by Kaela Rivera
Coyote frowned. “He doesn’t exactly get a choice.”
The current fight ended, and El Silbón took his place in the ring again. The light swept over his black coat and boots. “Well, comadres and compadres, that was a great fight to start out our semifinal round. Now, it’s time to see one of our come-from-behind favorites! Let’s greet last night’s interrupted fighter, Bruja Cece!”
I locked my knees so I wouldn’t jump.
“And it looks like Cece’s brought back the legendary Coyote! It’s been a long time since I’ve seen an apprentice capable of carrying two criatura souls at the same time, so don’t underestimate this one.” El Silbón gestured at my neck. I tucked the two necklaces in my shirt.
El Silbón turned to the opposite corner to introduce the brujo and Kit Fox halfway across the mill. “And here, ready to face off against Cece and Coyote, we have a special guest.”
El Silbón’s voice echoed through the mill, suddenly harsh and dark, crisp and electric. Everyone turned to look at the pair. Kit Fox looked even more fragile, but the brujo’s eyes flashed a bright, chilling purple. My pulse picked up. He really was from Devil’s Alley.
So why was I fighting him?
This was supposed to be a contest for apprentices. In time to the beating drum, Coyote and I pressed our way through the horde of spectators. Their quick glances and churning murmurs focused on the brujo, who watched us as he and Kit Fox made their way to the ring. I swallowed. Why were they making me fight a real brujo? Was that normal for a semifinal round? Grimmer Mother had never mentioned this.
Around us, members of the crowd whispered to each other in deep, suspicious tones. They looked from me to my opponent. “That’s never been done,” I caught one saying. “Are they testing her?” asked another. “Is it because she can carry two criaturas?”
Coyote ducked his head to say, “I think the Dark Saints are onto you, Cece.”
My blood grew cold. So this wasn’t normal at all. And if it was true that the Dark Saints were suspicious, they must have sent this brujo to test me and see if I acted like a bruja. But how was I supposed to prove that to them?
“Some of you may not recognize our guest, so I’ll give him the only introduction befitting someone of his station.” El Silbón slipped an arm bone from his bag and used it to point to the brujo. “Criatura and Naked Man alike, look upon the third Dark Saint of Devil’s Alley, Brujo Rodrigo, the Soul Stealer!”
I stopped half a foot from the ring’s outer edge. My chest felt empty, like I’d accidentally left my heart behind. Brujo Rodrigo met my eyes, and his smirk widened, like he was happy that I finally knew exactly who he was.
Fear squeezed my throat. I was fighting a Dark Saint . . . ?
The thought threatened to turn me inside out. But I managed to raise my shaking finger and point forward. Obediently, Coyote stepped into the arena. He rolled his shoulders and scraped the dust with his bare toes. Kit Fox stared up at him, eyes wide, mouth separating in what could have been a gasp of horror.
He wasn’t made for fighting. That much was obvious.
But I was supposed to beat him. My heart quickened as I look up at Brujo Rodrigo. A Dark Saint was here, in the apprentice Bruja Fights, and he’d brought the most inexperienced criatura I’d yet seen to fight? Surely he knew Coyote outmatched him. How was this a test?
Suddenly, Brujo Rodrigo pulled a necklace out of his shirt. He swung it back and forth between his fingers, making sure Coyote could see it. Coyote looked back at me and, slowly, held up eight fingers.
Eight scratches.
Kit Fox was one death away from the forever-last death.
Brujo Rodrigo lifted a single, taunting eyebrow and swung the damaged soul back and forth, back and forth. And then I knew what his test was: to see if I would kill Kit Fox—permanently.
Only then would the Dark Saints believe I was the bruja I claimed to be.
“And now . . .” El Silbón grinned as he leaped away from the circle. “Begin!”
21
The Fox Test
As expected of a Dark Saint, Brujo Rodrigo was faster than me.
Kit Fox sprang forward, looking dazed and confused, slashing his little claws. Coyote evaded easily. I gripped Coyote’s soul in my hand, ready to fuel him with rage, when his emotional feedback hit me. Guilt, pain, sadness, fear—it combined with my own, and I cringed until my chest felt like it would burst.
Kit Fox tripped over himself trying to scratch Coyote. “What—are you—doing here?” he panted between swipes.
Coyote didn’t answer. He just danced out of reach, never retaliating. He held Kit Fox’s gaze as he dodged.
