Chapter 16 #2
Xiomara was a smart woman. She knew the truth now. Her frown deepened, but then she flinched when the bottle began to fizz and spurt out smoke.
“Time is running out.” Misterioso strode by. “If you idle too long, you will lose.”
Xiomara’s eyes widened.
Don Zelaya growled. If Xiomara forfeited, he would lose his possible gains if the potion turned out to be lucky.
Xiomara squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her hands atop the table. “O-okay.” She sniffed the bottle, then took the smallest and most cautious of sips. Her face scrunched, and she quickly lowered the bottle. “It’s so bitter.”
“Well, you already started, so just keep drinking,” Don Zelaya coaxed.
When Xiomara hesitated, he took the bottle and gingerly grabbed her chin, so he could pour the drink into her mouth.
It was such a gentle movement. Xiomara could have easily pushed him away, but she didn’t.
“If you don’t finish it, you’ll die.” Her wide brown eyes watered, and liquid dribbled down her chin, staining her gown.
As soon as the bottle emptied, she pulled away and coughed.
Her head bobbed, and her eyelids drooped.
“Ah, it appears La Botella was filled with sueno dulce,” Misterioso announced in excitement.
Xiomara whimpered, blinking hard and trying to keep her eyes open.
“Shhh, it’s okay.” Don Zelaya stroked her cheek, grin bordering on malicious. “I’ll take care of you.”
Xiomara slurred and lowered her head until it rested on the table.
Lo’s stomach churned with both excitement and disgust. Her plan had worked, but now she wished she had figured out a way to get that slimy Don Zelaya to consume the sleeping potion instead.
Pearla drew the next card. “El Gorrito.”
“Ah, yet another repeat,” Misterioso said. “Remember, Maríana Montoya did not defeat the challenge. This card will remain in the deck until someone can best it.”
The card flashed and transformed into a bonnet.
Lo squinted. This El Gorrito was different from the one that had slain Senora Montoya.
She couldn’t remember what the previous one had looked like, but she swore it wasn’t silken white trimmed in gold and pearls.
It had looked much plainer, hadn’t it? Drip drip drip.
Drops of scarlet blood dripped slowly from the inside of the bonnet like a spout left on just enough for the smallest bit of water to seep through. Drip drip drip.
“El Gorrito, whom do you choose?” Misterioso asked.
“The heir of Las Cuatro,” El Gorrito groaned, voice thick and pained.
Lo’s blood ran cold. This voice was different than before. It was familiar, but from where—
Then she remembered.
Senora Montoya’s voice.
Did the cards all take something from those they defeated?
“The Castro boy,” Senora Montoya rasped. Her voice sent tingles across Lo’s skin. The sound of her sisters sobbing. The sound of her father stomping around upstairs. A noise that brought nothing but dread.
“Me?” Dominic pointed to himself, as if there were several other Castros in this game.
“Listen carefully,” Lo whispered. “You have to do whatever the card tells you exactly how it tells you.” For now, she would much rather keep Dominic around and get rid of Don Zelaya. “You can do it.” With an encouraging smile, she patted his arm.
“Dominic Castro, your life is on the line,” Misterioso said. “You must pass three of El Gorrito’s challenges in order to survive.”
One mistake and it would all be over.
“Can you accomplish what I could not?” The card—no, Senora Montoya—asked. “Put me on your head.”
Dominic practically tumbled out of his seat and snatched the bonnet from the air. He slammed it onto his head, but then winced. Thick blood oozed down the sides. He raised his arms, about to rip off the bonnet, but then froze, catching himself.
The blood was just another distraction, designed to make him fail. “Stay focused, Dom!” Lo cheered him on.
“Now kiss the cheek to the one to your left.”
Lo sat to his left, but he foolishly turned to Xiomara. No. No. No. “Dom,” Lo whispered.
Catching himself once again, he turned to her and leaned in, giving her a quick peck on the right cheek.
“One more task,” Senora Montoya growled. Lo could picture her milky face pinched and annoyed, lips curled with hatred. She wanted to drag Dominic to El Infierno with her.
By now, Dominic’s entire body trembled. Blood dripped down his chin, staining his shirt, coating his eyelashes, and covering his lips. He didn’t dare wipe it away. Lo didn’t blame him. Who knew if that would count against him?
“Shake hands with my greatest rival at this table.”
Dominic hesitated as he stared at the three of them.
The answer was clearly Don Zelaya. He was the biggest threat in this game.
