Álvaro gave soothing, one-word answers as he again shut the door.

Abuela continued on while Emelia watched. If she could get Leonora to sit next to Abuela, then Álvaro would be beside her and she could slip him the letter. Their legs might even touch and she could lean against him as the coach moved.

As she watched, Álvaro went still, and a chill doused her heart. She knew that look on him; she’d seen it before on the boy. But on the man Álvaro it was somehow more alarming. Like a hound sighting its prey, he had become fixed on the object of his desire. With a sinking heart, Emelia knew who it was.

He held his arm out to Leonora. She looked straight into his face, all defiance and fire and spirit, and took his elbow. There was no need for them to dodge people with their slow and deliberate walk, their heads inclined toward each other. Suddenly Leonora threw back her head and laughed, and Emelia could see the way it pleased him. By the time they reached the coach, Leonora had eyes only for him.

It no longer mattered where they sat. Determined not to notice anything inside the coach, Emelia looked out the window, shutting out the sound of their voices. The letter, now crumpled from her clenched fist, lay forgotten on her lap.

BRILLIANT RED SUNLIGHT from the western sky flooded Elisa’s room in Santa Marta, casting its bloody hue across her skin. She smiled at herself in the mirror, admiring the effect it had on her golden hair, enriching it. Things were going well with the business, and she felt like a spider pulling the strings of her web. Tonight she should be able to close on a deal that would ensure their prosperity for years to come.

It will set us up nicely for when I’m whole again, Theron said, caressing her mind.

I couldn’t have done it without you, of course. Carefully she twisted her hair up into its coiffure, setting the trailing curls to sit exactly so, the epitome of current fashion.

She enjoyed these meetings. They were with people who had not known her in life, and so she had no need of a disguise. She could bring her full beauty to bear. And who could possibly deny her anything when she looked this amazing?

Miguel paced through the parlor beneath her room, the indecipherable buzz of his quiet muttering overlaying the sound of his footsteps. This new habit of his annoyed her, but it seemed harmless enough. So long as he didn’t do it in public.

He’s been so restless lately. What is he going on about now?

Theron shrugged, dismissive. His pitiful mind is incapable of finding new things to be upset about. He could use a distraction.

You mean you could. Elisa gave him a playful shove. If he’s so dull, stop listening to him so much.

Why do you think I’m talking to you?

Elisa laughed aloud. I could take him to the meeting with me. Why shouldn’t Miguel get to share in the joy of her success tonight? It would get him out of the house, provide some distraction for both of them. Surely, he would behave for that?

Settling her necklace on her throat to draw the gaze to her considerable assets, she rose from her vanity. Taking Miguel tonight would be precisely the thing. She’d been sharp with him lately, perhaps a little more than she ought to have been. She’d learned in her business dealings these past few years that a bit of gentle pressure in exactly the right place, presented as graciousness, could turn a stubborn head. And maybe he’d come back to her.

After all, he had been kind when she’d come to him after it had happened. Elisa rubbed her hand absently. Perhaps, if she showed him a little kindness, gave just a little, things might be better.

She swept down the stairs and heard him muttering to himself behind the door. She didn’t bother to pause and listen, or even to knock. What could he possibly be saying that would interest her? She strode into the room, and Miguel paused mid-stride.

Something about the room put her off. Something was not right, and a spark of anger flared up in her soul. How dare he! She scowled, glancing around, trying to figure out what was off. Something about this space always got to her.

Miguel straightened and looked at her, his eyebrow raised. “Don’t you have an important meeting to get to?”

She shook herself. Nothing was out of place, aside from Miguel in his horrible, old clothes. Not even a cravat to keep the neck of his shirt decently closed. Besides, she had come in here with a purpose. Setting her smile back on her lips, she stepped forward.

“I had simply thought you might enjoy accompanying me.” She set her hand gently to his lips before he could protest. He stiffened beneath her touch. “You spend so much time pacing in this room, you’re going to wear a hole through the floor. Tonight will be a night to celebrate, and you need diversion. Come with me.”

He stepped away and took a seat on the couch. “I’m perfectly fine right here.”

She glared at him a moment, in his dark breeches and disheveled hair. She would be late if she had to wait for him to dress properly. She could hear the coach she had ordered pulling up to the door.

She reset her smile and reached her hand out to him. “Please?”

He looked into her eyes from where he sat. “No.”

Stung, she crossed her arms. How dare he refuse? She had asked nicely. “I could make you.”

“Theron could make me. You can do nothing to me.”

Theron! she called out to him.

This is your problem, my dear.

“Hm, sounds like dear old Theron isn’t going to help you out this time. You’d better be on your way. I have a floor to wear through.”

With a huff, she stormed out of the room, determined he should know of her anger. She had tried to be kind, and what had it done? Nothing. Her going to him before had been a serious lapse of her judgement. She knew that now.

As she stepped out the door to the waiting coach she heard Miguel—no, Mikhael—speak again, a laugh in his voice.

“No, I think you’re right. She’ll always be a spoiled child.”

She tightened her fist around the handle of her parasol, crushing it. How dare he?

Theron would never say such a thing about her. Miguel must be remembering that cursed woman again. That would need to stop.

Chapter 11

THE NIGHTS STRETCHED out around Maria, dreadfully boring with their sameness. Nothing in her room ever changed, and despite the constant movement of her bow, her mind ached with the dullness. It was nearly enough to make her excited for the next time Sophus would bring her new music to learn.

Footsteps in the hall outside her closed door made her turn. Who would be up this late at night? Aside from the sleepless vampires, of course. It certainly wasn’t Sophus; he was never so loud.

Her door opened to reveal Wuchii. Maria felt foolish for not realizing it more quickly.

“My mind is going dull with nothing interesting to do,” Maria said. “I didn’t even guess it was you at the door. What are you doing up so late?”

“Bah, who needs sleep?” Wuchii waved her away. “I simply thought you might enjoy a nice warm fire.”

“I’d enjoy the company of a friend more.” Maria nodded to the empty chair beside her table, but Wuchii made her way to the fireplace and began laying wood. “But something tells me I’d enjoy the company of a friend and a fire even more.”

As the fire sprang to life, the door opened again. This time Maria didn’t need to look to know who it was. Iráma’s strangely strong scent preceded her.

“Two visitors in one night,” Maria said, teasingly. “Must be a big event.”

“It’s nothing like that,” Iráma said, touching Wuchii’s shoulder and helping her to the chair. “We thought we’d visit, especially with him gone for a few hours.”

Maria finished her tune and started it again, ever aware of listeners assigned to report her if she stopped. There was something she’d really like, if Wuchii and Iráma were here and he was not. “Will you teach me your songs? I’d like to be able to play them. When he's not here, of course.”

Wuchii laughed. “I certainly can’t sing them for you. Even my sweet husband was fond of saying that though he loved my voice, I sang like a crow trying to caw. Iráma can, though. If you can convince her to sing.”

Maria turned to her other friend. “Will you sing them for me, then? Just one?”

Iráma shook her head.

Maria wanted to ask why, to push the question, but the pained look on Iráma’s face told her enough. Singing reminded her friend too much of the things she’d lost. And the things she’d left behind.

“Perhaps later, then.” Wuchii said, patting Iráma’s hand. “When you’re ready.”

Maria wished she could hug her friend, but she could not stop making sound on the instrument lest one of the more jealous women report her. Instead, she took a seat on the floor before the fire and watched the flames. Perhaps she could make a song that followed their flickering jumps.

Maria played and notes rose and fell, jumping, flickering and crackling.

“No, stop,” groaned Iráma, her voice playful. “That’s horrible!”

“Maybe she’ll just have to keep going until you give her something better to play,” Wuchii shot back, winking at Maria.

“No, no. Iráma is right.” Maria slipped back into the simple piece she had memorized. “That sounded more than horrible.”

“Was it supposed to mimic the fire?” Iráma slipped from her chair and sat beside Maria.

“That was perhaps the intent, but clearly I don’t have the skill.”

“That’s because you weren’t considering the soul of the fire. You were only playing the surface, the effects. To sing the song that lives in the flame, you have to understand it. Understand what it is, why it is. Its needs and desires. Only then can you start to understand the melody that lives in its heart.”

“You sound like Nana.” Maria nudged Iráma with her elbow.

Iráma shrugged. “Then perhaps I should tell you that you ought to be practicing more.”

“I do practice. Without stopping. I have for months.”

Wuchii chuckled. “I very much doubt the Old One spent her last few weeks training your musical abilities.”

Guilt stung Maria. No, she hadn’t. They’d spent their last days together expanding Maria’s knowledge and skills of the dream world—including her inherent skill with manipulating air. So, merely to see if she could, Maria nudged a thread of the air that moved around the room with her soul, puffing air gently at Wuchii’s ear. “There, I’ve practiced.”

“Oh, yes.” Wuchii leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed. “That is going to be so useful to you, Maria. Let us defeat our enemies by breathing gently on them.”

“Well, you never know. If you breathe hard enough...” Maria grabbed a large handful of the threads and yanked on them, but as they had every other time she’d tried, the lines dissolved in her grip like gossamer threads. Disappointed, she played a sour note for emphasis.

“Well that was less than effective,” Iráma said. “Why not try for something a little more creative? Or useful.” She picked up a piece of kindling and held it over the fire. “Try to keep this from burning.”

The memory of Sophus burning her hair shuddered through her. If she could stop him from ever burning her hair again, it would severely weaken his control over her. She nodded to Iráma. “Put it in.”

Iráma held the dry wood over the flame, and Maria concentrated on it, willing it not to burn. It seemed it would work at first, but the fire licked at it, caressing it, and it caught. Undeterred, Maria nodded for Iráma to try again.

EMELIA SMILED BLANDLY after the man, who bowed to her before setting his hat upon his head and walking away.

“How did it go?” her mother asked, coming out into the entry, as though she hadn’t been listening in the hall the entire time.

“You’ve simply got to stop with all this nonsense, girl,” Abuela said in her stern way, following Emelia’s mother. “It was fine to play difficult in Spain; there were far more eligible bachelors there. Here in the colonies, you can’t be so particular.”

“I hate to say it, but Abuela is right.” Emelia’s mother moved forward to take her hand and draw her away from the door. “I was fortunate in finding your father, but even so, I was far younger than you are now. My dear, you must face the fact that the longer you wait, the fewer your prospects will be.”

Emelia allowed them to lead her back to the sitting room. How could she tell them she had already picked a man, but he just hadn’t seen her? They would think it folly. She sat gently on the sofa, despite how much she longed to drop onto it, forgetting decorum and simply feel.

Leonora burst into the room, her radiant smile filling the area like sunshine. It didn’t matter that she strode calmly in; her personality always burst into any room. Emelia smiled at her little sister; she enjoyed seeing her happy, even if it meant waiting a little longer for Álvaro. No doubt he would tire of her soon; no girl had ever been able to hold his interest for long. And it did mean he came to the Casa de la Cuesta more than he would have otherwise.

Almost as though on cue, a knock sounded on the door, and Emelia could hear Álvaro’s voice from the hall, speaking to another man.

“Don Roberto,” Abuela stated, pulling out her embroidery from the basket beside her chair. “Unfortunate that he’s married.”

“Actually, Mama, he’s widowed,” Emelia’s mother corrected gently. “Only a year or so after you left for Spain.”

“And not remarried? What is wrong with the man?” Abuela clucked as the men entered the room. The two of them stood about the same height, and if Emelia didn’t know better, she’d have thought they were brothers. Though their looks were different—Álvaro’s face was narrower, courtesy of French ancestors, and his cheekbones high, where Roberto’s jaw was more square, his skin darker than Álvaro’s, his hair a shade lighter, and his dark eyes far more intense—they moved with a similar easy grace, laugh lines around their eyes, and mouths that loved to smile.

Emelia smiled to herself. Best friends from the time they could walk, Roberto Hernandez may as well have been Álvaro’s brother. Growing up, Roberto had spent nearly as much time at their home as he had his own.

“Señoritas,” Álvaro said with a bow. “Tía Olivia, Tía Betania.”

“Señorita,” Roberto echoed, meeting Emilia’s eye. She looked away but glanced back, and he winked at her. She rolled her eyes and looked at Álvaro.

Emelia’s mother rose to gesture them in. “Please, have a seat.”

“I’m afraid we can’t at the moment,” Roberto said, setting a hand on Álvaro’s arm. “We have some business with Señor de la Cuesta, and he’s waiting.”

“But we will surely stop in when we are done,” Álvaro said, exchanging glances with Leonora.

“Or you could invite us over for supper this evening,” she responded with a careless shrug.

“Or I could do that.” Álvaro gave her a half smile. “I’ll see you both this evening at the hacienda then?”

“Of course,” Emelia said before her sister could accept or her mother object. Álvaro flashed her a smile as Roberto dragged him out the door. Emelia smiled to herself. It would be good to be back at the hacienda, the first home she’d ever had, and the only place she’d truly felt she belonged.

“So what do you plan to do about that young man who just left?” Abuela asked sharply.

“Hm?” Emelia lifted her eyes to her grandmother, and at the same time Leonora let out a small laugh. What indeed?

“I plan to go over to dinner tonight, of course,” Leonora said, pulling loose another long thread of floss for her embroidery. “And since I’ll have Emelia with me, there will be no need for you to chaperone us. You’ll be free to go play cards with the other grey-haired Doña.”

“Well, of course you plan to go to dinner, Norita,” Abuela said with a laugh. “But I meant your sister.”

“If you mean Señor Hernandez, I plan to do nothing.” It would be wonderful to talk to her old friend again, but ... Emelia swallowed. Perhaps she should tell them?

“Indeed you don’t,” Abuela responded with a wave of her hand. “You clearly have your heart set upon another, but why you haven’t encouraged him is beyond me.”

“I’m not sure he even sees me,” Emelia said softly, stabbing her needle through the cloth.

“Then you should make him see you,” Leonora said, the passion in her voice making Emelia look up. “Be loud and larger than life. Speak up and be unforgettable.”

“That works well enough for you, Norita,” their mother said softly, “but that’s not our Emelia’s way. Any man who can’t see her as she is will never truly appreciate who she is.”

Emelia merely smiled and turned back toward her sewing, the thought of the crumpled letter and all the hopes she’d pinned on it pushing against the box she’d locked her heart into. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps all she needed was to get him to admit he cared for her, and everything would fall into line from there.

Chapter 12

MIKHAEL WALKED ALONG the Santa Marta beach in the pre-dawn light, his boots digging into the sand. The heavy, humid air lay hot and stagnant against him, as oppressive as Elisa’s personality. He picked up a handful of stones and tossed them into the ocean, one at a time. A familiar stir of wind around him made him smile, and he reached into his shirt, rearranging the red stone amulet he wore about his neck to lie flat against his skin.

“Hello again,” he greeted his muse. He could feel her standing just behind him, and his ears strained to hear the sound of her feet on the sand. Of course there was none, but he could feel her warm smile as she looked him over. He’d missed her. “It’s been a while.”

It has.

Her voice held a longing warmth. Had she missed him as well, then?

My master has kept me busy, his muse continued.

What, exactly, was she? A ghost to haunt him? A spirit caught in the stone necklace? Whatever she was, she was a relief and a change from the drudgery of his existence. For reasons he did not understand, Theron seemed to remain oblivious to both the necklace and their conversations. Mikhael was not willing to risk either to find out why.

“Too busy to talk to me?” he asked, feigning hurt in his voice. “Not even a stolen moment here and there since I left the city.”

Indeed. It gets more dangerous for me each time, she said. Mikhael could imagine her twisting her fingers nervously. He finds ways to keep me occupied. Both fear and hate were entwined in her words. He’d grown used to the way he seemed to pick up more than just her words, but her impressions, moods, and sometimes even images. And the occasional whisper of music.

“What is it he has you do, anyway?” Mikhael tossed another stone into the water, unable to hear it land over the perpetual hush of the waves. There had been an unspoken agreement between them. They did not speak of the things their masters had them do, but something about how she’d spoken seemed to call for it.

Spying, often. He has me keep an eye on his minions. He’s developed a considerable underground network. Or perpetual playing of that infernal violin. The woman stood beside him, and he could see her in his mind tucking her unruly, dark hair behind her ear. But other things, too. I am his personal servant, and anything he desires I must give to him. The comment conveyed a sense of hopelessness on the surface, but underneath boiled a sea of hate. He felt her throw something of her own into the water with vehemence.

He paused, considering. The last time he had asked, they had fought. But hearing her pain made his heart ache. It needed to be asked again. “If you hate it so much, why do you not free yourself?”

It is...complicated.

“So you’ve said before. Can you try to help me understand?”

She hesitated, her unease hiding a deeper emotion, as though she were afraid. Of him?

“It’s all right,” he said, wishing he could take her hand. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

In his mind, Mikhael saw a boy, superimposed over the image of a young man. Somehow they were the same, yet different. An aura of danger surrounded them, and Mikhael felt a deep-seated protectiveness flare in his chest.

“Who is it?” he whispered, realizing the protectiveness was as much his own emotion as hers.

My son, she said, her voice colored with love.

She had a son. The thought swirled in his mind, unable to settle on any of the many implications that knowledge held. But the desire to protect this child cut through all else. “And he is in danger from your master?”

Yes.

“Why do you not protect him then?”

I am, she said sadly. The only way I know how. A sense of urgency and distress shot through his mind. I have to go.

And with that, she was gone.

Mikhael tossed another of his stones into the water as the sun crested the horizon, flooding the ground with its sharp light. Who was this woman, anyway? Was she more than just a spirit? If so, perhaps he could arrange a meeting between them. Maybe, together, they could free themselves from their captors.

And what about this child of hers? She clearly loved him more deeply than any love Mikhael had ever known. If they managed to free themselves, would they be able to protect her son? They would have to.

“Mikhael!” sweet as birdsong, the most vile of women’s voices called out to him. He looked up to see Elisa in her ‘country’ dress—a slightly less extravagant ensemble than what she typically wore in the city—making her way toward him.

Shuttering his thoughts and emotions for later, he nodded toward her.

“I wish you wouldn’t spend so much time here by the water. The spray damages your clothes, you know.” Elisa gave the water a disgusted look.

“Learning to love more than your clothes might do you good, Elisa.” Mikhael threw another rock out to sea.

“What would you know of love?” Elisa set her hand on her hip. “You said you loved me, made me your wife, brought me to this life, and then abandoned me flat.”

“I believe that would be a grossly misplaced sense of loyalty, not love.” He started down the beach back toward the town. “Something I suspect I will pay for for a very long time.”

“I loved you,” she said, falling into step beside him.

“You have never loved anything but yourself.” The memory of his muse’s fierce emotions —protectiveness, tenderness, pride—toward the boy came to mind. “And somehow I don’t think love, real love, is so much concerned with self as it is with the wellbeing and success of another.”

Elisa grabbed his arm and he stopped, turning toward her. “You never let her go, did you?” Elisa’s face was dark with rage. “That’s what you’ve been muttering about all the time. You think you’re talking to her!”

Mikhael shook off her arm. “And what if I am? What is it to you?”

“I am your wife!”

“Do you know what you are, Elisa?” Mikhael stepped forward, but Elisa held her ground. “You are the single biggest mistake I have ever made. If a choice were given me between a life with you and thousand years of servitude under Theron, I would take him every time.”

She glared at him, coldness growing behind her eyes. Mikhael spun on his heel and left.

I’m afraid I like her a great deal more than you, Theron said. But the thought of getting rid of her to have you entirely submissive is tempting.

I’ve already endured a lifetime with her, Mikhael replied. You’ve missed your opportunity.

PALM FRONDS WAVED IN the gentle breeze as the deep green landscape slid past the window. The light rain drummed on the roof of the carriage as the de la Cuesta sisters made their way to visit Roberto’s ailing sister, Camilla. Emelia bit her lip. Today would be the day. She would not rest until she’d gotten Álvaro alone and told him outright of her feelings for him, and he would be bound to understand then. Surely he would see he loved her, too.

“Have you heard anything from Roberto lately?” Leonora asked, leaning forward to look out the window. “Has Camilla improved at all?”

Emelia shook her head. “I haven't heard, but that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To see what we can do to help?”

Leonora straightened the cloth on the basket of treats she held on her lap. “I can’t imagine how hard this must be on poor Roberto. He lost his wife only a couple years ago, and now he might lose his sister as well. Álvaro and I were riding together just yesterday, and he says Roberto is holding up well enough, but you know how he is with emotions.”

Emelia pushed away a pang of jealousy that Álvaro had made time for her sister yesterday, but not for her. He’d said he’d been swamped all day with work. Perhaps Leonora had simply been in the right place at the right time.

The carriage turned into a courtyard and pulled to a stop before the home. Emelia gathered her skirts as the footman opened the door, and she stepped out. Would Álvaro be here today? She shook her head, chiding herself. She had come to help poor Camilla, who for all she knew lay dying. Not to worry about her own problems.

A servant led them to a nursery, where Camilla sat on a rocking chair, watching her two small children play with a wooden horse and some blocks on the floor. They exchanged pleasantries, and Emelia sat beside Camilla as Leonora joined the children on the floor.

“Nora, darling,” Camilla said, her breath short as though she’d just run up the stairs. “Would you take the boys for a walk in the garden? They’ve been begging me to take them to see the frogs, but ...” She gestured helplessly.

“Of course,” Leonora said with a smile. Gathering the children by their hands, she asked them about their favorite types of frogs. With cheers and excitement, they pulled Nora from the room. Emelia watched Camilla’s heartfelt smile as her boys left.

“Now.” Camilla turned toward Emelia, attempting to sound stern. “Tell me what you’re planning to do about those two.”

“Your boys?”

Camilla rolled her eyes, her breath still short. “No, the Pope and the King of England. I mean your sister and Álvaro, of course.”

“I mean to let things run their course. Álvaro has never been able to stay in love for longer than a fortnight.” Emelia plucked at her sleeve.

“It has been longer than that already. When will you tell him?”

Emelia grinned, looking up at her friend’s expectant blue eyes. “I plan to tell him tonight.”

“Good.” Camilla sat back in her chair and took a few deep breaths before continuing. “And if he doesn’t reciprocate?”

“He will.” Emelia had to believe. She reached down to scoop up the wooden horse the children had left behind, its carved wooden saddle similar to the one Álvaro had used with Wind. “I’ve known him my entire life. I’ve never felt at home like I do at the hacienda. I’ve never been as happy as I am when he is near. I know how much he cares; I simply need to get him to say it.”

Camilla leaned over, flinching at the movement. “Look, I’ve known Álvaro for a long time, too, mostly as my brother’s best friend, and I think this time he means it. He’s not going to let go of Leonora. Even Roberto thinks so. You would be wise to learn to find contentment with what you have, rather than hanging on to an imagined future. Live in the moment. There are wonderful things here if you’d let yourself see them.”

Emelia shook her head. “It will happen. Someday he’ll admit how much he cares.”

Camilla smiled and motioned for Emelia to help her stand. “Well, until that happens, you should consider other possibilities.”

Emelia gave her friend a coy smile. “Like your brother?”

“My brother is a very eligible catch, if I do say so myself.” Camilla braced herself to rise. “Not to mention quite handsome.”

“I can’t deny Roberto is handsome,” Emelia said with a laugh, helping her friend stand. Camilla’s thin, fragile hand held tightly to her arm as she rose. Perhaps, when her own days were numbered, Emelia might see the value in giving up on hope for brighter days to come, but for now, all she had was hope.

Chapter 13

ELISA PACED ACROSS the carpet. The dark trees beyond the window moved with the same fury and agitation she felt. Soon, the rain would come, making a muddy mess of the streets of Santa Marta and driving everyone into safety. Everyone but that thrice-cursed Mikhael. He’d stay out in the rain, just to spite her, ruining his fine clothes and laughing at her dismay. No doubt that woman in his head would stand in judgment, mocking her, and he would laugh again.

She picked up a vase, and, screaming her fury, smashed it on the ground.

Why can’t you bring him back, now? Elisa screamed at Theron. I need him here.

Theron held firm against her rage, as though holding the arms of a tantruming child.

Abashed at her behavior, Elisa reined in her anger. Perhaps she should not have shouted. But he is so frustrating! How can you stand him?

With a patience born of centuries, my dear. Theron loosened his hold on her mind, and she raised her chin.

Crunching her foot down on the broken vase, she continued her pacing. Why can’t he see I need him here? We have plans, and he’s mucking things up. Things would run smoothly if he’d only do what he’s told. Why can’t you make him behave?

Why can’t you? Theron snapped back.

He’s gotten some delusion in his head that he’s better than me. He has no sense of humility, no understanding of the need to listen to his betters. Elisa reached the edge of the room and turned, retracing her route across the carpet. It’s that woman he thinks about all the time. Can’t you stop him from thinking about her?

Theron’s silence felt like interest, so she continued.

It would be so simple. No different than training a dog. Elisa fiddled with her necklace while she thought. Every time he begins to think about her, just, I don’t know, do what you usually do. Throw him to the ground or some such.

Theron’s silence filled the empty space after her words, and she paused. He felt ... angry. With her?

What’s wrong? Her brow furrowed with concern. Had he been hurt? Had something happened at the lair? That had to be it. Someone had come in and distracted him. Irritation that he would dare ignore her when she spoke fluttered against her mind.

No, she argued with herself. She’d have been distracted if prey threw itself at her, too. Her throat tightened at the thought of blood. When had she last eaten, anyway? The disgusting cattle they purchased to drink from certainly didn’t count. A branch slapped against the window, cracking the glass. Disgusted, she moved to close the shutters.

Why hadn’t that been taken care of before? Looking out, she could see a few figures braving the storm in the otherwise empty street. Quickly, she closed the shutters and the broken window.

Perhaps Mikhael had it right, being out in the storm. She could go out and find someone foolish enough to risk their life in such weather, and no one could say they hadn’t been lost in the storm. She’d get her food, and she wouldn’t even have to share.

Theron’s silent rage pushed against her thoughts, drawing her attention.

What is wrong? she asked, her hands on her hips. Didn’t he realize she had things to do now? Besides, it wasn’t as though there was anything she could do for him at the lair. It would take hours, at least, for her to reach him if anything were wrong. But she’d leave in a heartbeat if he needed her.

If you need me to come back, I will. Nothing is more important than your safety, she said, reaching out to him, sending the image of caressing his face.

His rage subsided, reducing to annoyance. You need to watch yourself, girl.

Elisa bristled at the condescending term. She was a woman, not some little girl-child. But she held her peace.

I am not your servant, but you are mine. I do not take orders from you.

Of course not. Elisa sent another impression of a gentle touch. I had only meant to find ideas that might help us manage him better. Is watching his thoughts even a possibility?

Obviously. Theron's contempt at the idea of such inadequacy was tangible. I simply have better things to do than babysit his mind. I am not your dog-trainer.

I never meant to imply you were. She continued to gush admiration for him, for his strength and his power. He preened, soaking in her attentions. Only that, perhaps by working together, we can help curb his latest, nasty little habit. You just check in on him from time to time, when he isn’t with me, and together we’ll bring him to heel.

Begrudgingly, he accepted.

Elisa hid her smug pride behind another wave of affection. Now, shall we hunt?

IN THE HOURS BEFORE dawn, the pale, tropical beach of Santa Marta stretched out before Mikhael like a ribbon in the pale starlight. Jungle-clad mountains rose up like sentinels around the town, and a breeze carrying its rich, floral scent washed over him, toying with his hair like the gentle hands of a lover. He enjoyed this time of night. Things felt calmer. Simpler.

His ghostly muse walked noiselessly beside him.

The silence between them felt natural, like breathing the clean air of the ocean.

Do you like the sound of the ocean? The gentle breeze felt like her breath on his neck as she spoke.

“It is calming and steady.” The hairs on his arm prickled at her nearness, certain that if he moved just a little, he would be touching her hand. He resisted the urge, knowing there would be nothing but empty air. If only...

Like you. Her smile warmed him. Persistent, too. Miguel the steady. Miguel of the sea.

“The sea is far more relentless than I am. Far more temperamental.” Something nudged at his mind, like a forgotten thought. He ignored it.

Perhaps the rain, then?

“Inclined to make a mess of everything? Oh, for certain.”

She gave a harsh laugh. No. If anything, that would be me. I’m the one who ruins everything, every time.

“No. If you’re the rain, then it is because the rain is cleansing and beautiful. When sailors are lost at sea, it brings life and hope—water of life in a world surrounded by water that holds only death. If you are the rain, then it is rain I love best of all.”

She stopped walking. He followed suit, longing to turn toward her. His mind knew she stood behind him, watching. She reached toward him, to touch his shoulder, and hesitated. Her emotions moved around him, as changeable as smoke. What was she feeling? Why wouldn’t she share it with him?

If I am the rain, what does that make you? She struggled to keep back her emotions.

“Fire, I imagine. Destroying utterly everything I touch, and entirely controlled by the waters that surround me.” The nagging thought pushed at him again, and he shoved it aside, focusing on her.

Then I must not be rain. Playfulness entered her voice, and he could imagine her tapping her chin thoughtfully. I would never want to hurt you.

“And yet we can’t be together. When a fire burns hot, it keeps the rain away. The only way for them to touch is if the rain is powerful enough to douse the fire.” He began walking again, his boots pushing against the gently giving wet sand. He wished he could feel it.

She continued along beside him. No, Miguel, if you’re going to be fire, then I simply can’t be rain. We’ll just have to come up with something else.

“Why do you call me Miguel?”

What else would I call you?

“Everyone else calls me Mikhael.”

His muse made a disgusted face. If you want me to, I’ll ... try.

“No, I like the way you say it. It sounds...” He gestured helplessly. “It sounds right.”

That, she said in English with a comically overdone accent, is because it is your name, duckie.

A memory stirred and slipped away, and he shook his head. “This Miguel you think I am is a fantasy. Persistent, calm, steady. I’m hardly any of those things.”

She moved to stand before him. He turned his head to the side, to maintain the illusion that she was really there. That she was real. Pressure built up behind his eyes, like a headache after a hit to the head. Closing his eyes, he ignored it.

She looked him up and down. Nope, you’re still Miguel. A little older, perhaps. And more durable for sure. But inside, you’re still you.

“Mikhael!” A sharp voice made them both look up. Elisa stormed toward them, as angry as a hornet’s nest.

His muse sucked in a hissing breath, and without thinking he turned toward her. He caught a glimpse of a red skirt and dark hair, much the way he’d pictured it in his mind. Then nothing. He had merely imagined it.

Where have you been? Theron slammed into his mind, pressure bursting forth with the ancient vampire’s rage. How dare you ignore me?

Mikhael collapsed onto the sand as Theron raked his claws through his mind, searching for ... something. Something he could not find. Mikhael stared deliberately, blankly at the grains of sand before his face. Nothing existed in his mind beyond them. Pain was an illusion that would fade and pass with time. All that existed for the moment was the pale sand.

Elisa’s footsteps reached him. A different flavor of pain shot through him, and he curled around himself. There was noise, but it existed outside of himself, just another part of the simple relentless crashing of the waves. All that mattered was the sand before him, in its abstract, crystalline form, in varying shades of pale and shadow and size.

His body rose to its feet, but Mikhael kept his mind focused on the image of the sand. A monster beat at his mind, demanding to be let in, to break through the crystalline vision of sand. But try as it might to move the sand away to access Mikhael’s mind, more sand fell into place.

Entirely beyond his control, Mikhael’s body followed Elisa, driven by the monster that continued its frenzied attack on the sand wall within his mind.

Chapter 14

1765

“SEÑORITA, WILL YOU WALK with me?” Don Rafael Vallejo held out his hand to Emelia in the crowded ballroom. Emelia smiled automatically and took the older gentleman’s hand. She did not particularly enjoy his company, tolerating his attention only because he was an associate of her father’s. She was grateful, however, to be away from the gossiping hens that crowded her. If she’d stayed with them a moment longer, they might have convinced her that she, too, was destined to become a doddering spinster at the ripe old age of twenty-two.

“Thank you, Señor. It will be nice to get away from the heat.” She rose, and Vallejo tucked her hand into his elbow and led her deftly through the room toward a balcony. She had a moment’s regret when the ever familiar form of Álvaro caught the corner of her eye, but he was dancing with another partner. She’d still be with the abuelas if she hadn’t stood.

The balcony opened into the cool night air, still muggy with the eternal heat of Maracaibo, but much preferable to the ballroom. Several people milled around in the lamplit darkness, speaking and laughing.

“I have noticed you are a fairly quiet woman,” Vallejo said, breaking into Emelia’s thoughts.

She blushed and turned toward him. “Pardon my rudeness. I was lost in thought.”

“That is quite all right. I prefer not having my ear chattered off.” He gave her a smile.

He is fairly handsome, she thought, even if he is nearly twice my age. And his teeth seem nice enough. Emelia grinned, amused at the thought of considering his teeth, as though he were a horse at market. She’d have to tell Leonora.

Vallejo gave her hand a squeeze and handed her a glass she had not noticed him pick up. “I am a man who likes to get to the point of things. I don’t do well with useless flattery. So believe me when I say that being here with you, Señorita de la Cuesta, is the highlight of my entire evening.”

Emelia lowered her eyes. She should be used to compliments. She’d had plenty of suitors in Spain, but that had been more than a year ago. She felt out of practice now. Her mother and Abuela had been right; there were far fewer eligible men along the Spanish Main. Or at least they were farther between.

“Your humility, as well, entrances me.” He took her arm and led her across the balcony to the railing, to a section a small distance from anyone else. “We have known each other for some time now, and I have called on you several times. I feel you deserve the courtesy of knowing I intend to begin discussions with your father about an engagement.” He paused, as though waiting for her to say something, but before she could form a thought, he hurried on. “To you, that is. If you do not object.”

Emelia’s mind fell blank. She’d had other suitors try to speak to her of marriage before, but she had always nipped it in the bud. How had she not seen this coming? She gathered her wits and opened her mouth for a response.

“I see you are speechless at this development.” Vallejo turned to look out over the railing. “I myself hardly saw it coming. I am a widower thrice over, as you know, and had thought myself resigned to remaining so for the remainder of my days. But with you I feel I might truly live again.” He paused and looked down at her. “Don’t answer now. Think on it for a bit. We will speak again, señorita.”

He walked away and Emelia stood there, her untouched glass still in her gloved hand. What did she even say to such presumption?

“What was that about?” A deep, clear tenor voice pulled her from her thoughts, and she turned to find Roberto walking toward her.

“I think ...” Emelia swallowed. “I think I am getting engaged.”

“To him?” Roberto shook his head, incredulous. “You can’t be serious. He’s too old for you. Goodness, Emelia, he’s old enough to be your father.”

“But he isn’t,” she said, holding her head high. What business was it of his, anyway?

“Who isn’t what?” Álvaro’s voice broke clear of the low din of the crowd.

Emelia turned to Álvaro. “Your friend Roberto, here, was just insulting the virtue of your foster mother. Are you really going to allow that?”

Álvaro turned to his friend. “What do you say, Rob? Pistols at dawn?”

“Only if it’s rifles and we’re hunting fowl,” Roberto returned.

“How about foul men?”

“Perhaps,” Roberto said. “If we include Rafael Vallejo among them.”

“Now see here—” Emelia tried to cut in.

“What has old Rafe got to do with anything?” Álvaro asked. “Aside from being an all-around despicable human being? He’s generally honest and unfortunately good to do business with.”

“See.” Emelia gave Roberto a triumphant look. “Álvaro thinks there’s something worthwhile about him.”

“Emelia wants to marry him, that’s what,” Roberto said, gesturing to her.

Álvaro laughed. “My Emelia would never be so foolish.”

Despite the heat that rose in her at him calling her “my Emelia,” she crossed her arms and pitched her voice to be sharp. “Your Emelia is standing right beside you. Your Emelia doesn’t like to be spoken about as though she is not here.”

“Watch out, she’s a spitfire,” Roberto said. “Vallejo doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into.”

“Do you have something I can throw at him?” Emelia whispered loudly to Álvaro.

“Only this glass, and I’m not ready to be thrown out for the evening.”

Emelia heaved a faux sigh of resignation, which made Álvaro grin.

“I had hoped to ask the señorita for a dance,” Roberto said with a joking smile, “but I fear she would throw me over the balcony if I tried.”

“Don’t think I wouldn’t do it,” she returned, her hands on her hips.

“Even to an old friend?”

“Especially to an old friend.”

Roberto backed away, his hands up in defeat. “I’ll give you this round, señorita, but be warned, I may ask again when you’re safely away from any precipitous drops.”

Emelia laughed and waved him away. Roberto winked at her and shot a grin at Álvaro before retreating back to the ballroom. The music from inside changed from a lively dance to something calmer, and suddenly Emelia was overly aware she had finally found a moment alone with Álvaro. He stood beside her, the silence between them comfortable, and yet, to Emelia, the space between them felt charged. She ought to slip her hand into his elbow. She could. She had done it often enough before she’d left for Spain.

