By the next afternoon, we’re still hopelessly, frustratingly lost. We snake deeper into the jungle, plucking mangoes and avocados, peeling and eating them as we walk beneath the tangled green arches. Every time there’s a clearing among the treetops, Manuel looks for the hill with the dip in the middle, but we never find that particular landmark again. Instead we pass by a myriad of stone pillars nearly swallowed up by thick vines and roots.
Manuel never loses the tightness in his shoulders. While the hand gripping the handle of his machete is steady, the skin around his knuckles is white.
“You’re worried,” I say, breaking his rule of silence. We haven’t seen any Illari in what feels like days, haven’t encountered anything enormous with teeth either. He’s killed a few snakes, pointed out tarantulas as big as my palm, but other than that, the jungle has been quiet. Eerily so.
He must agree with me, because he replies, though it’s barely a whisper, “I’d prefer it if we knew where we were going.”
At all times, I walk behind Manuel as he clears a way forward, that great weapon of his swinging. He doesn’t turn to face me, but I can hear his frustration all the same. “That’s not the only thing bothering you,” I say.
Manuel is quiet for a long moment. Just when I think the conversation is over, he slows down enough for me to catch up. “You’re right,” he admits. “I’ve traveled deep into the jungle and always, always, I’ve encountered the Illari. I’ve run from them, fought them, and hidden under their noses. But we haven’t seen any since the caimán.”
It seems like a blessing to me. “And why is that a bad thing?”
“It must mean there’s a greater threat. I’ve said it’d be wise to fear what the Illari fear … and the longer we’re lost, the more chance we have of stumbling upon this evil.”
His words are scary, or they ought to be. While I certainly don’t want to run headfirst into what’s confounding the Illari, a small part of me appreciates that Manuel is finally confiding in me. Talking to me as if I weren’t his charge but a regular traveling companion. “What do we do then?”
Manuel rolls back his shoulders. “We keep walking. To stay still in this place means courting death.” He shoots me a quick look. “I’m frightening you, aren’t I?”
I lift my chin. “Yes. But I can take it.”
He smiles and keeps pace with me.
We walk for hours and hours. Everything looks the same. At least to me, anyway. Manuel huffs irritated noises as the time passes. The strain takes its toll. Worry settles onto my shoulders and presses hard. How will we ever find Paititi? Every step might be taking us away from the Illari, away from any hope of convincing them to march on La Ciudad, and closer to what threatens the jungle.
We might be risking our lives for nothing.
Still, we press on.
My legs are sore, and the mosquitos are rampant, buzzing in my ears, flying in front of my face. The trees become taller and taller, until not even pockets of sunlight poke through, ensuring everything below my feet is dead or decaying. Clumps of dirt and mulch squish underneath my boots. The air feels wet and sticky, and murderously hot.
But somehow, none of my misery prevents me from seeing the marvelous. This verdant forest houses some of the strangest things I’ve ever seen. Manuel shows me a vivid green leaf that when mashed and mixed with water creates a purple dye. I wish he would have warned me—both of my hands look as if I’ve dunked them in beet juice.
Then there are the birds in every color imaginable. Rainbow-hued parrots and determined hummingbirds sweep above us. Monkeys and sloths are constant features—as are the capybaras and armadillos. I want to spend time with all of them, but Manuel keeps us at a quick pace. The bottoms of my feet are raw, and before long I’m hobbling along, limping over tree roots and puddles deep with mud. Wonderful. More blisters.
I try not to complain, but after an hour of this, the pain becomes excruciating. The blisters on my heels return with a vengeance. When I scramble over a log and land on the other side, a moan escapes me. Manuel immediately turns. “What is it?”
I shake my head, not wanting to be weak or a burden anymore. Both of which I feel keenly.
He narrows his gaze at me. “¿Qué te pasa?”
“Nada,” I mutter, slowly walking past him. “Let’s keep going.”
