Labyrinth Lost (Brooklyn Brujas #1)(47)

“How come we don’t go to magical parties in Central Park?” Rishi asks me.

“Because if you eat fairy food, you’re stuck there,” I say. “Also, because no.”

“What, in Central Park?” Nova scoffs. “You only get stuck if you’re in the Kingdom of Adas. Only an ada can take you there.”

“Shut up,” I grumble, but then so does my stomach. “I’m so hungry.”

“Well, if you hadn’t given all our supply to the avianas, we’d be feasting on beef jerky and stale bread right now, wouldn’t we?”

Rishi mimics him as he speaks.

Then, their faces draw a blank. They jolt from their seats, slowly retreating from the table.

“Alex,” Nova says, locking his eyes—blue and green and slightly terrified—with mine.

I see them too late, but maybe they were always there. What was it that Madra said? Look twice.

I blink rapidly, and it’s like clearing a hazy film from my sight. From the trees, the shadows, the tall grass, creatures emerge all around us.

My mother told me it’s rude to stare, but they are wonderful and fearsome to look at. Real fairies from the Kingdom of Adas. Tall, slender green pixies with shimmering wings and black, almond-shaped eyes. Their fingers are long, like flower stems, ending in leaves where nails should be. Snow-white women with skin like leather and smooth, hairless heads wear crowns of thorns and pale roses. Dresses made of thousands and thousands of dry flower petals that rustle in the breeze like unearthly ghouls.

I want to keep looking at them when a voice startles me.

“What do we have here?” a smooth, silky voice, like the drizzle of honey, asks.

I turn around, but there is no one there.

“Don’t be afraid,” he says.

When I turn back around, everyone is sitting down, like I missed their movement in the blink of an eye.

Look twice, I remind myself.

At the head of the table, where the roots of the fallen tree create a high, twisted chair, is a man. His chest is bare. His skin is tan. There’s a tattoo of the sun over his heart. His face is stunning in that symmetrical way, like his maker carved him from stone and wouldn’t stop until it was perfect. But the truly startling part is the curved horns that sprout from his temples and sweep into twisting points around his head.

Gold, silver, and leather bracelets decorate his wrists, and dozens of bauble rings adorn his fingers like knuckle-dusters. My dad had a knuckle-duster from when he was younger. It’s in the bottom drawer of my mom’s dresser wrapped in a yellowing handkerchief.

“You like my rings?” the horned man asks.

“I’m not much of a jewelry person,” I say, and instantly hate how nervous I sound.

“Just the one,” he says, pointing at the moon around my neck.

“Are you hungry?” a girl asks. She’s got wild curls and light-brown skin that is run through with green lines, like a birch tree. She wears the same set of bracelets as the horned man. She points to three empty seats. “Join us.”

“Thank you,” I say, “but we were just resting. We didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Then keep on walking,” a girl mutters. Her skin is red as lava with splotches of black. Her eyes are dark and too far apart, giving her the look of a human salamander. When she huffs, smoke comes out of her nostrils.

“Rodriga,” the horned man says. His voice is hard and cutting. Everyone at the table jumps. “Is that the way we treat our guests?”

Everyone at the table looks down at their laps.

“Hey, now,” Nova says in his easy way. “No worries. We’ve still got a lot of terrain to cover. We’re heading to Las Pe?as to mine for minerals. We’d best get a move on.”

“Do you know what happens to travelers who come here in search of treasure?” Rodriga asks.

On the other side of the table, one of the pixies is letting Rishi touch her iridescent wings.

“Enough,” the horned man says. “I am Agosto, Faun King of the Meadow del Sol, and these are my kin. We live here safely away from the wicked birds near the river and far away from the Bone Valle.”

I don’t like that he called the avianas wicked, but I stay quiet.

“I insist you join us,” Agosto says. “Regain your strength. You look parched and ready to fall over.”

Nova and I look at each other. I don’t want to insult this horned man. Behind the pleasantry, there’s steel in his voice. His knuckles are thick with calluses that come from repeatedly beating on things. Like my dad’s from his boxing days.

Nova holds my hand. He applies the tiniest pressure, but I know he’s urging me to sit. Make nice. Avoid ruffling any more feathers, so to speak. Then we can plan our escape.

“Okay,” I say. “But only for a bit.”

Agosto waves a hand across the air and a decadent banquet appears. “Eat.”





23


Se fue, mi’jita, past the unseable door.

If I listen to the wind, I can still hear her laughter.

—Claribelle and the Kingdom of Adas: Tales Tall and True, Gloriana Palacios

Dozens and dozens of plates appear across the table. The meadow people raise their arms and cheer. A lonely cloud momentarily passes over the sun, leaving us in shadow. My vision flickers for a moment; then the cloud passes by, and we’re basked in white fairy light again.