I gasp as the fissure lines expand, and Tiago says, “I’d rather have friends.”
The arrow flies just as the ground breaks beneath us—
And we sink to our icy deaths.
13
My lungs seize up, and everything goes dark. This time there’s no wet suit to blow air up my nose, or to protect me from the chill. I feel like I’m being stabbed with hundreds of icy blades all over my body. Tiago pulls on my hand, and I spin around.
La Espiral is floating behind us.
Once we’re inside, I’m too frozen to speak. Our clothing is dry, the fabric waterproof, but the bite on my hair, face, and hands is enough to make me worry about hypothermia.
I blame Miami winters for making me this weak.
“At least one of you had the good sense to send your location,” says Saysa, shaking her head at her brother as she pulls him in for a relieved hug.
I frown. Tiago didn’t check in on his horario? Does he not realize how? I try to meet his gaze, but he’s embracing Cata now, so I can’t see him.
“Thanks for standing on ice,” says Zaybet as she hugs me. “You made it easy for me to save the day.”
“That was all Tiago,” I say into her black strands. “He had faith you’d come. Thanks for saving us.”
“Of course. We’re a pack.”
I think of Saysa’s hesitation again, and I wonder if Zaybet and the others would really take it so hard to discover I’m a hybrid. Then I picture Sergio, and I wonder what someone like him would make of my being half human.
We step out of the tongue-like passage into the shell-ship’s core, where Laura is at the helm and Enzo is scrutinizing the view. As soon as she sees us, she pulls her palms off the charred handprints. “You must be freezing!”
She rushes over, her black opal eyes still aglow.
“That was masterful!” Enzo calls out to me in his rasp, and I try to speak but my teeth are chattering.
The instant Laura grips Tiago and me by the arm, I feel the sun in every pore of my body, like I’m lying on El Retiro’s rooftop baking in the Miami heat. It feels so good that I close my eyes with glee, and when I open them, Tiago and I are dry.
“You were perfect!” says Zaybet, her voice exuberant. “The Coven is going to be packed tonight. Everyone will want to be part of this! You’re going to be all over the news for—forever!”
“I wish I could have been there!” says Laura, returning to the helm.
“Nice shirt,” says Saysa, grinning at me. She and Cata are holding hands, their faces shiny and clothing disheveled. They look happy and exhausted, and it strikes me how much good the Coven has done their relationship.
“It was more amazing than I could have imagined,” says a breathless and pink-cheeked Cata.
“You’re going to be an icon,” adds Saysa.
“No one at that plaza will ever forget this day,” declares a zealous Zaybet. “I bet this is how it felt to be at a Fierro rally.”
Their words warm me as effectively as Laura’s magic.
Tiago presses a kiss to my cheek and whispers, “Sos una maravilla.” You’re a wonder.
But when he pulls me into a hug, I can’t help feeling there’s something in his expression he doesn’t want me to read.
* * *
When we get to the Coven, there are Coveners I haven’t met before, and crews who left days ago return to be part of the celebration. Everyone congratulates each other, like we just won a battle.
But all we did was declare war.
The largest pantaguas plays back footage of me on the sculpture from every angle. It’s an out-of-body experience because I don’t associate myself with the revolutionary girl on the screen. I feel like a spectator, and I can’t deny the image’s allure: five Brown brujas defying the traditional Septima depiction of power.
Late into the night, Tiago and I are lying on a couch, watching the news beneath the waning crescent moon. There are Septimus passed out all around us, and Tiago’s eyes are so heavy that I can’t tell if he’s up—but I keep switching from channel to channel, too amped to sleep.
I’m watching a medium-sized screen that’s across from the couch, and I keep the volume low. Tomorrow I’ll visit el Hongo to see if I can find a way to reach Gael.
“La respuesta es la obra nueva de Esteban Escolar—”
“El tiempo está tranquilo, pero mañana se viene una tormenta—”
“Sin saber que me engañabas con esa bruja—”
Everything from the gameshow to the weather update to the telenovela is in Spanish. Yet not the neutral Spanish I’m used to hearing on Miami television, but rather a range of Argentinian accents. Being here is the first time I’m attuned to some of its nuances, and I wonder if it’s spoken differently in every manada.
I stop changing channels when I recognize one of the faces at a roundtable discussion.
“If a lobizona exists, what does that say about the link between power and gender?” asks a guy with bushy white hair. “Should we even be using the terms brujas and lobizones anymore, or is it now more appropriate to say Septimas and Septimos?”
“I think we should use sex distinctions. Male or female,” says a Septimo in a bow tie.
The Jardinera I recognized leans into the table. I met her here a few nights ago.
“We’re only addressing the limitations of language now that we’re faced with a biological paradox, but the issue is much bigger than this.” Her name is Graciela. “Until now, our system has assumed female sex assignment equals Septima which equals bruja—and so the terms have been used interchangeably in our governance. Laws must be rewritten. Our entire binary way of thinking must be overhauled—”
“Seems like a lot of work for what’s ultimately a bad mutation,” says a wolf with long sideburns and a low drawl.
He pauses, and from the way they wait for him to continue, I gather he holds most of the power at the table.