Manuel snakes his arm around my waist, and together we move forward. He’s half carrying me with one arm, while his free hand thwacks at the dense greenery clogging the way forward. “You’re limping again.”
“Barely.”
“You can hardly stand.”
“Stop exaggerating.”
He stops and glares down at me. “I never exaggerate. We have to find a dry place so I can look at your feet.”
“I’m fine—”
“Stop lying to me,” he says calmly. “You’re so stubborn.”
“And you’re bossy.”
His brow creases, but we resume hobbling. I won’t admit it out loud, but his support is the only thing that’s keeping me upright. Mist curls around us like a tight fist, a dangerous blow to our sight. Manuel’s Moonsight gleams through the jungle and at last we find a cave, nearly hidden by several tall oaks. He peers inside, the soft glow coming from his gaze illuminating the interior. The walls are jagged and damp. Wild mushrooms grow between the crevices.
I stumble inside and Manuel gently lowers me to the ground. He kneels in front of me and unties the leather laces, then pulls both boots off. I wince, tucking my chin toward my chest, fighting tears. Even that hurts.
“Condesa,” he murmurs, examining my feet.
Angry blisters near bursting mar my heels and the tops of my toes.
“How long have you been hurting?” he asks quietly.
“Not long.”
His face tilts up toward mine, grim and serious, anger deep within the dark pools of his eyes. “Try again.”
“Several hours.”
“You can’t keep things like this from me. Blisters can lead to infection, and that would be catastrophic here.”
“I didn’t want to be weak,” I mumble.
“It’s not weak to address sores on your feet.” He stands and glances over his shoulder to the cavern entrance. The trees gently sway from the current of wind sweeping through the jungle and whistling through the cracks in the cavern wall. “You need more poultice, but I’ve run out. I can go out and search for the ingredients, but it means leaving you here.”
I swallow and glance down at my feet. “Do what you have to do.”
“Take out your dagger and stab anyone or anything that comes in here. I won’t be gone long. Ten minutes, that’s it.” He waits for my nod and then rushes out. I gingerly lean against the wall, the dagger in my lap. The wounds at my back still hurt, but not as bad as before. I shift slightly, angling away from a bit of stone poking against my back. The air inside the cave smells stale and I wrinkle my nose, trying to focus on my surroundings instead of the abject fear that pulses under my skin. Along the wall are shimmering veins of turquoise, and I trace them with my index finger.
At last Manuel returns carrying a bundle of aloe, bananas, mangoes, oranges, and wild duck. He really did collect everything in ten minutes. If I wasn’t so hungry, I’d be annoyed by his efficiency. The only thing I would’ve brought back is another blister—if I came back at all. My mouth waters at the sight of the feast. He sets to work, gently spreading the cool liquid on my feet, and I let out a groan of pleasure. He hands me the fruit. I peel everything and drop it into his wooden bowl, mixing it all together to create a salad. We polish it off as Manuel cooks the pato over a fire. It’s delicious: smoky and charred on the outside, tender meat on the inside.
The stone is hard underneath my crossed legs, and slightly damp, but with my belly full, I couldn’t care less.
“Should we keep going?”
Manuel shoots a swift look in the direction of the entrance. While not exactly night, there still isn’t enough light. He shakes his head and settles against the craggy wall, his eyes open and alert, flickering from one end of the cave to the other. His eyes glow like twin fires in the dim light, illuminating the shadowy corners of the cave. Silence descends, heavy and obliterating. I’m worried, and I know he is too, despite how hard he’s trying not to let it show.
“You can tell me what you’re thinking,” I say. “I’m not going to fall apart.”
He clasps his hands in his lap, brooding. “I’m wondering if the Illari have been following us and I just haven’t been paying attention.”
“You?” I tease. “Not paying attention?”
His lips soften into a grudging smile. “I was arrogant when I first walked into the jungle. After a few days, I learned never to let down my guard. Which is why I can’t stop thinking about the Illari.”
“It will be easier to press forward when they aren’t breathing down our necks.”
