Valentina Salazar is not a Monster Hunter Read online

  For Dhonielle Clayton, who believed in this story first

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1: The Real, True, Honest-to-Goodness Confession of Valentina Alexander Salazar, Junior Monster Protector

  2: The Salazars of Missing Mountain, New York

  3: Valentina Salazar Breaks All the Rules

  4: The Girl Who Cried Werewolf

  5: The Only Thing Worse than Being in Detention Is a Visit from Monster Hunters

  6: Awkward Family Reunion

  7: The Last Salazar Left Standing

  8: Do Saints Even Like Beef Jerky?

  9: The Fear Eater of Fort Washington Park

  10: Revenge of the Manchani Moth

  11: The Scourge Gets an Upgrade

  12: The Book Garden

  13: Night at the Museum: Salazar Edition

  14: The Patron Saint of Finisterra

  15: Legend of the Orü Puma

  16: The North Carolina Detour

  17: Unicorns Are Kind of Jerks

  18: Battle at the Enchanted Equus Infirmary

  19: Pete’s Wondrous Emporium

  20: Suzie Q Rides Again

  21: Cryptid Kids Alliance

  22: Operation Great Rescue of Arturo Salazar

  23: Finisterra Strikes Back

  24: Even the Galactic Knight Has a Vacation Home

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  An exclusive look at The Way to Rio Luna

  Also by Zoraida Córdova

  Copyright

  This is the real, true, honest-to-goodness confession of Valentina Alexander Salazar and the worst summer ever.

  Confession #1: Monsters are real. I’m probably not supposed to tell you that, but in order for me to explain the rest of my story, I have to make that clear. I repeat: Monsters are real.

  Ever gone camping and felt like someone was watching you? Ever catch sight of a strange creature out the corner of your eye? Ever walked down a street and seen something dash into the sewers? Chupacabras, Bigfoot, the Jersey Devil, the Loch Ness monster—I’m sure you’ve heard of the most famous ones, but there are so many more creatures that you didn’t know were out there.

  Now, I know some people might think that such beings couldn’t possibly exist. But they do. I’ve seen them. Deep down, I bet you believe me, unlike most grown-ups. Like my daddy always said, “Just because it’s in your imagination doesn’t mean it’s any less real.”

  That brings me to confession #2: My family and I are monster protectors.

  Or we used to be. You see, there was a big accident a few months back and we had to stop. But before the accident, we drove all over the country searching for magical beings to save. If you’re wondering why these creatures need saving, then you, my friend, are asking the right questions. After all, aren’t monsters just fangs and claws and nightmares? Some of them are, and I’m not going to lie—this job isn’t for the faint of heart. You’ve got to understand, not all monsters are, well, monstrous. Some creatures look scary, but they’re just misunderstood or scared or lost. That’s where we come in. We find them and we help get them back home.

  Don’t ever confuse us with the no-good, smelly, jerkface monster hunters. No way. You see, the Salazars (that’s my family) come from a long line of monster hunters. For hundreds of years, they roamed the planet and tracked down creatures who slipped into our world. Killed them. Blip! Slash! Splat! Even if a monster wasn’t hurting anyone and took a wrong turn into our sorry earthly realm, the hunters had one rule: Slay the beasts.

  My dad was different. He wanted to help, and so, he broke off from his family tree and became the first ever Salazar to save creatures instead of hurt them.

  Then he met my mom, and she joined the family business. Then came my eldest sister, Andromeda, then Lola, then Rome, and they saved the best for last—me.

  I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I need to clear my name after everything that’s happened. Anyway, like I said, there was an accident involving my dad and just like that—snap—he was gone.

  And finally, I present confession #3: This is the worst summer of my whole eleven-and-a-half-year-old life. Things started to go downhill when I tried to steal the van.

  Wait, no. Things really went downhill when I was blamed for starting the fire.

  Hold on. That’s not right either.

  I should back up some more, so you really see my side of the story.

  So here it goes. Let me tell you what happened.

