A twig cracked beneath her boot.
Néstor took her hand. Squeezed it. Held it fast. He met her eyes.
Wait, he mouthed.
She had to trust him. Trust that whatever he was planning landed them on the right side of life and death. Visions flashed through her mind: the blaze of bullets through the air; Néstor with a red wound in his chest, falling to his knees. A thousand hands seizing her, tearing her hair, ripping at her shirt.
He squeezed her hand tighter.
Another scream tore through the heat. A gasp seized her breath; she bit down on her lip to keep the sound in. Hard. She shut her eyes, as if that could help.
What in God’s name was that?
Néstor squeezed her hand again, then tugged it. When she opened her eyes and looked up at him, he gestured with his chin in the direction of the riverbank.
If she squinted through the undergrowth, she could see figures on the bank. A flat-bottomed barge was being poled across the river by men in blue uniforms; it was difficult to distinguish anything about them through the glare of the late-afternoon sunlight.
But the uniforms of the men on the riverbank made it abundantly clear that they were Rinches. There were half a dozen or so: one tossed a rope to the men on the barge, another joined him in pulling the barge to shore.
But when the other men came forward into the view the undergrowth afforded, the breath died in Nena’s throat.
Four of them gripped chains in their hands. They pulled something forward into the blinding light, leaning into the act, cursing and digging their heels into the pebbly riverbank.
The four chains were attached to a single metal collar. It was as thick as a yoke and glinted in the sun.
That collar was fastened around the neck of a vampire.
It writhed as the Rinches dragged it forward, its long, spindly arms spasming in the sunlight, its head thrown back in agony. It let loose another scream.
Another man stepped forward with a rifle and struck its head with the butt of the weapon.
Nena jumped. Néstor loosed a low, sympathetic hiss as the beast fell. As the Rinches yanked it bodily onto the deck of the barge. It was nothing but a tangle of limbs, a wide-ribbed heap of gray flesh in the sun. Flies buzzed around its mouth and the wounds on its back in a macabre halo. Metallic clicks sounded as the Rinches used hooks on the barge to secure its chains, pinning it down like an animal for slaughter.
Then the men returned to shore, wiping sweat from their brows and calling to one another as they moved out of the line of Nena’s sight.
Her heartbeat roared in her ears. She could barely understand the sight unfolding before her, even as the grotesque act repeated itself with a second vampire. The Rinches dragged it forward. It shrank from the punishing sunlight of the riverbank and howled in agony, its voice rending the afternoon and setting Nena’s teeth on edge. She could not tear her eyes from the scene. She could not.
Not even as the first vampire lifted its head as much as it could, despite being chained to the deck of the barge.
It had no eyes. In the sunlight, this was grotesquely apparent: thin skin stretched over sockets in its humanlike face. Its nostrils flared as it turned its face toward the riverbank.
Toward Nena.
A sudden chill swept over her back. The sweat that sheathed her all afternoon went clammy. Cold drilled down through muscle to bone, down to the bottom of her belly.
A prickling sensation swept under the scar on her neck, hot as stinging nettles.
That pain always occurred when they were near. Was it because they were watching her? Because they scented the presence of someone once bitten, of a meal left unfinished?
A fierce need to run rushed through her. Her muscles tensed. She could stay still no longer, not as the vampire flared its nostrils again, scenting the air. Not as the second followed suit, even as it was being fastened to the deck with more chains than the first.
“It sees me,” she breathed to Néstor. “It sees me.”
The Rinches were occupied with keeping the vampires down on the deck—a task that was proving more and more difficult as they writhed and raised their heads, sucking air through their bat-like noses. The men shouted to one another; tossed one another ropes. They were distracted. If she and Néstor fled now, they had a chance to escape undetected.
“We’ll go silently,” Néstor breathed. “Make for the main road and gallop.”
Nena nodded, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight before her. Unable to shake the feeling that she made direct eye contact with the first vampire. She knew that—eyeless though it was—it saw her, just as she saw it.
“Now,” Néstor breathed.
She backed slowly out of the undergrowth, Néstor at her side. Twigs snapped as they went; each one piqued Nena’s fear, struck a higher and higher note in the shrill need to flee that bored through her head.
Then they turned and bolted, pumping their arms, gasping for breath.
When they reached the horses, they tightened girths with sweat-slick, shaking hands. The food was still attached to Néstor’s saddle and the salt to Nena’s; they had barely unpacked anything in the scant time they rested in this place.
They mounted their horses and trotted out of the thickest of the growth; then, a cry of alarm rose from the riverbank.
“Go!” Néstor cried.
Nena leaned her weight forward and spurred her mount into a canter. Branches stung her face; her mare stumbled, then righted herself, on the rocky path. To the main road. Once they reached the main road, they could truly flee.
They broke through the chaparral to the road, which was barely wide enough for two horses to ride abreast.
But it was clear.
“Gallop!” Néstor roared. A quick glance cast over her shoulder revealed he was just behind her mare’s rump, a pistol in one hand.
She needed no further urging. She sank her heels down, leaned low over the mane, and flew.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
THEY GALLOPED UNTIL the horses were slick with sweat and wheezing to catch their breath, until Néstor was convinced they were not being followed. Then they moved off the main road into the chaparral. Néstor led the way, cutting a path for them through the thickest parts. He said he no longer felt safe riding by the clearer area of the riverbank; he felt equally exposed on the road.
They were exhausted. The horses were spent, their withers and girths frothy with sweat. Still they walked through the heat of the evening, until staying off the main road proved worth its weight in gold: low hills sloped up south of the road, speckled with prickly pears and maguey. Farther up the largest of these such hills, exposed rock stood solemn and black.
“There,” Néstor said, pointing to where the rock curved inward into a shallow cave. “Home sweet home.”
They rode slowly up the hill and found a clearing by the mouth of the cave. The cave itself was barely deeper than a patio—being able to see clear to the back of it meant no predators of any kind lurked in its darkness, but its shade and thick walls provided cool respite from the setting sun. The high location meant that Néstor could scan the surrounding countryside like a bird of prey; as they unsaddled the horses, he kept one eye on the river, searching its shining, winding hide for any sign of Rinches with barges.
There were none.
Her heartbeat slowed. Exhaustion prohibited her from moving too quickly; as the horses were finally groomed and grazing nearby, she and Néstor collapsed in the mouth of the cave.
“No fire tonight,” he said. “Might draw attention. Too dangerous.”
But having no fire was also dangerous. A trail of gooseflesh tripped down Nena’s spine at the memory of the first vampire holding her gaze, its long, oval nostrils flaring as it scented the air.
She forced herself up on aching thighs and stumbled toward her saddlebag. She withdrew the salt that the carreteros had given them that morning.