“Whoever or whatever killed all those birds was evil.” He hesitates. “A dark kind of magic.”
“Do you mean like the human who transformed into the caimán?”
“That’s the Pacha magic of the Illari. I saw one of them transform into a large jaguar—which I killed when it was distracted by you.”
I gasp. “That was a person?”
He nods. “I told you the Illari are people steeped in magic from Pachamama. More than anywhere else in Inkasisa, this is her domain, like Luna reigns over the night. The Illari worship the earth goddess just like the Llacsans do. And here she’s gifted her children with ways to protect the land and the lost city.”
“What happens if we can’t find Paititi?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer for a long moment. “Ask me again after we’ve exhausted all avenues.”
“But I’m asking now.”
“And I’m telling you, it’s much too soon to ask that question.”
I swallow my frustration, but even so, a glare still escapes me. “Do you enjoy provoking me?”
“No,” he says frankly. “I hate worrying you. We ought to sleep. Tomorrow we’ll wake up early and set off.”
“I’m not tired. Can you tell me more about how you spent your days here in the jungle? Eight months is a long time.”
He shifts and stretches out his long legs, crosses them at the ankles. “At first I tried to find Paititi. If the rumors are true about the city being made of gold, I thought for certain they’d have the resources to have an effective army of warriors. But every time I thought I was close to finding it, I’d encounter one of the Illari. I’ve only just realized they were protecting a bridge near the hill with the dip in the middle. I made several attempts to cross the bridge, but none of them worked. That’s when I tried to discover a way out of the jungle.”
“Why do you think they’ve remained hidden all these years?”
He shrugs again. “It might be about the gold. A good enough reason not to let the world know what you’ve found hidden in the mountains.”
I scoop up the last orange segment in the bowl and pop it into my mouth. “The gold must be there. Otherwise, why remain hidden?”
Manuel reaches for the pack and yanks out the hammock. He spreads it out on the ground. “Here, you can rest first.” I scoot over and lie down, my head near his outstretched legs. He shifts away.
“They’re foolish if they think no one else will come looking for their city. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Yes,” he says thoughtfully. “I think they’re fully aware that time is running out for them.”
My eyes drift closed at his words, and before I fall asleep, I can’t help thinking how nothing lasts forever.
The next morning we’re up and out of the cave at dawn. During the night, Manuel gave me more aloe to rub on my feet. He’d let himself sleep for an hour, and then we’d switch back again. I don’t think either of us slept well, but at the very least, nothing with teeth snuck into our cave. We trek uphill, hoping to get high enough to find the spot Manuel’s looking for. It’s the landmark closest to that bridge we need to cross in order to find Paititi.
I drop my pack and stretch my arms up high above me. Manuel bends and scoops up my bag, holds it out for me to take. “Do not put your belongings on the ground.”
Reluctantly, I slip the strap over my shoulders.
“Something nasty might crawl in there,” he explains.
I bounce my pack higher and nod. The last thing I need is for a scorpion to make a new home within my things.
A shimmery glint catches my attention. There’s a small patch of flowers nearly buried by vivid green brush. I stride forward, arrested by the glimmering petals. Manuel follows and falls down into a squat. Using his machete, he gently uncovers the silver flowers. They’re incandescent and glowing, as if made from the finest crystal. My breath catches.
“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?” I reach out to touch the soft petal, but Manuel snatches my wrist.
“What have I told you about touching things?”
“But it’s so pretty,” I protest. “Look, it’s entirely delicate. I might hurt it.”
“Not that delicate.” He points at the ground with the tip of his blade. “Tell me what you see.”
I bristle at being told what to do, but I drop my gaze to the jungle floor. Underneath the shrub, the ground is covered by an iridescent dusting. It looks dead, frozen, and void of any color. Manuel smells the petals, then drops even closer to the shimmering ground. “The flowers are killing the soil. Look—”
“I see that.” My pleasure turns to outrage. How could something so beautiful destroy the land? “What should we do? Can you uproot it?”
