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

cactus needles. “Brujas speak of your obsidian hair with words that shame the sun.”

My heart stopped. I knew this criatura. The black hat, the praise, the way he blended into the shadows—Mamá had warned us about him especially.

It was El Sombrerón, the Bride Stealer.

He only stole the most beautiful of women, ones with big eyes and long, flowing hair. Like Juana’s. The only way to save yourself was to plug your ears, block out the strumming of his guitar, and lock yourself inside so you wouldn’t succumb to his siren song.

Only, Juana hadn’t covered her ears. Her stance looked brave, but it trembled at the edges.

“I will steal your soul!” she cried. Her voice wavered more now. “I-If you come any closer, I will rip it from your throat and wear it myself. I will become your master.”

It was what our mother had taught us to say to all criaturas. The prospect of being enslaved by a human was frightening to most of them. It made the weaker ones run away.

But El Sombrerón was a powerful dark criatura; he only chuckled.

The sound of his laughter merged with the shadows and ran over every surface in the old street. Everything felt muffled. His hand shifted in front of him, pulling a metal guitar into the light of the half moon. Silver strings lit up, glowing beneath his fingertips. My heart tripped over itself. Once he started playing, it would be nearly impossible to save Juana. I had to get to her before he played his song.

“Juana, run!” I threw myself forward.

Juana half-turned, her dark eyes wide and glistening and desperate. “Cece!” she said. Her bravado broke the moment she saw me. Her face crumpled; her hands shook. I’d never seen my sister this afraid.

But terrified as she was, she waved me away. “Run, Cece! He’ll hurt you!” she said just as El Sombrerón strummed his first note.

The music poured through the alley, warm and brilliant. It moved over my skin like the distant smell of roses, an old memory of sweet and sticky cactus fruit. But it didn’t drown me. My senses didn’t fall away.

Because the song wasn’t meant for me.

Juana’s face clouded over in an instant. She turned her back to me, her tense muscles relaxing.

“Juana?” I called hesitantly.

She was closer to him than I was to her. As she reached out for him, El Sombrerón’s head tilted, welcoming, watching.

I ran and tackled my sister to the dust.

She fought me. Her movements were jerky and limp, the way Papá moved when he came home late from the bar. Her eyes didn’t see me. They turned upward, searching for the song, for El Sombrerón, for the Bride Stealer. I slapped my hands over her ears.

She blinked, stunned, as we fell to the ground, my hands tight to her head. Her eyes found mine, and they were clear again.

“Cece,” she whispered. Her voice was twice as frightened as it had been moments ago.

“Juana, we have to—”

I didn’t notice El Sombrerón’s guitar until it slammed against the back of my head. I spiraled off Juana, rolling through the dirt. Metal strings twanged in the air. I squeezed my eyes shut, clasping my throbbing head through tangled hair. The impact shook through my entire body. I gasped through the pain.

“I’m not here for you.” El Sombrerón’s voice reverberated through the ground, almost more sensation than words.

Juana stumbled up from the ground. “Don’t you dare hurt her!” She raised her fists. “I’ll show you how the Rios women treat criaturas!”

El Sombrerón paused. His black hat tilted toward her, like he found her curious.

Juana shoved a hand into her hair and tore curls from her bun, gathering beads of the fire opal. She balled them into a fist. They glowed bright orange as she pulled her arm back to throw them at him—but just then, El Sombrerón flicked his fingers over his glowing, silver guitar strings.

Her arms went limp. The beads poured out across the ground and ceased to shine.

Panic thundered between my ears. El Sombrerón had knocked me clear to the opposite side of the street, so I lay at the foot of a crumbling adobe building. Juana was nearly fifteen feet away, facing El Sombrerón, just four or five steps from being in his grasp. I forced myself to stand. Impossible as it seemed, I had to do something, anything, to save her.

I glanced at his neck. In the shadows of his figure, the silver line of a necklace peeked out from beneath his collar.

His soul.

No matter how powerful a criatura may be, each wore its soul around its neck. And all a human had to do was steal it to become their bruja or brujo—their witch master.

I couldn’t hide Juana somewhere. I couldn’t use fire opal to burn his shadowy skin. But I could steal his soul. I wouldn’t keep it permanently like a real bruja, of course. Just long enough to save my sister.

I sprinted in between the two before he could grab her and leaped for his chest.

He jerked back as I slammed into him. He let out a grunt that shook the street like an earthquake. I latched onto his collar and reached for his necklace.

His hand caught me by the throat.

He lifted me into the air. I struggled to breathe. He looked so ethereal—more shadow than person, more painting than creature—but his grip was as solid as a rock. I scratched at what I thought should be skin on his hand, but only smoke rose from the wounds.

“You have heart, child,” he said. “And that will be your undoing.”

He slammed me into the ground beside him.

My air escaped in a rush. I lay there, bruised, back aching, muscles frozen. And incapacitated on the ground as I was, El Sombrerón had two hands free to wrangle my dazed sister onto his shoulder. He threw her over it like a limp sack. I watched helplessly as the last of the opals fell from her hair in a rain of fire. Through