Labyrinth Lost Page 8

  My power crackles on my skin. I level my eyes to his. “I could make you.”

  Make him, whispers a little voice in my head.

  “We both know you can’t control your magic enough to make me do much.” But when he can’t hold my stare, I know that he’s afraid. Maybe not of me, but of my power.

  I hold my hands out at him. Nova steps back and readies his own. I want to break. I want to burn up with the anger I feel toward myself. I want to hurt him. Except…nothing happens.

  Nova chuckles to prove his point.

  “I hate you,” I say.

  “Join the club,” he says.

  What does a boy like Nova want? His arms are covered in tattoos. His blue shirt is new, but his jeans and shoes are worn to shreds. Other than his earrings, all the jewelry he wears is his blue prex. “How much?” I ask.

  “How much do you have?” His voice is flat. I’d expected him to be more eager.

  I think of the money in my savings account. I know very well that my mom won’t be able to afford college for three girls, no matter how much she prays to La Fortuna. I guess…no one will be going anywhere if I don’t get them back.

  “I have five thousand saved up.”

  “You don’t know who Los Lagos belongs to. It’s not a walk in the park. And if I’m going to be risking this pretty face…”

  I curse at him. “What are you talking about? The land can’t belong to anyone. It belongs to the Deos.”

  Any trace of smile vanishes from his face. “Sure, the gods created Los Lagos. But my gran tells this story of a creature who took over. It lives right at the heart of the land, where the Tree of Souls is. You saw it in the portal. The creature that you said tried to take you.”

  My heart is like a hummingbird in my chest. “What is it?”

  “They call her the Devourer.”

  “I’m guessing she’s not a unicorn princess.”

  He puffs out a laugh and looks to the sky, like he’s asking for patience. Then he sets his intense eyes on me and I don’t dare look away. It feels like the most important staring contest of my life.

  “You were willing to risk your power to have freedom,” he tells me. “Instead, you banished your family to another dimension. You owe them your life, but I don’t owe them mine.”

  I can’t stand to look at him, so I turn around. “My mom could give you more. She has some jewelry. Look around you. That’s everything. That’s all we’ve got.”

  He doesn’t try to haggle, just stands behind me. Why am I so surprised? A guy like Nova is no good. Didn’t Mayi say he’d been locked up? How could I even think he’d just help me? He doesn’t owe me anything. He’s right. I owe my family my life. I owe them everything I am.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal,” he says after a long silence. “I’ll get you into Los Lagos. I’ll take you to your family. But after that, you’re on your own.”

  “No. You don’t get a dime unless we make it back safely.” I turn around to face him.

  I hold out my hand. Nova takes it. The light he conjures hits me in the gut, but I push back with my own. It’s the release I’ve been looking for. I can feel his arm shake as I hold it, but he won’t let go either.

  “Deal.”

  12

  Drunk with their magics, brujas thought themselves as high as the Deos.

  So the Deos slowly took away their powers,

  leaving the brujas barely above humans.

  Except the encantrix. The encantrix is always Chosen.

  —The Creation of Witches, Antonietta Mortiz de la Paz

  While Nova runs off to gather an ingredient to create the portal, I shower and pour peroxide on my cuts. I could try to heal them, but I choose not to. I don’t deserve it. I change into a black shirt and black jeans. I turn my backpack upside down and shake the contents onto the floor.

  In the pantry, I grab a couple of bread loaves, apples, a jar of peanut butter, a dozen protein bars, and six water bottles. I start to think about how empty the house feels. That it hasn’t been an hour and I miss Lula’s teasing. I miss finding Rose in different corners of the house, reading her books. I miss the smell of my mother’s midnight teas. Their absence is a punch in the gut, and it’s hard to breathe.

  There’s a noise coming from the front of the house. Nova’s back. He runs in and shuts the door behind him. His shirt is speckled with raindrops.

  “What is that?” I motion to the shoe box rattling in his hands.

