Blood Waters 1 : The Boy From The Sea by Eve Hathaway Page A
Authors: Eve Hathaway
Tags: ya fantasy, YA romance, YA Urban Fantasy Romance, ya mystery, ya action adventure romance, ya romance fantasy, ya mythology, ya action adventure, ya love and romance, ya teen supernatural, ya gods, ya coming of age, ya paranormal action books, ya thriller romance, ya romance paranormal
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damn it. The difference between her father and her, though, was that Mila no longer felt guilty for wishing that he would.
But for now, she had to iron and fold the sheets. Of course, the laundry was on the other side of the house, where the abuelos lived in what was once the servants' quarters. Her mother did this on purpose, of course-otherwise the grandparents-Jorge and Victoria, Pablo and Elena-would never see their granddaughter.
Mila couldn't make her parents realize how awkward it was for all of them-a granddaughter they'd never seen, who might as well have been from Mars, for all they knew of Boston. They had literally nothing in common, except Gloria and George; and lately those two had become strangers to all of them. Fortunately, at this hour, the grandparents wouldn't be up yet, and Mila could slip past them without having an awkward, just-out-of-politeness conversation.
As Mila ironed and folded and stacked the sheets in neat piles, she became aware of how still the morning was. It was unusual, and the silence sent shivers down her spine. Normally, there were monkeys chattering in the forest and birds raising a ruckus everywhere.
Today, though, even the chickens seemed subdued, and the stray dog she'd cleaned up (though for some reason she couldn't find a name to fit him) only burrowed deeper into his bed when she filled his bowl with kibble.
She finished the sheets and went to the backyard to collect the eggs. The chickens had gathered around the feeding trough but there was no frenetic back-and-forth squabbling for feeding space. She poured more feed into the trough and added more water to their pan. That seemed to get them going, but even then their clucking seemed muted. A dozen eggs today- at least they weren't too sick to lay eggs , she thought. She could drop off half a dozen with the abuelos and she might be able to barter with Paulo-the only fisherman in the village whose Spanish she could understand, as the others spoke a mixed language of Mayan and Spanish-for some fish with the rest.
Still, it was unsettling how quiet everything was. A quick glance at her watch told her it was already eight in the morning. It was the time when Grandpa Jorge and Grandma Victoria-the nominally-healthier of the two pairs, with heart failure and emphysema being their two complaints-usually make their coffee and set out the massive tray full of sweet buns. But the servants' kitchen the four elderly people shared was empty today. Mila didn't dare knock on the bedroom doors. She left the eggs in the basket on the counter. They'd find them. If they haven't died in the night, Mila thought; and then she crossed herself, feeling guilty for having thought that. Angry though she was at her father and mother, she couldn't quite bring herself to wish that on them.
In the main kitchen, only her mother was awake, scrambling yesterday's eggs while the water for coffee boiled on the stove and the balls of masa harina sat on the counter, ready for pressing into tortillas.
"I swear, I don't know what's gotten into your father," Gloria grumbled as she poured the eggs in a pan. "He wouldn't wake up this morning, and he said he was going to fix the abuelos' toilet."
Mila sat down at the table. Her mother had finished cooking the eggs and was now spooning them into a plate.
It would be no use asking her mother if she noticed anything unusual, Mila decided, as she helped herself to a portion of scrambled eggs and poured herself a glass of juice. Gloria was a practical woman. If the chickens weren't being normal, it was because they were sick. If the old people were still asleep, it was because they were tired. If things were quieter than usual, it was because the weather was strange. It was that simple. And the weather was strange, come to think of it. A heavy stillness hung in the air; as if the normal ocean breeze had something far more important to do.
"When you finish your breakfast..."
But for now, she had to iron and fold the sheets. Of course, the laundry was on the other side of the house, where the abuelos lived in what was once the servants' quarters. Her mother did this on purpose, of course-otherwise the grandparents-Jorge and Victoria, Pablo and Elena-would never see their granddaughter.
Mila couldn't make her parents realize how awkward it was for all of them-a granddaughter they'd never seen, who might as well have been from Mars, for all they knew of Boston. They had literally nothing in common, except Gloria and George; and lately those two had become strangers to all of them. Fortunately, at this hour, the grandparents wouldn't be up yet, and Mila could slip past them without having an awkward, just-out-of-politeness conversation.
As Mila ironed and folded and stacked the sheets in neat piles, she became aware of how still the morning was. It was unusual, and the silence sent shivers down her spine. Normally, there were monkeys chattering in the forest and birds raising a ruckus everywhere.
Today, though, even the chickens seemed subdued, and the stray dog she'd cleaned up (though for some reason she couldn't find a name to fit him) only burrowed deeper into his bed when she filled his bowl with kibble.
She finished the sheets and went to the backyard to collect the eggs. The chickens had gathered around the feeding trough but there was no frenetic back-and-forth squabbling for feeding space. She poured more feed into the trough and added more water to their pan. That seemed to get them going, but even then their clucking seemed muted. A dozen eggs today- at least they weren't too sick to lay eggs , she thought. She could drop off half a dozen with the abuelos and she might be able to barter with Paulo-the only fisherman in the village whose Spanish she could understand, as the others spoke a mixed language of Mayan and Spanish-for some fish with the rest.
Still, it was unsettling how quiet everything was. A quick glance at her watch told her it was already eight in the morning. It was the time when Grandpa Jorge and Grandma Victoria-the nominally-healthier of the two pairs, with heart failure and emphysema being their two complaints-usually make their coffee and set out the massive tray full of sweet buns. But the servants' kitchen the four elderly people shared was empty today. Mila didn't dare knock on the bedroom doors. She left the eggs in the basket on the counter. They'd find them. If they haven't died in the night, Mila thought; and then she crossed herself, feeling guilty for having thought that. Angry though she was at her father and mother, she couldn't quite bring herself to wish that on them.
In the main kitchen, only her mother was awake, scrambling yesterday's eggs while the water for coffee boiled on the stove and the balls of masa harina sat on the counter, ready for pressing into tortillas.
"I swear, I don't know what's gotten into your father," Gloria grumbled as she poured the eggs in a pan. "He wouldn't wake up this morning, and he said he was going to fix the abuelos' toilet."
Mila sat down at the table. Her mother had finished cooking the eggs and was now spooning them into a plate.
It would be no use asking her mother if she noticed anything unusual, Mila decided, as she helped herself to a portion of scrambled eggs and poured herself a glass of juice. Gloria was a practical woman. If the chickens weren't being normal, it was because they were sick. If the old people were still asleep, it was because they were tired. If things were quieter than usual, it was because the weather was strange. It was that simple. And the weather was strange, come to think of it. A heavy stillness hung in the air; as if the normal ocean breeze had something far more important to do.
"When you finish your breakfast..."
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