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

her obvious terror, her hand stretched for mine. Desperate. Shaking. Pleading.

“Cece!” Juana screamed.

It was ragged. The voice of a child wrenched out of a woman.

My vision swirled as I struggled to get up. Juana. I had to—had to save—I blinked desperately and finally found my feet. I stumbled forward to find nothing.

The world righted, and my vision cleared, but there was only nothing. El Sombrerón had disappeared.

And taken my sister with him.

4

The Burning Familia

The fires of the festival were still roaring bright when I made it to the town square, shoving my way through the crowd.

“Mamá!” I cried. “Papá!”

I was average height for my age, but still so many people loomed over me that I felt as if I were lost in a cluster of cacti. I stumbled into one of the señores. He pulled away from me.

“Ey, chiquita,” he snapped. “Get ahold of yourself. What, did you see your own shadow?”

The man laughed and shoved me away. I barely found my footing, searching for my parents. “Please, I need to find my mamá and papá!” My side burned with the bruises left over from El Sombrerón, but I pushed through people and toward the stage where the band was performing. The sound of blaring trumpets, drums, singing, and clapping drowned me out—until I bumped into the wooden edge, and a microphone toppled toward me. “Please, El Sombrerón took my sister!”

My voice echoed through the town square.

The dancers stopped dancing. The musicians lowered their brass instruments. Everyone stopped clapping. The mayor and the head of police looked down at me from the stage.

A ripple moved toward me through the masses. Through dark heads of hair and colorful hats, I spotted Mamá’s broad frame and Papá’s leaner one pushing toward me.

“Mamá! Papá!”

Papá reached me first. His brown face was lined and hardened from the sun, and his thick black eyebrows weighed down his forehead, his frown framed with wrinkles.

“Cecelia,” he said. “What did you say?” He cupped my cheeks, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Mija, where is Juana?”

Tears filled my eyes, but my words vanished. Mamá toppled out of the masses beside him. Her gaze swept over me, and in a moment, I knew she saw my hair in disarray, the bruises on my neck, the terror in my eyes. I pulled from Papá’s grasp and rushed into her arms.

“Cece.” She took my face in her hands. “Is it true—”

“He took her,” I burst out. “Mamá, El Sombrerón stole her. I tried to do what you said, but he—he was taller than I thought, a-and—”

“You tried, mija.” She swooped her arms around me and buried her nose in my hair. I curled into her, trying to get smaller, safer, in her warm arms. Papá came closer and wrapped us in a tight hold. Together they cocooned me, but the news still sent shudders through them.

Footsteps rumbled across the stage behind us. “El Sombrerón has taken Juana Rios!” The head of police’s voice grated with anger.

“Can we believe her?” Someone cried out. “She’s cursed!”

“Yes, what if the Rios girl is leading us into a trap?”

“Quiet!” The head of police hollered. “El Sombrerón has not taken one of our girls in years. He was bound to come again. Quickly, send notice to the police posted at the edge of the Ruins! We may be able to find her before the criatura escapes.” He turned to the police guarding the stage. “Tell the priestesses to return to the Sun Sanctuary. Ask them to light candles for our success.”

Under his command, civilians, dancers, and police alike leaped into action and raced for the Ruins. Dust rose in their wake. It settled on my face and stuck there, to my tears, until I felt as much like mud as I did human.

The rescuers moved with determination, but we knew they would fail. No person had ever been quick enough to rescue the stolen brides of El Sombrerón. He was too fast. Too powerful.

Juana was never coming back.

“Go to bed, Cece,” Papá said.

It was just him, Mamá, and me now, in the silent tomb of our home. The adobe walls felt barren, coated in darkness. No one had the heart to light a candle or the stove.

I stood at the edge of the living room, where it met our small kitchen. I leaned on the ladder that led up to the attic entrance above me, where Juana and I shared a bedroom. It would be so quiet in there without her.

Mamá stood a few feet away, facing the front window, looking out into the cold desert nighttime.

Before he died, Abuelo used to say Mamá was made of fire. Right now, trembling but with wide and silent shoulders, she looked just like a fire that had gone out. She was stiff coal abandoned in pieces, with just a hint of something too hot to touch beneath.

Papá stopped beside me. He was so close, I could feel his body heat.

His hand landed softly on my head. “You need to rest, Cece,” he said. His voice was quiet, maybe even tender. “Straighten up and go upstairs. Go to bed.”

Did he think I could sleep? Maybe he just wanted me out of his sight. Hidden up in the loft where my face wouldn’t have to remind him of Juana, where he could pretend he wasn’t stuck with the worst of his daughters.

I expected him to push me upward when I didn’t stop hunching over or move up the ladder. Usually he would make me stand tall and straight. I was an educated girl, he often reminded me. I must do my familia proud and act like it. He’d sacrificed so much to put me through school. But right now, there was no mention of his sacrifices or our familia’s pride. There was no mention of how high my chin should be.

Maybe even my papá, beneath his hard face, felt the thing falling between us now: el vacío. The emptiness.

Slowly, he lowered his hand, placing it between my shoulder blades, and