Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The faint scent of roses.
Blackness.
I awoke to the sound of sobs and realized they were mine. Moonlight creeped beneath a door, and I squinted around at the four dirty walls of a small room. My aching head hindered my ability to focus.
My hands were bound in front of me, tied with coarse rope. I rolled onto my side and used my elbow to prop myself up to see better. Shirtless, I started to shake from the cold as I took in my surroundings.
Not just any room.
Resting in the center was an intricately carved white marble sarcophagus.
I hoped my heart would stay in my chest and not beat its way out.
I struggled to pull up my legs and then realized that my ankles had been bound together and tied to the iron leg of a corner bench.
The rope chafed my wrists as I struggled to free myself.
Despite the burning sting, I continued tugging, almost freeing one hand.
I had no idea how I’d come to be here, or how long.
Less than a year ago, my friends had dared me to enter a tomb much like this one, and I’d refused.
Their tales of a terrifying phantom who haunted this place had convinced me I’d made the right decision.
Now, laying inches away from such a marble sarcophagus, I wondered how many corpses lay within. My sobs pushed away the silence.
Make it go away.
Engravings along its sides portrayed ancient Roman battles. Years had worn away some of the dramatic images, but not all. With my struggles came the tearing of my flesh. I gnawed at the rope in frustration and then fell back, staring over at the tomb.
Dried scarlet petals were scattered nearby, a few having been strewn upon the marble coffin lid, fallen from a bouquet seemingly abandoned in the corner.
Numbness in my limbs thwarted my movements, and my lips were so dry that they stung when I grimaced. The ground felt rough against my bare back.
The walls seemed to be closing in on me, and I was struck with an awful thought.
I may die alone here. My body would be discovered by the visitors who’d eventually come back to pay their respects – maybe in a week, maybe in a year.
I needed to get out.
I had a faint recollection of scrambling down the rough vines that straddled our house and sneaking out to the amphitheater, feeling that I’d done the unthinkable and broken the golden rule of bullfighting.
The bulls received minimal human interaction, never encountering a man on foot before he entered the arena.
To do so would mean they’d be inclined to charge the matador instead of his cape.
But I’d done just that, barely surviving and leaving behind a bull now dangerously conditioned.
With Fiesta Brava scheduled for that night, set to begin in a few hours, the bull would now be a deadly opponent for anyone who approached.
And my brother, a seasoned matador, was expected to fight.
Hours ago, I had found the fire torches had been lit by someone on purpose, perhaps the very same man who’d worked the bull so hard that a vapor had risen off his hide.
I had entered the arena to warn them.
Cobwebs covered the sides of the sarcophagus. Fear of the spiders that had spun them gave me another reason to panic. I heard a sound from outside, branches crunching underfoot, and I took a deep breath ready to call out for help.
I froze.
Something was moving in here as well, and though I didn’t like the idea of a rodent scurrying around inside the sarcophagus, it was easily preferable to the notion that I’d awoken the dead.
My face itched and I reached up, slightly thwarted by the restraints, and scratched my chin.
Something caked on my face crumbled beneath my touch.
Dried blood was wedged under my fingernails.
I have to get out.
A gust of warm air blew over me as the door creaked open and a man-shaped silhouette appeared in the entryway. He stomped towards me, beads of sweat spotting his brow.
I tried to speak, but the words that came out had no meaning. I squeezed my eyes shut, afraid of his menacing scowl.
Silence.
Then his foot tapped against my thigh.
I peeked at the gnarly club poised above me, trying to make out the features of the stranger who clutched it.
His thick black eyebrows almost met, and the cleft in his chin was barely obscured by his morning shadow.
He wore a sinister expression that declared he was ready to strike at any moment.
I feared this was my punishment for the bullfight that I’d unwittingly stepped into, a dance with death that should never have happened.
His knuckles whitened as he raised the weapon high.
The lid of the coffin scraped open. I couldn’t bear to look.
Something heavy landed on my thigh. The man had dropped the club instead of using it. Peeking through one blurry eye, I saw a young woman standing by the tomb. My gasp echoed off the walls and found its way back to me.
She wore a long, white gown made from the finest linen.
Her porcelain complexion was flawless, her features exquisite, and she seemed to float across the floor as she approached us.
Raven hair fell over her shoulders, flowing straight down her back.
Gold trinkets on her wrists jangled as her startling turquoise gaze darted between the man and me.
I shifted. “Please don’t hurt me.”
