“You’re afraid of me,” she sneers. “You are afraid of someone—a woman—having power over you. You have dedicated your life to being a Reaper because you are afraid of death. So, you try to control it. You try to kill those you think have wronged you, starting wars that you don’t know how to finish. See, death may end you, but in my bloodline, death is only the beginning.”
He presses the blade into her neck, not enough to kill her, but enough to draw a small crack of crimson. “Don’t get religious on me now,” he says as his jaw tenses.
Again, the woman laughs. “Haven’t you fucked me long enough to know that I am not religious? Please, I know who I am, and I know who you are not. I am my mother’s daughter—a woman of otherworldly instincts, a creature of premonition and spiritual connections. It’s a gift passed down from generation to generation of Cuervo women in my family, and killing me will only begin your nightmare, Donato. You may kill a Cuervo woman, but there is a price to pay.”
“And how is that?”
“Because you have a daughter…my daughter. When the time comes, she will learn of the monster you are and the power she has within herself. And when you least expect it, she will use that power to avenge what is hers. So, go ahead, kill me. Let the haunting of your depraved fucking soul begin. For women like us, death doesn’t stop us, it fuels us,” she gloats just as the blade of his machete that was hovering over her neck glides across her skin, reducing her to a puddle of crimson.
“Bruja,” the man spits out over her lifeless body.
Just as he steps back, horror paints his face, though not from remorse but from the discovery of a note she had clamped inside her blood-soaked hand.
Carefully, he throws the knife back into his pocket as he snatches the note from her lifeless hand and reads aloud.
“She will find her way back to me, and when she does, I will arm her with her lineage. Then she will come for you. Swift as a Cuervo, bleak as night, when you least expect it…she will end your life.”
* * *
Somewhere between disassociated and hyper-aware,my body exists as a strange, piercing sensation begins to penetrate my limbs. Inch-by-inch, it seeps deeper until the feeling doesn’t just hit me. It goes through me, causing me to shout robotic words I do not recognize.
“Swift as a Cuervo, bleak as night, when you least expect it, she will end your life,”I say again, but this time, I focus on the words instead of saying them like I’m hypnotized.
What a fucking bad dream, I think to myself as I go to move, but I can’t. Well, I can, but I definitely don’t want to, not when I feel excruciating pain all over.
I lay still, feeling as though I’ve been run over by a freight train. No, scratch that, more like a grand piano fell from the sky, crushing my every limb, gutting each of my internal organs. Dramatic, yes. Accurate, also yes.
I want to open my eyes, but that simple motion feels too daunting. That, and if I’m being honest with myself, I’m not sure I am ready for what awaits me with regained vision. Especially since that glacial cold front that has taunted my every move the past couple of weeks hasn’t dissipated.
In fact, if it is even possible, the sensation has become even stronger, so much so that any warmth has completely escaped my body. It feels like I am existing in a cryogenic chamber. There isn’t even one inch of my flesh that isn’t tormented by it, and my insides feel as icy as the shell I am currently existing in.
But then…I hear something. A voice. Since I’m aware, or I think I am, and my lips aren’t moving, I can recognize that the voice I am hearing is not my own this time. It’s muffled and sounds like it is coming from miles away and through a tunnel, but I hear it.
I wince, eyes still shut, trying to focus on the sound. When suddenly, I feel something warm graze my skin just as I hear it more clearly.
“Lola,” a familiar voice says. “Lola, open your eyes,” the voice repeats itself, as does the burst of heat I now feel on my hands. “Slowly,” the voice warns in a whisper.
I do as it commands. Slowly, I move my eyes with closed lids, side to side, before I open them. As my lashes ascend to the creases of my lids, my sight is struck with a bright light that makes me want to close my eyes from the way it is burning through my retinas.
I clamp my eyes closed once more, but the voice, like the warmth it brings to my skin, persists, repeatedly saying my name. With each time my name is spoken, the owner of the voice becomes clearer, as does the distinct sensation of soft, wrinkled skin grazing the top of my hand.
“Lola,mi amor, it’s ok,” the voice says in a low whisper, intended to be comforting, but… Fuck, it can’t be. I have to be dreaming or having a nightmare. An eerily vivid, feels-like-real-life nightmare. Because if I open my eyes and see who I am expecting to see, it will confirm that I am not dreaming, and that is worse than a nightmare.
It would mean that I am dead.
Great.
23
Lola
No,it can’t be.
My voice trembles as disbelief washes over me. “Is that you?” I murmur. Here, right in front of me, clear as day, is the only person, besides Cillian and Paxton, who made life worth living.My abuela.
Before she answers, confirming the inevitability of her reply, my eyes scan our surroundings. Which, upon first glance, only revs up the questions forming in my head.
I know I am laying down, but I can only feel the bed, I cannot see it. My gaze continues to scan my surroundings, but there are no walls or flooring or ceiling holding us in. There is nothing but the hazy glow that surrounds us. There is no one else present but her and me.