  My peculiar life can be divided into two sections: the Before and the After.

  In the Before Times, my dad was alive, and we lived on the road. We were homeschooled. Mom taught us math with an old abacus made of turquoise beads, and Dad taught us astronomy by staring at the stars while cowboy camping (that’s when you sleep outside without a tent around a firepit in just a sleeping bag). Mom taught us Spanish since it was her first language. Even Dad sat in on those lessons because he said he had many talents except the ability to roll his Rs. Dad would teach us book stuff and the history of the places we drove through even though we never stayed in one place very long.

  In the Before Times, our home was the Scourge—a 1965 Ford Falcon camper van that still looked brand-new because of how often we polished the surf-green exterior. We’d accumulated a hundred stickers that almost completely covered the back bumper. Dad drove and Mom navigated. Andie and Lola kept the gear trunk organized. Rome and I researched the creatures we tracked.

  In the Before Times, we’d have long stretches when there were no cases, no beasties to find or weird occurrences to investigate. That’s when we’d stay in towns for a few weeks and buy real groceries and Dad would teach us to play acoustic guitar and Lola would play fútbol and I’d watch all the movies we could rent.

  The Before Times were the best times.

  After Dad—after the accident, things changed. There was a funeral that felt pretty hazy. Sometimes a bad thing happens and in the moment, you feel terrible, but then when you try to remember it, you can’t. You forget details.

  All I remembered was that we packed into the Scourge, Mom got behind the wheel, and she drove. She didn’t stop until we were in a quiet little town called Missing Mountain in upstate New York. Mom parked in front of the oldest, most haunted-looking house at the dead end of a street and said, “We’re home!”

  Being without Dad changed us.

  In the After Times, there were no more guitar lessons or cowboy camping. There was no more highway karaoke or research or finding cases. There was a lot of crying and sadness. We stopped tracking and helping lost monsters. The great Salazar protectors became a bunch of NOBODIES.

  In the After Times, Mom put all our tools, Dad’s journals, and her favorite blue leather jacket in the garage. And the Scourge? Our beautiful, trusty camper van began to collect rust and dust in the garage. It was criminal. Mom even secured one of those boots on the front wheel of the van, the kind cars get when they’re towed.

  In the After Times, there were no more Salazars on the road protecting wild monsters. Instead, we were landlocked and had to go to school for the first time ever instead of being homeschooled. My mom joined the PTA! Lola and Rome were too busy to have family dinners, and when we did, they were filled with the kind of silence that sounds like radio static.

  Safe to say, I wished I could go back to the Before Times.

  The first day of the Worst Summer Ever started off pretty much like every other miserable day in Missing Mountain.

  I woke up to the creaking of floorboards. Oh, the house isn’t actually haunted or anything. Sure, the lights always flic
ker and there’s an attic full of bats, smelly old trunks, and cobwebs. But still, no ghosts (I’ve checked). However, there were cookie crumbs on the pillow beside me, and they were not mine. Honest.

  I cleaned up the dusting of cookies, stepped into my fuzzy slippers and bathrobe, and made my way down to the kitchen, where I found the source of all the noise. Lola was already ready for school and cooking breakfast. I checked the trusty grandfather clock in the living room and there were still forty minutes left before we had to leave for school. In the Before Times, Lola was always the most organized, making sure the Scourge was tidy and our gear never failed in the field. But in the After Times, Lola invented a whole new level of organized. She joined the literary society, the baking club, and the cheerleading squad, and still managed to have the best grade-point average in her whole entire grade.

  There she was, frying eggs and bacon in her KEEP CALM AND BAKE ON apron. Her green-and-white cheerleading uniform was ironed, and her long black hair was plaited in two long French braids.

  “You know it’s the last day of school, right?” I asked, opening the fridge and taking out the milk jug. “You can wear regular clothes since there’s nothing to cheer about.”

  Lola handed me my favorite unicorn-shaped coffee mug. Its horn was chipped, but that just gave it character. During our travels, I’d always wanted to meet a unicorn, but out of all the magical beasts we’d returned to the realm of Finisterra, we never came across one of those.

