Together We Burn

PROLOGUE

My mother died screaming my name.

Papá and I had traveled with her to La Bota, a theater outside Santivilla’s ancient round walls. I remember it was near an orange grove that tartly scented the air like a thick lemon wedge flavoring tea. Her performance was in celebration of the recent capture of the Escarlata, the legendary and elusive breed of dragon with scales the color of chili peppers. It was known for its fury and volatile nature, for the fire hidden deep in its belly. Only one or two are successfully brought down alive each year. We were all excited to see one, bound in iron.

We sat in the front row surrounding the circular stage, built a hundred years ago and where many flamenco dancers came to perform. It was Mamá’s favorite place to dance, out in the open, surrounded by the tangerine-hued mountains to the east and the ocean to the west.

Flamenco was born in Santivilla, the capital of Hispalia, and there’s nothing quite like it anywhere else. The blend of the guitarist’s strumming, my mother’s castañuelas, and the citrus-scented air makes what we in Hispalia call the perfect ambiente.

We all should have been safe. The red dragon was in chains and ready to face the Dragonador.

Papá handed me a plate piled high with toasted almonds, perfectly salted anchovies, and soft cheese, and I munched happily as we waited for Mamá to perform as the opening act for the fight. Off to the side, the bald guitarist was already settled on a sturdy wooden chair. Surrounding us was a tremendous crowd sitting on the stone benches, and together we were all drinking and merry to be under a cloudless blue sky, even if the heat was remorseless, making my embroidered dress stick to my sweat-soaked skin.

It was the beginning of spring, just days after we celebrated the death of winter. It was too hot for my mantilla, and instead, I left my arms and shoulders unprotected under the metallic sun, hanging straight over our heads.

I forget, Zarela, Papá had whispered in my ear. I squirmed away from his thick beard, still black and without a touch of silver. Do you know this dance?

I nodded. Mamá taught me last month.

When Papá smiled, he did so with his whole face. His dark eyes crinkled, the dimples on both cheeks deepened, and the scruff of his beard moved with his mouth as it reached for his ears.

The guitarist started strumming his instrument, and he was truly excellent, because within moments he made the guitar sing and cry and roar, and the music rode the wind until my body thrummed with each note. Then there was a sudden silence. The crowd surged to their feet, stomping and whistling as Mamá climbed onto the stone stage.

My breath caught at the back of my throat.

She stood in the center, arms curled high above her head, and the fabric of her tight, flaming red dress hugged the curve of her back and fluttered in long ripples around her legs. Still, my mother wouldn’t move until she found the beat, counting in her head.

Her hip dropped and she twirled her wrists. The notes propelled my mother in circles, her strong legs stomping on the stage, fingers twisting high in the air. Her dark, curly hair whipped around her face—she refused to braid it at the crown of her head like most flamenco dancers, because according to her, what’s the point of whirling in tight circles if you can’t feel the wind in your hair. The expression of joy on her face was clearly visible, mesmerizing.

I hated taking my gaze off Mamá when she was preforming, even for a moment, but I did it anyway because there’s only one thing better than watching her on stage: the look on Papá’s face. He was bending forward, elbows on his knees, slack-jawed, and dark eyes intently focused on Mamá. He knew every step of this routine, every turn her head made. She danced the way she loved: steadfast, gracious, wildly, and slightly aggressive.

The musician ended the song with a flourish, and Mamá’s performance finished with her back arched and her left foot giving one last, loud stomp. I jumped to my feet, clapping and roaring along with Papá and the hundreds of spectators who threw gardenias onto the stage. Mamá grinned and found us, her arms stretched wide as if reaching for the ends of the earth. Her glittering, dark gaze landed on mine and she whispered, te quiero. I mouthed it back to her, and Papá dragged a heavy arm across my shoulders, pulling me to his side. He smelled like chicory and tobacco and the orange he’d devoured earlier.

We beamed at her, and she bowed, facing her familia.

She swept off the stage. Papá remained to save our seats, and he merrily waved as I left him to join Mamá in the changing rooms next to the stage. She gave me a hug and kiss on the temple, asked me to fix her hair while the Dragonador entered the arena. I remember the sound of applause as the Escarlata was let loose, and the fighter began his dance with fate. I hurried to pin Mamá’s hair back, eager to rush back to our seats in order to see the death of the red dragon. Even Papá had only killed the breed just once in our arena. It was sure to be quite a match, and I didn’t want to miss it.