“What are you thinking?” Álvaro asked softly, looking down at her.

“Just how much everything has changed over the years. For instance ...” Emelia swallowed and set her hand on his elbow as butterflies danced in her stomach. “Taking your arm used to be so easy.”

He patted her hand, holding it to him. “I know what you mean. I had worried that we would grow apart while you were gone. That nothing would ever be the same.” He looked down at her with a smile, and her heart skipped a beat. “And yet from the moment I saw you step off the ship, everything—everything that really mattered, anyhow—fell right back into place, as though you had never left.”

Emelia’s heart soared. He had taken such an interest in Leonora that she’d been afraid he hadn’t even noticed her any more. And now to hear him say he cared for her just as much as he always had. This night could not get any more perfect.

“Álvaro,” Emelia began, but words failed her. How could she possibly tell him all she held in her heart?

“Álvaro!” a voice called from the doorway. They both turned to see Leonora coming toward them, waving. Emelia could feel the way he stood taller at the sight of her sister. He gripped her hand more tightly, and his smile grew wider. “Roberto said I might find you out here. Are you ever going to ask me to dance?”

Álvaro turned to Emelia, his eyes alight. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Emelia’s smile had frozen onto her face. “No, I’ll be fine. I can handle myself. I always have.”

“You’re amazing. Do you know that, Em?” Álvaro gave her a quick, brotherly hug before striding toward her sister. Her hand felt cold where he had been holding it, the space beside her barren and empty. She should have known.

She had known.

“You’re just going to let him go?” a silky voice said from beside her, stepping into the empty space he had vacated.

Emelia glanced up at the woman, dressed in a gown so elegant it was nearly distasteful, her blond hair so elaborately styled that it must have taken hours to set. Despite her immediate distaste for the stranger, something about her felt familiar, insisting she should trust her.

“I can’t very well force him to stay with me,” Emelia said, surprised at the bitterness that seeped into her voice. The woman laughed, the cynicism in it making her seem far older than she looked. She couldn’t possibly be more than Emelia’s own age, and yet, the way she held herself and the way she spoke matured the woman.

“Don’t be absurd. Of course you can. You’re a Señorita de la Cuesta, a Díaz. You can have anything you like. You simply need to have the wherewithal to reach out and take it.”

Emelia shook her head. “I’m not sure love works that way.”

The woman only smiled at her. “Just don’t give up, dear. You can’t lose if you never stop trying.”

MARIA WAITED IN THE corner of the dark study, watching Rafeal Vallejo leaf through the portfolio on his lap, the lamplight on the table beside him casting shadows across the room. Everything in the room spoke of reserved wealth. The walls were panelled in a rich, dark wood, but without elaborate carvings. The damask chairs in the room were likewise tasteful and fine, but somehow extremely stiff, almost militant. As though they were not meant for comfort. They reflected their owner’s personality well.

Shifting her weight, and attempting to mimic the movement with her body miles away in the labyrinth, Maria looked over the room again. Was it really necessary to watch Vallejo read through documents? She could look over his shoulder and read them herself. It might help alleviate the boredom. But then she might slip up talking to Sophus, and then he’d insist she read along at every meeting, too.

Instead, she reached out to the currents of air in the room and toyed with them. She enjoyed watching the currents move, rippling away from her in all directions like disturbed water. She couldn’t move anything real from the dream world directly, except the air. Focusing on the drapes hanging limp and heavy alongside the dark window, she tried pushing enough air to make them rustle. They shifted sluggishly near the floor and settled back into stillness.

Undeterred, Maria stood near the lamp instead. Fire was always more fun to play with. She tugged at a current of air near her, but the glass around the flame effectively blocked the air’s movement. She poked at the wick inside the fire, trying to separate it from the flame. She remained, as ever, unsuccessful.

Vallejo turned another page and shifted in his seat. Maria waited, hoping he’d just close the portfolio and leave. Then she could as well. She had places to be. Tonight, Álvaro would be at a ball held at Casa de la Cuesta, and she wanted to check in on him. He’d shown some interest in Betania’s younger daughter, but Maria hadn’t had the chance to see them together for herself. Her son’s mind had been so easily changeable about girls in the past; it would be nice to see him settle down finally.

Maria focused her attention on the dancing air above the lamp’s chimney. It rose, twisting and sliding along the heat of the flame, too full of hot energy to notice her small attempts to move it. She tried sneaking small drafts of air down the inside of the glass, but the rising heat scooped them up and carried them away. Annoyed at the futility of it, Maria gathered a handful of the ethereal threads, knotted them between her hands, and shoved them into the lamp. The breeze that followed rocked the lamp, nearly upsetting it, and snuffed the tiny flame.

Ha! I got you! She stepped back to survey the darkened lamp with satisfaction.

Vallejo let out an annoyed hiss and snapped the portfolio shut. Muttering to himself, he stood and left the room.

And it’s about time, too. I’ll have to put out your light sooner next time. Maria grinned, and the moment the door shut behind Vallejo, she shifted to the ball.

The familiar surroundings of the large plantation home she’d spent a great deal of time in throughout her childhood materialized around her. The music of the youthful crowd dancing, chatting, and generally enjoying themselves filled the grand hall. Maria closed her eyes and felt out with her soul for her son.

He danced among the crowd, Betania’s younger daughter in step with him. His shoulder-length black hair was tied in a neat queue, and though he wore nicer clothes than Miguel had ever willingly done, from the back he looked the spitting image of his father. He turned toward her, and his green eyes sparkled as he reached for his dance partner. Their smiles seemed to light the entire room. Finishing a turn, he took the girl’s hand and whisked her out of the form of the dance.

Maria followed as they nearly ran for the sanctuary of the open-air balcony. Other couples walked and spoke, and echoes of Maria’s own past flitted beside her as she followed her son. Álvaro and the girl walked close together, her hand in his arm. He leaned in to whisper something to her, and they burst out laughing. Maria stayed back, feeling they deserved privacy in this.

She watched him, her heart aching with the love and loss he represented to her. He was as tall as his father, if not perhaps an inch or two taller. His shoulders were broader, and he walked with a simple stride that bespoke strength. But it was not the easy, rolling gait of a sailor that Miguel had never lost. Álvaro also wore a sword at his hip, as did most of the young men at the dance, and though he moved with familiarity of the weapon, it wasn’t the same extension of self Miguel had.

It is a good thing, I suppose. Maria followed them to the stairs and paused, watching them descend. I’m glad he’s never known the struggles of his parents.

Sadness mingled with pride tugged at her heart. In his twenty-third year, Álvaro had outlived both his parents.

The girl stumbled on the last step and fell against Álvaro. He caught her and pulled her into an embrace, and Maria looked away. They seemed happy. The knowledge filled her. Everything she did, all the mindless hours spying for Sophus, the limited time with Miguel, the endless violin playing. Everything seemed worth it to see her son safe, living his life, and being happy. Imprisonment to the monster who held her was worth every moment for Álvaro’s life.

Dropping back into her body, Maria inhaled deeply and opened her eyes.

“You’re back early,” Sophus said from where he lounged, watching her, on his couch.

She nodded, keeping her face neutral. “Don Vallejo’s lamp burned out, and rather than relight it, he left the room.” Sophus had told her to remain until Vallejo left the room. She followed his instructions with exactness. She proceeded to report on the meetings he’d held while she’d watched and listened, and then Sophus dismissed her to her violin playing.

She curtsied and left, holding back her joy until she’d shut the door to her own chambers behind her. Wuchii had been in her room, ostensibly to tidy it, but they both knew Maria’s room needed no such care. The elderly Wayuu woman had come to speak with her friend, and Maria loved her like a sister.

It was good Wuchii hadn’t waited, though; she needed to sleep. The years had begun to weigh on her, and if Maria hadn’t been chained to the damnable violin, she’d have done all of Wuchii’s work for her so her friend could spend the rest of her years in simple ease. That, and tell her all about her son’s adventures.

Smiling, Maria opened the violin case and pulled out the bow, tightening it. She had to tell someone, though. Perhaps Miguel would be available, despite the hour. Maria rosined the bow and tuned the strings. Elisa was probably at some party herself, anyway. Tucking the instrument beneath her chin, Maria began an etude and stepped back into the dream world.

Chapter 15

MIKHAEL PACED ALONG the outer wall of the stable, tempted to gouge grooves into the stone as he passed. Light from the waning moon, nearly kissing the western horizon, glinted off his surroundings. He wanted to destroy something. Anything would do.

But no. He’d agreed to behave as the cost of being left behind, like an unruly child tucked out of sight. He reached the end of the wall and without pausing, turned on his heel and stalked back the way he’d come.

A gentle breeze whipped around him, mussing his hair, and feeling so much like fingers that he started, spinning to grab the mortal who dared pester him. But his hands grasped empty air.

A light, playful laughter sounded around him. I can’t believe I caught you off guard.

He straightened, feeling sheepish. “I should have known it was you.”

What’s got you in such a tizzy? There are practically storm clouds forming above your head.

“With lightning, too, I would hope.” He leaned against the wall.

She laughed again, toying with his hair once more with the wind. Absolutely. Little tiny sparks of lightning, shooting out everywhere.

He couldn’t help but smile. “And what’s got you in such a merry state this stormy evening?”

She leaned against the wall beside him, invisible and immaterial as ever. I think my son is in love. She gave a laugh. For real this time, too. Oh, you should see him, Miguel! I swear it was only yesterday he was a tiny infant in my arms, and so very suddenly he has grown into a man.

An image came to him of a young man, broad-shouldered, with dark hair, high cheekbones, and a smile as brilliant as his mother’s. The boy’s joy was palpable, and his muse’s pride in her son bled over into his own heart.

Do you realize he’s older than ... Well, older than either of us ever became.

“I can’t imagine that’s a bad thing.” Her comment struck him as a clue to who she really was. If he simply asked her outright, would she answer? Her mood seemed cheery enough; she’d probably answer him anything. “Who’d hope for their child to become a vampire?”

To his relief, he got a chuckle.

Who indeed? Certainly not me.

“Is that what you’re protecting him from? Becoming like us?” His mind raced. In all his time here, he’d never seen any sign of other vampires. Sophus and Theron were very protective of their territory, which they seemed to manage jointly. Could it be another coven lived in hiding nearby?

No, I have little fear of that. There are far more terrible ways to destroy a person, or so I’ve been warned.

He tilted his head back, looking at the space between the stars. Could it be, perhaps, that Sophus was hiding her from Theron? “Sophus is a cruel man. I’m sorry you have to deal with him.”

Her stillness at his comment was telling. You can’t let Theron know. Urgency filled her voice. Sophus doesn’t know I’m in contact with you. He doesn’t know I can talk to real people this way. Please, you must not let him know.

He pulled up a long strand of grass that grew, protected, against the wall. “They already know I speak to you. Well, to someone anyway. Elisa refers to you as ‘that woman’. But really, they think I’m just talking to myself. And, strangely enough, I don’t think Theron has ever figured out what we talk about.”

He really doesn’t hear us?

“Well, he doesn’t hear you, for sure. He hears anything I say out loud, but something about our conversations”—He touched the necklace lying beneath his shirt—“he can’t read. I won’t let him.”

I can’t imagine that is a pleasant discussion.

He barked a laugh. “No, I can’t say it is. It makes him pretty furious, though, knowing there are parts of my mind he can’t reach.”

And that’s why you’ve been so busy lately?

“Yeah.” He twisted the stalk of grass between his fingers. “Theron holds me close, keeping a tight rein on anything I do. Punishment, you know, for being so difficult.”

I wish it were that easy with Sophus. It would be so much simpler if I could keep my son out of it all. Keep him safe.

“What are you going to do when he does find out? Or when he decides you’ve become too much of a burden? Or you anger him a little too much one day?”

That’s not something I can allow to happen.

“You could escape. Take your boy and leave. He might not follow you.”

And if he did, what then? And what about my son’s happiness? He has a life here, and perhaps soon, a family of his own. I can’t risk that for anything, not even my own freedom. Besides, how could I possibly hope to overpower Sophus? Something in her voice broke. I’ve tried, Miguel. I’ve done everything I know how, and I can’t beat him. Perhaps you could, but I’m simply not strong enough.

“If Theron thought he could best Sophus and win back his limbs with any show of force, he would do it without a second thought. Theron would never allow me to even get close, so long as there is a chance of reclaiming his limbs.”

What about when we’re together? Perhaps there is some way we could break you free?

He tossed the long stem of grass back on the ground. Her presence was like salve on a burn that wouldn’t stop burning—blessedly relieving, but temporary. “Any chance is worth looking at, but the moment you leave all is as it was.”

She was silent for a moment, and he thought he heard a whisper of music. I don’t know what we could do, Miguel, besides just keep going. I have to protect my son.

“I know.”

THE SIMPLE, MOURNFUL tone of the last note of the etude rang out across Maria’s room as she finished the set. With a deep, smiling breath, she pulled out the sheet music for the latest piece she’d begun to learn—a baroque violin concerto—and reset the bow.

As the music filled the room around her—slower than it was meant to be played—Maria’s mind churned over what Miguel had said. Theron didn’t know what they spoke about when she spoke to him through the dream world. Would that protection hold true if they actually met? The idea of being in the same room as him, and perhaps of actually touching him again, sent a wave of heat through her body.

Would he still smell of horses and leather and cedar? Maria ran through a series of intricate notes, paused, and ran them again, slower to get each one clearly before moving on. She grinned. Probably not of horses any more.

The idea of seeing him in person wrapped around her mind. Now that it was there, it would not let go. She needed to protect her son’s life. She needed to see Miguel. Miguel would have her believe that until Sophus and Theron were no longer around it would not be possible. But she had protected her son fine so far, had she not? Surely they could find a way to see each other, too.

Miguel had said that so long as Theron feared for his limbs, he wouldn’t attack Sophus. But Maria knew where they all were now, and she hadn’t even needed Elisa’s help. What if she gathered them together and held them ransom for Miguel’s freedom? There would still be Elisa to deal with, and Sophus. But Miguel was strong, and a fighter. Surely he could best Sophus, if it came to it.

Maria came to the end of the piece and paused, wondering if she should run it again or work on another one.

The door to Maria’s room swung open, startling her.

Sophus stood in the doorway, his arms crossed angrily across his chest. “Why are you not playing?”

Maria dropped him a curtsey. “I was deciding between playing this one again or moving on.”

“Play it again. And don’t stop playing until you’re told.”

Nodding, Maria immediately started again at the beginning. Sophus made his way into the room and circled her, scrutinizing. She kept her eyes fixed on the ink and paper before her.

“I believe you have improved sufficiently that you no longer need lessons.”

Maria gave a small nod of acknowledgement and continued playing, not letting disappointment in. She would find other ways and times to meet with Miguel and watch her son.

“You will also no longer waste your time on your so-called ‘warm-ups’. No more etudes, tonality practice, or any such things. You will play whatever I give you and not stop until you are told.”

Maria nodded again. Without the excuse of the etudes she’d committed to memory, she’d only have moments between meetings to herself. This would make planning with Miguel much harder.

Sophus, standing behind her, touched her shoulder, and Maria stiffened, but continued to play. He reached around her, holding a bit of cold, jeweled metal before her. She looked down, and gasped, her bow skittering across the strings.

Sophus leaned forward, his lips by her ear, and whispered. “I told you not to stop until you were told.”

Maria sucked in a ragged breath, turned her eyes back to the music, and resumed playing. Sophus stroked her hair once more, set the object on the table beside her door, and left without another word. Words were unnecessary. She didn’t look at it. She didn’t need to. She knew every line and contour of it. A brooch made of sweeping silver vines with three darkly enameled roses. It might not have been hers.

But she couldn’t deny what she had seen. One of the worked metal leaves had been bent over the smallest rose, leaving it to appear as though the blossom were hiding shyly. Miguel had offered to have it fixed, but she’d liked it that way; it was unique, different from any others that had been given out at Betania’s wedding. Miguel had proposed to her with that brooch.

Maria had hidden it away in the hacienda before she’d left. Sophus had been there. In her home. How close had he come to her son?

She shuddered. She could not risk any plan that could anger Sophus. If he caught her taking Theron’s limbs ... She couldn’t risk him going after her son instead of trying to reclaim them. So long as Álvaro lived, thoughts of escape were not an option.

Chapter 16

RAIN HIT AGAINST ELISA’S umbrella, and mud sucked at her shoes as she stepped away from Mikhael’s miserable little boat. It heaved and twisted in the water beside their makeshift pier like an impudent child trying to get out of a scolding. Water sloshed over the side of her boot, and she glared at the muddy ground. Can’t you get Mikhael to lay a boardwalk, or cobbles, or something? I may as well be trying to walk through a swamp.

Theron responded with dismissive disinterest.

Elisa scowled at Mikhael making his way down the ramp, loaded down like an overburdened donkey. If they didn’t hurry, all her packages would be soaked. He didn’t even have the sense to look worried. Instead, he had that stupid, optimistic half-smile he wore when he’d been talking to himself again. Hadn’t he learned his lesson yet?

“I don’t ask for much, you know,” she said as he stepped carefully through the mud.

“Only a man’s heart and soul on a platter for you to devour, preferably still warm and bleeding,” Mikhael responded cheerfully as he passed her. “Not much at all.”

“I have only ever tried to help us live a more civilized life. All you can think to do is walk around talking to yourself like a half-wit.”

“I shall endeavor to do it more until you think I’m completely devoid of wit. Perhaps then I shall be relieved of the weight of your attentions.” He twisted his burden suddenly, hitting Elisa and nearly knocking her off balance.

She cried out and grabbed the bag for support. “Watch what you’re doing, Mikhael!” Finding her feet, she shoved the bag away from her, sending Mikhael stumbling. He hit the muddy ground hard with one knee, but kept the many bags from the mud. She sniffed and tossed her head, stepping ahead of him on the path. “You’ve become such a slob. Ever since you took to talking to that imaginary woman in your head.”

Mikhael struggled to his feet behind her, unable to set any of her baggage on the muddy ground.

She could practically feel his anger. “She’s not real. You do know that, right? Yet you insist on continuing to delude yourself about her.” She spun around and looked at him, dripping, muddy, filthy. “You’re disgusting.”

He set his jaw, and the muscles along his exposed forearms flexed against the bag.

What does he think he’s going to do? Attack me? She laughed aloud at the thought. “And what’s worse, this mess is entirely your doing. If you hadn’t been so preoccupied with your little delusion, we’d have left Santa Marta earlier and made it back before the rain.”

Mikhael’s dark eyes, hungry for the blood they’d denied him so long as he continued muttering to himself, glared at her. He continued forward, not breaking eye contact until he’d passed her.

“I’m only worried, Mikhael. The more you continue with this lie of yours, the more it changes you. You’ve grown soft.” She pushed the pack again as he neared the flagstones, and he stumbled forward but kept his feet. “Weak.” She pushed him again. “Unmanly.” She shoved harder this time, and he again fell, his knees cracking against the smooth stone lining the way to the lair’s doors. Elisa wrinkled her nose, hoping he hadn’t broken the stones.

He rose but didn’t look back.

“How dare you ignore me, Mikhael! Look at me when I’m speaking to you!”

Mikhael spun around and met her eyes. His eyes held a fire in them that took her aback. Without breaking his gaze, he dropped all the packages on the muddy stone. Anger rose in her chest. How dare he! “You pathetic— impertinent—!”

Mikhael turned from her and threw open the heavy doors to the lair. Elisa stepped past the bags. She would make him drag them in while crawling on his belly! A miasma of anger surrounded her as she stalked into the lair, her focus entirely on the man who had insulted her. He stood before Theron on his throne, smirking. Smirking!

“How dare you!” She moved to slap him, but his arm shot up faster than she could see and blocked her, striking her forearm with his. The pain of it shocked her, and she snatched her arm back, cradling it against her chest.

“You’re so pathetic, Mikhael,” she hissed. “Barely even a man any more, and what’s worse is the way you’ve dragged Theron along with you. You weary him with your incessant horrible behavior. He has to constantly police you—”

“Like a little child?” Mikhael said. Lightning flashed outside the still-open doors, throwing harsh shadows across his face for an instant.

“So much like a child!” She shoved her finger at his face which he batted away again. “You’re exhausting, and insufferable. You’ve made Theron into little more than a nanny with your persistent infantile need to cause trouble.”

“Excuse me?”

Mikhael’s cocky grin fell.

Elisa continued. She was on a roll. Just let Mikhael see how he demeaned Theron! “You heard what I said. Your rebellions and your mutterings weaken us all. You’d drag us down into your sub-human existence. You’re ruining us!”

The voice hit her, thundering through her skull, like a boulder thrown from a cliff. “I am the master here!”

Triumph shot through her, momentarily overcoming the pain of Theron’s voice in her mind. Mikhael dropped where he stood, his arms thrown protectively over his head. The force of Theron’s anger spread out from beyond him, knocking Elisa backwards and into her pianoforte. The wood shattered beneath the force of her fall, and she cried out in pain. Theron’s fury raked across her mind, and she pulled further back. Mikhael's pained laugh only infuriated him further, and Elisa steeled herself.

This time Theron’s blow fell more fully on Mikhael. The blow that hit her was far less intense. Trembling, she shoved the broken wood of her pianoforte away and stood. The entire thing was ruined. This was Mikhael’s fault. Everything was Mikhael’s fault! Theron would never have hurt her intentionally. He cared about her, and she was valuable to him. She would retrieve his limbs and make him whole. And together, they would be happy.

If it weren’t for Mikhael, they already would be.

THE HUMID, RAINLESS air of the end of the year surrounded Mikhael as his ship rose and fell beneath his feet. He’d been sent to Riohacha to facilitate the smuggling of weapons to be distributed to the Wayuu. Elisa had stayed behind with Theron this time, a decision Mikhael was only too glad not to question. The darkening twilight brought him a sense of security. Here he was unseen. He’d removed his jacket, vest, and boots, allowing his shirt to hang open in the gentle wind. The only thing that could possibly make the moment better would have been the caress of the breeze though his hair like fingers.

But there was nothing but the simple rise and fall of the ocean breeze. He touched the red stone pendant, lying bare and open against his chest. Having it out for the world to see felt like being able to breathe after an eternity under water.

Elisa’s words from months before pushed through his mind. Had his time with his muse really changed him? He moved about the deck, checking the ropes and making minor adjustments. Did it matter? She brought joy into his life. A reason to keep going. Just for another chance to be with her. It didn’t matter that their meetings had become shorter and farther between. Sometimes she merely whispered a greeting and a smile before disappearing. He lived for the knowledge that she would come back.

The scent of flowers, dark and potent, washed over him.

“That works, too,” Mikhael said, returning to the ship’s wheel. The scent pulled at a memory. He grasped at the thought, trying to place the connection. “Are you here for only a moment, or can you stay for a while?”

For a few minutes, at least. She took a seat on a crate beside him, tucking her skirt under her feet. Buenas noches, Miguel.

“And to you, my lovely muse. No music tonight?” She’d told him of being forced to play the violin non-stop. It made his blood boil, but he kept back his anger for her sake. They both preferred to fill their time together with hope.

Sophus had a meeting in Riohacha.

He nodded. Probably paying the smuggler and arranging the next shipment. The memory had something to do with Sophus, he was sure of that. “When the cat’s away.”

Oh no, there are still those who are assigned to watch me and make certain I continue playing. I just happen to have friends here who have made sure they’re indisposed for the evening.

“It’s a pity I can’t do the same to Elisa and Theron.”

The other option would be to set fire to the house at my next meeting, then we could chat amicably as everyone scurries about trying to douse the flames.

“No doubt Elisa would flee, desperate to save herself, and berating Theron all the while.”

I’d like to see that.

“I don’t. Usually his ire at her translates to problems for me. I don’t particularly enjoy getting tangled up in their problems.”

He watched the distant shore to the south slide past. What was it about her scent that reminded him... of what?

Miguel?

“Yes?”

Do you think we’ll ever actually get to meet? In person?

A lump formed in his throat. To actually see her, his ghostly muse. To touch her and know she was real. Hope writhed in his stomach, striking like a snake at his heart. “We could make it happen.”

How?

He shook his head. There were so many unknowns. Theron didn’t know Sophus had expanded his coven. Sophus tolerated his and Elisa’s existence because he still held Theron’s limbs, or so Theron and Elisa assumed. But they did not know about her. What if Theron saw her through Mikhael’s eyes and took over his body to destroy her? He inhaled the faint scent of jungle and flowers again, and remembered. Theron had controlled his body then, too.

“I remember you,” he said slowly. “I remember Theron had wanted to visit Sophus, and I was still very young, barely able to control myself. Your scent ... it took all our combined strength to keep me from searching for that woman....” Her scent had filled his soul, nearly tearing him from Theron’s grasp in his need to find it and consume it. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

She ducked her head. Yes. Sophus changed me shortly after.

“I am sorry.” If not for him, she would not be suffering this living death. She would not have to suffer torture at Sophus’s hands to protect her son. Mikhael truly was a monster.

I am out of time.

“When will I see you again?”

I don’t know. I have a lot of meetings. Perhaps you can crash one for me. Light something on fire?

He gave a little bow. “I would be honored.”

She stood, and the mood lifted a little. The meetings with Rafael Vallejo are always the worst. I’ll see you there?

“I wouldn’t miss it.”

EMELIA LEANED HER HEAD against the cool glass of the carriage, waiting for her sister to join her. They needed to be on their way if they were to be any help to Camilla at all. Finally, Leonora burst from the door of Casa de la Cuesta in her exuberant way and rushed to the coach. The footman opened the door as she reached it, and she entered like a whirlwind of skirts and smiles.

The horses started forward, and Leonora settled herself, spreading out her modest skirts across the bench. She grinned up at Emelia. “I thought for sure you would leave without me.”

“You’re just lucky the rain has been light today. I would never have asked Carlos, or even the horses, to wait out in the worst rain of the year for the sake of your hair.”

“It wasn’t my hair, this time. The heel of my boot broke off, if you can believe it. I had to find another pair.” Leonora pulled her skirt up to show a very worn set of boots.

“Weren’t those the ones you wore before we left for Spain? That was four years ago! How do they even fit?”

Leonora cringed. “They don’t, but it was that or go barefoot. I know, I know. We’ve been back from Spain for months now. I should have gotten another pair.”

“Just over a year.” Emelia gave her a sympathetic smile. “I suppose it’s a good thing Camella hasn’t planned any dancing tonight.”

Leonora twisted her foot around. “I’m not sure how long I’ll last in these. If my feet go numb, you may need to hold me up when we leave lest I fall.”

By the time they arrived at the Hernandez home, the rain had started up again, and the sisters rushed into the house. Emelia turned in the doorway, looking back at the coachman. Hopefully he and the horses would get into the stables before the deluge really began.

“Emelia! Leonora!” Camella’s quiet voice called from the sitting room. She made her way into the hall, looking very much like a shorter version of her brother, Roberto. Less so now, though, than before she’d fallen ill. “I’m so glad you made it!”

The sisters took turns embracing their friend, and she gestured them into the room that already held some dozen people. Rosalyn Marin sat at the harpsichord, plucking out a gentle melody, and Emelia noted Luiz Ortiz standing nearby, watching Rosalyn.

“Do you think Luiz will finally get the nerve to speak to her tonight?” Emelia asked quietly, nudging Leonora.

“If he doesn’t, I think it may be time for fortune to intervene.”

“You are not nearly subtle enough to pass yourself off as fortune,” Emelia returned, and Leonora made a childish face at her before turning away.

Emelia rolled her eyes. As she moved toward another group, a hand took her wrist and spun her gracefully around, like a turn in a dance.

“There’s my favorite Garcia lady,” Álvaro said as she completed her turn with a laugh, her heart lighter with him near.

“And what does that make me?” Leonora said from beside them.

Álvaro bowed to her, producing a rose from some unseen pocket and presenting it to her. “That remains to be seen.”

Leonora took the flower from him and turned to the mirror along the wall to fix it in her hair. Emelia set her hand on his arm and he turned to her.

“Álvaro,” she said, determined to have him hear her out. “Can we talk? Someplace private?”

“Of course,” he said, hesitation in his voice. “Just ... does it have to be right now?”

Emelia drew away, dropping her hand from his arm. “No. Any time tonight would be fine.”

He nodded absently. “Tonight then,” he said as he stepped away from her.

“Emelia, dear,” Camilla’s soft voice sounded beside her. Emelia turned her attention to her friend. “He doesn’t see you. Not the real you. You should let him go and find someone who sees you for who you are. You’re like a ghost, trapped in a world in which you don’t belong. You need to move on.”

Emelia shook her head. “It’s not like that. We’ve known each other our entire lives. No one else knows him like I do. No one else sees him like I do. Someday he’ll understand that.”

Camilla shook her head and linked her arm with Emelia’s. “I hear my brother in the hall. Let’s see if we can get to Roberto before he corners Álvaro and makes him talk business.”

Several hours later, Emelia and Leonora again sat across from each other as the coach moved through the muddy streets toward home. When the weather had broken, so had the party; everyone hoping to get home before the next wave of rain hit. So she had not had time to speak with Álvaro. That was fine, though. There would be another day.

Exhausted, Emelia leaned her head back against the wooden side of the carriage and closed her eyes, grateful for the silence. A suspicious silence. Cracking her eyes open, she looked at her sister.

Leonora sat still, a peaceful smile on her face as she ran her fingers along the edge of her shawl. Emelia sat up. Her sister never sat still.

“Are you well?” she asked, leaning forward to take Leonora’s hand.

Her sister’s smile widened. “Can you keep a secret?’

“When have I ever not?”

“Do you remember, earlier this evening, when Álvaro called you his favorite Garcia lady?”

Emelia flushed. Of course she had.

“Well, he took me aside and said ...” she hesitated then, leaning forward, lowered her voice. “He asked if I would consider becoming his favorite Alvarez lady.”

Emelia’s smile froze. Leonora sat back, hardly noticing Emelia’s reaction, and lapsed back into her daydreams. Emelia leaned back as well, her back stiff against the rocking of the carriage. She thinks he’s talking of marriage. But he hadn’t come right out and proposed. Irritation flared up in her. How dare he trifle with her sister! He flitted from one romance to another like a butterfly with flowers, but he had no intention of marrying Leonora. How could he be so cruel as to make her sweet sister think he was serious about marriage?

Emelia snorted. She’d have to add that to the list of things they’d need to talk about. Once he understood Emelia was the right one for him, it would solve many problems. Leonora would be sad for a while, no doubt, but surely she’d forgive her. Emelia sat back, determination settling in her. She’d just have to talk to him about it.

Chapter 17

1766

ELISA WALKED ALONG THE cold, cavernous halls of the Vallejo house. Music from a small chamber orchestra echoed down the hall, accompanied by the subtle rumble of the crowd already gathered in the ballroom. She’d convinced Vallejo to host this final bit of festivity in Maracaibo before the rainy season came upon them. He had hemmed and hawed at the extravagance of it, but she had insisted. And she had been right to do so.

A nearly steady stream of people entered the house, and moved toward the ballroom. Elisa adjusted her gloves as a servant rushed past. Tonight she’d opted to wear her hair with its natural brilliance. No diversion from her true beauty, for she had a very particular prey to ensnare.

“We’ve met before, I believe,” a young woman’s voice said.

Elisa turned, ready to berate the person foolish enough to disturb her better, but stopped at the sight of the mousy blond girl who stood beside her. She sniffed at her niece. Well, she had to admit the girl had livened up a little. If she took a bit more care with her hair, she might actually be pretty. Elisa gave a polite nod. “Señora del Mar. We spoke some months ago about men.”

“Emelia Garcia Díaz, Señorita de la Cuesta.” The girl gave a polite curtsy. “You told me to reach out and take what I loved.”

“And did you do so?” Strangely, Elisa found herself caring about the girl’s success. How absurd.

Emelia’s shoulders slumped.

“Well, you’ll never succeed by slouching. Chin up, shoulders back. No matter what you feel, always walk tall. You are de la Cuesta. Be proud of it.”

The girl followed her instructions. She was nearly as tall as Elisa herself when she tried. Elisa raised her own chin, much as her mother always had.

Emelia smiled. “My abuela does the same thing, even to people taller than she is. I’ve never seen a person stand up to that look.”

“How is your abuela these days?” Elisa lowered her chin a fraction. Best not to be recognized here.

“A little crazy, I think, but as fierce as ever.” The girl smiled fondly, then looked back up at Elisa, her eyes flitting over her face. “You know, you look a lot like the portraits of her lost daughter.”

Elisa stiffened. As much as she didn’t want to, if this wisp of a girl uncovered her, she’d kill her. No matter that it was Betania’s own daughter.

The girl didn’t even notice the danger she was in, and laughed instead. “You’re far prettier, at any rate, and if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were younger than I, given your looks.”

Elisa’s smile warmed. “You’re too kind, Emelia. May I call you Emelia? I feel as though we are friends already.”

Blushing, the girl looked away.

A voice, full of laughter, came from the doorway, and both Elisa and the girl looked toward it. The laugh held all the familiarity of the two people Elisa detested most combined into one. It was that woman’s brat. Beside her, Emelia perked up, her eyes bright at the sight of him. Something inside her softened a bit, seeing the girl’s longing. It reminded her of the young, ambitious girl she had once been. And she had succeeded in getting what she wanted, had she not? Why should this girl, who was family, after all, not have similar success?

“Well, go on then. Go to him, make him dance with you. Stand up straight and make him see you, girl.”

Emelia raised her chin and set her shoulders, and Elisa nudged her forward gently. The girl raised her hand and called out to the brat. He turned toward her and, smiling with that same idiotic grin of his father’s, took Emelia’s arm.

Well that was atypically kind of you, Theron said, watching from within her mind.

Elisa crossed her arms over her chest. She’s family.

Doesn’t Vallejo have his eye on that one? I seem to think it was your idea he pursue the family.

She deserves a chance at happiness. Besides, my sister had two daughters. Checking her hair with a quick glance at the nearest reflective surface, Elisa stepped out into the crowd. Instinctively, they made space for her. She looked around, ready to enter the ballroom, but her escort was nowhere to be seen.

Where is Mikhael? Her voice was sharper than she meant it, which, naturally, was why he snapped back at her.

Don’t expect me to keep track of him. You sent him off to meet with Vallejo, did you not?

Elisa immediately softened her voice. Yes, that’s right. I’m sorry, dearest. I’m afraid my nerves are getting to me.

Theron grunted in response, and she sent him another soothing image. But the fact remained that she had lost her escort. Should she simply enter without one? It would cause a stir, and while there were times for such things to work to her advantage, tonight was not one such.

But she couldn’t wait out in the hall forever.

“My pardon, Señorita,” a deep, melodic voice said from behind her.

He’s here! She nearly jumped with excitement. This is perfect. With a carefully practiced move, Elisa twisted slightly, looking over her shoulder at the beautiful blond vampire she had arranged the entire night to see. Giving him a coy smile, she let her eyes flit from his hair, down his perfectly styled coat and trousers, to his impeccably clean shoes, and back up, careful to accentuate the movement of her voluminous eyelashes. “Are you asking for me, good sir?”

He stepped up to her, holding out his arm. “I am indeed. You appear to be in need of an escort, and I would be delighted to attend you.”

“I’m sure I could never say no to such a perfect gentleman as yourself.” Elisa let the rest of her body turn toward him, raising her chin ever so slightly to draw his attention to her long, pale neck and decolletage. She watched his eyes through her lashes as he looked exactly where she meant for him to look. Men are so easy to control, she sent teasingly to Theron. Excepting you of course, she added quickly, filling her words for him with admiration, even as she slipped her arm into Sophus’s.

He led her into the ballroom, and Elisa quickly scanned it for her niece. Emelia stood beside the pup, and though they spoke, he barely seemed to see her.

“Dance with her, you fool,” she whispered. But the boy reached instead for the younger sister and whisked her off to the dance floor. The girl kept her chin up this time. Good for her. Another young man offered his hand, and the girl took it. At least she didn’t sulk.

Focus, Elisa, Theron hissed.

That’s right. She had work to do tonight.

Sophus led her down the main steps, and she ran her hand along the bannister. With her most dazzling smile, she looked up at the blond man beside her. “Don’t you just love the artistry of this bannister? The way it curves into the room makes you want to flow straight to the dance floor.”

“And yet it curves back,” Sophus responded. “So those who don’t let go quickly enough get caught in the spinning current of the crowd.”

“Your words are as beautiful as your art.” Elisa set her hand gently on his chest and looked up at him with a gentle tilt of her head. “Something I should like very much like to see more of.”

Sophus took her hand and gestured to the dancers. “Such flattery, my dear, from your lips is sweet nectar. Perhaps a dance would pair well with it?”

“How could I turn down such a magnificent partner?” Elisa took his hand, and Sophus swept her toward the dance floor as the music ended.

