Using my golden blade, I cut the length of his palm. “A kisctsa rauuir tiaticaa kaukuu’.” I then cut a deep slash above my heart. Just as I’m about to place his palm against my chest to bind our fates, Alonso’s head jerks back. Coronado’s deep brown eyes are full of starlight and malice as he sweeps his blade across my lover’s throat. Alonso’s blood falls across my face like rain.
Coronado turns his attention to me. I stagger back and start running through the corn. The towering stalks whip my skin, leaving a trail of blood in the moonlight. I don’t know which way to turn. Coronado catches up to me and lunges for my arm. I hit the earth and then he’s on top of me. I lash out with my blade, but he grabs it and uses it to slit his own palm. I can feel my traitorous blood reaching out for his as he presses his wound against the gash above my heart. I writhe and scream, trying to break free, but it’s too late—I can already feel his black soul penetrating mine. I feel his blood coursing through mine and mine through his. We are one, bound in hate, bound in blood.
? ? ?
“Ashlyn.”
I lifted my head. The devastation I felt was overwhelming. My mother had told me what happened to Alonso, but seeing it . . . feeling it through Katia’s memories was something else entirely. A strange ripple of energy rushed over the corn, followed by the scent of ozone. I heard my brother calling my name. Fighting against the gravity that wanted to keep me there, I grabbed the stalks, pulling myself up and through the corn, toward the sound of his voice. I careened through the field to find my brother kneeling in a twenty-foot-wide patch of scorched earth, the bags strewn around him.
“Wait,” he called out with a slight tremor in his voice. “It might be hot.”
I studied the alien ground surrounding him. I didn’t feel any heat, but it wouldn’t have stopped me anyway. I couldn’t leave him there, all alone, in that black chaotic void.
Charred soil crunched beneath the weight of my footsteps, but it was cool. It reminded me of volcanic ash.
As soon as I put my hand on his shoulder, he collapsed into a sitting position.
“Oh God.” The color drained from his face when he noticed the blood from the scrape on his knee.
“What happened?” I asked as I pulled the first-aid kit from my bag and bandaged his knee.
“I don’t know.” He let out a huge burst of pent-up air as he held his head in his hands. “I turned, and you were gone. The corn kept opening up in front of me. It felt like I was running in circles. I couldn’t find you and I tripped and fell. The corn just . . . disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Like, disintegrated.” He glanced up at me before I had a chance to hide my shock. “I know! It sounds crazy. I think I might be losing it right along with you.”
“We’re both . . . overwrought.” I chose my words carefully. Maybe Rhys was seeing things, too. “Look, all we have to do is find Mom and get out of here.”
“Ash,” my brother said as he stared off into the corn. “Something’s wrong with this place. Do you feel it?”
“I don’t know what I feel anymore,” I said as I helped him to his feet, trying not to give in to the fear gnawing away at me. “But we should try to find her before dark.”
Suddenly, bringing him here felt wrong, like I’d led him straight into the devil’s mouth.
“Which way?” he asked as we stood in the center of the barren patch of earth.
As if answering his question, the breeze whipped through the field, revealing a path and a clearing in the distance.
Rhys and I walked faster. I think we were afraid the corn would swallow us whole.
11
QUIVIRA
AS WE STEPPED out of the corn, it took me a minute to catch my breath.
The sun had already set, but the sky was full of life, painted in broad brushstrokes of peach, purple, and pink.
The scent was heady—honeysuckle, new and fermenting mulberries, and the remnants of a cedar campfire hung heavy in the humid air. But there was something else, too—an appealing mineral smell nipped the edge of my senses.
Beyond the huge expanse of deep green grass scattered with fireflies was a picturesque lake with an unearthly opal hue.
Rhys and I moved toward it, looking around cautiously, but there wasn’t a soul in sight.
Unlike the tiny towns we’d passed through to get here, Quivira seemed to be untouched by drought. Moisture clung to every dark blade of grass, and the air felt lush.
Nestled around the lake were five large structures. My mother once said she grew up in a lodge, but this wasn’t what I’d pictured at all. I’d expected a desolate place littered with dilapidated shacks and millions of shirtless, dirty kids with unusually tiny ears.
Each of the buildings was architecturally unique. One was a Tudor—cream, trimmed with dark brown accents. There was one that looked like a giant gray clapboard box. On the far end of the lake stood an enormous A-frame that blended into the surrounding woods so perfectly I almost missed it. On the left side was a beautiful Spanish Colonial made of tan stucco and dark wood, but the grandest of all was a stone mansion with a red-clay-tiled roof. It was like seeing a vintage photograph in full color.