Mamá turned to me and tucked a gardenia in my hair.

That was my last moment with her.

Bloodcurdling screams bellowed from the arena. Mamá immediately shoved me inside one of the curtained-off areas where performers could freshen up before their event and asked me to stay hidden, told me that she was going to find Papá.

Then she was gone.

I didn’t want to stay behind and hide. The yelling grew louder, the sound of fire blasting from the monster became incessant. I rushed out of the dressing room and raced to the ring, my sandals smacking against the hot stone. I remember my breath freezing in my chest at the sight of the Escarlata racing around the arena, its wings having somehow escaped their iron binding.

The monster was free.

It wasted no time in launching itself from the hard, packed sand of the arena. The red dragon flew around stage, its bloodred scales glinting horribly in the sunlight, and a terrible, frightening stream of fire erupted from its mouth in one long gust. It scorched parts of the crowd, the stage, the poor guitarist still clutching his instrument. Mamá was not even ten feet from where he stood. My gaze met hers.

Go back! she yelled. Zarela!

The tunnel of flames swerved and she was engulfed, and a guttural scream ripped out of her as her body burned. The heat from the blast was thick, and I choked on the smoke and scent of singed hair and flesh. The crowd ran in every direction, someone slammed into me and knocked me off my feet. The gravel stung my cheeks, and my hand bled from the shards of someone’s plate. I pulled a jagged piece from out of my palm, hissing loudly.

The Escarlata opened its jaws wide, readying to let out another fiery blast.

Papá found me on the ground and pulled me to my feet, and then yanked me away from the dragon ring, from the sight of my burning mamá. We ran for the orange grove, kicking dust in our wake, and hid under the thick leaves. I gripped Papá, sobbing against his chest, and the sound of his heart hammered against my cheek. He pulled me deeper within the tree’s canopy. The branches scratched my bare arms. The blossoms smelled like rotting fruit.

I never ate another orange again.

Uno

ONE YEAR LATER

Underneath my feet, the dragon waits.

Almost unconsciously, my attention drifts to the cobbled ground. I picture the dungeon below this tunnel, the horrid damp smell, the shadows crowding the corners and swift turns, and the row of cages where the monsters are kept under lock and key. In my mind, the beast moves restlessly in its cell, waiting for the moment the iron bars lift so it can bolt into the arena, searching for flesh, for a glimpse of the color red. The image incites a riot in my blood.

The trapped air inside the tunnel glides down my throat, fills my belly. When I exhale, some of the fear goes with it. My mind clears as I quicken my steps, following the curved wall made of craggy stone.

I have minutes before my flamenco routine.

La Giralda’s iron bell triumphantly heralds the start of our five hundredth anniversary show, and the sound carries to every corner of Santivilla and sinks into my skin, rattling bone. It’s a siren’s call, promising the best entertainment you’ll see all week, for the not-so-bargain price of twenty-seven reales. Outside the arena, there’s a long line curling around the building of those keen on still entering.

But there’s not an empty seat left in our dragon ring.

We’re the best at what we do, a set of familial skills passed down for centuries. Papá is descended from a long line of Dragonadores, famous for their courage in the ring. This building made of stone and brick and sweat is in my blood. The most prized possession belonging to the Zalvidar name, and one day it will be mine.

I walk along the underbelly of the ring, my wooden heels slapping against the stone corridor that leads to the arena, famous for its white sand that glitters under the sun. It’s brought in from the coast, carted on dozens of wagons pulled by several pairs of oxen, an effort well worth its price. There’s nothing quite like the look of spilled blood against something so pure.

My tomato-red flamenco dress swishes around my ankles, and I run my fingers along the craggy walls. I approach the entrance, and the roar of the crowd booms loud and insatiable. The sound skips down my spine, and a pleasant shiver dances across my skin. I almost forget about the dragon waiting to be unleashed.

Almost, but not quite.

