The Wild Cards universe has been thrilling readers for over 25 years. In Carrie Vaughn's "Nuestra Señora de la Esperanza," ace Ana Cortez discovers that sometimes to be truly healed, you must return to your roots.
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
The Wild Cards universe has been thrilling readers for over 25 years. In Carrie Vaughn's "Nuestra Señora de la Esperanza," ace Ana Cortez discovers that sometimes to be truly healed, you must return to your roots.
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
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Overview
The Wild Cards universe has been thrilling readers for over 25 years. In Carrie Vaughn's "Nuestra Señora de la Esperanza," ace Ana Cortez discovers that sometimes to be truly healed, you must return to your roots.
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781466882102 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Tor Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 10/15/2014 |
| Series: | Tor.Com Original Series |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 32 |
| File size: | 923 KB |
About the Author
Carrie Vaughn is best known for her New York Times bestselling Kitty Norville series of novels about a werewolf who hosts a talk radio show for the supernaturally disadvantaged. Her novels include a near-Earth space opera, Martians Abroad, from Tor Books, and the post-apocalyptic murder mysteries Bannerless and The Wild Dead. She's written several other contemporary fantasy and young adult novels, as well as upwards of 80 short stories, two of which have been finalists for the Hugo Award. She's a contributor to the Wild Cards series of shared world superhero books edited by George R. R. Martin and a graduate of the Odyssey Fantasy Writing Workshop. An Air Force brat, she survived her nomadic childhood and managed to put down roots in Boulder, Colorado.
Read an Excerpt
Nuestra Señora de la Esperanza
By Carrie Vaughn, John Picacio
Tom Doherty Associates
Copyright © 2014 Carrie VaughnAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-8210-2
CHAPTER 1
The thing Ana Cortez remembered most about being shot was not realizing she'd been shot. It was more than adrenaline or the chaos of the situation. It was thinking, this can't possibly be happening. No way was this really happening. When you have ace powers, you're supposed to be able to save the world. But then you get shot.
She'd been part of the group that ditched American Hero to try to do some good intervening in Egypt's civil war. And maybe they had done some good — they'd done something, at any rate. Maybe they'd stopped a conflict that would have raged out of control; maybe they'd saved some lives. But they'd killed, too. She'd killed. She avoided news coverage and replays of the event, but she still saw it playing over in her mind: a crack in the earth opening under her touch, part of an army falling in, hundreds of soldiers buried alive ... Self-defense, she told herself. Those soldiers had been about to attack her and the people she was helping to defend. It had been mostly instinct. She hadn't believed she was capable of such massive power, of so much destruction.
And then she got shot. She didn't think she'd been in serious danger of dying — help had been close by. Michael — Drummer Boy — carried her to a first aid tent, his six arms feeling like a cage around her while she was still trying to figure out exactly what had happened, her blood spilling over them both. Others had died; friends had died. She was lucky. That was what she kept telling herself.
A month had passed. She was home now, on the dried-out fringes of Las Vegas, New Mexico. She'd been told to go home, visit her family, rest. She didn't really want to be here. If she slowed down, if she rested — if she came home — she might never get out again. Her getting out of here the first time was almost a miracle.
But she was here. She couldn't sleep. Her heart ached.
The family home was a double-wide in a trailer park in an okay neighborhood. She'd grown up here and had never really noticed how tired the place looked — especially compared to the Hollywood madness. Still, it looked a ton better than some of the places in Egypt she'd seen. Everyone here got enough to eat, had running water, cars, and jobs. It was all a matter of perspective.
Kate, aka Curveball, her teammate from American Hero turned best friend, had wanted to come with her and look after her, but Ana had said no, that she needed the time alone to think. But really, if she were honest, she didn't want Kate to see where she came from.
Just her father and younger brother Roberto lived there now. Her mother had died when Roberto was born; Ana didn't remember her well.
Her third afternoon home, when she couldn't stand lying on the sofa and staring at the TV anymore, she walked to church. She had something she needed to do.