  “Uhhh—”

  The familiar squeak of a New York City rat answers for me.

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “Yeah, well you didn’t have an extra parakeet.” He sets the box on the table. The rat scratches and bites from the inside. Nova sets one of my mother’s good luck roosters on top of it to keep the box closed.

  “I’m not paying for a comedian.”

  He unbuttons his stained blue shirt, revealing a white undershirt that clings to his muscles. He winks. Blue eyes now. “I’ll throw that in for free.”

  He grabs a mortar and pestle, then riffles through the pantry for a handful of ingredients. He works fast and confidently, grabbing a pinch of dirt from our cactus, a feather from the dead parakeet, ash from the charcoal bowl, and a vial of seawater. He grinds it to a paste and dots the cardinal scars of his face. Then he does the same to me.

  “It’s disconcerting to me that you know more about what’s in my kitchen than I do.”

  “Don’t use your big words on me, Ladybird.”

  “Should we bring a dictionary on our journey?”

  “Do you want me to help?”

  “Do you want your money?”

  He wipes his hands on a dish towel. I wonder how badly his tattoo hurt.

  “What else should I know before we go?” I ask.

  “Be prepared for anything. Los Lagos is another realm. My gran used to tell us bedtime stories about a river of souls and a bloodred lagoon.”

  “That actually put you to sleep?” I ask, zipping up my backpack.

  “Nah. But it got me to behave.” His smile is all mischief. “For a little while.”

  I make a face at him. “I used to think Los Lagos was just a waiting realm for spirits between lifetimes.”

  He smirks knowingly. “Not all dead are created equal. Honestly, I find your disbelief a little unnerving.”

  “Do people actually believe in heaven? Olympus? There’s belief and then there’s wishful thinking. I’m allowed to be skeptical of things I haven’t seen for myself.”

  “So young,” he says. “So jaded.”

  I brush him off with a roll of my eyes. “Where will my family be in all this land?”

  “The Tree of Souls,” he continues, tapping the map the Book of Cantos is open to. “It collects power throughout the month. Then on the eclipse, well, that’s when it gets ugly. Everything it’s consumed gets turned into raw energy. The tree used to feed the land, but then the Devourer took over. She feeds off the tree now. The creature you described matches the Book of Cantos’s description. I think it’s safe to say your family is at the Tree of Souls.”

  “Why would the Deos create something like this?”

  “Why do gods do anything?” Nova asks. “You can have your existential crisis when we return.”

  “Get to the tree,” I say. I grab the Book of Cantos and rip the map out of it. “Simple enough.”

  “You wish. Everything in Los Lagos is designed to keep us from getting to the tree. Hope you’re ready to use your bruja boxing gloves.”

  I feel for the whispering pulse of my magic. I’ll make myself ready even if I don’t feel so just yet. “I am. Are you?”

  “Listen, Ladybird. If I can survive these mean streets, I can survive just about anywhere. I’ll keep my promise. I’ll get you to the tree.”

  “And
you get your payment when we return safely.”

  He shoulders the backpack and picks up my dagger from the table. It still has blood caked on the blade. He wipes it off on his jeans, then bends down. With one hand, he takes hold of my ankle, and with the other, he slides the dagger into the loop of the outside of my boot.

  “Just in case,” he says.

  When he stands, he’s barely two inches from me. Every time I look at him, I find new scars. There’s another one close to his upper lip.

  I fold the map and slide it into my back pocket. I go to the storage closet and tuck the Book of Cantos under a loose floorboard. I take one last look at my home. My legs feel weak. I start to picture Lula and Rose and my mother.

  “I’ll get you back. I promise,” I whisper.

  “Come. We have to make the portal.” Nova places a hand over the shoe box. The rat squeaks and scratches, like it knows this is his end.

  “What are you going to do with your money?” I don’t know why I’m asking.