  “Did you know,” Lola said, folding her arms over her chest, “that you’ve woken up on the wrong side of the bed for two hundred and forty days and counting?”

  Why did people say that? “Waking up on the wrong side of the bed.” As if there was a correct side of the bed to wake up on. I let loose a long sigh and filled my mug with milk, then two tablespoons of chunky brown sugar, and added a little bit of coffee. My dad used to say that he had café con leche like this straight out of the bottle when he was a baby. It made Mom roll her eyes.

  “And for your information, I’m cheering for the last day of school,” Lola said as she flipped my eggs in the pan, then caught the two slices of toast that shot out from the glitchy toaster.

  Everything in the house was a hand-me-down from our great-aunt, who hadn’t changed a single thing since a hundred years ago—or whenever 1959 was.

  My sister set my breakfast in front of me and kissed the top of my head. That “wrong side of the bed” feeling completely went away as I salivated over my food. Lola was good at lots of things—school, martial arts, spotting the difference between a chupacabra and a chupavaca, fixing the wiry guts of car engines—but she was excellent at making breakfast. She put all her heart into it so we’d be fueled up for the day.

  “Fine,” I mumbled. I didn’t want to upset her before I asked my big favor.

  Rome walked into the kitchen and grunted a “good morning.” Rome’s thirteen, and lately that’s how he communicates. He walks around with these big headphones he got at the thrift store. They make him look like a DJ. His horrible heavy-metal music screeches from them. Mom warned him he’s going to damage his eardrums, but when she’s not around, he cranks up the volume.

  Lola didn’t tell him that he woke up on the wrong side of the bed, but I just sprinkled salt on my eggs and dove in. I needed them in the best possible mood.

  Rome swiped his favorite mug, one that had a picture of the Galactic Knight (our favorite movie villain) on it, and filled it to the brim with black coffee. I wrinkled my nose as he sat. How could he drink it without any sugar?

  Lola slid his plate in front of him and he muttered, “Thanks.”

  Rome assembled his breakfast into a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich and ate it in three bites. He scrolled on his phone, real serious like. His dark brows were smooshed together and created a little crease between them like Dad used to have. Except Rome’s smoothed out. Dad’s was permanent.

  While Lola resumed making breakfast with one hand and reading a book in the other, I decided to go for it.

  “I was thinking,” I said. “Since it’s the last day of school … can we go to the lake?”

  Rome glanced from me to Lola. She made a “hmm” sound, which was interrupted by a closet door opening and shutting. You could hear a mouse creeping in the house, that’s how thin the walls were. Every day was the same, though, and I knew what would come next. The shower curtains parting. The water running through the pipes of the old house. I pointed toward the front door just as the bell rang. We didn’t get up to answer because it was just Ms. McCall, Mom’s friend from work, letting us know she was waiting outside and Mom was about to be late. Again.

  “Well?” I repeated, waving my strip of bacon in front of Rome’s face. “Can we? Pretty please?”

  Rome leaned over and snatched the crispy morsel between his teeth.

  “Hey!” I stared at my empty fist where my beautiful, last piece of bacon had been.

  Rome chuckled, probably for the first time that week, maybe month. It was kind of a relief. In the Before Times, Rome was always laughing and joking around with Dad. He liked to collect facts about the towns we were in, and he was helping me choose my very first journal, like the kind Dad used to write down everything he discovered. I’m a junior monster protector, and that would have been my first step in becoming a full-fledged, bona fide Salazar protector. But then all the bad things happened and we ended up in Missing Mountain and I never got to complete my training.

  Lola laughed and said, “You know better than to put bacon in front of a Salazar, Tiny.”

  “I told you not to call me Tiny anymore,” I grumbled.

  “Why do you want to go by the lake?” Rome asked. His hazel eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  I drank a big sip of my café con leche. “Uh, I don’t know. Maybe because it’s the last day of school and there’s nothing else to do in this place? This house is dark and we need exercise and the sunny vitamin—”

  “Vitamin D?” Lola corrected me.

