Page 47 of The Hacienda
Darkness coiled around his neck and tugged him down, his weight dragging on my arms.
No.Though clammy sweat slicked my palms, the sides of my throat, the small of my back, I tightened my arms around him.
“Get back! He’s mine.” My voice came out as a rough snarl; I barely recognized it. I shouted at the dark, a feral, wordless bark. With that, I hauled Andrés up as fast as I could, pushing with all the strength I had in my legs.
His feet caught his weight underneath. He was up. He wasn’t perfectly conscious—his head lolled to the side, onto his shoulder—but he could bear weight.
“Run,” I whispered to him. His head lifted slightly. “We have to run.”
So, so quiet.
We would be safe in the capilla.
Half carrying Andrés, I lurched for the door. The violence of the ritual had blasted it off its hinges; it had struck the far side of the hall and shattered a blown-glass vase. We stumbled over it, shoes crunching broken glass.
To the front door. My legs burned with each step; my damp palms fumbled the handle. We burst through the door.
Rain drenched the courtyard, slicking the path with mud. Rain cooled my scalp, ran down my face, soaked my dress as I staggered into the night.
The farther we drew from the house, the more Andrés seemed able to carry his weight; by the time we slumped against the wooden door of the capilla, he lifted himself back up. I wrenched the door open, and we half fell into the dim chapel.
Someone had lit prayer candles before the humble painted wooden statue of la Virgen de Guadalupe. It was enough light to see by, enough light to make a sob rise to my scream-savaged throat.
The door thundered shut behind us. My legs gave out at last, and we fell forward into the aisle between the pews. My knees struck tile floor; I threw myself out to try and catch Andrés so he would not strike his head a second time, but he had fallen on his shoulder and rolled onto his back, coughing and wheezing in pain.
I was on my hands and knees, like I had been in the parlor, when blood was pouring—
I looked down at my hands.
There was no blood on them. Nor on my skirts.
I jerked myself upward, sat back on my heels, and touched my chin. No blood. Felt my mouth for... I shuddered in horror, but my teeth were intact. Firmly attached to my gums and my jaw.
Tears stung my eyes and cheeks as I sucked in greedy lungfuls of air, my breathing and Andrés’s the only sound in the empty chapel. That and the thundering of my heart as it slowed, slowed, slowed.
So, so quiet.
Even the darkness here was different. Shadows dyed the corners of the room a soft, deep charcoal gray. The dark of dreamless sleep, the dark of prayers in the night. The dark touched by hopeful fingers of dawn.
Andrés opened his eyes. He frowned at the ceiling. “Where—”
“The capilla.” A hoarse croak, barely my voice at all.
His face was gray and gaunt; at my words it went paler still. “No... don’t leave the circle.”
“You were hurt,” I said. “It was hurting you more. I couldn’t leave you.”
“Broke the circle...” he murmured at the ceiling.
Had I made a mistake, bringing him here? No, something had gonewrong. Something had flung him across the room. It could have killed him. It could have killed both of us. Who cared about breaking the circle when he could have died?
“Damn the circle,” I whispered, tears blurring the vision before me: Andrés on his back, blood dripping from his nose, pale and gaunt between the pews. “You’rebroken. That matters more.”
“Not broken.” A cough wracked his body. He grimaced. “Fine.”
“Lying is a sin, Padre Andrés.”
A wet laugh. He turned his head to the side, eyes shining up at me, feverish and overbright, as he smiled. Lopsided and without restraint. There was blood on his teeth.
