Esme
The tires crunch over rocks and dirt. The car breathes exhaust into the night. And little by little, we wind down the mountain.
I feel like I’m sleepwalking. As if this is all just another night terror.
But this time, Artem can’t save me from it.
Who can?
I don’t make the conscious decision to go to Aracelia’s house. I don’t even realize that’s where I’m going until I’m parked outside her home, staring up at it as though it has all the answers.
Bringing Artem here might be a mistake. But it’s the only option I have.
I run up to her front door and pound the door as hard as I can. I keep ringing until she opens the door.
She looks calm. Serene. Not sleep-addled in the least—as if she’d been awake and expecting me.
I shake that thought aside. I’m just panicked, that’s all.
“Hola, Esmeralda,” she murmurs in that weird, whimsical way of hers.
Not that it even matters, but relief floods through me when she remembers my name. Her eyes run along my body as she takes in the bloodstains on my ripped nightgown.
“What the fuck happened?”
The calm aura that had engulfed her the first time we’d met is still there, but as she takes stock of the situation, it changes somehow. Intensifies. Sharpens.
“I’m sorry,” I say desperately. “I couldn’t go anywhere else.”
“Someone is hurt,” she guesses.
“My husband. Please, Aracelia, I need your help. He’s dying.”
She glances towards the car that’s parked behind me. “He’s in the car?”
I nod. “Will you help me?” I ask. “I have no one else to go to.”
For a moment, I think she’s going to turn me away. But then I see her jaw set with determination.
“Venga,” she says. “I’ll help you.”
I’m so overwhelmed with gratitude that I almost hug her. But she pushes past me and hurries toward the car.
It’s dark now. A cloud over the moon blots out all the light from the sky, and her house is far from any other building.
Still, there’s no telling who might be out in the night. Watching. Waiting to finish what they started.
We go to the car and I throw open the back door.
Aracelia takes one look at Artem and purses her lips up with a professionalism that ER doctors would envy. “He’s a big man,” she says. “How did you manage to get him in here on your own?”
“He helped.”
He doesn’t look like he’ll be repeating that, though. The back seat is soaked with blood and Artem is groaning softly. His eyes are pinwheeling wildly beneath his eyelids.
“Stay there,” Aracelia orders. Before I can answer, she turns and strides behind the house.
While she’s gone, I lean forward and mop the cold sweat from Artem’s forehead.