entrance, study, and dining room, I could see that she was wearing the same patchwork pair of jeans from yesterday and a black short-sleeved shirt. Both were soaked.
Isabel’s bruise-rimmed eyes flickered across my face. Without her sweatshirt on, she had lost her armor and much of her confidence; she was caught off guard, a poorly prepared antagonist.
“Did anyone see you come in?” she demanded, releasing my shirt and backing away.
“No.” I raked my fingers through my wet hair and peered into the darkened corners of the house. “Is your dad back?”
“No. It’s just me.”
Isabel took another step back and studied me more intently. I could only imagine what a mess I was: wheezing, soaking wet, anxiously cracking the knuckles of one of my hands, eyes bloodshot from several nights of strange dreams and little rest.
“Listen,” I began, catching my breath. “I know I shot out of here yesterday, but I need to know what happened with that wasp.”
“You came here during a hurricane so that we could talk about a
wasp
?”
“I want to know what’s going on inside this house. You said you were sick. Maybe I can help you.”
Isabel tensed; her dark eyes pinched together, and the offer I thought would be met with gratitude was instead met with fury.
“
Help
me?” Isabel asked. “Is that what you just said—that you want to
help
me?”
“Whoa.” I put my hands up and took a step back. “I just thought that maybe—”
“Save it. You know what you suffer from, Lucas?” Isabel paused for a moment, searching for the right ammunition. “Hero syndrome. You see every situation as an opportunity for you to come save the day. You think that because I’m sick and there’s a storm that I’m here huddled in a corner waiting for Lucas Knight to come knock on my door and ask if he can
help
me? I’m not some imprisoned princess who’s desperate for your rescue. I can take care of myself.”
I cringed as her words hit their mark. My recent attempts to “save the day” had all failed. My search for Celia had ended before it even began, and my hunt for the phantom Marisol had been in vain. The thing that had sent me over the edge—and straight to Isabel—was knowing that the young nun I’d always hoped haunted my room would never find her love letters and would soon have nowhere to roam. And there was absolutely nothing I could do about any of it.
I wasn’t, however, going to give Isabel Ford the satisfaction of knowing how well she had me pegged. I’d found my ammunition, too, and was ready to use it.
“Don’t talk like you know me. You were a fiction to me until three days ago, when you started doing everything you could to get my attention. Now that you’ve gotten what you wanted and I’ve landed in your house
three
times, you’re pissed off about it.”
“You coming here has nothing to do with me,” Isabel snapped. “It has to do with you wanting to satisfy your burning curiosity.”
“You sent the letters! You asked me to come!”
Isabel turned away, dragging her hand through the tangles of her wet hair.
“It was a mistake coming here even once,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”
My hand was already on the door when something massive slammed into the ceiling above me. I ducked, expecting an explosion of glass and debris, but the ceiling held. I peered up, but it was far too dark to see what had fallen.
“Guabancex is mad,” Isabel said.
“What?”
“Not
what
.
Who.
Guabancex is the goddess that makes the storms. The Taíno say she gets angry when people upset the balance of her island. She punishes them with storms. She caused the hurricanes that wrecked the Spanish conquistadors’ ships. Don’t worry, though. The glass will hold.”
I swallowed. “Who’s upsetting the balance of her island now?”
Isabel shrugged away my question. “Does it matter? You shouldn’t go back out there, though. Your skull won’t fare as well as this ceiling.”
“I’ll take my
Isabel’s bruise-rimmed eyes flickered across my face. Without her sweatshirt on, she had lost her armor and much of her confidence; she was caught off guard, a poorly prepared antagonist.
“Did anyone see you come in?” she demanded, releasing my shirt and backing away.
“No.” I raked my fingers through my wet hair and peered into the darkened corners of the house. “Is your dad back?”
“No. It’s just me.”
Isabel took another step back and studied me more intently. I could only imagine what a mess I was: wheezing, soaking wet, anxiously cracking the knuckles of one of my hands, eyes bloodshot from several nights of strange dreams and little rest.
“Listen,” I began, catching my breath. “I know I shot out of here yesterday, but I need to know what happened with that wasp.”
“You came here during a hurricane so that we could talk about a
wasp
?”
“I want to know what’s going on inside this house. You said you were sick. Maybe I can help you.”
Isabel tensed; her dark eyes pinched together, and the offer I thought would be met with gratitude was instead met with fury.
“
Help
me?” Isabel asked. “Is that what you just said—that you want to
help
me?”
“Whoa.” I put my hands up and took a step back. “I just thought that maybe—”
“Save it. You know what you suffer from, Lucas?” Isabel paused for a moment, searching for the right ammunition. “Hero syndrome. You see every situation as an opportunity for you to come save the day. You think that because I’m sick and there’s a storm that I’m here huddled in a corner waiting for Lucas Knight to come knock on my door and ask if he can
help
me? I’m not some imprisoned princess who’s desperate for your rescue. I can take care of myself.”
I cringed as her words hit their mark. My recent attempts to “save the day” had all failed. My search for Celia had ended before it even began, and my hunt for the phantom Marisol had been in vain. The thing that had sent me over the edge—and straight to Isabel—was knowing that the young nun I’d always hoped haunted my room would never find her love letters and would soon have nowhere to roam. And there was absolutely nothing I could do about any of it.
I wasn’t, however, going to give Isabel Ford the satisfaction of knowing how well she had me pegged. I’d found my ammunition, too, and was ready to use it.
“Don’t talk like you know me. You were a fiction to me until three days ago, when you started doing everything you could to get my attention. Now that you’ve gotten what you wanted and I’ve landed in your house
three
times, you’re pissed off about it.”
“You coming here has nothing to do with me,” Isabel snapped. “It has to do with you wanting to satisfy your burning curiosity.”
“You sent the letters! You asked me to come!”
Isabel turned away, dragging her hand through the tangles of her wet hair.
“It was a mistake coming here even once,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”
My hand was already on the door when something massive slammed into the ceiling above me. I ducked, expecting an explosion of glass and debris, but the ceiling held. I peered up, but it was far too dark to see what had fallen.
“Guabancex is mad,” Isabel said.
“What?”
“Not
what
.
Who.
Guabancex is the goddess that makes the storms. The Taíno say she gets angry when people upset the balance of her island. She punishes them with storms. She caused the hurricanes that wrecked the Spanish conquistadors’ ships. Don’t worry, though. The glass will hold.”
I swallowed. “Who’s upsetting the balance of her island now?”
Isabel shrugged away my question. “Does it matter? You shouldn’t go back out there, though. Your skull won’t fare as well as this ceiling.”
“I’ll take my