15
The Spirit Child
‘By Viracocha, what are you?’
Why was Mateo afraid to touch her? She reached for him with wilted arms, but he shied away. His face came and went, her eyelids sliding closed again and again.
He was here. Mateo.
Behind his shoulder the things bumped and jousted, but they weren’t important – empty husks, dried out and abandoned.
‘Mateo…’ Why wouldn’t he hold her? Perhaps she was too cold. Perhaps she was dead now. It didn’t matter.
When he gathered her up she was an armful of bones. His warm chest against her cheek rose and fell, and she could hear his fear drumming against her. He hoisted her higher, and she folded into him, the hard ridge of his collarbone bumping beneath her chin as he moved. His dark hair curtained her in, held her safe in a capsule of musky dar