Lola Delgado gently nudges me. Are you worried about the dragon, the dance, or both? She tugs impatiently at her wild dark hair. Lola gives up stuffing loose tendrils into her bun with a sigh. The light from the torches casts flickering shadows across her deeply tanned skin. She narrows her hazel eyes at me, understanding the reason behind the tight set to my mouth and why my knuckles turn white around my mother’s painted fan.

It was one of my mother’s newest routines. An instant classic.

Lola’s a head shorter than me, but even so, she manages to curl a protective arm around my shoulders. The crowd will love you. They always do. She drops her voice to a whisper. "Even if you perform one of your dance routines."

She’s willfully forgetting about the last time I tried to do one of my own creations. The crowd was expecting to see a traditional routine of my mother’s, but I gave them one of mine. It still unsettles me—how quickly their cheers turned into disappointed shouting and insults.

I had finished the moves with my chin held high, even though I wanted to lie down on the hot sand and cover my ears so I couldn’t hear their yelling. I’ve never forgotten how little the people of Santivilla think of me.

But what truly destroyed me that day was the bitter gleam of sadness in Papá’s eyes, his thin smile that told me that even he wasn’t interested in seeing anything but my mother’s routines.

They want Eulalia Zalvidar. People want her brilliance on the dance floor, the luring sway of her hips, the way she could make you feel bold and inspired, all from watching her stamp across the stage. This is why I dance steps that belonged to her first.

She frowns. Zarela…

It’s fine. I straighten away from her, ears straining to hear the music that’ll signal my entrance. Estoy bien, no te preocupes.

I do worry about you, she says. And it’s not fair. You’re the responsible one.

Just tell me I look presentable. I lift up the skirt, letting the ruffles skim my ankles. How does the dress look?

She reaches forward and rearranges the collar so the pleats lay flat. As one of the maids of the household, she’s responsible for making sure I look the part. Estás guapísima.

Thanks to you, I say with a small smile.

She grins and her round cheeks flush prettily. Anytime we talk about clothing, her eyes light up. Had her circumstances been different, she could have apprenticed at the Gremio de los Sastres, the guild of tailors and textile workers, but her family couldn’t afford to send her. Now she works alongside our housekeeper, Ofelia, helping with the cooking and cleaning. But over the years, I’ve hired her to design and sew new dresses for my flamenco routines.

Her talent ought not to be wasted on dirty linens.

"Oh, I know I did a fabulous job with the alterations."

Your humility moves me.

She continues as if I haven’t spoken. And that dress is doing marvelous things for your—

I narrow my gaze. Let me stop you right there.

What? I was only trying to say that the fabric drapes in all the right—

"Lola."

She winks at me, and I resist hitting her with my mother’s fan. She’s trying to distract me, but my nerves roar to life despite her outrageous flattery. The crowd’s cheering is insistent, demanding to be entertained like a child. The sound envelops us in a fiery rush. Lola winces. I lean forward, unable to keep the smirk off my face. Did we drink a little too much manzanilla last night? The sherry always gives you a headache.

Ugh, she mumbles. I resent your horrid, smug tone. To think I came down here to make sure you were fine— She breaks off, swaying on her feet.

You came down here to see Guillermo, I cut in with an arched brow. Admit it.

She looks away, biting her lip.

What happened to Rosita?

Lola rolls her eyes. She was too wild.

"But you’re wild," I say laughingly.

Exactly. I can barely take care of myself. I’m too young to worry about anyone else.

I gently push her behind me, as I desperately fight a laugh. You’re a menace. Go find a seat.

If you see him, she says with a sly smile. Tell him I like the way his pants fit.

I will never say such nonsense to him or anyone, ever.

What? she asks innocently. He’s entirely too handsome for someone so studious. Someone ought to let him know.

Personally, I don’t understand Guillermo’s appeal. As a member of the Gremio de Magia, he spends most of his day bent over chopped-up dragon parts: pulled-out teeth, sawed-off ivory horns, and eyeballs stored in vats of oil. Guillermo is here now, somewhere in the arena, waiting for Papá to kill today’s monster so that he can pay for the remains and take them back to the Gremio in order to concoct more potions.

I’ll tell him you say hello, I say finally.

That doesn’t sound like me in the slightest.

I’m not going to do your flirting for you. Not even if you ask nicely.