She used a cane. The muscles in her gut still hadn't fully mended from the gunshot wound, and she needed the help. She moved slowly, like an old woman, leaning on her cane and rocking with every step. A truck drove by with a couple of guys in the cab. One of them shouted out the open window, "Earth Witch! Hey! We love you, Earth Witch!"
She managed a smile, waving with her free hand. They drove on.
Yeah, and she was famous. Local girl makes good. She'd never get used to it.
* * *
She arrived at Our Lady of Sorrows, the church where she and her brother had been baptized and confirmed, where her parents had been married, where her mother's funeral had been held, where every Sunday of her life until a few months ago she came for Mass. The old sandstone building with its two square towers loomed like an elegant grandmother, straight and tall. Ana hobbled into the vestibule and made her way to the carved-wood confessional.
Inside, she closed the curtain, set the cane against the wall, and slowly, very slowly, lowered herself to her knees. She needed a moment to catch her breath. Her injured body ached. Almost, though, the ache comforted. It was dull, like being worn out. Not sharp, like the initial injury had been.
The shadow on the other side of the screen moved. It was Father Gonzales, who had presided here for ten years, who had counseled Ana's father Manuel, who had tutored and advised Roberto, and who every Sunday had asked Ana, "Is everything all right? Do you need help?" She'd always proudly said that her family was well and didn't need help. They were coping. Sure, Papá drank too much and things were harder without Mama to help. But they were fine.
She was glad he was here. He might understand. Might have words of comfort, because things weren't so well for her at the moment.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." They continued with the ritual, speaking familiar words without really hearing them.
Then Father Gonzales asked, "What's wrong, child?"
Her eyes stung, and she bowed her head. She wouldn't be able to speak all this without crying, but she tried to keep her voice steady. "I've done something terrible."
"Don't be afraid. You're safe here; you know that."
He watched the news. He read the newspapers like anyone. He knew what she was going to say. This shouldn't be hard.
"I killed people," she said, and took a deep breath. And it wasn't so bad, now that she said it. The tears fell, and her voice was tight. "I don't even know how many, really. I don't ... I can't even say if I meant to or not. It happened so fast." She saw it again in her mind's eye, how the earth split open, swallowed all those soldiers, and closed back over them again with a crack like distant thunder.
She swallowed, because she had more to say. "I did it to protect my friends, to protect so many people. But I know that doesn't justify it. Doesn't erase what I did. I want to ask for forgiveness."
Father Gonzalez was quiet for a long time. Each passing moment made Ana's heart clench a little more. This was what she'd been afraid of: God will not forgive you for this. God doesn't forgive mass murderers, even when those murderers have the very best of intentions, even when the people you killed were going to kill you with guns and tanks.
Finally, he said, "You're sorry for what you did?"
"Yes. I am." She nodded emphatically. "I'm so sorry."
"Then here is your penance. If you are truly sorry for what happened, and you seek true forgiveness from God, then you will never use your ace again. You must abandon your power."
She held her breath, forgetting to inhale. Whatever she had expected to hear, that wasn't it. Not use her ace? Might as well tell her heart to stop beating, it was that much a part of her.
"Can you do that, Ana?" Father Gonzales continued. "Scripture tells us that if our eye offends us, we must pluck it out. Your power has wrought harm. Therefore, you must renounce it. Do you understand?"
Without thinking, she shook her head. Her power was all she had in this world. She had nothing else, nothing to do, nothing to live for. But that was pride speaking. Vanity. Selfishness. Another sin.
"Father — I'm sorry, no. My power — it's a tool. I used it badly. That doesn't mean I should abandon it. Does it?"
"You said it was instinct. That you don't even know if you meant it. What if something like this happens again? Will you be able to stop it? Or will you be back here in a year, confessing more deaths?"
