***Dragon's POV***
The screen door whined behind me, its sound as familiar as Mamá's lectures. My boots tracked mud over her clean floor—just to piss her off—but the brown bag of árnica and *sábila* (aloe vera) in my grip felt heavier than it should. The bullet graze on my rib burned like hellfire, the bandage soaked through my shirt. Hank's aim was as shitty as his parenting, but the asshole still nicked me good.
"Más rápido que un cohete, mijo," Mamá said, not turning around. ("Faster than a rocket, son.") Her hands hovered over Dru's bare back, the sheet pooled at her hips like a surrendered flag.
I froze, the sudden stillness making the wound scream.
The air turned to kerosene.
I shifted, ribs screaming, and Mamá's eyes snapped to the blood blooming on my shirt.
"Mijo—"
"Ella primero ("Her first.")," I growled, bracing against the counter, my free hand pressing hard into my side.
She glared but didn't argue. *Stubborn woman. Stubborn son.*
Dru's back was a map of ruin—old scars like weathered roads—each one a story I didn't know—but the new lashes bleeding into rot. They pulsed angry red, edges black. My jaw locked. *Louise. That sanctimonious bitch salted the wounds.* I'd seen zombie curses less vicious.
Mamá peeled the sheet lower, her mouth tight. "Agua de hamamelis." ("Witch hazel.")
I tossed the bottle. It clattered, too loud. The motion ripped a hiss from my teeth.
"Cuidado ("Careful.")," she warned. Same tone she'd used when I'd skinned my knees racing bikes through the bayou.
"Why's she still out?" My voice grated like gravel, each word a knife in my ribs.
"El dolor es demasiado (The pain is too much.)," Mamá murmured, dabbing the wounds. "Y tú… respira. (And you… breathe.)"
I sucked in a shallow breath, ribs throbbing. *Fuck. Should've let Mamá stitch this.*
I didn't fucking breathe. I counted lashes instead—thirteen stripes, a devil's dozen—until the numbers drowned the rage. Dru's fingers twitched, nails digging into the couch. My knuckles whitened. I could still feel her ribs under my palms from the ride here—too damn close to breaking.
"¿Vas a quedarte ahí como un poste? ("You gonna stand there like a post?")," Mamá snapped. "Calienta la miel. (Warm the honey.)"
The stove hissed as I lit the burner. The crow from earlier perched outside, red eyes tracking me. *Papa Legba's spy.* Mamá's stories about him echoed in my head—*"Respect the crossroads, mijo. Even when he tests you."* I flipped off the bird at the window.
"Dragon."
Her tone could've iced hell. I turned.
She'd peeled the sheet fully away. A lash curled around Dru's hipbone, deep enough to show muscle. My vision tunneled. The honey jar slipped, shattering on the floor.
*"Coño! (Damn!)" I kicked the shards. "Damn fuckin'—"
"Basta. (Enough.)" Mamá stepped between me and Dru, her palo santo beads clacking. "Tú crees que el coraje cura esto? (You think rage fixes this?) She needs peace, not your fire."
I crowded into her space, our noses inches apart. "And what's she got now, huh? Paz? (Peace?)"
Her slap stung like childhood.
"Controla ese demonio (Control that demon)," she hissed, jabbing my chest. "Or you're not my son."
Outside, the crow cawed—a raw, grieving sound—its eyes now molten gold.
*Gold.*
Not Legba's fire. Not anymore.
Dru whimpered.
I stepped back, clutching my side as the adrenaline faded and the pain surged. Swallowed the acid in my throat. Mamá was right—rage wouldn't stitch flesh. But Christ, I wanted to peel the scales off Louise's back and feed them to the gators.
"Here." I thrust the árnica paste at Mamá, careful not to brush Dru's skin. Her hair fanned across the cushion, one strand curling over her shoulder. I remembered her laugh in the cafeteria—sharp and rare as a blue moon—before Louise's latest 'lesson'.
"Ay, Dragon," Mamá muttered as the paste hit a gash. Dru arched off the couch, a raw sound tearing from her throat.
My hand shot out, hovering above her wrist. *Not touching. Never touching.*
"Lo siento (I'm sorry.)," I whispered. To who? Dru? Mamá? Myself?
"Ella no te oye (She can't hear you)," Mamá said softly.
*Bullshit.* The girl heard everything. Ghosts. Lies. The things I didn't say.
Mamá froze, her gaze snapping to the window. "Li pa mouri (He isn't dead)," she whispered, voice fraying.
"Who?"