Lola pouts and then stumbles away, and I let out a little laugh. I turn back around. I have to concentrate on my performance and not think of anything other than the steps and the music. I focus on my breath as it catches in my throat, and on my body coiled tight and ready for the show.

The entrance is an arched doorway, lined with cobblestone in varying hues of clay and the tawny sand outside the walled city of Santivilla. On the other side, patrons wave their sombreros in the air as they catch a glimpse of me, dressed as my unforgettable mother, wearing her flamenco dress and shoes. The outfit is endlessly bold, with ruffles adorning the off-shoulder neckline and hem. Lola altered the costume to fit my smaller frame perfectly.

But while I may style my black hair like she did, wear the same color rouge on my lips, and line my eyes in charcoal the way she liked, I am not my mother. I am the forgettable village next to her metropolis.

What she did was miraculous. I merely worship at the same altar.

Nerves grip my heart and squeeze. It’s always this way before I take the stage. I’m holding up my father’s name and my mother’s legacy. I inhale deeply, allowing the crowd’s cheering and sharp whistling and the sounds of the strumming guitar coming from the center of the ring to remind me of who I am: Zarela Zalvidar, daughter of the best performers in all of Hispalia.

I damn well better act like it.

This is the most important show we’ll ever put on, our five hundredth anniversary spectacle, covered by the national paper, Los Tiempos, and watched by wealthy patrons and prominent guild members from all over Hispalia. They’ve come with their velvet drawstring purses, lofty connections, and dreams of being entertained extravagantly in a city as beautiful as it is dangerous.

The crowd hushes at the sight of the guitarist settling onto his stool above the platform. Pressure builds in my chest. My shoulders are tight, and I roll each side. I inhale again, holding air captive deep in my lungs. I exhale, and I imagine my fear riding my breath, leaving me behind. I throw my shoulders back, my spine straight and proud like La Giralda’s bell tower, and I march toward the raised wooden platform in the middle of the arena, arms outstretched to meet the hundreds of spectators sitting around the ring. I keep my chin lifted high, and my grin wide enough for everyone to see. Five hundred spectators stomp their feet to the rhythm of the guitar, clapping their hands at a fast clip.

Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-tat.

It’s a drug, that dizzying rush as people scream louder, wanting a part of me. Papá stands at the other designated entrance for performers, with a gleaming smile. He’s with his childhood friend, Tío Hector, a fellow Dragonador who owns a popular dragon ring across town. He’s not really my uncle, but I’ve always called him one for as long as I can remember.

The throng hushes. I close my eyes and wait for the beat. When I find it, I slowly stomp on the stage. The soles of my black leather shoes smack against the wood like a battering ram. The sound is the base of my performance, and the noise anchors me to my mother.

I sway my hips as the guitarist strums faster and faster, fingers moving quickly up and down the instrument. I spin and twirl, bending backward as I whip out my fan, flinging it open with a snap. The cheering starts anew, and I smile as I stomp and clap along to the rhythm of the music. I lay my fears to rest. In this moment, I relish the dance and the way the music glides along my body as I position my legs and torso into strong lines.

Grief has made me a better dancer. I command the stage and offer this tribute to Mamá, to her adoring fans who scream her name even now. It’s why I’ve stopped Papá from introducing me ahead of my performance.

The song ends at a slow crawl, and I move with the dying notes, bending forward in a traditional Hispalian bow. Sweat slides down the back of my neck, and my breath comes out in great huffs. Every dance is a fight against the ground, and my legs shake from the effort to win. Flowers rain, dropping dead at my feet. I straighten, wave at the patrons and their fat purses, and sashay to Papá and Hector where they wait by the second tunnel entrance, quietly proud. Papá carries an enormous bouquet of gardenias, the stems tied tightly with a gold ribbon, fluttering in the breeze like a banner beckoning me home. I take the flowers as Hector leans forward to fix the adornment in my hair, smiling broadly.

Papá curls a strong arm around my waist. Preciosa. Just like your querida mamá.

He studies my face, searching for my mother in the curve of my cheek and the fire in my eyes. But I’m not her. I can’t say the words out loud—he’d be crushed, so instead, I say what he needs. Para Mamá. So we never forget her.

