Cazadora

by Romina Garber

  “For the final touch,” murmurs Tiago, coming up behind me.

  I watch in my reflection as he slides a pair of black sunglasses on my face.

  “A duelo is the only time we’re allowed to hide our eyes.”

  26

  It seems strange that my eyes are comforted by the presence of their cage. Must be an ocular brand of Stockholm Syndrome.

  When we leave the front door, we’re in a cul-de-sac of tree houses. There are seven massive branches, with openings into different homes, and they all meet in a central knot. Each limb is decked out in a different style. One has a stone walkway lined with sculptures, another boasts a frozen slide, and Tiago’s family’s is ridged, like a staircase, and fringed by a railing of ivy twined with blue flowers that glow like the ocean.

  We rush down the steps toward the central knot before any of the neighbors see us. There’s an entrance into the trunk, and as soon as we head in, the bark closes around us. Then it feels like we’re descending.

  “Elevator,” says Tiago. He’s wearing what looks like a blue fabric polo helmet. It scoops low along the back, with a long brim in front. Saysa is wearing the blond wig.

  “I don’t know how either of you deal with long hair,” she complains, tossing the strands behind her shoulder. It’s hard to reconcile her doll-like look with the real Saysa.

  We step out onto a vast park boxed in a high hedge, where thousands of Septimus are clustered on blankets. We’re in the shadow of the monstrous moonstone structure, with its seven stories rising so high that the tree crowns where we just were seem as unreachable as the clouds.

  Everyone is spread out picnic-style on the longest blankets I’ve ever seen. They’d need to be huge to accommodate all the extended family members gathered. Every blanket’s got at least a couple dozen Septimus. Children are running everywhere, and their parents are visiting friends or standing around talking, so we don’t catch many stares.

  Tiago told me the first thing I should do is identify the Cazadores. They’ll be looking for me at every duelo in Kerana.

  We make for the park’s outer perimeter and walk in the shadow of the high hedge, searching the crowd like we’re looking for our families. I spot a pair of lobizones threading through the blankets, scanning everyone’s faces, and I nudge Tiago. They look like cops.

  We pick up our pace, until we’ve put plenty of ground between us and them, and then as we’re walking, Saysa takes a sidestep and disappears into the hedge.

  An instant later, a hole opens up beside us, and Cata slips through.

  When the next opening appears, I slide in.

  On the other side of the green wall is an empty Septibol stadium. We’re still moving to keep pace with Tiago, and Saysa runs ahead a few steps, then her eyes glow and a slit opens in the foliage. Tiago steps through.

  None of us speaks since the wolves picnicking closest to the hedge would hear us. As would any Cazadores patrolling past. We line up against the hedge, but even with my enhanced vision, all I see are green leaves.

  Saysa’s eyes illuminate, and small peepholes appear in the foliage, just large enough to see through. I pull off the sunglasses for a better view.

  There’s a hot spring at the center of the park, steam rolling off its surface. Brujas in red and black are filing toward it, and after greeting one another, the Encendedoras form a circle around the water. Within moments, hundreds of them have gathered, and when they hold hands, I feel the static of magic on my skin.

  There’s an explosive boom, and a blast of heat smacks my face as the spring water geysers up—and dissipates into a smoky red mist that filters the sky in a twilit tint. Then a familiar voice whispers through the darkness.

  “Yo fui Zaybet.” I was Zaybet.

  Cata told me brujas of each element would be offering their own magical tribute, but I wasn’t expecting to hear Zaybet again. And I can’t help noting how in life she was defined by her magic and gender, but in death she’s free to be just a name. It takes a long time for her voice to fade from my ears.

  While the Encendedoras return to their families, the brujas in browns and greens begin to gather, and I survey the blankets overfilling with parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents, great-grandparents … As I watch their raucous reunions, more than anything, I want to find Tiago’s family’s blanket.

  I picture one day introducing Ma to Penelope, Miguel, Cata, Saysa, and most of all, Tiago—and it strikes me that I’m not fantasizing about some abstract notion. This is the future I want.