The man’s foot struck my mouth, and I closed my eyes, wincing in pain.
I heard the deepest sigh, or something like one.
I opened my eyes.
He was gone. I stared out through the open doorway and saw no sign of him.
The woman slid the tomb lid closed. Several dry rose petals fluttered to the ground, one of them resting on the abandoned cudgel.
She knelt next to me, tracing my bruises with her cold fingers. “It’s over now,” she said softly.
“Who are you?”
“Sunaria.”
I glanced at the tomb. “I have to get home.”
“You can’t go.” She untied me.
I ran my fingers through my sticky, matted hair and shivered with the thought that it might be blood. I scrambled to my feet.
Her fingers wrapped around my forearm and tugged me back. “It’s not safe.” She gazed out at the twilight.
Alarmed, I considered her warning and turned toward the doorway.
I lost my footing, and she caught me. I pulled away and bolted outside, met by the welcome warmth of freedom, and glanced up at the stark white cross atop the steeple of the nearby church, heartened by the familiar landmark that would guide me home.
I glanced back. Sunaria had vanished amongst the shadows.
Out of sight of the mausoleum, I urinated a dark yellow stream against a sorry-looking hedge. Then, despite my aching limbs, I scampered through the graveyard, following the few village lights that guided me into town and, just beyond, to the bullring.
Dawn crept across the horizon, gilding the sky in molten gold – proof that another day had slipped through my fingers like smoke. The arena's silence whispered the truth I dared not face. I clenched my fists, willing it not to be true.
I couldn't be late – not for this.
I entered the ring, sucking in a terrified gasp.
Empty seats indicated that the bullfight was over. My heart pounded, making me short of breath.
I bolted home ignoring my suffering body, hoping to wash off this blood before my mother caught sight of me. My thoughts returned to the mausoleum. I tried to understand what had happened and was so relieved that the dead had remained hidden.
The senorita had come out of nowhere, but more alarming was that awful cudgel the man had tried to kill me with, and the dread I felt thinking he might try it again.
My brother would know what to do.
I stared up at my closed bedroom window.
I’d have to enter via the back door that was usually left open. I was shocked by the sight of chaos within the kitchen – sporadically placed unwashed pots and pans, and a table left untouched from supper, the food only half-eaten. Not the usual tidiness my mother insisted upon.
But understandable if she had believed me missing.
A basket of clean clothes sat next to the kitchen table. I gulped cup after cup of warm water, trying to quench a thirst that refused to relent.
In the back room, I leaned over the wash bowl and poured water over my matted hair. I disposed of the pinkish-red water before someone saw it. The throbbing in my head caused me to suffer another bout of nausea. All I wanted was to sleep.
Hushed voices could be heard from the upper rooms. With deliberate footsteps, I ascended the stairs, avoiding the floorboards that creaked, memorized over time.
A warm breeze brushed past, billowing the curtain at an open window.
I stopped in front of a closed door. Through the keyhole, I made out the shape of my grandfather lying upon my mother’s bed.
With a deep breath, I opened the door. My mother sat on the edge of the bed with my grandfather’s hand in hers. Although she turned her head in my direction, she didn’t look at me. My grandmother was sitting in a nearby armchair, and she, too, avoided my gaze.
Roelle Bastillion, the twenty-three-year-old owner of the ranch where my brother worked, loomed in a corner. He glanced at me sideways.
“Daumia, where have you been?” he asked.
I hesitated to explain, fearful of worsening my mother’s disappointed demeanor.
When I refused to answer, Roelle turned to look at my mother.
“Daumia will be well taken care of,” he said. “Discipline won’t put it right, but he’ll come to understand the consequences.”
I looked down and saw my bloody shirt spread out near my mother’s feet. I struggled to speak. Bile rose in my throat and threatened to spew.
Roelle reached for me and clutched my arm. “I know it seems harsh,” he said. “Better to come with me than to the bastille.” His fingers covered a cut near my elbow, and it started bleeding again as he squeezed.
The more I wriggled, the firmer he held me. Mother still wouldn’t look at me.
Roelle dragged me out of the room, shoving me along the corridor and down the stairs. I dug my heels in, but I was unable to escape his ironclad grip as he hauled me outside.
“What’s going on?” I tried to break free again.
“Silence,” Roelle demanded, yanking me along.
“I want to talk to my brother,” I yelled.
He paused, staring down at me. “Ricardo is dead.”