Blood and Salt

by Kim Liggett

  “Nothing. Just need to get ready.” I escaped into the bathroom and rested my forehead against the closed door.

  “This is real,” I told myself as I pressed my fingers into the cool wood grain. I stole a glance at myself in the mirror and did a double take.

  Threaded into my tangled hair were coarse strands of prairie grass. In a panic, I checked the rest of my body. “Holy shit.” I exhaled when I discovered a bloody handprint coiled around my left ankle.

  I’d gone outside without a clue of how I got there or how I got back. I’d lost time again. Maybe hours. Was Coronado’s black magic trying to lure me into the corn? But it felt deeper than that.

  “Are you okay in there?” Rhys knocked on the door, startling me.

  “Find another bathroom,” I snapped as I pumped water into the washtub. I stepped into the cool water and scrubbed my legs with a washcloth until they were raw, then pulled the plug, watching the dirty water swirl around my ankles and disappear down the drain.

  The dead girl spoke to me. She touched me. She wanted me to find her in the corn. And Dane could take me there.

  21

  CRADLE TO GRAVE

  TRUE TO HER WORD, Beth was waiting for us at the end of the dock. When she stood to help us into the canoe, I saw that she’d chopped off the bottom of her yellow dress, turning it into an above-the-knee skirt, which she’d paired with black socks rolled down to the same height as my motorcycle boots. I think she was trying to copy my outfit from yesterday, but she missed the mark in the worst way.

  “I made muffins,” she said with that same goofy smile. “Beet and carrot.”

  “Thanks.” Rhys took one. He hated beets.

  I shook my head. I wasn’t up for pleasantries . . . or muffin eating . . . or anything other than staring straight ahead like a lobotomy victim.

  The lake looked completely different in the rising sun, glittering and serene, like nothing bad had ever happened here.

  “These are good,” Rhys said through clenched teeth.

  “Really?” She took in a shallow breath. “No one ever likes my muffins.”

  Rhys nodded as he made quick eye contact with me, raised an eyebrow, and swallowed.

  They continued to chat while Beth rowed us across the lake, but my mind was elsewhere, drawn to that tiny slice of twilight between nightmare and dreams. What happened last night?

  As we neared the dam on the north end of the lake, Beth set down the oar in the bottom of the boat and then leapt onto the low stone wall, maneuvering the canoe so we could step out easily.

  “Where are you taking us?” I asked.

  “I thought you might want to visit your family . . . their resting spot, I mean,” Beth said as she tied the boat to a cleat. “After that, we’ll head to the fields for the social. No one will even know we were gone.”

  We set out past the meeting house to a small stretch of woods on the western edge of the corn.

  When we came to a clearing cluttered with gravestones, I froze.

  Hanging by her ankles from a battered oak was the dead girl.

  Beth and Rhys stepped around me.

  “The oldest stones date back to 1541,” Beth explained as they strolled around the cemetery. “Alonso’s wife is buried here.”

  “His wife?” Rhys asked in disgust. He hated cheaters.

  “She died almost immediately after arriving at Quivira, while giving birth to their fifth child.”

  “That’s terrible.” My brother shook his head. “So did Coronado have a wife, too?”

  “No. He was a widower, like Katia. They each had four children from previous marriages. But Marie was Katia’s only daughter.”

  I took a deep breath and stepped toward the dead girl. The girl Katia said I was tied to. I could almost feel her grip around my ankle.

  The worn stone plaque beneath her body had nearly been swallowed up by ivy. I pulled it away. MARIE ANNE LARKIN. BORN APRIL 13TH, 1524. TAKEN FROM US ON JUNE 21ST, 1541.

  I felt the past slipping over my throat like a noose, pulling me down into the depths.

  • • •

  She moves through the corn, all shadow and light—the rustling of her skirts, the flush of her cheeks, the patter of her heart—the heavy scent of secrets all around her.

  As she reaches a clearing, a figure appears in the distance, beneath a tree full of black birds. “Coronado,” she says, a smile engulfing her face.

