Blood and Salt (7 page)

“She's ready,” Lou said with a flourish of her pruney fingers.

The women helped me out of the tub and began to smooth the warm, gold-flecked oil into my skin. It took everything I had to make myself stand there and let them do it. There wasn't anything sexual about it—in fact it was just the opposite, it seemed almost reverent, but I got irritated when people even brushed up against me in the subway. The plan had been to gain their trust, but I didn't expect the process to be this hands-on.

“You look perfect,” Lou said as she slipped a sheer white cotton sheath over my head. “Just as I imagined.”

I ran my fingertips over the delicate lace scalloping the neckline, wondering if it was the same gown my mother wore on the night of her wreathing ceremony.

Lou led me to a full-length mirror. I couldn't help but smile. I looked like a painted tintype from another century. I knew the girl standing before me, but she looked like a better version of me. My loose waves were threaded with tiny white sweet alyssum blooms. Skin smooth as silk. The long willowy lines of my body seemed more powerful now, the downward curve of my mouth that had always felt childish had become sensuous—even my eyes appeared more striking, like deep water that had been set afire.

A drum outside began to pound slow and steady, like a
dirge. As the women formed a line, I realized it was a signal that the ceremony was about to start. Beth led me to the back of the line.

Rhys joined us, looking like he'd just been through the wringer.

“Don't be nervous.” Beth squeezed my arm like a blood-pressure cuff, which only made me more nervous.

My body battled between anxiety and excitement. I wanted answers. I wanted to remain indifferent—see what this was all about, but the community seemed perfectly harmless, as far as cults go—and, dare I say, charming.

Beth gave me some last-minute advice. “Remember, all you have to do is walk down the line, stand in front of number nine and say, ‘My body, my soul, I commit to you.' He'll remove your blindfold and you'll put the wreath on his head. It's that simple. And have fun with it. Make it suspenseful. Wait till you see him.” She leaned on me like a crutch. “He's so hump-able.”

“‘Hump-able'?” I repeated in disbelief.

“You know,” she whispered. “
Hump
is when you kiss a boy you're not intended for.”

“Oh God, Beth. That's not wh—”

The doors opened and Beth hurriedly tied the sash over my eyes. Rhys made sure it wasn't too tight. The gesture made me breathe a little easier.

With Beth on one side and Rhys on the other, I clutched
my sad wreath, and they led me down the stairs toward the entrance.

“You don't have to do this,” Rhys whispered.

“It'll be fine.” I squeezed his arm. “We need to play along for now.”

But for me, it was more than playing along. Something about being here in this moment felt right. And that scared me more than anything.

WREATHED

SLOWLY, BETH AND RHYS
led me outside. The heat from the lit torches kissed my shoulders; I felt an overwhelming calm wash over me, a lightness in my soul.

I stepped onto the cool damp grass, feeling it between my toes. Every step I took seemed to root me deeper into the soil, like a memory being reawakened from deep within my cells. The wind found me, pressing the soft cotton sheath against my body. Even with the susurration of the crowd, I'd never felt so comfortable in my own skin.

The women spun me around fast, at least a dozen times, and then set me loose. They giggled as I stumbled around the field like a drunk. I steadied myself and took a deep breath, shutting out the rest of the world and letting my senses take over.

A breeze blew in over the corn. The stalks rustled like endless layers of a stiff taffeta dress. I knew the choice had already
been made for me, but there was a part of me that still wanted to know how I would've felt, who I would've picked had the choice been mine.

I stretched out my hands in front of me, my fingertips grazing the chest of the first eligible in line. A flutter of excited whispers swept through the gathering. I walked down the line, skimming my fingers across their chests, counting as I went. Each and every one of them smelled pleasant and harmonious. Earthy, mellow tones. Nothing like the boys I was accustomed to.

Number five smelled especially good, notes of cardamom and freshly oiled saddle leather. Intriguing.

I reached number nine, the one I was supposed to choose. This was the most appetizing yet—oak and honey—a scent that could envelop me like a thick wool blanket on a chilly night.

This was it. The moment had come.

I opened my mouth to say the words when the wind shifted. Something gripped me. My blood seemed to throb in my veins. At first, I thought I was going to fall into another conduit memory, but it was deeper than that. An inexplicable urge swept through me like a fever.

Locked into something nameless, I moved away from the line, weaving through the sea of people. Everything in me seemed to reach toward the scent—my blood, my skin, my bones, my spirit.

I brushed my fingers against a man's chest—he flinched.
Every part of me felt like a frayed wire just waiting for a spark—aching for it.

