—On the Devourer, from the journal of Rosaria Vargas
The first time I saw my dead aunt Rosaria, she was beautiful.
Brujas don’t lay their dead alone in wooden boxes. We build them shrines and equip them for what comes next. When I was little, I thought it was a grand thing. I didn’t realize the bodies were dead. I didn’t realize we filled their mouths with flowers or put gold coins on their eyelids so they wouldn’t reach the afterlife empty-handed. Little eyes don’t see the consequences of adults.
“Why are you here?” I ask her now, here, in this wretched land. Here in Los Lagos.
Aunt Rosaria is a vision in her white dress. Her lips are red and plump, as when she was alive and dancing and full of wonder. Her soft-brown eyes sparkle against the stormy skies of a world I wasn’t sure I believed in until now.
She shakes her head, a sad smile on her face. She’s talking, but I can’t hear her. Everything that comes out of her mouth is like radio static except for one word. “Stubborn.”
I reach for her face, but I touch smoke. Aunt Rosaria dissolves into the air, and when my eyes can focus, I realize I’m seeing things that aren’t there. Maybe insanity is part of the recoil.
I sit up and regret it. My body aches in ways I didn’t think were possible. I feel broken. Three back-to-back days of training broken. Zero sleep after bloody dreams broken. Stiff neck after riding the Coney Island Cyclone broken.
I grab a clump of damp sand. Run it through my fingers. Black grains stick to my skin, and I remember that I hate the beach. No matter what, even at the end of summer, I find sand everywhere.
But this isn’t a Brooklyn beach. It isn’t summer. And it isn’t familiar. Our golden vessel is sideways. A battered Nova tries to right it.
“Help me push this back into the river,” Nova says.
“Why? That guy was a dick.”
“Magical trade is all about the technicalities,” he says, shaking his head. “I should’ve seen it. He provided crossing, and we got ourselves across. I don’t want to have to keep watching my back because we stole mad gold from a duende. Do you?”
I don’t tell Nova he’s right because I’m sure he’s keeping count.
My palms are still missing a layer of skin, but I help Nova right the boat on the river. It sails cleanly into the layer of mist that’s settled over the water. At the shore where the sand is darkest, we watch as hands stretch up in soft waves where surf should be.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks.
“Doesn’t matter. We have to keep going.”
The thing I love about Nova is that he lets things drop. Rishi would poke and prod until I told her everything that was on my mind. Rose would stare in silence until I confessed, like the time Lula and I ate her stash of chocolate. Lula would simply demand I tell her what was wrong. Nova picks up our backpack and walks ahead of me, holding on to the mace with a firm hand.
We walk for a long time across the sandy shore, stopping only once to eat some bread and split an apple. The apple skin gets stuck in my teeth, and I try to wash it down with water. The heat is sweltering, and our lips are dry from thirst. I could drink everything in our backpack, but we still have such a long way to go. We consult the map, and it shows there’s an opening to the Caves of Night.
A giant bird with a long, wrinkled neck and hooked beak perches on a nearby boulder. Its dull-brown wings sag. There are naked patches where the feathers have fallen off. It pecks at the boulder. It looks so skinny, but right now, our food is precious. I take the piece of bread in my hand and throw it to the bird.
It never touches the ground. The scavenger swoops in the air and gobbles the sliver up in a single bite.
“Those things give me the creeps,” Nova says, walking ahead.
“We almost got our hides melted down by a river of souls, and a hungry bird gives you the creeps?”
“It’s in the eyes,” he says. “Something’s not right about them. I bet if either of us dropped dead, these birds would be tearing at our flesh before we got cold.”
“Then we’d better not die.”
He looks back once, only to take the backpack from me. I told him we could take turns, but he wants to act all chivalrous. I want to point out that asking for another five hundred for the payment to Oros wasn’t chivalrous, but I guess it’s fair. We got each other across the river, and that’s what matters. For all we snap at each other, I can count on him to not let me die. It’s a symbiotic relationship, like a shark and a remora fish. Only I’m not sure which one of us is the shark or the remora just yet.
After we walk for what feels like hours without finding the caves that are marked on the map, I start to feel less thankful. It’s silly to think of it as hours when our watches have stopped ticking. But we do see the sun and crescent moon travel across the sky, starting from opposite ends. When they reach the highest point of the sky, I decide it marks noon. I fiddle with my watch and discover something.
“Yes!”
“You see the opening?” Nova turns around expectantly.
I shake my head. “The timer on my watch still works!”
“How does that help us?”
“We can keep track of our movements.” I pick up two round stones and hold them apart. “Okay, so the moon and sun start on opposite ends of the horizon, right? Like these two stones. Each time they reach noon, they get a fraction closer together. I’m setting a timer to see how long it takes for a full cycle.”
“You’re giving me a headache.” He turns back around and keeps walking. “Don’t make yourself nuts, okay?”
“Excuse me for wanting a little bit of order in my life.”
He turns around, crossing his arms over his tattooed chest. He’s all bright eyes and smirking lips. “Where has all this order gotten you so far?”
“Where has the lack of it gotten you?”
Looking at his naked chest makes me forget why we’re even fighting. It’s not for the same reasons Lula and I fight. We fight because we’re sisters. Nova and I fight because both of us want to be right. What’s the alternative? Oh, right—being friends. Rishi is my best friend, but even with her, I kept a part of myself hidden. I was Alex Mortiz, the girl that never cut class, that was always on time, that always did her homework.
Who can I be with Nova? He gets to see a side of me that’s never been tested, that no one has ever seen, and I’m not so sure he’s earned that. It makes me nervous and worried and unsure. What if I don’t like that version of myself?
“You’re pretty when you’re stubborn,” he says.
“You’re just pretty dumb.”
He feigns a shot to the heart but laughs all the same. I want to reach out and press my finger to his dimple. When I was a kid, I always wanted dimpled cheeks. I used to push the rubber ends of my pencils into my cheeks for hours, hoping they’d make lasting impressions.
“Your power is to conjure light?” I ask.