“Vampires,” Nena said flatly. “Like vampires.”
A long silence followed. The hum of the chicharras in the branches overhead had none of the warmth it usually did. It only served to remind her how alone they were, out in the chaparral. Their backs were to the trunks of trees, but otherwise, they were exposed. Vulnerable.
Duérmete ni?o, duérmete ya . . .
How often Abuela’s voice had lulled her to sleep in the heat of the siesta when she was a child, the morbid rhyme shutting her eyelids with tender fingertips.
“Or El Cuco,” Nena added. “Whichever makes you feel better.”
She glanced at Néstor out of the corner of her eye; he was chewing his bottom lip, staring warily at the path that led them to this clearing.
“That’s not much of a choice, if I’m being honest,” he said dryly.
A laugh cracked out of Nena like the lick of a whip. It fell dissonant on her ears, unhinged, like the laugh of a madwoman. She certainly felt that way. She stretched her legs out in front of her, trying to release the tension in her back and neck from clutching her knees tight to her chest.
“Who knew Abuela’s stories were real?” she said.
“I did,” Néstor said quietly.
Nena’s laughter died as quickly as it had erupted.
“Since that night,” he added, his eyes still on the line of high grass. His gaze was no longer watchful; it was distant, as if he were purposefully avoiding her. He opened his mouth; hesitated. “I didn’t want to believe it, trust me. That night . . . do you remember we wanted to find Spanish silver?” His words had none of the well-worn corners of a vaquero tall tale. He faltered and retraced his steps. He was speaking his way through a secret, untangling it for someone else for the first time. “One of those . . . monsters attacked you. It appeared, and the next thing I knew, it was upon you—”
“They’re what’s causing the susto,” Nena cut him off abruptly. Whatever Néstor had to say about what happened to her that night, she could not hear it now. Not when the visions of those monstrous beings still seared her mind. Not when they were so alone and exposed, the tree at their back their only protection in the broad, open countryside. “There must be some sort of venom in their bite. At least that is what Abuela has concluded—how else would they leave their prey unconscious?”
Like Beto. He had wounds like those of the men on Los Ojuelos; he was weak as if he had been bleeding for hours. Yes, he was unconscious, felled by what Abuela believed was venom. But he had lost so much blood.
The monsters—the vampires—were after blood. They were what had attacked Beto. They were what sucked the blood from the desiccated steer carcass that she and Néstor had stumbled across.
If men were falling ill from susto and dying on Los Ojuelos, that meant that these monsters were there. That Javiera and the others woke in the dark of the night screaming because of that feeling of being watched, that feeling that they were prey.
Because they were.
These things harmed people on the rancho. They could harm her family.
And Nena had left them.
Now that she knew what was causing the illness, she could not stay here, far from her home and her family. Not when predators circled Los Ojuelos like wolves, waiting to snatch her sister from her bed and sink their sharp teeth into her flesh . . .
She had to go back.
She had wanted to prove to Papá that she strengthened the rancho, that she was essential to its thriving. But in trying to do so, had she not acted selfishly?
What the rancho needed was someone who could help Abuela cure susto, someone who knew what caused it and could learn how to prevent it. And here she was, days away from home, sitting beneath a tree covered in dead men’s blood. Because she had been so certain that by curing those who defended México on a glorious battlefield, she would win Papá’s approval.
How stupid she had been. Shame prickled uncomfortably under her skin, growing and sinking into her like thorns. She had been so determined that this was the solution, that by seizing this opportunity she could secure a future where she never left Los Ojuelos, where her parents were proud of her curanderismo, even if she remained unmarried.
But in doing so, she had left the rancho vulnerable. The very people she claimed to serve—she had abandoned them.
She had to return.
Perhaps if she returned to camp, she could redeem herself. She could still prove her worth to Papá the way she had originally planned. By continuing to care for Beto and any other men who fell victim to susto, it was inevitable that the other rancheros or Félix would speak of her actions to Papá, thus validating her in Papá’s eyes.
But she could not. Not when she knew what prowled the chaparral so close to home. What might have caused Javiera to wake screaming in the night.
She had to go home.
And when she did, her bargain with Papá was complete. She would face the consequences of her failed gamble. He had allowed her to accompany the squadron to Matamoros, and in return, she would marry whichever son of a wealthy hacendado he chose.
A sour realization bloomed in her throat. Perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps Mamá and Papá were right, after all.
The sight—and horrific sounds—of the Rinches galloping through the smoke to attack the healers would forever haunt her. There were so many of them, so determined to harm the unarmed. The wounded, the women.
That was what they were up against. That was what Los Ojuelos needed to be strengthened against. It could buy that strength with money, with more men. With connections and reputations that money could not buy, but that the gift of a daughter could.
“So do you believe me?” Néstor’s words were cautious. Probing. Testing the waters, waiting to see if—or how—she would react. “About that night?”
Néstor had pulled his knees up to his chest protectively and held the brim of his hat in front of his shins. His hair was sweaty, his cheeks and shirt streaked with dirt.
He was a man who wore the scraps of a boy she once knew, a stranger she did not yet know if she could forgive. Still, her heart caught at the tender hope in his eyes.
It shouldn’t hurt. Not after what they had just survived. Not after he rescued her from danger. She should be grateful to him that she was safe, that they were both safe, even though there was no way to know what had become of Félix and Papá and Casimiro.
But some wounds ran too close to the bone. Some afflictions had sunk their claws in too deep and had poisoned the blood for years. They would not release their hold without a fight.
She left the question hanging on the air and turned her face away from him, out at the clearing.
“I have to go back,” she said.
“To camp?” he asked, a shade of surprise in his voice.
“No,” she said. She had to bring the knowledge of the vampires and how they caused the susto back to Abuela, to defend the rancho from monsters. She would also have to face the consequences of her failed bargain. But in doing both, she would be doing what was best for the rancho. This knowledge would have to fortify her, no matter what lay ahead. “To Los Ojuelos.”
17
N?STOR
“ABUELA CAN HEAL the susto, but she doesn’t know the true cause. She doesn’t know . . .” Nena’s voice had been shaky before, but it grew firmer. More confident. “About them. There is no one to help her. I’m going back.”
“The patrón will worry that you are missing,” Néstor said. “And Don Félix.”
“You can go back and tell them,” she said.
“And leave you alone?” Disbelief shot the pitch of his voice upward. How could she suggest such a thing? There was not a chance. “Hell no.”
“Then I’ll send a message to Papá as soon as I can,” Nena said. “But this can’t wait. I’m going back.”