  A rumbling starts underground. The Jardineras at the hot springs are holding hands, and the earth shakes more and more, until the geyser blows again. Millions of leaves flurry into the air and rain over the park, each one heart-shaped. A few of them scatter over the hedge, and I catch one. It’s a beautiful olive shade of brown. Almost the color of Zaybet’s skin.

  No, not almost.

  Exactly.

  I inhale the leaf’s earthy aroma, and Saysa lets out a muffled cry. As she weeps into Cata’s chest, leaf in her hand, Tiago squeezes her shoulder and I take her other hand. Tears roll down my face too.

  We’re not alone in our mourning. Many in the crowd are also consoling one another, even though they didn’t know Zaybet.

  I’ve never experienced a loved one’s death—aside from believing my father to be dead for most of my life—but living among humans has made me numb to it as a concept. There are so many casualties being constantly touted on the news that it would be overwhelming to grieve for every single one.

  Yet the Septimus seem to value every life. Their telenovelas may be just as violent and melodramatic as human ones, but their media feels more like an escape from their world, not a reflection of it. I’ve never heard of any species in the animal kingdom that feels the loss of a random individual this deeply.

  And it fills me with hope.

  If the Septimus take death this seriously, then maybe the tribunal will be looking for a reason to let me live. I just have to give them one.

  While the Invocadoras gather round, I count the Septimus on the blanket closest to us. Fifty-nine, since their eight wind witches have just walked away. The Jardineras have tears in their eyes as they return to their family, and the other brujas enfold them in hugs. They’re all crying.

  A chill infects the air, and I look at the hot spring right as a cloud geysers up, and a strong wind whooshes forth and blows across the park. The breeze carries notes of the briny sea, and I breathe in Zaybet’s scent.

  It feels like she’s right here, and I turn around, expecting to see her approaching, like in La Boca.

  “Damn—”

  The spell sends Tiago’s hat sailing through a patch in the hedge. Before Cata can blow it back over, a pair of boots steps up to it.

  The Cazadores I saw earlier.

  We keep still as they look around, searching for where the hat came from. The shorter one looks into the hedge, like either he sees something, or it’s just occurred to him that someone could be hiding here.

  He steps closer.

  “Ay, gracias,” says a Septima with a deep voice, stepping between the hedge and the officers. Her black hair is pulled into a tight bun.

  “An Invocadora losing her hat to the wind—what a sight I must make!” she says in Spanish with a musical laugh.

  When the Cazadores walk away, she turns her steely gaze to the hedge, like she knows we’re here. And I recognize Marilén, Tiago and Saysa’s great-grandmother.

  Saysa parts the foliage, and Tiago yanks Marilén through so fast that she closes her eyes, and he has to steady her a moment. “Perdón,” he apologizes in a low murmur that’s barely audible.

  She straightens, and her gaze lights up as the air ripples around us into a force field. “We can speak freely,” she says, pulling her grandkids into a tight embrace.

  She hugs Cata and me next, and again Tiago and Saysa’s family surprises me with their acceptance. “When did you get back?” she asks.

  “Last night,”
answers Saysa. “Mami y Papi are figuring out a plan for Manu for tomorrow night.”

  Marilén’s gaze focuses on me, and I brace myself for resentment for putting her family in danger. Instead, she smiles and pans across all our faces, lingering on Tiago and Saysa.

  “I’m proud of you.”

  It’s the last thing any of us were expecting, and we exchange round-eyed looks.

  “I’m going to tell you something no one else knows, not even your parents or grandparents.”

  Saysa and Tiago edge closer, eager to hear a family secret.

  “The love of my life wasn’t your great-grandfather,” she says, her voice deepening with feeling. “She was my tango teacher.”

  Cata gasps, and Saysa steps forward to take her great-grandmother’s hand.

  “In our younger days, my husband and I were professional dance partners,” Marilén explains to Cata and me. “Claribel trained us.” She looks down at Saysa’s hand and sandwiches it with her other one. “Your great-grandfather discovered our affair, I’ll never know how, and gave me an ultimatum. It was my children or her.”