What if he was right? It made sense — if she was really sorry, it should be an easy thing to walk away. Still, she shook her head. "I can use it to save people. If I have a chance, I should save people, shouldn't I? God wants us to do good in the world —"
"Are you willing to risk it?"
Now she was crying quietly, tears falling as she tried to catch her breath. The wound in her gut throbbed, as if it too was saying, Walk away. She clutched the St. Barbara medallion hanging around her neck, which her mother had given her and she always wore. St. Barbara was the patron saint of miners, geologists, and ditch diggers.
What would Kate and the others say to that? Kate, Michael, John Fortune, Bugsy, they were all in New York right now, forming the Committee on Extraordinary Interventions, a project they all believed in: using their ace powers for good. She was going to be a part of that — and here she was, full of doubt.
When she found her voice again, she said, knowing that she was probably lying, the worst time to lie, here in the confessional talking through Gonzales to God, "I can try. I'll try. I'm so sorry."
"I know you are. You're a good girl. I know you'll do the right thing."
On the way out, she stopped in the bathroom to wash her face, then set off on the long walk home. Only a couple of blocks away, a pickup stopped next to her. She ignored it until her brother Roberto leaned out the window. Eighteen, in his last year of high school, he'd already been accepted to UNM. She was supposed to help pay for it — with her ace power, with all the opportunities that opened up for her after her stint on American Hero. What now?
"Ana, hey, are you even supposed to be walking?"
She stopped her hobbling trek and hid a smile. "Not really."
"Thought so. Get in, I'll take you home."
She did, grateful in the end that she didn't have to walk back. "I guess you knew I'd be out here, at church."
"Kind of. Yeah."
A long pause, tires rumbling on asphalt. Then he said, "Did it help?"
She started crying again, quiet tears. She quickly wiped them away, but even if he hadn't seen the tears themselves, that movement betrayed them.
"You talked to Father Gonzales? What did he say?" Roberto said, glancing at her. She just shook her head.
Back home, their father Manuel was standing on the steps outside the trailer door.
"Papá's up," she said.
"Yeah. He's the one who sent me after you. It's like he just woke up. You know, to everything. It's kind of weird."
Old worries awoke in her: was he well, or was he drunk? Would he be mad at something she'd done? Would he want to eat and be angry that she hadn't fixed anything? She had to calm herself; he'd gotten by this long without her. She didn't have to take care of him anymore.
Still, as she approached the door, limping on her cane, she braced for whatever he might unleash at her.
Roberto slipped around him, smiling brief encouragement at her. Papá didn't look at him but stared square at Ana and didn't say a word.
"Hija, you shouldn't be walking around hurt like that," he said, in Spanish. He knew English well enough but spoke it rarely, especially when he drank.
She answered in Spanish. "I know. I did it anyway."
"Gone to church, right? How did it go?"
Surely he could tell by the look on her face. She felt heavy. She felt like God had turned his face from her, ashamed.
"Ana, sit here with me a moment." He lowered himself to the top step and patted the space next to him.
She did, easing down with her cane, leaving her leg straight to keep the injured side of her body from cramping.
"What happened?" Manuel asked.
"Father told me not to use my power anymore. He said it's wrong, the power is evil, and if I was really sorry —"
Manuel's look darkened, his jaw tightening, like a rage was taking him. But nothing like the drunken angers where he screamed until he sobbed. Consciousness lit his eyes. This anger had a target.
"He had no right to tell you that. No right, do you understand?"
"But what if he's right? What if he's right about me, and I can't do anything but hurt people?" She was crying again.
"Ana, I have to tell you a story I should have told you long, long ago. I've been a bad father, Ana. Terrible." Un mal padre, terrible words.
"Papá, no —" She said reflexively, because she should, because it was the right thing to say.
He took her hand in both of his. "No, it's true. Let me speak. You should have had a family around you, aunts and cousins to teach you. Grandmothers. You've had no women in your life to teach you, and so you go out to earn a living like a man, and it isn't right. I made you do that — I made you go out when I should have kept you home, kept you safe. I was too greedy. I made you do all the work. And now what kind of wife will you make? You should be married now. You should have babies. I should have been glad to take you to the church myself, to marry you off. Your mother would be so ashamed of me."