I whispered to him.

“Wii cuu'at ukuk huka aciksta

Takaarahak karitki hukaawikii'ac kictiirahk

Cuu'at hurii kituu'u' huka

Paatu a ka'it.”

As soon as the words came out, I clamped my hand over my mouth. Caddo—I had just spoken Caddo fluently.

The crowd erupted into panicked murmurs.

I couldn't stand not being able to see. I pulled down the sash that covered my eyes.

My heart leapt into my throat. It was
him.
My junkyard crush. For a moment I forgot about our bitter parting. His hair was pulled back. I could have gotten lost in the lines of his face, but his eyes held none of the warmth from earlier. He was like a stone wall. Impenetrable and cold, as if we'd never met.

Beth rushed to my side. “You can't choose Dane,” she said as she tried to ease the sash back over my eyes. “He's ineligible.”

“Dane.” I repeated his name. That was so much better than Goober.

“He's a Mixed,” she whispered.

“What does that mean,
Mixed
?”

“Anyone with traces of Coronado's blood is considered a Mixed,” she whispered as she tried to steer me back to the line. “A Larkin with a Mixed is forbidden.”

“Is that why you ran off earlier?” I asked, searching his face for answers, but he only gritted his teeth.

“She's ruining the ceremony,” a woman hissed behind me.

I glanced over my shoulder, scanning the stunned crowd, my eyes settling on a line of very anxious-looking boys.

“You've met?” A girl's voice startled me as she sidled next to Dane. Lauren. She snaked her arm under his, hanging on to his bicep.

“Yeah, I met him today at the junkyard and—”

“She's a conduit,” Dane interrupted me. “She doesn't even know what she's saying. She's confused.”

The way he said the word
conduit
felt like an insult, like another word for crazy.

I wanted to argue, but there was something in his eyes, a pleading look that made me hold my tongue. I could see it was important to him that our meeting stayed secret. But why?

“He's right,” I said, tightening my grip on the wreath. “I
am
confused.”

A look of relief washed over him, briefly softening his features.

“Poor girl,” Lauren said loud enough for everyone to hear. “You shouldn't have to go through with this in your
condition.
”

“Leave her alone,” Dane murmured.

I tore my eyes away from Dane, but when I looked down and saw his hand, all I could think of was his thumb dragging across my hip bone.

A flush swept my cheeks.

And then I realized, it wasn't just my name . . . or my eyes that made him turn away from me at the junkyard. He belonged to someone else. I felt completely gutted.

“Ash, he's not meant for you,” Beth whispered as she placed the sash back over my eyes. I let her do it this time. I didn't want anyone to see how hurt I was. How could someone I'd just met wound me so deeply?

“No harm done,” Beth called out to the crowd in a strained singsong voice as she led me back toward the line of eligibles. “Trust me. Number nine is perfect for you,” she said under her breath. “I'll lead you right to him.”

Suddenly, I forgot how to move my legs. Beth had to half carry me down the line.

“I didn't know you spoke Caddo,” she said as an aside.

“Neither did I,” I exhaled. I knew bits and pieces from my mother, but the language had just . . . come to me.

Beth nudged me in the ribs and we came to a stop.

“My body, my soul, I commit to you,” I said in monotone. Even though it was just for show, it felt strange saying the words aloud, like I was betraying myself in some way.

Oak and honey eased the sash from my eyes.

I was stunned. Blond, towering, and broadly built, with dark gray eyes. He looked like a Nordic prince. He bent his
head forward and I placed the wreath there. When he straightened, one of the leaves flopped down in his face.

“Sorry about that.” I sighed as I reached up to tuck it back in. “Apparently, I suck at wreath making.”

“It's an overrated skill,” he said. “I'm Brennon Mendoza.” His smile seemed to beam from every pore. “I know this must be very strange for you,” he confided. “But we don't have to walk the corn. All you have to do is smile every once in a while, dance with me. Make the old folks happy.”

“I can manage that.” I smiled up at him . . . and I meant it.

Brennon took my hand, and we were flooded with good wishes and congratulations.

I stole a glance at Dane, but his eyes stayed focused on Lauren.

I knew he couldn't be mine, but when I touched him, every cell in my body reached out to him like I'd known him for a thousand years. Like I'd finally come home.

Then I thought of my mother's words. Maybe this was what she meant by blood and salt.

Salt in the wound.

