It struck Nena.
It flung her to the side as if she weighed no more than a rag doll.
The heavens spun around her. Breath cracked out of her lungs as she struck the ground.
32
N?STOR
“THERE WERE MORE by the trees,” Casimiro shouted, gathering his reins. Both he and his horse were out of breath, their ribs heaving. “We should run them off too.”
Néstor turned Luna to the east, toward the path that led to the springs, searching the night for Yanquis.
One figure rose, shook its head vigorously from side to side, and dropped to all fours before loping toward the trees.
Those were not men at the tree line.
There was another figure, smaller than the first, with a white skirt and two swinging dark braids.
His world stilled.
It had been full night when he returned to Los Ojuelos. The orange burn of torches from the road sent his heart to his throat and his spurs into Luna’s sides—every one of his nightmares about the burning of Dos Cruces began this way, with flames and smoke on the horizon. And this was how the nightmare of an attack on Los Ojuelos began: his breath coming short as he cantered down a shortcut to the central rancho, branches stinging his face. But he was not a child. He had a gun at his hip and a machete and heels to dig into the dirt as he faced down the land thieves. He had the ability to warn the others so they would not be taken unawares, not how his father and the Dos Cruces vaqueros had been. As soon as he passed the first of the workers’ jacales, he began shouting to rouse the sleeping rancho.
“Yanquis!” he cried, lifting a hand to his lips to whistle, signaling that they were in danger.
Then he made straight for la casa mayor. Gunshots pocked the air already; shouting rose from the edges of the rancho. He slowed Luna to a trot—should he check on Nena or join the shouting vaqueros who cut off the Yanquis at the main road? From a distance, he saw figures in la casa mayor’s kitchen: a group of young women in white nightgowns, one of whom was laying a boundary of salt around the entrances.
Nena.
She would be safe behind that boundary. Safe within the confines of the house, which would certainly be the focus of the men’s protective efforts.
Or so he had thought.
That figure in the white skirt had to be Nena.
He gathered his reins and spurred Luna to a gallop, leaning low over her mane. They devoured the distance between him and Nena. Through Luna’s ears, as he squinted against the darkness, shapes began to move.
A Rinche stood where he had not seen one before, a long knife held in one hand. He limped toward Nena’s turned back.
A vampire rose on its hind legs before Nena, long teeth bared.
A threat before her, a threat at her back.
He had not reloaded his pistol, but he had the machete in one hand. That was all he needed. He needed to get between Nena and what faced her. He needed to be at her side to defend her.
“Come on,” he urged Luna through gritted teeth, even as she lowered her head and galloped as hard as her tired legs could carry her, sweat frothing on her neck and withers. Her hoofbeats thundered in pace with his heart.
His breath caught as the vampire raised one long, clawed hand before Nena. She was backing up . . . directly into the path of the Rinche with the knife.
“Nena!” he cried. “Behind!”
But he was too late.
The vampire brought its arm down with swift, fatal accuracy, knocking Nena off her feet. She went flying and collapsed in the dirt.
She did not stir.
No. No.
The vampire ignored her fallen form and lurched forward, claws outstretched. A strangled scream split the night as it seized the Rinche, lifting the man’s body into the air and sinking its teeth into his neck.
He was close enough now to see a dark veil of blood spray the vampire’s face, to see the creature’s ribs contract and expand with gluttonous abandon as it sucked the life from its prey.
He looked away, mouth souring with nausea. He was nearly at Nena. He sat back in the saddle to slow Luna and lifted a hand to his lips to whistle to the others: three sharp notes that to anyone on Los Ojuelos were an unambiguous cry for help.
He threw himself from the saddle, searching for Nena in the grass.
White skirts, their hem filthy.
A limp hand among the rocks.
Nena.
He collapsed to his knees at her side.
Her face was peaceful, her eyes closed as if she were sleeping.
“Nena.” His voice cracked. “Nena.”
She did not move.
A thump to his left. He leaped to his feet, positioning himself between Nena and the vampire, machete at the ready. His eyes peeled wide and searching in the night. His heart thrashed against his ribs, waiting for the vampire to turn to him, waiting for it to bare its teeth and—
The vampire had dropped its prey in the dirt. Without so much as a glance at Néstor, it fell to all fours and ran to the tree line.
It took several breaths for him to realize it was gone. To realize the arms that held the machete at the ready shook violently. To realize that his mare had bolted, and that he was utterly alone.
He dropped the machete and turned to Nena, falling to his knees. He put two fingers to the soft skin of her throat, searching for a pulse. His hands shook too hard. He could not find it. He lay his head on her chest, listening past the pulse throbbing in his skull for Nena’s heartbeat.
A soft beat echoed in her chest. Followed by another.
Relief stung his eyes, sudden and hot and wet.
He straightened. Tried to whistle for help a second time. But his breath came in ragged gasps; a sob broke against his fingers instead.
He inhaled deeply. Fighting and failing to steady himself.
“Stay with me,” he whispered. He slipped one arm under her torso, the other beneath her knees, and lifted, grunting from the effort.
Pain seared his left shoulder. It fanned through him, burning dully as he stumbled forward. His bad knee ached when he caught himself and shifted Nena’s dead weight in his arms.
Her head lolled back.
“Stay with me,” he forced through gritted teeth.
He stepped forward.
He carried Nena down the same path he had walked when he was thirteen, toward the smudge of light in the distance that was la casa mayor.
The last scattered gunshots of the battle faded behind him. Night erased years; memories bled between each faltering footstep, each crunch of pebbly dirt beneath his boots.
Nena bleeding from the neck, slumped against him. Her head lolling into his; her cheek cold to the touch.
Nena now, limp in his arms as a dead calf. Her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted. Her braids swinging with each step.
His heart throbbed from the effort of carrying her. His lungs were desperate for air, more air, for he could not draw enough in.
His left shoulder throbbed. His legs burned. His breathing pulled irregular and sharp.
He could not lose her again. He would not survive it.
“Stay with me.” It was a prayer, a litany, the one plea that kept him breathing. Kept him moving forward. He would never again leave her. Never again run when he was afraid. She was his home.
The lights of la casa mayor grew brighter; torches streaked the night with flame. They slid across his vision, bleeding into the night like oil. He stumbled forward. Another step, another.
Voices carried toward him. His name, then Nena’s. A high-pitched voice calling for his abuela.
A figure appeared at his shoulder.
“Madre Santa,” Beto breathed. “Let me help you.”
Néstor shook his head, unable to form words. Beto hovered at his side, a half step behind, as he stepped onto the patio. Into the blazing light of torches.
There were people on the patio; their faces blurred as he made for the doorway of la casa mayor.