The 52nd (The 52nd Saga Book 1) (41 page)

“Come with me, son,” Xquic
said.

A look of terror crossed Xavier’s face, and he broke away and fled back toward the pyramid.

“The portal! Don’t let him go through,” Tita yelled in alarm, and Dylan, Tita, and Xquic vanished in pursuit.

The warm raindrops suddenly didn’t sting, but instead made my eyelids heavy. My body relaxed into the numbness. It was a relief when my hand slid off my chest, to no longer have to hold it there, and I closed my eyes. Whiteness filled my head, and I wanted to float into it, away from the pain. Still, each time I inched closer to it, my body shook relentlessly and the agony returned.

“She’s losing too much blood. Lucas, you have to take her now!” I heard Andrés demand, so far away, so faint. Fingers put pressure around my heart. I screamed in pain. “If you don’t, she won’t make
it.”

“Zara!” I felt Lucas’s warmth by my side instantly. “No, no, no, no, no! You’re going to be okay, I promise.” He paused, his voice strained. “What about
Xavier?”

“Dylan, Tita, and Xquic can take care of him,” Andrés reasoned.

When Lucas paused again, I thought maybe I could slip back to the place of cloudy comfort, but his arms scooped down and pressed me firmly into him. I struggled to catch a breath as he took a step, squeezing my arms tightly against my throbbing
ribs.

“Okay, cover me. We will see you back at the house,” he
said.

Then, as the rain seeped into my lips, into my eyes slit open enough to see the blur of passing trees, Lucas escaped with me into the dense
jungle.

Lucas

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Anew

Rubble clattered loudly in my ears as I carried Zara southwest along the coast. I found the freeway and ran alongside its edge, keeping to the cover of the overgrown forest. The leaves brushed me like feathers as I sprinted. At my speed, it was impossible to avoid being hit. But I hunched my back and wrapped my arms more secure around Zara so that her skin wouldn’t be
clawed.

Zara was whimpering when a loud explosion came from Tajin, different than the clunking of stone on flesh. I glanced over my shoulder and looked up. Black smoke furled upward above the tree lines.
It’s done. The portal is gone.
I spun around and ran
harder.

I reached Tabasco an hour later and headed straight through a biosphere reserve, landing somewhere in the middle by the Grijalva River. Zara was losing consciousness and needed medical assistance, but without Dylan I couldn’t chance anybody seeing us. I stayed away from the river, where locals and tourists would be boating, and moved deeper into the jungle. It was more swampland here. I slowed down when the mangroves grew dark and thick, and their tangled surface roots and dense thickets threatened to trip
me.

Zara hadn’t moved for the last twenty minutes. I knew her body was cooling fast by the deepening of her purple lips, but then a startling coolness zinged my skin.
Why am I feeling temperature?
When I heard wheezing coming from the gash in her chest, I stopped below a tree—my feet sinking in the sucking mud—and laid Zara across its knotty
roots.

My stomach was still cool from her touch. My body tingled, wanting to test the tickle that urged me to have her. I shook my body, trying to free myself from this vulnerability. I wanted to reach for my citla,
but my hand was covered with her blood . . . blood that never bothered me, until now. It was
Zara’s
blood, and it ticked me off that my vulnerability had caused this. The vulnerability she wanted, that I’d finally wanted, and now I was losing
her.

I checked the slashed flesh that poured her blood in a steady flow out of her chest and down her painted stomach. It was all over, swirls of red and white over her bare skin, worse now that my body had pressed against hers, smearing it in places it shouldn’t be. My failing, and now my blue shirt was drenched black, stiff with both dried fluids, and the hairs on my arms had crusted crimson with her blood. But worse, the blood was bubbling.
Dammit, air is escaping.
A sign that either her lung was punctured or air was filling her pleural space. And I knew, if I didn’t address the cut now, either her lung would collapse, or she would drown in her own
blood.

Just as I stood to see what I could use, knowing the swamp was full of medicinal plants used when I was a boy, Zara coughed, and a spew of blood forced its way out and spattered my face. Then her throat gurgled as she struggled for air. I fell by her side and propped her head up. She exhaled, and more blood bubbled
. She was right. She’s going to be so angry that I didn’t
listen
.

Her breathing was shallower.
I’m not going to lose you.
I needed to cover the gaping hole in her chest to close the air off, and my shirt wouldn’t do. It would only cling to the blood and seal the incision, not leave any space for blood to escape. I needed a solid, waxy leaf, firm enough to hold its own against the raging blood flow. I gave the plants around me a hurried review. I was looking for a green plant with a ridged leaf. The shamans used it as a poultice to treat infections when wounded warriors returned from battle—if I remembered correctly. And I hoped that I did, because there were a lot of poisonous plants in these
parts.