“Legend Brother,” Kit Fox said, already out of breath. “What have they—done to you?”
My fingers trembled around Coyote’s soul. The reverence and horror in Kit’s eyes drowned out the thumping roars of the crowd. The legendary bringer of music, the Great Namer of Criaturas, and I was making him scrap in the dirt with the criaturas he’d created.
The moment the thought went through my mind, Coyote’s eyes cut across the ring to meet mine. I knew he needed my fury. Without me blocking out the reality of it all, he couldn’t bring himself to end Kit Fox.
But neither could I.
Sharp emotions twisted in my chest. I did my best to keep them from Coyote as I considered my options. If Brujo Rodrigo had organized this to test my resolve—then I had to pass it. For Juana.
I closed my eyes to block out the sight of Kit Fox’s scratched soul and gripped Coyote’s stone. Rage, heat, pain, fear—I sifted through them and settled on the picture of El Sombrerón in my head. Of his hand wrapped around my sister’s waist. Of her voice screaming for me to run even though she was the one in danger.
Rage swelled up in my chest and into my fingers. Coyote let out a roar and punched Kit Fox clean in the face.
A snap echoed through the ring. My stomach twisted as Kit Fox stumbled backward, clutching his nose and mouth. Coyote winced.
But I couldn’t lose my grip. Even if Kit Fox was on his last lifetime, Brujo Rodrigo was watching, and my sister needed me. That had to be more important, right? Mamá would say so.
Coyote looked away as his foot connected with Kit Fox’s jaw, and the young criatura flew through the air. He rolled, streaked with dust, to the opposite end of the ring.
Brujo Rodrigo didn’t even glance at Kit Fox as he landed on his side of the circle. The brujo’s dark stare stayed pinned on my face. I could feel him cataloging every nervous glance, every emotion I struggled to keep from surfacing. He cocked his chin upward once, Kit Fox’s soul swinging leisurely. In response, Kit Fox lumbered to his feet. Bruises already purpled his nose, but Brujo Rodrigo made him face me as Coyote backed him against the side of the ring.
Brujo Rodrigo didn’t even make Kit Fox attack this time. He stared, waiting for me to deliver the final blow. Kit Fox threw his arms up around his head, shaking as Coyote loomed over him. Excited cheers rose from the crowd. People chanted my name. My guts tangled up, and just as Coyote readied another blow, I thrust a feeling into him:
No.
Coyote’s hand froze as the word rolled through both of us. No. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—end this criatura. There had to be another way.
Brujo Rodrigo’s eyes thinned to dark, amethyst slashes at Coyote’s hesitation.
I looked at Kit Fox’s soul, where it swung from Brujo Rodrigo’s fingers, just within the boundary of the arena—and fed his soul a new target.
Immediately, he dove forward, claws extended. The spectators bellowed with anticipation. El Silbón leaned forward eagerly. As I had hoped, Coyote swerved just past Kit Fox, plunging his hand into the darkness at the edge of the ring.
His claw reached past the side of Kit Fox’s head, toward Brujo Rodrigo, and cut the leather strap swaying between his fingers.
A single, rugged pebble fell into the ring.
The floor started to crumble. But Coyote snatched up the stone before it could return to th
e desert, turned with a flourish, and threw it to me.
I caught the soul and held it close. “I win.”
Concrete silence. All eyes turned to me. Brujo Rodrigo’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing. I knotted Kit Fox’s leather necklace back together and placed it around my neck.
Kit Fox’s soul lit up inside my chest like stray sunshine and a freshly caught breeze. I placed my hand over his soul. This criatura should never have been in the hands of a Dark Saint.
“Can you believe it, comadres and compadres, brujas and brujos, criaturas and humans—” El Silbón’s arms shot into the air. “Cece Rios has just defied all expectations, stolen the Dark Saint’s criatura—and won the match!”
A deafening cheer rocked the mill. The sound almost made me jump after the stony silence. Everyone, even El Silbón, was leaping, whistling, shouting, their faces awed and ravenous at the turn of events. Everyone except Brujo Rodrigo.
His expression remained cold, calculating. He lifted a single hand and snapped his fingers.
Out of nowhere, two criaturas descended around him. The moment their feet hit the floor, the applause died. Terror gripped the room. No one dared look away from the Dark Saint. Not me, not Kit Fox, not even Coyote.