A small smile tiptoes across his face, but I’m not fooled. He might convince a stranger that he’s happy, but I’ve seen what a real smile looks like, and that’s not it, though I’ve grown accustomed to this version.

Hector guides me backward, farther into the tunnel where the white sand no longer covers the ground. He yanks on a pocket iron bar door, dragging it forward until it slides into the gap on the opposite wall. Papá remains on the other side, closest to the arena. I reach between the slots, wanting Papá’s hand. I try to remain calm, remind myself that my father is the best Dragonador in all of Hispalia.

But the risk never fades.

Any fight could be his last.

Last week, a dragon wearing ribbons and a necklace made of flowers gored a fighter in the stomach in one of our rival’s arena. The man had died in front of hundreds, including his wife and two small children.

Papá strides to the center of the arena where the stage has already been removed, and all that’s left is the hot sand. His snug jacket encloses his strong arms, and his patent leather shoes are polished to a resplendent sheen. The ensemble he wears is startling white, stitched with red thread and adorned by a thousand beads in a burst of chaotic color, handmade and designed by Lola. It had taken her months of painstakingly sewing each sparkling piece onto the Dragonador costume, known everywhere in Hispalia as the traje de luces—suit of lights.

His broad shoulders are proud and straight enough to measure with, and his hands grip the golden handle of the red banner that bears our family name. Every step Papá takes adds flair and drama to the fight. He is a consummate entertainer and charmer. Born to please and impress. Passionate, quick to anger, and fiercely loyal.

In the arena, he is the most like the Papá I remember.

The lone iron gate rises. The crowd sits, quiet and expectant. Hundreds of fans open and snap in the sweltering heat, fluttering like bird wings. My heart thuds painfully and Hector pats my arm reassuringly.

He’ll be fine, he murmurs.

I barely hear him. From within another dark tunnel—there are three leading out of the arena—the Morcego races forward like an enraged bull. Its ebony body shines bright, glowing with energy. Two ivory tusks trailing golden ribbons protrude from its toothy mouth, and its eyes are bright yellow and mesmerizing. Around its neck are flowers, fluttering delicately against the scales that are stronger than armor.

I can’t take my gaze off the beast.

I clutch at the cobbled tunnel wall of the arena entrance, fingers digging into the grooves. My chest is on fire, rising and falling too fast. The dress is a fist around my heart.

Hector leans close. Zarela?

I nod and breathe deeply, fighting to regain my composure. The dragon is wider and taller than Papá, but there’s determination in the flat line of his mouth. He’s never feared them. I thought he’d turn away from dragonfighting after Mamá died, but her death only made him angry. Instead of one show a month, we now host two. I worry Papá won’t stop fighting until all the dragons of Hispalia have been hunted down and dragged in front of him.

The dragon snaps its great jaws and rushes forward, shiny claws digging into the sand. Papá sidesteps the attack, and the capote’s fabric curls around the wind like a beckoning finger. The beast’s attention is on the red flash of cloth, and Papá knows it. He pulls a long, thin blade with his free hand, while launching the banner high into the air. The dragon jumps, jaws snapping, trying to reach for it. But its wings have been clipped, and it can only jump so high. The Morcego lands on the ground with a furious roar, and as the dust rises and then settles, Papá makes his move.

The banner hits the ground.

Papá’s blade sinks into the back of the dragon’s neck, at the tender skin unprotected by scales. The beast lets out a deafening howl and slumps sideways while the crowd jumps to their feet. I sag against the wall. He’s safe. Papá raises both hands in triumph, and then he bends forward, sticks out his left leg, and moves his right arm in a wide arc high above his head. A traditional Hispalian bow. The famous bell rings again, heralding Papá’s victory.

The show is a success.

I can see it in the smiles of our patrons, I can hear it coming from Papá’s adoring fans, stomping their feet. Duty beckons, and I turn away from Papá and walk down the long tunnel and back into the prep room. A few of Mamá’s dresses are kept here, safe in an antique armoire. Every time I change, I’m greeted by a veritable rainbow of sequins, ruffles, and lace, each tied to a memory of my mother. Sometimes I can smell the gardenias clinging to her hair, feel the hot flash of her temper, see her quick smile. I decide to remain in her red flamenco dress to send off our patrons instead of changing.

