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

She disappeared from the room.

The moment she was out of sight, I rushed to Coyote. “Are you okay?”

His smiled playfully up at me from his crouch. “Of course.” Coyote tapped his soul as it dangled from my throat. The single scar rotated in and out of view. “Nice acting, bruja.” His gazed flicked up to mine. “I mean—Cece.”

I couldn’t help but smile back. “You nearly scared me to death with that first one. You shriek like an owl!”

He snorted. “I bet you’ve never even heard La Lechuza.”

“I’m guessing you have.” He opened his mouth, and I rushed on, “And no, I don’t want to hear the story right now. We need to leave this crazy woman’s house already.”

His smile broadened into a grin. I offered my hand, and for the first time, he took it.

11

The Bruja Fights

I stood next to Coyote in the vastness of the desert beyond the Ruins, staring up at the crooked silhouette of the abandoned silver processing plant. It had gone out of business when the silver in the mine had run out, around four years ago. That’s when Papá had gotten his new job in the oil refinery.

The building perfectly matched the description Grimmer Mother had given me before I left Envidia yesterday. Large, dark, and foreboding. I squeezed Tía Catrina’s journal in my hands, holding it open to the entry about her first night of Bruja Fights. Below the rough sketch of four criaturas fighting in a ring, she’d written a short note to herself: From now on, no one stands in my and my criatura’s way. He is good, and he serves me loyally. Together, we will conquer today.

It was strange to know I was following in her footsteps so closely. But my path led to Juana, not to whatever power Tía Catrina had wanted so badly.

Brujas and spectators strode past Coyote and me, either filing into the concrete factory or gathering around a smaller building off to its side. Here, so far from town, the brujas and brujos hadn’t bothered to disguise themselves. Shaved hair, piercings, dark tattoos, and thread-wrapped necklaces with criatura souls were on full display.

They looked strong, that was for sure. I hunched a little.

“The small shed’s where we register,” I said breathlessly. “That’s what Grimmer Mother said.”

“Lead the way.” Coyote scanned the crowd.

I slouched even more. “You’re bigger, could you go first?”

Coyote covered his mouth, like he was trying to hide a smile, and started ahead. “You’re a bruja. Try not to phrase it like a question next time.”

Right, no questions, just be a jerk. Brujas were supposed to treat their criaturas like slaves. I nodded and lowered my head, so I glared upward as we headed near. We stopped at the end of the registration line and waited as someone called the brujas and brujos over one by one.

“Can you hear what the person checking us all in is asking?” I whispered to Coyote. I didn’t want to be taken off guard.

“I’m a coyote. I hear more than I should.” He scanned the line. Then, he leaned down slightly to whisper. “It’s just the basics—name, criatura name. They record the participants every year so El Cucuy and his two advisers, together known as the Three Dark Saints, know who’s participating and who they’ll eventually welcome to Devil’s Alley.” I nodded, a little shaky, as we neared the front. He frowned a little. “Try to look like you’re here on purpose.”

I steeled myself. I’d changed my entire life in just a few days to be here; I was here on purpose.

The bruja and criatura ahead of us stepped up to speak with a man cloaked in shadows. Sweat suddenly gathered down the line of my spine. They spoke in hushed tones before the girl and her criatura departed.

Then it was just me and the cloaked man, only a few feet apart. He lounged cross-legged on a tipped-over machine surrounded by large hunks of broken, untreated stone left over from mining. He looked creepily similar to El Sombrerón, with his face completely hidden in the shadows cast by his large black hat. But he was shorter, probably an inch or so shorter than me, with a high-standing collar and cloak that poured down the length of his body. His hands were pale and bony, and he clutched the strap of a bag slung over his shoulder and a small pad of paper in the other hand. White rods peeked out from his bag.

He waved me forward with two long fingers. I stepped up.

“Name?” he asked.

I went to answer him, but then the white sticks in his knapsack came into focus, and I realized they were bones. Ribs, femurs, and forearms all crowned with a broken jaw.

He tilted his head when I didn’t speak, but no matter which way he moved, his face was as dark as the bottom of a well. “Name?” he asked again.

I tried to keep my fingers from shaking. A bag of bones? He could only be one criatura—El Silbón, the Father Killer. A dark criatura.

“C,” I forced out.

“C? That’s your name?”

I wasn’t going to tell him my real name. He was the Father Killer! “Yeah, C. You know, C, C from the alphabet.”

“Oh, Cece. Okay, that’s an actual name. Now, who’s your criatura?”

Well, so much for that. “Coyote,” I said, with a huff. “Criatura of the Coyote.”

He straightened up a little, and the bones in his bag clinked. “Coyote? As in, the Great Namer?”

“Is there another Criatura of the Coyote?” I asked, but for a second, I was actually terrified there was, and I’d gotten the wrong one.

The dark criatura slouched again. “Well, you definitely have the attitude of a bruja, anyway. But it’ll take more than that to get you into Devil’s Alley.” He tapped the pad of paper against his knee. “Coyote, huh. I haven’t seen him in nearly a thousand years.” He chuckled and tilted his head so he could get a better look at Coyote standing behind me.