"Papá —" Once again, she wanted to argue reflexively. Part of Manuel had died with her mother. That didn't mean she'd be ashamed.
Ana was born with the wild card virus in her — born an ace. She'd had her power her whole life. She was eight when her father started hiring her out to the neighbors for ditch-digging and gardening projects. She'd always earned her way with her power. She'd been proud of that. It wouldn't do any good to tell him she didn't particularly want to be married off and matronly, at least not at this point in her life. That was what he focused on; she wasn't going to be able to steer him off it.
"But she would be very proud of you, Ana. Very proud. I have to tell you — you might not come back home again, so I have to tell you now."
"Papá, I'll come back, I'll always come back." And they both knew the bullet hole in her gut gave the lie to that.
"I have to tell you about your grandmother. Your mother's mother, in Mexico. She was one of the cursed ones. A joker. You know that, yes?"
Ana had known that her grandmother passed the wild card virus to her mother, who passed it in turn to her. Her mother had been latent until she turned the Black Queen when giving birth to Roberto. But she hadn't known any more than that.
"They say she is like a vine, that her skin is green, and instead of limbs, branches grow from her. But Ana, what I haven't told you is that she is also holy. A great curandera. La Curandera de Las Flores. Because flowers bloom from her, and she plucks these flowers from her own body, dries them, and makes medicines from them. She cures thousands of people. When your mother was born — she was like a seed, growing larger and larger, and when they opened it up, there she was, a little baby. Everyone said that she was cursed, too. Though your grandmother helped so many, people shunned her. Called her bruja. She sent her daughter away, to live with cousins in America where she wouldn't be called the daughter of the witch.
"Ana, the power you have, it comes from your mother and her mother. The priest is wrong. Your power comes from God, and from the mother of God. I know they call you brujita, and we all laugh. Everyone laughs because they're really frightened. But your power is holy — I believe that with every drop of my blood. I always knew that God would call you away from me because of it. God has called you, Ana."
Ana had never heard Manuel Cortez speak so many words together. His face flushed from the passion of it, and his look was filled with all the tales he'd never told of their family, his beliefs, and his fears. The shadow of her mother watched over them, and the even dimmer shadow of a grandmother. Ana imagined a picture of her: a woman who rose from the earth like a tree, her face turned toward the sun.
I come from a family of witches, she thought. I'm not surprised. Perhaps it isn't so bad, though she didn't feel particularly like God had called her. More like she had walked into the desert without a path to follow.
Her father wasn't finished: "But the thing you must know about your Grandmother Inez, the most important thing — she's still alive, Ana. If you don't believe me that God has called you, go to her and ask her. Make a pilgrimage. Talk to your grandmother."
* * *
Ana should have laughed, but this was the most real thing she'd heard since she'd come home. Of course she should go talk to her grandmother. Roberto loaned her the truck and gave her a list of instructions that made her rethink the whole trip.
"Keep the extra gas cans full, because you never know — you know how it gets out here, a hundred miles between gas stations. And there's an extra container of radiator fluid. You'll definitely need that. I'm not sure what's wrong with it, but you see smoke coming out of the hood, it's probably the radiator. Just stop and top it off and you'll be fine. There's a clanking comes out of the engine sometimes, but don't worry about that —"
"Roberto, I don't know anything about keeping a car running like that! How do you expect me to remember all this?"
Her little brother — three inches taller than her — took a patient breath and explained it all again, opening the hood to show her the parts and pieces, the difference between the radiator and the washer fluid reservoir, and everything else.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Nuestra Señora de la Esperanza by Carrie Vaughn, John Picacio. Copyright © 2014 Carrie Vaughn. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Title Page,Copyright Notice,
Begin Reading,