Page 123 of The Lost Guardian

“But I’m done letting you use me, Ali. I’m done letting you play me for a fool. In fact.” He yanked his necklace over his head and threw it at her feet. “I’m done with all of it.”

The worst kind of disappointment burned in his chest. He couldn’t look her in the eyes.

“No, you can’t,” Ali said, scrambling halfway up before collapsing back on the ground with a grunt. She clutched at her injured arm. “If we don’t lay your grandfather to rest, the curse—” she said through gritted teeth.

“You don’t give a shit about any curse and you certainly don’t give a shit about my grandfather,” he barked at her. “You’ve only ever cared about the treasure. Well, there,” he said, gesturing to the fallen chakana. “Here’s your chance. Find your own way.”

“Santi, please—” she begged.

“Don’t you dare,” he seethed. His nickname—which she’d never used, not even once—cut like a thousand daggers from her mouth. “I am not Santi, or Santiago, or even Rios to you. I am no one to you.”

Then he turned and walked away, the truth of his words burning a path from his lips to his heart.

41

Santiago walked, heedless of his surroundings. He simply propelled his body along, the sounds of the river and Ali’s pleading calls fading with the distance.

The rocks and grass of the riverbank changed to packed dirt and roots underfoot, and the once-blazing sun was hidden behind a thick and wild canopy. He crashed through brush and vines. Climbed and descended grassy knolls and small hills. Santiago didn’t know where he headed, only that his body demanded that he get away.

He lost all sense of time and direction, listless and numb. When he finally did stop, the water that had once dripped from his undershirt was dry and soaked through again in sweat. His curls were plastered in sticky strands to his head. Santiago realized, as soon as his brain allowed him to realize anything, that his body ached.

His calves cramped. His thighs and quads burned from exertion. There were scrapes and cuts all over his arms, and his hands were stiff where they’d gripped the straps of his backpack for dear life. He pried them loose and shook them out, absently massaging his palms and fingers as he assessed his surroundings.

Santiago was well into the woods now, in a small clearing surrounded by trees. Wherever he could catch a glimpse of the horizon from among their boughs, he saw nothing but more wild forest and mountains.

These were the Andes. They were made of mountains, and he could not tell one from another.

He dropped his pack and peeled off his sweat-sodden outer layers. While the replacements in his bag weren’t exactly clean, they were, at least, dry. He raised his canteen to his lips, mostly out of habit. As the cool water hit his tongue, he drank deeply, body remembering thirst. Then he dug around in his pack for a protein bar, chewing and swallowing robotically.

With his more practical concerns met, there was nothing to keep his mind from focusing on Ali’s betrayal. He’d spent the last few hours—had they only been hours? Surely an eternity must have passed—in a dazed stupor, moving one foot in front of the other as far away from the perceived threat as possible. Now, everything came flooding back.

Santiago grabbed a rock at his feet, cursed, and flung it into the forest. He felt like an explosive sat in his chest, getting hotter and hotter, ticking down the moments until it would kill him.

His skin was too tight. He tugged at his clothing, seeking respite from the heat and tension and weight.

Finally, he simply slammed his back against the trunk of a wide tree, knees folding under him. He barely felt the bark scratch his exposed flesh as his shirt rode up.

His rage burned out—sparked and dissipated like the dying light of a flare. All that was left was sadness. He dropped his head between his knees, palms pressed against the sides of his head.

Santiago sat there and mourned.

He mourned his grandfather, feeling sorrier than ever that he was not the type of man who could carry out his abuelo’s final wishes. He mourned the person he had been before coming here, before realizing he could travel and experience new cultures and cuisines and hike and explore and live.

Not just survive.

Not just get by, repeating the same motions every day. That he, Santiago Rios, could live any life he chose. Even the one he fantasized about.

He mourned how easy it had all been before this realization.

And he mourned Ali.

Not Ali the huaquero, not the person who had betrayed him. Not the woman who had dug her way under his skin, into his heart, his soul, little by little, only to shatter him from within.

He mourned the woman he had fallen for.

The tough exterior that hid more warmth and joy than anyone could have guessed. The person who egged him on during lectures and tangents. She made him feel like he wasn’t boring, or dull, or unworthy. Like his intellect was something to have fun with, that his knowledge was a boon, and that even his awkward fumbling could be charming at times.

And through her, he’d come to believe it for himself.