I spotted a plant some good paces away. I brought Zara with me, balancing her on one arm and plucking a few leaves, enough to cover the entire cut. As her inconsistent breaths graced my chest, I realized that I wanted to be wrong about a lot of things and have Zara point them all out. She’d stab her tiny finger at me and scorn me until her face turned blue, and I would smile back, squeeze her waist, and pull her close to me. I’d kiss her hard and not let her slip away, because I never wanted anyone but her to call my
name.

I’d like very much to be vulnerable to her forever, but that day isn’t
today.

My keen ears listened for lurking predators in the swamp, particularly the crocodiles that infested these waters, as I set Zara down. When her back was flat against the ground, I noticed a bump over her right clavicle. At first I thought her collarbone was dislocated, but when her body jerked upward as she flinched from pain, it stayed behind and sagged, and a large bump had started to swell over the break. I raised her right arm slowly, cautiously, and a sharp point rose underneath the bump. I grunted, frustrated.
Her collarbone is
broken.

I examined the damage quickly. Blood vessels good, swelling minimal. This injury could
wait.

Already running out of time, I needed to find a sappy tree. A quick scramble up the tree next to Zara revealed a grove of copal trees a half a mile away. I hopped down just as Zara choked for air. I propped her up into my arms—still and pale as if she were dead already—and sprinted through the
trees.

On my way there, I spotted a small plant that bloomed pink flowers.
Antiseptic! Perfect to mix with the sap.
I snatched a few leaves and mulled them as best I could with one hand as I continued for the trees. The copal grove was packed tightly, so dense that not a sliver of sun broke through its umbrella of leaves and branches. I set Zara down and put my handful of pulverized leaves in my pocket, ready to dig underneath their trunks for fossilized sap, but the bark was blistered in bubbles of white resin. I scraped my fingers deep into the grain and scooped one off, then three more, until my hand was full and sticking together, and then rushed to
Zara.

I pulled the uncrushed leaves from my pocket and laid them over her wound, quieting the sucking sound, and kneaded the sap and the ground herbs from my other pocket together between my fingers a few times before working it over the leaves’ edges to bond them to her skin. Scent rose off the sap as it warmed—Mayans had burned copal as incense for centuries, to worship, to heal, to mourn the dead . . . I adhered the leaf all the way around and left a small hole on the bottom for the air to pass and the blood to leak out. I couldn’t be sure if she needed a tube until I got home and had clean hands, and could really see how bad the bleeding was. I cradled Zara in my arms again, careful with her collarbone, and turned toward
home.

My feet sank deep as I stood, and each step in the swampy mud took extra strength. Eventually I stopped treading on ground and leaped from root to root. It was easier to avoid the crocodiles that way, and for Zara, less rough. The jungle path was slower but more direct. Thirty minutes later, I reached a small gas station in Campeche with bathrooms at the back of the building.

Perfect, no one will see
us.

My arms were slick with blood and clammy sweat. I propped Zara underneath the shade of a tree and rushed to the bathroom. I rinsed off only what I needed to have a better grip on her, dried my hands on my legs since there was no paper, and pulled my phone out of my back pocket and dialed Nicolás.

“Nico,” I commanded when he picked up. “I’m coming with Zara in twenty-five minutes. Move her family to the living room. They can’t see her how she is . . . and probably not me, either . . . and she needs spare clothes . . . and I need my medical bag at her bedside.” I was about to hang up, but added, “Wait, I need blood. I don’t know what her blood type is. Tell the Aluxes to get it and have it waiting in the
room.”

I hung up and walked back to Zara. She looked like a paper doll: pale, ripped, fragile. I fought back tears, picked up her limp body, and resumed our journey. When I reached the beach, I picked up speed on the packed sand, racing until I saw Nicolás and Marifer waiting right outside the house. I stopped and fell to my knees. Zara’s breath was weaker, and I had to lean my ear to her heart to hear it. Marifer rushed over and peeled the tangled, crusted hair off her chest. I could see again the leaf moving gently up and down as she breathed. The flow was much less now. It shocked me—I didn’t expect the bleeding to stop at all, not if the wound was deep beyond repair.
He didn’t sever an artery; there’s a chance.
I shot back up and whisked her to the back
door.

Nicolás abruptly raised his hand.
“No! Otra puerto, señor.”

I rushed to the garage door instead, turning to Nicolás as he followed me. “Is her family not in the living
room?”

“They are playing cards with Raul and Eugenio. But it is not them, it is Señor Max. He won’t stop watching the back
door.”

I stopped briefly and glanced up to the doors that opened onto the balcony. Max was there, watching me through the glass. I froze and squeezed Zara a little more tightly into me. When Max didn’t look down at her, I took another step, but he flashed away and the doors suddenly bounced as he tried to tug them open. The curse wouldn’t lift until Tita got back; we’d have to deal with him
inside.