  They embrace under the safety of the flowing branches.

  His long dark hair mingles with her golden tresses—his deep olive skin pressing up against her alabaster.

  “Did you get the information I asked for?” he whispers in her ear.

  “Do you love me?” She runs her fingers through his hair.

  He pulls away from her to study her face. “More than life itself.”

  She looks down at the ground, almost as if she’s ashamed. “You won’t hurt her?”

  Coronado lifts her chin, tenderly. “No, but Alonso bears my mark. He must pay for his betrayal.”

  “And then you’ll come for me?”

  “Marie.” He strokes her cheek. “Yes, mi amor.”

  “The meeting is set. Midnight at Silk Pond.”

  He starts to pull away, when Marie grasps his hand. “I’m going to keep trying,” she says with a desperate edge to her voice. “If the Great Spirit makes me immortal, we can be together forever.”

  “If it’s meant to be, it will be.”

  “Don’t give up on me.”

  “Until tonight . . .” He slips his fingers down the length of the black silk ribbon fashioned around her throat.

  As she watches Coronado walk away, she presses the ribbon against her lips, her eyes welling up with tears.

  • • •

  “Ashlyn?” Beth placed her hand on my shoulder, jarring me back to the present.

  “It’s her . . . it’s Katia’s daughter . . . Marie.” I gazed up at her body, seeing the dead girl in a whole new light.

  A drop of blood fell from the cut on Marie’s hand, splashing onto the stone. Beth flinched.

  “Did you see that?” I whispered.

  Beth just smiled back at me with that blank expression. “What on earth do you mean?” she asked as she flitted off to my brother’s side.

  When I looked back at Marie, she was gone.

  “This can’t be right,” Rhys said, startling me.

  I turned to see him standing on the outer rim of the cemetery, his eyes fixed on the ground. “‘Nina Lee Larkin, born February 6th, 1977.’ The plaque next to hers is ‘Thomas Mendoza, born April 25th, 1978.’ Our dad,” he whispered.

  “The stones on the outer perimeter aren’t graves,” Beth explained as she plucked a leaf from a nearby tree, tracing the veins running through it. “They’re commemorative plaques to honor the Larkin girls and Mendoza boys who’ve walked the corn. I’ve heard your father was very nice . . . and handsome.” She looked up at my brother; I swear I saw her blush. “No one knew that Nina and Thomas were in love,” she said as she glanced back at me. “They thought Nina would choose Spencer at the wreathing ceremony. It was a surprise to everyone, especially Spencer.”

  The thought of my mother choosing Spencer completely creeped me out. “Why did they think she’d choose him?” I brushed the dirt from my knees and joined them.

  “Spencer had been sweet on her forever,” Beth said as she hopped over a stone and then smoothed down her dress. “Though the Larkin girl is supposed to choose her mate based on scent, there’s a fair amount of arranging that went on between the parents. But your mother defied them all and chose love.”

  “Thank God for that,” I said under my breath.

  “Oh, there was plenty of gossip.” Beth lowered her voice. “People wondered if Nina found out Spencer had been sneaking around with a
Mixed, because nine months later, Teresa gave birth to Dane.”

  “Where do you think he’s been all this time?” Rhys asked as he stared down at our father’s plaque.

  Beth placed her hand on my brother’s shoulder. “Maybe he’s been with Aiyana in New Spain . . . waiting for Nina.”

  When Beth took her hand away, my brother glanced at his shoulder, the tiniest smile lighting his face. “Let’s say, for argument’s sake, that Thomas never made it out of the corn. What then? Who would Alonso’s vessel be?”

  “Oh, I love games.” Beth rubbed her palms together. “I suppose since Ash stood in for your mother at the wreathing ceremony, the answer would be Brennon.”

  “And he’d just willingly do that?” I asked as I moved closer, being careful not to step on any headstones.

  “It’s tradition,” Beth chirped. “An honor.” A breeze moved through the trees and Beth turned to face it, closing her eyes as it moved her fine hair around her face.

