Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

I RELIVE THE FIRE IN the purple room all night in my dreams.

I need to learn what really happened there, without this supernatural filter my mind has thrown over it. Something tells me it's got everything to do with why my parents left this country and never looked back.

In the bathroom, I wet my hair in the sink. It's grown long, hanging lower than my breasts. I find some leave-in conditioner among the bathroom products and comb it through my brown curls with my fingers. I also discover a drawer full of makeup; most of it seems unused and possibly expired. My thick eyelashes always make me look like I'm wearing mascara, just like Mom. She never wore makeup, so I don't, either.

I take my time getting dressed, not looking forward to another morose meal with Beatríz at that mockingly large table. I pull on jeans and a top, zip up my hoodie, and slip into the bulky black shoes I wear everywhere. Dad called them my combat boots.

Remembering that it's cold outside, I loop on a scarf.

Thankfully, Beatríz isn't in the dining hall, nor is the table set. I step through a door at the end of the space and find a spacious kitchen with clear windows that let in an abundance of light. The refrigerator is sleek and silver, its modernity at odds with everything else about this castle. A note has been pinned to it with a magnet, in my aunt's tidy scrawl.

Estela,

I left you pan con tomate in the refrigerator.

I will see you at the clínica at 15:00 hours. Follow the path to the village.

In the morning, visit Libroscuro for Spanish tutoring.

—Beatríz

On the countertop is a large key that must fit the front door, next to a basket with half a loaf of wheat bread. I find a serrated knife beside it.

I approach the blade tentatively, like it's some kind of test. Then I pick it up and bring it close to my face, waiting for someone to spring out and wrest it from my fingers.

I feel an eerie satisfaction imagining the doctors at the center's looks of terror if they saw me right now. Then I think of Nurse Leticia's disappointment, and I pull the knife away from my cheek.

I carefully slice two pieces of bread and place them in the toaster. Next, I open the fridge to find a glass jar with what looks like tomato jam, which I spoon onto the toasts once they pop. The relish smells so fresh that I'm almost hungry.

I tear off a sheet of paper towel and wrap the two slices face-to-face, like a tomato sandwich.

The castle feels different this morning. I thought it might intimidate me less in the daytime, but light casts new shadows, throwing into sharp relief the construction's size and age.

Beyond the dining hall, I spy a windowless crimson corridor that leads into the depths of la Sombra. I study the darkness, and it studies me back.

This castle has eyes.

Venturing through this place on my own, without anyone to hear me scream, feels like a new level of dangerous. So I dart in the other direction, to the front doors, as la Sombra's walls bear down on me like a physical weight. I only slow down once, to take in the grand hall with the ribbed roof and the Brálaga crest, which is even more spectacular in the daytime.

The morning has dawned grayish, and it's much colder outside than I expected. Even with my hoodie and scarf, I'm freezing. But going back inside to get a jacket feels too risky now that I've made it out, so I charge ahead with what little armor I have.

I amble down the overgrown garden to reach the gargoyle-flanked gate, then I follow the cobblestone path to town. From here, it's obvious how la Sombra got its name: the castle's shadow falls over all of Oscuro.

Halfway down the hill, uneven rows of homes spring up around me, all of them on a tilt. Balconies bump against each other, as do sloping ceilings, and there are cars parked on only one side of the street. Some windows are cracked open, and as I whiff roasted coffee beans and oven-baked bread, my stomach rumbles.

I unwrap the paper towel and leave one toast flat in my hand while I bring the other one to my mouth. I didn't know tomatoes could have an aroma, but I'm inhaling it now along with the olive oil—a sweet and grassy medley that compels me to take a crunchy bite. Warmth spreads through my body, and drool pools in the corners of my mouth as I tear into the toast again and again and again, feeling tomato juice drip down my chin.

Only crumbs of my breakfast remain by the time I've made it past the homes to Oscuro's downtown, and I survey what is basically a town square. There's a restaurant, market, convenience store, and secondhand clothing shop that offers tailoring and repairs, as well as a few smaller businesses.

The clínica is easily the most imposing structure, taking up nearly one whole side of the plaza. It looks like it was tacked on after the original construction. The second largest place is called Ayuntamiento de Oscuro. It looks somewhat abandoned, and I wonder if it's the local seat of government.