Theron fumed in the back of her mind, glaring at her dance partner.

Careful, my dear one, she told him with a playful nudge. If he sees you glaring at him, this will all be for naught. Don’t worry so much; I’ve calculated every little move to entrance him. Elisa allowed her gloved fingers to linger on Sophus’s wrist a moment longer than necessary to demonstrate. Sophus’s eyes never wavered from her own, but she felt the reaction in his muscles nonetheless. He gave her a knowing smile, which she returned in kind.

Sophus was an excellent opponent, and the challenge of it thrilled her.

Elisa opened her mouth to speak, but he gently set his finger against her soft lips.

“Things are meant to be had in their own time, my sweet. Pleasure in its own time, business in another.”

She took his hand, running his fingers along her jaw toward her neck. “And which is this moment for?”

“For the pleasure of the dance, of course. And of enjoying the beauty of a living work of art.”

She released his hand, which lingered for a moment on her neck below her ear, and Sophus moved his hand to hers. His other hand snaked around her waist the way it had when they’d danced before. Anticipation fluttered through her chest.

“Shall we show these peasants how it’s done?” he asked. “Give them a new dance so fresh from the motherland that they haven’t even heard it yet?”

“Such a scandal it would cause, señor.”

He pulled her closer, their bodies pressed against each other, and whispered in her ear. “And what’s so terrible about a little scandal to liven things up?”

The music started, and Elisa floundered for a moment, enjoying the sensation of being held by a man who was clearly her equal.

Get on with it, Theron growled.

You must be patient. Elisa sent him an image of them together, just as she was now, but with Theron in Sophus’s place. I know what I am doing.

“It is as you said, though.” Elisa pulled far enough back to look Sophus in the face. “All things in their time, and this is far too early in the evening for scandal.”

“Ah, to have my own words wielded so well against me. How can I refuse?” Sophus loosened his grip on her, and they joined the dance.

EMELIA WATCHED ÁLVARO whisk her sister onto the dance floor. She’d done as Señora del Mar had suggested, and it still hadn’t been enough. Her heart ached to be out there with him, to have him smile at her that way.

“Señorita?”

Emelia started and looked up to find Roberto standing beside her, holding out his hand.

“May I have this dance? Unless of course you’d rather stay here and grow cobwebs? If that’s the case, may I escort you to the side table where we can find someone to dust you off?”

Emelia laughed and took his hand. “You’re just like Álvaro, you know that?”

“But I’m a solid year older. So that makes him like me.”

She rolled her eyes. “I would love to dance, thank you.”

He pulled her into the crowd of dancers. For a moment, she searched for Álvaro, but Roberto took his place before her. She forced her eyes to Roberto and smiled. His returning grin lifted her spirits. Looking at his dark, laughing eyes, for a moment she wondered what she’d been so upset about anyway. They danced, and for a time Álvaro was forgotten.

Chapter 18

MARIA PACED THROUGH the parlor at Vallejo’s estate. The music from the ballroom crept in through the closed door, teasing her with the knowledge that her son was out there. Vallejo and several of his associates were discussing business. Elisa had gone to a great deal of trouble to convince him to host this event, an extravagance that went against every frugal bone in the man’s body. Yet, somehow she had managed it.

Maria stopped at the fireplace and glared down at the small fire struggling against the humidity. How anyone could breathe in this stuffy, closed room was beyond her. The lamps lit the dark room well enough, though.

The door opened behind her, and Maria looked at it expectantly. Striding in without waiting for an invitation came Miguel, his clothes crisp and his hair neat. Her fingers itched to ruffle it.

“It’s about time you joined us,” someone muttered.

Vallejo rose and shook Miguel’s hand. “It is good to have you here, Señor del Mar. Please, sit.”

“I’d prefer to stand, if you don’t mind.”

“Will the Señora be joining us?”

“I’m afraid she had other business to manage this evening, but she might attend you later.”

Vallejo nodded and returned to his seat, continuing the conversation as though it hadn’t been interrupted.

It’s about time you joined us, Maria echoed playfully, toying with the back of Miguel’s hair where it was less likely to be noticed. He gave her a subtle nod, and she grinned. Though he’d promised to meet her here months ago, this was the first time it had happened. Typically, Elisa came to these meetings.

She’ll attend to him later, will she? Maria, nudged him. Could she make him smile? Does Theron approve of such activities?

Miguel gave a barely perceptible shrug.

Vallejo and the other men droned on. Teasing aside, I’m glad to see you again. Sophus is here; did you know that?

Miguel moved to the bookshelf and ran his finger across the books’ spines, nodding to her.

Taking a seat on the board beside him, Maria watched his face. Well, that is certainly interesting. Elisa went through such lengths to get them all together, including him. Is that where she is? Trying to butter up her master’s greatest enemy?

“That’s the general idea,” he said too quietly for the others in the room to hear.

Maria pursed her lips. And if she’s found him, I’m sure Theron will be beside himself, watching them like a hawk. She tapped her fingers against the dark wood, thinking out loud. Do you realize this means all three of them will be completely preoccupied with each other for some time? And we’re stuck in this meeting. Or at least I am; I can’t leave the room until Vallejo does.

A muscle twitched on Miguel’s face. “Well, are you a ghost, or aren’t you?”

She ruffled Miguel’s hair again before sliding back to the floor. You’d better help.

Starting with a stack of papers that lay neatly near a lamp, Maria pulled against a current in the still room, drawing it like a bow, then released. A small puff of air rustled the papers. She looked back at Miguel who rolled his eyes.

I’d like to see you try it.

Miguel poured himself a tumbler from the decanter that sat on the board. Joining the conversation, he walked past the table, and in a move that looked a lot like clumsiness, scattered the papers, while sloshing the liquid from his glass across the wood. Miguel set the drink down on the wood and haphazardly restacked the mess.

Maria held back a giggle at the irritated look Vallejo shot him. That will annoy him, you know, but it’s the servants who will get the brunt of his wrath on that one.

Discreetly, Miguel wiped the spill up with the cuff of his shirt. Maria looked around. What else could she do to annoy the people in the room? She worked her way around the men, everyone save Vallejo, and did little things. A puff of air in their ears, rattling their papers, a feeling of fingers on the back of the necks, flickering the lamps, and feeding the fire to flare dramatically every time Vallejo finished a statement. Miguel stood beside the fireplace, watching stoically, until he had to turn away to hide his smirk when one of the men slapped his own ear in annoyance.

Finally, Vallejo stood, and the others looked relieved. “Would any of you care for a drink before we continue?”

The men all nodded, and several stood to walk around the room.

“I say, isn’t this room quite drafty?” Miguel said in English to an Englishman who joined him near the fireplace.

“I rather think it overly warm,” the Englishman replied, looking into the deep amber liquid in his glass. He raised his eyes to meet Miguel’s, then quickly looked to the side. “It’s good to see a fellow countryman in these parts. How do you stand the humidity?”

“On my feet, I rather think.”

And you had the audacity to roll your eyes at me, Maria said.

“The trick, my good man, is to stand as close to the fire as possible,” Miguel continued with a straight face. “The air is drier there, you see, and far more breathable. Plus, the air here is so humid you can’t catch fire if you tried.”

The Englishman gave Miguel a skeptical look. “That hardly seems reasonable.”

“I’ll show you.” Miguel gave a wink to Maria and shoved his hand into the open flame.

No! Maria lunged toward him, wrapping her hands around his as if to protect him from the fire, nothing in her mind but shielding him from the possibility of destruction.

“You see, nothing to it.” Miguel straightened and offered the man his entirely undamaged hand.

Maria stepped back, in shock. He’d put his hand in the flame and it hadn’t burned. Had she been wrong this entire time in thinking she could destroy Theron, or Sophus, with fire? No, that couldn’t be it, they feared it far too much. Could it be she had actually succeeded in shielding Miguel with the air? After all this time, she’d found a way?

“That is some parlor trick,” the man said, but moved closer to the flame anyway, bending down to look for how he’d been duped.

Maria paced behind him, running her fingers through her hair and holding back the hurt, angry words that welled up inside her. Didn’t Miguel realize how much she needed him? What was he thinking, taking such a risk? Didn’t he have any idea the agonizing pain of burning? How slow it was? How long it took? Her vision in the spirit world blurred, as though tears gathered in her eyes. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she spoke. Please don’t ever do that again.

Miguel rubbed his fingers together, a thoughtful look on his face, and nodded.

Maria shook herself, trying to set aside her fear for him. He’d never lied to her. He would be fine. The wood in the fireplace shifted, sending sparks over the grate that stood before it, and both men backed away, the Englishman bumping the table on which the decanter sat.

Whoops, Maria said, shoving air against the tilting glass, knocking it over. They’ve spilt the alcohol. It would simply be indecent to continue the meeting now.

The Englishman looked up at Vallejo, panic in his eyes, and backed up against the table. Before Vallejo could open his mouth, Miguel stepped between them, pushing the man back toward the fireplace, and righting the spilled bottle.

“Bad luck,” he said, reverting to Castilian and accentuating his English accent. “But you can hardly blame the man for being jumpy. I’m afraid we’ve all been out of sorts this evening. Perhaps we can reconvene tomorrow. Señora del Mar would much rather be here in person than hearing second-hand how I have muddled the entire thing in her absence.”

I’m betting this won’t stop him. We need something more drastic. Maria turned, looking around the room at the businessmen from all walks of life mingling with each other. A grumble of approval at the idea spread through the group.

Vallejo cleared his throat. “I see no reason to—”

Miguel! He’s on fire!

Miguel turned abruptly from Vallejo back to the fireplace. The poor Englishman whom he’d pushed out of the way stood with his back pressed against the mantle, smoke rising from behind him.

“Watch yourself!” Miguel shouted, shoving the man away. As he spoke, it seemed to Maria the fires of the room burned brighter for a moment. Flames burst to life on the man’s smoking jacket, lighting with a rush the alcohol that had soaked into it. He crashed into the table, igniting the spilled liquid there. Miguel reached forward to pull him off.

Miguel, stop! Your shirt sleeve!

Time slowed for Maria as Miguel froze, and the stain of the fresh alcohol on his sleeve shone in the firelight. She glanced up to his face, and could see him thinking, weighing his options, faster than the mortals in the room could react.

She reached for his face. Come away with me and leave them. Alert servants to fetch water. They’ll be fine; but let’s get out of here while we can.

As panic filled the room, Miguel glanced at the man once more, then back to where Maria stood. Could he see her, standing so close they could have touched? She could have felt his subtle breath on her face. Please?

She saw it in his eyes when he made the choice, and she could breathe again. He drew away from the fire, shouting incoherently and adding to the confusion, before bolting out the door yelling about water. Maria glanced around the room, pleased, while the others stripped the man of his flaming coat and began beating out the flames. It didn’t look like the fire would get out of hand. To ensure the meeting wouldn’t continue without her, she pulled several threads at once, and the papers the men had so studiously been working on fluttered about the room, many suspiciously landing either in the fireplace or on the still-burning alcohol. Vallejo was nowhere to be seen.

Maria went after her husband.

He’d slowed to a peaceable walk not far from the door as servants rushed in the opposite direction toward the fire.

Do you think you’ll get blamed for that? she asked, matching his pace. Or will you blame it on a ghost?

“I think I’ll say it was a pack of dwarves.”

Or is it a herd?

Miguel hooked his fingers in his pockets, his face straight. “Heard of what?”

Herd of dwarves.

“Of course I’ve heard of dwarves. There was a whole pack of them in there.”

Maria laughed and ruffled his hair again.

He cracked a small grin. “Hey, let’s get out of here.”

I thought that was the entire idea. I think if we go through here, we can get out without being seen.

Miguel stepped into a dark hall, and together they raced to its end, climbing stairs and finally ducking into a room with covered furniture. “Fancy a climb onto the roof to sit under the stars?” he asked, unlatching the large window and stepping out onto the thin stone casement.

Maria followed him, stepping out into the air, unhindered in the dream world by such dull natural laws as gravity. Oh no, what if I lose my grip and fall?

A gruff laugh escaped him as he scaled the wall and pulled himself easily onto the tiled rooftop. “I suppose I’d have to dive over the edge to catch you and break your fall. Too bad I can’t see you though. I’d probably jump off the wrong side of the building.”

And you’d only know I was gone by the slow fading of my voice while I drift peacefully to the ground.

“At least I’d serve as a good distraction with the noise I’d make when I land. How many señoritas do you think I could get to faint when I hop to my feet, good as new?”

I don’t know, but if you asked a peso per faint we could become a travelling curiosity. Meet the great Fainting Man and his Ghostly Muse!

Miguel actually laughed at that, and Maria laughed at the sound of his happiness. “Do you think they know anything is wrong yet?”

Probably not. Elisa never saw anything that wasn’t in front of her nose. I can go check, if you’d like?

“No need. I’d rather you stayed here with me, and we can watch the stars together.” Bracing himself with his foot against a chimney, he lay back, stretching out along the tiles still warm from the day’s sun.

Maria hesitated, not wanting to leave. But she had to check that Sophus was still occupied. And she wanted to find her son. I think I’d feel better knowing for sure. I’ll be back before you know it, I promise. Wait for me?

“I’ll be here. I wouldn’t want you to get lost and become a roof-wandering spirit, trapped forever looking for the man who disappeared.”

No, she said warmly. We wouldn’t want that.

MIKHAEL LAY ON THE warm, damp tiles of the roof, looking at the spaces between the stars. The longer he looked, the less empty space he could see, as more and more stars, ever fainter, filled in the darkness. How far away would a light have to be, to appear so very faint? How long did it travel to finally find rest in the eyes of a vampire?

The rooftop felt empty, not unlike the vast space between him and the stars, now that she had gone. Yet, if he closed his eyes and opened his mind, relaxing and simply feeling, he could sense her below, watching the crowd of moving bodies swirling through the ballroom. And here and there, spots of light moved in other spaces. Servants, musicians, folk stepping away from the bustle. How much of it was real, a commingling in his mind of his unnaturally sharp senses, and how much of it was simple imagination?

He could also feel Theron’s touch. The fiend lurked like a pending headache at the base of his skull, full of carefully checked jealousy and anticipation. Or perhaps a bit of shrapnel tearing its way through his brain from time to time, now lying dormant. How long would it be before Theron turned his eye back to him?

It didn’t matter, so long as she returned before it happened.

Inhaling again, Mikhael savored the humid taste of the air. Something about Maracaibo felt more like home to him than any other place. He thought he felt his muse flicker and move out into the gardens, small though they were on Vallejo’s estate. Looking for her son, then, who was probably with the señorita she’d told him about. He pictured the boy in his mind, the way he’d looked when his muse had shown him to Mikhael. A strapping young man, really. It made him smile.

What are you so happy about? she asked, settling in beside him.

“I’m just imagining that boy of yours. Did you find him?”

Her joy emanated from her, contagious as ever. I did, and can you believe my luck, he proposed to her! She nudged his arm playfully. And I have you to thank for getting to witness it.

“Felicitaciones to you and your son!” He kept his eyes closed, wishing he could sweep her up in his arms and spin her around. As he would have done if she were actually here. “Do you know who she is? Do you approve?”

She laughed, the sound of it like sparks of flame in his heart illuminating the darkness there. She’s the daughter of a dear friend, the woman I entrusted to raise him in my absence. Her name is Leonora, Señorita de la Cuesta. And she is perfect for him.

“I am glad to hear it.” Pride at the boy’s success stirred in him. His own pride, he realized. Not simply a reflection of hers. He opened his eyes and looked back into the sky. Clouds had begun to obscure the stars. “What of our wayward masters?”

Amusement colored her voice. They remain entirely enmeshed in each other's attention. Elisa has Sophus wrapped around her finger, and they are flirting shamelessly while they dance.

“Theron is beside himself with jealousy about it, too.” He gestured to his head, sharing her amusement. “He’s so upset about it that it’s leaking into my mind.”

Are you jealous they’re down there together?

“Only that they’re together and we’re not.” He longed to reach out to her. She sat so near him, just a breath away. But reaching out and breaking through the conceit that she was actually beside him, to find himself alone, would be too much, and he held himself still.

He sensed the way she reached for him, and pulled away. “Please don’t. I’m not ready to stop pretending this is real.”

Neither am I. She pulled back her hand. Clearing her throat, she moved slightly further away from him, wrapping her arms around her knees. So, do you know why Elisa went through all this trouble? Sophus seemed particularly interested in being here tonight.

“I’m not entirely certain, but I can only imagine she wants something from him.”

Well that seems fairly obvious. She doesn’t bother with people unless she can get something from them.

He paused. How was it his muse knew Elisa so well? He shifted his arms and traced the dark shapes of the clouds with his eyes. Did it really matter? “My guess would be that she’s trying to get herself invited back to his lair. I’m sure it has something to do with the old geezers’ relationship, and getting back the limbs. I don’t know why else Theron would allow her to throw herself at Sophus like she does.”

I’m half surprised she hasn’t tried to sneak in.

He shook his head. “Theron’s too smart for that. She’d have left her scent all over, and Sophus would have known she’d been there. Of course, that’s not to say she hasn’t suggested it.”

She nodded. That’s why you came the first time, after all, to demand their return.

“But the show of force hardly seemed to impress Sophus.”

Of course it didn’t. But now Elisa is trying to retrieve them through cunning. She shook her head. She’s an idiot to think Sophus doesn’t know that’s exactly what she’s doing. Do you think she realizes that, or does she honestly believe she’s fooling him?

“I don’t know about her, but I’m sure Theron knows that Sophus knows. They’ve been playing this game with each other for centuries, and we’re merely the latest round. But Theron must believe Elisa has a chance to succeed this time, or he wouldn’t be holding back about this. He’d have me down there challenging Sophus to a duel, or some such nonsense.”

She’ll never find them all, you know.

His attention snapped into focus, and Theron stirred in his mind. “We have to stop talking about this; he’ll notice.”

And that’s why the shipping manifest had the first four lines crossed out, she droned in a dull voice. He responded in a similarly boring refrain, speaking of ledgers and reciting the contents of his most recent shipment of smuggled goods. Theron’s attention moved away from him with a hint of disgust and impatience.

“Theron’s excited about something,” he whispered.

Do you think that means Elisa will succeed in getting invited back to the labyrinth?

“If she does, do you realize what it means?” An idea began to form in his head. “Last time I waited with the ship, as she had to go alone. What if, this time, we could get him to allow me in as well?”

He’ll have me playing violin for her, I’m sure. Her voice sped up as she caught the vision. They’ll dance together again, and Theron will want to be there, watching. If you convince him to take you in, rather than keep you with the ship...

“And if you could convince Sophus to allow it ...”

Miguel, we could actually see each other. Be together, even if it’s only in the same room. Can you imagine?

He could. The idea filled him. “We’ll need to be careful, though. Neither Elisa nor Theron knows you exist, let alone that Sophus has a second vampire. I’m sure he’ll want to keep you a secret.”

He certainly won’t want me seen. And I think he’s right in that respect. What would Theron do to me if he knew?

He pulled back on his heartache, containing it. “I don’t know, but I’m not willing to risk that he’d want you destroyed. Or that he’d use me to accomplish such ends.”

He felt her shudder.

A surge of triumph flooded through him, courtesy of Theron. “I think Elisa just succeeded. I think if we’re careful, and plan things right, we can make this happen. If you're willing to try.”

She looked out onto the dark gardens below, and the image came to him of her son holding his new fiancé. As long as we’re careful.

He sat up, his mind churning with the possible ways to get Theron to commit.

I need to go. Sophus wouldn’t have consented until he was ready to leave, and he’ll be expecting me.

“What will you tell him about the meeting?”

Only that after the fire I found them dancing and thought to give them privacy. He’ll believe it so long as I make sure it suits his pride. Until next time, Miguel.

He nodded, and her presence disappeared. “Some day, mi morena,” he whispered, setting his hand on the tile where she had sat, “I will hold you in my arms.”

Chapter 19

THE WIND DROVE THE heavy spring rains against the window of the Casa de la Cuesta, repeatedly knocking the heavy branches of the palm tree outside Emelia’s window against the house. She listened to it, imagining how it must feel to be whipped against the unyielding stone, for hours on end, for days. Months. Years.

Actually, no, she didn’t need to imagine. She knew exactly how it felt to beat yourself against something that never gave way. For a moment, Roberto’s smile flickered in her mind. Why could she not simply let Álvaro go?

You can’t lose if you never give up. The words, spoken by Señora del Mar, slashed through her mind. Emelia stood and straightened her skirt. Today would not be the day that she gave up. “Some day, Álvaro,” she said, looking sternly into her mirror. “Some day you will look me in the eye and tell me you love me.”

She played the scene over in her mind as she opened the door. Álvaro would sit beside her, take her hand, and profess his love. Then, he’d lean forward and she’d close her eyes, her breath nearly stopped as her heartbeat filled her ears. Perhaps he’d set his hand on the back of her neck and pull her forward until their lips met...

Laughter rang out from down the hall, and Emelia pulled herself into the present. Several of their friends had come for an intimate party for the afternoon, before the rain had begun. No doubt they would use the poor weather for an excuse to stay until very late, and it promised to be an entirely entertaining evening. Álvaro’s voice rang out over the others as he started a joke and Roberto finished it, followed by even more laughter from the group.

The party had not been planned, and so had been a surprise to Emelia when she and Abuela had returned from town as the rain started in earnest. Though Abuela had grumbled as she made her way to her room, excitement filled Emelia at the chance to spend a joyful evening with Roberto. And Álvaro.

The laughter died down, and someone began playing an upbeat tune on the pianoforte. Nearing the corner, Emelia paused and waited to see who would sing. After a measure or two, Roberto’s fine baritone rang out from the room. The lyrics he’d chosen for the common tune were entirely made up, and Emelia covered her mouth, trying to hold back from joining in the others’ laughter. Shaking her head at the absurdity of it, she started forward, but paused as footsteps and quiet giggles rushed from the room.

Emelia sank back into the shadows against the wall, amused that someone would sneak off from that song. Her heart froze a moment later when Leonora and Álvaro came into view.

“Come on, we can go to the solarium,” Leonora whispered, her voice echoing across the empty hall as she pulled Álvaro along. “No one uses it but Mama, and she and Papa are gone for another week”

Emelia hesitated as Roberto’s voice drowned out Álvaro’s response. The impropriety of their sneaking off like that appalled her. But, it was only Álvaro. Surely nothing untoward would happen. She tried to convince herself it was fine. He was like a brother to them both, and Leonora was likely showing him something she had bought or painted recently.

Emelia bit her lip. It still wasn’t right. She steeled herself to go after her sister. Leonora should at least have someone there to maintain propriety.

With a last, reluctant look to the now hostess-less party, Emelia moved along down the hall toward the solarium. She could go get Abuela to watch her sister, but the old woman had been grouchy enough to find her home infested with their friends. Emelia didn’t want to burden any of the staff with extra work, either, and they had such a tendency to talk. Leonora didn’t deserve to have her reputation tarnished because Emelia didn’t feel like helping out.

As she neared the solarium, Emelia paused, listening for their voices. She didn’t want to burst in on a delicate moment and ruin something, especially if Leonora had planned a surprise. The fierce wind whistled outside the house, and rogue drafts pushed their way through the halls, making Emelia shiver despite the perpetual heat. Unable to make out any voices, Emelia peered around the door, and her heart filled her throat.

On the other side of the room stood her sister, wrapped in Álvaro’s arms. Heat rose into Emelia’s face to have caught them kissing, and she looked away. And not only the simple kisses that were proper for courting couples. The image of them together, the passionate way he held her sister as he kissed her, how she had pulled away for a moment and beamed up at him before he’d pulled her into another kiss, replayed in Emelia’s mind, and she desperately wished she could unsee it. Why had she followed them?

The sound of breaking glass came from the solarium. The glass crashing into the ground and mirroring all the fantasies Emelia had built up in her mind. She slouched against the wall. The shrieks and laughter from her sister and her beau as they navigated the storm-broken window washed over her. Her dreams really had been just glass, just as thin and fake and fragile. And utterly unreal.

She had known. She had known that very first day, when Leonora had stepped off the ship, that Álvaro had been lost to her. Why had she kept torturing herself with hope? There was no hope, for everything she had ever loved revolved around Álvaro. Now, it seemed, even her sister did, too. The thought brought a bitter laugh to her lips.

Laughing, Leonora and Álvaro burst from the room, coming up short when they saw Emelia.

“Are you all right?” Leonora asked, concern for her sister stilling the playfulness that had filled her.

“I’m fine,” Emelia said, unwilling to dampen her sister’s joy, “I heard the window break and thought to check on it. Go back to the party. I’ll be along shortly.”

Leonora’s smile returned and she started to pull Álvaro away, but he turned back to her, concern on his face. “Are you sure you’re well?”

Emelia forced a smile to her lips. “I’ve had a long day, is all. Go tell Roberto not to sing all his songs before I get there.”

As she watched them move down the hall, she let go the pieces of her heart she’d held together for so long. What use was there in trying to put her shattered heart back together anyway?

Chapter 20

HOLD ON TO SOMETHING, Elisa,” Mikhael warned, throwing the stern anchor onto the beach. It landed, catching on an outcropping of rock, and he pulled the rope. Caught between the shore anchor at its stern and a waterside anchor on its bow, the boat spun, orienting itself to face the open water.

Elisa cried out in irritation from the cabin.

I told her to hold on, Mikhael sent preemptively to Theron. Today was not a day to pick a fight. Everything needed to be perfect.

As did I. Theron scowled.

Bracing his bare feet against the bulwark, Mikhael pulled the rope, drawing the ship stern-first toward the beach. He stopped the moment he felt her hull grind up against the sand, unwilling to drag her over the rough surface of the seabed. “You’d better be ready, Elisa,” he called to her as the ship tilted with the moving waves. “I’m not going to keep her here long.”

“I’ll take as long as I take,” she snarled at him from behind the door.

Tell her she has 30 seconds. Mikhael tied off the rope and reached for the long board he’d secured to the rail. That’s how long it’ll take me to set up a gangplank for her.

With a sense of tight-lipped anxiety, Theron’s attention shifted.

Mikhael lifted the plank and shoved it toward the beach. Today, he shared his master’s anxiety. All three of them were on edge. A scant couple of miles away lay Sophus’s labyrinth. So much was riding on what would happen in the next few hours. What would be different when they returned to their boat?

Mikhael cut off his thoughts. Theron rode him close today. The moment they stepped off the ship, he would take complete control of Mikhael’s body, and so long as they were here, Mikhael wouldn’t fight it. That was the plan. They would follow the plan.

“I’m here, I’m here already.” Elisa stepped into the sunlight. Her pale cream dress edged with gold lace matched her pale skin and gleaming hair. For once her dress seemed tasteful rather than gaudy, an appeal to Sophus’s artistic sensibilities. She wore a sapphire necklace that accentuated her long, bare neck. Mikhael held his hand out to help her onto the gangplank. It wouldn’t do to have her fall into the water at this point. Of the three of them, he still had the best balance on the water.

“I’m fine.” She tried to shake him off, but another wave tilted the boat, and she clung to his hand.

He followed her down the plank until she jumped lightly to the dry sand. Lifting her skirts to avoid dirtying them, she rushed away from the beach. Mikhael returned to the boat and stowed the gangplank. Removing his shirt, he picked up the waterproofed bag that held his boots and a far nicer change of clothes. He tossed the bag ashore beyond the water’s reach, then loosened the beach-side rope and pulled the bower’s line. The ship moved easily further out into the water until the stern-side anchor line ran taut. He tied off the slack of the bow’s anchor and touched her rail gently. Stay safe.

If you’re finished mooning over your ship, get a move on. Theron waited impatiently.

Without a thought of defiance, Mikhael ran up the poop deck and launched himself toward shore. He nearly made the distance, but came down with a splash in knee deep water. This is why we brought extra clothes.

Theron scowled and took over Mikhael’s movements, slogging their way ashore. Despite knowing it would happen, panic pushed at Mikhael’s mind at the loss of control. He knew that no matter how he tried, he couldn’t overpower Theron’s control. He didn’t have a say in where he looked, not even to blink his eyes.

Theron took a deep breath. Calm yourself. We can’t have distractions today.

Mikhael nodded—or tried to. Theron breathed another calming breath as he began to change into the dry clothes. Mikhael tried to focus his mind on what his body was doing, pretending it moved of his own will rather than Theron’s. It helped. Until Theron moved in a way that Mikhael would not have, and it jarred him from his self-deceit.

Let me do it, please, Mikhael pleaded. It will be fine. I promise not to fight with you for at least a month.

And what if it’s not? What if that woman with the scent is still there, and you lose control? Theron held their arm out to Elisa. “Shall we then, my dear?”

She took it, pressing herself to their side. “If it please you.”

Mikhael struggled against disgust at Elisa’s touch. I can control myself. I’m not the youngling I was last time we came. I can control myself.

I think not. Theron smiled down at Elisa, who looked up at him with a coy smile.

How will it look to Sophus? Mikhael grasped for ideas. She’s here to charm him so he’ll take you through all the halls so you can find your body. How can she do that if she’s busy making eyes at me?

Theron hesitated.

At me, Theron. Not you. Mikhael pushed forward, speaking softly. She’s looking at me.

A moment passed. Theron gently squeezed Elisa’s hand, then dropped it. “I’m sorry my dear. Perhaps another time.”

Anger flashed through her eyes, and Mikhael knew it was for him. As though to accentuate her distaste at him, Elisa strode away, her body swaying gracefully in the afternoon sunlight.

Theron retreated slightly from Mikhael’s body. For now. But when the time comes once we’re inside, you will restrain yourself.

Mikhael nodded again, breathing free. For the time being. This was the plan, after all. With a deft tug, he straightened his shirt, fixed his cravat, and followed Elisa.

Maria paced through Sophus’s chamber. The skirt of her sea-green dress rustled with each step, and the emerald necklace sitting loosely at her throat felt as though it were choking her. Her hair, piled neatly above her head, felt precariously set and left her feeling exposed.

She walked around the large, ornate wooden desk that sat at one end of the chamber, cleared for once of all its papers and books. Near it, the couch and chairs that took up the main space seemed to wait in dreadful anticipation of their guests. She continued her circuit around them. The rugs along the stone floors brightened the room with their colors, and the statues Sophus had carved from the natural stone formations gleamed with recent polishing.

“What is on your mind?” Sophus asked, buttoning his cufflinks as she stepped from his adjoining chamber.

“Considering the similarities between myself and your statues.” She gestured to the forms frozen in stone. “Another ornament for your collection.”

“But far more useful, of course.” He handed her his cravat and she stepped close, setting it around his neck. He took the opportunity to breathe in the smell of her hair. “And far more pleasant.”

Maria resisted the urge to yank the cravat tight. “You’ll let him in, if he comes?”

“If he agrees to behave, I see no reason not to allow it.” Sophus waved dismissively. “We’ve discussed this already, and I’ve sent messages to Theron implying he might bring the male this time.”

Carefully, Maria finished the knot and tucked the ends away. Sophus turned to the large mirror and observed his appearance. She dusted off the clean shoulders, knowing he’d enjoy the rare touch. She needed him to let Miguel in. They had planned it so carefully. Surely he’d let him in.

Sophus took her hand gently. “It has been a very long time, mi corazon.” He set his hand gently under her chin and raised her face toward his. Her eyes flickered upward, catching his amber gaze. “I know he is the reason you chose immortality, but I feel it only fair to remind you that he has moved on.”

The unexpected show of kindness took her aback. How long had it been since he’d called her that? Since he’d shown her anything other than cool, calculating aggression? She looked away. She had to stick to their plan. She had to see Miguel again. “I know. I just need to see him for myself. I want him to see me, just once. I need to know—”

“No.” Sophus’s voice hardened. “You are not to be seen. Need I remind you of the punishment for rule breaking?”

Maria allowed herself to shudder. “No. I will not be seen.” She took his hands in hers and looked up into his eyes, begging. “Please, I promise I’ll do exactly as you’ve said. I’ll play the waltz; I’ll stay hidden; no one will see me. Please say you won’t change your mind?”

Sophus tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ll do it anyway.”

Maria looked away.

Mikhael walked a pace behind Elisa between the Grecian columns that flanked the entrance to Sophus’s lair. The elderly woman who escorted them in—Iráma, if he recalled correctly—walked before her with dignity, ignoring Elisa’s rude noises of impatience.

“Calm yourself,” Mikhael hissed to her, too quiet for the mortal woman’s ears. “These women aren’t his servants; he considers them more akin to family. Treat them as such.”

Elisa shot back a glare as they passed the large doors to the throne room. She gave him a smirk when he hesitated. He’d not been allowed in further the last time he’d come. Iráma opened a door further down the hall, and Elisa tossed her head and walked in. Mikhael followed, pausing a moment to bow to the older woman and give her a smile. She returned a half smile and a wink before backing out and shutting the door. Now what was that about?

Theron dismissed his thought rudely and took the opportunity to glance around the room through Mikhael. Trying to avoid panic, Mikhael changed direction, just to see if he could. To his great relief, his body obeyed his command. He glanced around again, taking in the layout and noting the exits. Aside from himself and Elisa, no one else appeared to be in the room. Breathing through his mouth to avoid Iráma’s lingering scent, he carefully let his mind go blank.

From behind a wall in the back of the room, Sophus appeared and came toward them.

“Ah, my dear Elisa, it is so good to see you again!” The blond man bowed over Elisa’s hand, kissing it. “Have I ever told you what beautifully slender fingers you have, my dear? I’m sure you would be amazing on the organ.”

Elisa pulled her hand from his and gave a small curtsey. “I am amazing anywhere, Señor.”

Wait, Mikhael said, feeling Theron start to move toward them. She is doing what she came here to do. Charm him.

Normally, such a comment would have been followed by backlash, but they had promised to behave. Elisa had put her good name—whatever that is worth—behind the promise. And somehow it had worked.

Elisa offered Sophus her elbow. “It is so kind of you to invite us into your home. It is so very refreshing to be in such a civilized place, even among our own.”

“I can’t believe you haven’t continued your improvements on your own home.” Sophus led her to a seat.

Theron, through Mikhael, strode to her side and took her free hand to help her into her seat. Elisa cocked her head, clearly enjoying being the center of their attention. “Naturally, but we couldn’t hope to achieve the design of this place. It is adorned with such beauty.”

Sophus’s smile warmed at the flattery, and Mikhael’s disgust mirrored Theron’s.

“Ah, but my art cannot compare with the beauty of your presence.” Sophus took a seat across from her and set her hand on his knee. Theron’s jaw tightened as she leaned forward, the necklace dangling just above her breasts.

Relax, Mikhael said as she replied to Sophus, as much to help their cover as to keep his teeth from breaking. They enjoy rattling you. You have to stay calm.

Theron released Mikhael’s body abruptly, and it jerked. Fine, you do it!

Mikhael sat back in his chair, draping one arm across the back and watching them. Sophus reached forward to touch the necklace.

“Touching another man’s jewels?” Theron said through Mikhael. “I thought you’d grown past such things.”

Sophus sat back and laughed. “I’m so glad you could join us, my old friend. I had wondered how far I could go before you said something.”

Elisa had the decency to look abashed, and for a moment Mikhael felt for her.

Chapter 21

MARIA’S CONTROL ALMOST failed entirely the moment Miguel walked through the door. She had never seen him before, not like this. Not with her own eyes, since becoming immortal. Her memories and seeing through the dream world hardly did him justice.

Maria watched through the cloth that hung across the opening to her small chamber. She’d helped Sophus carve it out since the dance—the night Álvaro had proposed to Leonora—to fill his chamber with sound. Behind her, Wuchii relaxed on a chair to provide the sounds and heartbeat of a mortal, a task she had volunteered for. Maria stood stock-still, utterly silent. She didn’t even breathe.

Miguel’s hair was pulled back, clean and gleaming, into a neat queue at the base of his neck. He wore new clothes, his shirt a crisp white that stood out against the deep colors of his jacket, vest and cravat. His dark pants fitted the form of his legs down to his tall riding boots. He looked crisp and handsome, despite the downturn of his lip and the scowl in his eye. But those were not him. She imagined seeing him as he’d been the night he’d sailed in the storm, wild and in his element. Her breath would have caught in her throat as she imagined it, if she’d been breathing.

When he spoke, his deep voice felt like music; sweet with a rich timbre it had not held—or she had been unable to hear—as a mortal. However, the words were not his. They held the same Greek accent as Sophus, rather than the light English that colored Miguel’s. He sat, facing away from her, and she watched the back of his head, drinking in the sight of him, longing to loosen his hair from the queue.

He was not so far away. Three of four solid strides and she’d be beside him.

But Sophus sat opposite him, and though he appeared to have all his attention devoted to Elisa, Maria knew if the drape so much as rustled, he’d see it. She would wait.

Sophus gestured to a set of cards, suggesting a game. Their guests agreed, and Maria recognized her cue. Setting the violin to her chin, she began to play softly.