  When she looks up, her eyes are wet.

  “So I made the only choice I could.” She turns to Tiago, then Saysa. “Don’t take this the wrong way—but I’ve always regretted it.”

  The admission is so brutal, it eclipses the beauty of this duelo. It isn’t some flowery trick or dazzling revelation. It’s stark truth, and it’s realer than any tribute offered to Zaybet.

  “I’m proud of you,” says Marilén again, taking Cata’s hand and joining it with Saysa’s. “For doing what I couldn’t.”

  Something electric passes through them. I see it in the flashing of Cata’s and Saysa’s eyes.

  What seemed impossible just a moment ago has come true. A family member knows about them and approves.

  “It’s almost over. You need to hurry home.”

  Before his great-grandmother deactivates the force field, Tiago touches her arm. “How’d you know we were here?”

  She gives him an indulgent smile. “Who do you think gave your parents all those wigs and costumes when you asked for them?”

  The force field vanishes, and Saysa opens the hedge so Marilén can slip out.

  We peer through to see if it’s safe for us to go, and now the Congeladoras are gathered around the hot spring. But instead of doing their magic, the other brujas are approaching them and paying their respects. Zaybet was one of theirs.

  Penelope must be up there.

  As I survey the blankets of families, some of the longing to join them I felt earlier has abated. Like a once-great fire that’s dying, the first bite of cool air coming through.

  Now as I imagine my future with Tiago, I wonder where Saysa and Cata fit on the blanket. After Marilén’s admission, all I see around me are children born without choice. Because no adult dares to stand up for them.

  Water geysers into the sky, like the blowhole of a whale, and millions of droplets freeze in the air, forming a familiar metallic gaze.

  Zaybet’s Congeladora eyes shine in the sky for one brilliant moment, the sun’s gleam making them look alight with magic. And as I bask in her revolutionary vision for the last time, I know what I’m going to do.

  Zaybet’s final spell has been cast.

  27

  We’re home before Penelope and Miguel return from the duelo. They find us sitting at the table, dressed in bedclothes, like we haven’t left the house.

  They hug Saysa and Tiago for a long moment. I don’t blame them, since they just attended the duelo of a young bruja whose final act was to save their children’s lives.

  “We have good news,” says Penelope, while Miguel ducks to inspect something on his shoe. I think I see him wipe his eyes.

  “What is it?” asks Tiago.

  “We’ve been able to get Anestesia.”

  Penelope pulls out a syringe from a pocket of her deep blue dress and sets it on the table.

  “How?” he asks.

  “I said I wanted it for you. In case one of you came home and I needed to keep you safe during the full moon. Everyone’s been so worried for us since they saw you on the news that they were eager to help.”

  Anestesia puts a Septimus in a magi-medi coma, and it’s only used by healers or law enforcement. Which means they just broke the law for me. “Thank you so much, but I can’t accept this. I don’t want to put you in any legal trouble.”

  “Manu—”

  “Tiago, you said so yourself. Now that the tribunal knows there’s a hybrid, they’re never going to stop coming for me. What do you think happens to those who get caught helping me?”

  I look to Penelope and Miguel, the desperation thick in my voice. “It’s one thing for us to be here in secret, we won’t tell anyone, but if you involve others, they could turn you in—”

  “No one in our manada is going to betray us,” says Miguel, authority laced into his voice. “The law is important, but our community comes first. Protecting one’s neighbor takes precedence over following orders.”

  I appreciate the distinction, but I know Yamila. She’s not going to stop coming for me. And just like a Lunaris demon, if she gets bored chasing me, she’s going to go after easier prey. Like the Septimus I care about most.

  “Thank you for your concern, Manu,” says Penelope, her eyes soft, “but please let us help. We don’t want the Cazadores’ rash actions to cost us more girls’ lives. Let us get you through this full moon, and once we’re back, we can come up with a real solution.”

  Tiago’s eyes are practically bulging from his head, and I ask, “What about Tiago? The Cazadores know he’s with me—and Saysa and Cata have been exposed too.”