All four streets face a central fountain that's run dry, featuring an oxidized copper statue of someone holding a pitcher like they're pouring water. It makes me think of the zodiac sign Aquarius. The bluish-green figure looks androgynous, with long hair, large eyes, and a hooded cloak.

An old lady sits on a bench in the statue's shade, throwing seeds at pigeons. The rest of the plaza is deserted. I stroll along the smaller businesses to see what else is here—but I stop walking when I see a storefront with books behind the display glass.

My mood improves as I push open the front door of my favorite place and inhale the thick musk of aging paper.

At last, I breathe easier.

Growing up, the first thing I did whenever we landed somewhere new was visit the local bookshop. Sometimes I had to take a bus or two to get there, but once I arrived, it was always the same: a refuge for homesick bibliophiles.

I imagine libraries are even more special because you have to be part of a community to borrow books. Every time we settled somewhere new for longer than a few weeks, I would consider getting a library card. But just the thought of all those cards adding up in my wallet, an ever-growing collection of non-homes weighing me down over time, was too daunting. Instead, I told myself I'd get a membership the day my parents got us a home of our own.

That way I would know I belonged.

This bookstore is unlike any I've ever visited. The wood used in its crafting has a raw quality that seems prehistoric, like it was cut from trees that had been around since Earth's beginnings. The shelves are so tall they nearly graze the ceiling, blocking much of the light, and as I touch the gnarled wood, I get the sense this store is nearly as old as the castle.

I wind through narrow stacks that feel breathlessly tight, and I'm relieved when I arrive at a clearing with a couple of armchairs and a table. Surveying the pathways around me, I skim the signs to see where each aisle leads: FICCIóN, REFERENCIA, JUVENIL—

"?Busca algo en particular?"

I still at the guy's husky voice.

Turning around, I see bright amber eyes and a crooked smile. He looks to be about eighteen and wears jeans and a charcoal T-shirt, topped with a slim black blazer. I can only make out the first two words of a partially obscured phrase on his shirt: LA SOMbrA .

"It's you!"

He switches to English upon registering my face, and his eyes flare even brighter. "This is so great! I'm Felipe."

The familiarity in his voice makes me feel like I should know him. Or maybe it's a cultural thing. He moves in like he's going to touch me in greeting, and my stomach twists with discomfort.

I know it's customary to kiss here, but I can't help backing away.

Felipe freezes, and his face falls. "Eh, perdón. I'm sorry, " he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. His arms push back the sides of his blazer, and I read the full phrase on his shirt:

LA SOMbrA DEL VIENTO. It's a famous book by a Spanish author, Carlos Ruíz Zafón. Mom loved that series.

I move deeper into the store, hoping to lose Felipe in the stacks, but I hear his faint footfalls following me. I quicken my pace, eager to run across another customer or bookseller, and I hit the back of the place. Casing my surroundings, I log a door, ladder, wall display—

I don't have to turn around to know Felipe is behind me.

As I strategize an exit, my gaze snags on a sign over the display on the wall. It reads: LEYENDAS LOCALES. An array of books are lined up face out, their covers all bearing images of the same castle.

"You live there."

His husky voice is low but loud. He's too close.

"With la doctora," he adds, now even closer. I'm not sure if he's asking or telling me.

I spin around and take a large side step around Felipe, switching our positions. It's a trick Dad taught me. Now Felipe is the one against the wall.

"It's okay," he says, dark hair falling over his eyes. "This is my family's store. You're here to see me."

I frown in confusion.

"Spanish tutoring? Your aunt said you would be coming."

Libroscuro. The name clicks into place from Beatríz's note. Once I saw books through the window, I was sucked indoors so fast that I missed the sign.

"Let's work in the office," he says, moving toward the ladder. I look up at an opening and glimpse a bright attic with natural light flooding through.

I lived in a remodeled attic with my parents in Durham, North Carolina, while Mom wrote a string of stories on Duke University's women's soccer team and their undefeated season. The space had a small triangular window, and I loved looking through it and watching the wind whisper to the golden treetops, scattering their coppery leaves across the air.

I stare as Felipe is swallowed by the light, and I think of Alice going down the rabbit hole. Except in the real world, girls don't follow strange boys into attics.

I reach for one of the books featured in the Leyendas Locales display. It's glossy and thin. In fact, all of these la Sombra books are brief. They're more accurately booklets with hard covers.