As expected, Elisa reacted with delight, praising Sophus for his cleverness. The man basked in the glow of her praise. Maria rolled her eyes—the man never could resist an accolade—and continued playing as they settled into their game, bantering all the while.

THERON GLANCED AT THE cards in Mikhael’s hand before folding them over and setting them facedown on the table. Mikhael didn’t blame him; it was a terrible hand. The natural light filtering into the room began to change in intensity, and he wondered how much longer they would sit there playing games, watching Elisa flirt and Sophus drink it in.

She should get on with it already, Mikhael sent, his thoughts tight.

Theron agreed, diverting his attention to speak with Elisa for a moment. Subtly, she changed the topic to art and all the different styles she’d seen in others’ homes.

“Do you know what I’m really in the mood for, my dear Elisa?” Sophus tossed his cards on the table and sat back.

“Showing me around your amazing home?” She winked at him. “You did promise me a tour to see all your sculptures, after all.”

“And you promised me another dance.” Sophus rose and offered his hand. The music that filled the room faded.

Theron gathered Mikhael’s muscles to stop them, but Mikhael hissed at him. Wait. This is it, and you know it. He relaxed, but not before Sophus flicked his eyes at them.

“I seem to recall dancing with you practically all night not too long ago, in the home of our mutual friend, Don Vallejo.” She set her hand in his and allowed him to help her to her feet.

“I meant a real dance. True dancing is art. It is passion. And true art is life.” He drew her close, whispering in her ear. “Let’s show these poor fools how it is done.”

The violin struck a long, solid note, then another, before starting into a slow, three-beat pattern. Sophus led Elisa into a portion of the large room cleared of furniture. He bowed and she curtsied, and the violin changed its tune to a slightly more complex version of the three-beat pattern. Sophus took Elisa’s hand and stepped scandalously close to her, setting his other hand near the small of her back. Mikhael half-expected her to pull away at the unseemly stance but was not surprised when she didn’t.

Sophus began the dance, leading her along the closed form, their bodies shockingly close as they moved. Elisa’s long skirts brushed gently across the smooth stone floor, her steps accentuating the violin’s beat. They moved as one, keeping time with the increasing tempo. Sophus spun Elisa around, adding flourishes to their steps and moving around the room. They continued, increasing their speed beyond the hope of any mortal dancer to keep up, following the violin’s lead. The light dimmed nearly to nothingness, the sun long since set. But the darkness was nothing to their immortal eyes.

Theron seethed. It wasn’t just about Sophus holding Elisa, but the way he mocked him with his mobility. His ability to do all the things Theron could not. How, even if he tried to dance with her through Mikhael, it would still not be himself. He would be as distant from it as he was at this moment, watching his old nemesis, the very man who had made him what he was, do the things he could not.

“Enough!” Theron stood, silencing the music.

Sophus and Elisa froze in place, breathing heavily, locked in each other’s gaze. Theron stalked toward them, and Sophus broke away.

“Forgive me, my friend.” Sophus bowed to Theron but didn’t drop his hand from Elisa’s waist. “That was terribly rude of me to indulge in entertainment in which not all of my guests could participate. But, she did promise, you know.”

“Sophus, darling.” Elisa laid her hand on his chest, and Sophus looked down at her. “We should take pity on them; they’re probably terribly bored. You did promise us a tour of your beautiful home. Perhaps we should do that instead?”

“Indeed.” Sophus led Elisa to Mikhael, and Theron reached for her protectively, drawing her to stand beside him. “I’m afraid it’s best seen during the day, but night provides its own wonders. You’ll have to forgive the indelicacy, but we will need to bring a torch. You’ll see why soon.”

Sophus took an unlit torch from beside a fireplace and stirred the banked coals, blowing gently against them until the torch flared to life. Both Elisa and Theron shrank back from the flames. Mikhael held back a laugh.

“There is one condition, however,” Sophus said, looking Theron in the eye. “If you plan to come along.”

“What is it now? You wish me to weave you a new rug?”

Sophus laughed lightly. “Nothing like that. It is simply that the male must stay here. Besides, we both know you can’t weave worth anything.”

Theron crossed his arms, defiant, but he couldn’t hide his sense of triumph from Mikhael. They had expected this, hoped for it. Sophus would not have cared if the entire coven explored his home had the missing limbs not been within, but he wouldn’t risk being overpowered if they were near. Now they knew they were within reach. But it wouldn’t do to acquiesce easily.

Mikhael held his mind still, his emotions reserved.

“Come or not.” Sophus shrugged and moved toward the door, the firelight dancing over the features of the statues beside it. They seemed to move along with the light. “But if he leaves this room while we’re gone, things will not be well for any of you.”

Elisa moved to take Sophus’s arm. “Don’t be silly. Of course Mikhael will stay here. He’s as obedient as a loyal hound. I’m sure he won’t move from that spot.”

“Care to make a wager?” Sophus led her into the hall, and the door swung shut behind them.

Don’t move, Theron growled, turning his attention to ride with Elisa.

I wouldn’t dream of it.

Silence stretched across the dark room as their footsteps faded, Theron’s attention going with them. Mikhael was alone.

Finally.

The muted sound of a hollow wooden box being set on the stone floor whispered around the room. The curtain behind him rustled, along with her skirts. He closed his eyes, savoring all the senses so long denied him. Her soft footsteps moved across the floor toward him, and his breath sped up with each one.

He inhaled, filling his mind with the scent of her, so much like what he’d imagined. Subtle and somehow wild, like faded jungle flowers. And something else, from long ago. He inhaled again and allowed her scent to wrap around his mind, calling to him. The same as it had over twenty years ago, when he had first visited Sophus’s lair. But it had been stronger then. She had been mortal. Now she was so much more...

She neared, and he could feel her, the space between them like lightning. Opening his eyes, his heart ached with longing to turn toward her. This time, if he looked, he would see her. And his world would shift. Nothing would ever be the same.

But he couldn’t. He licked his lips and his heart filled his throat as she stopped a breath behind him. He mustn’t. They had agreed. He had agreed; it was far too dangerous to risk Theron seeing her through his eyes. But she was there, so close, and so very real. He could turn, and take her into his arms, and feel he wasn’t alone. He stared at the embers across the room instead.

Just being near her was enough for now.

This was part of their plan.

SHE CAME TO A STOP inches from him, swallowing. His broad shoulders, their strength apparent even through the thick cloth of the jacket, seemed more solid, more real, than anything she’d seen before. Her hands itched to touch his hair, to pull it from its tight binding. Her arms ached to wrap around his tense shoulders, to pull from them the stiff jacket.

She reached for his shoulder, her fingers pausing a breath away from him. He shifted his arm, as though to bridge the gap between them. But he stopped short of meeting her flesh. Her heart broke with longing, and with gratitude. He would not push her further than she was comfortable.

They had agreed he would not look at her. They could not risk Theron seeing. His emotions he could pass off as nearness to the living blood in the labyrinth, perhaps. But there would be no arguing if Theron saw. And if Theron told Sophus? She could not risk the life of their son.

But they could at least have this.

She set her hands to either side of his shoulders, still not touching, and traced their contours toward his hands. He moved along with her, aware of her movement despite not seeing. She should speak to him. Say something. But words did not seem enough.

Her breath ghosted across the skin of his neck, nearly matching pace with his as her hands reached his wrists. He turned his bare hands, open, to welcome hers. She paused at the edge of the sleeve. Beyond that, there would be nothing between their skin but a moment of space. The moment stretched out as he waited for her, sensitive to the very movement of the air, ready to finally know she was real.

It would take so little, nothing at all to close the gap. To take her hand and pull her to him. With every ounce of his being, he longed to hold her. But if he took her in his arms, would he ever be able to let go again? Thoughts of how it would be flashed through his mind; holding her close, breathing deeply the smell of her hair—he could taste it already with her nearness. They would run from this place, the way they had at the Vallejo estate, and never return.

But she could not leave. She was tied to her servitude through love for her son. As he was tied to her.

He relaxed his hands.

Her hands hovered above his wrists. Would she be able to resist setting her hand in his if she lowered them? The need to touch him filled her, and she let her fingers slide along the inside of his wrists, following the contours of his relaxed palms, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin. The tension of his muscles as he held still for her resonated up his arms as she shifted her fingers to the back of his hand.

Did she dare touch him?

Could she live without him again if she did? What if they never got another chance?

Could she live with herself if she didn’t?

Feather-light, she set her fingertips on the back of his wrist. The touch was like thunder without sound, jolting gently through her body. She slid her fingers between his, and he closed his hand over hers, drawing her arms around him. With a quiet sob, she pressed herself against his strong, solid back, resting her head against his shoulder. She trembled, nearly unable to stand, at the emotions tearing through her. He was real. So very real.

And he was here.

Time became meaningless.

Footsteps down the hall nudged at her. The sound should worry her. But how could she care? Everything in the world was now right. Or would be from now on.

“Mi morena,” his voice whispered.

She shook her head in denial.

“We’re out of time,” he said softly. “You have to get back.” He squeezed her hands one last time, then let go.

Voices in the hall joined the footsteps, and urgency cut into her mind.

Go, the air whispered to her, urgent, pressing.

She pulled away, reluctant to break the contact, even through his coat.

He reached back, half turning toward her, and snatched her hand. He kept his head exactly the way it had been, facing the cold fireplace. His grip on her was heartbreakingly gentle as he whispered. “Tell me your name?”

The footsteps reached the door and paused, and a woman’s high, fake laugh broke the spell. Maria brought his hand to her lips and kissed it, wishing she could tell him, but she didn’t dare. As the door opened, she slipped her hand from his and bolted back to her niche, the feel of his skin lingering on her lips.

Chapter 22

THERON’S RESERVED SILENCE in Elisa’s mind worried her. He had kept himself closed off from her while Mikhael sailed them home, and she’d been too nervous to speak first. What was he feeling? Elisa glanced back at Mikhael, who was busy securing their boat to the dock. He had the same neutral look on his face, as though he were trying too hard to not think. Which, really, was the sort of idiotic thing he would do. Especially since not thinking seemed to be second nature for him.

She turned her attention back to her path. Though snapping at Mikhael would make her feel better, she was more concerned about what awaited her beyond Theron’s doors. The absence of his soothing presence in her mind worried her. And she missed him. The world seemed somehow darker and more lonely when he wasn’t sharing it with her.

All the more reason she had to go back. If she hadn’t let Mikhael come along, surely Sophus would have allowed her more freedom as they walked his home. He’d kept her arm in his, not allowing her too near any of the walls or statues. She’d thought for sure they’d find something, the way Sophus had insisted that Mikhael stay behind. Even Theron had exulted at the triumph. But in the end, he had sensed nothing.

But that didn’t mean anything. The labyrinth was enormous. She simply needed more time. Perhaps next time she could distract Sophus somehow and give Mikhael a chance to search. Except, of course, that Mikhael was hopelessly incapable. But what other options were there?

Elisa opened the heavy wooden door, ready to present Theron with her wonderful new plan. The bright sunlight shone onto the gleaming wooden floor before her, reflecting up onto the walls she’d had Mikhael smooth. In the center, amid a dramatic setting of darkness, Theron awaited her, brooding and upset. She hesitated a moment, afraid of walking into the thick emotions that filled the room. Elisa swallowed and raised her chin. He’d feel better when he heard her new plan.

“Theron, my dearest,” she called out, striding into the chamber. “I’m so glad to be back! Did you miss me?”

His voiceless anger struck at her, and she missed a step. She righted herself and smiled warmly at him, ignoring the discomfort he’d caused, and continued forward. “It’s all right. I understand. I’m terribly disappointed about it, too. I had really hoped—”

“Disappointed is hardly the word.” Theron’s red-and-silver eyes snapped open, catching her own, and boring into her soul.

Elisa clutched at the connection and forced herself forward. He would surely calm down if she could touch him. “But my dear, we made such progress. We know he’s hidden your limbs there, and we know what his home looks like—”

“I already knew the layout of his home, you fool.” Theron straightened in his throne and watched Elisa approach. “Do you think this is the first time in all these centuries I have been there?”

“Of course not,” she said, trying to sound soothing as she took her seat beside him.

“Don’t be patronizing, woman. You forget I know your every thought. You think your ideas are so vastly unique. And yet what do you return to me with? Nothing more than more words.”

“I return to you with hope.” Elisa set her hand gently on his shoulder. “I have pulled together this plan, and I will see it through. Who else has ever done that for you?”

“Of course you will do it.” Theron narrowed his eyes, his words crisp. “You’ll do whatever I say, and if you don’t, I can easily find another who will.”

Elisa laughed. “You’re such a tease. Who else has ever been invited, not once, but twice, into the den of that spider and come out again alive and whole? What did you have that was better before I came into your life?”

“Nothing I will lose when you’re gone. You threw yourself at him, and used all your petty little wiles, and what did you return with? Nothing of value. He played you, deftly outmaneuvering you, all the while mocking me with his every move. You’ve wasted my time for long enough. Pursue this further if you wish, but do not bother me about it again, or I’ll rid myself of you.”

Elisa’s mouth snapped shut. Had he really just threatened her? He wouldn’t dare.

“Get out of my sight,” he growled. “And don’t bother me again until I call for you.”

“Of course,” she said demurely. Surely he didn’t mean such things. He’d relent soon. She walked from the room and through the nearest doorway. They’d never gone even an hour without speaking before, and he hadn’t ever stayed angry at her for long. Mikhael certainly had, but she had never done anything to deserve being treated that way.

Stopping, she looked around. She’d come to Mikhael’s ossuary. A sharp, cynical laugh escaped her as she sank to the ground.

EMELIA RAN HER FINGERS across the crisp crease of the pale paper, its words burning at her mind as fiercely as the scene before her burned her heart. It hardly seemed real.

Leonora looked radiant in her black dress, standing at the front of the chapel. But Emelia only had eyes for the groom. Álvaro stood beside Leonora, watching her, his face full of all the love Emelia had waited for her entire life. Given to her sister. But she couldn’t be angry, not when she could also see how very in love her baby sister was with her groom. She could do nothing but wish them both the greatest of happiness.

Perhaps Camilla had been right. She needed to move on. Emelia looked down at the paper in her hands, flipping it open as the priest began to speak. Inside lay writing, neat and orderly as the man who had written it, speaking of his home in Santa Marta and the contentment that would be theirs if she but accepted him. Contentment, perhaps. But not happiness.

She looked back up at Álvaro. Memories of chasing each other through the hacienda, of learning to ride horses together, and of listening to old Muusa telling them stories of the Wayuu ran through her mind. Those were happiness. And she would let them go. Contentment she could have, but without Álvaro there would be no real happiness.

Carefully she folded the letter up and slipped it into her pocket. Perhaps tonight, when she saw him, she would accept Don Rafael Vallejo’s proposal.

She stood in her favorite spot on the balcony, overlooking the gardens Abuela had spent years growing to perfection. In her hand she held the brooch her sister had given all the unmarried women in the wedding party. It seemed like a cruel joke from the universe that she should have one at her younger sister’s wedding.

The joyful music of the wedding party behind her felt surreal, coming from a space she could not cross. The gardens below made more sense; they seemed lifeless to her now, colored in shades of twilight grey and filled with shadows. As bleak as the future laid out before her. Emelia’s heart lay heavy in her chest. How could this have happened?

Roberto found her there.

“Emelia?” he said softly, touching her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

She sighed, setting the brooch on the bannister. “Sometimes I hate this place. There are too many memories.” Visions of past happiness swirled around her. Was there any place in all of Maracaibo she wouldn’t be confronted with a memory of Álvaro?

“I understand how you feel,” he said, leaning against the bannister. The dark fabric of his fine coat stretched across his broad shoulders. “I still feel that way sometimes. I turn a corner and remember...”

Emelia started, and touched his arm. “Oh, Roberto. I didn’t even think. I’m so sorry.” At a time she should be celebrating her sister’s marriage, she was instead moping to a man who had lost his. Why could she do nothing right? “I should have just stayed in Spain.”

He set his hand over hers. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

Emotions churned within Emelia, but no matter how she approached them, each inevitably turned to despair. She let her hand drop from his touch. “I am glad for them, really I am. It’s only that I don’t know...” Emelia glanced at the warm light spilling from the ballroom, a light that couldn’t reach her in her dark corner, and pulled out the letter. “I don’t know how to be happy without him, Roberto. I’ve never known joy except when I’m with him. And now he’s Norita’s, and they’re so happy together, and I want them to be happy together.”

Beside her, Roberto straightened, his voice soft. “But you feel you’ll never know happiness again.” It was as much a question as a statement.

“I don’t know.” She turned the letter over in her hands, then offered it to him. “If not happiness, maybe I can have contentment? If I could get away from here, for a while.”

He scanned the letter, his expression unreadable. “And you think this is a solution?”

“What am I supposed to do?” Her throat filled with emotion. “I’m twenty-four years old, and this is the first offer I’ve had in the two years I’ve been back from Spain!”

Her voice broke and her chest ached, but she couldn’t stop now. She’d held it all in for so long, not even telling her sister, that now the truth she had not let herself say out loud refused to be held back. “Who else would want me? Not you, and certainly not Álvaro. Contentment Vallejo promises me, if not happiness. What more could I possibly hope for?”

Roberto rubbed the back of his neck. “Vallejo isn’t your only option, Emelia. He’s not a good man. He’ll hurt you. Don’t you understand that?”

Emelia snatched the letter from him, shoving all her soft emotions back into their box, as she always did. As she always had to do. “And what am I supposed to do instead? Stay here where all the gossips can pity me? Become a spinster living off my sister’s charity? I’m too plain, too quiet, too old. Good for little more than a business alliance. Who else would want to marry me, Roberto? You?”

He reached for her. “I would do anything to keep you out of Vallejo’s hands.”

Emelia pulled away, glaring at him as angry tears stung her eyes. She’d thought he, at least, considered her a friend. “You see? I’m just business for you, too. At least with Vallejo I’ll be away from here.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

Emelia raised her chin as Abuela had taught her and blinked back the tears at the betrayal that seared through her heart. He only cared because it was business. She breathed in, pushing down the cruel knowledge. At least with Vallejo she knew where she stood.

“I need to find Vallejo and let him know I accept his offer.” She tossed her head and strode away.

Behind her, he cursed, slamming his fist against the wall.

THE WARM RAIN FELL in a tropical deluge around Maria, who waited in the dream world, echoed by the sounds of the rain in her physical ears. She smiled, recalling the smell of August rains in Maracaibo. With luck, the storm would soften before the groom and his bride left the church. She didn’t have much time to wait, however. Sophus hadn’t even left the lair.

She looked at the ornate wooden doors of the church and hesitated. Would her soul burn to a crisp if she tried to enter? Probably not. Few of the legends the mortals spread about her kind were true. This one was probably not, either.

Deciding to risk it, Maria shifted into the building’s large chapel. When she didn’t erupt into a cloud of dust, she looked around. The pews were full of people. Many of the older ones Maria recognized, both from her mortal life and her dealings for Sophus. But she didn’t know the younger generation.

At the front of the chapel stood her son, Álvaro, his hand in Leonora’s, whose black dress was a work of beauty. They had eyes only for each other as the priest spoke. Maria would be surprised if they heard a word of it. She certainly hadn’t at her own wedding.

Smiling at the memory, she stood beside her son, pleased to see he wasn’t alone. Old Doña Olivia had escorted him, as she had once offered to do for his father. Miguel had graciously declined, preferring his English customs.

As the priest paused for breath, Maria set her spirit hand on her son’s shoulder. I’m so proud of you, my son. Take care of her.

His head twitched toward her words, and he nodded slightly.

Maria withdrew, wishing she could stay and watch the rest, but she had taken far too large of a risk already. Despite all she had gone through, she’d been able to see her son’s wedding. And nothing Sophus could do would take that from her.

Opening her eyes to the dull stone walls of her room, Maria took a deep breath. Even being back here couldn’t dampen her joy. Álvaro had gotten married! Today was the start of the rest of his life. They were so deeply in love, and had so much joy ahead of them. And there would be children, no doubt. Maria could hardly wait for Sophus to leave again, so she could share the news with Wuchii and Iráma.

But she was supposed to be playing. Maria set the bow to the violin and played a melody that had always spoken to her of joy. She walked sedately around the room while she played, planning to tell Sophus the momentary silence had been the result of her bow in need of rosin.

Not even thoughts of him could dampen the smile pulling at her lips as her mind went back to her son. She imagined they would be on their way back to the hacienda by now, their guests meeting them there. What bridal gifts had Leonora given her unattached female guests? Miguel had proposed to her at Betania’s wedding. How many other lovebirds would do the same? And poor Emelia. She had been sweet on Maria’s son for so long, but had stepped aside for her sister. Maria hoped she’d find happiness.

She shifted the tune to an upbeat traditional dancing song, and imagined herself with her husband, dancing at their son’s wedding. She spun in time to the song, the violin feeling alive in her hands as it sang.

She heard him a moment before her door slammed open, and she stopped herself mid-spin, shuttering the joy from her face.

Sophus stalked into the room, not waiting for permission.

Maria continued her song, knowing she must not stop. “It was the sound of the rain.” She kept her voice calm though fear flashed through her. Had she stopped in time? She should not have played like that.

He didn’t slow, and she stepped back, and again.

“It moved me, I had to play something exciting.”

His face darkened and Maria’s hip ran into the dresser behind her. He grabbed the violin, jerking it from her hands. She let it go rather than allow it to break. He dropped it on the dresser beside her, and grabbed the back of her neck, forcing her down. Her knees buckled beneath his force, and the corner of the dresser snagged and tore her dress as she dropped to her knees.

“I have wonderful news for you,” Sophus hissed. “Your brat got married today. Did you know?”

Her stomach churned, while her mind raced. How would she react if she was just learning of it? No, it was too late for that. What other ways might she have known? “I had heard rumours, passersby at meetings. Things of that nature.”

His fingers dug into her neck, and he leaned closer. “And knowing, surely you thought perhaps you could sneak away, for just a few minutes, and see him off?”

“I swear I didn’t go.” She pulled her arms tight around herself and risked looking up at Sophus. “How could I take that chance? Knowing what you would do if I went?”

“You’re a treacherous witch.” Sophus stood, shoving her to the floor, but let go of her neck.

She remained where she fell, focusing her eyes on the stone floor before her face.

“When I tell you to report back to me all you hear, I mean all of it. Do not think to deceive me again. It is not a befitting payment for the kindness I offered to bring you news of your child.”

Maria bowed her head as he walked away.

“And you are not to stop playing that instrument unless I stand before you, or I may have to bring you news of a far less pleasant nature.”

Maria nodded and reached for the violin as he slammed the door shut behind him.

Her fingers trembling, she set them on the neck of the instrument. How could she make music, feeling like this? The bow pulled across the strings, wobbling its shrill distaste for her miserable hand. She couldn’t play only long notes; Sophus had already threatened her with that. But her mind raced, unable to settle on any one thing, let alone any of the pieces she’d memorized.

She drew the bow again, playing a slow series of simple intervals, and tried to organize her thoughts. The cruel nature of her punishment hit her once again. Requiring her constant attention to making complex music prevented her not only from entering the dream world, but from even thinking clearly. Thoughts slipped away as she had to recall the next series of notes. But her emotions remained. Closing her eyes while she played, Maria pictured Miguel’s hands over hers, as she had held his. She imagined the way it would feel, were he standing behind her, supporting her in this, and slowly the anxiety that had twisted her guts loosened.

Her notes solidified, and she began a slow, plaintive melody. Had she been wrong to seek out her husband at the risk of her son? Maria pursed her lips. No, not any more than she had been to watch her son as often as she could. No one had been harmed by her actions yet. But should she continue to risk it?

Maria’s eyes flicked to a small box sitting atop her dresser. Within lay a red stone bird, carved of tu’uma, a red jasper sacred to the Wayuu. The bird represented Si’a, one of her spirit guides. He had protected her in the spirit world until she’d been strong enough to do things herself. She closed her eyes and pictured him, with his gleaming black wings and golden crest.

Normally he’d fluttered around her playfully, but here he hovered, as if burdened by her pain, and chirped questioningly. Maria turned away. There was nothing he could do to help her here. She had to stop. The only way to keep them safe was to simply not feel. To not do the things that would make her feel. Then they would be safe.

Maria continued to play, her mind focused solely on the notes, and time passed around her.

Wuchii opened the door to her room as Maria played a complex cadence of changing chords. Maria nodded to her friend, her mind focused on hitting the notes with precision. Wuchii hobbled across the room and took a seat on the unused bed. Dust puffed up around her, and she coughed.

Maria shifted to a simpler set of notes. “Are you all right, waré?”

Wuchii waved away her concern. “Just realizing I’ve been remiss in my dusting duties.”

The standing joke between them made Maria smile. “It’s been so long since I’ve even sat on that thing, I hadn’t even thought to change out the linens. I make sure to walk around while I play, however, so that you won’t have to dust me. I simply shake myself off every now and again, and I’m good.” Maria wiggled her body as much as she could while continuing to play, and Wuchii laughed.

“Anyway, I bring word from Iráma. He has gone.”

“Thank heaven.” Maria shifted to a far simpler tune, its plaintive notes reminiscent of the Wayuu lullabye she used to sing to Álvaro when he was a baby. She knew others had been assigned to listen and report if she paused.

“I’m glad you learned our songs,” Wuchii said, leaning back against the wall. “It makes me happy to know they will live on when we have passed.”

Maria shot her a concerned look. Her friend had aged much over the years, but she had never seen Wuchii relax when there was a task to be done, or even pretend to be done. Had the cough really been from the dust?

“Do you ever regret coming here?” Maria used her foot to drag a chair closer to the bed as her hands continued on the strings. “The things you left behind, or unfinished?”

“The life I might have had?” Wuchii levelled her gaze at Maria. “No. Perhaps, when I was younger, I regretted the life I had consigned myself to, stuck forever within these walls. I missed the open desert, and the smell of the jungle.”

“Why did you stay, then? Surely Iráma would have shown you the way. I certainly would have, for you. Or for anyone who asked.”

“Oh, don’t you fret about that. I’ve known how to leave for years. I simply chose to stay.”

“But why?”

Wuchii waved her question away. “Who else was going to keep the dust off you if I left, hm?”

“Fine, keep your secrets.” Maria nudged her knee playfully.

“What about you?” Wuchii’s eyes twinkled. “You still haven’t told me how it went with your man when he came. I fell asleep while they were still playing cards.”

Lightness suffused Maria at the memory and the chance to talk about it. She told her friend—quietly—about seeing Miguel again. How she’d hardly been able to breathe, and the way he’d looked, and how he’d asked her name.

Wuchii crossed her arms. “After all these years, you still haven’t told him who you are?”

Maria looked away. “Well, I was worried he’d be angry at first, about what I'd done. And then, well, it never seemed to be the right time.”

“And now you’re afraid of how he’ll react when he finds out? And what about the boy?”

Maria grinned and played a lighthearted Wayuu tune. “He got married the other day.”

“But have you told his father?”

“I tell Miguel all about Álvaro nearly every time we meet. He loves hearing about him.”

Wuchii leaned forward and set her hand on Maria’s bow arm. “You need to tell him. He deserves to know.”

Maria changed the tune back to the strict counterpoint of baroque music. “It doesn’t matter now. With Sophus ever more attentive to me, I can’t risk going to see him anymore. It’s not only Álvaro any more, but his wife. And some day they will have children.”

“I don’t see why not. You’ve been sneaking off convincingly for years. What’s changed?”

Maria leaned forward, wishing desperately that she could take her friend’s hand, rather than continuing to hold the accursed violin. “It’s me. Being around Miguel... everything seems brighter, more hopeful than it has in years. And Álvaro ... Seeing him get married. Wuchii, I can’t even begin to express the joy that brought me. And I couldn't hide it. Don’t you see? I can’t hide it, and Sophus saw.

“What will I do when Leonora tells him she’s pregnant, and I will be a grandmother? Or the first time he holds my grandchild? Just to know they exist, and they’re safe. I would never be able to hide that from him, and he will know.” Maria shook her head. “Nothing in my life is worth risking that. Nothing is worth risking them.”

Wuchii patted her knee and stood. “You have to at least tell Miguel. You owe him, and yourself, that much. Iráma and I will keep watch.”

Maria watched her friend hobble out of the room and shut the door. Wuchii was right, of course. She had to tell Miguel. He deserved to know why she couldn’t see him again.

Chapter 23

MIKHAEL PULLED ON THE braiding of the rope, preparing to splice it into the rigging. The warm western sun glinted off the water, and he enjoyed the feel of it on his hands. It was the same sort of gentle caress as her hands. His nimble fingers wove the rope, its ends passing between them as her fingers had. But the rope was rough where she had been smooth. Smooth, warm, and real.

He could still feel her, pressing up against him, though it was only the weight of his jacket across his back. He could feel her breath on his cheek in the warm Caribbean breeze, and her scent in the wisps it carried. The familiar feel of her fingers caressing his hair, though the quiet movement of air, let him know she had come.

He smiled, knowing she stood behind him, as she had in the labyrinth. He no longer needed to look for her. He knew she was real.

“And how are you on this fine evening?” He leaned back against the railing and stretched.

Better, now that I’m here. She took a seat beside him, and he closed his eyes to better imagine her there.

“That bad?” He set his arm over the rail. Had she actually been there, it would have rested across her shoulders. It wasn’t much, but perhaps it would help.

She sighed, her mixed emotions emanating from her.

“Well, tell me the good stuff first, and we can be happy for a while.”

And the bad news?

“Well, I figure it will either resolve itself and not need to be talked about, or it will still be there when we get to it.” He sensed her leaning in to his shoulder, and wished he could run his fingers through her dark hair. Perhaps he’d take the chance and ask her again for her name. “So go on, good news.”

She radiated joy, and he couldn’t help but smile with her at the image of her son standing tall in a church across from his black-clad bride.

“Felicitaciones!” He laughed. “You now have a son and a daughter.”

I got to be there. I sneaked away at just the right time. She set her hand on his chest, and he wished he could feel it through more than his imagination. I wish you could have been there, Miguel.

He set his hand over where hers would have lain, were she truly there. “Before long you’ll have an entire flock of progeny, and you’ll live to see them all.”

And that brings me to the bad part.

“So soon?”

Miguel... She hesitated and pulled away from him.

He opened his eyes and was disoriented for a moment to find himself alone on his ship. He leaned back and closed his eyes again, picturing the empty ship, but with her standing before him. “What is it?”

I ... She fidgeted with her hands, and turned away. There are things...

He rose, keeping his eyes closed, but knowing his ship well enough to go to her without hesitation. “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

She looked up at him. Her dark umber-and-silver eyes seemed to lock in to his soul, and wisps of memory surrounded them, flitting past like leaves in a wind. Her son: riding, dancing, smiling, laughing; for a moment his face that of the man he had become, then the toddler, child, infant he had been. They were points of light and joy swirling in the blankness around them. But a darkness joined their space. A darkness of pain, and fear, and loss. A fire, and blood, and guilt. And the void of things untold.

Her thoughts spun around them as he watched the eyes of her soul peer into his. In his mind, he put his arms around her, pulling her into his embrace. They held each other as if fearing the whirlwind would pull her from his arms.

Stroking her hair, he kissed the top of her head. Don’t worry, mi morena. I am here.

She pulled back and looked up at him, her umber eyes darker than before. And that is why I can’t stay. He’ll know I have been coming here. To you. And he’ll kill Álvaro.

His heart sank, knowing no matter how he wished it otherwise, she was right. But he had to try. What has changed? You were always able to come before.

She pulled further from him, her smile sad. We have. I can’t hide it away any more. Being with you lights my world, every time. And he’ll see it.

She stepped back and slid her hand from his.

He let his hand drop. Please don’t go.

I have to.

I know. Mikhael stepped back in his mind, returning his senses to his body, which remained standing on his gently rocking boat. A light rain had begun, pattering across the wood. “Promise me you’ll return?”

Wait for me, Miguel. When Sophus can never again threaten my son, I will be with you again. I promise.

Mikhael opened his eyes and wiped the rain from his lashes, as though the universe knew he’d need tears.

SUNLIGHT GLITTERED across the remaining raindrops, sparkling along the broad leaves on each tree along the muddy street. Horses trudged along in the light mud, pulling their wagons as children played, running up and down the boardwalks. Emelia smiled at the scene, her parasol over her shoulder to protect her from both sun and rain. Rafael was particular about her always being neat.

“Nora!” Emelia called out to her sister whom Álvaro helped down from her horse. The pain of seeing him had become a mere twinge of discomfort. It surprised her how quickly her jealousy—she had finally admitted to herself what it was—had calmed in the face of her sister’s joy.

“Emelia!” Leonora cried, rushing to her sister without a care in the world beyond reaching her with a hug. Her exuberance lifted Emelia’s heart. It would be so nice to finally spend some time with her. Vallejo demanded much of her time. “How have you been? Will you join me in the store?”

“I’ve been well enough. Is that good-for-nothing husband of yours treating you well?” Emelia asked, a twinkle in her eye as Álvaro joined them.

“Hey—” he protested, but Leonora cut him off.

“I don’t know,” she said with a sigh. “I think married life has softened him.”

“Now that’s not at all fair,” Álvaro said, stepping forward beside his wife.

Leonora reached out to take Emelia’s arm. Emelia held back the cringe at the pain in her arm, twisting her wrist and glancing down to make sure the lace cuffs on her sleeves covered her bruised forearm. “Have you heard anything from Roberto at all, or is he still in Santa Marta?”

Emelia hadn’t heard from Roberto since her engagement to Vallejo had been announced. He had come to bid her a terse congratulations. “I—”

“Emelia,” a curt voice came from behind her.

Emelia stiffened and turned toward her fiancé with a nod. He strode up beside her, setting his arm firmly around her shoulders and squeezing. “Buenos dias, señora. Señor Alvarez.” He tipped his head to them, then turned Emelia away. She let her arm slip from Leonora’s.

Emelia looked over her shoulder at her sister as they walked away. “It was good seeing you. Come home for dinner sometime and we can catch up.”

Leonora gave a small wave as Álvaro stepped up to her elbow. Rafael squeezed Emelia’s arm more tightly, and she turned away, careful to watch where she stepped.

MARIA MOVED THE BOW mindlessly across the strings, beginning yet another run through her hours-long repertoire. At this point, it was almost easier to track the hours by which piece she played. She glanced again at the cold, bare fireplace. If only she had a fire burning, she could at least continue her experiments in shielding against the flames.

Everything she had tried since that moment with Miguel at Vallejo’s home had failed, utterly. But the knowledge that it could be done simultaneously frustrated her and gave her hope. She ran through the sequence of events in her mind. Miguel had thrust his hand into the fire. She had encircled his hand with hers in the dream world. He had not burned.

Maria had done everything she could to replicate it, time and again. And every time, she had failed. But she had to try again.

With a sigh, she checked the nearby rooms for a live fire. There were none.

She didn’t dare go further, unwilling to risk not being able to keep a lookout for Sophus. Frustrated, she slipped back into her body. She would try again tomorrow.

Chapter 24

SUPPER WEIGHED UNEASILY in Emelia’s stomach as she sat alone in the sitting room, minding her embroidery. Rafael liked the way she kept herself busy. He felt idle hands were wasted time. He had wanted her to dine at his home this evening, to be hostess to several important guests. She didn’t mind; it was good practice for when she’d be his wife.

They had eaten, and she had, as instructed, kept quiet. The guests had come to do business with Vallejo, after all, not her. She had worn the dress he’d bought her, his favorite color. Her mother hadn’t approved of such a gift, especially before the official dinner to announce their engagement. But he had insisted, and Emelia had practically begged her mother to allow it. And so she had. But she couldn’t help thinking neither Álvaro nor Roberto would have approved.

He would not have shuffled her off to another room while he conducted business, either. Leonora had told her the other day how they’d been discussing ways to approach one of Álvaro’s more problematic customers. Though her suggestion hadn’t helped, Álvaro had listened and even wrote about it to Roberto for his thoughts.

He would have listened to her. Perhaps she ought to have given his suggestion more consideration. What if he really had meant his offer of marriage, in order to keep her from Vallejo? Emelia turned that thought aside. He hadn’t meant it that way, and entertaining such an idea would end with pain.

But Roberto always listened when she spoke. He always cared. Would Rafael ever give her that degree of consideration?

Emelia knew what her sister would say if she were here. Not if you keep sitting in here like a good little dormouse. And she’d be right. It only made sense that Vallejo wouldn’t want her involved at this point; he’d had no reason to see her capabilities. Why, she’d helped her father out enough times, and listened plenty to his business conversations. She would just need to show him, that was all.

With a firm determination, Emelia set her stitching into the basket and stood. She needn’t be hostess to an empty room after all. Álvaro would be so proud of her. She slipped into the hallway, grateful to see it empty, and made her way to the study, from which she could hear muffled voices. Not wanting to burst in at a delicate moment, she pressed herself to the wall beside the slightly open door and listened.

