I swallowed, my stomach churning and pulsating with so much anxiety I thought I might puke. He’s probably angry with me, too. It’s just as much my fault as it is his.
I took several deep breaths, determined not to let my weakness interfere again. These people needed me.
Ramón watched me expectantly. I nodded, gritting my teeth. My legs and arms felt like Jell-O and the cuts on my face throbbed, but I pushed through the discomfort. Gripping the athame firmly, I followed Ramón and half a dozen refugees out the door.
The familiar fear threatened to clamp down on me, but I angrily shoved it aside. Recalling the euphoria and control from when I’d fought the wolves, I breathed deeply and stayed close to Ramón as we passed through the red door.
As before, getting to the restaurant wasn’t difficult. But on the way back, Ramón had to banish a shapeshifter that leapt at me from a dark alley.
We returned through the door, and I sat with the refugees while Oliver and Ramón escorted the next group to safety. I passed the athame to Oliver before he left. He still wouldn’t meet my eyes, even when he muttered, “Thanks.”
He regrets spending the evening with me, I thought miserably as I sank to the ground against the dusty wall. He hates me now. I’ve been holding him back because I’m so fracking incompetent and needy.
“Señorita, ¿está bien?” a small voice next to me asked.
I turned and found a girl about ten years old eyeing me with concern. She touched my arm as she gazed at the blood on my clothes.
“Si, gracias.” I realized I was scowling, and I quickly wiped my expression clean and smiled at her. I wasn’t sure how to convey it in Spanish, so I gestured to the blood on my clothes and shook my head. “Not mine.” I patted her hand on my arm. “¿Y usted? ¿Está bien?” Are you okay?
The girl sighed heavily and looked toward the door. “Estoy asustada.”
Her lower lip trembled, and though I didn’t understand her words, I knew she was afraid.
“Me llamo Desi,” I said. “¿Cómo se llama?” What’s your name?
“Guadalupe Hernandez Castillo,” the girl said quietly.
I smiled. “Nice to meet you. Ah, are you hurt?” I gestured to her body and pointed to the blood on my own shirt.
She shook her head.
“Where is your mother? Tu mamá? Tu familia?”
Guadalupe pointed out the door. “Mamá está con mis hermanos y hermanas. Ya han evacuado.”
I nodded, piecing her words together with her gestures. “Lo siento. I’m sorry you’re alone.”
Guadalupe shrugged her shoulders, her gaze cast downward.
I wrapped my arm around her shoulders, and she buried her head into my sleeve. She smelled like honey, pepper, and many other spices. I smiled at the scents; they reminded me of Alba.
“¿Le gusta . . . comer?” I asked timidly, wincing at my broken Spanish. Maybe talking to her about food will distract her.
Guadalupe giggled. “Si. Mi abuela es cocinera.”
“Ah,” I said, nodding as I furrowed my brow to try to understand. “Uh, does she make . . . ¿comida deliciosa?” Delicious food?
“¡Sí, por supuesto!” the girl said enthusiastically, grinning up at me. Her eyes sparkled with delight.
Encouraged by her reaction, I said, “¿Que es . . . su favorita?” What’s your favorite?
Guadalupe pressed her lips together in thought. “Mmm . . . dulce de leche.”
My smile widened. “Is it . . . ¿caliente? O frio?” Hot or cold?
“Sabe mejor caliente. Como un vaso tibio de leche.”
I frowned. Yeah, I didn’t understand much of that. But I nodded again anyway.
“¿Y usted? ¿Cuál es su comida favorita?”
I stared at the cobweb-covered ceiling in contemplation. My favorite food . . . “Pizza.”
Guadalupe’s face scrunched up in confusion, and she sat up to look at me in bewilderment. “¿Qué es eso?”
I laughed. “Uh . . . Italiano. It’s a big, uh, Americana comida.”
Guadalupe smiled again and rested her head back on my shoulder. We sat in silence, and I rubbed her arm. My heart ached for this girl who was completely alone. The warmth from her cheek that was pressed into me soothed me like hot soup. Though I knew she was afraid, I needed this as much as she did. I needed to feel useful. I had to know I was making a difference.
After a few minutes, Oliver and Ramón returned, and I helped gather the remaining refugees. Together, we crept toward the red door, crossed into the magical realm, and arrived at the restaurant without incident.
Ramón muttered,
“Magic above and powers from there,
Reveal what has been hidden from me.”
Then he glanced at the wide-eyed refugees and said, a bit louder,
“Magic hidden from this people,
Reveal yourself from your hideout.”
I blinked, wondering why he spoke two spells. Then the gasps and murmurs of the refugees indicated the building was no longer cloaked. Oh, I thought. He broke the enchantment for himself and then the refugees.
Beside me, Oliver whispered quickly,
“Magic above and powers that be,
Reveal what has been hidden from me.”
I frowned, trying to figure out why their spells were different. Then I remembered the translation charm—Spanish was Ramón’s first language but not Oliver’s.
Oliver cleared his throat, looking at me expectantly.
I straightened and uttered the same incantation. A babble of murmurs and snores erupted around me. I gasped, heart racing, as several bodies materialized on the floor. Some stirred restlessly, others were motionless. After several moments of staring, I finally reassured myself that the refugees were merely sleeping, not injured or killed.
Ramón waved his hand forward, and we all stepped carefully inside the restaurant. Ramón paused periodically to scan the area, no doubt searching for available space.
Finally, he located an empty stretch of floor space in the kitchen. He gestured that the refugees claim the spot.
Guadalupe squeezed my hand. “¿Te quedarás conmigo por favor?” Her eyes darted from me to the floor where the surrounding civilians were already getting comfortable.
I glanced at Ramón and Oliver.
“She wants you to stay with her,” Oliver said quietly.
Emotion climbed up my throat as I looked back at Guadalupe. Smiling, I nodded, and she dragged me by