PUNCH DRUNK

FOLLOWING THE CEREMONY,
we moved into the meeting house, to an elegant ballroom on the third floor that dripped with garlands of wisteria and honeysuckle. Candlelight flickered off the wood-paneled walls, casting long shadows across the coffered ceiling.

Banquet tables full of mystery meats and pickled everything stretched in front of us. There were giant bowls of punch so high in alcohol content that the liquid burned my eyes before even reaching my mouth. A lady with a mountain of wild curls was scolding some little kids who were hiding under the table trying to sneak punch. A band made up of gutbuckets, mandolins, washboards, fiddles, and spoons played folk music—a raucous marriage of English and Spanish styles. It was like going back in time. This could've easily been the 1800s.

I spotted Rhys dancing with Beth. Well, not
dancing
really, just kind of bouncing around like a pogo stick. But he seemed
to be enjoying himself, that is, until Betsy Grimsby, Beth's half cousin, glommed on to him again and pulled him away, parading him around like a trophy.

The room buzzed. So what if they believed in some weird shit? I could picture my mother here so easily. Maybe coming here was the right thing for all of us.

As Brennon led me through the gathering everyone patted him on the back, shook his hand. I was surprised no one was asking him to kiss their baby. He seemed to be the golden boy of Quivira.

“First dance . . . first dance.” A woman pushed forward, dragging a tall, weary-looking man with her. “I'm Patricia Mendoza and this is Gerald.” She eyed me up and down, appraising me, her expression frozen in place. Her smile was a little frightening, like a cross between a beauty queen and a jack-o'-lantern. “We're Brennon's parents.”

“Oh, it's nice to meet y—”

Before I could even finish my sentence Mrs. Mendoza took my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor.

“Okay . . .” I laughed.

“Sorry.” Brennon shook his head in mock embarrassment as he followed close behind.

As we came to an abrupt stop in the center of the dance floor, she maneuvered Brennon so he was facing me.

“What's going on?” I asked, feeling the crowd press in around us.

“It's tradition.” He smiled.

I raised an eyebrow. “There's more?”

A tall man with a twisty mustache, wearing a brocade waistcoat, turned toward the band, whistling through his teeth, and the band struck up a different tune—a slow and delicate piece.

I knew where this was headed.

Mrs. Mendoza placed my hand on Brennon's shoulder and his hand on my waist.

“Oooh,” the crowd roared lasciviously.

“Wouldn't it be easier to tell us to dance?” I whispered.

Brennon cracked up; his mother shot me a look of warning. Apparently, this was her big moment.

Together, she and her husband placed my other hand in Brennon's.

The audience burst into cheers, making me flinch.

Brennon squeezed my hand. “Remember what I said.”

I nodded.
Dance. Make the old folks happy—I've got this.

With tears in her eyes, Mrs. Mendoza latched on to her husband and backed away.

Brennon gave me a reassuring smile before he started moving me around in circles on the crowded dance floor. I think he was leading me in a waltz, but I had no idea what I was doing.

Soon, the onlookers lost interest, and it finally felt like I could breathe again.

Brennon was a gorgeous distraction, but my thoughts still wandered to Dane. I spotted him talking with a group of men
across the room—and that tingling sensation spread over the surface of my skin, settling deep inside of me.

He was more than handsome. I'd been around my fair share of pretty boys. This was something else . . . something chemical. I'd never doubt my mother's theory of attraction again.

I watched Dane as inconspicuously as possible as he moved through the party. Even though he was Mixed, people treated him with a certain amount of deference. All the girls took special notice of him. Clearly, I wasn't his only admirer. Why was I being so ridiculous? He wouldn't even look at me. Come to think of it, Dane seemed to look at everyone
but
me.

The music changed to something more upbeat, a jig of some sort, and Brennon lifted me up and twirled me around. I couldn't help but laugh. There was an easiness about him. I tried to imagine what it would be like, picking someone to spend the rest of your life with based on their scent. Brennon wouldn't have been a bad choice. Fireworks didn't go off in my chest when he touched me, but maybe that was better—who wants to spend their whole life getting burned? And Brennon didn't make me want to hurl when he touched me, which was still kind of a novelty.

As we danced, Brennon filled me in on the Quivira gossip. “The Hanrattys stick to their own.” He nodded toward a grim-faced group huddled up on the right side of the ballroom. “And it's best to steer clear of the cheese balls. The Hanrattys always make the cheese balls.”

“Got it. Hanrattys are weird. Don't eat their cheese balls.” I smiled.

“The Grimsbys are good folk . . . like Lou, she's a peach, but there are a lot of seers in that bloodline.”