  He starts to speak, but something makes him stop. He runs out the door, where the sound of sirens fills the streets. He curses. We’ve thought about the supernatural threat but not the human one. Lights start flicking on in the neighborhood. I can still make out the impatient blare of traffic and the urgent whirl of emergency sirens. One of my neighbors must’ve called the cops after all the noise we made. Right now, I don’t care about exposing our secret. I care about getting to Los Lagos.

  “Come on!” Nova shouts.

  I look back at my home. A metallic glint catches my eye. The pantry door is open, and my father’s old mace lies on the ground. I run back in and grab it.

  I follow Nova through the cemetery of old plastic toys and rusted bicycles that is my backyard. The wind is a cold slap against my face. It strips the scarlet and orange leaves from the tree and carries them through the rain.

  “All right, Ladybird. Let’s do this thing! Place your hands on the tree.”

  I do as he says. The bark ripples. It’s warm and soft, like flesh. I can hear it whisper, like it’s trying to tell me the secrets of the universe, its energy calling to my power.

  Nova takes the squirming rat from the box, then pulls out a switchblade from his back pocket. It unfolds with a metallic snap. The end is curved upward. The sharp edges look like it’s meant to rip though flesh. In a swift movement, Nova slits the rat’s throat. He bleeds it all around the tree while chanting words I can’t understand, and I realize Nova speaks the Old Tongue. He presses a thumb to his forehead. Then turns to me to do the same.

  My first instinct is STOP DO NOT TOUCH ME RAT BLOOD STOP. But I realize I’ve set myself on a path I can’t come back from. I’m surprised by the softness of his touch. I let Nova drag his bloody thumb on my cheek.

  “Why is it always blood?”

  “Blood is life, Alex.”

  For beings that don’t bleed, the gods sure ask for a lot of it, I think.

  He seems to find the terrified look on my face amusing.

  “We’ll be fine,” he says.

  “Nova…” The blue and red lights of police cars are nearer.

  “Repeat after me,” he says.

  The bark bends, changes at our touch. There’s the slip and screech of tires and sirens on the street in front of my house. I start to turn, to look back, but Nova stops me. He takes the dagger sheathed in my boot and slices my palm open. The sting makes me cry out. I squeeze it into a fist. Nova holds my bleeding hand to the tree’s bark.

  “By the Deos of eternity. By the blood of my blood. By the light of La Mama and the shadow of El Papa, I offer the blood of the wretched. Open a door to Los Lagos.”

  There’s the slam of car doors. The rattle of our chain-link fence.

  Nova shoves the dagger in my hand. “Stab the tree!”

  I see my mother’s face when I close my eyes. I bring the dagger over my head. This is for every time I wasn’t strong enough to believe. Now belief is all I have left.

  My blade slices into the bark. A brilliant light splits the tree open. I can feel its center connecting to me. My body isn’t my own, like something greater is wrapping its arms around me and pulling me into the black hole.

  I grab on to the sides. He expects me to jump into that?

  Nova doesn’t give me a chance. His hands press on my shoulders. He shoves me into the portal.

  I scream into the void, down, down, down, into a pitch-black sky. I scream even as I feel Nova’s hands holding mine. Can I still call it the sky if we’re falling down? Whatever it may be—sky, space, a black hole—the wind is warm, and after a few moments, I relax into the fall. We’re a tangle of limbs flailing in the wind. It’s a relief to hear him screaming too. I catch glimpses of Nova as we pass by what can only be stars. He’s staring right at me, smiling triumphantly. We’ve done it. We’ve created a portal and thrown ourselves blindly into it.

  The sense of calm goes away when a light erupts below us.

  His hands start to let go.

  “Don’t!” I shout, but the wind carries my words away.

  We spin and turn over until I can’t tell which direction we came from or if we’re ever going to stop. All I know is our black hole seems to shrink, the walls closing in until we’re in a tunnel made of space and starlight.

  “Let go!” Nova says.

  I hold on by the tips of my fingers. “Are you crazy?”