My jaw tensed with irritation as I continued to move. “Keep him away from Zara’s room for as long as possible. Marifer, come with
me.”

Marifer and I shot through the garage, up the stairs, and into Zara’s bedroom before the garage door quietly shut. The room had everything we needed. A small cooler I assumed held the blood was sitting on the floor by the bed, next to my black leather medical bag. And there was a fresh nightgown on the nightstand.

“Marifer,” I called, laying Zara across the sheets. Her head rolled to the side and her arms fell off her chest, unnaturally relaxed. I froze, and then the faintest beat of her heart echoed in my ears and I broke. “Watch
her.”

I rushed to the bathroom, scrubbed my arms and hands until the water ran clean, and ran back to the room. “Get a warm, damp towel and clean off the blood and paint around the wound,” I ordered, grabbing my leather bag. I pulled out a pair of gloves and threw it to her and then put on a pair myself. As Marifer left for the bathroom, I used forceps to pick off the hardened clumps of sap across her breast. I imagined it would be painful for Zara, so I lifted it slowly, but she was unresponsive and I moved faster. I shut out all outside noise and listened only for her weak heartbeat. When the leaves were mostly loose, I held them in place with one hand while the other removed the smaller, stickier parts that I had
missed.

Marifer returned and worked around my hands, slowly wiping the mixed layers of dried blood and white paint from Zara’s chest. When she stepped away for a clean cloth, I carefully lifted the leaves off. Marifer grabbed them from me and put them in the trash. With both hands, I placed my first two fingers on either side of the gash and spread her skin apart slightly. I leaned in closer for a better look. The cut had gone through cartilage, but it didn’t puncture her lung, and the bleeding was minimal now.
She’ll need the bandage until the cartilage can heal and block the air from entering.

Marifer returned and started cleaning another layer of blood. Moments later it was gone, and there was only a long slash across her left breast. I handed Marifer a sterile sponge and bottle of Betadine from my
kit.

“Use this to clean around the wound,” I said. “We’ll stitch her when you’re
done.”

As Marifer wiped gently around the wound, I reached for Zara’s wrist. Then a loud shout erupted downstairs. Marifer looked at
me.

“Quick, don’t stop,” I
urged.

I looked back to Zara’s wrist. It worried me again that I could feel the coolness of her skin underneath my fingers. I gulped. Her skin was ghostly white, enough to see her blue veins underneath. My stomach pulsed at the sight of Xavier’s fingerprints bruised around the slit flesh. I wiped the area clean, rubbing around it with Betadine, wondering how she didn’t die from this alone. The cut was not across, it was lengthwise, straight through half her artery. I pulled out a needle and thread and sewed the wound
shut.

“Do not lie to me,” Max yelled. He was still downstairs, but it was getting heated down there, and I knew he’d come looking for Zara
soon.

“Marifer!” I yelled. She was staring at the door. “Look at
me.”

She glared back with wide
eyes.

“We . . .”

The next sound jolted me. The low beat I was always listening for had stopped. Terrified, I looked back to Zara. Her face was slack. I panicked for half a second before I screamed, “Her heart stopped! Marifer, prep the blood
IV!”

Careful of her clavicle, I crossed one hand over the other and started compressions on Zara’s sternum. Her collarbone jutted at odd angles, her body jerked unnaturally, and blood sprayed out of her wound with each push. It caught me in the mouth as I counted in my
head.

Marifer moved in and stabbed the syringe into Zara’s inner elbow as I pumped her chest, harder—more consistently—expelling the air trapped in her pleural space all at once. There was a crack deep within her bones that made me cringe, but I didn’t stop. “Prime the saline port!”
One, two, three.
“Then flush it and connect it to the IV, and crank it up to one hundred milliliters.”
Come on, Zara. Come on!
I plugged Zara’s nose and pushed air into her
mouth.

Marifer carried out my orders as I thrust my hands down again. Somewhere between pumps her heart
moved.

“Did you hear that!?” I gasped. “Come back to me, Zara.”

Another soft beat graced my ears as Marifer connected the blood. Zara’s torso flinched. Marifer and I froze, wondering if it was either of
us.

“Wasn’t me,” I said. Zara’s eyelids were closed, but her body convulsed again, and a shrieking scream erupted from her
lips.

She wasn’t awake, let alone able to feel the pain, but her body flopped on the bed like a fish out of water, clutching her right side below her sternum. And then I saw it: her rib. It was broken. A light swelling formed over it. I shuddered.
I
did this. It was only CPR, but I did this. I broke her. I had to—she was
dead.