Cece Rios and the Desert of Souls by Kaela Rivera (online e book reading .txt) 📕

its hem. He’d asked Mamá to turn it into cleaning rags last week. Luckily for me, she hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Now I got to enjoy its raw petroleum smell and roomy extra-large size.

The outfit didn’t help me make the same strong impression as the brujas I’d seen in Envidia, but it was close enough.

Except for my face.

I pouted at it in the mirror. I’d always thought my eyes were average, but with no hair to distract from them, they were a large, soft brown, ringed with black eyelashes.

They looked like the eyes of a scared child. Just like Juana had said. Yesterday, she’d teased me about it. Today, she was gone.

I closed my eyes and thought of my hermana. She needed me, so I had to try to look frightening. I pictured her face as El Sombrerón dragged her into the darkness. Listened to her screaming. Calling my name.

I opened my eyes.

With no hair to soften it, my angry face was as welcoming as a skillet. My mouth sharpened into a tough line. My eyes squeezed into menacing, charcoal slashes beneath thick, cutting eyebrows. I’d never seen myself like this.

A knock at the door jarred the expression from my face. “Cece! Is that you in there? I need the bathroom.”

Holy sunset, Mamá was home from the fields. “Just a minute!” I scrambled around, hiding the knife Grimmer Mother gave me in my jacket pocket before sweeping up my cut hair. I gathered the long locks in a thick, massive black ball and hid it in the darkest corner.

“Cece!” Another knock. “I’ve been holding it in for hours!”

I whipped Papá’s jacket off, knife still in the pocket, and shoved it in my small bag. While Mamá continued to knock, I yanked my white dress back on, where it hid the embarrassing buckskins.

“Okay!” I unlocked the door.

She stumbled back as the door swung out. “What were you doing—”

Her mouth fell open. I was about to change the subject when I realized that my hair was shaved off, my dress was rumpled, and all in all I looked like a madwoman.

“Your hair, mija!” she wailed. Her hands leaped to my head, tracing the prickles. “Your beauty! My daughter is a cactus!”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It was just so heavy, and hot, and—”

“Moon above!” she swore in exasperation. “What is happening inside that empty head of yours? Why your hair?”

My mind raced in panic. “I—I didn’t want El Sombrerón to take me too.”

There was a beat of silence, and Mamá’s face softened. “Oh, mija . . .” She stroked my cheek and pressed her lips together. “Pepita, I see. But you have to remember that brujas sometimes shave their heads. The police may get suspicious if they see you like this.” She shook her head. “Everyone already worries about you. And now you do this? So soon after—” Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t say her name. “After—”

“Juana,” I said.

Tears filled Mamá’s eyes until they almost overflowed. Her chin dimpled. I stared. She had never cried during the criatura months. It invited weakness, she always said. And weakness invited death.

Slowly, she shook her head until the tears receded. She pointed back at the house. “Get inside now. You’re grounded. No dinner tonight.”

I straightened up. I’d been looking forward to having her atole—a hot, creamy drink thickened with cornmeal and flavored with sugar and cinnamon. It was warm and comforting, two things I could do with before going criatura hunting.

“But Mamá—” I started.

“You have to think about the consequences of your actions, mija,” she said. “Even if you’re afraid of El Sombrerón, you must think about the message you are sending others. Now is the time for strength.” Her eyes moistened again. “Go to your room.”

I stared at her a moment longer, my mouth hanging open. But I bowed my head and, quietly, stepped outside with my bag, knife, and jacket in tow. Mamá entered the outhouse and closed the door behind her. I trudged across our small backyard and up the steps back inside.

I lifted my head. Wait a second—this was perfect! I grinned and hurried up the ladder to my room. I needed to sneak out to go criatura hunting anyway. This way, Mamá wouldn’t question why I was holed up in my room when I usually preferred to stay by the fireplace in the evenings.

The moment I closed the loft hatch behind me, I pulled off my dress again and put on Papá’s jacket. Next, I opened my small bag and filled it with everything I thought I’d need to catch a criatura—matches, a torch I’d made with old rags and some rancid cooking oil, the knife Grimmer Mother had given me, and Tía Catrina’s journal. Finally ready, I headed to the window.

I waited there for a while, listening for sounds of Mamá returning from the outhouse. A telltale slam of the backdoor and then clanking from the kitchen below told me it was time to escape.

The loft wasn’t far from the ground, but it would still make for a hard fall if I jumped. The house’s exterior wall was nothing but flat adobe. The nearest spot to get my footing was the first-floor kitchen window, where the oven’s smoke pipe trailed out. I might be able to step onto it if I dangled off my sill, but Mamá would see me.

I scowled and scanned the scruffy ground beneath me. There was nothing but tufts of dry grass to cushion my fall. I sighed and leaned back against the wall. There was no easy way out.

A frown deepened between my eyebrows. What, had I thought getting my sister back was going to be easy?

I took a sharp breath and turned to face outside again.

My bag hung heavy on my back. I closed my eyes, gripping the outer edge of the window, and sucked shaking breaths in through my nose. I could do this. For Juana.

I launched myself out of the room, even as my heart twisted up into my mouth.

I hit the