I flip through the pages. They feature mainly artistic photographs of the castle's exterior and the town of Oscuro. There's no more information in here than what's in the Wikipedia entry. After centuries of existence, this town has less public history than most new businesses. I feel the ghost of a tickle in my gut as I consider how many secrets that adds up to—

"Are you looking for the real history of la Sombra?"

For a moment I wonder if I'm speaking out loud. Then I look at Felipe, and I remember he's not just a strange boy. He's also a bookseller .

I nod in assent.

"We have better books, but they aren't for sale. They're my family's private collection. I can show you, but you'll have to come upstairs."

He climbs the ladder again, and the light overhead flickers, like clouds eclipsing the sun. I have the strangest sense of déjà vu, but I shrug it off. Felipe might be my first lead here.

I climb all fifteen rungs, and I see a desk, a couch, a wall of filing cabinets, a kitchenette, and bookshelves crammed with tomes that seem too old and in too much disrepair to sell. Overhead, a skylight illuminates every corner of the attic.

Felipe sinks onto one of two stools at a high table in the kitchen area. There's just a sink, microwave, and fridge. I slide onto the stool next to his and see that a book has already been placed on the table. I don't realize I'm reaching for it until the text is in my hands.

The cover is a faded black, void of text or images. I open it and finger the rough pages. There's no title. No author. No printing or copyright info.

"It's made of leather stretched over wooden binding," says Felipe, and I nod like that means something.

Even though the book seems weakened with age, it doesn't feel fragile. It has a sturdiness, like it was bound in a time when words had more heft.

"We can start our Spanish lessons here if you like," says Felipe, and I set the book back down on the table. "This is the first text of record published about castillo Brálaga. It dates back to the 1600s."

The first few pages are blank, marked only by the yellowing of time. Then the first line of ink appears:

La maldición del castillo

I tap the sentence, waiting for him to translate.

" The curse of the castle, " he says. " Maldición means curse."

I flip the page, and Felipe says: "This is the author's introduction, but they never reveal their name. They write that this book is the result of years of research and interviews, made up of witness accounts, diary excerpts, news articles, and personal correspondence."

We spend hours poring through the opening pages.

Since the Spanish is so archaic, Felipe only stops to point out a word or a phrase now and then, but mostly he's just translating the content. I doubt the outdated language would be relevant today.

At long last, we make it to the first chapter. " Chapter one, " he translates. " The earliest written record I could find appears in a journal approximated to be from the 1300s. Are you hungry?"

I frown, confused by the author's writing. Then I look up from the page to see Felipe is asking me a question. I shake my head, but my stomach dissents loudly.

He chuckles and grabs a sandwich from the fridge that's already parted in half. He gives me one part and chomps on the other as he scans the next lines and inwardly translates them before speaking.

I stare at the baguette on a small plate in front of me; from what I can see, it has a filling of ham, tomato, and cheese. I inhale, and I'm hungry—but by my exhale, I'm nauseous. It's been like this on and off for so long.

" The journal describes a black castle "—Felipe translates, pointing to the page where it says castillo negro —" at the crest of a cliff. There isn't much else until the 1500s, " he reads, " when the place became known for flinging its doors open for full moon parties —fiestas de luna llena— that would go on for days. "

Felipe falls silent again as he wolfs down his half in three bites and reads ahead. " Whatever happened at these parties remains a secret, " he translates after swallowing, and when he glances at me, I glean a warning from his gaze. " Anyone rumored to have attended a full moon party was never heard from again. "

My eyes feel extra dry, and I force myself to blink a few times.

Felipe closes the book. "I think this was the wrong place to start. I have some workbooks—"

I slam my hand down on the book's cover, a little too hard. "Or not," he says, wincing as if I'd just hit him. "Be careful. This is an antique."

I pull back my hand, embarrassed.

He opens back to where we were, and he reads ahead to himself again. But seconds pass, and he doesn't translate out loud.

"After it happened," he says softly, no longer looking down at the book but straight into my eyes, "you were all over the news."

I don't need him to explain what it means; I almost appreciate having the worst day of my life compressed to those two letters.

He keeps looking at me, like he's waiting for something, and I'm worried he's going to pressure me into speaking. I nod for him to go on.

"Everyone started whispering about la doctora," he continues, to my relief. "That's when I put together who you were."

