The Hacienda(45)

To the front door. My legs burned with each step; my damp palms fumbled the handle. We burst through the door.

Rain drenched the courtyard, slicking the path with mud. Rain cooled my scalp, ran down my face, soaked my dress as I staggered into the night.

The farther we drew from the house, the more Andrés seemed able to carry his weight; by the time we slumped against the wooden door of the capilla, he lifted himself back up. I wrenched the door open, and we half fell into the dim chapel.

Someone had lit prayer candles before the humble painted wooden statue of la Virgen de Guadalupe. It was enough light to see by, enough light to make a sob rise to my scream-savaged throat.

The door thundered shut behind us. My legs gave out at last, and we fell forward into the aisle between the pews. My knees struck tile floor; I threw myself out to try and catch Andrés so he would not strike his head a second time, but he had fallen on his shoulder and rolled onto his back, coughing and wheezing in pain.

I was on my hands and knees, like I had been in the parlor, when blood was pouring—

I looked down at my hands.

There was no blood on them. Nor on my skirts.

I jerked myself upward, sat back on my heels, and touched my chin. No blood. Felt my mouth for . . . I shuddered in horror, but my teeth were intact. Firmly attached to my gums and my jaw.

Tears stung my eyes and cheeks as I sucked in greedy lungfuls of air, my breathing and Andrés’s the only sound in the empty chapel. That and the thundering of my heart as it slowed, slowed, slowed.

So, so quiet.

Even the darkness here was different. Shadows dyed the corners of the room a soft, deep charcoal gray. The dark of dreamless sleep, the dark of prayers in the night. The dark touched by hopeful fingers of dawn.

Andrés opened his eyes. He frowned at the ceiling. “Where—”

“The capilla.” A hoarse croak, barely my voice at all.

His face was gray and gaunt; at my words it went paler still. “No . . . don’t leave the circle.”

“You were hurt,” I said. “It was hurting you more. I couldn’t leave you.”

“Broke the circle . . .” he murmured at the ceiling.

Had I made a mistake, bringing him here? No, something had gone wrong. Something had flung him across the room. It could have killed him. It could have killed both of us. Who cared about breaking the circle when he could have died?

“Damn the circle,” I whispered, tears blurring the vision before me: Andrés on his back, blood dripping from his nose, pale and gaunt between the pews. “You’re broken. That matters more.”

“Not broken.” A cough wracked his body. He grimaced. “Fine.”

“Lying is a sin, Padre Andrés.”

A wet laugh. He turned his head to the side, eyes shining up at me, feverish and overbright, as he smiled. Lopsided and without restraint. There was blood on his teeth.

He reached a hand up and gently brushed the back of his knuckles over my cheek. Goose bumps raced over my skin at his touch.

“An angel,” he murmured. “Are you an angel?”

His head had hit the wall hard. He couldn’t be in his right mind.

“Tell me where it hurts,” I said, voice cracking.

Awareness flickered behind his eyes; his brow creased with concentration. “I think . . . broken rib.” He winced, lowering his hand to his torso. “Or two.”

“Shall I get a doctor?”

“No,” he grunted.

“But what if you’re bleeding on the inside?”

“Doctors aren’t witches,” he said. “Can’t fix broken witches.”

We were safe now, safe from whatever mistake we had made, but his behavior sent a wave of panic through me. What sort of damage could a blow to the head like that cause? Would he survive the night?

“Of course a doctor could fix a broken witch,” I insisted calmly.

“Pierce with pikes and burn the witch,” he murmured, eyes fluttering closed. “Salt the earth and scatter his soot.”

The curl of panic beneath my lungs expanded. He wasn’t making sense. “No one is going to burn you, Padre Andrés,” I said, forcing authority into my voice. “Not on my property. Now look at me.”

He opened his eyes, gazing up at me with an open adoration that made something in my chest bend close to snapping.

“You will be more comfortable if you can sleep in your bed.”

“Bed,” Andrés repeated dreamily.

Yes, bed was the best idea, but there was no way I was going to be able to carry him all the way to his rooms at the back of the capilla. I checked his limbs for any signs of broken bones, but apart from his ribs and his head, Andrés had no other injuries that I could see.

“Can you stand?”

He grunted in the affirmative and began to hoist himself up.

“Wait for me.” I scrambled to my feet, head spinning, chest tight. The best way to guide him was to sling one of his arms over my shoulder again. I braced as his warmth pressed against me, with too much weight. “No, you need to stand on your own.”

He corrected, and, swaying slightly, we cut a meandering path up the aisle of the chapel. Christ watched us from a wooden crucifix above the altar. The candles on the altar flung shadows across His hollow cheekbones, giving His carved face a condescending air.