1. Florencia

1

Florencia

T here are plantains burning in the frying oil. I can smell them from upstairs, but that isn't what gets me out of bed. It's the faint sound of my older sister, Elisa, whining from across the hall. I walk to her, gently twisting the gold doorknob to find the light in her room is still on. Elisa is asleep, thrashing about in her bed.

And the lamp is on.

She's too scared to turn it off before sleeping, ever since our mother died.

My sister's need for comfort calls to me. Her pleas conjure a summoning, a magnet that pulls me to her from a place deep in the center of my chest. I sit at her bedside, watching the way her nose twitches and her eyebrows furrow frantically.

"No. No," she begs in her sleep, her head tossing from one side to the other.

I think about touching her shoulder to wake her, to pull her from the nightmare, but I think of every time before, when she asked me not to invade her head, to never look into her dreams. So, I don't. I go to stand, but instead, I'm lost in the darkness, sucked into the void where light and sound no longer exist.

"Elisa?" I call out, but the words are faint, barely an echo from my lips.

The dripping of a nearby faucet is all I hear, but somehow, I'm in the kitchen now. The darkness fades, as if the sun is somehow rising inside our house. The clock on the stove reads four zeros, and they flash aggressively like a warning. The plantains burns to a crisp, the sound of the oil splattering forcing my head to turn, but I don't feel the heat.

How did I get downstairs?

The thought is barely a seed in my mind before I hear Elisa again. This time, her voice is crystal clear.

"It was you," she says, a coldness to her tone that forces me to freeze. "It was you all along." The words are a tortured wound bleeding from her mouth as I finally face her.

My sister stands on the other side of the kitchen, plastic spatula still in hand as she ignores the charred plantain. I can feel the panic she feels, can hear her heart beating so loudly, so strong, it could be inside my own chest.

Her face shows none of it.

Elisa Morales stands with a fierceness to her that is only bestowed to an eldest daughter. She uses it like a shield as she faces down our father, the man who murdered our mom.

Before I can go to her, call to her, do anything to stop this moment from happening the way I know it inevitably will, she snaps. Tendrils of smoke begin to seep from her pores, her shadows covering nearly every inch of the kitchen.

The burnt plantains are all I can smell.

Then, there's blood.

Her shriek is louder than his, though the sound he makes is more of a low wail. I want to stop her, to stop this, but I can't. I want to save him so I can save her, so I can protect the sister who protects us all by shielding us from him, from the worst.

But I can't.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

I reach out to touch her, but she can't feel me.

The smoke tendrils wrap around my father's limbs, coiling like a snake, tightening around his throat.

"You will never have them," Elisa whispers, her eyes bloodshot as she fights to hold back the full strength of her power.

He chokes out some garbled nonsense, reaching for her with a scowl on his face.

In a blink, he's gone, every atom of his body turned to bloody dust, suspended for just a split second before it splatters across the walls, Elisa, and the kitchen floor. She takes a deep, stuttered inhale before she returns to the stove.

"Damn." She exhales as she pulls the pan of plantains off the heat, her eyes finally shifting to meet mine. "Thanks for being here with me. It was easier this time."

Time?

I look at the stove clock again, trying to make sense of how I got here, but the zeros still flash. "What time is it, Elisa?"

"You know you can't ask that here." She smiles, returning to the plantains that are now unburnt and raw again.

Her panic is gone, no longer the sweltering feeling overpowering the room but a warm, nurturing glow as she focuses on the food. Elisa took care of us. When our mother died, she just picked up the slack as if there was no other choice.

Maybe because we never gave her one.

She hums a nursery rhyme, checking her wristwatch as she moves the plantains around in the oil. "The girls will be home from school any minute now. You aren't welcome here."

Her words are a surprise, but it only takes me a moment to realize they aren't for me.

They are for him.

Elisa's panic starts like the pitter-patter of summer rain.

