The Hacienda(84)

Instead, a drumming began. First it was faint, distant, from the far side of the house. Distant enough that I thought it was another roll of thunder. But it never ended. It was a drumming on the wooden floorboards, as if a thousand heavy fingers struck in quick, violent succession. The sound marched toward the north side of the house, growing, becoming louder, so loud my bones rang with it. I could not cover my ears, could not hold out my arms to protect myself.

It drew closer, closer, then it stopped at the door of the study. There it drummed an irregular beat, growing louder, frantic, so powerful the door shuddered on its hinges.

The drumming stopped.

Sweat poured down my temples and slicked my palms.

It was there. It was there outside the door, and there was no copal to stop it. No candlelight. No Andrés.

A wink of red appeared in the dark, then vanished.

No.

It was here.

The red eyes appeared by the dark doorway to the bedchamber, then vanished.

It was coming closer. My heart beat so hard against my chest, so desperate and irregular it ached. Would it give out and leave me stiff and wide-eyed as Ana Luisa? Was this where it ended?

Hands grasped at my skirts, near the floorboards. Three or four hands, long fingered and icy; I could see nothing in the dark, but their too-soft flesh seized my ankles and yanked at me.

I shrieked and sprang away.

“Don’t touch me!” I cried.

A girlish, lilting laugh from somewhere in the rafters. She was mocking me. She was enjoying this. Anger swelled in my chest. I jerked my head up, scanning the dark desperately for something, anything to direct my furor at. The laughter now sounded from my bedchamber; I whirled to face it.

Enough.

“What do you want?” I cried.

A pair of freezing hands struck my shoulders forcefully, knocking me off my feet. Unable to throw out my arms to stop myself, my skull struck the rug with a dull thud.

Nausea heaved through me, from chest to rattled skull. I rolled over onto my side. The rug dampened my cheek; the smell of distilled alcohol overpowered me.

I coughed and, fighting the urge to retch, forced myself to my knees. I staggered upright, head spinning, breath coming in ragged gasps. Lightning illuminated the room for a moment; then darkness fell again.

“I didn’t hurt you,” I spat. “I didn’t even know you. Leave me alone.”

Something hurtled toward me through the dark. Instinct seized my chest; I ducked.

Glass shattered on the wall directly behind me, and pieces went flying. A few struck my back; they rolled across the floor. A vase? It didn’t matter what—I was barefoot and blind. Moving would rip my feet to shreds.

“So you’re angry,” I said to the dark. I picked my way carefully over to the desk, where there was a glass vase. I picked it up in both hands and faced where I had last heard that infuriating giggle.

“I am too!” I shouted, my throat ripping from the strain of my fury. I threw the vase as best I could while bound at the wrist. It shattered against the opposite wall. “I wanted things too! I wanted to be safe. I wanted a home. And I got stuck with you.”

The darkness hissed—like a cat, but with a depth to it that assured me that no mortal beast could make a noise like that. Then a growl rose: an inhuman growl that set the hair on my arms standing on end.

Red eyes appeared in the dark, blazing more brightly than I had ever seen them.

I had nowhere to run. I was backed into a corner, barefoot in a sea of shattered glass. I wondered if I could even open the door with my hands bound.

“I bet you want to avenge yourself,” I said, forcing the words to be steady, past the tremble in my voice.

The eyes drew closer; the darkness closed in on me, pressing down on my chest with a weight I only knew in nightmares. Breathing became difficult. But I did not retreat. Though my heart screamed against my rib cage, my head and shoulder throbbed, and my legs shook, I dug my heels into the damp carpet and looked the Devil in the eye.

I was not done fighting.

“Is that it? You want vengeance? Then go find it,” I spat at it. “Killing me won’t sate you.”

Another growl. A cold flush of fear swept over my skin. That was a challenge. A dare.

The darkness pressed on my chest, on my throat. I gasped for air like a fish on land.

“If you kill me,” I forced out. My voice was strangled, a snarl robbed of breath but full of venom. “I’ll be stuck here, same as you.” Air, I needed air. “And I swear on my father’s grave I will make you miserable.”

The darkness released. I gasped, lungs aching as they expanded; I fell forward onto my knees. Glass dug into my kneecaps through my skirt, but I didn’t care. I breathed, I breathed.

The darkness’s attention had lifted to the rafters. I frowned. Footsteps tracked across the roof. Mortal footsteps. Familiar footsteps. They settled overhead; clay struck clay as terra-cotta tiles were ripped from the roof and stacked on top of one another. Metal struck wood. Once, twice; the ceiling began to splinter.

Someone was breaking through the roof with a machete.

“Andrés?” I tried to call the name, but it came out a whisper. Had he come to rescue me? Was my torment at its end?

A boot kicked in through the ceiling, widening the hole cut by the machete.

Liquid poured into the room through the roof in a swift, short torrent, as if from a well bucket. Droplets splashed my dress and my face, and where they touched my lips and eyes, it burned.