She didn't answer, but her eyes flicked to Dru. The girl had mumbled about her father's eyes once, delirious on Vicodin in the cafeteria—"Gold, like bourbon in sunlight." I'd thought it was the pills talking.
Now, staring at the crow's golden glare, the pieces clicked.
I stormed outside before I put my fist through Mamá's wall. The Alabama humidity clung like a second skin, sweat stinging the raw flesh under my bandage. The crow followed, its eyes now gold—Dru's father's eyes, bourbon-bright and accusing. I chucked a rock, the throw lopsided and weak.
"Fuck off, viejo. (old man)"
But the bird stayed. It didn't flinch. Just tilted its head, gaze unblinking, like it was memorizing my sins. Watching.
Just like Mamá.
"You ain't her savior," I snarled. "Where were you when Louise started carving her up?"
The bird spread its wings, gold dimming to dull amber—regret? Guilt?—before vanishing into the pines. I sagged against the wood, blood slicking my fingers where I gripped my side.
*Should've dodged faster. Should've taken Hank's other eye when I had the chance.*
---
***Marisol's POV***
The screen door slams behind Dragon, rattling the dried chilis above the threshold. *Ay, mijo.* Always fire, never ash. I press my palm to Dru's forehead—still too warm, but the atole is working. Her breathing steadies, though her back… *Dios mío.*
*Old scars. New rot.*
Louise's handiwork. That woman twists scripture like barbed wire. I trace the lash curving around Dru's hip, the skin there pulsing an ugly violet. *Just like Mamá's after the coyotes caught her crossing.* But this? This was no desert. This was a mother's love turned to venom.
"Lo siento, niña, (I'm sorry, child.)," I whisper, dabbing hamamelis on the deepest split. She flinches, even unconscious. *Pain lives in the bones.*
The crow taps the window, its eyes molten gold—not Papa Legba's red glare, but the warm glow of the ancestors. *They haven't abandoned her.* The spirits cling to this girl like moss to stone, stubborn and quiet.
I glance at the door. Dragon's rage still smolders in the air. *He's always been soft under the leather and grease.* At six, he'd cried when the hens pecked each other. At sixteen, he'd punched a hole in the wall after finding a stray dog Louise had whipped. *This girl… she's the dog now.*
The crow caws again, insistent.
"Gracias, (Thank you)," I mutter to the shadows. For staying. For watching.
The árnica paste cools on the stove. I spread it thick over Dru's wounds, her skin flinching under my touch. *So young. Younger than Dragon when the world first cut him.*
**Memories flicker:**
- *Dragon at twelve, stitching his own knife wound because he "didn't need help."*
- *Him dragging Dru in earlier, all snarls and shaking hands.*
- *The way he hovered today, like touching her might break them both.*
*Ay, mijo. You think I don't see your heart?*
The crow hops onto the windowsill, gold eyes steady. *A guardian, not a judge.* I nod to it, this old friend of the crossroads.
"Cuídala, (Keep her safe)," I say, pouring *flor de manita* into steaming water.
The bird tilts its head, as if to say, *We always have.*
I wrap Dru's back in clean linen, my fingers trembling. Not from age. From gratitude. *Louise's hatred is a living thing—a mold in the blood—but the ancestors' breath still stirs the air.*
The door creaks. Dragon's shadow looms in the hallway, though he doesn't enter. *Stubborn as his father.*
"Ella vivirá, (She'll live)," I say, louder than needed.
He doesn't answer. But I hear his breath catch. *Like when he was small and pretended not to cry.*
The crow takes flight, gold eyes winking once in the dusk.
*They'll keep their promise.*
I light a veladora beside Dru's head, the flame steady now. *San Judas, santo de las causas perdidas…* A lost cause. A lost girl. A son who loves her and won't admit it.
"Ayúdanos, (Help us)," I pray.
The crow's distant caw echoes through the pines.
---
***Dru's POV***
I smell a lovely spicy aroma—cinnamon? clove?—and hear a woman humming a tune I don't recognize. Somewhere outside, wrenches clatter against metal. *Dragon's bike.* I'd know that sound anywhere.** I cracked an eyelid, half-expecting the stained basement ceiling. Instead, sunlight filtered through turquoise curtains. *Not a dream.*
"Ah, despiertas, (Ah, you're awake)," a voice said softly.
I jolted upright, my eyes landing on Marisol by the stove. She stirred a pot of something golden, her smile warm as the steam curling around her. The clock on the wall glared: 1:30 p.m. *Louise'll skin me alive if I'm late.*
"I—I need to go," I stammered, scrambling off the couch. Then froze. No pain. Not even a twinge. I patted my ribs, half-convinced they'd dissolve under my fingers.