“She’s a deformity. An anomaly. Possibly a danger to us all.”
My pulse flutters in my throat like a bird.
“I think that conclusion is grossly premature,” says Bow Tie.
“And extreme,” agrees Graciela.
“She’s an enchantress, like la ladrona, and it’s her intention to manipulate you,” says Sideburns, “through sympathy, science, or simple curiosity. But we cannot waver from what is right.”
Ladrona. That’s the storybook character Saysa mentioned. I need to look it up in el Hongo.
“Little girls grow into brujas, and little boys grow into lobizones,” Sideburns goes on. “We don’t need someone setting the wrong example or getting our children confused. We must cut her from our genetic pool before she taints it.”
If this is their reaction to discovering a lobizona, they’re never going to accept a hybrid.
My heart is hammering too loud in my head, and it’s not because of what he’s saying. It’s because the others have stopped contradicting him.
“Today’s stunt only proves my point that she is a threat. If she would have quietly come forth and asked for help, perhaps she could have been saved. But mark my words—she’s a demonio from Lunaris come to stir up divisions.”
“This not the Septimus way.”
Graciela rises from her seat at the table. After a moment, Bow Tie joins her.
“We believe in the sanctity of nature as the source of our magic and power,” says Graciela. “If Lunaris saw fit to give a Septima the soul of a wolf, then we must accept her as she is.”
Sideburns looks at her almost pityingly. “I see that she’s already infected you. If you were thinking clearly, you would agree with me. You are a Jardinera, after all.”
“What does that mean?”
“You should know that to keep a garden healthy, one must snip a few weeds.”
* * *
The next morning, Rocío lingers after handing me the star-studded calabaza gourd, her peachy eyes wider than usual. “Thank you,” I say as I accept the drink.
I think she’s going to say something, but then she shuffles off, like she’s changed her mind. So I say, “Hey, Rocío?”
She turns to me.
“I was hoping to visit el Hongo later.”
Her eyes light up with her wind magic, and a small vial comes zooming at her so fast that it bounces off her hand and falls to the ground. I reach out and catch it before the glass shatters.
Her mouth is as round as her eyes. “Gracias,” I say with a wink, pocketing the mushroom shavings for later.
I meet the others for another breakfast strategy meeting, only this time there are new faces crowded around the table. One particular pair of brothers does most of the talking.
“Our next demonstración should be explosive,” says the one with all the tattoos.
“Not literally,” qualifies his long-limbed brother. “He just means something as over-the-top as he’s being.”
“You need to do more than just look the part.”
“Prove you have more than just the power of a wolf. Show us your heart.”
“Be loud and provocative, but keep it playful,” says the one with all the ink. “Never be a threat.”
“He means go ahead and break the law, but without actually breaking it.”
These inscrutably synced brothers go by their nicknames, which makes them sound like a musical duo—Tinta y Fideo. Tinta is younger, and the nickname is because his arms and neck are covered in ink. Fideo just really looks like a long spaghetti noodle.
According to Zaybet, they’re sought-after strategists, famous for their 100 percent success rate getting politicians elected. Secretly, they’re also Coveners.
“That’s pretty much what we did with our first demonstration,” Laura points out.
“But let’s avoid vandalism this time,” says Tinta, looking at Zaybet. “I’m guessing that was your contribution.”
Her arms are already crossed. She’s been on the defensive since we sat down. “We’re making sure the artwork stays relevant. You just don’t understand how art works.”
Tinta looks like he’s battling a smile, and the wolf inked on his neck tightens. “Apparently I don’t understand how a great many things work. But I still fail to see how vandalizing one of our greatest and most ancient sculptures—”
“Again, not vandalizing. We were making the point that our attachment to the past shouldn’t come at the cost of our future. And anyway, that artwork isn’t about you. It’s about Septimas, and we wanted it to reflect reality—”
“What would you know about reality?”
“We shouldn’t wait too long, that way we won’t lose momentum,” jumps in Fideo, cutting off the squabbling between his brother and Zaybet. “Maybe we could try something from Fierro’s playbook?”
“Manu will blaze her own trail,” says Zaybet, still staring at Tinta.
“Since you brujas have it covered,” he growls back, “you don’t need anything from us wolves.”
Zaybet uncrosses her arms. “I honestly couldn’t have put it better myself.”
I tune them out as I think about what it would take to prove I’m a wolf. I’ve already transformed. I could howl, but I have a feeling that’s not what they’re after. Fideo wants heart.
I don’t want to have to talk about myself, or share anything personal, so I need to find another way. What does the average lobizón like? Running, roughhousing, hunting, exploring, playing—
“Septibol,” I say, the idea striking me like a lightning bolt.
I’ve no idea if anyone was speaking before I opened my mouth, but at my utterance, the table is silent.
“Manu is a great arquera,” says Saysa, her eyes lighting up. “Like, Tiago-level good.”
Everyone looks impressed by this bit of info, and I stare at Saysa in surprise. I didn’t realize she felt that way. She’s probably just saying it because she’s excited about another demonstration.
But instead of tamping down Saysa’s praise, Cata nods like she agrees. “Best goalie I’ve played with.”