“Now is not the best time for this,” Rafael said, sounding exasperated. “I’ve worked too long to let haste undermine my plans.”

“I’ve had enough of waiting,” a male voice Emelia did not recognize said hotly. Though she had listened to the conversation at dinner, she could not put a face to the voice.

“I understand that,” a smooth, feminine voice of someone who had certainly not been at dinner said. Señora del Mar? “Waiting is not my favorite thing either, but unless you want to be destroyed as well you need to wait. Another year, perhaps. No more than two, I am sure.”

Emelia furrowed her brow. Rafael destroyed? They had to be talking about some risky venture. Perhaps a sailing to the Orient. Or funding a trip around the globe! Emelia reined herself back. Rafael would never consider something so frivolous.

“Señora del Mar has the right of it,” Rafael said. “We need to wait a little longer. I want the Alvarez brat gone as much as you do, but now is not the time.”

Emelia covered her mouth. They were talking of Álvaro? But why could anyone dislike him so deeply? A fragment of overheard conversation from years ago came back to her. She’d overheard her father talking about someone trying to destroy Álvaro’s grandfather and attacking his parents. Could this be related to that same grudge? And Señora del Mar? But she had seemed so kind. Emelia would simply have to tell Álvaro. But what would she say? She needed to know more.

Just as Emelia prepared herself to listen again, the woman’s voice cut into her thoughts, freezing her blood. “There is someone lurking by your door.”

Thinking quickly, Emelia knocked as though that had been her intent all along, and pushed open the door. “Pardon me, Don Vallejo—”

“I instructed you to stay in the sitting room,” Rafael said flatly.

She swallowed, her excuses stuck in her throat. Keeping her eyes on the floor, she dropped a small curtsy. “Your pardon, Don, but I thought I might be of some assistance ...”

Rafael surged to his feet, and Emelia quickly retreated back into the hall, her heart pounding in her ears and her face aflame. He set his hand on the small of her back, and his other hand on her arm, pressing into her flesh. She could not stop her small gasp of pain this time; he always grabbed her in the same spot, a place her sleeve inevitably covered. With a firm grip, his fingers digging into her ribs, he directed her into the next room and shut the door behind them.

“I told you to stay in the other room,” he hissed, leaning over to put his face level with hers. “After all I have done for you, all I have given you, you can’t follow this one, simple instruction?”

“I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice, viscerally aware she stood in his territory, surrounded by his possessions, down to the very clothes she wore.

She had never felt so bare.

ELISA SMILED AT THERON as Mikhael hauled away the remains of their meal. Her pleasant quip died on her lips at Theron’s glare. Not even a good meal had been enough to lighten his mood tonight. She wanted to try to think of ways to help, something to bring him happiness, but every time she tried, he shot down her ideas before they were fully formed. Instead, she quieted her mind, holding back.

She took a seat beside him, tucking a lock of his beautiful hair behind his ear. “Is there anything else you would like?”

“To be left in peace,” Theron snapped.

Elisa gave him a playful pout. “If you’d like.”

“I’m not in the mood, Elisa.” His glare did not soften. “Begone with you.”

He pushed her back with his mind, and as she caught her balance she accidently pushed him to the side. Horrified, she grabbed at his shirt before he could fall, but the cloth tore beneath her nails. She reached for him again before he could topple entirely, but he shoved her forcefully away, throwing her to the ground.

Her mind reeled in shock and the pain of his touch. How could she have been so clumsy? She gathered her skirts and looked up to see Mikhael already there, righting Theron. Quickly, she looked away, knowing he would not want to have to see his indignity through her mind.

Abruptly, Mikhael grabbed her arm, yanking her to her feet, and dragged her from the room. The moment they’d entered the ossuary, Elisa pulled herself free from him.

“What do you think you were doing?” Mikhael hissed, shutting the door.

“Isn’t that my line?” she asked acerbically.

Mikhael shook his head and returned to packing wood around the corpse on the byre that sat in the center of the room. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Elisa. For all these years you’re the one who’s been preaching caution to me, and now you’re deliberately provoking him.”

“I did no such thing.” Elisa set her hands defiantly on her hips. “He shoved me away, and there wasn’t time to move.”

Mikhael straightened and gave her a sympathetic look. As if she needed his sympathy. “Someday you will need to admit that some things are, in fact, your fault.”

“You mean like you?” Elisa walked along the wall, kicking a rock toward the byre. “How many years did you let me walk all over you, scraping and bowing because everything was your fault? Then, you suddenly grow a spine and refuse to accept your own responsibility, and you try to preach that to me?”

Mikhael sighed and pulled out his knife and flint. “Don’t you have anything better to do than take out your anger on me?”

She sneered at him while he lit the wood, to hide the fear that filled her at the flames’ quick spread across the oil-soaked kindling. “Not any more. He barely seems to stand my presence, unless he needs something from me. I don’t know what happened, either. We used to be so close, and now, ever since ...”

“Are you giving up on finding his limbs, then?”

Elisa pursed her lips and stood straighter. Theron didn’t allow her to mention it out loud, but she wasn’t giving up. The next time, she would succeed. “What do you care?”

Mikhael shrugged, and he stepped closer to the flames, holding his hands above them. “It makes no difference to me at this point.”

“Don’t stand so close.”

“Why?” He barked a laugh, his eyes fixed on the fire. “Are you actually worried about me?”

She sniffed. “I just don’t want to have to clean up the mess once you’re gone.”

“All the more reason to do it, then.” He moved his hands closer to the flame, the light reflecting off his dark eyes.

“Please don’t!” Elisa cried out, backing further away.

Mikhael hesitated, and looked up at her. “Fine, then. Not today.”

Elisa scowled as he pulled back and took a seat on the floor by the wall. She sank down on the opposite side of the room, the fire between them, and pulled her knees to her chin. How could Mikhael be so uncaring? She was hurting and just wanted some understanding, but he couldn’t see past his own obsessions. She had nothing left to do now but wait until she was needed again. Like a tool set into a closet.

Chapter 25

1767

MUSIC AND HEAT FILLED THE ballroom of Vallejo’s estate. It made Emelia nauseous. Or at least, that was what she told herself. It was definitely not the fact that the party was to celebrate her engagement to Rafael Vallejo. Widower three times over, and old enough to be her father. Why had she agreed to this, again?

Nearby, her sister’s joyful laugh rose over the crowd. Emelia steeled herself. It didn’t matter why she had agreed initially. Now she stayed to help protect her sister.

Emelia nodded politely to the well-wishers who surrounded her, barely aware of the things they said. Somehow, the reality of what she had done had not hit her until now.

“You look pale as a ghost,” a familiar voice said, pulling her from her apathy.

Emelia’s eyes focused on the man before her, and her heart lifted.

“Shall we dance then, or would you prefer a drink?” Roberto held out his hand, and she took it.

“A dance, Señor, would be lovely.” Emelia excused herself from the crowd and followed her friend to the dance floor. It was so good to see him again, to speak to him again. “I feel like meat being held over shark-infested water.”

“Then I am glad to have rescued you.” Though he smiled, his voice held a thread of tension that pulled at Emelia’s gut. It seemed neither of them had forgotten the words they’d spoken at Álvaro’s wedding six months ago. Roberto bowed as the music started.

Emelia enjoyed the dance, her heart lighter than it had been for months, despite the words that hung between them. Being with Roberto reminded her of better times in her life. Happier times. When the music ended, she wasn’t ready for it to be over.

“I could use some air,” she said. “If you’d care to join me?”

“Of course.” Roberto threaded her hand through his elbow and led her toward the tall, open doors of the balcony. His arm was warm and solid beneath her hand, but gentle and undemanding. The cool night air felt refreshing, cooling the blush that was certainly from the heat and press of the ballroom.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked.

She nudged him playfully, hoping to break the tension. “Am I so easy to read?”

“Not in the least. That’s why I had to ask.” He led her toward a far corner, well in sight of those who watched such things, but out of earshot of passersby. “But I’ve known you since we were children, Emelia. There’s always something on your mind.”

Emelia hesitated. Where would she start? Could she really just ask him if he’d meant to offer her a marriage? The bruise on her ribs ached as though to remind her to behave.

“Please tell me you’re having second thoughts about marrying Vallejo.”

She rubbed her sore arm absently. Roberto hit so close to the mark. She bit her lip.

He set his hand on hers. He started to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. She looked up at his earnest, dark eyes. Could he read in her eyes what she couldn’t find words to say? What would she do if he could?

It was too much, and she looked away.

Roberto found his voice. “Is it your parents? I know they’d support you if you wanted to back out. I don’t think they approve of this any more than I do.”

“But why?” she whispered. “Why don’t you approve?”

He took her hands, and the gentleness in his nearly brought tears to her eyes. “I know I did this wrong. From the very beginning, Emelia, I’ve done things wrong with you. But I meant it. I meant it the first time I asked before you left for Spain. I meant it six months ago, and I mean it now. I would have you as my wife, if only you’d accept me.”

He pressed something in her hand, and she looked down. The brooch from Leonora’s wedding. Emelia’s breath caught in her throat. He’d saved it. She closed her fingers around it and pressed her lips together. Could she tell him?

“I can’t,” she whispered, closing her eyes against the heartbreak she would see in his face.

“Why?”

She could not hide from the sincerity in his voice. Emelia glanced around. Would anyone overhear? She moved closer. “It’s Vallejo,” she whispered.

“What do you mean?” His grip tightened on her hands, and she winced. Immediately, he loosened his grip, stroking the back of her hand. “Has he hurt you?”

What would he do if he knew how much Vallejo had hurt her? Emelia shook her head. “No, it’s not that. But listen to me, Roberto, it’s ...” Fear warred in her heart. Vallejo had warned her not to say anything. But Álvaro was more important than anything he could do to her. Her sister was more important.

Emelia swallowed. She wished she could lean closer to whisper it to him, but if anyone saw and told Vallejo... Instead she moved toward his side, turning her face to his shoulder. “He’s planning something. I don't know what, but he intends to destroy Álvaro, and anyone close to him.”

Roberto pulled away and searched her eyes. “If this is true, then we have to warn him. We have to stop it.”

Emelia looked down at their hands. Nothing had ever seemed as solid to her, as sure, as holding his hands did right then. “I know. That is why I won’t back out. He underestimates me, is utterly dismissive of me. If I can find out what he is planning ...”

“But he’s dangerous, Emelia. He gets what he wants, and few there are who survive his wrath.” He touched her cheek, and the warmth of it made her blush. “I couldn’t bear to see you harmed.”

She took his hand and lowered it. “Don’t you understand? If I can help Álvaro, if I can protect my sister, in any way, then I must.”

“Promise me you’ll be careful?”

She nodded and set the brooch back in his hand. “I will. I intend to go with him to Santa Marta.”

“I have things to attend there as well.” Roberto nodded, but she could tell he didn’t like it. “I’ll find ways to visit so you can keep me informed of what you learn. Promise me you’ll tell me if you need anything?”

She laughed, and was surprised at the sound. “You sound just like Álvaro.” She touched his arm lightly. “I promise.”

The clock in the hall struck the hour as the last few guests lingered on. Emelia wrung her fingers in tandem with her squirming stomach. She knew what she had to do. This was her moment. But could she really go through with it? The words from Señora del Mar came to her again. Chin up, shoulders back. No matter what you feel, always walk tall. You are de la Cuesta, a Díaz. Be proud of it. Curious that she would take a stranger’s words to heart like that, but somehow Emelia felt a connection with the woman.

She took a deep breath and followed the advice. Chin up, like her abuela. Shoulders back, and walk with purpose. She could do this.

Emelia approached Vallejo, who stood silently among a group of conversing men.

One of them noticed her and nodded her way. “I believe your señorita may be looking for your attention.”

Vallejo nodded amicably to the other. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, señors.”

Emelia fought the urge to look down and shrink away at the glare in his eyes behind his cordial smile.

He took her elbow and led her a few steps to the side. “How can I be of service, my dear?”

Though his words seemed kind, there was a coldness that cut through her like a knife. Could she really do this? Steeling herself, she looked up at him. “I know how you value preparedness in the people you associate with. I wish only to excel in my duties, and I believe to do so, it is prudent for me to join you in Santa Marta. I would very much like to get the feel of the place sooner rather than later.”

He gave her a tight smile as his hands tightened around her arm, digging into the bruises already there. “My estate in Santa Marta runs itself and has no need of your assistance.”

Emelia thought quickly. He always seemed most aggressive with her when she asserted herself. Perhaps Señora del Mar didn’t have it quite right. Instead, she lowered her eyes, but kept her posture straight. “Of course it doesn’t, Señor. I know a man of your stature would have everything running without flaw and have no need of help from someone like me.”

She chanced glancing up at him, but in supplication rather than defiance, and his grip loosened on her arm. She noticed, also, the other men watching them, and spoke a fraction louder. “But, if you please, I would very much like to see the place where I will be living once I am separated from my dear family. I have never been to Santa Marta, and I hear it is beautiful. I implore you, Señor, to have pity on me, and let me join you, if only for a short time.”

“Of course, my dear.” Vallejo straightened, and set her arm in his, leading her away from the eavesdropping group. He lowered his voice as they walked away, pitching it for her ears only. “You may come under certain conditions. As my soon-to-be wife, I expect you to obey me with exactness.”

She lowered her eyes. “Of course.”

“And not speak until you’re told,” he snapped quietly.

Emelia nodded.

“That’s better. You may come, since you insist, but you will bring with you only a single attendant as chaperone. My estate in Santa Marta is staffed well enough to meet any of your needs. You stay where you are told, come when you are called, and stay silent unless otherwise instructed.” Vallejo subtly squeezed her hand, twisting her wrist inward. “Otherwise there will be consequences.”

Emelia’s eyes watered. Surely someone would see what he was doing and stop him.

But no one came.

“Do you understand?” he repeated, twisting until she gasped.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Thank you for your kindness.”

“You’re a smart little thing.” Vallejo released her hand. “Now, get going before I change my mind.”

Emelia nodded, and clasped her hand before her, pretending to play with the bracelet she wore, and rubbed the wrist. She waited until he had turned away, and lifted her chin, ignoring the tears that blurred her vision. Roberto would never have hurt her like that. But she would do whatever it took to help protect Álvaro and her sister.

Chapter 26

CARRY ON.

Nana’s last words echoed through Maria’s mind as her instrument sang a tune she had played a thousand times before. Time moved strangely for her when she played, but since Nana’s death, she had stubbornly kept track of the years for the first time. Six years had passed since Nana had left her alone. Five years since she began playing the violin. One year since her son had married. One long, lonely year since she had last spoken to her husband.

She had continued her work spying for Sophus, watching his business partners, finding their secrets. Sophus still sporadically checked her reports for errors or omissions, and sometimes he even let her know. Maria was determined not to endanger Álvaro, and kept her reports meticulously accurate. And Sophus did not return to the home of her son.

Without thinking, her playing modulated to a song with long, sorrowful tones. The sound echoed like a chorus of mourners off the stone walls of her cavernous room. Let Sophus complain if he wanted; she was not breaking any rules. She remained at his beck and call, ever obedient. Even when she found herself with a moment to spare, and the temptation to reach out to her husband, or check on her son, called to her, she resisted. She would keep them safe.

But today was a day of loss.

With a deep breath in, Maria calmed her mind and opened further the eyes of her soul. The breeze, normally so playful, joined her in her mourning, gently caressing her hair. The long grasses danced around her, moving in undulating waves of gold and green.

Before her, whole, hale, and smiling, stood Wuchii. She looked so much more right, so much more like herself, than Maria ever remembered.

It is good to see you like this, Maria said. It is good to hear your voice again.

Wuchii smiled that knowing smile she always had for Maria. It is good to breathe easy, and to step away, knowing I did all I could.

You go to your family? Maria asked.

Yes. Joy filled Wuchii’s voice. My father, my mother, and my children. I can see them all from here. They are waiting for me just beyond the horizon.

Maria nodded to her friend. Then go and have joy.

I will see you there, some day, Maria Zyanya. Wuchii reached out, clasping Maria’s hand. You will fulfill your destiny, I know it.

And with that, Wuchii, too, left Maria’s life.

Maria faded back to the physical world and found she had stopped playing. She lowered the instrument. Now was not the time for music.

When she looked up, Sophus stood in her doorway.

“Wuchii has passed, naturally and in her sleep,” he said kindly. “But I think you already know.”

Maria nodded. “She came to me.”

“Leave the violin here. You may come to see her buried, if you wish.”

Maria nodded again, not questioning Sophus’s unexpected compassion. Silently, she set the violin in its case and followed him.

It felt strange to walk the halls again. She had rarely been allowed to leave her room since Elisa and Theron had visited. The vastness of the open sky above her startled her as they stepped out into the night. When had she last looked at the stars with her own eyes?

Maria and Sophus watched from a distance while Iráma performed the Wayuu rites over the old woman’s body, following the ancient traditions of their people. Wuchii would need to be dug up in a few years, and her bones cleaned and reburied, as was proper. Who would do it if Iráma passed before then? Who would care for the others’ bones? Maria wished she could help, but her own heritage was one of the few secrets she still kept from Sophus.

“She meant a lot to you?” Sophus asked.

“She was my friend,” Maria said simply. “The first person here to be kind to me. She never feared me and was always there to support and encourage me. A good woman.”

Sophus nodded in agreement. “It is always sad to see such a one go. Iráma, too, is getting old. I will be sorry to lose her, but they all die, eventually.”

“Everyone but us,” Maria stated.

“Everyone but us.”

Chapter 27

ELISA SCOWLED AT THE painting that hung on Rafael Vallejo’s wall. No particular fault of the painting’s, of course. She just didn’t like it. Much like the way she detested being made to wait. And for what, exactly? Rafael Vallejo was known for his punctuality. He knew better than to make her wait. Elisa wrinkled her nose at the painting, and moved on.

Almost, she reached out to Theron, but withdrew before she could make contact and bother him. He hated these things, and really preferred not to be bothered with her work. So long as it produced results, he was happy.

Unlike Mikhael, who was incapable of being happy. For nearly a year now he had been sullen and uncommunicative. It was even worse than when he’d been muttering to himself at his imaginary woman. Elisa huffed. Well, at least he wasn’t doing that any more.

Elisa moved to the large, open window overlooking Santa Marta. The area was lush and green even in the moonlit darkness, but not nearly as ripe for the picking as Maracaibo. Hunting here had to be kept to a minimum, and she was hungry. And was there any chance Mikhael would have dinner waiting for her when she returned? Not likely. He’d probably gone and fed on shark. The thought disgusted her.

A quiet shuffling in the hall made Elisa’s ears perk. Not Rafael, of course, who never shuffled. Nor a servant, who always walked with haste. What mousy fool would be poking around at this hour?

Elisa strode out the door, and found herself face to face with her niece, Emelia.

“What are you doing here?” the girl asked, startled.

“I have business here.”

Elisa could see the question in the girl’s eyes—In the middle of the night?

Elisa showed her teeth in an approximation of a grin. Instead of drawing back like a rational human, the girl stood straighter, taking advantage of the few inches she had on Elisa.

“You’ve got spirit, girl, I’ll give you that.” Elisa raised her chin to look down at her niece, and wished she’d worn heeled shoes. “But you’re poking your nose in places it doesn’t belong. Be on your way.”

Emelia hesitated, fidgeting with a ring on her finger.

Elisa’s hand shot out, snatching the girl’s hand to inspect what she wore. “What is this?”

“It’s nothing,” Emelia said, trying unsuccessfully to pull her hand from Elisa’s grip.

“Nothing?” Elisa pulled the ring from Emelia’s finger as the girl struggled against her. “Your actions shout otherwise.”

“It’s just a trinket Don Vallejo gave me.” Emelia grabbed at the ring, but she could not begin to compete against Elisa’s reflexes.

Elisa tsked. “Rafael does not give trinkets, girl. Try again.”

“It’s none of your concern.”

“Better, but not convincing enough.” Elisa inspected the ring. It was a fairly simple band with minimal decoration, but still finely made. Emelia’s breath caught as Elisa turned it to look for an inscription inside. She needn’t bother, Emelia’s reaction had told her all she needed to know—a secret gift from a beau that was most assuredly not the girl’s intended. Shaking her head, she tossed the ring back to the girl.

“You haven’t got the backbone to play in this game.” Elisa snorted. “Go hide in a corner somewhere and read your books. You’ll be safer there.”

Without a word, Emelia hurried away. A few minutes more passed before hoofbeats clattered over the yard’s cobblestones. It was about time.

“You’re late,” Elisa offered as Rafael strode across the entryway, followed by his little lackey.

Rafael glared at her and continued past.

Elisa set her hand on the lackey’s shoulder, stopping him. “I do not like to be kept waiting, Gonza.”

“Keep your hands to yourself, witch.” Gonza tried to knock her hand away, and his arm cracked against hers when she refused to move.

Elisa’s fingers curled into his ratty coat and she drew him close. “Call me what you will, you tiny scrap of a man, but remember that your life is mine any time I want it.”

His face contorted with rage, and she half expected him to spit on her. “Vallejo is waiting, little witch.”

Elisa laughed and let him go, straightening his pathetic, dishevelled coat. “Well, go on. We mustn’t keep Rafael waiting.”

She followed the fool into Vallejo’s study, shutting the doors behind them. Beyond them, she could hear her niece shuffling back to listen at the door. The fool girl. Let her listen, then, and learn what she would.

Rafael began his discussion with Gonza without any ado, handing him the documents he would need before gesturing him to the door.

“And what of my payment?” the disgusting man rasped. “I want Alvarez destroyed, and I want to be there to see it happen.”

Rafael glared at him from his chair. “Let us pretend you did not just second-guess my integrity, Gonza. You have little left to lose as it is. I’d hate for you to lose your chance at vengeance as well.”

Gonza huffed but gave Rafael a nod and left.

“What a delightful man,” Elisa said, taking a seat across from her host. Rafael offered her a glass of the liquor, and she waved it away.

“He is unscrupulous enough to suit.” Rafael twisted his glass in the firelight. “When he’s used up, there will be plenty of others ready to replace him.”

Elisa leaned back in her chair. She could hear the girl breathing outside the door. The fool girl hadn’t taken the opportunity to leave when Gonza did. Well, she had given her a chance to be smart. Time to learn how to play. “Not unlike your women?”

“There are women, and then there is you.” Rafael raised his glass to her.

“Why, Rafael, you flatter me.” Elisa leaned forward to better show her assets. “I do so hate to be the bearer of bad news after a compliment like that.”

“Spare me your theatrics, Señora. What is it now?”

“I had the chance to chat with your little fiancée while I waited for you.”

Vallejo’s eyes darkened, and Elisa continued.

“Such a mousy little thing she pretends to be. But I’m afraid she’s playing you false, my friend. She has always been, and remains to this day, utterly infatuated with Alvarez.”

Elisa heard the girl’s quiet gasp at the door, but the girl didn’t leave. Fine, then. She would continue.

“Shameful, for her to be involved with a married man, and her brother-in-law, no less. But that is not the worst of it, of course. The fact is that girl has been spying on you, no doubt relaying all your private business affairs to her lover.”

Rafael lowered his glass. “This is a serious charge, Señora.”

Elisa rested her hand lightly on his knee, and rose silently, moving toward the door. “Don’t I know it. And I hate to say it at all, because I am truly fond of the girl. Something about her has caught my interest, since the first time we met. But you’ve a rat in your house, my friend. And you had best do something about it.”

Elisa yanked open the door, revealing a shocked Emelia. Blood drained from the girl’s face as Rafael stood. His rage was palpable as he stormed toward her without a word. The girl fled.

Elisa strode from the house. It would do her niece good to learn not to get involved in things that were not her business. She had tried to warn her, but sometimes hard lessons needed to be learned. Especially for the stubborn.

She stepped onto the road, pleased at the rainless night. Speaking of stubborn, perhaps it was time to help Mikhael learn a hard lesson. She considered asking Theron if he wanted to join her, but dismissed the idea. If he wanted her attention, he’d ask for it. She had learned not to disturb him.

She turned toward the port. There was bound to be some dinner much easier to play with there.

RAIN POUNDED AGAINST the glass of the coach as it pulled to a stop at the gates of the Alvarez hacienda. Emelia peered out through the gloom at the wrought iron that stood between her and the place her heart had never stopped calling home.

The old gentleman sitting across from her grumbled about the delay. It had been a tiring journey to Maracaibo from Santa Marta. Not wanting to cause problems, Emelia pushed open the door and exited quickly, ignoring the pain that shot through her as she stood. The rain quickly soaked through her hair and dress. She had left without even her parasol.

“You sure this is where you want to stop, Señorita?” the gravelly voice of the driver asked.

“Yes,” Emelia called up to him. “And thank you again for your kindness.”

The man shrugged. “It was on the way into town, else I’d not have done it.” He clucked at his horses and the coach rumbled on.

Emelia hugged her arms around herself in the gloom, the tall white walls of the hacienda before her. He hadn’t even asked after her luggage. Not that it mattered; she didn’t have any. She didn’t have anything at all.

“Except your life, you ungrateful child,” she chided herself. Once she could get her wits together and knock on the gate, she’d have her family around her as well. Shaking herself from her lethargy, Emelia tried the handle of the smaller gate, hoping it had been left open. It didn’t move, and she called out. With luck, someone would be nearby and hear her.

She continued rattling the gate and calling out until light spilled across the drak courtyard from the stables.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” the crotchety old voice of the stablemaster called out. “What a night for visitors, with the Señora all laid up, and the weather being what it is. I don’t know what fool would be out in rain like this, but I’m only coming to care for your horse, you da—” He stopped short when he saw her. “Señorita Emelia! What on earth are you doing out in the rain?”

“I’m very pleased to see you, too,” Emelia said as he rushed to open the gate for her.

“Whatever are you doing out here?” He gestured her in, and looked up and down the street before relocking the gate. “Your sister will be glad you’re here.”

Emelia allowed herself to be ushered under the covered walkway that edged the courtyard, her mind gone numb. Why would her sister be expecting her? The stablemaster ushered her to the main house and delivered her to the cook, who was bustling about the kitchen. The woman fussed over her until one of her sister’s maids whisked her off to her old room. It unnerved her to have anyone pay attention to her.

When the maid moved to help her undress, Emelia pulled away abruptly. “Thank you, Roslina, but I’ll do the rest myself.”

“Of course, Señorita.” Rosilina bowed and rushed away, clearly intent on other tasks.

As it should be. Emelia was not meant to be noticed.

Slowly, to avoid what pain she could, Emelia removed her wet dress, laying it carefully out to dry. She had managed not to get any mud on it in the several days of travel from Santa Marta. It wasn’t hers, after all. Emelia shuddered.

Next, she peeled off the wet petticoats. Also not hers. She laid them out as well.

She continued removing her clothing, laying out each piece with care. None of them belonged to her. They were Vallejo’s. He had shipped everything that was hers back to her mother the day after she’d arrived in Santa Marta, insisting she wear only what he’d provided.

Even her shift. She stood before her mirror in nothing but the shift. It was not clean. It stank of sweat, and fear, and several days of wear. Gingerly, she pulled at it, pulling free the dried blood from cuts now several days old.

She poured water into the basin from the pitcher that waited for her and washed her hands and face. Then, gently, she sponged down her mottled, bruised body. She would never go back.

Emelia slipped on a fresh shift from the closet, grateful her sister had insisted on keeping clothes here for her, despite how rarely she visited. For the first time in months, Emelia felt truly covered.

Emelia fiddled with the ring Roberto had given her before he’d left Santa Marta a week ago. What a fool she’d been, to allow Vallejo to buy her things. Her mother had insisted it was improper, but Emelia had refused to listen.

She pulled out a simple dress, one she could manage on her own, and dressed. It was late, and she was exhausted, but she needed to see her sister. And Álvaro. She had to warn them of Gonza. Who knew when he would attack?

Emelia picked up a lamp and made her way down the hall, going without thinking to the room her parents had used, but found it empty. Of course it is. Álvaro is the master of the hacienda; he wouldn’t be down here.

The hallway outside their room seemed unnaturally busy, and finally Emelia pulled herself from her pensiveness to ask what was going on.

“It’s a girl!” the maid said, rushing away, her arms full of cloth.

A girl? Emelia’s mind cleared. It had been so long since she’d seen her sister, or even had a chance to write to her, that she hadn’t even known. Emelia rushed into the room to see her sister on the bed, exhausted and pale.

Leonora looked up. Joy filled her face and she cried out, struggling to sit up. Emelia rushed to help, embracing her sister.

“Well, it’s about time you came home,” Leonora said, holding her tightly. “We worried when you stopped writing. I would have gone up there to see you myself, but obviously I couldn’t, and I had to rely on word from Roberto that you were well.”

“It’s so good to see you again,” Emelia said into her sister’s shoulder, ignoring the flare of pain from her myriad of bruises. They didn’t seem to matter so much right then.

“You’re home now.” Leonora pulled away and met her sister’s gaze. “I’ve been so worried about you, Emelia. Please tell me you’re staying.”

Emelia took a seat on the bed beside, and put her arm around her sister. “I’ll stay as long as you want me here, my little Norita. Now, when do I get to meet my niece?”

“Depends on if my selfish husband over there ever decides to share her.”

Emelia looked up to see Álvaro standing beside the window, utterly enraptured by the little bundle he stared at. She didn’t have the heart to tell him about Gonza tonight. The morning would be soon enough. Emelia smiled and leaned back, resting her sister against her shoulder. “We can let him be for now, I suppose. I’m just glad to be back.”

Chapter 28

1768

THE SINGING TONES of a Corelli violin sonata ghosted through the stone halls of Maria’s prison. It came to an abrupt end with a sharp crack, and the air around her stilled. With a sigh, Maria set the broken instrument back in its case. The poor thing, beautiful though it was, was not meant for the years of constant use Sophus had demanded of it. She ran her fingers lightly over the smooth body of the instrument. Though he’d used it as a means to keep her occupied it had helped to pass the time and had become a sort of friend.

Maria took a seat at the table, and the chair creaked beneath her weight, protesting being used after so many years left alone. The nerves along her arms vibrated at the sudden stillness, and her fingers twitched with a need to continue playing. Maria set her right hand over her left, stilling her fingers.

What would she fill her time with now? Perhaps Sophus would get her another violin. But so many things had come to an end over the last couple years—her relationship with her husband, the opportunity to watch her son, her good friend Wuchii. Her freedom. Perhaps this, too, was at its end. It had been so long since she’d been truly free.

But it was a price she paid willingly for the freedom of her son.

She looked at the cold hearth, tempted to lose track of the time, to stare and not move any further. Music continued to play through her mind, despite the silence. She hadn’t had the heart to try to get to know the women who joined them here. It was better that way. They wouldn’t have to leave this life with a sense of betrayal when Sophus eventually killed them. Unless, of course, they held out until their natural deaths. Wuchii had been one of the few who had managed to hold out that long.

Weariness lay like a thick fog over Maria’s mind. She thought there might have been something she needed to do. An appointment? When? How long had she sat, staring at the cold, still hearth?

Perhaps she should get up and walk. She could go outside. She hadn’t done that for years. Maria could still remember the feel of the warm sun on her skin. She had liked the sun. But still she didn’t move. What was the point, again? Had there ever been a point to moving?

There was a knock on the door. She registered it somewhere in the back of her mind, but still did not move. Iráma entered. Her light graceful walk had given way to a limp over the years. She, too, was getting old. One day she would be just more dust, like Wuchii. Like Nana. Like Maria’s father. And Maria would remain, another ornamental statue in Sophus’s collection. A strange, living death, staring forever at the cold hearth.

“Maria?” Iráma set a wooden box on the table beside the chair. She looked into her eyes. “I can see you’re here. Are you well?”

Maria inhaled, then exhaled. The extremely potent—and unpleasant—scent of her friend stirred her mind a bit toward wakefulness. She blinked and inhaled again. Sophus had warned her once about staying still for too long. “Something about dust...” she muttered, her eyes focusing again in the distant, cold fireplace. It was still and lifeless. As was she.

“Maria?” Concern colored Iráma’s voice, and she touched Maria’s hand.

The contact, warm and soft, and alive, shocked Maria, and she looked away, shuddering. Carefully, Maria squeezed Iráma’s hand, relieved her body still obeyed.

“Yes, I am here.” Maria stood and stretched. Sensation flowed through her, rushing her mind, like stepping into the sun from a darkened room. “I think I nearly lost myself for a moment, but you have pulled me back. Thank you.”

“Sophus sent me to make sure you attend the meeting tonight.” Iráma handed her a folded paper that would have instructions. “He was afraid you’d get sidetracked with your playing if he left a note before he left.”

“No, I’m afraid the poor violin gave out.” Maria gestured to the broken instrument. “I played it to death. Sucked the life right out of it. Bled it dry of every moment of music it ever had.” The puns were terrible, but they stimulated her mind the way moving had awakened her body.

Iráma gave a tolerant smile, then pushed the box toward Maria. “I have something for you.”

Maria pulled it toward her, running her fingers over the dark, smooth wood of the box. “What is it?”

Iráma slid her hand over the lid, a half-smile on her lips. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to attend to it at the time, so I took the honor to care for the Old One’s bones for you.”

Emotion rose in Maria’s chest as she stood, touching the box reverently. Homesickness washed over her as though emanating from within the box itself. Memories long forgotten came to her, bright, beautiful, and untarnished by time. Nana waking her in the morning, the scent of flowers in her window. Teaching her to work, helping her read her first books, guiding her through the small troubles of childhood. Teasing her about Miguel, telling her of her mother, helping her with her hair before her wedding. Nana handing her her newborn son, little Álvaro.

Every step of the way, Nana had been there for her, watching her, guiding her. Even in the dream world. In those early days where Maria had navigated it by instinct, Nana had been there, pointing her toward her goals.

“I miss you, old woman,” she whispered.

Collapsing to her knees, Maria held the box to her chest, crying silently. Grief and loneliness filled her. Nana had expected so much from her, and for so many years, Maria had thought her mentor could make anything right. Even until, and for a time after, the woman had allowed Sophus to kill her. But why?

Eventually Iráma touched her shoulder gently. “It is time to go.”

Maria took a deep breath to steady herself. “Yes, I suppose it is.” She returned to her chair and set the box protectively over her lap. The warm, glossy wood reassured her. She reached over to the paper Iráma had brought her, glanced at it, and sent her mind to the dream world.

THE SULTRY EVENING air of Maracaibo followed Elisa into the ballroom. She’d spent a productive evening gossiping among the city’s elite and was now ready to relax. With any luck, Mikhael would have had success among the men, but she doubted it. His sullen, brooding behavior hardly invited confidences. Nor did it secure contracts. But he made a good bit of muscle when she needed to intimidate someone. So long as she could keep him from finding some balcony to mope on.

Theron remained quietly disinterested. A moment of disappointment broke through. She missed their conversation and their banter. But she didn’t need to worry. Someday he would be whole again, and when that happened, he would know it was she who gave it to him. Elisa gave a sly smile to a couple of young men who appeared to be working up the courage to ask her to dance.

“You’re shameless,” a lovely voice said.

Elisa spun, her movement calculated to show her skirts to their best effect, to face Sophus. His tight blond curls and angelic face were just the thing.

“Señor! Imagine meeting you here.” Elisa offered her hand.

He bowed over it and tucked it into his elbow, then led her through the room. “You do realize they’re half your age.”

“Are you saying I ought to focus more on older men?” Elisa set her hand lightly atop his. She loved the simple, cool way his skin felt beneath her fingers. She so rarely touched one of her own kind any more. “You’re all so dull. Boring stuffed shirts, the lot of you.”

“Indeed, but you are pretending to be a matron. The fact that you even look their way is scandalous.”

Elisa stopped and turned toward him, looking up at him through her lashes. “Then ask me to dance and take me from their reach.”

The music paused as she spoke, and she smiled, thrilled she’d pulled off the timing. She could feel Theron’s annoyance in her head, but he didn’t stop her.

“I would like nothing more.” Sophus led her to the dance floor.

AS ALWAYS, MARIA STOOD in a grassy field. The wind whispered secrets she couldn’t quite hear as it caressed her hair. She looked down, hoping to see the spirit of the box in her lap, and instead found Si’a, with his glossy gold and black plumage, hovering above her hands.

Hello again, waré. She nodded a polite greeting to the guide.

Si’a turned his head coyly, as though embarrassed by her calling him ‘friend’, then fluttered around her, his golden chest glinting in the sunlight. It was good to see him again. The familiar wind with its voices, along with the little bird, gave her a strengthening comfort, and Maria was grateful. Steeling herself for another long, dull meeting, Maria shifted toward Maracaibo as fast as thought.