Brujo Rodrigo’s criaturas came into view. Criatura of the Gila Monster crouched directly in front of him, long claws already gouging out lines in the dusty floor. On his right hovered the Criatura of the Golden Eagle, his hair lined with telltale blond streaks and his talons twitching.
“Where did the cheers go? Everyone looks so frightened.” Brujo Rodrigo scanned the silent attendees, but there was a satisfied glare in his question. “You haven’t even seen the third one yet.”
Third one? He had another criatura that wasn’t with him? Brujo Rodrigo surged across the space between us. I locked my legs as he cut between Kit Fox and Coyote, his feet disrupting the chalk circle, his two criaturas following closely.
My breath faltered. I’d won the match by making his criatura incapable of fighting back, hadn’t I? I’d followed the rules. But his face was all the anger of winter and the bite of hunger, and it sharpened with shadows as he closed in.
Just when I was about to cower, a hand touched my back, and Little Lion stepped up beside me, his face hard and ready. He must have felt my fear and come inside.
“What have you done, Cece?” he asked quietly.
I didn’t have time to answer before Brujo Rodrigo stopped in front of me.
Behind him, his criaturas leaned forward, their eyes glinting. My gut clenched so hard I felt sick. Lion growled low in his throat. Brujo Rodrigo’s hand whipped out of his pocket. I winced and closed my eyes. There was a beat of silence. Slowly, I peeked an eye open.
Brujo Rodrigo held out a single white card. My hands shook as I took it.
The end of the canyon in the cerros, at the southern edge of Iztacpopo.
Just after sunset, when the moon is full.
The Binding waits.
“Congratulations, Bruja Cece,” Brujo Rodrigo said, though there was no celebration in his voice. “You’ve made it to the finals.”
I started to sweat as I read the card over again. This was what I’d been waiting for. But why did it feel like a threat? Brujo Rodrigo tapped the edge of the card, his smirk cold. Slowly, I turned it over to check the back.
See you soon, mija, was handwritten there.
Lion stiffened next to me, but I couldn’t look away from the writing. I’d been reading it in a red leather journal for the past week. My stomach folded over itself. Brujo Rodrigo knew my Tía Catrina. What did that mean for me?
Brujo Rodrigo’s lips pulled up in a slow, stiff smile as I lowered the invitation. Everyone was still watching us, but no one knew whether to cheer or not. In that uncomfortable silence, he put his hand on my shoulder, giving it a hard squeeze and then rocking it.
“We look forward to seeing you there tomorrow, Cecelia Rios.” His lashes came down heavy on his eyes. “So be careful on your way home.”
He released me, and he and his criaturas pushed past us for the exit. I couldn’t move. Somehow, I wasn’t dead. I’d won. And I’d even made it into the finals. So why did I feel like I was in more danger than ever?
Brujo Rodrigo and his criaturas disappeared through the front entrance. El Silbón stepped into the chalk circle.
“The third Dark Saint of Devil’s Alley, everyone.” His electric, scratchy voice didn’t stir excitement from the crowd the way it had earlier. “Good luck, Cece Rios. Let’s hope you handle the finals as well as tonight’s match.” He turned his shadowy face toward me, and everyone’s gaze followed.
The warning wasn’t lost on me. El Silbón served the Dark Saints. He’d probably been the one to tell them about me when I had first signed up, the little girl who looked out of place, the Rios chica whose sister had been stolen by El Sombrerón only a few days prior.
Lion stood on my left, and Kit Fox, staring at me with his mouth slightly ajar, stopped on my right. Coyote stood in front, and turned me around to face the exit.
“Let’s get out of here, Cece,” he said. “You’re one of the five finalists. That’s what matters.”
The sounds of another fight starting up trailed behind us. Kit Fox kept glancing sideways at me as we headed for the exit. He’d looked so small in the ring with Coyote, but he was actually an inch taller than me. We stumbled out of the door into the fresh, sharp air of the cerros. Coyote offered his back.
“Here,” he said. “I’ll carry you home.”
Wordlessly, I accepted the ride. Fear tailed us as Coyote carried me across the cerros. The dim lights of the mill faded behind us, and the tiny specks of Tierra del Sol’s lights grew brighter as we made our way home. Little Lion and Kit Fox ran on either side of us. But even surrounded by my new friends, I couldn’t help but think of the way Brujo Rodrigo had looked at me when he’d congratulated me. With barely contained anger. What would he have done if others hadn’t been watching?
