“Magic above and powers that be,
Reveal what has been hidden from me.”
I blinked. “That rhymed. Was that English?”
Manuel raised his eyebrows at me. “He’s American.” Bitterness tainted his tone, and I frowned at him.
The soldier’s eyes lit up as he no doubt could see the crowd that waited for him. A slow grin spread across his face, and he stepped forward, his arms outstretched.
Elena was the first to race toward him. She buried her head in his shoulder, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist.
“Why didn’t he go home?” I asked Manuel.
“Some of the American warlocks are here to help the magical war, too. Oliver has become a vital asset to us here.” Manuel shrugged one shoulder. “Besides, he’s half Cuban. He’s practically one of us.” The glower on his face indicated he didn’t agree with this.
Oliver. I jerked my chin toward Elena, who still gripped Oliver as tightly as if she were trying to strangle him. “Are they . . .?”
Manuel chuckled, his shoulders rising with his laughter. “You’re asking the wrong person, Desi.”
Oliver extracted his limbs from Elena’s embrace and stepped farther into the room. Several people clapped him on the shoulder and embraced him. A few women kissed his cheeks. When he reached Alba and Ramón, he embraced both of them as if they were his own parents.
“How many wounded?” Alba asked.
“A dozen Mambises,” Oliver said. “The Santeros are with them now.”
“Santeros?” I whispered to Manuel.
“Santería is a religious practice,” Manuel said. “Santeros perform a strong ritual for healing.”
“Magic healing?”
Manuel shrugged one shoulder again. “In this case? Yes. Though most Santeros practice other rituals, not just the art of healing. Our powers enhance the healing ritual and have proven to be incredibly powerful.”
“What about Linares?” Alba asked Oliver.
“Alive, but badly wounded,” Oliver said.
I whispered to Manuel, “So, do all your healers practice Santería?”
“No. It’s like Catholicism. Some practice, some do not. It’s a belief, not an ability like magic.”
The door opened again, and three more men entered wearing dirty and bloodied street clothes, unlike the uniform Oliver donned.
“Cuban rebels,” Manuel informed me. “Mambises.”
Oliver seated himself at a table next to Elena and regaled the crowd with a rousing tale of the battle.
“We wouldn’t have made it if it hadn’t been for Roosevelt and his Rough Riders,” Oliver said with a wild grin on his face.
Manuel spat on the ground next to me and muttered what sounded like a foul curse word.
I raised my eyebrows at him, and he rolled his eyes.
“Americans,” he muttered. “Always think they’re the heroes.”
More soldiers entered the restaurant, and my jaw dropped.
“They’re black,” I blurted without thinking.
Manuel stiffened next to me. “What?”
I blinked and shook my head. “I—are they Cuban?”
“Freed African slaves. They’re fighting for independence too.”
I realized my mouth still hung open, so I clamped it shut. I had no idea Cuba still had slaves so long after the U.S. had abolished slavery.
The six African soldiers wore loose white shirts that were ripped and stained with dirt and blood. I glanced from Oliver’s neat and tidy uniform, to the form-fitting clothes of the Mambises, to the rags barely clinging to the African soldiers’ bodies. There was clearly a hierarchy among races here.
I turned to Manuel and said, “Oliver is the only American?”
“Yes. The American warlocks have their own coven to attend to.” He spat on the ground again and ground his teeth together.
Okay. No more on that subject. My little knowledge of Cuba told me relations between them and the U.S. weren’t particularly friendly, but I’d always thought it was because of communism or the Cold War or whatever. But Manuel’s bitterness indicated it went deeper than that.
“Who’s this?” a voice near me asked.
I glanced up, blinking in surprise, to find Oliver standing in front of me. I gazed up at him, startled by how tall he was.
His eyes slid up and down my frame, taking in my unorthodox appearance and attire. But to my surprise, half his mouth curled upward in a smirk. “I’ve never met a woman in trousers before.”
“And I’ve never met a giant before,” I retorted.
Oliver’s eyes widened in surprise, but he burst out laughing, running a hand through his hair again.
I grinned and stuck out my hand. “I’m Desi. Desiree Campbell.”
“Oliver Gerrick.” He shook my hand, his green eyes watching me. Assessing me. “You’re American?” He looked to Alba, who nodded, then back to me. “So what brings you here?”
“I came for the food.”
Oliver snorted.
“A spell from the Grimoire backfired,” Elena said loudly from behind Oliver. I glared at her.
Oliver whistled and wiggled his eyebrows at me. “That’s incredible. I’m sorry I missed it.”
I raised my eyebrows. This guy’s an idiot. He reminded me of the jocks from my high school—dim-witted, only there for a thrill. I flashed him another smile. “I aim to impress.” Let him think I’m an idiot, too.
The door burst open, and a woman hurried inside, her face red and her eyes wide with urgency. From head to toe, she wore nothing but white—white bonnet, white dress, white shawl, even white shoes. It contrasted starkly with her deep onyx, almost charcoal-colored skin. Her eyes scanned the crowd until she saw Alba, and she hurried forward.
“¡Alba, debes ayudarme! ¡Mi familia ha sido atacada! Una criatura oscura . . . no puedo explicarlo. ¡Por favor! ¡Ayudame!” She gesticulated with her hands wildly, her eyes frantic.
I blinked and glanced at Oliver, who watched the exchange with his jaw clenched.
“Is she speaking Spanish,” I whispered, “or is the translation charm not working?”
“She’s mortal,” Oliver murmured. “Santera.”
“What? But how—”
“Manuel,” Alba said sharply, stepping toward us and placing a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Take Oliver, Elena, and Desi hunting without us.” She nodded to Ramón and a few other men beside him. Without another word, they followed the Santera out of the restaurant.
“But I—” I began, dazed, but Elena interrupted me.
“Let’s go.” She tugged on Oliver’s arm and didn’t even glance