She slowed as she neared a run-down warehouse in the less-than-savory side of the docks. That she could reach it at all surprised her. Surely she hadn’t been there as a vampire, and her father would never have taken her to such a place. Curious, she checked for the owner's name outside the door, but even in the spirit world the paint was flaky and illegible.

Maria walked inside. The space was mostly empty, though several saddled horses stood in a far corner. Crates littered the floor along with seasons of detritus: foliage and dirt blown in from the storms and the creatures who made it their homes. She wrinkled her nose. No wonder the man’s business had failed.

Following voices from behind a stack of broken crates, Maria continued forward. The silent music from her violin trailed along behind her, and her fingers itched to move. Instead, Maria took a moment to close her eyes and concentrate on breathing. She could feel the warm, smooth wood of Nana’s ossuary box beneath her fingers, calming her and silencing the echoes of the violin.

Reasserting herself back in the dream world, Maria stepped forward. A group of nearly a dozen rough-looking men stood near a small fire, passing around bottles. The scent of alcohol surrounding them was thick enough that she could smell it. She watched them, checking to see which was Sophus’s contact. A lanky man, well-dressed and clearly sober, emerged from the shadows and spoke. Maria listened with limited interest. She needed only remember what was said to repeat it to Sophus. Taking an active interest was hardly necessary.

A clear leader emerged from the rabble. Though he was grizzled and his clothes threadbare, he had the bearing of a man who had once been powerful and a face vaguely familiar. They spoke of payment coming due, of how the leader of the riff-raff had some long-standing grievance that had happened to his father decades before. Maria let her eyes wander around the space while she listened. The fool had lost everything trying to get revenge for this perceived misdeed, rather than cutting his losses and moving forward. With that sort of business sense, it was no wonder he was living in an empty warehouse.

Money exchanged hands, and the rabble cheered as the well-dressed man left. Whatever trouble they had been paid to do was to happen that night, and Maria assumed she was meant to follow. Sophus would want to know his orders had been carried out. He had another war to stir up, after all.

Maria found herself pacing. Something about this seemed off. Why had Sophus sent her to watch a mob?

The men broke into the crates and disguised themselves as Wayuu, no doubt to further inflame the unrest brewing in the colony. It disgusted her. So many people hurt and killed for Sophus’s greed, but what could she do about it?

She paced, trying to place the face of the leader as the men drank themselves into a fury and lit out toward their mark. The rabble galloped their horses recklessly through the sleeping city toward the outskirts of town. Perhaps if she were really lucky, she would pass Miguel on the way, and make a moment of connection. Maybe he would know what this was about.

As the drunken crew continued on, that seemed less likely. The unease in her chest grew ominous as she followed them to the outskirts of the town. She hadn’t really been paying attention to the names in the meeting—generally Sophus knew who was involved—but now she wished she had.

The gates of the Alvarez hacienda came into view. Her breath caught in her throat. Surely they would not stop there. Sophus had guaranteed his protection.

Please let them pass, Maria called out into the spirit world to whomever might be listening. Please let the gates be locked! Let my son stay safe!

The tall, solid walls that had guarded her home for decades stood silent, broken only by the large, wrought iron gates of the entrance. The men rode straight up to it, screaming incoherently. One of them kicked at the gate, but it didn’t give.

For a moment, triumph rose in Maria’s chest. They couldn’t get in!

The leader levelled a pistol at the lock and shot at it. The flash of the pistol illuminated his face, and suddenly she recognized him. Gonza!

The gate broke open, and the men pushed through.

Maria had no time to waste. Álvaro had to be warned.

Chapter 29

MIKHAEL WATCHED ELISA dancing with his master’s enemy. His muse had a history of coming to him when that happened. He could still feel her arms around him, his fingers entwined with hers. Perhaps she was near. His muse had promised they would be together again once the threat to her son was gone. Incredible though it seemed, Mikhael had found reason to align himself with the goal of his tormentors.

Elisa would lure Sophus away, allowing Mikhael to search the labyrinth for Theron’s missing body parts. Then, once Theron was whole, the three of them would deal with Sophus. Perhaps they would even rid the world of each other while they were at it. What a strange life.

Something about the evening made Mikhael uneasy, like an itch on the back of his neck he couldn’t scratch. There’s something wrong, he sent Theron, quietly.

Then figure it out, the man snapped at him, and Mikhael withdrew quickly before he could provoke further ire. Not Theron, then.

Mikhael looked around the room. Aside from the two vampires dancing near the center of the room, he couldn’t imagine what could pose a threat. Excusing himself from the conversation he’d pretended to be engaged in, he circled the room. The sounds of breathing and raised heartbeats lay under the footsteps, music, and murmured conversation. Wind blew gently outside, whispering through the large-leaved roble trees.

He skirted a gaggle of young girls giggling at him from behind their fans. Their perfume threatened to overpower the other smells of the room. Mikhael winked at them and gestured to a pair of young men nearby too nervous to step forward. The girls giggled again, turning as a single-minded flock to their new target, and Mikhael ducked out into the hall. Inhaling deeply, he sorted the familiar smells. No smoke beyond the distinctive scents of firewood. Not a fire, then.

There’s nothing here, fool. Theron shoved at his mind. Get back inside.

Reflexively, Mikhael’s hand reached for his cutlass, but found nothing but his hip. Elisa refused to let him carry weapons any more, and it made him feel unprepared. Instead, he shoved his hands as deep into his coat’s pockets as they would go and returned to the ballroom.

Sophus and Elisa continued to dance, and with each song Mikhael’s nerves pulled tighter. He wished he could cut in, find an excuse to leave. If the danger wasn’t here, then where? But there was nothing he could do. Until something changed, he remained a mindless thrall.

When the set ended, Mikhael found he could not take the growing sense of dread anymore. He had to do something. Anything. To hell with whatever Elisa had in store for him for interrupting. As the dancers applauded the musicians, he sidled up to Elisa.

“My dear, I’m afraid it is time for us to be on our way.” He gave a courteous bow to Sophus, who nodded in return.

“Señorita.” Sophus took Elisa’s hand and bowed over it. “This has been the perfect end to a very satisfying day. I deeply enjoyed your last visit and truly hope you will join me again.”

“With pleasure.” She dropped him a curtsy. “We’ve both been terribly busy the last several months. A social visit would be just the thing. But perhaps you would join me in Santa Marta? Say in a week?”

“I look forward to it.” They parted and Elisa gave Mikhael a large smile. Even Theron was pleased.

It did nothing for Mikhael’s nerves. “What are you planning, Elisa?”

“Success, Mikhael.” The grin she gave him was feral. “Finally, I shall have success.”

MARIA BOLTED INTO THE dark house, fear and anger lending her speed as she looked for her son. So late at night, where would he be? Had he grown into the kind of man who kept late hours working?

Her father’s office stood dark and empty.

Perhaps asleep, in his room? Maria shifted to the room he’d stayed in as a child, and cursed herself to see the furniture covered. Of course he would be in the master bedroom. The sounds of the mob rushing the house gave her speed. Had they woken no one else yet?

Maria burst into his room in the dream world, and found Álvaro asleep on the bed. Where was Leonora? It didn’t matter right now.

Wake up! she shouted at him. You are attacked!

He did not stir.

Maria paced anxiously. How else could she wake him? She pulled on the threads of air, sweeping a breeze across his face. He fidgeted a moment and breathed deeper.

We don’t have time for this! Stilling herself, she focused her vision more fully on the spirit world. Perhaps she could reach him through his dreams.

The room before her flickered between times, the chairs moving from moment to moment, though the bed remained steadfastly in place, made as often as not. His spirit was not in the room, but a thin line of light stretched from where he slept on the bed out into the night.

For a moment, she was tempted to simply pull on the line and force him back, but Nana had made clear to her the inappropriateness of touching a line not connected to herself. When had the line connecting her to her son disappeared? She shook her head. That didn’t matter now.

Maria oriented herself beside the line, her hand hovering above it as she tried to picture where it led. Closing her eyes, she let it pull her along. Faster, she urged. Had the men made it into the house yet?

Maria felt the dream world solidify around her, and she opened her eyes. Álvaro had brought her to a vaguely familiar glade with a bench. His form was wispy and not very strong. Could she get his attention here? She had no other choice but to try.

Álvaro! she called to him, hoping he would look up.

He cocked his head and she tried again.

Álvaro, listen to me!

He flickered, as though thinking about shifting, the way Nana often had when she taught Maria to walk the world of dreams.

Your home is under attack. Maria rushed to him, grabbing his arm. WAKE!

With a look of shock, Álvaro vanished. Fear clutched at her heart and she shifted back to her old home. Had she woken him in time?

He was already on his feet, a pistol tucked into his belt and pulling a sword from its sheath. A cry of alarm rose from outside, waking the house.

“Leonora!” Álvaro called, charging out the door toward the sound of breaking glass.

Realizing why Leonora wasn’t asleep in her bedroom in the middle of the night, a chill swept through Maria. She shifted to the nursery.

Leonora stood in her shift, clutching a tiny baby to her chest, still too surprised to know what to do. A cry of rage and grief tore from Maria upon seeing the small, fuzzy black head of her grandchild in mortal peril.

Glass shattered as a man burst through the door to the balcony. Maria screamed, pushing all her emotions back at the man with a fierce gust of wind that knocked him back, nearly over the balcony.

Run, girl! Maria cried out as the man caught himself and lunged forward again.

Leonora screamed and threw something at him, but he knocked it carelessly away. She sank to the floor, guarding her baby from the man with her body.

Álvaro, Maria cried out, unwilling to leave the woman alone. Hurry, we need you!

The door to the hall burst open. Emelia, still in her nightgown, leveled a pistol at the man. Without hesitation she fired, and the man’s head snapped back.

Immediately, his ghost coalesced into the dream world, and Maria snarled at him. He fled.

She turned back to see Emelia try to take the infant, the pistol discarded, and a knife still in her hand. Leonora refused. Instead, Emelia helped her sister to her feet. Another attacker came at them from the door, a knife of his own brandished before him.

Behind you!

Emilia turned just in time, stabbing her knife up under the man’s rib cage. The man gasped, lunging at Leonora, who turned to protect her baby as they crashed into the wall. She cried out. Emelia grasped the man’s shirt, and hauled him off her sister, the bloody knife falling from his hands. Leonora huddled against the wall in the darkness, pale and shaking, the baby safe in her arms.

“We need to get out of here!” Emelia grabbed her reluctant sister by the hand and pulled her toward the door. Maria rushed forward, but there were no more out in the hall. The sound of fighting echoed down the hall from both the lower level and the way Álvaro would have come. Dom and a couple of the house staff Maria didn’t recognize rushed up the stairs to help the women, the lamplight casting shadows across the walls.

Suddenly, Leonora grabbed at Emelia’s sleeve and collapsed. Emelia caught the infant as her sister fell.

“Nora, stand, we must get somewhere safe,” Emelia urged her sister, but Leonora only groaned. Old Dom helped her to sit up, but Maria could see the bloodstain that had formed beneath her chest.

“It hurts ...” she said, her breath coming in short gasps, her face going ghostly pale.

For the first time this horrible night, Emelia looked frightened. Frantically, one of the maids pressed against the wound in Leonora’s ribs, hoping to stop the bleeding.

Leonora reached up, grabbing at Emelia’s sleeve, her voice thick and wet. “Take care ... of them.”

“You don’t need that from me.” Emelia collapsed next to her sister, holding the crying infant close. “You’ll be fine, Norita, you’ll see. You must stay! Stay with me!”

Despite Emelia’s pleas for her to remain, Maria could see Leonora’s spirit begin to lift from her gasping body.

“Who ...” Who are you? Leonora asked.

Family.

Must I die?

Everybody dies. Maria gave her a sad smile. Can you hold on a little longer? I think Álvaro would want to say goodbye.

“Hurts ...” It hurts so much, but I don’t want to go!

Wait for him, if you can. Maria gestured back to the dying body.

Leonora’s spirit sank tentatively back into her flesh. She coughed again, spitting up blood as her face went ashen grey, and then she stilled.

Álvaro pushed his way through the crowd, throwing himself at his unresponsive wife. His anguish echoed through the house. Maria stepped toward Leonora, who now stood by his side, sobbing. She wrapped her arms around her daughter-in-law and held her.

EMELIA REMAINED WHERE her sister had fallen, in shock. Someone had taken the baby from her. Had taken her sister from her. Now, she sat by herself. On the floor. Alone. And it was her fault. She should have stayed. Nothing Vallejo had done to her hurt like this.

Her head rested against the warm, smooth wood paneling of the wall. A buzzing silence filled her ears as she stared into the empty hall. Emelia could still see her little sister, running through the hall as a child, trying to keep up with her. Racing each other to their rooms when they were older and thought no one was listening. Walking side by side only yesterday, talking about books they wanted to read.

Tears blurred her vision, but she could not bring herself to wipe them away.

Someone sat beside her. Someone who was not her sister.

Setting his arm around her, he pulled her to his chest, and she buried her face in his shoulder and cried.

Roberto stroked her hair while she sobbed.

“It’s my fault.” Her voice broke at the truth that needed to be said. “I knew, and I couldn’t stop them.

“It’s not your fault.” His strong voice was soft. “The blame is Gonza’s.”

“But I knew,” she said, unwilling to look him in the eye. “If I could have been stronger, stayed longer, I might have heard more. I might have learned enough to save her.”

Roberto tilted her chin up to meet her gaze. “We did everything we could to prepare. Nothing could have stopped him. Gonza is mad, Emelia. This wasn’t your doing.”

She turned away, the weight of her guilt burning before his kind eyes. “I fought, Roberto. I shot a man, and stabbed another, and still I couldn’t save her.”

“You did all you could, Emelia.” He held her tighter. “Your courage and quick thinking saved their child. No one could have asked for more from you.”

The emptiness of a world without the laughing energy of her ever-happy sister spread out before Emelia’s mind, stretching on for years. Decades. The vastness of it was more than she could bear, and she crumpled in his arms, and her sorrow tearing through her. “But she’s gone.”

Roberto rocked her gently as she grieved, stroking her hair. “I know.”

MARIA STAYED WITH LEONORA until the girl’s face changed from grief to wonder.

I hear them... she said, looking up.

Whom do you see, child? Maria asked gently, keeping her arm around her daughter-in-law’s shoulders.

Belo! The girl cried out, and ran from Maria’s arms toward the land of her fathers.

Maria watched her go with a sad smile. Would she ever speak with, or even see, her beloved departed in Jepira? Likely not.

She turned back to her home to check on her son. Would he be all right, now that he was alone? Álvaro sat, his shoulders hunched and his face in his hands.

Maria wrapped her arms around him, hoping he could feel her love. This wasn’t your fault.

When he didn’t respond, Maria gave her son one last hug and left.

Chapter 30

MIKHAEL HANDED THE coachman extra as he paid. “For the lateness of the hour, amigo.” Behind him, Elisa made her way to the door of their rented home. The coachman tipped his hat and clucked at his horse to move on.

Miguel. The voice of his dark angel called to him, and for a moment a perverse part of himself wanted to ignore her. But he had known she would come. What else could have filled him with such dread?

He looked around to Elisa, who was busy with the door. “Elisa,” he called to her, “I’m going to check the boat. I’ll be back later.”

“As you please.” She waved him off.

They walked together in silence toward the docks. Would his unnamed muse speak first, and tell him, or would he need to break the silence? Anger and pain swirled around her as they went. Had something happened to the boy? Was that why she had finally returned? Mikhael shook his head. He hoped not. Perhaps it would be best to wait to talk until they were someplace safe. He led her to his ship.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice hard. “Was it your son?”

Miguel— She cut off. The grief she’d been holding back surged forward.

A fear of what she might say echoed her grief. “I know something bad happened, mi morena.” he said, leaning against the railing and staring into the dark water below. “I’ve felt it all night. And now you’re here. Tell me what happened.”

She collapsed onto the deck beside him, pulling her knees to her chest and sobbing.

It pulled at his heart, and he dropped to a seat beside the ghost of the woman he had come to love. “What I wouldn’t give to have you here, beside me, mi morena. Just so I could put my arms around you and ease your burden.”

I shouldn’t even be here, Miguel. Tears colored her voice in his mind. I don’t know when Sophus will be back...

A flicker of hope lifted his soul. If she was still worried about Sophus, then perhaps the boy still lived. “I saw him, here in Maracaibo, earlier tonight. Even if he left immediately, and ran the entire way, I’m sure you still have at least another hour before he could get there. And he doesn’t seem the type to run when unnecessary. So I’d venture a guess that your Álvaro is safe for now.”

She barked a laugh. How could he be safe, Miguel? I did everything he said. Everything! And still Sophus had him attacked. And he made sure I was there to watch, to know it was him. Her voice turned desperate. There is nothing I can do to keep them safe.

His mind churned. “Tell me exactly what happened, and perhaps I can help.”

How can you help? You’re every bit as enslaved as I am.

The barb stung, but he had suffered far worse from Elisa and Theron. “Tell me anyhow.”

She ran her fingers through her hair and looked up at the sky. They attacked the hacienda. I managed to warn Álvaro, but ... I couldn’t do more. They killed her. They killed his wife, Miguel. The baby was safe, and Álvaro survived. She turned to face him, and he closed his eyes to better picture her dark-framed face. Did you know that when I am here, in the dream world, I stand in the border between the living and the dead? They pass through here, on their way to the lands of their fathers. I had to speak to her, Miguel. I had to tell her she was dying, then I held her until she was ready to go.

He could picture it, the way she described it. They stood in a hallway with dark wood paneling—so familiar he could almost place it— and saw the woman, barely more than a girl, rise from her body, as filled with grief to leave her family as they were to lose her. But there was also a child.

“So you’re a grandmother now?” he asked, gently, trying to lighten her mood. “Boy or a girl?”

Immediately she perked up, despite her grief. Girl. And she’s so beautiful, Miguel. If only you could see her.

“Well, perhaps someday I will. You keep an eye on her while she grows, and let me know what she looks like, and I can keep an eye out for her here.”

His muse fell silent at that.

I can’t keep doing this. So long as Sophus remains, they’ll never be safe. I can’t keep them safe.

“What do you intend to do?” A flame he’d thought long since put out flickered to life in his soul.

I don’t know yet, Miguel. I really don’t know.

MARIA PACED, IMPATIENT for Sophus to return. She awaited him in his chambers, ready to confront him. If he’d meant to kill her son this time, it would have happened while she watched. But outright anger would do her no good.

Instead, she tried to focus on something productive. Ripping pages from a book she’d read far too many times, she tossed them one at a time into the flames, trying each time to shield it the way she had Miguel’s hand. Whispers of the Wayuu melodies nudged at her mind, reminiscent of fire and wind.

Each time the paper lit, she stormed away to pace across the room, furious. Then, she stalked back, ripped out another page, and tried again.

Perhaps she was wasting valuable time that she could have used to find the hair Sophus had stolen from her. Or she could gather the pieces of Theron and burn them outright. What would happen if she broke the stalemate between the two older vampires? Was that why Nana had failed when she faced Sophus?

The image Maria had seen in the dream world—the prophecy from the spirits—had shown her that Nana would turn into a fiery beast and consume Sophus. The older woman had revealed she was Sophus’s half-mortal, half-vampire daughter, herself centuries old, and determined to destroy him. But Sophus had simply snapped the old woman’s neck and tossed her corpse aside. And now Nana’s bones resided in a wooden box, hidden in Maria’s room. And somehow that was supposed to help her.

Another page burst into flame, and Maria threw the mostly-empty cover into the fire. Sparks flew into the air, and Maria pulled away, unwilling to risk burning herself. Damn him! she shouted into the dream world. And damn myself!

If she hadn’t waited so long, been so preoccupied with her own problems, perhaps she could have put an end to this years ago. But now she was stuck here, waiting for Sophus to return and gloat over what he’d done. He’d expect her to be here, contrite and subservient and broken, having been made to watch him flex his power over her.

And what would he do if he found her like this? Angry, and ready for a fight?

Maria paused, clenching her empty fists. She knew exactly what he’d do. He’d pull out one of her long hairs from wherever he was hiding them and burn it. And she would scream, wishing for it to stop. And if that did not break her, he would do it again. And again. As much as he needed to.

Maria was no fool. It was torture meant to break her will.

And it would work.

Scowling, she returned to her own room, slamming the door behind her. She needed to calm herself and plan.

Maria heard him return, and stood by her table, facing the door with her eyes downcast. Waiting. For so long it had felt as though this was him exerting power over her, making her wait. But now it seemed otherwise. Now she played his game, and so she waited.

As the sun brightened her room the next morning, he came in, smooth as ice, with a thick book tucked under his arm. Maria remained where she was, her eyes downcast, lest he see she had plans. She needed him to leave.

“I trust you understand more fully that you are to be obedient.”

“I did everything you asked of me.” Maria struggled to keep her voice calm. Of course someone would have told him she’d stopped playing. “The violin broke. I would not have stopped playing, but it broke.”

Sophus circled her, and she could feel his eyes tracing her body. “I believe my instructions were to stop playing if, and only if, I stood before you and told you otherwise.”

What should I have done then? Pounded it against the wall? Maria remained silent.

Sophus completed his circuit and stood before her, not even facing her, as though she were barely worth noticing. “It is with regret that I have found I still cannot trust you with responsibility. The demonstration was necessary.”

He picked some non-existent dirt from under his immaculate nails, flicking it to the side. “I have things to attend to in Santa Marta for the next few days. After that, I’m afraid it is on to the work of death thinning the field of battle—a task that should have been yours. You are, after all, Angel de la Muerta. I’m afraid I will not be as kind to them as you were.”

Maria kept her eyes focused on the base of the door frame, her hands casually relaxed at her side.

“It’s a shame, really.” He reached out and tucked hair behind her ear. She jerked away, but kept her eyes down. He laughed and dropped his hand. “After all this, it is still your fault they will die. Remember that during your wait here.”

Maria nodded, not trusting herself to not lash out.

Sophus took it for submission. “Good.” He slammed the book onto the table. “You are to read this out loud while you walk the hall before your door, to the far corner, and back. You are not to stop for anything short of a word directly from me. If I receive any reports that you have failed in this task in any way, well, you know what will happen. I will be sure to kill him slowly.” A cruel smile spread across his face and he caressed her cheek. “Perhaps Theron will lend me one of his bodies to hold you down so you can watch his death. Yes, that might be just the thing ....”

Maria seethed behind her calm face and downturned eyes as she picked up the book and opened to the first page, following him out the door. Hate. Loathing. The words did not do justice to the feelings she held for that monster.

Chapter 31

EMELIA WALKED DOWN the bright hallway of the hacienda, her niece in her arms. The little girl’s trusting eyes looked up at her.

“Do you miss your mama, Reinita?” Emelia asked, wiggling her fingers before the baby’s face. “I know I do.” Emelia came to a stop before the staircase and cooed at the baby, who smiled up at her, her wide, toothless grin as happy as ever. Emelia continued her stream of nonsense commentary and turned to walk back the way she’d come.

Motion from the top of the stairs made her pause, and she looked up to find Álvaro there, watching. Emelia smiled up at him. “Come down. Reinita misses her papa.” The baby waved her fist and Emelia’s attention returned to the cherubic face. “Don’t you, my little rose? Yes, you do.”

Álvaro came down the stairs and took his daughter. “I thought you were putting her to sleep.”

Emelia’s arms felt empty without the girl. She pulled on the collar of the heavy travelling coat he wore, straightening it. “I thought you were going to stay.”

Álvaro laid his daughter up on his shoulder, and the infant’s body pulled away in discomfort. He began patting her back vigorously from her hips to her shoulders, a silly bounce in his step as they walked. Reina let out an impressive belch and melted onto her father’s shoulder.

“I can’t stay, Emelia.” Álvaro’s pats became gentler until he was rubbing his daughter’s back, his steps smoother. “Gonza’s threat to return is too strong. They’ve wanted to destroy my family for generations. It is insane, and it has to end.”

Reina let out a sigh and dropped into the floppiness of an infant’s true sleep.

“Do you want me to take her?” Emelia offered, reaching out, but Álvaro shook his head. Emelia understood. She was all of Norita they had left. She hadn’t wanted to give her up, either.

“Walk with me?” he asked, gesturing to the gardens with his head.

“Of course.” Emelia opened the door for him so he wouldn't have to jostle the baby. The evening light cast a rosy glow across the verdant gardens as the large fronds of the trees waved above them. They strolled through the shade, and Emelia found herself torn. Memories of adventures in the garden with Álvaro and her sister were interspersed with thoughts of Roberto. Emelia reached out, rubbing a thick, smooth leaf between her fingers as they walked.

“I’d been meaning to talk to you about this.” Álvaro paused, his voice thick. He swallowed and continued. “She had been pestering me to talk to you about it, though heaven knows why she thought it was my place.”

“About what?” Emelia forced down her desire to hide from whatever it was they felt they had to coordinate. She fiddled with Roberto’s ring nervously. If Norita had wanted him to talk about it with her, then she would. She was brave enough for that.

“She said you’d begun to be happy again.” He stopped at a bench and carefully took a seat, holding his daughter steady against him. He continued to rock gently while he spoke, and his eyes flicked up to Emelia. “And honestly, I’ve seen it, too. Before this, Emelia, it was like a spark had come to life in you again. It had been missing for years, but the oblivious fool that I am, it took your sister to point it out to me.”

Emelia remained standing before him. How could he understand the complexity of the emotions within her? Would it be a betrayal to tell him how she felt now? After all the people who had left his life, all the betrayals he’d felt with each one, and now the ultimate loss ... Would he understand? With a deep breath, Emelia took a seat beside him. “Yes, Álvaro. I have been happy here. The Alvarez hacienda has always been my home, and in my heart it always will be—”

Reina’s fussing distracted them both, and Emelia ached to take her from him. Instead, Álvaro settled the infant in his arms and stared at his daughter’s face.

Emelia pulled back. There would be time for her.

“I can’t stay here, Emelia.” He ran his fingers over his daughter’s face, stroking her downy cheek, memorizing her features. “There is too much pain. The hacienda is too full of ghosts for me right now. And she will never be safe as long as Gonza is out there.”

Emelia waited. She wanted to argue, to tell him his daughter needed her father, that she shouldn't have to grow up an orphan the way he had. That he shouldn’t risk it. But she understood his pain. And, more, she understood his desire to protect Reina from any threat the world could offer.

Instead, she touched his shoulder. “I know. I’ll take care of her while you’re gone.”

He leaned against her then, and she held him, the child safe in their arms, as his emotions broke through. She supported his arms, securing Reina with one hand and rubbing his back with the other, speaking quiet reassurances the way Roberto had done for her. Her heart ached with her love for Álvaro, and she realized, for the first time, that it was the same love she had for her sister.

It always had been.

All the worries knotted up inside her suddenly unraveled. Of course he would understand. She thought she could hear her sister laugh and nudge her arm playfully.

Yes, Norita. Emelia smiled at the thought of her sister’s teasing. Finally, I see it.

Álvaro pulled himself together with a shuddering breath and sat up. The space between them seemed filled with Leonora’s satisfied presence. Álvaro reached up to touch Emelia’s face. It was the way she had always dreamed it would be, and yet so far off from what she thought. But also exactly right.

“I have always loved you.” He wiped the tear from her cheek. “You’re the only family I’ve ever had who I knew, without doubt or hesitation, would be there in my time of need. The only person I always knew would care.”

“As you have always been for me.” She smiled and gently lowered his hand. “True family.”

He handed Reina to her. “True family.”

Emelia took the sleeping baby, who gave a big, toothless grin in her sleep, then relaxed again. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell her all the stories of the Wayuu, as Muusa told them to us, until you return.”

Álvaro stood and touched her shoulder. “Thank you.”

Emelia looked up at him, but a figure behind caught her eyes. Despite everything, a smile lit her face, and joy stirred in her soul.

Álvaro turned to find Roberto. He clapped his friend on the back. “Take care of my sister, will you?”

Roberto met her eyes, and his smile matched her own. “If she’ll let me.”

SPRING STORM CLOUDS gathered over the city, and the wind rocked the ships in the harbor as they tugged against their moorings like animals anxious to be freed. Mikhael pulled the last of his lines free, and his boat surged away from the dock. However, the tension that had eaten at him since the day before did not ease. He was not happy with this plan.

No one cares about your happiness, fool. Theron pushed him forward harshly.

But not too harshly, of course. Theron needed Mikhael to sail the ship, and quickly, something Theron himself could not do. Though he could steal Mikhael’s body with a thought, he could not command his skills.

We are all well aware of how meaningless my existence is, Mikhael responded patiently. Working the sails, he brought her out into the open water of the lake. The canvas caught the wind, and he braced himself to stress the ship as far as she could take. Much further than a mortal could have handled on his own. If you don’t mind, I’m a bit busy doing your bidding. Go pester someone else.

Theron withdrew but left him with a parting kick he felt through his entire body. It knocked the wind from Mikhael’s lungs, and he folded over despite himself. Only his grip on the ropes kept him upright.

The Caribbean wind whipped around him, and he sucked in a breath, righting himself. He imagined it was her fury giving speed to his craft.

Where do you sail in such a storm? she asked, her voice as clear in his mind as if they stood on a calm beach.

“North, to Santa Marta.” He spoke loudly, over the crashing waves. “Elisa is meeting Sophus there in a day. Thankfully, she went overland.”

Sophus has already left. He didn’t stay for more than an hour. He gave me some mundane task to keep me occupied in place of that violin, but... She hesitated. I can’t do it any more, Miguel. I can’t. Please tell me Elisa is planning something that will keep him occupied for a reason.

“That’s the way of it,” he said, cautious of his words and thoughts lest he draw unwanted attention.

Then we have to act, Miguel. As soon as he’s with Elisa, and ... others ... are too occupied to be concerned with you. I can’t find Álvaro in the city, and if I can’t find him, then I’m sure Sophus won’t, either. At least for now.

Was she really saying what he hoped she was saying?

Please Miguel, we’ll never get another chance. And I can’t do this without you.

“Nor I you, mi morena.” He adjusted the lines again as the small islands blocking the way to the gulf came into view. “Can you help me guide the ship through those?”

I can try. Can you tell me what Elisa is planning?

“I can try.” He adjusted the helm slightly. Just as carefully, he moved around the entity that was Theron in his mind. When his muse was near, Theron faded, though his control remained absolute. And he could still hear anything Mikhael said, and the wrong words might catch his attention. Mikhael hoped she would understand.

“From the gulf,” he continued, “it will take about half a day to reach Santa Marta where I will stay until I am seen. From there, I must deliver supplies to the rebels gathering near Riohacha. It will take me another half day to reach my next landing point to obtain and take on certain cargo. I should have at least a day to search for the complete set. From there, I will move out to sea for a time afterward while my cargo cures. I do not know the plan beyond that.”

Assuming Elisa succeeds, we have little more than a day, then. She stood and shook off her skirt. How would you like the winds to move for you?

Together, they navigated the small ship through the islands and into the gulf. The winds quieted somewhat as they moved out into the open waters, and the land slid by to the port and the starboard, miles from them in the darkness. He took a seat near the helm, watching his ship move and breathe, and waiting for her to speak again.

If you moved directly north from here, I could board your ship for real, and we could escape.

Words echoed through his mind from the last time he had thought of sailing away to freedom. “The world is not large enough for that.”

No. I suppose not. She hesitated, then spoke. You may not remember it, but I once asked you if you thought life was simpler out here on the water. I was younger then. Foolish.

“Weren’t we all?” Did he remember standing beside his dark-haired angel watching her look out over the dark water? Or was the image hers?

I more than you, perhaps. In many ways, I still am an utter fool. She took a seat beside him. But regarding a simpler life, I’ve come to suspect there is no such thing.

“Maybe you’re not as foolish as you imagine.” He sighed. “You think things will get easier with time and age, that you’ll get better, that you’ll be able to handle things. But I think your troubles just grow with you.”

Miguel, can I ask you something personal?

“You’re a figment of my imagination, remember? I have nothing to hide.” He could have sworn he felt guilt from her at that.

If you were to destroy yourself, how would you do it? Despair crept into her voice.

“You can’t be giving up on me now, are you?” he joked. “I’ve got a half a day of sailing until I reach Santa Marta. Besides, the sun will rise in a few hours and it’s much better shared.”

If it would keep my son and granddaughter safe, I would destroy myself in a heartbeat. But that is not what I intend. She turned to look at the dark horizon.

“I would most assuredly throw myself into a fire.” He felt her shudder beside him, but pressed on. “They fear it so deeply, so primally. And what is more, I know he’d feel every moment of it, unless he set me free. Then I would die happy either way—free or in vengeance.”

She was silent a long time, and he waited.

I know what it feels like to burn. Her voice was hard, and he knew she meant more than the passing pain of their birth into immortality. Do you believe Elisa’s plan for retrieving her prize is solid?

“Yes.” Silence followed his statement as he listened to the gentle creaking of the ropes as the wind continued to push his little ship forward. “Are you still here?”

Yes.

“What are you thinking?”

I think ... I think I have waited too long. She rose from her place at his side. I am done waiting for something to happen. Wish me luck. If things go well, I will take you up on that offer to watch the sunrise together.

“Then may you have all the luck in the world.” He stood and began again to adjust his ship. “Buena suerte, mi morena.”

Te amo, Miguel, she whispered, brushing her fingers against his cheek, and disappeared from his mind.

Chapter 32

ELISA WALKED ALONG the docks of Santa Marta, Mikhael half a pace behind her.

“He had better show up soon,” Mikhael muttered. “If he doesn’t, I’ll miss the tide.”

“You sound like a bird that knows only one song.” Elisa waved away his concern. “He’ll be here when he gets here.”

“At least it’s not a dog with only one trick. I have a schedule to keep, Elisa.”

Exasperated, Elisa turned away from him, toward the city. Walking down the street was just the man she’d been waiting for. “Why don’t you go check your cargo again, Mikhael.”

Mikhael scowled. “I have. Three times. If I am going to be on time, I need to leave.”

Elisa turned to him and grabbed his arm. “I said to go,” she hissed.

He jerked his arm from her grasp and stalked away, as petulant as ever.

“Why do you waste your time with that one?” Sophus’s resonant voice filled her ears, and Theron’s ire twisted her guts.

You’re hurting me, she sent, pleading. If he suspects anything, this will all be wasted.

Theron relented and she turned to Sophus, beaming. “I keep him around to further enhance your refinement, of course. One cannot truly appreciate fine things without rubbing against the rough now and again, don’t you think?”

“Indeed.” Sophus offered his elbow, which she took. “And he intends to sail where?”

“Smuggling weapons and food to the rebels marching on Riohacha. Would you like to see what we’re sending?”

“I would be delighted.”

She led him after Mikhael. “Afterward, would you care to join me for dinner? I have something exceptional planned.”

Sophus agreed.

I have him! Elisa couldn’t keep the triumph from her thoughts, and Theron’s predator-like smile loomed over her mind.

THE SKULL ON THE WOODEN box grinned at Maria as she walked through the door, dropping the final sack of stone-like body parts on the floor. Nana’s voice whispered the tantalizing melody she had never quite managed to catch in the back of her mind. The late morning sunlight broke through the clouds, brightening her stale prison. Not her room any more. She would leave soon and never again have to look upon its hateful walls.

Maria stepped into the dream world to check that everyone remained where she expected them to be. She skimmed along the coast, following her connection to her husband. He was on his ship, sailing south around the peninsula, still a couple hours out. Next, she shifted to Santa Marta and moved rapidly through the buildings Elisa had frequented over the years. The blond woman was occupied with some business transaction, and Sophus was nowhere to be found.

Holding back the panic, Maria swept through several other buildings, but found no trace of him. What other business might he have in the area? She rose above the ground, looking for signs of armies or skirmishes. Hadn’t Miguel said he was dropping off supplies to the Wayuu rebels in Riohacha? Maria shifted to the area and quickly found the gathering army, but saw no sign of Sophus.

Perhaps she would have more luck checking on Álvaro instead. Maria closed her eyes and stilled her mind, hoping to sense a connection to her son. She hadn’t felt one before, in her panic to wake him, but she hadn’t had time to search.

The gentle breeze toyed with her hair, whispering. A flutter of wings made her open one eye to find Si’a dancing on the wind before her. She smiled. You’ve guided me before. Will you do so again?

Si’a chirped and wove his way around her, before flying a few feet to the southwest. He stopped and looked back. Gently, Maria felt for the connection. The gossamer thread ghosted over her fingers, spinning away past Si’a.

Thank you. She bowed to him, and he dipped his head in return.

Maria followed the thread, adjusting as it moved. She found her son moving at a fast clip along the terrain on horseback, still several hours south of Riohacha. Alive and alone. She paced him for a moment, wishing she could tell what thoughts he held behind his hard face. Now was not the time to ask. She had work to do.

Maria opened her eyes to the hateful stone room and kicked the sack before her. The contents shifted, rattling. “I hope you felt that, you bastard.”