Our father walks down the stairs as if I didn't just witness him dematerialize into powdered blood and guts in front of my very eyes.

"Morales Manor belongs to me as much as you girls," he says snidely as he makes his way toward her.

I feel her panic growing, suffocating all the air out of the room.

"Don't," she warns him, pointing the grease-covered spatula at his face. "And we do not belong to you."

"We shall see. I've already begun the arrangements. You should be thanking me." He curls his lip up in distaste before continuing, "A witch without her mate is just wasted potential. Your powers won't grow until you've married."

Elisa is furious, "You don't get to decide our lives for us."

"You sound like your mother." He laughs, and it's all the fuse she needs to burn.

"It was you. It was you all along," she says in that same cold tone before whispering, "You will never have them."

Elisa's eyes go fully white, and I find myself stuck in the exact scene that just played out. The shadows extend, the black smoke filters out of her, restraining him, squeezing him, pulling him apart until every cell in his body gives.

Our father explodes.

Elisa wipes the blood from her face.

The plantains burn.

"What time is it?" I ask her again, and this time, her smile turns into a frown.

"I told you, stop asking that. They don't like it."

"Who doesn't like it?"

"The girls will be home from school any minute now. You aren't welcome here," she calls out into the living room, his loud steps pounding down the stairs.

"Morales Manor belongs to me as much as you girls." He repeats the words once more, walking stage right into the same spot like a rehearsed play.

The blood is gone—from the floor, from Elisa's face, all still inside him.

Elisa's panic grows, filling me once again, as it does every time our father is in the room, as if it's not my feelings that matter here, but hers.

As if this moment is about Elisa and Elisa only.

"What time is it?" I ask, but before I can interrupt their performance, a white-gloved hand wraps around my arm and tugs.

Air fills my lungs, though I know I never once stopped breathing. My eyelids flutter, pulling me from the darkness, back into Elisa's well-lit bedroom. Her eyes are jarred open, her nostrils flared wide and her face pale, like she'd seen a ghost.

"What the fuck, Flo?" she screeches, but I'm in full-blown hyperventilating, freak-out mode.

I just watched our father get blown up.

I just watched our father get blown up multiple times.

I just watched my sister blow up our father.

And then, the realization hits.

I invaded my sister's dream, the one that has been plaguing her every night since–

I look back at Elisa, a mixture of shock and hurt on her face. Dreams are private; dreams reveal too much about what we keep from the outside world.

"I-I didn't mean to, Elisa." I shake my head, confused, unable to fight the tears, finally feeling my own emotions instead of hers.

That was almost a lifetime ago, when I was forced to learn what it meant to come from a family like mine. The Morales were a legendary coven of witches, rumored to be the most powerful family, and yet, it was only when I accidentally walked into my sister's dream that I truly understood the weight of my own identity.

Powerful, but cursed. Truly, it was fear of my own last name that drove me into the lessons that now ruled my life.

Never go to sleepovers.

Never touch someone when sleeping.

If you weren't sure if it was a dream or reality, try to remember your previous steps.

I got trapped too many times, stuck in loops, unsure if I was still dreaming or back in reality, but time and time again, I found my way back. It wasn't pretty, but bad dreams weren't meant to be beautiful.

Now, fifteen years later, I was more confident, more aware of what to look for and how to find my way out. Except here I stood, my mind foggy and everything too bright, too vivid, to be fantasy.

Was this…reality?

I closed my eyes, brushing my thumb over the tips of my fingers as I tried to recount the events of the day.

Pieces of memories that didn't fit together flashed under my eyelids, and in that moment, searching through my mind felt as useless as grasping steam.

I hated it.

Refusing to succumb to panic, I opened my eyes again.

Where was I?

I looked down, seeing I was wearing the dress I bought for All Hallow's Eve. So it was Halloween.

Was that enough to discern a dream from reality?

I crouched to touch the lace at the bottom. It felt soft and intricate as my fingers traced the rose pattern.

Real.

It felt real.

