Page 69 of The Mortal Trials

“My Da was solely Celtic.”

“Was?” he asks.

“He died when we were kids. Abuela – my grandmother – is Mexica. Azteca.”

His brows rise. “Aztec?”

I nod at the moniker.

“I thought that bloodline was gone.”

The Mexica people left generations ago.

Abuela told us that the feathered serpent god, Quetzalcoatl, formed a portal no other god could breach and took his people through it to a land called Atzlán. She thinks they still live and thrive there without the interference of the gods Quetzalcoatl and his pantheon consider ‘lesser’.

She said he made and left the bright birds for those who stayed behind. A reminder and a promise of some sort.

While I want to believe in her stories of the golden city with its lush bounty and floating islands, my grandmother loves telling fanciful tales with happy endings. And she adores anything to do with the pretty birds that grace her garden and eat our crumbs.

I gesture to myself. “I’m living proof.”

August’s eyes sweep over my shirt – his shirt – to my bare leg and prosthesis. When he notices me watching him, I glance away.

He swipes a crust of bread into the honeyed butter smeared on his plate. “Where do you live, then?”

“A tiny desert town.” A land belonging to no realm, where anyone from anywhere is welcome, not that many choose to live in the harsh heat.

“You live in the desert?” he marvels, looking off in the distance like he might be imagining it. “I’ve always wanted to see a saguaro cactus.”

“Really?” I scrunch my nose. I pass thirty or so on my walk between Abuela’s and the portal, and the walk isn’t that far. I guess when you’ve seen something your whole life, it seems ordinary.

He stretches his back and rolls his shoulders. “I live in the Keltore Mountains, also between realms,” he tells me.

I laugh. “I figured you lived in a big city.”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I visit them often enough, but I don’t want to live anywhere I can’t see the stars at night.”

“You sound like –” I stop myself. My heart swells. Talking with him is so easy, I forgot what I was saying.

He tilts his head, waiting. “Like?”

I release a trapped breath. “My sister loved the night sky.”

He points to the feather on my tray. “Do you wear the feathers in memory of her?”

“Yes and no.” I try to smile. “Quetzals visit Abuela’s garden. They make her happy. She leaves little crumbs on the windowsill and watches for them to land to pick them up. She loves their singing.” I twist the feather back and forth. “Sometimes they leave little gifts.” I hold up the feather. “For luck, Abuela says. My brother gave me one the day I left for Morrigan’s realm, then was sent here. And he brought another one the night he visited the island. He said I should wear them to remember him and Abuela, but they remind me of Carina, too. She has a collection of their feathers on her dresser…”

Not a speck of dust has collected on them. Abuela cleans her room like preserving it gives her purpose now. Another sorrowful garden she tends.

When I look over at him, August is smiling softly at me. “We’ll find the other one.”

I groan and look over at my trashed oikos. “It’ll take forever to clean that mess.”

He nudges my arm. “Good thing you have an ally to help.”

I smile. “Yes, it is. Thank you, August. For everything.”

Thank you for running to help me last night.