  Leaning over, I traced my mother’s name on the plaque. “Why does the Larkin girl get to choose Alonso’s vessel?”

  “The female holds all the power in the Larkin bloodline, but true love between Katia’s chosen vessel and the Mendoza boy would create the strongest bond.”

  I then traced my father’s name. I thought if the choice had been mine—if the ceremony were real—I would’ve chosen Dane. I reached up to touch the black silk ribbon in my hair. “Why can’t a Larkin be with a Mixed?”

  “They say Katia and Coronado’s hatred for each other runs in the blood. And just in case we forget, the Mixed are marked when they come of age.” She showed us the brand on her inner arm, a C identical to the one Henry had. C for Coronado.

  I stood and studied her mark. “Dane’s brand looks different—almost like wings or something. Why?”

  “Spencer branded him at birth instead of waiting for him to come of age. As he grew, the brand became distorted.”

  “How could someone brand a newborn? That’s barbaric.”

  Beth shrugged, but I could tell it bothered her by the way she traced her own brand with her thumb. “The only Mixed with Larkin blood is Henry. And when he got caught sneaking around with his half cousin Anna Larkin, there was a lot of debate about whether to let him live or not, but the community finally compromised.”

  “What kind of compromise?” I asked, looking up at her sharply.

  “Spencer took care of it so his line couldn’t continue.”

  “What do you mean, took care of it?” Rhys asked. Then his eyes widened. “You don’t mean they castrated him. As in snip, snip?”

  “More like chop, chop,” Beth said with that odd lilt.

  I kept picturing Henry’s anguished expression, the way he shifted his weight when he talked about the punishment Dane would face if the two of us were caught together.

  “The ritual,” I said as I took in the sea of plaques before me. “Why would anyone just hand over their sons and daughters like that?”

  “It’s an honor,” Beth replied.

  “You keep saying that.” My eyes locked on hers. “But what if Coronado murdered them, along with all the other Larkins who disappeared?”

  She looked around cautiously, like the dead might be listening in. “When Katia becomes one with her vessel, when Alonso’s returned to her, she’s going to make everyone immortal.” She forced a smile. “We’re all going to live forever.”

  “Do you honestly believe that?” Rhys asked.

  “There will be a path to lead us from darkness,” she whispered, staring out over the corn.

  22

  MOUTHFUL OF DIAMONDS

  WHEN WE REACHED the fields, Beth skipped ahead to greet people, giving hugs whether they wanted them or not.

  “Good morning,” a pregnant woman in a long dress and a sunbonnet said as she passed.

  “Morning,” I called after her a little too late.

  Rhys lifted his brows.

  “What? We need to try and fit in.”

  People walked by carrying wooden casks of homemade ice cream. A couple of kids whipped past us, running down the hill, trailing kites behind them—not the cheap Mylar kind with pictures of Spider-Man—real kites with long ribboned tails that spiraled in the breeze.

  “It looks like a Norman Rockwell painting down there,” I said.

  “Oh, totally.” Rhys crossed his arms. “Other than the fact it’s a creepy cult that worships our five-hundred-year-old ancestor who’s supposedly hell-bent on wearing Mom’s body like a skin suit, it’s exactly like a Norman Rockwell painting.”

  “Not here,” I said as I headed down the hill, feeling the dandelions brush my ankles.

  “Ash, I said I’d give you three days, but what does this have to do with the dead girl?” Rhys followed close behind. “You seriously want to hang out with these people and play games—pretend like none of this is really happening? Which Kool-Aid have you been drinking because I—”

  “I have a plan,” I interrupted him before he had a complete meltdown.

  “Okay.” He took in a deep breath. “Let’s hear it.”

  “Dane.” I glanced up toward Beth on top of the hill. She was looking for us. “He can take me into the . . . well, he can help me.”

  “How?”

  My eyes veered toward the corn. “I can’t say.”

  “I see.” Rhys tightened his jaw.