Everything else didn't. I moved my eyes from the fabric and took a fortifying breath as I stood and scanned the barren area around me. It was nothing for miles, a precipice to a canyon. I moved closer to the edge, swallowing down the gigantic lump forming in my throat as I peeked over it, my entire body shaking from the scene below.

A war cry rippled through the space, raw and powerful, echoing inside my chest. In horror, I watched as thousands of soldiers ran at each other, colliding in the middle, tangled arms and weapons amid screams of rage and torment.

I gasped, taking several steps back until I couldn't see it anymore, then tapped two fingers in the center of my chest.

One, two, three.

Then, I tapped my shoes against the red dirt four times.

"Florencia," I whispered to myself. "F-L-O-R-E-N-C-I-A."

It was an old trick my grandmother taught me to help control my anxiety, an old trick I now followed obsessively, like the world was going to crumble if I didn't.

My mental health and my powers were just one snarled mess sitting heavily on my chest. What even came first? The anxiety? The dream hopping? The compulsions? The paranoia? The obsessive need to control my reality because everything around me could no longer be trusted?

I shook from head to toe. It didn't matter. It was all mine, like jigsaw pieces that didn't fit or fit just to form a horrifying image. It was all mine, all me.

"Don't freak out, Florencia."

Exhaling slowly, I tried to control myself, but the tears were already running down my cheeks. I was scared—scared of myself first and foremost, because in the end, it didn't matter where I was. The only person who could help me out of the situation was me.

And Florencia Morales was the last person I could trust.

"If you stay in a dream too long, you'll eventually lose yourself, forget who you are completely," my grandmother once told me.

My hand flew to my temple, rubbing like I could press a button and change who I was. Nothing could change me, though. I tried enough times.

"You're a curious thing, aren't you?" The snake-like whisper slithered into the crevices of my spine, the discomfort permeating my soul.

I turned around.

He was taller than anyone I'd ever seen, lean but strong, with black, shapeless tattoos covering both arms. His skin was dark, gray with a metallic hint that made him look inhuman. Still, nothing prepared me for the huge set of leather-like wings behind his back. The bones and ligaments connected at the top, the pointed spikes on the bottom reminiscent of a bat or–

Don't freak…

I was freaking out, mouth dry, head buzzing. I'd seen monsters my entire life, from fanged beasts under the bed to horror films in other's minds. I'd seen it all in dreams.

Yet, nothing seemed as real as him. The air chilled with his approach, a smile curving his lips as he took me in. His face was covered by four long scars, like he'd been torn by a clawed beast, a fully black eye amid the scarring.

The other was ocean blue.

"My brother has been fighting in your name for years, Florencia." His accent was heavy, but from nowhere I recognized.

I was surprised I could speak at all. "I don't know your brother."

"He wants you so deeply. Now I see why," he continued, ignoring my confusion.

"I don't know what—"

"You should be careful around those who fall for you." He gestured behind me.

The stranger talked over me, like he'd rehearsed those lines many times and never thought for a second to give me any of my own.

His face stretched into a smirk so twisted, it took me a second to realize he was tugging my arm, bringing me to the edge of the canyon. I shouted my protest, trying to shake off his hold on me, but he was far too strong.

He stood behind me, one hand at my shoulder to hold me in place, his other at my chin to force my eyes to the massacre below.

"He'd do anything for his bride," he whispered in my ear.

A forbidden feeling pulled in my stomach, the timber of his voice so deep, so low, I nearly forgot the meaning of the words themselves, melting from the sound alone. His hand gripped my dress, and I found myself strong enough to stumble over my words. "B-Bride?"

His chuckle was low, barely audible, yet still vibrating down my core. "I wonder what he would do if I stole her first."

I didn't have a chance to respond. My gasp turned into a scream when he lifted me into his arms, his hold tightening as the ground disappeared beneath us. I fought, but the sudden rush of air beating against my skin forced me to still as he took off into the sky.