  “We’ll say Zaybet’s death scared them, and as soon as they came to their senses, they left you and came home.”

  “What?” snaps Saysa.

  “No way!” says Tiago.

  But I nod my assent. “Then I’ll do it.”

  Tiago opens his mouth to argue, and Cata says, “Manu agreed. Let it go.”

  “Wise words,” says Miguel, reverting to better spirits. “Now, who’s ready for some food?”

  The mood lightens, and even Cata cracks a smile.

  As we pass around cuts of meat and bowls of salads, a protective aura seems to settle over the table. It feels like my friends have dropped their armor because there are parents in charge now, so everything will be fine.

  But it’s hard to find the magic in bubbles when you’ve seen how easily they pop.

  * * *

  The full moon is coming.

  I can feel it in my uterus.

  I’ve been staring at the stars through the skylight for a couple of hours when I finally feel like I’ve waited long enough that it’s safe to get out of bed. I comb through the clothes in the guest closet until I find the white dress I glimpsed this morning. The instant I saw it, I pictured wearing it on a date with Tiago.

  It’s the kind of dreamy thing a girl in a movie would wear to walk along the beach at night—thin straps, soft V neckline, fine fabric that’s form-fitting but not tight. I tame my hair down as best I can, and I even dab on some red lipstick I find in the bathroom drawer.

  I stare at Zaybet’s locket, and I consider taking it off. But that feels wrong somehow. So instead, I slip it under my neckline, so that only the fine gold chain is visible.

  When I look at myself in the mirror, I wonder if I’m really this girl. I’m not a bruja or a human, after all. I’m a werewolf. Maybe I should just put on jeans and a T-shirt.

  Yet when I go to pull off the dress, my gut twists in protest, so I leave it on.

  I keep my steps soft as I pad past the kitchen, and I take the passage I saw Tiago disappear down earlier. There’s a flash of light ahead, and I topple into someone’s hard chest.

  His dad?

  Shit—

  I exhale in relief when I sniff hints of cedarwood and thyme and that intoxicating third ingredient. “I was just coming to see you,” says T
iago, his gaze widening as he takes me in. “But now I feel underdressed.”

  His bedroom is more rustic than the rest of the house. The walls aren’t buffed, so they look like actual bark, and there’s a gaping crater in the ceiling. The hole is about the size of Tiago’s massive bed—which is perfectly lined up with it.

  My skylight has nothing on this view. He can see the whole night sky.

  There’s a protruding knot of roots on the ground, right by an opening in the wall that seems to lead to a deeper alcove. I start gravitating toward it, but I glance over my shoulder just in case. “Is this okay?”

  Tiago flashes me a smile. “Snoop away.”

  I climb over the roots and enter what is definitely the best part of the room. It’s a round balcony enclosed by so many narrow tree limbs that it looks like a cage. Through the gaps, I can see the ocean and the skyline. Lining the perimeter is a circular cushion, and as Tiago flops down, I picture him spending his childhood here reading.

  I’m about to join him when I spy something resting between two boughs. It looks like a guitar, but with double the number of strings.

  “You play?” I ask, picking it up. I’ve never held a guitar before. It’s much lighter than I expected.

  “A little,” he says with a shrug. He doesn’t meet my gaze, and I remember what Saysa said, about how he makes having a talent seem like a burden.

  I hold it out to him. “Can you play for me?”

  He looks up from the guitar, wearing the expression I’d wear if he asked to read my journals. “I’m not great,” he warns as he takes the instrument in his hands.

  I step back and watch him perch at the edge of the seat, holding the guitar like he hasn’t held it in a while and has felt its absence. Gentle with his touch, he tunes the different knobs, like he’s refamiliarizing himself with a landscape he knows intimately well. His brow furrows in concentration, and when he strums, it’s a different sound than I expected.

  Richer, deeper, more a cross between a guitar and a piano.

  When he’s finished tuning, he begins to play a song so sweeping and haunting and heartbreakingly beautiful that it’s hard to believe it’s coming from a single device. It’s like a one-instrument orchestra. The melody feels complete on its own, like it doesn’t need anything else—