She changed into a simple red dress, sufficient for traveling in, and knelt before the fireplace. Nana’s skull seemed to share a sort of glee as Maria built a fire, as though she knew what was coming.

“If this works,” Maria said to Nana’s remains, “you will finally get your rest.”

Maria nursed the fire until it was bright and hot in the hearth. She wished she knew the songs to make Si’a appear to her in the flames. But perhaps he wouldn’t want a part of what she was about to do. Instead, she opened her eyes once more to the dream world, looking for Ka’i. The silent woman stood in the corner of the room, her hand protectively over her belly, watching her descendant through the filter of centuries. Maria nodded to her, knowing it would be useless to speak—voices from the future didn’t travel well, only those from the past.

Drawing out a knuckle, the first bit of Theron she had found, Maria looked it over. She knew how it would make Theron feel; she could imagine the torment and pain it would cause. And that he would likely share it with Miguel.

“I am so sorry, mi amor.”

There was one last thing to try before the final test. Maria centered herself, filling herself with the sense of urgency she had when Miguel had set his own hand to the flame, and tossed the knuckle into the center of the flame. She tried to shield it, willing it not to burn.

It hit the wood with a solid thunk and rolled, before catching and cradling in a bend of the log. Had she done it? Had she finally successfully shielded something against the flames? Smoke rose around it, and it hissed and crackled, and Maria backed away. Suddenly it caught, flaring brightly. Smoke billowed from the small piece of immortal flesh, as if in protest. She had failed to shield it after all.

But it had burned.

Maria watched it slowly char, blacken, then dissipate into ash.

A knock came at the door, and Maria turned to see Iráma letting herself in, a bulging bag in her arms. “If it is time, this is for you.”

Maria took the bag and sniffed at it. It was mostly goat, but Maria could tell there was a good amount of human blood, too. “Those of us who believe in you donated. Take our blood for your strength, and set us free.”

Maria set the bag carefully on the chair and wrapped her aging friend in a gentle embrace. “Thank you, Iráma. I will do my best.”

“I know.”

“I need you to do something else for me, please.” Maria moved around the room, gathering her few possessions.

“I will do anything I can.” Iráma handed her a pack.

“Promise me you will leave. Within the hour. Take any who will go with you, and go as far and fast as possible. I know you came here looking for a peaceful death, but what is coming will be anything but.” Maria began packing her things. Her father’s pistols, her bag of arras, her engagement brooch, the set of Miguel’s clothes she had worn from her home to have something more practical than a dress to go adventuring in. Miguel’s old, worn coat. She paused with that, holding it close and breathing in its faded scent. It still smelled like him, after all these years. She slipped it on.

Setting Nana’s box beside the nearly full pack, Maria hesitated a moment over her knives. They wouldn’t do her any good in a fight, but they might still prove useful tools. Last, she set the fire starter box on the top and closed the pack, slinging it over her shoulder.

Iráma looped the bota bag of blood over Maria’s neck to hang next to the pack, and helped her sling the bags of Theron’s body parts over her other shoulder.

“Perhaps we shall see each other again, waré.” Maria gave her one last hug, then picked up Nana’s ossuary box, holding it against her side.

“Perhaps, but perhaps not. Not in this life, anyway.”

“Promise me you will get out.”

Iráma inclined her head. “Because you ask it, I will.”

Maria gave her a sad smile and strode out from her prison.

ELISA PACED ACROSS Rafael Vallejo’s empty office. The morning light slanted through the windows, and the birds made their typical raucous noise. She glanced at the clock on the mantel, annoyed at being made to wait. Fortunately she still had several hours before her next appointment with Sophus.

She grinned. Sophus was even more fascinating here than he’d been in the privacy of his labyrinth. And Elisa had him, entirely. He didn’t even suspect Mikhael had continued on to his lair rather than return. Things were going perfectly on that point.

The door rattled and Vallejo stepped in.

“You’re late.” Elisa leaned against the board and crossed her arms.

“Don’t pester me right now, woman,” Vallejo said, rubbing his forehead. “I don’t have time for you.”

“Oh Rafael, I’m hurt.” Elisa reached for his arm, and he shrugged her off. Or at least he tried to. She held his elbow in her vice-like grip. “Now, that is no way to treat a lady.”

His eyes flicked down to meet hers, anger clouding his features. “What is it you want?”

“I am terribly upset,” Elisa said, affecting a pout as she shoved him into his chair. He landed hard.

He scoffed at her. “If I cared about your womanly feelings—”

“Now this won’t do at all.” Elisa tsked, walking around him. He tried to stand, but she forced him back into his seat. Leaving her hand on his shoulder, she leaned her head next to his. “You see, it is a terrible thing to make me upset. You ought to care.” She squeezed his shoulder until he cringed.

“Fine, I care. What are you upset about?” Vallejo’s voice remained defiant, but the scent of his adrenaline rose from him.

Releasing him, Elisa sat before him on the desk. “The girl was not supposed to get hurt.”

Vallejo snorted. “If you hadn’t wanted her hurt, you wouldn’t have ratted her out.”

“Not that one.”

Vallejo raised an eyebrow. “You can’t possibly mean Alvarez’s woman.”

Elisa leaned forward, meeting his eyes. “You made a mistake with that fool, Gonza. The deal was for him to get his revenge against the brat. Had he killed the boy, I would not have cared. But the Díaz family is and has been under my protection.”

Elisa watched Vallejo’s mind work as he tried to come up with a way to soothe her. Ha! As if that man, who had killed three wives and run off the next one, knew anything about soothing women. Elisa bared her teeth in a snarl, and for the first time Vallejo had the good sense to look afraid. She grabbed the front of his shirt and lifted him from his chair.

“I think a message needs to be sent.” Elisa twisted the shirt, tightening it around his neck.

“Anything you wish, Señora,” Vallejo gasped, clutching at her arms. “I am at your disposal.”

She pulled him close, enjoying the panic that rose from him. Mouthwatering. She stood, setting his feet back on the ground, and snaked her arms around him, pulling him close. He resisted futilely. She set her hand on the back of his head, moving it close to whisper in his ear. His heart raced in his throat as she brushed her lips against his rough jaw. “To use your own words, my friend, when you’re used up, there will be plenty others ready to replace you. You should not have killed my niece.”

He gasped as her teeth sank into his flesh.

Several minutes later, Elisa dropped Vallejo’s pale corpse into his chair, and dabbed her lips with his handkerchief. “This was inconvenient of you, Vallejo. I spent years grooming you for this position, and now look at what you’ve done. I’ll just have to find someone to replace you.”

It wasn’t that she liked the girl. Of course not. But it was her family. There was a reason she’d made Emelia leave.

Elisa pulled the hand mirror from her pocket and checked her appearance. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes practically glowed with life. It would be good to present herself to Sophus looking so well. She patted the corpse on the head. “Well, at least you’ve helped me with that.”

She glanced at her hair one more time, checking for stray wisps.

A scream of rage and pain tore through her mind, and the mirror fell, shattering against the hard floor. She dropped into a crouch as her left hand caught fire, and her scream matched the one in her head. Elisa pulled her arm in protectively, but there was no fire. The pain existed entirely in her mind.

Theron! Without thought, she fled from the building. He was burning, and she had to get to him, to save him. The pain in her hand wound up her arm, like fiery knives searing up her bones.

HE IS BURNING ME! STOP HIM! Theron’s command burned through her, more overpowering than his pain. Elisa ran into the jungle, unconcerned with the way the brush would tear at her dress, and angled eastward, around the mountains that surrounded Santa Marta. She would get to the lair as fast as her feet could carry her. Nothing was going to stop her.

THE HOT MORNING SUN beat on Mikhael’s hat and heavy coat, warming him despite the cool breeze. The gentle motion of the waves pushed his boat forward, and the distant coast slid by at a reasonable pace. Running would have been faster, but Sophus would have a harder time tracking him out on the ocean once Mikhael had stolen back Theron’s limbs, so by ship it was.

Mikhael pulled off one of his gloves and scratched his chin. He was still a couple hours away from landing near Sophus’s lair. Would his muse be there, waiting for him? He wished he could have asked her if she knew where Theron’s body was; if she could gather it for him. It would have made this far faster and that much less risky. But he hadn’t been willing to chance drawing Theron’s attention to her.

He pulled the glove back on. But she had said she loved him. He had long known he loved her, and her feelings had seemed fairly obvious. But that was the first time she’d said it to him. The world felt far more solid now.

A heavy breeze jerked the sails, pulling the boat off course, and Mikhael moved to compensate. As he did, a searing pain flared to life across his hand as a scream of pain and rage slammed through him, knocking him down. He lost his grip on the ropes as he fell, crashing across the helm, which shattered beneath him.

HE’S BURNED IT! Theron screamed.

Mikhael fought against the mindless raging that controlled him. I can’t help you if we lose the ship. Let me get her ashore.

Theron continued to rage, and the pain seared through Mikhael’s arm.

He ignored it. He’d had pain enough in this life; this was just more of the same. He struggled to gain control of the damaged ship and bring her in to shore against the suddenly angry winds. Was it his muse trying to keep him away?

THEY WILL DIE! THEY WILL ALL DIE!! Theron shouted in rage and fury as Mikhael fought the ship.

With a sinking feeling in his gut, he realized Theron would take absolute control the moment they landed. They would run to Sophus’s lair, and he would destroy every living thing they found there.

Ever so slightly, Mikhael slowed his efforts.

Get out of there, mi morena, he prayed to whomever would listen.

Chapter 33

MARIA TRAVELED EAST, then north toward the center of the peninsula, the opposite direction of Iráma’s group. She did not wish to be anywhere close when Sophus returned. If she guessed correctly, Miguel would be nearby. Until he was free of Theron, he was as much a danger as Sophus.

Her awkward load prevented her from moving as quickly as she would have liked. The sun neared its zenith, and she crested a low hill and found what she was looking for: a small hollow with enough foliage around to build a decent fire. She threw Theron’s bag on the ground and more carefully set down her other bag and Nana’s box, then removed Miguel’s coat, folding it neatly over her bag. She then set to work gathering fuel for a fire.

Dumping the load of kindling and wood in the center of the area, Maria looked up to the clear sky. Lighting a fire now would be sure to signal anyone looking. She would need a breeze of some sort to scatter the smoke. Grinning, Maria retrieved the fire starter from her pack. A breeze was something she could manage.

Drinking the blood Iráma and the other women had gifted her, Maria nursed the fire. The gentle breeze came in fits and starts, dispersing the smoke. The flames grew strong but still needed time for the coals to grow truly hot. More heat would, in theory, help Theron’s body burn faster. Not that she had any compassion for him. It was Miguel she wished to spare.

Taking a seat on a rock next to her fire, Maria opened Nana’s box. On the top lay the skull, and Maria pulled it out. “One way or another, Nana, something interesting is bound to happen. Do you know how I know?” Maria straightened the fabric of her skirt. “Because I’m wearing red. I always had such bad luck with red dresses.”

She almost thought she could hear Nana laugh at the idea, and Maria gave a wry smile. “I suppose that’s true. I had good luck with them, too.”

Reverently, Maria set the skull beside her, facing the flames.

Next, she drew out the first bone her hand touched, inspecting it to make sure it was properly clean. Iráma had done a wonderful job, as Maria knew her friend would. But as Nana’s oldest living female relative, so far as she knew, it remained Maria’s duty to be sure. Once she was satisfied, the bone was set to the side, and the next one came out. She found herself humming softly as she worked, a melody both familiar and strange.

Nervousness chewed on her thoughts while she worked, but she pushed it away. What would she do if Sophus found her before she’d freed Miguel? She had fought the blond man more than once and had utterly failed each time.

She set another bone aside. Now was as good as any time to get started on Theron. Without ceremony, she reached into the bag and pulled out a piece of the broken vampire. Wrinkling her nose, she tossed it into the fire.

The fragment, no larger than her hand, smoldered for a moment before bursting into brilliant, smoky flame. Chagrined at the smoke, Maria pulled more of the breeze to help dissipate it. She drew out another of Nana’s bones and returned to her work.

ELISA SAT, CURLED UP in the corner of her mind. She had been shocked at first, when Theron had wrenched her body from her control, but he was in such pain. The initial burning had subsided, and in its place only Theron’s wrath had remained. Elisa had run, faster than she ever had before, along the fastest route she knew, to Sophus’s lair.

It will be all right, she had tried to assure him, or perhaps herself, as she ran. But another burst of pain flared to life within her, racing along her bones and nerves. She screamed, falling to the ground. The sound of her dress tearing seemed unnaturally loud in her ears, as though it ought to be overpowered by the sound of the flame that was surely consuming her. Theron had acted instantly, wresting control of her own body from her. And they ran. Elisa tried not to panic at agony eating at her mind. Surely, he was simply reacting to the pain. Surely, surely, he would let her go once he calmed down.

But he hadn’t. The torture of the burning ended, but he didn’t let go. Instead he ran her body faster, harder than she thought it could go. And it hurt. She tried to talk to him, to coax him out of his rage as she’d always been able to do before. He shoved her aside. And the burning started again.

They arrived at Sophus’s lair. Elisa could hear Mikhael in there already, and for a moment she felt relief. If anyone could help Theron calm down, it was him. Her moment of reprieve was short-lived, however, when she registered screaming. The smell of fresh, spilt blood made her head spin as another round of burning began. Her mind screamed in agony, but her body was not hers to control.

When Theron started slaughtering the women, Elisa fought him. But the sick joy he got out of taking his rage out on them filled her body. The fear in their eyes reflected on her soul, and she retreated from him. She hid in her mind, terrified of what would happen to her if he turned on her, too.

But she could not retreat entirely. It was still her body. Elisa could not look away from the faces Theron mauled with her hands, nor close her ears to their cries of fear and pain, or their useless pleas for mercy. She could not hide from the feel of their bodies breaking in her hands, nor the smell of their blood. And all the while, Theron screamed at her that this was her fault. If she hadn’t interfered, he wouldn’t be burning.

No matter how she wished to, Elisa could not shut her mind from the sensory influx, nor could she stop the instinctual bloodlust that came with it. They were there, in her perfect memory, even as she cowered in her own body.

At some point after all the women were killed, Elisa lost track of Miguel, and Theron’s anger doubled. He destroyed and burned everything. The statues, the furniture, the books, all the beauty; he ravaged it all with her hands.

This is your fault, Theron screamed at her, the echoes of his accusation overlaying the repeating images of horror.

It was her fault.

You should have found them yourself, long before now!

If she’d been quicker or smarter, she’d have been able to avoid this.

They die because of your incompetence.

It wasn’t her fault. She’d tried.

Not hard enough.

Never good enough.

You don’t deserve this body.

How could she when she’d been so concerned with foolish things while he had been trapped all those years?

Elisa huddled into the dark recesses of her mind, cowering before the thoughts, sights, and fresh memories, while Theron continued his rampage in her body.

Chapter 34

THE SHADOWS GREW IN the east as heavy rain clouds edged their way across the sky. Maria paused for a moment to lift into the dream world and look for Miguel. Her connection to him spun away to the south and was moving extremely fast. He was ashore, then, and running. And not toward her. Perhaps that was best for now.

Miguel? she called out, unsure if she would get a response at this distance, but unwilling to leave herself open and unprotected. He didn’t respond. It’s the distance, don’t you think, Nana?

Maria looked at the skull in the dream world. It watched her, silent and amused. The winds twisted around her, whispering their unheard secrets in a melody she couldn’t quite catch.

Some help you are, she said playfully, and dropped back into her body. Pushing aside the worry, she returned to her task of checking Nana’s bones, occasionally tossing another piece of Theron into the flame when the previous one had burned to ash. The work was methodical, calming, but Maria kept her senses open for any sounds. She did not want to be caught unaware.

A sound in the undergrowth startled her. Spinning, she dropped the long bone she’d been working on and crouched, searching for the threat.

After a few moments, the leaves rustled again, and a lean fox peered out at her before slinking away.

With a shaky laugh of relief, Maria turned back. The brilliant white bone she’d dropped lay in the fire, cradled between two large chunks of wood. With a cry of dismay, she reached into the flames to snatch the precious bone away, instinctively gathering her spirit over her hand as she had done with Miguel’s. A chorus of voices burst to life in her mind.

She snatched the smoldering bone from the flame and tossed it aside, and the winds in her mind fell silent. Startled at what she’d done, she sat back. Taking a deep breath, she looked at her hand. It didn’t hurt. It wasn’t damaged. She flexed it and shuddered. What would she have done if she had caught fire? What could she have done? It didn’t bear thinking about.

Maria glanced up at the skull. “Sorry, Nana.” As she reached for the bone she had dropped in the dirt, the wind shifted, and the smoldering bone burst into flame. Maria recoiled. It burned as brightly as Theron’s knuckle had. Cautiously, she scooped it up onto a flat rock. She watched the flames burning white and blue, mesmerized by their strange patterns. The miniature fire danced in a breeze that carried whispers of secrets as it swirled around them.

With a shudder, Maria tore her gaze from the flame and dropped the bone into the dirt, hoping to smother it. Surely Nana would forgive her disrespect. Maria kicked dirt over the small bone, and the peculiar flame winked out. Carefully, she moved her skirts aside and nudged the bone with her boot, knocking the dirt away. The moment the air touched the bone, the flame again flared to life.

She glanced around, hoping for something else that might put out the small fire. Perhaps the empty bota bag, with its still-damp leather, would do the trick. She dropped it over the bone, and at first it appeared to work. She leaned back, relieved, until the acrid smell of burning leather reached her nose. Before she could pull the leather away, it blacked and curled, opening a hole where the bone appeared, its white-hot flame burning through.

Maria looked over to the skull beside her with chagrin. “This is your fault, you know.”

Nana’s skull just grinned at her in the firelight as if to say, I told you I’d given you what you need.

Maria sighed and finished her meticulous inspection of the remaining bones as the small fire slowly consumed Nana’s bone. The sun had nearly slipped past the horizon by the time she finished, and the burnt bone had finally turned to ash. She had dealt with nearly half of Theron’s bag, and the fire had burned down.

Realizing she’d need more wood, she stood and stretched. Carefully, she returned Nana’s bones—all save her skull—back to the box, and banked the coals.

The sun had fully set when she returned with a final load of wood. She set it near the fire circle and kicked Theron’s bag. This time Maria would build the fire far larger. She intended to burn the rest of it at once.

She cast her mind once more into the dream world, looking for Miguel. He remained in the direction of Sophus’s lair. Maria pulled back, hoping Iráma and the others had left when she’d asked.

As Maria opened the bag, a stabbing pain shot through her ribs and pierced her heart. She jerked her head toward the west, suddenly filled with dread. Leaving everything behind, Maria raced away, hoping she was wrong. As she ran, her spirit soared above, but each step she took served only to solidify her dread.

MIKHAEL AND ELISA HAD ravaged the caves. One by one, Theron tore apart each of the few woman they’d found, interrogating them for information on the missing limbs. Not a single one knew anything about what they wanted. Mikhael could see the terror in their eyes reflected in Elisa’s, but neither of them had any choice. Theron controlled them both with an iron grip, and no amount of fighting him had made a difference. They might have been flies buzzing about his ears for all the effect it had. But still Mikhael fought. As hard as he ever had his entire life. It didn’t matter if it destroyed him; if he could gain control and spare even one life, it would be worth it. He could never be the monster Theron had tried so hard to make him.

With each new round of burning pain that tore through Theron, Mikhael fought back harder, hoping that this time the broken vampire’s grip had weakened. It never had, but still Mikhael fought.

It was a relief when Theron could find no more—Mikhael did his best not to think very hard about how there seemed too few to begin with—and he sent them to kill the livestock. When that proved fruitless, Theron began to burn everything he could find. The cave stank of smoke as they walked through it, tearing apart every statue they passed. Theron raved, screaming incoherently as the next part of him burned and they pummeled a nearby statue to dust.

Finally it eased, and Theron stood in his two stolen bodies amidst the smoke and rubble. Clear through this mess and find them! he commanded, retreating from the battered minds.

Elisa crumpled to the ground, a sob escaping her throat, but her face slack and emotionless. He moved to her side, touching her elbow, and she jerked away, shaking. She stayed as she was, not looking up.

“Elisa,” he whispered. “Are you hurt?”

He knew it for a foolish question the moment it had passed his lips. Her golden hair, normally perfectly clean and coiffed, was disheveled and ratty. There was even a leaf sticking out. Her dress, so fine a few hours ago, was now filthy and torn. He knew the trauma she had just endured; he had shared it with her. But he’d spent the last quarter of a century getting used to it. This was new for her. Of course she was hurt.

“It’s my fault,” she muttered. “It’s all my fault.”

“It isn’t your fault, Elisa,” he said. “This wasn’t your doing.”

Elisa continued repeating herself, her eyes blank.

“Stay there, for now.” He rose to his feet. “I’ll start looking for what we came for.”

Mikhael sorted through the rubble, working his way from one room to the next. He had just tossed a handful of books onto a fire when it hit him: a shaft of physical pain through his cold, unmoving heart.

He staggered to the side, bracing himself against the wall and clutching at his chest. He’d never known such pain. Nothing Elisa had ever done, nor Theron, nor even the transformation, had hurt like this. His eyes turned to the northwest and everything else fell away. Theron had no hold on him over this pull. He ran.

Chapter 35

MARIA SMELLED THE BLOOD long before she saw it. There had been a skirmish some distance south of Riohacha. Wayuu and Spanish alike lay dying, abandoned by their friends until it was safe to retrieve them. The rebellion had finally broken out. Maria clenched her fists. If she succeeded in what she meant to do, perhaps this would be the last time.

She scanned the field. What would Álvaro be doing here? The smell of blood intensified as she neared, but the blood held no draw for her today. Nothing, nothing but the pull on her heart drew her forward. The pain in her heart drew her forward, past the worst of it.

And she saw him.

For the first time in twenty-six years, Maria saw him with her physical eyes. He lay on his side, one of his arms beneath him as he’d fallen, but she knew him. He was her son. She would have known him anywhere.

“Álvaro!” She ran to him, gently turning him over and cradling him in her arms.

“Mother?” Surprise colored his hoarse voice.

“I’m here.” She failed to keep her voice level as she ran her hands over him, looking for his wounds. “I’m so sorry I didn’t come sooner, so sorry I didn’t protect you.”

“I always knew.” He broke off, choking and coughing up blood. “I always knew you were there, watching over me. I remember ... a song ....”

“Yes, I used to sing for you.” Maria began the lullaby she had sung so many times before to Álvaro with so much hope in her heart that he’d hear it and know she loved him.

“That’s the one,” he said with a weak smile.

Maria continued to sing and pulled him closer, her precious child, while coughing racked his body. She held him closer and rocked him, as if through sheer force of will she could keep him with her, that she could somehow make up for a lifetime in the few moments that remained to them.

MIKHAEL, TOO, SMELLED the blood before he saw the remnants of the battle. He scanned the carnage for the unknown thing he sought. A song drifted through the air, a lullaby, and his heart fell. He knew that voice anywhere. It was his dark angel singing to her dying son.

He rushed toward the voice. He knew her the moment he saw her dark form. Her long black hair curled gently across her form, shielding her son like a curtain from prying eyes.

He walked slowly toward her, afraid of startling her as she sang. He knelt beside the woman and gently tucked the hair behind her ear. She turned toward him, her face exactly the way he’d imagined it, but so full of pain. Her eyes, dark despite their gentle umber coloring, were so full of sorrow. She looked down, and he followed her gaze to the man she held in her arms.

Álvaro still breathed, but Mikhael could hear the wetness of his breath. He looked so much like his mother. His scent, beneath the smell of pain and horses, fear and sweat, felt familiar, reminding Mikhael of things he’d never know. Of peace and life and joy. Of home.

Mikhael reached out a hand to touch him, but stopped, looking at the woman for permission. She gave a slight nod, and he reached for the dying man’s hand. As Mikhael touched him, a warmth and rightness flooded through him, filling his soul.

A light flared in Álvaro’s eyes at the touch, and he struggled to sit up. Bracing his back, Mikhael helped him.

“I know you.” Álvaro struggled to speak.

Though he felt like he knew the boy from memories his muse had shared with him over the years, they had never actually met. Mikhael shook his head.

Álvaro glanced at his mother and back at Mikhael. “I do know you. You’re in the portrait. With my mother.”

Mikhael stilled. He didn’t want to think it. Memories he’d long ago repressed, locking away to be held safely from Theron’s grasp, pushed against the walls that held them. He pulled away from the boy, wishing it not to be true. But he couldn’t bring himself to let go of his hand.

He looked at the boy’s mother. He needed her to say it.

She lifted her eyes from her son and met his.

Say it, he begged silently. I can’t ...

She reached for him, touching his cheek gently. “Miguel, meet our son. Álvaro Michael Álvarez del Mar.”

Was this man truly his child? His heart, his soul, his very body resonated with the knowledge. The world spun beneath him.

She knew. She knew who he was. She had always known. She hadn’t said. The memories surged against his barrier.

But the boy. All this time, the boy was his. Álvaro was his.

Álvaro convulsed and wet gasps wracked his body. Together, Mikhael and his muse tried to ease his coughing as the boy struggled to breathe. The moments crawled by, wringing Mikhael’s guts with fear and pain. This was his son. He couldn’t let him die.

“We have to save him,” he whispered to his muse, too low for the boy to hear.

“We can’t.” She shook her head, her voice thick with emotion. “I’ve seen wounds like this before. There’s nothing we can do.”

Mikhael paused, looking at his son’s ashen face. The boy’s heart still beat. It was possible. “We could turn him.”

“No,” she hissed. He expected anger in her face, but instead there was only pain. She wanted him to live as badly as he did. “I will rid this place of our curse, not add to it.”

“Even at the cost of our son?”

“Álvaro,” his muse said gently, loud enough for the boy to hear. “Why are you here? Why aren’t you safe at home, with your daughter?”

Álvaro smiled weakly, and gestured to the side. “Gonza would have killed her, but I...” More coughing wracked his body.

Mikhael glanced over at the nearby body. Gonza still breathed.

“I’m glad you’re both here.” Álvaro’s voice caught. “Where is Leonora? Is she coming?”

“She’ll be here soon,” the woman said, stroking her son’s hair. “Reina is safe now. You can rest.”

She began singing softly. Mikhael pulled the canteen of water from his son’s hip and held it to the boy’s lips. The dying always asked for water. He didn’t want Álvaro to have to ask. The boy drank weakly. Pulling the water away, Mikhael tore his shirt and used it to begin wiping the dirt and mud from the boy’s face. It was his face, and hers, as they would have looked had they aged further.

Álvaro was handsome and strong, and Mikhael saw again the images his muse had given him—the infant, the child, the young man—all in the face of the man before him. Mikhael took his son’s hand, and the boy gave a weak squeeze, meeting his father’s eyes. Coughing again took his breath. Stilling, the boy’s hand dropped away.

And Mikhael could not breathe.

Silence surrounded them in the darkness as the woman’s voice cracked and broke off.

She gasped for breath beside him.

His son was gone.

She pulled the body toward her, holding it desperately to her chest. Her ragged voice begged him not to go, to stay with her. She stroked his face, caressing it like a baby’s, and rocked.

Álvaro did not move.

Her scream of anguish tore through the night, ripping through Mikhael. A perfect echo of his own pain and rage. He rose, unable to stay still a moment longer. The man nearby groaned for water. Mikhael went to him, lifting him by the throat.

“Gonza,” he hissed.

He didn’t need the man to answer. Mikhael knew him, and could smell his son’s blood on the dying man’s hands. With a cry of rage, he smashed the man onto the ground. The years of anger flooded through him, and he let them out on the man who had killed his son. All he had lived through, all the pain, all he had lost and not even known it. All he’d been forbidden to express. He turned them all to the man who had killed his child.

ELISA LAY ALONE IN her body in the darkness of the smoke-stained cave, lifeless and still. Like the statues they had toppled.

They had continued on until there was nothing left to destroy. Nothing had been found. Something had drawn Theron’s attention away from her, and she had collapsed where she stood. Numb. Afraid. Afraid of when Theron would return. Afraid of burning again.

For the first time, Elisa understood why Miguel had always fought so hard. But she was spent. Broken. There was no fight left in her now.

The cold, steel claws of Theron’s touch scraped over her mind.

“Miguel!” she cried out, her voice only a whisper.

Elisa, Theron called to her, stroking her raw mind.

She recoiled from his touch.

You need to get up. It is time to come home. He draws near. I cannot protect you from his wrath if he returns and finds you here.

I would deserve it. Her body remained limp and listless as she had fallen.

He pulled gently on her mind, and she stood. She had no choice.

You wouldn’t be so selfish as to leave me here alone, without hope? Theron crooned at her, gently moving her soul back into control of her body.

She didn’t resist, and made her way mindlessly through the debris.

I know you would never be so unkind. Releasing her body, he nudged her forward, and she walked, numbly.

You hurt me. She reached timidly for his mind.

I know, and I’m sorry it hurt. He caressed her mind fondly. She could almost feel him touching her cheek. It was necessary, but I’m sure it won’t ever happen again. I need you; I need you back here with me. Come to me, my precious one.

Elisa emerged from the cave into the moonless night. Looking back at the death-filled catacombs behind her, she shuddered and turned for home.

Chapter 36

MARIA HELD HER SON’S body, her eyes closed as she willed him with all her strength not to be gone. Nearby, Miguel expressed his wrath in the darkness of the night.

If she refused to believe it, refused to look in the dream world and see his spirit standing there, then it wouldn’t be true. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing him standing in the dream world, ready to move on without her. She was the parent; she was supposed to be there to meet him, to guide him to Jepira.

Would she make him go alone?

Maria cast herself abruptly into the dream world. One more. She only needed one more minute with him. Once more to say goodbye!

The grasses, full of wildflowers, moved in the gentle breeze around her.

Álvaro, she cried out, searching for him. He had to hear her, to come back. Álvaro!

She spun in a slow circle, hoping to see him, but the dreamscape remained empty. She stilled herself, looking down at her physical body which still held her son. She would follow the connection, like she had before. Was it only a few days ago?

Maria reached for his chest, hoping to feel the line she could not see. But her hand moved through empty space. There was no connection. Álvaro had gone.

No! She cried out, turning to the north. I won’t lose you!

She ran, pouring all her strength into moving toward the distant mountains. The grasses moved beside her, but the winds pushed back, whispering of things undone. Maria screamed her frustration as the mountains came no nearer.

I don’t care! Let me through!

Something leapt at her, knocking her to her back. She tried to shove it off, but the warm, thick-furred thing wouldn’t budge. It sat on her chest, crushing her down and keeping her from drawing breath. She pulled her eyes from the distant mountains and focused on the wolf-dog before her. Alistair?

The dog whined and licked her face before getting off. But the weight of sorrow remained on her chest.

I have to go to my son. Maria gestured to the mountains, and Alistair cocked his head, listening. He’s gone on without me. I need to meet him there.

Alistair sat beside her and dropped his head into her lap.

She stroked him behind his ears. It is good to see you again, old friend. Will you take me there?

The dog stood and stretched, shaking himself.

I’ll take that as a yes. Maria smiled and rose, setting her eyes once again on the distant mountains. She stepped forward, but the dog stepped in front of her, blocking her way. As he had in her dreams decades ago.

Stop it, she said, trying to step around him. Alistair growled and again blocked her, this time pushing her back. She tried to move his head aside, but he seemed to grow larger with every attempt to force him. Step by step, he moved her back toward the field. Toward an impossible existence where she lived and her son did not.

No! She beat weakly against his muzzle. I don’t want this!

Alistair’s soft eyes levelled with hers. You must, they seemed to say. We’ll be here for you. When you are ready.

I don’t want to go back, she whispered, wrapping her arms around her faithful dog.

Alistair set his muzzle against her chest and pushed.

The pressure in her arms became far too real, and Maria opened her eyes. In the moonless darkness, the starlight colored the world around her. Her son’s lifeless body remained in her arms.

Quietly, she rose. He needed to be buried.

Miguel joined her.

MARIA STOOD IN THE quiet starlight beside the fresh grave in the churchyard. The priest had not asked many questions. It was better that way. Miguel came to her side, having returned the two shovels to their place, and slipped his hand into hers.

“I’m going to kill him,” she said.

“He’s already gone.”

“He did this. He did it all.”

Miguel set his hand on her arm. “The boy was killed protecting his family. But they’re safe now.”

“Álvaro, Miguel. Not ‘the boy’.” Her voice hardened, and she pulled herself from Miguel’s grip. “It is Sophus who killed him. He killed my father, as surely as he killed you, as he killed me, and now he has killed my son. They will not be safe until he is utterly destroyed.”

“But how?” He stepped in front of her, looking her square in the eyes. “You’ve spent years telling me how you can’t defeat him on your own. How do you intend to do so now?”

“With your help, if I can have it. On my own if I must.” She stepped around him, heading for the fence.

“But what about Theron?” he hissed, falling into step beside her. “I haven’t felt him for hours now, but what if he comes back? How can you fight both of us at once?”

“If you have any of your former self left to you, you will help me destroy them.”

“My former self?” Mikhael nearly laughed aloud. “You say that as though I remember anything beyond the hell that has been this life with Theron. I don’t know the first thing about any former self. Yet there you stand, calling on it like it’s supposed to mean something to me when you’re every bit as unwilling to tell me the truth as everyone else.”

She stopped and again met his eyes. Her dark, umber-and-silver eyes seemed ablaze with the heat of her emotions, but Mikhael did not fear fire. He stood his ground, waiting.

“You were born Michael Dunholm in England,” she stated flatly. “Your mother died when you were very young.”

Her words hit him like knives through his chest, striking something deep inside, something entirely too painful. Mikhael crossed his arms, refusing to recoil from their sting as she continued.

“You sailed with your father, who owned several merchant ships. When he died, your uncle stole them from you. You travelled the world; you spoke several languages. You were fierce, loyal, and brave.” She pulled a pouch from her pocket, and her voice softened as she looked at it. “Kind and smart. When you stepped off the boat in Maracaibo you decided to leave everything that was you from before behind and start anew. You adopted the first name you came across—Miguel Blanco del Mar.”

The truth and the knowledge of her words swirled around him. She waved them away.

“A sentence or two means little, Miguel. Telling you who you were, telling you who I want you to be, it doesn’t matter.” She tossed him the bag.

He caught it, the weight of the coins within solid in his palm.

“All that really matters is where you decide to go from here. Who you choose to be is your decision.”

He shifted the coins in the bag. What did money have to do with anything?

She turned to go.

“You still haven’t told me who you are.”

She stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “I am Maria Alvarez Zyanya, the last daughter of Zyanya. I was born to destroy Sophus, and today is the day I shall do so. Come with me, or stay here. Either way, I have a fire to tend.”

Mikhael watched her go as the night sky crept toward dawn. Her words echoed through his mind. I am Maria Alvarez Zyanya.

Finally he knew who she was. He knew her name.

And he knew his.

Why did knowing not bring him any comfort?

He looked at the bag in his hand. Along the neck was embroidered a line of amaranths. Working the laces open, he looked inside. Within lay several mismatched coins. Arras. Wedding coins. The word unlocked something in his mind, and the memories he had walled up crashed forward. The most prominent rose to the top. A rainy night, a dark-haired pregnant wife, and a promise to return. He had known. He had always known. Even without remembering, he’d known from the beginning Elisa hadn’t been who he’d been looking for. But he’d accepted her, because of his desperation not to be alone.

He always knew the dark angel in his mind was more than she’d seemed. He’d even known the boy— “Álvaro,” he forced himself to say out loud—had a special connection to him. He’d known it so powerfully that in his moment of need, Álvaro had pulled him away from the powerful grip of Theron. A child’s need for his father.

His muse—Maria. My wife—might believe everything that happened had been Sophus’s fault. But he remembered now. His stubborn, blind devotion to loyalty. Always pressing forward, so certain he was right, without ever stopping to think if he should.

The only person responsible for this, the one who had kept him from returning to his son and wife, from keeping his promise, was himself.

He was the very monster Theron had always claimed him to be.

Mikhael ran his hand along the whitewashed wooden fence. Its grains, frozen beneath his hand in patterns as inevitable as the waves on the shore, swirled beneath his fingertips. Fixed as they were, to remain as they had been made for eternity. Until the sun, and the rain, and the wind had worn them away to nothing.

“No.” Mikhael’s hand crushed the wood in his fist. He could not change the past, but his future remained unwritten. The wood could still do one more thing.

It could burn.

Mikhael leapt over the fence, tossing the broken wood into the soft dirt. Maria meant to destroy Sophus. And she would need his help. No matter what it took, he would help her. After, together, they would destroy Theron.

And then he would be free.