Paying customers will stream into the main foyer, twittering with excitement and the rush of seeing a live dragon up close. They’ll want to meet Papá and me, and I hurry to the main hall.

Heat floods into the great receiving room from the open entrance to the avenue and sweat glides down the back of my neck. Dozens of fat, squat candles delicately scented with gardenia petals illuminate the wrought iron chandelier. Servers carry trays laden with thinly sliced jamón and hard goat cheese, bowls of roasted marcona almonds, and olives marinated in olive oil, thyme, rosemary, and lemon, and porcelain pitchers filled with summer-touched wine, flavored with thick slices of golden apples and strawberries.

The tall, wooden double doors are flung open, perfectly centered to the grand red velvet staircase that splits halfway to the second floor, and then leads up in each direction to a balcony overlooking the foyer. The second floor has several entrances opening to long corridors wallpapered in red velvet that lead to the stone benches encircling the arena.

Once the dragon has been carried off to be butchered and Papá is done with charming the crowd, everyone will come down the stairs and I’ll be waiting for them, wearing a gardenia and a smile. I grab a glass of sangría and enjoy several sips, doing my best to ignore the sound of the mob protesting dragonfighting outside La Giralda. They march up and down the avenue with their banners and self-righteous attitudes. As if dragons don’t attack the cities of Hispalia, as if the monsters don’t terrorize people on their journey from one town to another. Traveling to the coast isn’t simple for Hispalians, not when we have to bring guards to fight off a potential attack from the skies. I take another long sip and pull an apple slice into my mouth when a sudden noise startles me.

Bloodcurdling screams enflame the air.

I whip around.

It came from the arena.

I rush from the doors, full skirt swirling, and race back the way I came. The guards are at my heels, swords drawn. More screams ring loudly in my ears, the sound reverberating and crashing against the stone walls. My hands are sweating by the time I make it to one of the arena entrances. I don’t recognize the people rushing past—blurs, all of them, some finely dressed, others in simple tunics and trousers. Their faces are carved in stark terror.

I clutch at a man’s sleeve. What’s happened?

He spins to face me, dark eyes frantic. A bloody gash mars his forehead. Get away from the arena!

¿Qué? Señor, por favor—

He yanks free and follows the crowd. I scramble away, shoving people as if I carried a sword and not a delicate fan, until I finally reach the arched entrance. I stop at the sight before me, sand kicking up at my heels.

On the pale floor of the arena, bodies lay in bloody heaps, staining the ground a deep rose red as people frantically try to flee the ring. My stomach lurches, and acid rises at the back of my throat.

Above, our dragons fly free, swooping and diving, claws out.

DOS

My hands fly to my mouth. The monsters are everywhere—racing between the rows of seats, chasing after patrons rushing out into the arena. They ought to be locked in the dungeons. I press against the curved wall, needing the strength of the stone to keep me upright.

¿Dónde está Papá?

I can’t see him anywhere, not through the mess of people fleeing into the tunnels, pushing and shoving. Others are trying to drag the wounded away from one of the Morcegos. I search for our five dragon tamers.

I know they’re out here; they have to be.

Except everyone is covered in sand, in blood, in ash. Faces blend together, features hard to distinguish. At last my gaze snags on one of our tamers—Marco—dressed in black leather from head toe, wielding blades and whips. He fights off one of the beasts, but the dragon roars and whips its tail, crashing against his chest. The force of the hit sends him flying, and he smashes against the arena wall with a sickening crunch.

¡Aquí! I yell to the person closest to me. Follow me! I guide whoever I can to the nearest tunnel, the hem of my dress caked in bloody sand, when I stumble over something.

No, someone.

I fall to my knees next to a child-sized body, burned crisp, my nose and mouth full of smoke and fire. Pandemonium reigns in every corner of the arena.

No sight of Papá or Lola anywhere.

The deafening growls coming from the beasts make my head spin, as if I’m on a too-fast carriage ride, tumbling down a hill, spinning wildly and out of control. Someone knocks me sideways. I land on my stomach and sand blasts my face, creeping into my eyes, the corners of my mouth, and up my nose. I sneeze, spit out what I can, and then wipe my face with the ruffled collar of my dress. It’s beyond