“Where is your brother?” Papá asked, still standing, his arms clasped behind his back.
“He had more early morning business to attend to in the next pueblo over. He should be home any moment.”
“The nearest pueblo is a day’s ride away. Will he make it back so soon?” Papá inquired.
“He…um…My brother is a skilled horseman, señor.” She curtsied. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“I’ll help you!” Carolina nearly shouted. “I mean…if you’d like the company.”
“Of course,” Fernanda said. “Would you like rose or mint tea,Señora Fuentes? I went and picked some myself. I understand they are good for people with child.”
Mamá blushed. “That is so thoughtful of you. Rose would be wonderful.”
Fernanda gave an elegant bow. A sting of jealousy bit at Carolina. She hadn’t ever dipped so gracefully, not naturally anyway. Oftentimes, that sort of grace had to be smacked into her.
“And for you, señor? We have some rather fine port.”
Papá now stood before the windows, which were open a bit but covered in thick curtains. His brows were knit together. “Sounds lovely. Thank you.”
Together, Carolina and Fernanda headed for the kitchens, their silk skirts swishing in unison.
“Where is he?” Carolina whispered.
“I haven’t the slightest clue. I thought he’d be here by now.”
The Montéz casa had been bare of decorations the first time Carolina came. Now there were quite a few paintings on the walls. Her feet slowed when her eyes landed on a small but intricate portrait. A much younger Lalo stood next to a tall and angular man. Fernanda, who couldn’t have been more than eight or so, sat on a bench next to a lovely woman with the kindest green eyes.
“Our parents,” Fernanda said.
“You both favor them.”
Fernanda smiled sadly. “I think so too. My brother can’t stand to see this painting, but I put it up anyway. I couldn’t leave the piece behind. I feel like if I don’t look upon their faces every day, I might somehow forget them.”
“I’m so sorry,” Carolina said.
“My brother saw how they were taken from us.” Fernandagulped. “I know he’s hurt people. He doesn’t talk about the night he returned to our home after being made, but I can see the pain in his eyes. He has done terrible things to make sure I won’t be abandoned in this world, and I am thankful for it.” A tear slipped down Fernanda’s cheek. “Does that make me a monster, too?”
Carolina gazed at the younger version of Lalo. She thought about this prim and proper boy and how his entire life must have been turned completely upside down. And yet, he still fought so hard to keep his life together, to keep his sister safe. Fernanda wasn’t a monster because Lalo wasn’t a monster either.
Frustration breathed within Carolina. She used to see the world in black and white. Right or wrong. Monster or human. Why did Lalo have to add color where it didn’t belong?
From the journal of Jonathan Monroe of Santemala
June 10, 1709
I fear my dearest daughter is truly lost, for the monster lying in her bed is a stranger to me. Day and night she cries for human blood, and I know she must have it. In my fatherly compassion, I offered her my wrist and I let her drink. She would not stop. I felt my life force drain away. I thought myself doomed. Only by the grace of the saints did she release me, but I am still not recovered from the affair. And her thirst only grows.
My niece is in contact with a woman who practices brujería. She has told me I could heal my body if I ingested my daughter’s blood. The power of the gods lives within it, after all. They are immortal. Their bodies never hurt or deteriorate. And therefore, those linked to Tecuani are nearly unbreakable. But how could I possibly do such a thing? How could I take from my little girl when she is already writhing in agony?
No. I will suffer as she suffers.
CHAPTER 19
Lalo
The cantina was large andstrangely clean. So unlike the underground pit he had slinked into the night he learned of Maricela’s whereabouts. The Den was what she had named her tiny cantina. But it was missing the rest of the title. The Den of Leeches was what it should have been called. Or The Den of Sin. No, The Den of Death. Really, any of those would suffice. People—human or made—frequented the place because there were rumors of dark and dangerous activities happening behind the closed doors, and they wanted in on the depravity.
But this cantina in Del Oro was more of a restaurant than anything. The wood-paneled walls were lined with pretty paintings of the landscape surrounding el pueblo. One depicted Basilio’s Point and had the sun rising from behind the peak of Devil’s Spine. The winding river that wove in from the forest and through the valley. There was even a likeness of the Fuentes hacienda.