  “Exactly.”

  Rome and Lola exchanged a look. The kind of look older siblings give each other when they think the younger sibling is being unreasonable. From up above we heard the squeak of the water turning off and Mom’s wet footsteps rushing into her room. The doorbell rang again, this time twice, and the sound of Mom’s blow-dryer went off.

  Lola walked across the kitchen, her slippered feet slapping against the ugly orange linoleum floors. My heart raced as she opened the top cabinet above the refrigerator. She’d found my hiding spot, which was partially filled with tea sets. It should have been the perfect hiding spot because Salazars don’t drink tea.

  “Wait—” I started to say.

  Lola’s manicured fingers wrapped around a newspaper tucked behind delicate porcelain teacups. She dropped last week’s issue of the Missing Mountain Gazette in front of me, the headline circled with my yellow highlighter. It read: HONEY HILL LAKE MONSTER SIGHTED BY DAY HIKERS. The margins were covered with notes in my messy handwriting. Connected to the Lake Champlain monster? Could have swum from Lake George. Get Lola and Rome to take me to the lake.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” I said defensively.

  Lola caught another blast from the toaster, arching over like a killer ballerina. She arranged the toast on a plate for Mom, then cracked two more eggs so hard she broke the yolks. “Pro tip, Tiny—”

  “Don’t call me Tiny,” I hissed.

  Lola continued, “If you’re going to try to trick us into taking you to the lake, don’t write out your master plan.”

  “I never said tricked. I said get.”

  Rome took off his headphones, so I knew it was serious. He practically slept with those things on. They were like his own private helmet shielding him against the world. Even against us.

  “When you leave out your true intention, it’s still a trick,” he said. “It’s a lie by omission. Don’t lie to us, Val.”

  I picked at the chipped unicorn horn on my mug. “How am I suppose
d to get you to spend time with me if the truth doesn’t work?”

  “We spend time together,” Lola said.

  “No, we don’t.” I bit the inside of my bottom lip. Why was telling them how I felt so difficult? “I’ve counted. We’ve gone to the park twice. Once to watch you run a marathon and once because I got detention to volunteer at the Missing Mountain pet adoption day.”

  Rome picked his headphones back up, the screeching banshee shredding the silence between us. He didn’t put them back on but made a sound of frustration. “We’re together every day.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Breakfast doesn’t count.”

  Lola sucked in a breath, like I’d kicked her in the shin. She glanced at our plates and then the pans that popped with bacon and eggs. “Then I guess you’ll all be eating cereal for the rest of the summer.”

  I winced and wished I could take it back. Lola did work hard to feed us every morning. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just—” My breakfast roiled in my stomach. But I knew I had to be brave and tell them how I felt. It was the only way to make them understand. “Ever since Dad—you know—you’re all different. Lola’s always too busy to be home except in the morning, and Rome’s always in his bat cave. Andie left us. Mom’s always at work, and when she does come home early, she’s too tired to do anything but take a bath and go to sleep. I just thought that maybe if we had a case, like in the Before Times, things could go back to normal.”

  They blinked. It’s like I hadn’t said anything at all because the door rang again. Lola turned back to whisk the eggs, added more grounds and water to the coffee maker, and shoved two new slices of bread into the angry toaster. Rome drained his mug but stared at the wall. The door rang again, a few times in a row, and Lola shouted, “Mom! Ms. McCall is waiting!”

  “I’ll be right out!” Mom hollered.

  “Forget it.” I shoved my way out of my seat.

  “Val,” Lola said. She sighed, and her shoulders were bunched up like she was holding a really heavy backpack. She dropped the latest issue of the Missing Mountain Gazette on top of the old one. She’d already done today’s crossword puzzle. Was she showing me that she had more time to do the crossword than for me? I scanned the rest of the page, then saw it. Next to that was a tiny article, easy to miss. HONEY HILL LAKE MONSTER DEBUNKED. “The hikers fell for the senior prank.”