But instead, Dominic turned and held his hand out to Lo. A small trail of blood made its way to his shoulder, snaking down his sleeve.
“What? Are you sure?” Lo stammered.
He nodded, looking scared but certain. She slowly raised her hand and he grabbed it, shaking it.
“You have youth … and beauty.” Dominic spat away blood.
“You’re the most sought-after young woman in Milagro and rejected the chance to become her daughter-in-law.
She can’t stand the thought of someone from your bloodline getting so much adoration.
From the moment your paths crossed in here, she has looked only at you. ”
“Correct,” Senora Montoya said, sounding like she wanted to scream. “You … win.”
Dominic ripped off the bonnet, and it vanished. Some of the croupiers clapped for him. With a triumphant grin, he wiped his bloody face and shook out his hair like a dog.
“Congratulations,” Misterioso said, with a voice equal parts eager and amused. “My, this round is a long one.” He clasped his hands together and grinned, clearly still riding the sickening high from Rodrigo’s death.
“Then please let it end,” Mayté mumbled from her seat. Next to her, Carlos nodded.
“Every game has a loser,” Misterioso said as if he hadn’t heard her. “And I’m curious who it will be.”
Pearla drew the next card. “La Dama.” The card flashed, flipped out of her hand, and grew in size.
A woman stepped out. She wore a ruffled gown the color of a deep blush.
Purple ruffles and stripes of white silk accented her figure and gathered at her decolletage.
For a moment, all Lo could focus on was the gown.
It was as if her mind refused to comprehend anything else, but once it did, her blood ran cold.
Mamá!
Thick, bouncy brown curls hung at her waist. Her droopy brown eyes sparkled, and her full lips curled into a knowing smile.
Golden bronze skin glowed under the candlelight.
It really was her. She looked exactly the way she had when she had left Lo.
Without even a sign of wrinkles or aging.
She didn’t have streaks of gray in her hair or puffy eyebags like Mayté’s mother, or fine lines on her forehead and around her mouth like Senora Montoya.
She looked the way Lo remembered her. Nothing about her had changed.
Not even the length of her hair or the way she parted it to the side.
Mamá locked eyes with her. Her smile grew as she crooked her finger, beckoning for her.
Just like she always used to do. Mamá would never call out to her.
Instead, she would wiggle her finger, and Lo always knew to come.
They were connected like that. It wasn’t until she was much older that she realized that Mamá probably did that so as to not draw her father’s attention.
Better to stay hidden, and in such a large hacienda, it usually worked.
How many times had Lo pretended not to hear when her father called for her?
“La Dama has chosen you, Lorena. Your life is on the line.”
She stared at Mamá, searching for any sort of reaction, but Mamá simply smiled.
Lo’s stomach flip-flopped. Why wasn’t she saying anything? “Ma—”
“Vamos a bailar.” Mamá cut her off and pulled her into a dance. She swung her hips and twirled her skirt, all while staring expectantly at Lo.
Lo wanted to argue. Scream at Mamá to just stop and talk to her.
She had so many questions. But she had to remind herself that this was a challenge.
The questions could wait. Lo stood, and music filled the air.
The shake of maracas. The lively strum of guitars.
But there wasn’t a musician in sight. Mamá had always loved to dance.
At every fiesta, she spent most of the night on the dance floor twirling around and clapping her hands.
Smiling and accepting dances from any man who would ask.
And then afterward she and Lo’s father would scream at each other until the wee hours of the morning. He always hated that she danced. Accused her of being unfaithful with every man she danced with. But most of all, Lo was sure he just hated seeing her happy.
The music swelled louder as Lo approached Mamá. She grabbed the ruffled hem of her gown and twirled around. Mamá spun with her. The memories of all her dance lessons came back. The countless hours learning how to move her legs and twirl around in her dress.
Good girl.
Look at my bonita mamita.
Soon you’ll be dancing like your Mamá.
Lo glanced back at the table. Don Zelaya stared, deep wrinkles cutting into his forehead. Dominic covered his mouth and looked away. The Banker lingered near the other croupiers. He watched with interest.
Her heart flipped in her chest.
Still moving, she turned to the other table where Mayté and Carlos sat. Carlos looked perplexed, but Mayté had tears streaming down her face.
Why would she be so sad?
This was supposed to be a happy moment. She finally found Mamá.
Mayté tugged Carlos’s shirt and whispered something into his ear. His face transformed from confusion into pure sorrow and pity as he gazed at Lo.
But why?
Something was wrong.
“Mamá,” Lo murmured as the two circled each other. But Mamá didn’t react.