Blood Waters 1 : The Boy From The Sea by Eve Hathaway Page B
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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Gloria began.
"I'm going to see Paulo," Mila said, at the same time.
The air was electric with tension as Gloria stared at Mila. How dare you , Mila read into her mother's scowl, when there's so much to do here?
Fuck you. I never wanted to be here, Mila thought, returning the scowl. The sting of injustice at having been awakened at six in the morning on her first day after classes had ended seeped into her memory; and she straightened her back slightly and lifted her chin, daring her mother to say something.
"Bring back something nice," Gloria said, finally.
And just like that, she turned back to the stove and the business of pressing the tortillas. Mila, too relieved at having avoided yet another fight, scurried out, bewildered at her good fortune.
There was something strange going on, she thought, and the hairs on the back of her neck rose as she ran out of the house. She didn't believe in ghosts or spirits or anything; but it wasn't until she was well away from the house, hot and flushed from the sun cooking the air around her like an oven, that she could bear to look back at the place.
She felt silly, even as she glanced back. It wasn't the house that had changed, after all-it was everything else.
Chapter Two
THERE WERE NO boats on the pier, which meant that the men wouldn't be back. In this calm weather, it didn't surprise her. Fuel was relatively expensive, so the men preferred to use sails; but without any wind, they might not get back for another few days.
Mila turned and headed towards the opposite direction, away from the cluster of huts at the end of the desolate pier and the women rocking themselves in their paltry shade. Forty miles of sand later and she would reach Cancun. It was not the first time this thought had occurred to her.
It was easy to lose track of distance when she walked next to the sea, and sometimes she wished she could just walk all day and all night and disappear from the village and the little squalid nothings that kept the people there. But her father would drive out to bring her back; and he'd look so hurt that she'd have to lie and tell him that she was on her way back but she was just so tired.
She wasn't good at lying-her eyes were too honest. But he'd pretended to believe her the one time she had tried that, and, oddly enough, she was grateful that he did.
Her hair was a mix of rich brunette and sun-bleached highlights of honey and gold. Had there been a breeze, it would have floated around her like a waist-length cloak. Her eyes were an odd blend of gray and brown. She walked with the assurance and grace of an athlete, though she'd never been one in her former life, back in Boston. She liked to swim, but her school didn't have a swim team. In the pool of the YMCA, she used to glide through the water almost without effort, doing flip-turns with ease. It wasn't speed she was after, so much as the feeling of being alive, feeling the currents curl their way down her body. It was the only thing that got better after the move: what could be more alive than swimming in the ocean?
It was getting hotter by the minute, and she finally turned away from the beach and headed towards the scrub-mangrove trees and some other nasty and probably poisonous plants that grew until the soil became sand. She hoped to find a sandy spot under a tall tree, so that she could at least get some respite from the sun. No luck, at least not on this stretch of beach. She looked back at the house, now a small box that seemed an impossible distance away, thinking longingly of her air-conditioned bedroom. And then she thought of her mother and the never ending lists of chores she'd have for her.
A movement caught her eye, and suddenly she noticed-how she failed to see this just a minute ago was beyond her-a body lying on the beach. The upper half was lying on the sand, the lower half being licked by the gentle waves of the ocean.
She gasped,
"I'm going to see Paulo," Mila said, at the same time.
The air was electric with tension as Gloria stared at Mila. How dare you , Mila read into her mother's scowl, when there's so much to do here?
Fuck you. I never wanted to be here, Mila thought, returning the scowl. The sting of injustice at having been awakened at six in the morning on her first day after classes had ended seeped into her memory; and she straightened her back slightly and lifted her chin, daring her mother to say something.
"Bring back something nice," Gloria said, finally.
And just like that, she turned back to the stove and the business of pressing the tortillas. Mila, too relieved at having avoided yet another fight, scurried out, bewildered at her good fortune.
There was something strange going on, she thought, and the hairs on the back of her neck rose as she ran out of the house. She didn't believe in ghosts or spirits or anything; but it wasn't until she was well away from the house, hot and flushed from the sun cooking the air around her like an oven, that she could bear to look back at the place.
She felt silly, even as she glanced back. It wasn't the house that had changed, after all-it was everything else.
Chapter Two
THERE WERE NO boats on the pier, which meant that the men wouldn't be back. In this calm weather, it didn't surprise her. Fuel was relatively expensive, so the men preferred to use sails; but without any wind, they might not get back for another few days.
Mila turned and headed towards the opposite direction, away from the cluster of huts at the end of the desolate pier and the women rocking themselves in their paltry shade. Forty miles of sand later and she would reach Cancun. It was not the first time this thought had occurred to her.
It was easy to lose track of distance when she walked next to the sea, and sometimes she wished she could just walk all day and all night and disappear from the village and the little squalid nothings that kept the people there. But her father would drive out to bring her back; and he'd look so hurt that she'd have to lie and tell him that she was on her way back but she was just so tired.
She wasn't good at lying-her eyes were too honest. But he'd pretended to believe her the one time she had tried that, and, oddly enough, she was grateful that he did.
Her hair was a mix of rich brunette and sun-bleached highlights of honey and gold. Had there been a breeze, it would have floated around her like a waist-length cloak. Her eyes were an odd blend of gray and brown. She walked with the assurance and grace of an athlete, though she'd never been one in her former life, back in Boston. She liked to swim, but her school didn't have a swim team. In the pool of the YMCA, she used to glide through the water almost without effort, doing flip-turns with ease. It wasn't speed she was after, so much as the feeling of being alive, feeling the currents curl their way down her body. It was the only thing that got better after the move: what could be more alive than swimming in the ocean?
It was getting hotter by the minute, and she finally turned away from the beach and headed towards the scrub-mangrove trees and some other nasty and probably poisonous plants that grew until the soil became sand. She hoped to find a sandy spot under a tall tree, so that she could at least get some respite from the sun. No luck, at least not on this stretch of beach. She looked back at the house, now a small box that seemed an impossible distance away, thinking longingly of her air-conditioned bedroom. And then she thought of her mother and the never ending lists of chores she'd have for her.
A movement caught her eye, and suddenly she noticed-how she failed to see this just a minute ago was beyond her-a body lying on the beach. The upper half was lying on the sand, the lower half being licked by the gentle waves of the ocean.
She gasped,
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