“We shouldn’t touch it.” His expression turns thoughtful, considering. “I wonder if the Illari have seen this? I can’t imagine they’re happy with its presence.”
“What do you mean? It’s not from here?”
“I’ve never seen it before. I think it could’ve been brought to the forest by someone who didn’t care about the consequences. They might’ve simply been careless—but I don’t think so. My gut tells me this flower is hard to come by.”
I nod approvingly. “So it stands to reason that whoever got ahold of it knew what it could do.”
“Exactly.”
What kind of stranger would bring something so destructive into the jungle? And for what purpose? A sudden thought makes me gasp. I reach out and grasp Manuel’s arm. To my surprise, he doesn’t flinch. Instead he encourages me with a small smile. “What is it?”
“I understand why the Illari haven’t killed us yet.”
He raises a brow.
“What if they think you brought the flower?”
Manuel tilts his head to the side. “Even more reason to do me in, wouldn’t you think?”
I shake my head. “Not if they want to learn where you got the flower, and what you’re planning on doing with it. It’s what I’d do. I wouldn’t want to kill the only person who might know how to destroy the flower and reverse the damage.” I clear my throat and realize that I haven’t had anything to drink in hours. “Is there any water?”
He jumps to his feet and searches the area for bamboo. When he returns, he hands me a cup. “You might be right. But that doesn’t explain all those birds dying at the same time.”
“We won’t know for sure until we have an actual conversation with the Illari.”
“Which they may not want to have,” he points out grimly. “They may shoot us on sight.”
But I get the sense that he’s wrong. Otherwise, we’d already be dead. It’s not like two people—who have been mostly lost—are hard to kill.
The Illari are up to something; I can feel it.
We drink from bamboo stalks, and as the water touches my lips, a butterfly lands on the wooden cup. Her wings are a vibrant red, with iridescent veins creating a shimmering pattern that literally takes my breath away. She’s a tiny thing, no bigger than my palm.
I slowly lower the cup from my lips. With my free hand, I reach toward her with my index finger. She doesn’t move, and as I’m about to coax her onto my hand, I stop.
Manuel’s warning: Don’t touch anything.
I shoot him a glance, surprised to see him watching. He suddenly grins, and his brown eyes become warm. He’s pleased I’ve remembered his lesson, especially after my near miss with the flower. I lift a brow in question.
“Butterflies don’t harm humans.”
Again, I stretch out my finger for the butterfly to climb on, and a moment later she does, her wings fluttering. I gleefully show Manuel, whose smile hasn’t faded but only stretched wider, as if we were the former Catalina and Manuel living behind the stone walls of the Illustrian keep, sometimes friends.
“What shall I call her?”
He seems bemused by this. “Consuelo?”
I make a face. “I had a Great-Aunt Consuelo who always made me brush my hair one hundred times every nigh—” A sharp pain flares at my finger, burning hot. The feeling travels up my arm, into my chest—smothering.
“What just happened?” Manuel demands. “Condesa?”
The butterfly sinks her teeth farther into my skin, sucking blood. I try to shake her off as the fire spreads to the rest of my body. I clench my jaw as her incisors dig into my skin again. Tears prick my eyes. Manuel grabs my arm and cuts her wings—but still she feasts on my flesh. Finally he yanks the butterfly off, throws her onto the ground, and steps on her.
My index finger has two deep puncture marks and is bleeding profusely, dripping onto the jungle floor. Manuel rips at the bottom of his tunic, producing a long strip. He binds the wound.
“Does it still hurt?”
A shape materializes near his shoulder, paper-thin wings fluttering in the sharp heat of the jungle. “Manuel!” But I’m too late. The butterfly lands on his shoulder, and he hisses sharply, yanking her off. He bats at another one near my ear, and another at the top of my hip. It’s only then that realization dawns.
I look up to hundreds of bloodsucking butterflies riding the warm wind above us, circling like vultures.