  “Trust me!”

  How can I trust him when he pulls his hands from mine and lets me go?

  Part II

  The Fall

  13

  La Mama and El Papa shaped Los Lagos to their liking.

  A place for all souls and a home for the banished.

  —On Los Lagos, Book of Cantos

  Falling was the easy part.

  Trying to open my eyes is not. Like there’s a weight on top of them. When I try to sit, my body sends pinpricks of pain through my sides. My magic pulses weakly. I can hear it whisper to the surrounding trees.

  I don’t remember hitting the ground, though I’m cushioned by curly, dark-green grass that tickles my cheek. The copper taste of blood fills my mouth from where I must’ve bitten my tongue. I lean back on my elbows and take in the scenery.

  The scarlet trees are so tall their lush, black leaves form a protective barrier that blocks out the sky. There’s an energy here that feels as old as time itself. Whispers come from the wind weaving between branches, the trickle of water down tree trunks, and the chirping of insects foreign to me. Giant, heart-shaped plants shoot up from the ground, like natural shelter for the lazy snails dragging their shells on the rain forest ground.

  It’s familiar but not. The colors are all wrong. Like I was wearing a dull filter my whole life and now there are only the brilliant hues, raw and dark all at once.

  “Nova?”

  I stand through the pain. I give thanks to El Terroz by taking a bit of dirt and pressing it to the center of my forehead.

  “Nova?” I say a little louder.

  I clutch my crescent moon necklace for some sort of comfort, but it doesn’t help. I don’t know what I was expecting from Los Lagos, but a rain forest wasn’t part of it. A whooshing noise catches my attention, like when the windows are open and my mom is driving down the highway. I move slowly toward a great big hole in the ground where a tree has split in two. Thick roots shoot out of the ground, as if the tree tried to pick up and walk away. I touch a root and feel the familiar warmth of the tree in my backyard. The black hole sucks in dirt and leaves and tiny worms, like an insatiable mouth. Its pull makes me lean toward the swirling void. Slowly, it starts to shrink. If Lula were here, I’d tell her it reminds me of my screensaver, and then she’d snicker and Rose would laugh.

  Hands fall on my shoulders. I kick back. He grunts.

  “We just fell through that,” Nova says, pulling
me back a dozen steps. “You do not want to go back out that way.”

  “Why not?” I ask, a wave of vertigo crashing over me. There’s a black spot in my line of sight from staring at the portal. I shake it off and focus on Nova. “We can’t just go home that way?”

  “The portal is a one-way deal. It’ll close on its own. You’d be falling with nowhere to go, Ladybird.”

  I punch his arm. “Stop calling me a bird.”

  He rubs his bicep, though I doubt it hurt. “I can’t help it. You remind me of a flightless bird.”

  “Flightless birds are penguins and ostriches. And a ladybird is a bug, genius. That’s not endearing.”

  “Fine. You’re a falcon. You just haven’t learned to fly yet.”

  For the first time, I notice the bruise on his cheek from the fall. It looks painful, yet it doesn’t stop him from smiling. Does he think everything is funny?

  “Come on,” he says when I fail to respond.

  Behind him is a small camp. There’s a clear patch on the ground and a fallen tree trunk blanketed by black moss, where he’s spread out our map, the mace, and a couple of water bottles. I’m suddenly incredibly thirsty and drink mine in almost one gulp. Nova chuckles, then refills it from a curled leaf.

  “The map marks the safe drinking water,” he tells me.

  “That’s good to know. How long have I been out?”

  “Time is a human fabrication,” he says, like he’s reciting from a textbook, “and doesn’t exist in Los Lagos.”

  I roll my eyes. “How many fabricated minutes on the ticking thing around my wrist was I out for, then?”

  “Fifteen,” he mumbles. “Thought you could use some rest before we get going. And check your ticking thing. It’s not ticking no more.”

  I tap my waterproof watch, and sure enough, the numbers are frozen.