“What if this isn’t really an invitation?” I asked, gripping the small card in my pocket, as Coyote jogged us toward Tierra del Sol. “What if it’s a trap or something?”
Kit Fox came up beside us. “The invitation is real. I watched him write them all.”
Well, that was a relief at least. I tried to smile at him through the darkness. “That’s good to know. How’s your nose, by the way?”
Kit barely had any eyebrows, but they climbed up his small forehead in surprise. “It’ll be better by morning,” he mumbled shyly.
That was comforting. I touched my hand to his soul. Now if only I could figure out why Brujo Rodrigo’s last look still hung on me like icicles.
Lion rushed up on our right. “Do you hear that?”
Coyote slowed. I glanced behind us, but the scenery still moved too quickly at this speed for me to spy anything. Suddenly, all three criaturas stopped running. I nearly lurched over Coyote’s shoulder.
“What is it?” I asked, coughing.
I couldn’t see his face, but Coyote raised his nose and sniffed. His shoulders tensed beneath my hands.
Kit Fox bristled. “The third one.”
Lion gestured wildly at us. “Get Cece out of here!”
Wait, what?
A lithe shadow sprung out of the darkness. I didn’t have time to gasp. No time to scream. The dark figure swooped in from the left, taking out Little Lion and Kit Fox in a single tackle, and sending them sprawling into the desert. Coyote swung around, and that too-late scream finally came out my mouth.
“Hold on, Cece!” he yelled and soared into the sky.
His jump had us nearly flying over the desert. The wind scraped the tops of my bare ears and chilled my cheeks. Coyote’s arms clenched my legs in place, and the edges of the Ruins came into view. I threw my head back to look behind us.
“Lion, Kit!” I called out.
There was no answer. But just as we started falling back toward the ground, a tall, dark figure appeared in the sky
behind us.
I froze. The moonlight broke through the tattered clouds above and lit the criatura’s face. It was long and sharp, with a strong nose, and yellow eyes that were bright as the sun. Long braids of black and gold hung around her head as she closed in on me. My stomach clenched into a dozen, suffocating knots. I recognized that hair.
Ocelot.
She twisted in midair and thrust her arm between Coyote’s back and my stomach. I screamed. Coyote called out, but his words were distorted in the wind. In a simple, elegant move, she shoved us apart, gripped me tightly by the middle, and kicked Coyote down into the ground.
He plummeted hard, face-first, into the desert directly below us.
“Coyote!” I screamed as Ocelot flipped backward. The blood rushed to my head, and I had to squeeze my eyes closed to shut out the nauseating, tumbling scenery. Finally, we stopped. My head was swimming. When I opened my eyes, Ocelot held me by the front of my jacket, pinning my shoulders to the back wall of an abandoned house at the edge of the Ruins.
Ocelot looked down the bridge of her smooth, prominent nose at me. I trembled, searching for the ground with my toes, but there was nothing. She must have had me at least a foot off the ground. My mouth was too dry to speak. Ocelot was nothing like the criaturas we’d fought so far. She’d taken out Coyote, Little Lion, and Kit Fox in less than three moves, without getting a single scratch on her dark brown skin. She was older. She was wiser.
Coyote struggled to get up a distance away, gasping and breathless. Lion and Kit were still nowhere to be seen. It was obvious she knew exactly how to take us down.
Ocelot’s long brown fingers wrapped deeper in my jacket collar and hiked me farther up the wall, so I was level with her face.
“You may have beaten me at my own game tonight, but I know your name, your familia, and your sister, the Bride of El Sombrerón,” she said. I stared at her in confusion. Beaten her at her own game? But I hadn’t even fought her—no, wait. Her eyes caught the light, and they were unfocused, filmy. Like she wasn’t awake. Was Brujo Rodrigo talking through her?
“The Dark Saints would have destroyed you before the first round was over if your tía hadn’t persuaded us to wait and see what you would become,” she continued with her master’s message. “So here is your last warning, a gift Catrina’s words have bought you: do not attend the finals tomorrow if you intend to rescue Juana Rios. The finals are for those who swear loyalty to the Dark Saints. If you come, we expect devotion. We demand your life.”