Page 37 of Cuervo's Carnival
He looks confused at my question. “Honestly, I don’t know. I just stumbled across it one day when Zeke and I were out for a ride. We had product to run a couple of towns over. Zeke said he knew of a shortcut, and we rode past. He pointed it out, as the place that woman was murdered years ago, and it just kind of stood in my mind. Why?”
Stepping to the side so he no longer obstructs my view, my gut sinks as my gaze slowly travels from the dirt to the remnants of weathered, charred wood steps. What once stood as a caravan is now reduced to a small wooden platform covered in soot and ash. And there Lola sits, back facing us. She murmurs something we can’t understand in Spanish to the bust of stone that remains unscathed from the flames that consumed this place.
My heart sinks as I watch her rise from the wooden chair and walk toward the stone woman’s face. Her hand rises as she pets the sculpted raven perched on the statue’s shoulder. She seems entranced and, sadly, convinced that someone is there.
Eyes still locked on the scene before me, I feel Paxton’s hand grip my shoulder.
“Cil, look at me.” Shifting his hand, he moves my face, cupping it in his palm. “I know you’re scared…” he begins, stepping closer to me. “I am, too. We just need to comfort her, be there for her. It will be ok,” he reassures me before pressing his lips to mine.
I want to believe him, but this feeling lodged in my gut is making me not only unsettled but uncertain of what is happening.
I pull back, breaking the seal of our kiss. Removing his hand from my cheek though fingers still interlaced, I squeeze his hand. “What are we going to do? Look at her.” I nudge my head in the direction of Lola.
Paxton shoots a quick glance at the remnants of the wagon before subtly wincing. Inhaling, he pauses, the wheels turning as to how to answer my question.
“I don’t know, Cil,” he sighs, “but what I do know is that we need to turn this night around. Get her, comfort her, or do whatever will comfort her.” He winks, already knowing how my coping techniques usually lead me cock-first instead of head-first.
He squeezes my hand, smirking, and it’s like the anxiety dissipates for a moment. I know it’s still there, but it’s nice to lean into that illusion and pretend.
“Want to come with?” I ask.
He looks over his shoulder with a grin, suddenly perking up as if a light bulb went off in his head. “I have an idea. You get our Morta, and I will text you where to meet me.” He smiles, leaning in for one more kiss. “Trust me,”
“Should I?” I joke, “That’s what got us into this mess in the first place.”
He breaks the hold of our fingers. “Go get her,” he says before moving his stride in the opposite direction.
Directing my attention to the soot-covered platform where Lola remains, my gaze falls from the back of her tanned legs that face me to the ground just below where she stands. It’s then, I realize, a large area of crimson-stained gravel. A gut-wrenching realization suddenly floods me, that where we are, where Lola is hypnotized, must be the site the woman was murdered all those years ago.
Which, in and of itself, would be creepy, but what makes the feeling stew in my system even more is that, at the very spot where the most crimson remains, Lola is talking to herself.
My stomach drops with this realization because, for the first time, I feel an unsettling connection to the nickname we have given her.
OurMorta, the Goddess of Death.
17
Lola
My heart beginsto race as I get the feeling that I was meant to be here—in this place, this wagon, this moment—alone with her. The way she toys with her words, dragging each out in a riddle-like form, only confirms that there is something she knows and isn’t telling me.
“My life?” I ask, though she only settles into her chair, not answering me. “What do you mean, my life, Madame Eronel?” I repeat my question, this time dragging out her name, trying to snap her out of this prolonged pause.
The silence continues and is only broken by the squeaking sound of her chair as she shifts her weight, crossing her legs. Even covered in lace, her glare is harsh, locked on mine, as is the smirk I can practically feel even though the veil hides her features.
As her grin widens, the veil that drapes over her face, resting just above her lips, shifts forward. It’s only emphasizing the amusement she is getting out of dangling whatever information she has in front of me.
“Fine, if you won’t answer my question, I think we are done here,” I proclaim, rising from my seat. Although, just as I lift myself from the wooden chair, her arm outstretches at what feels like lightning speed over the tabletop and onto mine. The tips of her fingers curl forward as her oval-shaped nails practically dig into my skin.
“What the fuck? Let go of me!” I shout, but instead of answering me, I watch her chest move as she inhales. As she slowly drags her exhale, a whistling sound fills my ear as I watch her black veil shift from the air she expels. Still, she does not answer me or let me go.
My heart begins to pound, because this has escalated to a sadistic level even I was not prepared for, given our location. And how she is even here, working alone in this place that has been abandoned for well over twenty years, makes no sense. In fact, the more I try to put together the pieces of this puzzle, the more I want to give up and run far away from it.
“Please, let me go,” I say, this time in a softer, slightly defeated tone.
“The Reaper will come for you, as he did me. Don’t give up, sweet Lola. You are not a quitter, you are a fighter,” she says, as if she is oblivious to the way she has been acting and is about to give me a damn pep talk.
Tears begin to well in my eyelids, but I refuse to let them fall. Right now, I need this woman to get the fuck off me, and I need to find Pax and Cillian, who, for some reason, left me here with her.