His mouth hitches up on one side in a crooked smirk. "And I knew you would come back. I just had to be patient. La Sombra is where you belong."

Like Beatríz, there's something more than welcoming about Felipe's greeting. It's almost as if they believe I'm never leaving.

To my own disappointment, I show up to the clínica on time.

"Did it go well with Felipe?" asks Beatríz when I step inside.

I nod in assent, surveying her workplace in all its modernity. Unlike the castle's and the bookstore's narrower and shadowy layouts, this place is open and spacious and bright.

"The clínica was endowed by our family," she says, leading me past the waiting room, which is all white walls and high ceilings. The medical center beyond consists of an office, an operating room, and a wall of patient beds separated by privacy curtains. "Going into medicine is a Brálaga tradition," she informs me. "There's been a doctor in every generation of our family. It runs in our blood."

I guess all traditions come to an end eventually.

I feel her stare, but I don't return it, pretending to be interested in the equipment by one of the patient beds.

"Over here," she says, leading me through a back door, "is our storage area." The temperature plummets as I enter a small space packed with machinery, medications behind locked glass doors, and a metal freezer.

"This is our legacy," she says, chest swelling with pride. "We're a small community here, with a population of 852… 853 with you. The nearest hospital is hours away. Before there was health insurance, one of our ancestors came up with the idea for everyone in Oscuro to pay into a town health care fund. We use it to secure medicines and specialists when they're needed. We have a full operating room and our own private blood bank."

I cock my head, unsure I heard right. Blood bank?

"All residents donate a few times a year," she says, yanking open the handle to the freezer. A blast of icy mist hits us, and I peer inside to see rows upon rows of plastic bags filled with crimson liquid.

"As a matter of fact," says my aunt, shutting the freezer, "I'd like to do a full workup to begin your file."

They did workups at the center, so this isn't new to me. Still, Nurse Leticia told me they sent my file to my aunt, which means she must have my most recent report from three weeks ago. Why does she need to run more lab work?

Beatríz guides me back to the relative warmth of the main clinic area and sits me down in a chair near some glass vials. "Roll up your sleeve," she instructs as she pulls on plastic gloves.

She hasn't even hugged me, but she expects to take my blood. It rubs me wrong, and I don't move.

"What is it?" she asks, needle in her hand.

You already have my bloodwork, I want to say.

I wait for the words to make it up my throat to my lips, but they can't seem to scale my tongue.

"I have a patient coming soon," she says, making me feel like a small child. This is a pointless battle to pick, so I roll up my sleeve.

Beatríz grips my elbow, and my hand tenses into a fist at her touch. I barely feel the needle as she jabs it into my arm, as if she's done this millions of times.

"Good," she says as the vial fills up with dark crimson liquid. "Relax your arm, Tela—"

She clears her throat. " Estela. "

I feel the stab of pain I was expecting from the needle, only it's from hearing that nickname. As long as I can remember, my parents called me Stela . And yet something stirs within me on hearing Tela, and I know it was my name once.

Beatríz seals the glass with my blood but doesn't remove the needle from my arm. She reaches for another empty vial—

I yank my arm free.

"What are you doing?!" she shrieks as the needle slides out of my skin, along with some drops of blood.

I get up and back away, until I have a direct line to the front door. If she comes after me, I can beat her to the street.

"You need to calm down!" she says, staring at me through eyes rounded with outrage. "I'm going to store your blood, then you can get to work."

I cross my arms in response.

She takes the vial to the storage room, and when she comes back out, her face is emotionless. "You will be digitizing patient files at that computer."

I follow her gaze to a desk in the middle of the office. The computer is an older model than the sleek-monitored Macs we had at the center, but it still seems more modern than the rest of this town.

She walks to a cabinet and yanks open the first drawer. It's stuffed with colorful folders. "Begin with ángel, Alberto Casta?o Cruz." She pulls out a thick blue file and sits down at the terminal. "The program is already open," she says, and the black monitor brightens with colors. "Click here to start a new patient file, then fill in the fields using the information in the forms."

She types in the first few sections, until I get the hang of it, and then I take her place. I work until early evening, when Beatríz comes out of her office and says, "Time to go." She sets a security alarm using a special key that she taps against a sensor before locking up the clínica, and we walk back to the castle in silence.