Chapter 37

MARIA ARRIVED AT HER clearing with a gust of wind at her back. The black skyline of the eastern horizon held a subtle tint of purple, hinting at the day to come. The coals she had banked flared to life with the movement of the wind, momentarily painting the dark rocks and foliage in brilliant orange light. Maria tossed in a branch. The dry wood caught and the fire grew.

She fed wood to the flames until the heat radiated over her and the flame leapt for the sky. She glanced at Nana’s skull. In the flickering light, the dark eye sockets seemed to dance with anticipation. The voices in the winds of the dream world moved through her mind.

Reaching into the bag, Maria drew out another piece of Theron and tossed it into the flames. It flared up, emitting a sickly-sweet smell and billowing clouds of smoke. Its white light flared starkly against the deep night’s shadows that surrounded her. Maria smiled. She had no doubt that she would soon be found. Calmly, she threw in another piece. And another.

He arrived in silence.

Maria hadn’t expected anything less, but he could not hide his scent from her on the breeze. She could feel his fury before he’d even reached her.

“What have you done?” Sophus watched with horror while Maria tossed yet another fragment into the fire, this time a knee.

She did not answer as she watched the limb burn.

Sophus stepped toward her. “He sent those two children of his and they destroyed everything! They burned everything that could burn and demolished everything I’d built. They killed them, Maria. Do you understand? All of them. They ripped them apart!”

“Only the ones who refused to listen when I told them to leave.” Maria dumped all but one of the remaining broken vampire limbs into the fire all at once. “Do you suppose you would burn in the flames as easily?”

“He destroyed our home, and everyone in it.” A note of terror and panic threaded its way through Sophus’s voice. “Yet here you sit as though nothing is wrong, burning the only thing on this earth we had as collateral to control him!”

“It was not my home.” Maria tossed in the last piece, an upper arm.

Quick as lightning, Sophus backhanded her across the face, smashing her to the ground. “So help me, I will teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.” Sophus pulled out the locket of her hair. “And this time, I will kill that brat of yours.”

“He is already dead.” Maria’s voice remained flat as she gathered her feet beneath her. “You’ve already killed him.” She glared up at him, the firelight glinting off her red eyes. “You’ve no one left to kill now but me.”

She sprang.

THE BONFIRE CAME INTO view as Maria threw the last piece of Theron into the flames. The unnaturally bright glow of the fire in the darkness hurt Mikhael’s eyes, and he paused, shielding them. As Sophus slapped Maria, Theron’s voice finally broke through.

KILL HER! Theron’s fury echoed through Mikhael’s skull, seeking purchase in Miguel’s mind. It sought to move him, to force Miguel to bend to his will, but it could not.

Mikhael turned on his captor, rising up in his mind, free now to truly fight and full of the power of all he had held back. He pushed with a strength Theron had held subdued for so very long.

Theron’s pain scorched through Mikhael as his limbs burned. Theron pushed it on Mikhael through their connection, forcing him to feel every bit of the agony that tore through Theron’s flesh. It blinded Mikhael’s mind, making him unable to see past the pain. Theron raked his will across Mikhael, reaching for the places in his mind that he’d always been denied.

Mikhael fought back. He leaned in to the things he had hidden from for so long. The love, and the loss. They fed him. Strengthened him.

You cannot win, Mikhael, the tormentor taunted, pushing, seeking for purchase in Mikhael’s mind.

I already have. Any waver of his confidence would lose Mikhael the battle.

His eyes cleared. Across from the fire, Maria leapt at Sophus. He dodged and slammed her back. The box splintered, scattering bones, as she leapt away.

What could you possibly want so badly that I have not given you? Theron’s oily voice slithered over his mind, searching for a hold.

Maria danced away from her attacker. But Sophus was quicker and stronger. It would only be a matter of time before she slipped up and he had her.

The skull watched them, gleeful in the firelight.

There is nothing you could give me that I want. Mikhael formed his thoughts into a cutlass, familiar and deadly. All you have ever done is steal things from me. My wife—

She sent you to me. Theron parried his blow and jabbed back.

My life.

You offered it to me.

My son.

He was a fool who got himself killed. The same sort of fool as his grandfather, and his mother. The same sort of self-righteous idiot as his father. The cold voice cackled, sinking its claws into Mikhael’s mind. You all got what you deserved.

A white-hot, flowing anger fueled by love and contained under pressure for twenty-seven years exploded up from inside Mikhael. For once, he did not try to contain it, but accepted it into himself and then flung it at Theron with all the unbridled ferocity it contained.

Theron screamed, his connection to Mikhael burning away. A moment of clarity shone in Mikhael’s mind. Freedom at last.

Mikhael walled up his mind, this time keeping the precious memories and all the emotions on the inside. Certain of his own control, even if for just the moment, Mikhael turned his focus back to Maria and Sophus.

Maria staggered backward from a blow, the unnaturally bright fire lighting her back, her dress a brilliant crimson. She raised her arms in an attempt to guard herself as Sophus rained down blow after blow, forcing her further back.

Mikhael rushed toward them.

With one final swing, Sophus flung her into the flames. “You insufferable whore,” Sophus growled. “It’s no more than you deserve.”

Rage tore through Mikhael’s throat as he flung himself at Sophus and Maria landed with a sickening crunch in the middle of the bonfire. The blond vampire turned to meet him, the power and speed of his strike shocking Mikhael. Recovering, Mikhael turned to pull Maria from the flames. Sophus’s kick knocked him back. Mikhael’s vision narrowed, and he swung a fist at Sophus’s head. Sophus curled his lip in derision as he blocked, but Mikhael had years of fighting for his life as a sailor. The memories and instincts were part of him.

Mikhael pulled the knife from his belt, hot with his rage, and shoved it up under Sophus’s ribcage. It slid, somehow, through his flesh and skittered across his ribs and tangled in his clothes.

The man laughed and stepped back, jerking the knife from Mikhael’s grip. “Surely you didn’t actually think that would work, did you?”

Growling, Mikhael leapt again, knocking Sophus’s hands aside. But suddenly, the blond vampire gripped his throat. Sophus held the bent knife to Mikhael’s face. “Impressive blade, not to break against a vampire. Do you think it’ll pierce your eyes?”

Mikhael struggled against Sophus’s hold as the other vampire brought the knife to his eye.

MARIA WAS STUNNED. She was warm, pleasantly warm. Flame surrounded her, but she did not burn. The song that had whispered elusively to her so long in the dream world now felt clear in her mind. Was she in the dream world, then? Burning as she had so long ago? She hadn’t seen past the flames then, either.

The brilliant white flame rose around her, obscuring her view of the darkness beyond. The crackle of the fire had a quality of friendly laughter around it, and the darkness beyond took the shape of a gold-and-black bird, twisting and spinning, telling her to move forward.

Within Si’a’s dark plumage, the enemy appeared. Sophus, in his immaculate, flowing white shirt and languorous, curly blond hair, laughed; his unearthly beauty marred by rage. Miguel leapt at him.

Maria shifted her weight, preparing to join her husband, and the wood she stood on cracked, giving way. She looked down. A couple of Nana’s scattered bones lay in the fire; the one underfoot had splintered.

The vision flashed before her in the flames. The vision of Nana and a fiery serpent, and flames that could not harm her. Maria could not get Sophus into the fire. But, perhaps, she could get the fire into Sophus.

Grasping the broken, jagged long bone from beneath her foot, she stepped from the flames.

Sophus held the knife to Mikhael’s face. “Impressive blade, not to break against a vampire. Do you think it’ll pierce your eyes?”

Miguel’s eyes flicked to her behind Sophus, the brand burning brightly in her hand. It was enough.

Sophus jerked around, incredulity across his face, and dropped Miguel. Maria flung herself at him. Sophus knocked her back toward the fire as the wind whipped about them. He leapt after her, pinning her to the ground. Immediately Miguel attacked from the side, throwing him off balance.

Tightening her grip on Nana’s long, thin bone, Maria shoved the smoldering end into Sophus’s chest. It met with a moment of resistance. She pushed upward with all the power in her body and the fire that suffused her heart. The skin broke, and the bone slid home like a knife into a sheath.

Mikhael held Sophus’s arm and neck as the woman pushed her burning weapon further into the older vampire’s chest. The flames behind her seemed to come to life, writhing like some hellish serpent. The fire flared brighter and higher, roaring as though feeding on all the pain and anguish and rage that filled Sophus. Her momentum threw them all to the ground, and the raging fire lost some of its ferocity.

Mikhael lost his grip when they fell. Sophus flung Maria off, backing away from the two younger vampires.

Mikhael rushed to Maria as she scooped up a locket from the dirt. She tucked the bit of metal into her skirt as he helped her to her feet, wrapping his arms around her protectively. It felt so right.

“Is that the best you can do?” Sophus scoffed, looking reproachfully at the bone sticking from his chest.

“I am a daughter of Zyanya,” Maria said. “You will die by my hand.”

He locked his cold eyes with Maria’s and pulled out the makeshift spear. With a soft snap, the charred, smoldering tip broke off before he’d removed it completely.

“Did you think it would be that easy?” Scornfully, Sophus threw the bone at her feet. “Have you learned nothing in all this time? I am immortal!”

“No.” Maria pulled gently from Mikhael’s arms and stood her ground before Sophus. “Everything that has a beginning has an end. And so do you.”

Mikhael reached for her, unsure of what she would do or how he could help.

Maria closed her eyes, her face serene, and inhaled deeply. The air around them writhed and coalesced, dancing with the heat of the fire. He almost thought he could hear a melody whisper across his mind. Snapping her eyes open, Maria thrust her hands toward Sophus. Wind whistled across the desert at her movement, rushing past her and pushing Mikhael aside. She spun it, focusing on the bit of bone still beneath Sophus’s ribs.

Fire exploded from the broken ember within Sophus’s chest, burning more brightly than the fire beside them.

Sophus’s clothes and body caught from the brand in his chest, and he screamed, trying vainly to put it out. But the bone tip could neither be removed nor quenched.

Mikhael gathered Maria into his arms as she looked on, watching her tormentor burn slowly. Her body remained tense, her arms making subtle movements. He realized she was continuing to manipulate the air. Sophus tried to surge toward them, but the air knocked him back, and the fire burned brighter. He continued to scream and writhe as he fell to his knees, and Maria kept the wind swirling around him, feeding the flames.

As Sophus’s form stilled, turning to ash, Mikhael glanced at the skull on the rock. It seemed to smile at him.

Chapter 38

THE FIRE BURNED LOW in the pre-dawn light as they kept vigil. Mikhael leaned against the rock beneath the skull and held Maria close. She fit his body as though she were meant to be there. Everything about her was so very familiar and yet so different. Her solid presence was a balm on his heart, calming the raging emotions that had torn at him for so very long. The sight of her dark eyes and the pressure of her back against his chest all calmed him, permeating him with a peace long absent.

The moment of respite felt like a betrayal. He had just lost a son, within minutes of learning he’d existed. Calm seemed wrong, somehow. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to push her away. The smell of smoke mingled with the floral scents of her hair. He drank in the peace she offered and held her closer.

The wind had died down along with the bonfire, and it finally stilled along with Maria’s hands. They had spoken over the years, and he felt he knew her, and yet he did not. The ghostly muse who had haunted him had been cautious and jumpy, but here she was powerful and determined. He could feel her anger, and her satisfaction, as the fires slowly died. And he found he shared it.

Free for the first time he could remember, Mikhael pulled at the memories he’d hidden, starting with the one that had come to him most strongly. A woman he’d loved watching him ride away in the rain. He closed his eyes, listening to the birds calling longingly for the sun.

“It broke my heart to leave you,” he whispered into her hair.

“I hated watching you leave.” She pulled his arms more tightly around herself, the warm solidity of her body anchoring him. “It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. And I’ve done a lot of stupid things.”

“You’re not the only one, mi morena.” Images of Elisa flashed through his mind. She hadn’t deserved such a fate. “I have one more stupid thing to do.”

Maria tilted her head back onto his shoulder and looked up at him, a playful smile on her full, red lips. His breath caught in his throat as he glanced from her lips to her eyes, then back to her lips. He swallowed as she shifted in his arms, and he touched her face, pushing away the lock of soft, dark hair. Gently, she set her hand over his, her touch sending fire through his nerves as she trailed her fingertips up his arm. He pulled her into a kiss and she rose to meet him, pressing herself against him.

The world brightened as they held each other, secure and whole.

Finally, reluctantly, she pulled away, moving her mouth to his ear. “If that’s your stupid thing, there had better be a lot more than one of those left in your life.”

He laughed, a genuine laugh. “No, I think that was the smartest thing I’ve done in a very long time. And I’ll probably do it again, if you’ll let me.”

She pulled back and crossed her arms playfully, a stern look on her face. “I’m not so sure I should, if you’re going to insist—”

He pulled her to him, and kissed her again, savoring the feel of her mouth on his.

When they parted, she gave him a coy smile and turned her back to him. Instead, he kissed her hair while she settled herself again in his arms. “Now, Miguel, what is this stupid thing you think you’ve still got to do?”

He inhaled deeply, using the intoxicating smell of her to steady his nerves and give him the courage to say it. “I need to return to Theron. I need to destroy him.”

“This is where you’re going to tell me how you don’t want me to come, right?” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze when she spoke, and the air ruffled his hair. “How it’s too dangerous for me?”

Chagrined, he hid his face in her soft, dark curls. “I wouldn’t dream of telling you what to do. But I don’t want you trapped by him. He’s a monster, and he’ll make your existence a hell worse than any you could imagine.”

Maria nodded. “I’ve watched you for years, Miguel. I can well imagine it.”

Miguel watched the thin smoke rise off the ash-white embers of the fire. “What if we fail? If he takes control of me again?” He held her tighter to still the terrified trembling within. “Or you?”

“Then at least we’ll be together this time. But we won’t fail.” Her body relaxed in his embrace. She turned in his arms and looked up at him, her deep, dark eyes threaded through with silver seeming to see into his very soul. “Don’t ever leave me again?”

Gently, he moved a long black strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “How could I, mi morena?

THERON’S LAUGHTER ECHOED through the chamber, chilling Elisa’s soul. The late morning light slanted into the gloomy chamber through the open door. Elisa sat huddled in the corner where her pianoforte had resided before it had been destroyed. Her own fault she’d lost it. Not a bit of the splintered wood remained. She kept the lair clean. So very clean. And somehow, at the moment, the very cleanliness of it seemed to mock her.

There was nothing clean about Theron’s lair.

She cut off her thoughts before he could notice them. How had Mikhael lived like this for so long? His defiant laughter every time they’d tried to subdue him flitted through her head. His look of hatred.

Elisa shut that away, too. She couldn’t hate the voice that caressed her mind like silk, soothing her fears and easing her pain. He had only lashed out in his own pain. Yes, that was it. He had never hurt her before. It wasn’t her doing, but Mikhael’s. He was always agitated when Mikhael disobeyed.

Her arguments felt thin, even to her, but she wrapped them around herself like a blanket. A thin, worn blanket. Theron’s laughter sounded again, as chilling as before.

“What is so amusing?” she asked, tentatively, trying to be charming.

“He’s gone.” Theron’s voice boomed in triumph.

“Mikhael?” She barely breathed out the name, terror lancing through her heart at the thought.

“Sophus,” Theron hissed. “They burned him. I got to feel him die. I only wish I’d been able to burn him more slowly, letting him feel the slow agony he inflicted on me!”

“They?” A small flare of hope lit inside her. Did Mikhael still live?

“That fool and his wife.” Theron spat on the floor.

Elisa froze. His wife? It couldn’t be... The hope twisted, turning to rage. “The woman. Was she dark haired and dark skinned?”

Theron hit her with impatience, and she cringed at the pain. “His wife, you stupid woman. The real one. Do you think I’m incompetent? Sophus hid her from us. How did you not realize that was why your mangy dog of a companion was so intent on going with us to his lair?”

“But surely he didn’t make her immortal?”

“Of course he did.” The muscles in Theron’s jaw twitched with his impatience. “He would not have let me create a coven without doing the same. I should have realized that was why he didn’t destroy you. I’m insulted you thought I could be held so long at bay by someone incapable enough to be killed by a human?”

“Of course not.” Elisa bowed her head, but her hatred seethed. Maria. Of course Maria. She had always been there, destroying everything of Elisa’s. She’d stolen Mikhael, not once but twice now. And worse, far worse, she had destroyed the thing she wanted above all else. Theron’s chance to be whole.

It no longer mattered what Theron did, so long as Elisa could get revenge on Maria.

THE LATE MORNING SUN disappeared behind the clouds as Maria began gathering the scattered bones. She set them carefully in the plain wooden box, and Miguel moved to help her. Several charred remnants remained in the ashes of the fire, and he teased them out with a stick.

“I’m thinking we should take the boat,” he said, dragging a thin bone into the dirt.

“Overland would be faster.” Maria picked up the bone, unconcerned about the smoke rising from it.

He stopped himself from telling her to be careful. For all he knew, she was entirely immune to fire. He hesitated. “I’m worried about Elisa. When I left her at the labyrinth, she was practically comatose.”

Maria cringed. “And you want to go back to check on her?”

Miguel pulled another bone from the ashes, trying not to think of what he’d left behind. If he had any say in the matter, he would never return. “If she had still been there when Sophus returned, he would have destroyed her.”

“And he would have gloated about it.”

“I’m more worried she’ll ambush us. At least on the water she’s less likely to find us as we move. The closer we can get to Theron when we land, the easier it will be to reach him.”

Maria set the last of the bones in the box with a gentle click. “All right then, we go by boat. Hand me that, would you?” She gestured to the skull still sitting on the rock.

He picked up the skull, looked in its empty sockets, and thought he saw the ghost of a brown eye twinkling at him, amused. He blinked and it was gone. Just a lifeless skull.

“Who was this?” he asked, handing it to Maria.

“An old friend, here to help,” she said with a laugh, closing the box.

Miguel picked up his knife, twisted and bent. “I’m surprised this even went in.”

She looked up. “It’s just plain metal?”

He showed it to her and shrugged. “Who knows?” Tossing it aside, he resumed stirring the ashes from the night’s fire. Another broken long bone stuck out, somehow unburnt. “Here, you missed one.” He held it out for her.

“Keep it. You may be able to use it against Theron.” She heaved the pack onto her shoulder and tucked the box under her arm.

He shrugged, settling the long, fine bone into his belt in place of his knife. “Do you want to do anything with that?” He nodded toward the pile of ash and dust that had been Sophus.

“The winds have grievances against him,” she said with an enigmatic smile. “They will take care of it.”

As he watched, a breeze rose with the haunting whisper of melody in the back of his mind. It wore away at the ash, carrying it off like smoke. Maria kicked what remained as she passed, sending plumes of ash swirling off in the breeze, before walking out of the hollow. Miguel checked the remainder of the coals, making certain they were out, then caught up with her.

Soon he would have his turn for vengeance.

Chapter 39

THE LITTLE BOAT SLICED through the choppy waters as the sun set. Miguel twisted the thread of leather around the end of the bone Maria had given him, completing a makeshift handle.

Maria took a seat beside him, and for a moment he didn’t look at her, fearing she wouldn’t be there. The flash of her red skirt and the smell of her skin reassured him, and he looked over, drinking in the sight of her.

“Are you ready?” he asked, sliding the bone back into place on his belt.

“Are you?”

Miguel turned the helm, and the loyal boat twisted beneath them, running straight for the sandy shore. The boat shuddered beneath him as it ground up against the sand, the wind and speed pushing it out of the water. She came to a jarring, tilting halt. Miguel met Maria’s eyes, and she gave him a reassuring nod. He let go of the helm, and they leapt from the deck onto the ground below, leaving Maria’s box and bag, along with the small sack of arras, safely behind.

He led the way, running down the path, Maria a few steps behind. His senses tingled as he listened for sounds that might give away Elisa’s position. They slowed as they reached the doors, and he tested the air for Elisa’s scent. Nothing.

Miguel stopped Maria with a hand on her arm. “Be careful, mi morena. He is devious and he is strong. Sophus did the world a great service by incapacitating him physically.”

“I know; I have seen him.” Maria nodded.

He gestured to the leather ember pouch she carried—a coal carefully nested in tree fiber within. “You ready, then?”

“I am if you are.” She squeezed his hand, and together they walked into the thick, enveloping darkness.

“The prodigal son returns.” A voice that sent a chill through Maria’s fire-infused soul slithered through the darkness. She felt Theron’s dark presence probing her mind for weakness, and she drew the winds of the dream world around herself like a shield.

They rounded a turn into a large cavern. Maria’s steps faltered in surprise. The space looked nothing like she'd been expecting. In the dream world, Theron’s lair stood barren, cold and empty. It was nothing of the sort, now.

Rugs lay atop a smooth clean floor, parts of which were laid with polished wood flooring. A cold, central hearth stood in the center, and unlit lamps in sconces, rich tapestries, and drapes decorated the walls. Stone statues—reminiscent of Sophus’s earlier works—stood in beauty randomly throughout the space. There was even furniture tastefully set about; shelves, tables, even a desk. Maria was half-surprised there wasn’t a pianoforte as well. All the décor, everything in the room, drew the eye in a single direction. Drew the eye toward him.

Theron sat, just a head and torso, on his throne. He was grotesque, despite the fine clothing draped about him as if he were a king meeting dignitaries. It wasn’t his physical disfigurement that repelled Maria, but the aura of hate emanating from him. His scowl of disgust, as though they were far beneath his notice, served only to compound the effect.

Maria paused before turning the corner, concentrating on keeping her mental barriers strong. She resisted the temptation to lift further into the dream world, afraid to give Theron purchase in her mind.

Miguel continued toward Theron’s throne without hesitation. “I return only to destroy you.”

“Do you really think that just because you destroyed that philosophical, bleeding-heart fool, you can do the same to me?” Theron tsked and shook his head. “After all these years, I’d have thought you’d learned nothing is that easy.”

A screaming shadow flew at Miguel, Elisa’s claws aiming for his face, and knocked him sideways into the room. Maria rushed to help.

“Ah, I see you brought along a friend.” Theron’s malicious voice held a smile.

Elisa tried to wrap her arms around Miguel, but he was too strong for her to hold him, breaking her grip.

“Tell me, do you truly believe the two of you could possibly beat the two of me?”

Instead, the woman kicked his legs out from under him. He turned in her grip like a cat to catch himself as Maria reached them.

Maria punched up from below, knocking Elisa away from Miguel, and followed her to the floor. In a past life it would never have come to this, not with proper, prissy, whiny little Elisa! A deep satisfaction filled Maria at physically confronting her old nemesis.

Elisa caught herself and leapt back at Maria, who dodged. Elisa caught her sleeve and twisted her around, bringing them face to face, her claw-like hand poised above Maria’s face.

Miguel stood from his fall, his eyes locked onto Theron, who was still sitting on his mockery of a throne. From his belt, he pulled a jagged bone dagger.

“Do you really believe that pitiful thing could harm me, Mikhael?” Theron taunted him.

Miguel glanced at Maria, who struggled with Elisa. He stepped forward, placing himself between them and the monster. Theron tore relentlessly at Miguel's mental armor, pushing him back against himself.

“If it couldn’t, why are you so afraid?” Miguel said back through gritted teeth. Reaching a hand out to steady himself and knocking a lamp off its sconce instead. The lamp shattered against the floor behind him, and the fragrant smell of oil on the wood flooring rose around him.

Miguel struggled forward, fighting for every inch he gained as Theron focused on crushing his mind.

“What does it matter if it can or not?” Theron smiled a smile that seemed to have far too many teeth. “It won’t change anything. You, who breaks your promises, who kills for sport. You were my thrall for nearly three decades. You are a weak man.”

“I was strong enough to free myself from you.” The tip of the bone dagger in Miguel’s hand lowered, despite his words, as the very air seemed to hold him back.

“I let you go. What need had I for you any longer? Always you went on with your mortal values. Loyalty. Honor. Compassion. It was sickening.”

He dropped to his knees, the knife clattering hollowly on the oil-soaked wood beside him.

Miguel looked away.

Blocking a blow from Elisa, Maria glanced up to see Miguel drop to his knees and his bone knife fall to the floor. Theron’s mocking laughter filled the chamber as Elisa and Maria struggled to get the upper hand over each other. Theron’s twisted features showed through the face of the blond woman as his laughter echoed with unnerving exactness out of Elisa’s mouth.

She wasn’t fighting Elisa, but Theron! A surge of fear gave extra speed to Maria’s limbs, and she grabbed Elisa’s wrist. With a step and a twist, Maria threw the other vampire to the ground. The wood flooring cracked beneath the force. Maria dropped to her knee atop Elisa’s shoulder, pinning her arms. Without hesitation, she flung the leather coal pouch from her pocket, toward Miguel.

Now you, snake! Maria raised her own bone knife to strike. In that moment, Elisa’s face shifted, smoothing out. Both hatred and fear flitted across her face as she looked into Maria’s eyes.

“Save me!” Elisa’s pleading cry tore through the room.

Maria hesitated.

As suddenly as Elisa had appeared, she was gone, overshadowed once more by Theron. He tried to buck Maria off, but she was stronger and faster than Elisa. She always had been.

Maria shifted her grip, twisting Elisa away from her. She locked her arms and legs around the other woman with a hold that had been used on her more than once. Elisa struggled futilely against her.

Maria whispered into her ear, “Sophus sends his regards.”

The leather pouch landed in the oil behind Miguel, the coal skittering out.

“What a hypocrite you are, Mikhael.” Theron leaned forward, his face full of sickening excitement as he bore down on Miguel. “You champion loyalty but abandoned your family for another woman. You are a pathetic excuse of a man.”

I was tricked, Miguel responded silently, focusing his strength on reaching for the knife.

“And compassion? How many poor wayfaring travelers have you killed for my sport? There are too many to remember.”

I remember each one, Miguel growled. His fingers wrapped around the hilt.

“You are a fraud and a tool. Not worthy enough for even me to use anymore.” Theron pushed harder against Miguel, gleeful to sense him buckling. “You are nothing, Mikhael.”

A stiff wind, rich with an unheard melody, blew through the chamber, igniting the coal and oil at Miguel’s back. The flame enveloped his hand and the knife while its heat flared behind him. Theron recoiled, fear flickering through his eyes with the firelight.

“My name is Miguel.”

Miguel rose, shoving the flaming dagger up under Theron’s ribs and into his heart as far as it would go.

Theron slammed back against the stone wall with the force of Miguel’s attack. Rage filled his eyes and he lurched forward, baring the only physical weapon remaining to him. His brilliant white teeth flashed in the firelight as he snapped at Miguel like a trapped animal. Miguel pushed himself away, leaping away from both Theron and the flames.

“What have you done?!” Elisa screeched. She tore at the arms that bound her. They loosened, and she threw herself free. Pain ripped through her chest as the body of her angel fell from his throne. She leapt for him, catching him awkwardly and lowering him to the ground. She glanced around, looking for an escape.

The fire surrounded them, eating into the floors she’d worked so hard to lay. Fear, both hers and Theron’s, tore at her, screaming for escape. Mikhael stood between them and the only path clear of the flames. She gathered herself to leap at him and knock him out of the way.

“No!” Theron’s voice shrieked through her mind and the cave, knocking her back to protect him. “This is your fault, you wretched woman. You’ll stay here with me and burn!”

Elisa struggled frantically against his control. Let me lift you. I can get us free.

“You will not leave me!”

The fire burned closer, and Elisa looked around, desperate for an escape. Mikhael stood nearby, watching. Unafraid. Hate flared through her, overwhelming her fear. Hate that wasn’t hers.

A wind tore its way through the room, creating chaos and shattering the rest of the glass oil lamps. The fires brightened with the wind and fresh oil. Suddenly, the pain in Elisa’s chest flared to life, making the agony before seem a trifle. Elisa screamed, mimicking the reaction of her master, as they fell to the burning floor in utter synchrony. The flames were before her face, the heat of them dried her eyes, but she could not jerk back. Theron wouldn’t allow it.

Let me go! She fought him with every ounce of strength she possessed. The flaming pain in her chest grew outward, burning along her skin and in the bone. It rippled across her chest, searing her lungs and gripping her spine. Theron rolled them onto their backs, arching with the pain. Frantic, Elisa searched her vision, unable to move her eyes of her own accord as Theron thrashed, burning.

Maria stood beside Mikhael, talking in words Elisa could not hear. For a moment her hate of the woman tried to blind her, but it gave way to her terror.

Save me! she screamed again.

Fire flared up around them, catching on the tapestries and drapes. It roared around her, like a beast come to devour her. Finally, Mikhael leapt forward and gathered her into his arms. Theron clawed at his face, trying to break his grip and knock them both into the flames.

Maria’s arms wrenched Elisa’s hands to her side. Mikhael wrapped her in a bear hug from behind, and Maria took her feet. Theron thrashed, twisting her body, trying to break her free. Free to burn with him.

Mikhael bashed the door open with his shoulder, and another burst of the unnatural wind whipped past them. The fire spread behind Maria, spinning in its seductive dance of destruction. It followed them out the door, like the arms of a forlorn lover. Elisa giggled hysterically.

Theron’s agony tore through her mind as he burned. Every cell of her body seared with his pain, and she jerked weakly. Maria released her feet when Elisa twisted, nearly pulling free of Mikhael’s arms. He held her tighter, dropping to the ground with her on his lap. She laughed frantically, staring into the dark fires of the hell she’d escaped from. Burning, just as she had the first time, staring into the darkness in Mikhael’s arms.

Theron clawed at her mind with a grip of fire, screaming at her to come to him.

Elisa strained against Mikhael’s strong arms, hate fueling every movement. Theron’s burning form writhed within while thick smoke filled the cave.

Watching it, she found her voice. “Burn, you bastard.”

Chapter 40

MARIA SAT ATOP THE sandy knoll. Beside her rested the wooden box containing Nana’s bones, upon which rested her mother’s necklace. A gentle Wayuu lullaby whispered at the back of her mind. After the fire of the cave had burned itself out and Elisa had gone limp, Miguel had silently handed the necklace to her. His face held a hard emotion that Maria couldn’t quite read. Determination, and something more.

She followed him back to the beach, and Elisa walked, silent and subdued, behind her. Miguel leaped onto the deck of his ship and reappeared a few minutes later with Maria’s things. His pain surrounded him like a tangible aura. Maria had taken her effects from him in silence. He would speak when he was ready.

Elisa stood, listless, at the end of the path back to the burned-out cave. Maria had stood like that before. Pity now filled the space hate had occupied in Maria’s heart for the girl. She knew that pain.

To Maria’s other side lay her pack. Inside, carefully folded, were the clothes she had set out on this journey with. Below her, Miguel’s ship burned, its captain watching stoically several feet away from the flames.

Conflict pulled at Maria. She had done all she set out to do. Aside from the few items that lay on the ground beside her, she had nothing left in the entire world. Nothing except Miguel. Miguel had been central to her every decision for as long as she could remember. Even Álvaro had been a branch of Miguel.

How had it all started, so long ago? A chance meeting on a pier with four silly little girls and the memory of a dog.

Maria stepped out of her body and looked to the north. She was so very tired. If she simply left, and never came back, could she finally rest? Could she go to the land of her forebears, to her son?

But what of Miguel? After everything she had done to bring them together again, she couldn’t go without him.

In the distance, figures appeared from the mountainous horizon beyond the waves. More quickly than even she could move, they neared, coming into focus.

Si’a flitted about them, his golden wings glinting against his black plumage, guiding them to her. Maria’s breath caught in her throat as she recognized the figures. First Nana, then Ka’i. Her father appeared, and Maria took a step toward the group, joy bubbling within her. Beside him walked a woman Maria had never met but knew anyway. Ayelen, her mother, smiled at her.

Maria scanned the group again and saw him. Álvaro! Her son stood tall, striding toward her with the confident assurance that all was right in the world. So much like his father. So much like himself.

And so many others walked behind them. Maria knew them all without knowing. She rushed across the field of flowers to meet them.

Oh, Álvaro. Maria wrapped him in her embrace. I made such a mess of things. Can you ever forgive me?

Of course, Mother. He hugged her back tightly, a thing he’d never had the chance to do in life. After what seemed like a very long time, or perhaps just the right amount of time, they pulled apart. Álvaro set his hand on her shoulder and looked his mother in the eye. There is, however, a decision to be made.

Maria pulled back, shaking her head. She did not want to make this decision.

The work that you set out to do is finished, Nana said, stepping beside her. You could come with us now ...

But?

All eyes turned to a point behind her.

Maria followed their gaze and found Miguel, standing stoically before his burning ship.

But he can’t come. Maria knew it as she said it, but wished it were a question.

Not as he is, my dear, her mother said, patting her hand.

He is not ready. Her father put his arm around her mother. He is too much in turmoil.

You can guide him here, Ka’i said.

But unless he makes peace with himself first, Nana continued Ka’i’s thought, he will not be able to stand it.

The memory of all the years she had avoided the dream world for the fear of seeing herself as she truly was passed before Maria’s mind. As she had thought herself to be. Maria bowed her head in understanding.

If you stay, Álvaro said, you can help him come home to us. When he is ready.

How long will that be? But Maria already knew it didn’t matter. She had made her decision long ago.

As long as it takes. Nana gave Maria’s hand a squeeze and stepped back.

Maria smiled warmly at her family, all those who had come before, each of whom had set her closer to her path. I shall see you all again.

We will be waiting.

The spirits disappeared, leaving her alone in the field. Maria smiled. She was not truly alone, and she never had been. She stepped back into her body.

MIGUEL STOOD BEFORE the heat of the flames that burned his ship, each wooden plank filled with memories of his captivity. The pain. The impotence. The rage. They all burned. The heat wrapped itself around him, hot and insistent. Fear of the flames had no power over him. Fire burned away all that was wrong, refining things to their purest state.

He stood, barefoot, in the sand. The warm water ran over his feet as the waves came up the shore, pulling the sand out from beneath them. The silence of his mind pressed against him. It should have been peaceful. Instead, he felt tainted.

Miguel clenched his fist. Theron would never touch him again.

With a cry, he tore off his shirt and flung it at the burning ship, followed by the rest of his clothes. Even bare in his own skin, it still did not feel like enough. Perhaps, if he threw himself into the flames, it would burn away the memories of Theron’s whispers in his mind.

The warm touch of heavy cloth draped across his shoulders and he startled. Looking down, he found a faded, heavy blue overcoat. Maria’s arms wrapped around him from behind, closing the long coat across his chest. It fit him like a lover’s embrace, blocking the intensity of the flames. A weight hit against his thigh, and he reached his hand into the inner pocket. Inside lay the bag of arras.

He turned away from the burning ship and followed Maria to the nearby knoll. She reached into the pack and pulled out a threadbare but clean white shirt and dark pants.

“These are yours, Miguel.” She held them out to him. “When I left Maracaibo to find you, I took your clothes.”

Slowly, he reached out for them, and she set them in his hands.

He brought the clothes close to his chest. They were his. Truly his. Beneath the more recent scents of Maria’s bag, and the much faded scent of her mortal self, lay the essence of what had been Miguel. He could feel it in the cloth. He pulled the pants on. They, along with the coat, fit like nothing else ever had, as though an extension of his own body. They felt like home.

For the first time, Miguel began to feel like himself.

“Why?” he whispered, unsure of what he was really asking.

She gave him a shy smile. “I thought it would be easier to go adventuring in pants than a dress. Not to mention I was still pregnant at the time, and thought they’d be easier to adjust.”

Miguel handed her the bag of arras. “I gave these to you. I meant for you to keep them.”

She took them with a smile. “Have you remembered where you got them from, or do I get to tell you the stories?”

“You’ll just have to tell me what you remember, and we’ll see if it matches.” He handed her back the coat and pulled the shirt over his head.

“Where should we go?” she asked, enjoying the way the breeze played with the lock of hair that fell in his face.

“Anywhere that isn’t here, and preferably is far away from people.”

She nodded to Elisa, who still had not moved. “She’ll have to come with us. I won’t leave her here alone.”

Miguel shrugged. “Wouldn’t do much good to rid the area of one set of vampires only to leave another in their place. No boots?”

Maria put on the large coat and pulled the draping edges around herself. “You secretly made me a pair, so I didn't bring any for you.” She showed him the boot she wore, lifting the skirt to expose her slender leg up to the knee. “As much as I love the boots, though, this coat has always been my favorite. I used to put it on when I was upset, and it felt as though you held me.”

Miguel grinned and stepped toward her, sliding his hands under the coat and around her waist. “Now that is something I can fix.”

He pulled her warm body to his as the flames on the beach below burned away the remnants of their past.

Thank you for reading Daughter of Zyanya!

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Daughter of Zyanya: The Complete Series

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Watch for more at Morgan J. Muir’s site.

About the Author

Morgan lives in Utah with her three children, five cats, and wonderful husband, and a dog. She has been telling and writing stories for as long as she can remember, and can usually be found with a notepad of some sort within reach to either write down or draw her ideas.

Read more at Morgan J. Muir’s site.