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

children and now haunts waterways, waiting to drown others. My great-abuelo once thought he saw her when he traveled along a river on his burro at night. Fortunately, it was just the white strap of his hat floating in his peripheral vision. That story still makes me chuckle to this day.

La Luz Mala—The Bad Light. This legend originates from Argentina, Chile, and Uruguay. A glowing ball made of gas that lures lost people into the countryside. When a person reaches it, the toxicity of the gas will kill them.

mija—My daughter, my child. A contraction of mi and hija, sometimes spelled m’ija. This term is often used by people who aren’t necessarily the parents of the person they are addressing. It is considered a sign of affection and denotes closeness. For example, my tías, abuelo, and abuela call me mija when I visit.

Noche de Muerte—Night of Death. In Cece’s world, this is the night when Devil’s Alley opens.

nocheztli—A Nahuatl word meaning the blood of the prickly pear, it is a dye made from the cochineal parasitic insect that lives in cactus nopal. Gross? Maybe. But the color is beautiful.

ocelot—A small wild cat native to the southern United States, Mexico, and Central and South America. Usually nocturnal, this feline has rounded ears and a long body with a tawny-yellow or grayish coat dotted and striped with black.

Perdón, ¿te desperté?—Sorry, did I wake you up?

pollo—Chicken.

señor—Mister or sir.

señora—Mistress or madam, denotes a married woman.

señorita—Miss, denotes an unmarried woman.

sí—Yes.

El Silbón—The Whistler. His story originates from Colombia and Venezuela but has spread across large parts of Mesoamerica. The details change depending on the region, but many stories say he killed his father after his father killed his wife. El Silbón’s abuelo then cursed him to carry his father’s bones in a bag on his back for all eternity as punishment. Some say that hearing his whistle foretells your death.

El Sombrerón—The Man with the Big Hat, also known as the goblin, depending on the region. Likewise, the exact details differ depending on where in Latin America you’re from, but many stories say he lures away young, beautiful women with his guitar’s siren song. He’s also known for being obsessed with braiding hair, even to the point of braiding horses’ tails in the middle of the night.

tía—Aunt.

Tierra del Sol—Land of the Sun.

Tzitzimitl (singular), Tzitzimime (plural)—In Nahuatl, these names are pronounced “tsi-tsi-me-tl” and “tsi-tsi-me-meh,” respectively. The Tzitzimime were, according to Aztec mythology, skeletal female deities who lived among the stars and protected children—unless there was a solar eclipse. The folktale differs slightly from region to region, but some stories say the Tzitzimime warriors would come down from the stars and kill people en masse during a solar eclipse because of their war against the sun. In Cece’s world, Tzitzimitl is the only one of her kind.

Acknowledgments

I’ve been writing since I was ten years old, and writing with the aim to become a published author since I was fourteen years old. It’s hard to quantify how many people have helped me in that time and how many of their small acts have contributed to the creation of Cece Rios and the Desert of Souls. But I’ll do my best to showcase their love at work.

To start, a huge thank-you to my lovely agent, Serene Hakim, whose quality editing feedback, determination, and support have been a stabilizing influence during my publishing journey. Thank you for loving Cece so much and for understanding both her and me. I’m blessed to work with you.

To my fabulous editor, Stephanie Guerdan, who loved Cece and was always willing to listen to my thoughts, knock ideas back and forth, and fight for my novel’s entrance into the library of HarperCollins. Thank you for your patience and encouragement as I learned to be a better world builder. Your feedback, sound-boarding, and passion have been essential, and I’ve deeply enjoyed working with you.

And another huge thank-you to the entire HarperCollins Children’s team. To the marketing team who saw my book’s potential, to the copy editors who have carefully helped me get the timeline in place (your small catches always add up to a big, positive effect), to the wonderful design team, and to everyone who helped bring this book to life. You are essential, and I am grateful for what you do.

Now, for some personal thank-yous. To my mom, whose battle to forgive and stay kind ended up giving Cece her soul. Thank you for being a wonderful mother who I treasure, a great teacher, and even my first editor. I’m so grateful you never let my impatience get in the way of telling me the truth. You’re the reason I learned to grow.

To my abuelo, who shared his memories of Mexico and helped me graft one of my cultures into my heart, so I no longer had to feel so detached. Cece’s story is filled with the background you gave me.

And to my granddad—I wish you could have lived to see the day Cece was published. But I’m so grateful you got to hear the news that it would be, and for the support and encouragement you gave me, even all the way across the Atlantic. To my darling nanny (my grandmother, for my non-British readers): thank you for the way you supported me and read my novels growing up. You didn’t let an ocean stop you from being there for me, and I’ll always remember that.

To my sisters, who are fires and waterfalls in their own way. You let me read aloud my stories (for way too many hours, sorry) and (sometimes reluctantly) read through entire manuscripts for me on your own. We’ve never been good at saying heartfelt thank-yous. But I want you to read it, to see it, immortalized here: Thank you for being my familia. Thank you for loving me in whatever way you can. Thank you, hermanas. I love you both.

And to my dear, close friends Magnolia, Loleata, Kate, and Laura. You are sisters of my heart, and I’m so