Dinner tonight is gambas al ajillo. The aromatic garlic shrimp is served in a ceramic orange bowl. The scent makes my mouth water, and I realize I haven't eaten since the pan con tomate this morning.

I used to love food.

When my parents were alive, I would ask for seconds and thirds, sometimes even fourths. Yet I only eat six shrimp, and my stomach feels bloated. I may still be breathing, but most of me died on that subway—including my appetite.

When Beatríz finishes eating, she stands up, and I rise, too.

"This silence of yours concerns me," she says, holding out the black pill. She watches me chase it with a drink of water.

Then I turn on my heel and head to my room, where I spit out the seed, and it joins its twin from yesterday in my bag's pocket.

Tonight I set off in a new direction.

Wearing socks but no shoes again, I climb down the grand staircase to the main level, then I pad past the dining hall and into the crimson corridor I was too afraid to enter this morning.

The wiring seems weaker here, the candle-like lights producing a duller reddish flame. Why are they on at all? Doesn't Beatríz turn off the lights at night?

The passage bifurcates. I stare at the Y-shaped choice before me, and I choose left.

The corridor is long and narrow, lacking in rooms or décor, and the ground feels like it's tilting up as the hallway spills into a spectacular silver chamber. Moonlight pours in through parallel walls featuring identical rows of stained glass windows, and a sprawling chandelier hangs over a floor that sparkles like it's made of stars.

I can't look down from the chandelier. It hangs at an unnerving angle, its crystal arms reaching for the room's walls like a giant glittering octopus. The whole thing seems dangerously close to plummeting, so I edge toward the windowed wall to avoid getting speared with a tentacle—and I see another girl.

My heart stalls.

She stiffens, too, spotting me at the same time.

My reflection and I spin around slowly in perfect sync, and I realize only one wall is windowed—the other one is mirrored. The looking glass runs the length of the chamber, cracked in places and blackened in others. Some corners have even chipped off.

Something flickers in my peripheral vision, and I look up in time to see a crystal teardrop fall from the chandelier. It shatters on the floor, exploding in a starburst of sparkles. I crouch down and look closer at the ground.

The base of the floor is polished stone, but it's been dusted with debris from fallen crystals—and I'm not wearing shoes.

I just have to avoid the pointy pieces.

Moonlight rebounds on the mirror, giving the room enough illumination that I think I can make it across without hurting myself. There's a door at the other end of the chamber, and I want to know where it leads.

I keep my gaze low as I take my first step across the glittering minefield. I stand on tiptoes as much as possible as I weave around sharp shards, but I have to slow down when I get to the middle of the room, where the debris is denser.

The moon's silver light dims, and I wait for the clouds to clear. Yet the air keeps darkening, as if someone is putting out the stars.

I look up as a shadow stretches across the wall of windows.

Blackness spreads through the room like smoke, and air whispers past my ear, heavy with more than just oxygen. It's a voice.

"No hay luz en Oscuro."

I'm not sure I actually heard it. I spin around to go back the way I came, but I'm clumsier now, and I feel tiny stabs through my socks every time I step on something sharp.

My dusty reflection chases me in the mirror—as does a second, taller and broader silhouette.

I look behind me, but no one's there.

Yet in the mirror, the large, person-shaped shadow is closing the distance between us.

BOOM.

My pulse swings its hammer, shaking my whole frame. I'm not sure which is more shocking—its presence or the shadow's.

I haven't felt my heart in months, and I was worried it'd stopped beating. Only now it's hammering at its cage, proving me wrong.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

I move faster, and my foot stumbles on the jagged edge of a broken crystal. " Ah! " I cry out in pain, the first sound I've heard myself make in months. It sounds more beastly than human.

I stand in flamingo pose to make sure nothing's stuck on the sole of my foot. The cut is shallow, so I can still move.

In the mirror, the shadow is gone. Moonlight breaks through the darkness again, and I study the floor as I weave through the glass rubble toward the exit. I don't dare look back until I'm past the chandelier, and then my jaw drops—

BOOM.

A man of flesh and bone stands in the middle of the room, looking down at something in his hand: the bloodied shard of crystal I stumbled over.

When he lifts his face to meet my stare, the room is blasted with silver starlight.

BOOM.

The face from my dreams.

BOOM.

It's my shadow beast.