William waited outside the trailer, shifting his weight from one bare foot to the other. The grass was damp and cold, the fog curling low over the ground. Somewhere beyond the trees, an owl gave a soft, solitary hoot.
Inside, muted voices drifted through the thin metal walls — muffled, as though submerged underwater — along with the rhythmic clinking of metal charms that hung from Letecia's shaman's belt.
A pause. Then the quiet creak of a door.
Milagros stepped out, shivering as the night air wrapped around her, and stopped right in front of him.
Her body, like his, was marked with intricate symbols — jet-black lines twisting across her skin as if alive, drawn not with paint but smoke that had sunk into the flesh itself. In the moonlight, the marks gleamed faintly, like cracks in wet clay. They were nearly naked, barefoot, and for a fragile moment they looked like participants in some ancient ritual. Which, truth be told, wasn't far from the truth.