Marisol clicked her tongue. "Niña, ven aquí. (Child, come here.)" She opened her arms, and I fell into them before I could think. Her hug smelled like sage and honey.
"How… how'd you fix me?"
"With patience." She pulled back, cupping my face. "And familia. You are safe here, mi corazón."
"But Louise—"
"Silencio." Her tone brooked no argument. "Today, you rest. Tomorrow, we fight."
"I can't. She'll call Ray. He'll—"
"He is nothing." She gestured outside, where Dragon's cursing mingled with engine growls. "Mi hijo handles the policía. Now sit. Eat."
She ladled stew into a bowl. Chicken, sweet potato, something floral—azahar? My stomach roared.
"Gracias, Marisol," I mumbled, shoveling a bite.
She stilled. "Madre."
"What?"
"Call me Madre." Her eyes softened, but her voice didn't. "You have a mother who beats. I have a son who bleeds. The orishas brought us together. "Do you understand?"
The spoon trembled in my hand. "I… I can't."
"Yes, you can." She pressed a hand over mine. "Not today. Not tomorrow. But when you're ready."
Outside, Dragon revved the engine—a growl that said hurry up. Marisol rolled her eyes.
"Come más, (Eat more)," she ordered, refilling my bowl. "That cabezadura (hardhead) can wait."
Marisol's hand tightened over mine. The spoon clattered into the bowl as my throat closed. "Why is this so hard?"
"She's my *mother*," I whispered, the word ash on my tongue. "Why doesn't she…?"
Marisol's sigh carried decades of sorrow. "Ay, niña. Some hearts are roto (broken) before they learn to beat." She brushed a tear I hadn't felt fall. "This?" She gestured to my back. "Took three hours. But Louise? Her sickness took years, festering in the dark places scripture can't reach. No es tu culpa. (Not your fault)"
"Then why?" The question tore out of me, raw and childlike. "I tried—prayed, obeyed, scrubbed her damn floors—why wasn't it enough?"
Marisol pulled me into her chest, her heartbeat steady against my ear. "Love is not a debt, corazón. You do not earn it—you are it."
Outside, Dragon's wrench slammed against concrete. "¡Coño! (Damn!)"
Marisol snorted. "Just like his father." She tilted my chin up. "You want to know why I help you? Because veo tu luz. (I see your light.)" She pressed a sachet of dried herbs into my palm—lavender, rosemary, something bitter. "Louise fears what she cannot extinguish."
I stared at the sachet, tears blurring the threads. "You've done more in a day than she did in sixteen years."
"Bueno. (Good.)" Marisol's smile was sad. "Now you know your worth. Es peligroso. (It's dangerous)"
"Why?"
"Because," she said, stirring the stew, "once you know, you will never kneel again. And tyrants hate rebels."
The engine roared outside. Dragon revved it twice—impatient.
Marisol rolled her eyes. "Cabezadura (Hardhead)," she muttered. "But tú…" She gripped my shoulders. "You stay. Let the orishas fight tonight. Sí?"
I nodded, clutching the sachet. "Sí… Madre."
The word slipped out, fragile as a moth's wing. Marisol's breath hitched. Then she kissed my forehead, her lips warm as sunlight.
"Bendición, hija (Bless you, daughter)," she whispered.
The weight of those words pooled in my chest, heavy and sweet. I lingered in the kitchen, tracing the embroidered herbs on the sachet she'd given me. Outside, the bike's growl softened to a purr, then silence.
"Come," Marisol said, nudging me toward the living room. "Rest more."
I followed, my legs still unsteady. The clock still glared 1:45 p.m., but the panic felt distant now, muffled by Marisol's *atole* and lavender.
A shadow moved in the hallway—broad shoulders, leather jacket, fists clenched white.
"Dragon…?"
But when I blinked, the doorway stood empty. Had I imagined it? The day's horrors still pulsed behind my eyes—Louise's whip, the crow's gold gaze, Marisol's tears. *Too much. Too real.*
"¿Qué pasa, niña? (What's wrong, child?)," Marisol asked, guiding me to the couch.
"I thought I saw…" I shook my head. "Nothing. Just tired."
She tucked a blanket around me, her voice low. "The body remembers pain, even when the soul tries to forget. "Duerme ahora. (Sleep now.)"
As I drifted, the engine roared to life again—a violent, grieving sound. Tires spat gravel. Marisol muttered something in Spanish, sharp as a blade.
*Maybe I imagined him too.*
******