A pride like I’ve never felt before fills my chest, and I’m both surprised and embarrassed by my reaction to their praise. It shouldn’t matter, and I shouldn’t need the validation, and yet I can’t deny it feels good to be admired for something I have some semblance of control over.
“That’s perfect,” says Fideo, his excited expression the twin of his brother’s. He looks at Tiago. “If you play too, it would raise Manu’s credibility.”
“Of course,” says Tiago, and from the musicality in his voice, I can tell he likes this plan.
“We’ll need access to a stadium,” says Fideo, his long limbs leaning in. “And players.”
“Leave it to me,” says Tiago, sounding every bit like our team captain. “I know what to do.”
* * *
My mind rockets away from my body.
As soon as I sit down on the yoga mat and chew some mushroom shavings, everything melts away. I’m not conscious of physical sensations. It’s like all of existence has receded into my brain, and I’ve become el Aleph from Borges’s story.
Like I’m plugged into something infinite, a universal computer that allows me to think beyond my usual reach.
Who is Manu la lobizona? I ask myself.
Rather than my own memories, I see myself from the Septimus’ perspective. There’s footage of Tiago and me leaving the Colosseum in La Rosada, then I’m in front of Las cuatro brujas in el Centro Comercial. I start hearing various news broadcasts, channel surfing among an array of voices, most of it stuff I’ve already heard.
About how I might be the next rung of evolution—or a genetic mutation that never should have been.
A word keeps popping up that I thought was lobizona, but it’s not.
What is la ladrona? I query.
Images of grotesque-looking women fill my mind, like half-forgotten childhood nightmares. And a strange lullaby begins to play in the dark depths of my brain, the lyrics in a variety of languages. I only understand two, but it’s enough for me to realize there’s only one line in the song that’s been translated over and over again:
Si la sangre se abandona,
se despierta la ladrona.
If the bloodline should break,
la ladrona will wake.
Apparently, the Septimus have their own superstitions. They believe if one of their kind ever reproduces with a human, the child will be an abomination known as la ladrona. She will look the part of a Septimus, but in her womb she’ll carry a curse—a demonio that will wipe out all life on the planet.
No wonder my friends are so scared. Their whole species has been raised to regard human hybrids as a gateway to hell.
But Septimus can’t actually believe this story is real, can they? It’d be like believing in Big Foot or Bloody Mary in the human world …
Or witches and werewolves.
I set aside that investigation because it’s not why I’m here. I came for Ma, to make sure she’s okay. I need to talk to Gael.
Cata said I just have to meditate on everything I know about my father in order to summon his presence, and if he happens to be plugged into el Hongo and within reach, I’ll feel him. Tiago said it feels like searching for the telepathic channel that activates when I’m a wolf.
I concentrate, calling up Gael’s coral eyes, golden-brown hair, sarcastic smirk—trying to paint a picture in the darkness. But his physical attributes are the least of what connects me to my father. I don’t see much of myself in him at all.
Who is Fierro? I ask el Hongo instead.
A montage of moments twists together, the memories spiraling back in time to Fierro’s earliest demonstrations.
I watch a masked lobizón in a floral dress run across a Septibol field, painting pink footsteps in the grass as he goes. Next I see a crowd of Septimus staring at Fierro’s symbol carved into a monument of a wolf and a witch that looks even more ancient than Las cuatro brujas and bears the inscription:
El Lobizón y La B
ruja
The words have been crossed out, and new terms have been carved in:
Septimo y Septima
As more of Fierro’s public appearances are revealed, there’s a deterioration in the quality of the images, like they’re photocopies of photocopies. Knowledge seeps into my mind by osmosis, and I fill in the blanks. Even after Gael was punished by the Cazadores for failing to capture Fierro and exiled to El Laberinto, the demonstrations didn’t stop.
Since no one knew the real Fierro had disappeared, they took a long time to realize that many Fierro-inspired uprisings were led by copycats. I watch as these disruptions intensify, with Septimus openly defying Cazadores and defacing public property and crashing events in faceless masks.
I wonder how much of this was spearheaded by the Coven.
The demonstrations didn’t end because the Septimus realized the real Fierro had vanished. They ended because somebody died.
A Cazador with auburn curls, married, father of two. I watch as he’s attacked by a couple of werewolves who are so amped up from a riot held dangerously close to the full moon that a life-or-death animal instinct takes them over completely.
I want to look away from the violence, but I don’t know how, when it’s happening in my head. Then a new scene begins to form.
There are headlines about Cazadores clamping down on every manada, the tribunal enacting a curfew, hundreds of Septimus charged with disorderly behavior. The two murderers have their day in court and are found guilty and sentenced to a fate reserved only for extreme cases—Olvido.
Since population numbers are so precious to the Septimus, executions are rare. The tribunal decides to erase their memories, essentially killing who they were and letting them start over.
I can’t imagine the guilt Gael must have felt to know a Cazador died in his name.
I concentrate on my father now, meditating on his face and his voice and these new parts of his story. The more I focus, the more connected to him I feel, until I can almost kid myself he’s right beside me—but I don’t sense our telepathic connection lighting up.
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