Fernando lost track of the days in his convalescence. In the gloom of the hut day and night seemed to meld together, shadow for eclipsing shadow. Eventually, Chico and the others came to visit him. Whether they had spent the intervening time mustering up the nerve to cross the witch’s threshold, or bracing themselves for the sight of him that lay beyond, it was clear that their imagined fears had been worse than the reality.

Clustered around Fernando’s cot, his friends sat hunched together on whatever could be scrounged up to pass for seating—a sawed log, a crate, a stool, an overturned wooden bucket. Not comfortable but not ill at ease either, though Lalo kept casting surreptitious glances about the occultish room and tugging at the gold cross necklace he wore.

Like the day he’d arrived in Cortez, Fernando was clothed once more in jeans and a t-shirt, but the others were dressed in their club attire. Blazers and slacks and collared shirts, with watches and chains and shined shoes glinting. He looked like a boy, and they looked like men, and the surrealness of this distinction was strangest of all.

“We thought you were a dead man,” Tito said.

Beside him, Pepe nodded gravely. Fernando cracked a grim smile back.

“So did I.”

Chico glanced away, his jaw tight. “I knew Pedro was acting strange. He kept pacing around frowning, like something was on his mind. But nothing’s ever on his fucking mind. I should have known.”

“They’re not speaking,” Lalo said to Fernando, like he was an authority on the matter.

Chico glared. “I got nothing to say to that motherfucker who betrays his own blood.” He spat into the hearth fire. “Mondragón’s lapdog. Fuck him.”

Fernando shook his head. “Let it go, Chico. He did what he was supposed to do. If I don’t hold it against him, neither should you. He’s your brother. There shouldn’t be bad blood between you. Not ever, and certainly not on my account. I won’t stand for it.”

Chico glowered away.

“How’s El Toro?” Fernando asked.

“How’s El Toro.” Chico’s hard mouth twisted. “El Toro’s fine, primo. How are you?”

“Alive,” Fernando said.

Chico nodded, slow and significant. As if changing the subject, he said, “Felicia’s dead.” After a moment of stilted pause he continued, “Some fisherman pulled her out of the river three days ago. They’ve ruled it a suicide.”

The truth washed over Fernando, icy and dark. He saw the waterlogged flesh bloated and soft and white as a frog belly. The stringy tangle of black hair listing. The slack blue mouth open in a breathless gasp. The eyes wide and staring and clouded like fogged glass. Windows to nothing.

He saw the current that ferried her along, as cold and indifferent to its human cargo as any other. It dragged her over rocks and stumps, the muddy riverbed. Raked her against branches and whatever trash happened to be bobbing along beside her. It battered her and bruised her and tore at the dead weight of her so that all other marks were disguised—

Smudges like ash on the pasty ragged flaps where her throat had been. She’d drowned inside her own flesh before the water had ever touched her. But no one cared to look deeper. He hadn’t. Why should he now? Who was he to look and pass judgment?

Fernando rolled over onto his side in the cot and shut his burning eyes.

⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

Join my Patreon to read all 100 chapters, plus get access to patron-exclusive bonus content & more!

La Gorgona © CS Dark Fantasy