I press closer to the bamboo and let out a soft whimper, praying the raft will hold us, praying we’ll survive this moment. Time stretches. I slap a mosquito on my neck.
The raft bucks underneath us and I scream—we lift up high into the air, and then slam down. Manuel’s hold loosens, jarred from the impact. I land hard on the bamboo, and pitch sideways, rolling away from him.
He reaches for me. “Condesa!”
I tumble into the murky river.
CAPÍTULO
Diez
The water’s strong current envelops my writhing body, dragging me under. I can’t see anything beneath the surface. My limbs tangle together as I twist amid bubbles and flailing arms, trying to find the right way up. The water is murky and warm, and strangely alive. Something brushes against my leg and I scream, losing precious air.
I can’t swim.
My heart slams against my chest, panic clawing at my skin like a hungry vulture. I kick once, twice, and break free. I reach up, my gaze focused on the smattering of light above my head, my pack helping me draw toward it. When I break the surface, terror coursing through my veins, rioting my blood and thundering in my ears, the raft is several feet up the river.
The current steals me farther away.
Manuel is on his hands and knees at the edge of the raft, furiously maneuvering it closer and shouting at me, but I can’t make sense of the words. This doesn’t feel real. I’m not in this river with an enormous predator close by. My vision blurs as water sweeps over my head. I fumble and swing my arms, trying to remain afloat. Once again, my head pops above the surface. I gasp, coughing up water.
“Condesa!” Manuel yells. “Stop moving! Tuck your arms and legs and float!”
My body can’t stop shaking. I sense movement, a sudden surge against the river.
If the jungle wants me, it will have me.
I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting to remember how to float. What did Manuel say?Lie on your back, parallel to the water.I slowly move into position, but the river is too strong for me to remain still.
Manuel urges the raft toward me, his movements controlled and ever so slow. He’s only a few feet away. But the black caimán swims in between us, grazing my body, taunting me. A scream rips out of me. A few yards away, his snout appears, midnight scales gleaming dully. His black eyes appear next, and slowly he inches forward, water rippling around his yawning jaw.
I turn away, moaning, my fear nearly swallowing me whole. The raft is so close. If I reach for it, I might be able to latch on. Manuel is just above me, his face set, his sole attention on the approaching beast. He yanks out a dagger tucked within his boot, looking so much like his mother, I can’t breathe for a second.
There’s no way I’ll make it without the caimán reaching me first. I start kicking wildly, my fingers outstretched. They slide against the slick bamboo.
Manuel leaps over my head with a sudden roar. I grip the raft and haul myself up, my legs thrashing. I whip around as the caimán rears, Manuel glued to his head and upper back with one arm while the other slashes, sinking into one of the beast’s black eyes. The caimán snarls, his tail whipping back and forth, trying to buck the ranger.
Quickly, Manuel yanks his weapon free and stabs the monster’s other eye. A loud howl of fury and pain escapes from the caimán as Manuel jumps into the water. He swims for the raft, and I scoop up one of the oars, hold it out for him to hold on to.
Manuel ignores my offering and makes quick work of climbing on board. He sheathes the dagger and picks up the second oar. The caimán bellows again. The water surges, violently rocking us.
“We have to get off the river!” he yells, pointing to the opposite sandbank. “Rápido!”
I help him row the raft toward the shore. Something hits the bamboo and I glance down. There’s a sudden swelling of water underneath—
“Get down!” I cry, dropping to my knees.
The raft kicks up and slams onto the water; somehow we remain on board. Another caimán circles the raft, its eyes unharmed. It’s slightly smaller than the other.
“His mate!” Manuel says. “Hit her snout!”
The female approaches and I slap the paddle, making contact with her nose and she immediately ducks below the surface. We furiously row to the muddy bank and jump from the raft. My boots slip against the sludge as I race upward toward the tree line.
I turn around to find Manuel gaping at the water. A man rides on the back of the small caimán, blood snaking down both cheeks where his eyes used to be.
“No,” I whisper, fear twisting my stomach.
Manuel backs away from the edge as the caimán emerges from the water, slowly following him up. The man is ancient—grizzly gray beard, wrinkled skin clinging to a lean, muscular frame. He’s naked, carrying only a wooden staff. Around his neck hangs a black cord with an amber amulet dangling between his collarbone. He climbs off the back of the caimán—his mate?—and slams the end of his staff into the ground, murmuring something in the old language. The water behind him swells and rises, up to his ankles. He’s using Pacha magic—magic that bursts from deep within Mother Earth, their goddess.