  “I just need to talk to him—get him alone without drawing suspicion,” I said as I waved at Beth, hoping she’d hurry up.

  “You could get him neutered if they suspect an inappropriate relationship. But that’s beside the point, because you can’t trust him. We can’t trust anybody.”

  “You can trust me.” It killed me to say it, considering I’d been lying to him from the moment we arrived.

  He studied me, his moss-green eyes reminding me of our mother. Dragging his hand through his hair, he let out a heavy sigh. “Fine. I’ll do what I can to help.”

  “Thank you,” I said as I watched Beth skip back to us, hoping she could be enough of a distraction to keep my brother off my case for a few more days.

  The Kansas sun beat down on the fields, conjuring up a thick veil of perspiration, lemonade, and bergamot.

  I felt a twinge of nervous energy as I searched the crowd for Dane.

  As we walked through the gathering, Beth pointed out the different areas of the field that were appropriated for various games and competitions—archery, some kind of horseshoe game, barrel races, and an activity involving bacon grease, burlap sacks, and watermelons that I didn’t even want to contemplate.

  The Mendozas, Grimsbys, and Hanrattys had their own sections of the field, marked by elaborate canvas tents anchored by flagpoles, each bearing a family crest.

  I was shocked to see Henry perched on the edge of the field with the flag from the Larkin lodge—the circle with a golden crescent moon and a star. He waved. For the briefest of moments, he almost looked like he wasn’t a total serial killer, but then he ruined it by trying to smile.

  “Oh my stars,” Beth trilled as she looked across the field toward the Mendoza camp. “Here he comes.”

  The thought of seeing him again made my insides feel all feathery. As much as I tried to stay indifferent, I could feel a smile slipping across my lips.

  The breeze blew in my favor, carrying the distinct scent of oak and honey. The scent wrapped around my senses like a soft blanket, but it wasn’t the scent I craved.

  I turned to see Brennon striding toward us, shoulders broad, a straw bowler covering his neatly combed blond hair.

  “Any word on when our mother might arrive?” my brother asked Brennon, giving me a moment to hide my disappointment.

  “Soon.” He gave Rhys a firm pat on the back. “But you’re safe here. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you or your sister.”

>   “Wow. I feel so much better,” Rhys said under his breath before stepping out of the way.

  “I brought something for you.” Brennon presented me with a small sprig of flowers—delicate white petals tinged with the softest pink.

  I smiled. “Apple blossom.”

  “May I put it in your hair?” he asked as his eyes darted toward his parents, who were watching our every move from the other side of the field.

  “Sure . . . ?” I looked to Rhys and Beth for some help, but they were already lost in their own world, a conversation about bugs, or the weather, or something.

  This morning I’d braided a piece of hair from each side of my head and connected them together in the back with the black silk ribbon. Brennon walked behind me, tentatively burrowing the woody stem in the ribbon.

  “Lovely,” he said.

  Dane walked by, and I swore I could feel his gaze on the nape of my neck.

  I watched him as he made his way to the backfield. I couldn’t help but follow.

  Brennon spoke to me as we walked across the field. I knew this because his mouth was moving, but I had no idea what he was saying. All of me focused on getting to Dane. It wasn’t just the attraction, though that didn’t hurt. I needed answers. I needed him to take me into the corn and I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  23

  SHINNY

  THE GRIMSBYS AND the Mendozas were playing a game that looked a little like lacrosse but wilder. They were basically running around a giant field and whacking one another with four-foot-long sticks. The girls stood on the sidelines, oohing and aahing every time some poor guy took a hit.

  Among the Mendozas, I recognized Tommy from the party last night. His black eye had faded to light purple.

  I scanned the crowd and a tingling sensation spread over me the moment my eyes grazed Dane’s face.

  “What are they playing?” I asked, trying to figure out the strategy.

  “Shinny,” Beth said as she and Rhys joined us. “You use the sticks to move the beanbag ball around to score points. They play it on the ice in winter, too.”

  “Why aren’t any girls playing?”