His expression darkens, as if a veritable shadow has crossed his face. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. Literally.”
“We’re crossing a bridge?”
He shrugs, his attention on the muddy banks.
“Why won’t you just tell me?”
“Trust me,” he says grimly. “It’s not something you need to think about right now.”
“I thought you said I was your sovereign.”
“And I thought you wanted to befriends.”
“Do you enjoy being cryptic?” I burst out. “Honestly. I fully understand that you’re mysterious and handsome and amazing at everything, but do you have to treat me like I’m three years oldallthe time—”
His eyes widen. But he’s not looking at me.
“What?”I follow the line of his gaze and let out a smothered cry. The river curves, and along the right muddy bank lies an enormous black caimán. A predator from another world, another time, sunning in the gloomy morning, its black scales shining dully. Ragged yellow teeth line its maw, bigger than Manuel’s palm. We drift past, and I drag in a mouthful of hot air; I’m rooted to the bamboo as we gently bob with the current.
“About twenty feet long,” Manuel whispers. “A male, by the look of his nostrils. I’ve never seen one so big.”
I shudder as our raft glides in front of the monster. He remains stone still, seemingly unaware of our presence. My attention stays fixed on the caimán, and when we pass him by, I let out a sigh of relief. But I still can’t tear my eyes from the sight of him. Beautiful and deadly.
His armored head swings around as the tail end of our boat glides by.
“Cielos! He’s woken up,” I say.
“What made you think he was sleeping?” Manuel dips the oar into the black water and urges us forward.
“What do we do?”
“We do nothing. If we leave him alone, chances are he’ll leave us—”
The caimán lunges quickly down the bank, splattering mud, and then slides into the water, vanishing completely below the surface. I yank my oar out of the water and turn to stare at Manuel, my jaw dropping.
“Stay calm,” he says, yanking out his machete. “He’s probably nervous and wants to get away from us.”
My palms are slick with sweat and my hair hangs limply down my back, damp from the humid air smothering every living thing. I clutch the bamboo stalk as if it were a weapon. Manuel stands at the front of our raft, the machete tucked between his legs, and propels us faster down the river, dipping the oar on the left and then right side, and back again. I face the other way, staring into the rippling depths. Terror shoots to every inch of my body.
The head of the caimán rises, cresting the water.
“Manuel!”
He turns, lays the oar on the raft, cradled by the bamboo, and then pulls me away from the edge. We huddle together in the center, down on our knees, bodies pressed tightly, our packs against us. “Hold on,” he whispers in my ear.
The black caimán sweeps past, nudging the raft, sending it gently spinning. Manuel clutches my waist, preventing any movement. His fingers dig into my sides. I peer over the edge as the monster doubles back, and even through the river’s murky water, twin lines of ridges are visible.
“He’s testing us.”
“I don’t understand,” I say, my voice low. I’m afraid to speak louder. “What does he want?”
“He’s curious if he’s found food.”
Manuel grips me tighter. A rippling wave disturbs the water, long and foreboding. My breath lodges at the back of my throat, my lungs burning. The air grows thick with heat, our bodies baking. Sweat drips into my eyes. Overhead, the clouds swell, any moment threatening to burst.
The beast’s head reemerges as he circles us one, two, three rotations. He bumps us again—harder this time—and we bob up and down roughly, the water sloshing around us.
“Hold on,” Manuel whispers again. “He’s not done yet.”
