I lift my chin. “Yes. But I can take it.”
He smiles and keeps pace with me.
We walk for hours and hours. Everything looks the same. At least to me, anyway. Manuel huffs irritated noises as the time passes. The strain takes its toll. Worry settles onto my shoulders and presses hard. How will we ever find Paititi? Every step might be taking us away from the Illari, away from any hope of convincing them to march on La Ciudad, and closer to what threatens the jungle.
We might be risking our lives for nothing.
Still, we press on.
My legs are sore, and the mosquitos are rampant, buzzing in my ears, flying in front of my face. The trees become taller and taller, until not even pockets of sunlight poke through, ensuring everything below my feet is dead or decaying. Clumps of dirt and mulch squish underneath my boots. The airfeelswet and sticky, and murderously hot.
But somehow, none of my misery prevents me from seeing the marvelous. This verdant forest houses some of the strangest things I’ve ever seen. Manuel shows me a vivid green leaf that when mashed and mixed with water creates a purple dye. I wish he would have warned me—both of my hands look as if I’ve dunked them in beet juice.
Then there are the birds in every color imaginable. Rainbow-hued parrots and determined hummingbirds sweep above us. Monkeys and sloths are constant features—as are the capybaras and armadillos. I want to spend time with all of them, but Manuel keeps us at a quick pace. The bottoms of my feet are raw, and before long I’m hobbling along, limping over tree roots and puddles deep with mud. Wonderful. More blisters.
I try not to complain, but after an hour of this, the pain becomes excruciating. The blisters on my heels return with a vengeance. When I scramble over a log and land on the other side, a moan escapes me. Manuel immediately turns. “What is it?”
I shake my head, not wanting to be weak or a burden anymore. Both of which I feel keenly.
He narrows his gaze at me. “¿Qué te pasa?”
“Nada,” I mutter, slowly walking past him. “Let’s keep going.”
Manuel snakes his arm around my waist, and together we move forward. He’s half carrying me with one arm, while his free hand thwacks at the dense greenery clogging the way forward. “You’re limping again.”
“Barely.”
“You can hardly stand.”
“Stop exaggerating.”
He stops and glares down at me. “I never exaggerate. We have to find a dry place so I can look at your feet.”
“I’m fine—”
“Stop lying to me,” he says calmly. “You’re so stubborn.”
“And you’re bossy.”
His brow creases, but we resume hobbling. I won’t admit it out loud, but his support is the only thing that’s keeping me upright. Mist curls around us like a tight fist, a dangerous blow to our sight. Manuel’s Moonsight gleams through the jungle and at last we find a cave, nearly hidden by several tall oaks. He peers inside, the soft glow coming from his gaze illuminating the interior. The walls are jagged and damp. Wild mushrooms grow between the crevices.
I stumble inside and Manuel gently lowers me to the ground. He kneels in front of me and unties the leather laces, then pulls both boots off. I wince, tucking my chin toward my chest, fighting tears. Even that hurts.
“Condesa,” he murmurs, examining my feet.
Angry blisters near bursting mar my heels and the tops of my toes.
“How long have you been hurting?” he asks quietly.
“Not long.”
His face tilts up toward mine, grim and serious, anger deep within the dark pools of his eyes. “Try again.”
“Several hours.”
“You can’t keep things like this from me. Blisters can lead to infection, and that would be catastrophic here.”
“I didn’t want to be weak,” I mumble.
