Then he was out of sight.
El sabueso sniffed at the blood on the ground, tasted it, lapped at it, and then it changed. It lifted its snout to the air, then growled. Its head jerked to the north. Its gaze was focused, razor sharp and—
El sabueso bolted.
Someone screamed. Julio smiled, wider and wider, and his men, gathered around him, laughed and laughed. One of them, clean-shaven and baby-faced, shouted out and raised his saber high. “¡Más rápido!”
Emilia was stone still, her expression blank. She didn’t care.
“Xochitl,” Raúl said, and this time, I had not noticed how hard he was gripping my hand. “Should we leave? I’m scared.”
But I had to know, Solís. I had to know. Was this my fault? What was going to happen?
I put my hand on Raúl’s arm to signal him to stay, and el sabueso was gone, gone, far away from us. A thick silence dropped over la aldea, one of terror and anticipation, and it smothered us. We waited. And waited. And waited.
They know.
Why? Why did that thought arrive in my mind? It made no sense, but I couldn’t push the paranoia down.
His scream was a wail, and it ripped the silence apart, and then it was cut short. Raúl gasped next to me, and a whimper followed, and I tried to cover his mouth to get him to stay quiet, but he shook out of my grasp.
I heard ripping.
Tearing.
El sabueso trotted back, its jaw clamped over something, and then I couldn’t stop the cry that rushed from my throat as la bestia passed by Raúl and me, couldn’t stop the sobbing that broke through, couldn’t believe that el sabueso held an arm, torn ragged from a shoulder, still oozing blood onto the ground, and then it dropped its prize at Julio’s feet, its jaw stained scarlet with the blood of my friend.
My only friend.
Julio smiled again. “I missed you, mi sabueso,” he cooed, dropping down to give la bestia affection. “It has been too long.”
El sabueso, its body twisted and wrong, nuzzled Julio’s hand.
Julio had his arm behind Emilia, embracing her, and the two of them looked upon the remains of Lito.
“I am tired of your little aldea,” he announced, “and Manolito here tried to hide his theft from me. I leave you with this gift.”
He picked up Lito’s arm, and the eyes of el sabueso followed it. Then he dropped it into the well, and the splash of it hitting the water echoed back up to us.
Julio said something; I didn’t hear it. My eyes were locked on the remaining puddle of blood on the ground, all that was left of mi Lito. Raúl was begging me to leave, but I couldn’t move at all. A new realization formed inside me, gripped me tightly:
We were being punished.
No.
I was being punished.
I had wronged You. I had defied You. And this was Your revenge.
But I couldn’t stand there and do nothing. Despite the pounding of my heart and my body as both screamed at me to run away and hide from the horror, I stepped out into la plaza. I moved forward, then rushed at Julio, and none of his men saw me, and I knew it was foolish, knew that I was making a mistake, but I couldn’t let him leave unscathed. I collided with his back, my fists raised, and I let out my grief and my anger. He pitched forward and stumbled, but his men snatched me from him.
Rage filled me, and I felt someone’s—Ofelia’s, perhaps—churn in my gut. This wasn’t my fault. It was his.
“What have you done!” I screamed.
Julio wiped dust and dirt off his breeches and smiled. “Who are you?”
“You killed him!” I seethed. “Why can’t you just leave us alone?”
He strode toward me, but I jerked away from his outstretched hand.
“You’re smart to fear me, chica,” he said. “And to fear my touch.”
“Xochitl!”
Raúl’s voice rang out in the clearing, and he rushed forward even as I shook my head at him. No, no, no!
“Leave her alone!” Raúl shouted, and another man held him back with a hand on his chest.
“Raúl,” I panted, “turn around and go back home, okay? Go back home to Mamá y Papá.”
He puffed up.
Put his hands on his hips.
Sneered.
“You disrespect las cuentistas,” he said, and my stomach dropped. “You are nothing like mi hermana.”
Silence.
Please, no.
“So you are la cuentista of Empalme, ¿no?”
My mouth was a tight line. I said nothing. But the stories … oh, the stories awoke again in me, twisting around in my torso, trying to find a new place to hide.
“Manolito told you what he knew.”
I remained resolute. I would not give him what he wanted.
“And you did nothing to stop me.”
“How could I?” I shot back. “I gave your story back that night, back to Solís. As you are supposed to.”
I tried to sell the lie by spitting on the ground. It was only a little bit true. I despised Julio and what he had done. But was I in any place to judge him?
“You have no idea of the power that you have,” he said.
He reached forward.
I tried to force myself backwards, but his men held me in place.
“Don’t,” I slurred.
“I want your story,” he said.
His fingers grazed my cheek.
It was all he needed.
It was all he could stand.
Because a spark tore from my body, a burst of magic that I had never before felt, and Julio was thrown back. He hit the ground and his breath rushed out of him, but this was not an act of protection.
It was a warning.
Julio stood openmouthed, his eyes wide. “Mi cuentista,” he muttered. “You still have them.”
I shook my head, coughed out a protest.
“You keep them as I do.”
“No, that’s not—”
“Did you figure it out, too?” he said, and his eyes were alive with lust, with joy. “Do you know the truth?”
You knew.
They all knew.
A numbness settled over me as I heard the murmurs around me, as I heard Raúl softly crying, as I