“I'd never met a seer, until today.”

“Consider yourself lucky. My friend Pete over there”—he nodded toward a tall, rail-thin boy watching a group of girls dancing and carrying on—“he's a Grimsby. He can't even entertain the idea of calling on a girl without one of his aunts telling him how it will end in tears.”

I looked around the room. “What other kinds of spiritual gifts do people have?”

“There are a couple of dowsers—people who can find water sources—a few finders, folks who can locate missing objects or sense their history. Comes in handy when Ruth Hanratty loses her teeth, which happens about once a day,” he said, chuckling. “But the gifts are diminishing with every generation. Except for the Mixed, of course.”

I perked up. “What about the Mixed?”

“When Coronado left Quivira, his children stayed behind. They say there's black magic in their blood, and their gifts only seem to get stronger. But
you
are one of a kind,” he said with a grin as he spun me around fast. “You are a Larkin, the first twin in your family,
and
the first conduit of your bloodline.”

“Are there any other conduits at the party?” I asked, my heart quickening at the thought.

“Of course not.” He pulled back slightly, with a sour look on his face.

A bitter feeling welled up inside of me.

He lowered his head, his tone softening. “I hope I didn't offend you. It's just . . . you're very different from the other conduits. You're very fortunate.”

“Am I?” I felt my throat constrict. I tugged at the ribbon tied around my neck, but that wasn't the cause. I couldn't help wondering what it really meant to be a conduit . . . what I'd become if the protection marks weren't working anymore.

A guy bashed into me; he twirled his partner around—it was Lauren. The way he scowled at me made me think it wasn't an accident.

Brennon quickly moved us away, toward the far right corner of the ballroom.

“What's
their
problem?” I asked as I peeked over Brennon's shoulder to find them glaring at us.

“That's my cousin Lauren, just being Lauren, and the one with the black eye is Tommy. He's a little off-kilter, but he's a third cousin removed. He's got a little too much Hanratty blood, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, well, from the looks of him, I wouldn't be surprised if that black eye was self-inflicted.”

“How did you know?” Brennon laughed. “And over there . . .” He nodded toward a distinguished-looking man, impeccably dressed with thick dark hair, a dab of gray at his temples, who
was holding court near the buffet table. “That's my uncle, Spencer Mendoza. He's a big deal around here.”

Spencer's eyes locked on mine.

I staggered back a little.

“Are you okay?” Brennon shot his arm around my lower back, supporting me.

“Yeah.” I inhaled sharply as I regained my footing. “I just got a little dizzy.” I watched Spencer excuse himself and leave the ballroom. As he passed, I got a whiff of parchment and eucalyptus, but there was something foul underneath. I had no clue what just happened—I'd never set eyes on him before, yet I hated his guts.

A commotion came from the center of the dance floor and the band went quiet. Betsy Grimsby, my brother's admirer, seemed to have passed out. Rhys crouched next to her as Beth asked people to step back and give her some air. I wouldn't be surprised if she was faking to get my brother's attention. The girls of Quivira seemed old-school like that.

After making sure I was okay, Brennon excused himself to help. It was a relief. With all the attention elsewhere it was the perfect opportunity to find Dane. Before my mother arrived and we left Quivira for good, I wanted an explanation for why he ran away earlier, and why he was so cold to me at the wreathing ceremony. I felt I deserved that much.

I spotted him walking out of the ballroom. I slipped through the crowd, into the hall, down one flight of stairs, where I discovered Spencer Mendoza and Dane talking quietly in the
archway of the men's parlor. I ducked behind the tapestry curtain of the women's parlor directly across the hall from them.

“The boy has no power,” Spencer said. “But the girl's a conduit, a direct link to Katia. She's dangerous.”

“She's not the vessel and the summer solstice is almost here.” Dane glanced down at his feet. “I don't see why it matters anymore.”

Spencer seized Dane's arm. “Who are
you
to say what matters anymore,” he spat. “Have you forgotten what you are? Your duty?”

“How could I?” Dane pulled away from him, rubbing the inside of his wrist.

Spencer took a deep breath and tugged down the hem of his button-down vest. “Do as I say. And consider yourself warned,” he said before turning and storming back upstairs to the ballroom.

Dane dragged his hands through his dark hair. He turned to head down the next flight of steps, but hesitated, like he wasn't sure if he should stay or go. I wanted to see his face. I wanted to know what he was thinking. He descended the stairs, and I couldn't help but follow—almost as if I'd never had a choice.